Viscount
Lyndon—Lord Elgin gestured toward his companion—were most
distressed and wished to have her returned to them immediately. If
his Magnificence would be so kind—
“ You must be aware this is not
possible,” the Grand Vizier interjected, the dragoman interpreter
precisely imitating the official’s sharp tone. “No woman leaves the
seraglio.”
Thomas Bruce, Lord Elgin, squared his
shoulders, summoning all his stubborn Scots ancestry to aid him. He
spoke slowly and clearly so the translator would be certain to
interpret his words correctly. “Lord Lyndon is the eldest son of an
earl, the heir. In England an earl is a great pasha. It is known
that, on occasion, his Magnificence, the Sultan, may give one of
his women—if she is untouched—as a gift to a great lord. I
therefore assure you that Jason Victor Granville Lisbourne, