Page 45 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)

The coach that carried Michael O’Malley, the bishop of Mid-Connaught, from the French coast to Paris was a large and comfortable vehicle. Four strong horses guided by an expert coachman galloped along the snowy, midwinter roads that by virtue of the hard-packed snow were actually in much better condition than the rutted, potholed earth beneath. The landscape was mostly black and white, the leafless trees stretching their barren branches skyward, the smoke from occasional cottages and farms dark against the gray gloom.

Looking out through the coach’s very expensive glass windows, the bishop shivered. He himself was quite warm and comfortable amid the dark green velvet upholstery, covered by a thick gray fox coverlet, a brazier of hot coals at his feet. Gold, he thought with a soft smile, certainly had its uses. Leaning forward, he drew the back of the front seat down and removed a willow basket from the niche there. Opening it, he took out a leather decanter of dark red Burgundy and filled the silver cup that was also in the basket. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the heady fragrance of the wine with a connoisseur’s palate before taking his first blissful sip. Fitting the goblet between his knees, he recorked the decanter and, having replaced it in the basket, drew forth a little crock of goose-liver paté and a small, crisp loaf of bread, which had been wrapped in a rough linen napkin and was yet warm. Breaking a piece of bread off, he used it to scoop up a dollop of the paté and popped the entire thing into his mouth, chewing delightedly. The paté was excellent, and the bread had a wonderful crust on it.

The inn at which he had spent the night had been a charming one, and since they were still a half-day’s travel from Paris, the innkeeper’s wife had packed him the basket to tide him over. He had done her the honor of hearing her confession and pronounced only a light penance for her few but troublesome sins. Finishing his meal with a crisp pear, he packed the basket away behind the seat again and gazed back out the window. A light snow was beginning to fall, and Michael O’Malley did not envy either the coachman or the men-at-arms who escorted his coach. In the distance, however, he could see the spires of Notre Dame poking through the grayness. It would not be too long now.

He would be staying at the Paris town house of Adam de Marisco’s mother and stepfather, the Comte and Comtesse de Cher, which was located in the rue Soeur Celestine on the Rive Gauche. It was a small house, having only six bedchambers, but the bishop would be quite comfortable and well taken care of by a staff of servants who had been sent up from the comte and comtesse’s estate at Archambault in the Loire.

Michael O’Malley turned his thoughts to the task ahead of him. It would not be an easy one, and even though he would be dealing with an old friend, the utmost diplomacy would be required. The truth of the matter was that he understood the logic behind Father Ourique’s actions. God help the man! Exiled from Europe and expected to work miracles of conversion for the holy mother church without, Michael wagered with himself, any monies sent him. Desperate to do well, to be brought to the attention of his superiors in Portugal, in Paris, and in Rome—and desperate, Michael suspected, to be brought home—the Jesuit had undoubtedly seen his future disappearing over the horizon in the same direction as Lord and Lady de Marisco. He had done the only thing he felt he could in taking Velvet hostage in exchange for delivery of the ransom. Michael believed, however, that Father Ourique had been unaware of the Portuguese governor’s brooding desire for revenge. The whole matter was an unfortunate combination of bad timing and worse luck, with his niece the innocent victim. Poor little Velvet! The bishop’s face darkened with his concern. What tortures was she enduring in what must be for so sheltered a lass a terrifying captivity? He sincerely prayed that she would survive to be released from her bondage.

The coach came to an abrupt stop, and, focusing his eyes on the outside world, Michael saw that they were already in Paris and, in fact, were awaiting the gatekeeper of Chez Cher to open the gates so that they might enter the mansion’s courtyard. The snow was falling heavily now, and the bishop could just make out the shambling figure of the porter as he pulled open the entry. The coachman, eager to see the end of his journey, and doubtless thinking of a warm fire and a good pint, almost toppled the gatekeeper over as he hurried his horses into the courtyard and pulled up before the house’s double doors, which swung wide magically. Two liveried footmen ran down the three steps and, opening the carriage door, pulled down the steps and helped Michael O’Malley descend.

“Merci, merci!”

the bishop said, signing them with the cross in thanks, and then he moved hastily into the building.

A thin, spare man came quickly forward. “Bienvenue, Monsieur le évêque. I am Alard, the majordomo.”

He drew a tiny, plump woman forward. “My wife, Jeannine, who is the housekeeper and cook. We have been sent by Madame la comtesse to see to your needs, and we will try to make your stay a pleasant one. Is it possible that you can tell us how long you plan to be in Paris?”

