Page 37 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)
Velvet’s days took on a comfortable sameness that suited her for the time being. Sometimes, though, she remembered that it was late September in England now, and she thought back to how a year ago at this very time she had been the queen’s Maid of Honor and a darling of the Tudor court. She and Alex had been feuding then prior to his wild abduction of her. Such memories usually brought tears, or at the very least a deep sadness that would sweep over her, casting her into such dark depths that it was all Akbar could do to cheer her again.
That the Grand Mughal was a man in love was apparent to everyone at his court, a fact that amused his two younger sons who were both older than Velvet, and for some reason increased the bitter feeling of Prince Salim toward his father. Akbar, thought Salim, was at a time in his life when he should behave in a more circumspect manner. Was he not a grandfather? Was he not about to become one again? Instead his father played the fool with a beautiful young woman. Why had he not given the foreign beauty to Salim, as Sultan Selim of the Ottoman empire had given his heir, who had now come into his inheritance as Sultan Suleiman, a beautiful young princess sent to him from Baghdad as tribute? At twenty Salim was much closer in age to Velvet than was his father, who was in his late forties, and having seen Velvet riding with Akbar the young prince truly envied his sire. No one, Salim included, was aware that the union of Akbar and his English Rose had yet to be consummated.
Each day toward sunset they rode together, and sometimes he would take along his hunting cats, two sleek, spotted animals who loped by their sides, occasionally streaking ahead to bring down a rabbit or plump game bird, then returning with it to the emperor who more often than not allowed them to keep their prey.
One day he arranged for her to see an elephant fight, and Velvet was both fascinated and repulsed by the barbarity of it all. Akbar was very proud of his fighting elephants. In his stables were the most prime examples of elephant flesh to be found in all of India. There were also elephants used for breeding, for traveling, and for other work within the stables of the emperor. One day Akbar ordered that a conveyance he called a howdah be placed upon one of the great beasts so that he might take her for a ride.
Velvet was as excited as a child and her delight knew no bounds when the elephant arrived, for the beast had been decked out in the most incredible finery. It was a young male, she was told, for the male elephants native to India sported long ivory tusks. Upon the animal’s tusks, however, long golden fitted sheaths studded with rubies had been placed. A magnificent red satin coverlet decorated with gold bangles and diamonds was drawn over the great beast’s head. It had openings where his eyes were, and upon the two bumps that the elephant had high up on its forehead were gold shields. The coverlet narrowed between the tusks to cover the trunk and was fringed with gold on either side. Even the elephant’s small ears were encased in satin, and a matching coverlet was spread across his back and fell down his sides in two strips over his chest.
Strapped atop the animal’s swayed back was an octagonal-shaped golden howdah with a domed top and fitted with silk cushions. As Velvet settled herself inside it, Akbar told her that the driver would ride before them where the elephant’s neck joined its head.
She enjoyed the rolling gait of the beast as they moved through the city. His back was a wonderful vantage point from which to see the countryside about them, but unfortunately height did nothing to improve the flat, monotonous landscape surrounding Fatehpur-Sikri. For miles and miles it seemed that everything was dun-colored and dull.
“I miss my green hills,”
she said one day to Akbar.
“Is all of your land green?”
he asked her.
“Yes,”
she answered. “Is all of your land brown?”
He laughed at her quick retort. “No, not all, but a good part. We have our forests, and toward the north is Kashmir, a lovely land of lakes and mountains that I will soon make completely mine.”
“Then that is where I would live,” she said.
“We will soon journey to Lahore, my capital,”
was his reply.
“Is it green?”
she begged him.
“Greener,”
he promised, “and I shall give you your own palace there with gardens and fountains, and you will never complain to me again about your England.”
He smiled at her, and Velvet smiled back.
He loves me, she thought. He has never even kissed me, and still he loves me. It was strange and wonderful and frightening all at once. This was no boy but a man well versed in passion. He had said he would be patient, and he certainly had been true to his word.
“Will you play chess with me again tonight?”
he asked her.
