Free The Crimson Cord: Rahab's Story by Jill Eileen Smith Page A

his plan to keep her as his mistress . . . and so much more.
    He stood abruptly at the thought. Rahab should be on the auction block by now, and his servant had better not mess up the bidding. He could not afford to have her sold to someone else. She was his, no matter what it cost him.

7
    V ulgar comments and the shouts of the bidders filled Rahab’s ears, despite her desperate attempts to block them. She shivered, grasping for her cloak that was not there. They had nearly ripped it from her, though the guard who seemed to be her constant shadow had not allowed them to take her tunic. She told herself she should be grateful for this kindness, except for the deep hatred, the anger that swelled within her against Gamal, against Dabir. She should not be here. This was not her fault.
    The last calls for more silver stopped, and a cheer erupted from a man she did not recognize. The guard who flanked her returned her cloak and took her to a man whose close-shaven beard and make of clothing set him apart as one of Jericho, a servant of some high rank.
    “You purchased me for your master, is that it?” she asked as the man led her from the crowd, through the back alleys toward the king’s palace.
    “You will find out soon enough.” The man continued on at a hurried pace, until she recognized familiar halls, the very halls that led to the chambers of the king’s advisor. Could it be?
    Her heart kicked over with a mixture of dread and hope. When they stopped at one of the chamber doors, she saw the markings of the king’s advisor carved into the wooden plaque that hung by leather straps to the right of the entrance. The door opened, and the servant stepped back, allowing her to precede him.
    Dabir slowly turned from the window, where he could look down on the king’s main courtyard. His gaze slid over her, possessive, the flicker of longing in his dark, narrowed eyes. The door clicked shut behind her.
    “So you have paid the price to own me, Dabir?” She stood studying him, barely containing her heart’s bitter cry. No. She must find a way to turn this around to her advantage. She would not be slave to this man as she had been to Gamal. She would not let him destroy her spirit. Somewhere in the night in the dank prison cell, she had chosen to believe her sister. She was not worthless as Gamal had said. Maybe her barrenness was a sign of the gods’ displeasure with him, not her.
    Dabir stepped closer but did not attempt to touch her. “I must admit, my dear Rahab, that I could not bear the thought of you carried off with a Syrian caravan. I will say, though, that your husband has made things quite convenient for us.” He shook his head and tsked his tongue. “Such a fool you married, my girl.” He fairly purred the words as he stepped nearer still, his gaze fixed on hers.
    He cupped her cheek, and she tilted her head, looking away.“Am I to be your slave then, Dabir?” Or just your unwilling mistress?
    His touch was gentle on her cheek, and he tipped her chin up so that she was forced to look into his eyes. “ Slave is such a harsh word, my dear.” He sifted his fingers through one long strand of her unkempt hair. She had had no opportunity to bathe or change her clothes since spending the night in the cell.
    “Nevertheless, spending the night in a prison gives one that impression, my lord.” She offered him a rare glimpse into a vulnerable gaze, then quickly lowered her eyes.
    His arms came around her then, and he leaned close. “I am sorry for the poor accommodations, my love, but it had to be done.” He softly kissed her, but she could not return it. She was in no mood for love.
    He held her at arm’s length, studying her. “The truth is, Rahab, I have wanted you for a long time, and I saw my chance. I paid a great deal of silver to have you, and I daresay it would have cost me more if I had allowed them to show you as the other female slaves are shown. Your beauty is impossible to contain, my