“Not for more than a week or two at the most,”

Michael replied.

“Thank you, my lord bishop. Let me show you to your rooms now, and you must tell me if there is anything that we can do for you at this moment.”

“I’ll need someone to take a message to a friend of mine, Father O’Dowd, a Jesuit.”

Alard bowed. “Of course, my lord bishop. As soon as you’re settled, I’ll send a footman to you.”

The messenger was dispatched and returned within another hour. He had found Father O’Dowd, who sent back word that he would be delighted to see his old friend, and would the evening meal be too soon? When Michael passed this query on to Jeannine, the plump little woman smiled mischievously and, bobbing him a curtsy, promised an excellent dinner.

When Bearach O’Dowd arrived, Michael O’Malley could not help but think how little his friend had changed. Of medium height and plump of figure, Bearach O’Dowd had the round, innocent face of a choirboy. He was fair of skin with fat, pink Irish cheeks and deceptively bland light blue eyes with long sandy-colored lashes that matched his close-cropped sandy hair. He was dressed as a Jesuit, but, Michael noted, his robes were of the best materials and well cut.

“You’ve brought a bit of peat whiskey, Michaeleen?”

was his greeting. “I’ve not been able to think of anything else since your messenger brought me word you were in Paris.”

The bishop laughed. “Aye, I’ve got it. How else would two old friends toast each other, Bearach?”

Walking to the library table, he poured them both a dram of the smoky whiskey and, handing his friend one, raised his own goblet. “Ireland!” he said.

“Ireland, God help her!”

came the Jesuit’s reply.

When the whiskey had been downed by both men, Michael led the way into a small dining room, and they sat down to the dinner table. True to her word, Jeannine had prepared a wonderful supper for the two clerics. Bowls of mussels, braised in white wine and garlic, with individual bowls of Dijon sauce de moutarde began the meal, which was served family style as there were only two diners. The broth surrounding the mussels was as delicious as were the delicately flavored shellfish themselves.

When the bowls containing the thoroughly pillaged shells had been removed, Alard directed the footmen to pass various platters and bowls. There was a lovely, fat duck, its skin burned black, its flesh rare, stuffed with apricots and prunes, and served with wild plum sauce. There was a fine savory ragout of beef, fragrant with red wine and fine herbs, and served with fluffy little dumplings; a bowl of tiny potatoes, another of onions, and one of celery and carrots. The last dish presented in this course was a small ham baked in a flaky pastry that had been glazed with egg.

Both Michael O’Malley and Bearach O’Dowd were men of great appetite. They handily finished Jeannine’s offerings as well as a loaf of crusty bread and a crock of sweet butter from Normandy that had been placed upon the table. A large decanter of Burgundy from the Archambault vineyards was emptied as well.

Jeannine smiling from ear to ear at the priests’ flattering appreciation of her culinary skills, served the sweet herself. It was a large tartlet of pears set within a delicate, cakelike crust that had been filled with a sweet custard. The goblets were refilled with a light, fruity white wine. Both clerics raised their goblets to Jeannine who, already flushed from the heat of her kitchen, turned a deeper pink in her pleasure.

Their meal completed, Michael and Bearach adjourned back to the library. Their glasses refilled, they settled themselves cosily before the fire. Outside the winter storm howled noisily, rattling the windows.

“What brings an Irish bishop to Paris, Michaeleen?”

The Jesuit’s curiosity was finally aroused.

“ ’Tis a family matter,”

came Michael’s calm reply, “and ’twas thought that since your aunt is an O’Malley and you’re therefore a part of the family that you’d like to aid us.”

“If I can,”

was Bearach’s canny answer.

“Aye, you can.”

“Well, out with it, man! Unless you’re planning to keep me here all night.”

“You’ll remember my sister, Skye,”

began Michael.

“And who could forget that beautiful creature?”

demanded Bearach. “Has she outlived another husband, then, Michaeleen? Or is she still wed to that big man, de Marisco, was it?”

“Adam de Marisco, and, aye, they’re still happily married. ’Twill be eighteen years this Michaelmas.”

“Well, what’s the problem, then?”

asked Bearach O’Dowd.

“I’d best begin at the beginning,”

said Michael. “Several years ago my sister and her husband departed England for a voyage to the East Indies. As you’ll remember Skye and her partner, Sir Robert Small, have had a profitable relationship for many, many years with a number of the island sultans. Their ship was damaged in a storm and blown off course. They ended up becalmed just off Bombay and were taken in tow by the Portuguese.”