“Oh, yes, my lord! I shall beat you this time, too!”
she threatened, and he laughed delightedly. Those of his other women with whom he had occasionally played the game had never beaten him. Even had they been skillful enough, he doubted they would have dared. This adorable creature, however, not only dared, but on two occasions she actually had bested him, clapping her hands and shamelessly crowing with glee at her victory. Tonight, though, he had a rather interesting surprise for her.
He ordered the elephant driver to return them to the palace housing the zenana, and there she left him, to bathe, eat, and rest.
When he rejoined her several hours later she was attired in a deep blue silk skirt decorated with golden dots the size of coins that had a wide hem of gold. Her dark silk blouse with its low, scooped neckline was short-sleeved and molded her figure to its best advantage. About her neck Velvet wore a long double strand of pearls, the outside strand being decorated with pure gold rounds edged in tiny sapphires. Each ear sported a round sapphire to which was attached a cluster of pearls. She wore arm bands of gold that were decorated with colored stones or raised gold work, and rings on every finger but her thumbs. Her hair was loose and wavy and very full about her shoulders, and atop her head was a circlet of pearls and sapphires. Rohana had taught her how to outline her eyes in kohl, but neither her cheeks nor her lips needed further color.
“I have the chessboard already set up for us, my lord,”
she greeted him.
“No,”
Akbar said. “I have a surprise for you. Adali, attend your mistress and follow me.”
He led them from her chamber to a small balcony overlooking a wide, square courtyard. “This, my Rose, is how we shall play chess tonight!”
he said with a wave of his hand over the courtyard.
With a gasp of delight Velvet looked out to discover that the square below her was in actuality a giant playing board. Standing upon the board were live female chess figures: the pawns nude maidens with long dark hair and ropes of pearls about their waists; the knights naked but for cloth of gold turbans each adorned with a good-sized diamond from which sprouted a gold aigrette and white feather. Each of the “pieces”
was unclothed for the most part but for the costly jewelry, with the exception of the king and the queen “pieces,”
who were positively resplendent in silk garments sewn over every inch of their surface with pearls and rubies, their golden crowns studded with emeralds.
“Beat me,”
Akbar challenged, “and you may keep the jewels from the pieces you win.”
“And if I lose,”
she demanded, “then what will you have in forfeit?”
“A kiss,”
he said quietly.
Velvet looked at him, her face serious. “A kiss?”
she repeated. “Do you agree, my Rose?”
For a moment she hysterically contemplated the possibility of answering him with a no. Then she simply nodded her head.
“I will allow you to begin the play,” he said.
It was a serious game they played that night; Akbar calling out his moves to be carried out by the bejeweled players below, and Adali translating Velvet’s commands to the human pieces. Velvet did not really care that she might keep the gems adorning the playing pieces if she won. She sought to win for the joy of knowing that she could outwit him if she was skillful enough in her strategy. Akbar quickly understood that. Another woman would have played recklessly and rashly in order to gain the jewels, but not his Rose. She pleased him greatly, and he thought about the kiss that she would give him when he won their game because he knew he would triumph. She was an excellent opponent, better than some men he knew, but he was still the better player. What would her lips be like? He knew from his vast experience that each woman’s mouth was different.
“Ha!”
She took his rook, watching the glittering player, her shoulders drooping, walk from the board, then laughed into his face with her small victory.
A smile touched his lips at Velvet’s enthusiasm, and he mentally chided himself for thinking of other things and not concentrating on the game at hand. It was a mistake he did not make again, and after an hour’s play, Velvet was forced to concede defeat, doing so reluctantly as she carefully studied the great board below her in hopes of finding another move she might make that would prolong the game.
“Checkmate!”
he said. “I win!”
“Indeed you do, my lord,”
she admitted.
“Are you ready to pay your wager?”
he asked her.
She turned to face him, and, closing her eyes, she lifted her face slightly and in childlike fashion puckered her lips at him. For a brief moment Akbar studied her, knowing that she fully expected him to give her a brief kiss. He had, however, waited too long for this opportunity, and, slipping an arm about her waist, he drew her close to him. For a moment his fingers caressed her cheek, and then, taking her chin between his thumb and his forefinger, his lips descended upon hers.
