Sweet Revenge, Page 35

  Before she reached the hidden door, it was opened. Adrianne stepped through, beyond the black-clad servant, and smelled the women’s scents that brought her back to childhood. As the door shut, closing her in, she did what she had longed to do throughout the long drive from the airport. She pulled off her veil.

  “Adrianne.” A woman stepped into the shadowed light. She smelled strongly of musk and wore a red-sequined gown suited to a nineteenth-century ball. “Welcome home.” As she spoke, the woman gave the traditional greeting, a kiss on both cheeks. “You were only a child when I last saw you. I am your aunt, Latifa, wife of Fahir, brother of your father.”

  Adrianne returned the greeting. “I remember you, Aunt Latifa. I’ve seen Duja. She’s well and happy. She sends love to you and honor to her father.”

  Latifa nodded. Though Adrianne outranked her, she had given birth to five strong sons and held a place of honor and envy in the harem. “Come, there is refreshment. The others want to welcome you.”

  Here, too, little had changed. There was the scent of spiced coffee and the heavy seduction of perfume mingling with the bite of incense. A long table had been spread with a white cloth edged in gold and was laden with food no less colorful than the gowns of the women. There were silks and satins, and even though the temperature soared, the sheen of velvet. Beads and spangles glistened. There was the warmth of gold, the ice of silver, and always the sparkle of jewels. Bracelets clanged and lace whispered as traditional greetings were exchanged.

  She brushed her lips over the cheeks of Abdu’s second wife, the woman who so many years before had caused Phoebe such unhappiness. Adrianne could find no resentment. A woman did as a woman was bid. That was confirmed as Leiha, already the mother of seven, and more than forty, was obviously pregnant again.

  There were cousins she remembered and a score of minor princesses. Some had cropped or crimped their hair. This was, like the vivid gowns, something they did for their own pleasure, and like children with a new toy, to show off among themselves.

  There was Sara, Abdu’s latest wife, a small, big-eyed girl of about sixteen who was already swollen with child. From the looks of it, both she and Leiha had conceived at about the same time. Adrianne noticed that the stones on her fingers and at her ears were no less brilliant than those worn by Leiha. Such was the law. A man could take four wives, but only if he could treat each equally.

  Phoebe had never been an equal here, but Adrianne couldn’t find it in her heart to despise a young girl because of it. “You are welcome here,” Sara said in a whispery, musical voice that stumbled over the English phrase.

  “This is Princess Yasmin.” Adrianne’s aunt put a hand on the shoulder of a girl of about twelve with dusky cheeks and thick gold hoops through her ears. “Your sister.”

  She hadn’t expected this. She’d known she would meet Abdu’s other children, but she hadn’t expected to look into eyes the same shape and color as her own. She wasn’t prepared for the spark of kinship or recognition. Because of it, her greeting was stilted when she bent to kiss Yasmin’s cheeks.

  “Welcome to my father’s house.”

  “Your English is good.”

  Yasmin lifted her brows in a gesture that told Adrianne though she was months away from the veil, she was a woman. “I attend school so that I will not be ignorant when I go to my husband.”

  “I see.” The acknowledgment was equal to equal as Adrianne removed her abaaya. Gesturing a servant aside, she folded it herself, and carefully. Sewn into the lining were the tools of her trade. “You’ll have to tell me what you’ve learned.”

  Yasmin studied Adrianne’s simple white skirt and blouse with the eyes of a fashion critic. Once Duja had smuggled in newspaper pictures of Adrianne, so Yasmin knew her sister was beautiful. She thought it a pity Adrianne hadn’t worn something red that glittered.

  “First I will take you to my grandmother.”

  Behind them women were already dipping into the buffet. Food, the richer the better, was a favored recreation. Talk was already centering around babies and shopping.

  The old woman seated in a brocade chair was resplendent in emerald green. The wrinkles and folds of her face had fallen into jowls, but her hair was stubbornly hennaed. Fingers, curled a bit with arthritis, were studded with rings that flashed as she cuddled a boy of two or three on her lap. Two servants flanked her, waving fans so that the smoke from a brass incense jar would scent her hair.