Bearach O’Dowd nodded, all the while thinking to himself that Skye O’Malley’s destination had probably been India all along, and that she had likely been on an expedition for the English with an eye toward opening trade with the Grand Mughal himself. He doubted the Portuguese, and their Spanish masters, would have liked that.

“The Portuguese governor took my sister, her husband, and their ship and crew hostage, forcing my nephew, Captain Murrough O’Flaherty, to return to England in his own vessel to fetch the ransom demanded,”

Michael continued. “The governor was under the direct influence of, and guided by, his Jesuit advisor Father Ourique.”

“Are you holding the Jesuit order responsible then for the irresponsible act of one man, Michaeleen?”

“Wait, Bearach, there is a good deal more. Hear me out, and then we will discuss our differences.”

The Jesuit nodded, then listened intently as his old friend told the tale of Velvet’s misadventures.

“Jesus Christus!”

exploded Bearach O’Dowd when Michael had finished. He could now see what his old friend and playmate was getting at. The O’Malleys were holding the Jesuits responsible for the kidnapping of one of their own. Here was a fine kettle of fish! In their own small way the O’Malleys of Innisfana, though but a minor branch of the great seafaring family, had a certain amount of influence, and a great deal of money behind that influence.

Bearach O’Dowd’s nimble mind scrambled to remember what he could of Velvet de Marisco. Her father was not of an important family, but de Marisco’s stepfather, the Comte de Cher, was highly thought of by the French royal family, and despite the fact that there was currently a civil war raging in France over the succession, royal connections were not to be sneezed at. Holy Father! The girl’s godmothers were Queen Margot herself and Elizabeth of England! Was it possible that the actions of one greedy priest could destroy the Jesuits’ reputation and ruin their years of hard work?

Gathering his wits, Bearach O’Dowd said in a voice that belied his thumping heart, “How is it you think the Jesuits might help you, Michaeleen? I don’t quite understand what it is you want.”

Michael O’Malley hid a smile. Bearach, his old and good friend, was no fool. His position within the order was that of banker. He had a knack for increasing wealth through investments that endeared him to his superiors. That talent gave him a certain amount of power. “There are Jesuits at the Emperor Akbar’s court, Bearach,”

he said. “The emperor, I am told, was born a Moslem, and my sister, Skye, who knows these things says that no honest Moslem will take unto his bed the wife of a living man. Skye, has sent me to you, Bearach. She holds the Jesuit order responsible for Velvet’s plight, but she also believes that you can aid her, aid me in getting to Akbar’s court to present our case before the emperor. The O’Malleys would be most grateful, Bearach.”

“How grateful?”

The two words were sharp and clear.

“Very grateful,”

was Michael’s equally enigmatic reply, but the two men understood each other. The O’Malleys would not settle upon a price until they got what they wanted, but they would be very generous in the end.

“It is possible that we might be able to help you, Michaeleen, but mind you we cannot accept responsibility for the actions of one foolish priest.”

“A Jesuit , Bearach. One of your own, not just some random priest. Otherwise I should be in Rome and not Paris,”

Michael O’Malley gently reminded him.

“Of course, old friend, and you have but to tell me what it is that you want.”

“The Jesuits are welcome at Akbar’s court, Bearach. I have even heard talk of his conversion.”

Bearach O’Dowd snorted. “A dream of glory-seekers, but never say I told you so, Michaeleen. ’Tis my opinion that they’ll never convert him, and that opinion is held by those in the higher strata of the order than I, but ’twill never be admitted aloud. Still, he welcomes us to his court and does nothing to hinder our conversion of the population.”

“Then a letter of introduction from the Jesuits will obtain me an interview with the emperor, Bearach. It will keep the Portuguese from hindering me in my mission. I do not intend to land at Bombay at any rate, but rather I shall debark at Cambay. That port is under the emperor’s control. After that it will be a journey of at least six weeks overland in order to reach Akbar’s capital of Lahore.”

“If he is in Lahore, Michaeleen. It is said that the emperor, like Elizabeth Tudor, travels his land regularly.”

“I will find him, Bearach, and I will gain the release of my poor niece,”

Michael said quietly.

“Pray God that she is still alive, Michaeleen.”

Michael O’Malley laughed aloud. “She’s Skye O’Malley’s daughter, Bearach, and if she’s half the woman her mother is then she’s survived. I’ve not seen her since she was eleven years old, but she was a winsome little lass.”