Strange thoughts flitted through her consciousness as she felt his fleshy mouth upon hers. I haven’t been kissed in seven months. Not since Alex died. Akbar does not kiss me like Alex kissed me. I didn’t realize that men kissed differently. Alex possessed me like a wild and wonderful storm. This man kisses me with tenderness. It is almost as if he is trying to please me.
The gentleness in Akbar’s caress induced Velvet to relax. He sought not to open her lips at this time, instead savoring the firmness of her lovely mouth. Then, unable to restrain himself, his hand crept to her breast, and he fondled her. She murmured softly against his lips, the little nipple of her breast suddenly hardening and pushing itself forward. Taking that little point between his fingers, he pinched it firmly.
A stab of pure desire shot through her body from deep within the core of her very being. With a small gasp she steadied herself, placing her palms against his chest. His skin was like fire, but for a moment she could not draw away. He kissed the corners of her mouth slowly and sweetly with lingering regret as their embrace came to an end.
Velvet opened her eyes to find him looking at her with open desire. She knew what it was he asked her so silently. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I cannot!”
she whispered desperately, and then she fled him.
With a groan Akbar placed his head in his hands. He wanted her! And he had every right to take her! Had he not done her the honor of making her his wife, knowing her European sensibilities? And yet despite it all she still denied him! He groaned again for he knew he could not force her. That would be an admission of defeat, and he would not be defeated in any battle, let alone a battle of love, by a mere girl!
“My lord!”
Adali had remained at his side. “My lord, she is yet tied to her old life. She will come around soon. I know it!”
With a snort of impatience Akbar stamped from the balcony. He needed to speak with someone who could give him sound advice on how to handle this skittish young mare. His steps led him to the lavish apartments of Jodh Bai, the Amber Princess, one of his favorite consorts. He found her having tea and cakes with the first of his wives, his cousin, Rugaiya Begum. Both women rose to greet him, bowing politely.
Rugaiya Begum was plump and big-boned with marvelous smooth skin and bright black eyes. Her once dark hair was now silvered, and he thought her still most handsome. Beside her was the petite Jodh Bai, doll-like in comparison to her companion. He was enormously fond of them both. They were loving, good women and neither had ever given him a moment’s unrest. He valued their judgment in domestic matters above all others.
They settled him comfortably amid the soft cushions and pressed refreshments on him. He had come for a purpose, they both knew, but they would wait for him to broach the matter that concerned him. Akbar breathed a momentary sigh of contentment and sipped the smoky, dark tea from Assam that they had given him. Jodh Bai held out a plate of tiny cakes made from ground nuts, honey, and sesame seeds. Akbar took one and chewed it slowly, enjoying the lingering sweetness of the honey. When he had finished, a slave woman handed him a moistened towel to cleanse his sticky hands. Calm now, he sat back and looked at his wives.
“I need your guidance in a rather delicate matter,” he began.
“How may we aid you, my lord?”
questioned Jodh Bai.
“It is my new wife, the English girl. She is a charming companion, but she is reluctant to come to my bed. I do not want to force her, but I grow irritable in my desire for her.”
“I had heard that she was a widow,”
remarked Rugaiya Begum. “Since she is not a virgin I cannot understand this demurring.”
“Does she still mourn her last husband, my lord?”
said Jodh Bai.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Then you must turn her thoughts from him to you, else you’ll never possess her.”
“But how can I?”
he demanded of her.
“I shall help you, my lord. I will send your English Rose a Pillow Book. I have just had one made that I intended to give to my brother’s daughter who is to be married next year, but there is time yet for another Pillow Book to be done for my niece. Tomorrow I shall send the one I now possess to your Rose. When you visit her tomorrow evening, you will tell her that you learned I sent it and wish to view it with her. Once she is reminded of the love between a man and a woman I am certain that her shyness will vanish.”
“Unless she is cold by nature,”
put in Rugaiya Begum. “These Europeans are very different from us.”
“She isn’t cold,”
he said. “She is warm and sweet, but her marriage lasted less than three months before her husband was killed. She had been most sheltered by her parents, and although she has never said it, I believe that she was never even kissed until he married her.”