  It had been nearly twenty years, and Adrianne had been only eight when she’d left, but she remembered. The tears started so abruptly, so stunningly, she could do nothing to stop them. Instead of the greeting expected, she went to her knees and laid her head in her grandmother’s lap. The mother of her father.

  Her bones were thin and brittle. Adrianne could feel them beneath the stiff satin. Her scent was the same, incredibly the same, a mixture of poppies and spice. As she felt the hand stroke her hair, she leaned into it. The sweetest, the kindest memories she had of Jaquir were of this woman brushing her hair and telling her stories of pirates and princes.

  “I knew I would see you again.” Jiddah, a frail seventy, the mother of twelve, the only wife King Ahmend had ever taken, sat stroking the hair of her much-loved grandchild and cuddling her newest against her breast. “I wept when you left us, and weep when you come back.”

  Like a child, Adrianne dried her cheeks with the backs of her hands. She rose up for the kiss. “Grandmother. You’re more beautiful than I remembered. I’ve missed you.”

  “You come back to me a grown woman, with the look of your father.”

  She stiffened, but managed to smile. “Perhaps I have the look of my grandmother.”

  Jiddah smiled back, showing teeth too white and straight to be her own. The dentures were new, and she was as proud of them as she was of the emerald collar at her throat. “Perhaps.” She accepted tea from a servant. “Chocolate for my granddaughter. You still have a taste for it?”

  “Yes.” Adrianne settled on a cushion by Jiddah’s feet. “I remember that you used to give me a handful all wrapped in red and silver paper. I’d take so much time unwrapping them that they’d melt. But you never scolded me.” She noticed then that Yasmin was still standing beside her, her young face impassive but for a glint in her eyes that might have been jealousy. Without thinking, Adrianne lifted a hand and drew her down to the cushion. “Does Grandmother still tell stories?”

  “Yes.” After a brief hesitation, Yasmin unbent. “Will you tell me about America and the man you will marry?”

  With her head against her grandmothers knee, and a cup of green tea in her hand, Adrianne began. It wasn’t until later that she realized she’d been speaking in Arabic.

  As far as palaces went, Philip decided he preferred the European style. Something in stone with mullioned windows and old, dark wood. This one was dim, as blinds and shades and lattices closed out the power of the sun. It was rich, certainly, with wall hangings spun from silk, and Ming vases tucked into wall niches. It was modern. The bath in the suite he’d been given had water that steamed hot out of gold faucets. He supposed he was too British to appreciate the Eastern flavor of prayer rugs and gauzy mosquito netting.

  His rooms overlooked the garden, which he could approve of. In spite of the sun, he threw open a window and let the hot scent of jasmine blow in.

  Where was Adrianne?

  Her brother, Crown Prince Fahid, had met him at the airport. The young man, barely into his twenties, had worn a burnoose over an impeccably tailored suit. Philip had found him a perfect example of East meets West with his excellent English and his inscrutable manners. His only reference to Adrianne had been to tell Philip that she would be taken to the women’s quarters.

  Closing his eyes, he imagined the blueprints. She would be two floors down and in the east wing. The vault was in the opposite end of the palace. Tonight he would take a tour on his own. But for now—he flipped open his suitcase—he would play the perfect guest and prospective bridegroom.<
br />
  He’d taken advantage of the huge sunken tub and had finished his unpacking when he heard the prayer call. The deep throated voice of the muezzin came through the open window. Allahu Akbar. God is great.

  With a glance at his watch Philip calculated that this would be the third call of the day. There would be another at sundown, then the last at an hour past.

  The markets and suqs would close, and men would kneel to touch their faces to the ground. Inside the palace, as everywhere else, all business would stop in submission to the will of Allah.

  Moving quietly, Philip opened his door. It was as good a time as any to take stock.