“I will have to present this dilemma to my superiors, Michaeleen, but rest assured they will see the matter even as I do and be most eager to play their part in obtaining the release of this virtuous young Catholic noblewoman,”

Bearach vowed.

Michael hid a smile. The Jesuits were well served by Father Bearach O’Dowd, who did not admit to the order’s duplicity in Velvet’s plight, and at the same time made it sound as if they were doing the O’Malleys a great favor out of pure Christian charity and not because of the fine profit they would make. “Ah, Bearach, what would we do in this life if we could not rely upon our friends?”

he said. “The family will be so relieved to learn of your aid in rescuing Velvet.”

Rescue was the farthest thought from Velvet’s mind. She was far too happy now, and as her memories of Alex had faded into the dark corners of her heart, her joy at the love that she and Akbar shared filled her soul. He loved her as no other man could ever love her. He shared more of himself with Velvet than he had ever shared with his other wives and concubines. He used her as a sounding board for his thoughts and ideas, which was something he said he had never done with anyone before. Velvet listened to her husband and learned a great deal about politics and strategy from him. Occasionally she even offered her own suggestions or disagreed with him, which no one had also ever done, but he listened to her, and if her reasoning was sound, he would take her advice. It was a love built upon mutual respect as well as passion, but the passion was certainly there as well. Akbar had never loved a woman as he loved Candra Begum, his English Rose, and their love was a fruitful one.

Yasaman Kama Begum was born in her mother’s lakeside palace in Kashmir, which her father had built during the nine months she spent in her mother’s womb, on August 9, 1590. Velvet had a relatively easy time and although normally the birth of the Mughal’s child would have entailed the participation of the entire zenana, only Rugaiya Begum, Jodh Bai, Pansy, and Velvet’s slave women were present. Most of Akbar’s others wives were not welcome in her Kashmiri home.

The little princess was placed in her bejeweled cradle and guarded by two fierce female warriors. She was a strong, healthy infant from birth, which was a great relief to her parents. Each day that passed saw her growing and thriving as she suckled eagerly on her mother’s breasts, anxious to extract every bit of nourishment that she could. Yasaman was an extraordinarily beautiful baby and had been from the moment of her quick entry into life.

She was not as fair-skined as her mother, but neither was she as bronzed as her father. Her skin color was that of very rich, heavy cream; her thick curls dark as her father’s black hair, but with her mother’s auburn highlights. Most startling of all her features, however, were her eyes, which went from a baby blue at her birth to a vibrant turquoise by the time she was almost six months of age.

In personality Yasaman was most decidedly her parents’ child. Her mother’s sweetness was quickly apparent in the normally sunny-natured infant; but when crossed she was quickly the imperial Mughal’s adored daughter, screaming at the top of her tiny lungs until totally satisfied that her will had been done.

Most children have one mother, but Yasaman Kama Begum had three, for both the childless Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai, who had lost her only daughter several days after the baby was born, doted upon her totally. Little Yasaman was fortunate to have two such powerful allies within the zenana, for Akbar’s other wives were jealous of both her and her beautiful mother. It was also in her favor that she was the light of her father’s life, the rich harvest of his love for her mother.

It was hard for Velvet to imagine that it was winter once again in England. She had explained the twelve days of Christmas and the feast of Twelfth Night to Akbar once the month of December was well under way. He had found it an interesting custom and said, “Our little Yasaman comes from two such different cultures. She must know of them both as she grows up.”

Velvet agreed. She might be the wife of a powerful Eastern potentate, but she was still proud of her own heritage. She had already given her daughter the first link in the chain that was to bind mother and child.

It had been done quietly, of course, almost secretly. Akbar had enough difficulties between the Moslems, the Hindus, and the Buddhists without encouraging further rebellions. His youngest child had, therefore, been baptized by the Jesuits in her mother’s house in the presence of only her parents, Pansy, who was designated her godmother, Rugaiya Begum, and Jodh Bai. Velvet had also taken the opportunity to have her tiring woman’s son, now a year old, baptized, too. The two Jesuits who had performed the ceremony, one acting as godfather to both of the children, had been amazed to learn that Akbar had a Christian wife.

“My child,”

exclaimed Father Xavier, the elder of the two, a man with a kindly, worn face. “How is it you have come to this place? When did you last make your confession? When was the last time you received the sacraments? Do you not fear for your soul? Who are you? You have not the look of a peasant girl.”