“Her parents were good people to protect her virtue,”
approved Rugaiya Begum. “She is an interesting-looking creature, not at all like us. I have seen her in the baths several times. Her skin is like heavy cream.”
He smiled. “I know,”
he said, and Jodh Bai smiled behind her hands.
“I will inform you when the book has been delivered,” she said.
He left them feeling the situation was now once again under control.
After he was gone Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai signaled to a slave woman to freshen their teacups.
“He is as eager as a youth,”
remarked the older Rugaiya Begum.
“He was eager once with all of us. Remember when he desired Almira?”
Jodh Bai sipped her tea delicately.
Rugaiya Begum chortled. “What I remember is the look upon the face of her first husband, the old shaikh, when Akbar told him he must divorce Almira.”
She cackled lewdly. “The old devil had watched Almira from childhood planning on the day when he would pierce her tender young yoni with his lusty old lingam. He had nurtured her like a gardener nurtures his favorite rosebush, and then to discover he’d nurtured her for someone else! It broke his heart, and he died before he could divorce her. What irony! He had even married her when she was still a child in order to see that no one else possessed her!”
She popped a pastry into her mouth and chewed it vigorously.
“It is different this time,”
Jodh Bai said. “This time I think he is in love. Some he has lusted after, others he has lain with out of sense of duty, some like ourselves he is even genuinely fond of, but never do I believe that Akbar has been in love. Never until now.”
“Do you fear she will have a son who will supplant yours?”
Rugaiya Begum inquired slyly. She herself had had no children.
“No,”
replied Jodh Bai. “The old Moslem saint who predicted Salim’s birth also predicted that Akbar would only have three living sons. So it has been. First my Salim, then Almira’s Murad, and finally Roopmati’s Daniyal. Daniyal was born over seventeen years ago. Since then there have been no more sons, only daughters. I don’t fear for Salim especially since he already has one son of his own.”
“Perhaps then it is for yourself that you fear, Jodh Bai. Perhaps you fear that Akbar’s new love will supplant you in his affections.”
Jodh Bai smiled ruefully. She and Rugaiya Begum were good friends of long standing; if anyone knew her as well as she knew herself it was Rugaiya Begum. “Perhaps I am jealous,”
she admitted.
“Then you must do what I did in my youth to overcome the jealousy I felt each time Akbar took a new wife—particularly you.”
“Me?”
Jodh Bai was surprised. “You were jealous of me?”
She had been Akbar’s wife for twenty-seven years, and she had never even suspected such a thing.
Rugaiya Begum laughed. “I was indeed. Remember that I am Akbar’s first wife. I was married to him when I was just nine years old. He was the cousin that I adored, and has been the only man I have ever known. When I was fifteen he married another of our cousins, Zada Begum, and when neither of us produced children he wed with Salima Begum, Bairam Khan’s widow. She was already the mother of a son, but she could only give Akbar his eldest daughter, Shahzad-Khanim Begum.
“Then you, Princess of Amber, were wed to our lord. Zada and Salima were outraged for you were a Rajput and not a Moslem. Remember how they shunned you when you first entered our zenana?”
Jodh Bai nodded, her dark eyes remembering the hurt of their rejection. She had been so young and so very frightened, marrying a powerful man who was of a different culture than hers. “You were kind to me, Rugaiya.”
“I was the senior wife. It was my duty, but do not think because I was kind that I was not jealous. I am big and plain and have always been so. Neither Zada nor Salima are beauties; pretty enough, but not beauties, and both were tall. The difference between us seemed little. You, however, were different. You were tiny and exotic and so lovely. It was clear to us all that Akbar was drawn to you in a way he had not been drawn to any of us. I lay awake during the nights that Akbar visited you and finally decided that I would rather be your friend if Akbar cared for you than be your enemy. I was glad afterwards for I shared in the joy of your first pregnancy with you.”
“And you shared my sorrow when my twin sons, Hasan and Husein, died at only a month old,”
remembered Jodh Bai. “What you are saying to me, Rugaiya, is that I can conquer my fears of this English girl by making friends with her. How can I, though? She does not speak our language.”