  He thought it best to check out his neighbors first. The room next to his was empty, the drapes drawn, the bed made with military precision. The room across was the same. He edged down the hall and pushed open another door. Here there was a man, no, a boy, bent in supplication, his body facing south toward Mecca. His prayer rug was threaded with gold and the hangings over the bed were royal blue. Philip pulled the door to before making his way to the second floor.

  Abdu’s offices would be there, along with the council rooms. There was time enough to look if warranted. He walked down to the main floor, where the rooms were quiet as a tomb. Conscious of the time elapsing, he made his way through the winding corridors to the vault room.

  The door was locked. He had only to take a nail file out of his pocket to open it. With a quick glance right, then left, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

  Where other rooms had been dim, this was dark. There were no windows here. Wishing he’d risked bringing a flashlight, he groped his way in the direction of the vault. Its door was smooth steel and cool to the touch. Using his fingertips as his eyes, Philip measured its length, its width, the position of the locks.

  As Adrianne had told him, there were two combinations. He was careful not to touch the dials. He used his nail file to measure and found the keyhole oversize and old-fashioned. The picks he carried wouldn’t work on a lock that old, but there were always other ways. Satisfied, he stepped back. He’d need to come back with a light, but that was for later.

  His hand was nearly on the doorknob when he heard footsteps outside. There wasn’t time to swear as he plastered himself against the wall behind the door.

  There were two men speaking Arabic. One of them, if tone was any indication, was angry, the other tense. Philip willed them to pass by. Then he heard Adrianne’s name. He could only curse the fact that he didn’t speak Arabic.

  They were arguing about her. He was sure of it. There was enough venom in one of the voices to have his muscles tense and his hands ball into fists. There was a sharp command answered by silence, then the impatient click of heels on tile as one man strode off. With his ear at the door Philip heard the one remaining mutter a curse in plain English. Prince Fahid, Philip mused. Then it was certain the angry voice had come from Abdu. Why were Adrianne’s father and brother arguing about her? Over her?

  He waited until Fahid walked away, then let himself out. The hall was deserted again, the door locked. With his hands in his pockets Philip strolled in the direction of the gardens. If found there, he could make a plausible enough excuse about his interest in flora. The truth was, he wanted out, and he wanted to think.

  Adrianne hadn’t realized it would be so hard to do what she had come to do. Not technically—she was confident in her skill, and in Philip’s. What she hadn’t known was that there would be so many memories. Like ghosts, they whispered to her, brushed against her. There was something comforting about the harem with its women’s talk, its women’s scents, its women’s secrets. It was possible to forget its confines for a short time and bask in its security. No matter what happened now, she’d never be able to fully turn her back again.

  Talk went on, still focusing on sex and shopping and fertility, but there were new things. A cousin who’d become a doctor, another who’d earned her teaching degree. There was a young aunt who worked in construction as an administrator, though all contact with the men she worked with was done by letter or phone. Education had opened up to women, and they were taking it with both hands. Male instructors taught over closed circuit television, but they taught. And the women learned.

  If there was a way to juggle the old with the new, they were going to find it.

  She didn’t notice the servant slip in and lean close to her grandmother’s ear. When Jiddah touched a hand to her hair, Adrianne turned and smiled.

  “Your father wishes to see you.”

  Adrianne felt her pleasure dry up as if it had been a pool struck by the desert sun. She rose. Though she slipped the abaaya over her shoulders, she refused the veil. He would see her face, and he would remember.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Like Jaquir, its ruler had changed yet had remained, essentially, the same. He’d aged. It was the first thing that struck Adrianne when she saw him. Her memory, enhanced by the old newspaper prints her mother had hoarded, was of a man hardly older than she herself was now, with a hawklike, unlined face and rich black hair. The hawk was still there in features carved sharp and hard, but there were lines that time and sun had dug deeply. They were chiseled beside a mouth that smiled rarely, etched around eyes that watched and measured. His hair was still rich, still brushed back like a mane, as full as in his youth and part of his vanity. Silver glinted in it. Over the years he’d put on very little flesh so that his body remained one of a soldier.

  His white throbe was embroidered with gold, his sandals studded with jewels. If possible, age had made him only more handsome in the way it does with men. It was a face women would be drawn to even though, or perhaps because, there was so little compassion in it.

  Adrianne’s stomach clenched as she approached. She moved slowly, not from uncertainty, not even from respect, but from the desire to bring this moment, so long awaited, so long imagined, into clear focus. Nothing had been forgotten. Nothing would be forgotten.

  As with that one stunning moment of memory in the harem, there were scents here—polish, flowers, a trace of incense. She continued, moving closer to a past she had never fully released. She had walked toward him before, or cowered away. Until that moment she hadn’t realized she couldn’t recall one instance when he had come to her.

  He hadn’t brought her to one of his private rooms, but to the large, brightly lit area where he would give his weekly majlis, or audiences. The drapes on the windows were heavy, the royal blue he had always preferred. The rug was old, one his father, his grandfather, and the kings before them had all walked over. It had a dense pattern of blue and black worked through with gold in a sinuous design, like a snake. There were urns as tall as a man on either side of the door. Legend had it that they had been brought from Persia to another Abdu two centuries before. Inside each had been a virgin.

  A lion fashioned from gold with sapphire eyes guarded the chair of blue silk, where Abdu would sit and grant his time to his people.

  Though this room was closed to women on such occasions, it showed Adrianne that he still thought of her as a subject, not as a daughter. Like the virgins of Persia, she would be expected to submit to the will of the king.

  She stopped in front of him. Though he wasn’t a tall man, she had to tilt her chin to keep her eyes directly on his. Whatever he felt, if he felt, was carefully masked. He bent and gave her the traditional greeting. He barely touched his lips to her cheeks, and with less emotion than he might have given a stranger. It hurt. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t been prepared for it, and it hurt.

  “You are welcome here.”

  “I’m grateful for your permission to return.”

  He sat, and after a long, silent moment, gestured to a chair. “Are you a child of Allah?”

  This she had expected. Religion was breath in Jaquir. “I am not a Muslim,” she said steadily, “but God is One.”

  Apparently it satisfied him, because he signaled for a servant to pour tea. It was a concession of sorts that two cups were
waiting. “It pleases me that you will marry. A woman requires a man’s protection, his guidance.”

  “I’m not marrying Philip for his protection or his guidance.” She sipped at the tea. “Nor does he marry me to increase his tribe.”

  She had spoken flatly, as a man might speak to another man, not as a woman to a king. He could have struck her; it was his right. Instead, he sat back, cupping the tea in both hands. The cup was delicate, of fragile French porcelain. His hands were broad and studded with rings, “You’ve become a woman of the West.”

  “My life is there, as my mother’s was.”

  “We will not speak of your mother.” He set his cup down, then held up a hand as a servant sprang forward to refill it.

  “She spoke of you. Often.”

  Something came into his eyes. Adrianne couldn’t prevent a part of her from hoping it would be regret. But it was anger. “As my daughter you are welcome here, and with the honor that is your right as a member of the House of Jaquir. While you are here, you will abide by the rules and traditions. You will cover your hair and cast down your eyes. Your dress and speech will be modest. If you bring me shame, you will be punished as I would punish any woman of my family.”

  Because her fingers weren’t steady, she dug them into the teacup. After all these years, she thought, so many years, and he could speak only in orders and threats. Her plan to be the woman he would expect was overrun with her need to be what she was.

  “I bring you no shame, but I feel shame. My mother suffered and died miserably while you did nothing to help.” When he rose, she stood as well, so quickly that the cup fell from her hand and shattered on the tiles. “How could you do nothing?”

  “She was nothing to me.”

  “Nothing but your wife,” Adrianne tossed back. “It would have taken so little, but you gave nothing. You abandoned her, and me. The shame is yours.”

  He struck her then, with a backhanded blow that snapped her head back and made her eyes water. It wasn’t the careless slap an angry parent might give an ill-mannered child, but the deliberate, full-fledged hit a man deals an enemy. If she hadn’t crashed into the heavy chair and gripped for support, she would have fallen.