“Who I am is of no importance to you, Father,”

replied Velvet, “but to satisfy your curiosity I will tell you that in my own land I was a Catholic noblewoman. I was betrayed into captivity by those in high places and sent here to my lord Akbar. Those who sought to harm me, however, did me a great service instead. I have found true love and happiness as my lord’s wife.”

“But it is not a Christian marriage, my lady,”

fretted the priest.

“What does it matter in this land?”

said Velvet. “Once, not so long ago, such things were important to me. I have since learned that it’s what is in a person’s heart which God judges him by, not by the way in which he worships.”

The two Jesuits looked scandalized, but nonetheless they baptized the children, then went about their business sworn to secrecy. Velvet was well satisfied.

On the first day of Christmas Akbar gave his favorite a strand of bright green emeralds with matching earrings. On the following days he presented her with a chestnut-colored Arabian mare, a carved ivory box containing several strands of pink pearls, and a chess set with a board made from alternating squares of green and white marble with playing pieces carved from ivory and green jasper, each piece studded with multicolored gemstones. On the fifth day, he presented her with a beautifully decorated, gilded barge with crimson velvet cushions so that she might sail on the man-made palace lake. The sixth day brought a diamond necklace and earrings. The seventh morning saw a beautiful female elephant with cloth of gold trappings sewn with pearls and precious jewels standing beneath her windows, its graceful trunk raised in salute. On the eighth day of Christmas, Akbar presented his wife with the revenues from the lands upon which her palace in Kashmir stood; on the ninth day, a solid silver litter with purple cushions and mauve hangings with four slaves to bear it; on the tenth day, a necklace of priceless rubies and two gold and ruby bracelets were her gift; and on the eleventh day, a pair of spotted hunting cats. Finally on Twelfth Night Akbar gave Velvet the most opulent gift of all. She was weighed three times, the first time receiving her weight in silver, the second in gold, and the third time in precious gems.

“Lordy, lordy!”

gasped Pansy. “You must be the richest woman in the world now, m’lady! They wouldn’t believe this back home if we could show them!”

Akbar laughed when Velvet told him what her tiring woman had said. “It is I who am rich in your love,”

he said gallantly.

“And it is your love that means more to me than all of this wealth of gold and jewels,”

she replied, kissing him sweetly.

He pulled her into his arms. “You are my world, Candra! Before you I did not live. I existed.”

Gently his lips caressed her forehead, then moved to find her mouth.

I never grow tired of his kisses , she thought. He lifts me from the everyday world into a magic realm.

The kiss deepened as he explored the texture of her lips as if for the very first time. Her mouth was always warm and welcoming. He felt as if he were floating and from her little murmur of pleasure he knew that she was experiencing a similar delight. His hands moved downward over her nude form, caressing, stroking, cupping her willing flesh. He fondled her breasts, marveling at the texture of them. They were so wonderfully firm and silky, and full with the milk she fed their daughter. It gave him a marvelous feeling of deep physical enjoyment to gaze upon those twin globes of smooth, moonlight-colored flesh. He bent his head and nuzzled a dark pink nipple, already puckered with her own pleasure. A tiny bead of milk burst forth from it, and Akbar leaned over and caught it up with his quick tongue.

Velvet shivered and, falling back amid the pillows, drew him with her. He lay for several long minutes, his head pillowed against her heart, listening to its rapid beat, gaining an almost boyish enjoyment from being able to make her heart race when he slipped his hand between her legs to tease her little jewel.

His own breath caught in his throat as her slender fingers caressed first his dark head and then slipped beneath his hair to brush softly the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“I love your hair,”

she said. “It is so incredibly soft. I never knew a man could have such soft hair. I hope our Yasaman’s hair has such a texture.”

“I want Yasaman to be like you,”

he insisted as, parting her legs, he entered her body in one smooth motion.

“Ah, my darling,”

she cried out softly, not from pain but rather pleasure. There had been little foreplay between them this night, but she had been ready for him. She was, she thought for a brief, lucid moment, always ready to make love where he was concerned.

Her legs were firmly between his thighs. Now he put his arms about her and drew her up against his chest. Together they rocked back and forth, their arms and legs now entwined, their tongues caressing one another in sweet embrace. Her breasts were pressed hard against his smooth chest, and his hands moved down to cup her buttocks, raising her up just slightly. Velvet cried out with delight as she found the first peak of pleasure. For many long minutes they sat face to face, their bodies entwined, making passionate love, each giving the other sweet, lingering moments of delight. Then came one flaming minute when the lovers soared together only to slide back finally to reality.