“She will learn,”
said Rugaiya Begum. “She will eventually have no choice but to learn, and we will help her because she will need our friendship. How fortunate we are in comparison to this girl, Jodh Bai. This is our land. We have our families about us; you have your son, Salim. What has this girl? She is virtually alone but for her servantwoman. She is in a strange land, and it is unlikely she will ever see her own people again. How hard it must be for her.”
“You are so good, Rugaiya!”
said Jodh Bai. “You can always see the other person’s side of an issue. I can’t. Yours is a rare virtue. No wonder all our children love you!”
She smiled at her friend. “Very well, we shall make friends with the foreigner. I only hope she will want to be friends with us.”
“The women servants have brought us reports of how loving and attentive she is to her serving woman, and of how that young woman loves her mistress,”
Rugaiya Begum reminded Jodh Bai. “She has been polite to us both whenever we have chanced to pass her in the zenana. Her character, I can tell, is a good one. This last year has been a bad time for Akbar. He has not been well, and there have been other problems. This girl is the first thing I have seen him take a deep interest in for many months. He is happy again.”
“But for his inability to bed her,”
Jodh Bai giggled.
Rugaiya Begum chuckled richly. “A little chase and tussle does not hurt a love match. She unknowingly whets his appetite by her reluctance. The Pillow Book you plan to send will do the trick, I have not a doubt!”
She chuckled again. “Poor girl! I imagine she has never seen a Pillow Book before. Remember how shocked the holy fathers of the Christians were when Prince Murad purloined Shahazad Khanim’s Pillow Book after her wedding and showed it to them? I cannot understand why the Europeans do not accept what is natural between a man and a woman.”
Jodh Bai joined her friend in laughter. “The holy fathers were not so upset that they did not look long at that Pillow Book. Remember how their robes thrust forward with the rising of their lingams as they turned each page?”
Rugaiya Begum was now laughing so hard that the tears were flowing freely down her face. “And Akbar said that seeing it he saw that they were like other men, and he was relieved to find that they, too, had unruly lingams! Ah ha ha ha ha!”
“Perhaps the English girl will not want to be our friend when she learns what a Pillow Book contains,”
said Jodh Bai, sobering.
“More than likely she will thank us when she learns how magnificent is our lord’s passion,”
said the more practical Rugaiya Begum. “I have never known another man, but I am certain that no other could be the lover that Akbar is.”
Jodh Bai nodded her agreement, and the two women began to gossip on another topic of interest to them: Prince Salim’s soon-to-be-born second child. Both were certain that it would be another prince.
They also looked forward to returning home to Lahore. Fatehpur-Sikri depressed them with its dusty landscape, and they longed for the gardens and fountains of the royal palace farther to the north. They both wanted to be there for the birth, which would take place before the year’s end.
While Akbar’s favorite wives chatted amicably, the subject of their previous conversation tossed restlessly upon her silken mattress. Velvet could not sleep. She was in a quandary once more about her position in this strange world. What should she do? Was there any chance at all of her leaving India? She pondered the question for some time, finally deciding there was no hope at all. She would spend the rest of her days in this land. There was simply no choice.
Akbar was in love with her. Even Velvet with her small experience knew that. He was not unkind, but he was not going to be patient forever. Her only chance of happiness and of survival—hers, Pansy’s, and that of Pansy’s unborn child—lay in her accepting the inevitable. He had even married her according to the laws and a religion of this land. She was the Grand Mughal’s wife. If she was to have any life at all she must build it around that certain fact.
He wanted to make love to her. Velvet trembled at the thought. No one had ever made love to her but Alex. Alex.
She tried desperately to remember his face and found to her horror that it was difficult to recall.
Not because she loved him any the less in death, but because it had been so long since she had last seen him and she had no miniature to remind her.
Silent tears ran down the sides of her face. This sudden realization made her feel disloyal and guilty.
Rising from her bed, she wrapped the silk coverlet about her body and, softly opening her chamber door, stepped over the sleeping Adali and slipped down the hall to Pansy’s small cubicle.