With a sigh Velvet lay her head upon Akbar’s chest. With a matching sigh he slipped a loving arm around her. They lay together, slipping in and out of a light sleep for at least an hour, and then Velvet had the desire to make love again. Slipping from the bed, she fetched a basin of warm, perfumed water and several cloths. He grumbled at the sudden loss of warmth.

“If you would permit Rohana and Toramalli to attend us …”

he began, only to be silenced by her.

“I want no one, even a slave, to be present during our most intimate moments. You may say what you wish about their powers of observation, but they are still human beings and cannot help but see and hear us even if they dare not acknowledge it. Our love is for us alone, my darling. I will not share my time with you!”

She carefully cleansed him free of all evidence of their prior lovemaking, handling his lingam now without any show of embarrassment, even when it began to rise and stir beneath her delicate touch. He watched as she then quickly bathed herself, and removed the cloths and basin. When she returned to him she was freshly perfumed with jasmine, now her favorite scent as gillyflowers were not grown here. It surrounded her like an invisible cloud, and he could see that her hair had been brushed with a jasmine-scented brush, for it was slightly damp and shining with fiery lights.

Velvet saw the desire in his dark eyes as she walked toward him, each step deliberately slow to entice and arouse him. It was a small trick that Rugaiya had taught her, and she had learned it well. She moved upon the balls of her feet, her body long, her buttocks tight, her breasts thrust forward.

Lying on his back amid the pillows, Akbar watched her. She was the most desirable and graceful woman he had ever seen. She almost slithered onto the bed, her slender hands sliding up his legs ahead of the rest of her. Her warm hands massaged first his feet, then his calves, and finally his muscled thighs. Swinging her body over his and leaning just slightly forward, she caressed his smooth chest, her fingers moving in a circular motion over his skin.

“Does this please you, my lord?”

she murmured provocatively.

The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly, but he answered coolly, “It pleases me,”

and nothing more. He did not even look at her, his impersonal gaze staring over her shoulder.

Her hands moved upward to cup his face between them, and bending forward just a wee bit more, she covered his mouth with her own, running her little tongue over his lips and then thrusting it boldly into his mouth. She caressed his tongue with her own until he thought his blood would surely boil, and then she sucked upon it lingeringly. It took every ounce of willpower that he had not to take her then and there, but he was very much enjoying having her act the aggressor. Only since Yasaman’s birth had she occasionally begun to make love to him, and he frankly enjoyed it. Still, he could not resist clasping her delectable bottom in his two hands and fondling the deliciously springy flesh of its twin cheeks.

Releasing him from the kiss, Velvet sat back just slightly but not quite enough to dislodge his hands. Then cupping her breasts in her own palms she began to play with them, fondling the sensitive flesh, teasing the nipples until a little moan escaped from between her lips. When he tried to release her bottom, she would not let him, seating herself firmly upon his hands and looking straight into his eyes while she continued to play with herself.

She could feel his lingam growing large and hard beneath her, and the very thought that he would soon possess her excited her further. Unable to help herself, she began to squirm slightly upon him. Bending forward again, she brushed the nipple of one breast over his cheek, a softly taunting smile upon her face. He was ready for her, however, when she rubbed the other breast over his mouth. Capturing the nipple in his lips, he encircled it with his tongue, licking the sensitive flesh until it tingled, and she shivered. It was then that Velvet raised her lower body and impaled herself upon his staff.

“Little bitch,”

he growled at her, loving the way her tight, sweet yoni encased his throbbing lingam.

At first her rhythm was excruciatingly slow and teasing, but gradually her pace quickened, and suddenly they were both lost in the fiery madness of their shared passion, flying together to that paradise known only to true lovers, never even remembering their descent from the heavens into blissful sleep.

In the days that followed, life took on an almost unreal happiness for Velvet. She could not remember ever having been so content, feeling so loved. Her parents had, of course, adored her, but even when she’d sat in one or the other’s lap, she could feel them loving each other with their eyes, oblivious to her, or to anything else for that matter. How often had she been told of the great love that had led to her very existence? The love she now experienced, however, was that same kind of love that her parents had for one another, and she finally understood their constant preoccupation with each other. She hoped that little Yasaman would not feel shut out by the love she and Akbar shared, but she vowed to herself it would not happen.

She smiled. Akbar was really determined to spoil their daughter, but then she thought how fortunate it was that he loved their child so very much.

She had to take him to task, however, the very next day for bringing the baby along with him in his howdah when he went on a tiger hunt. When she scolded her husband, he looked quite hurt and replied, “Yasaman was quite safe with me.”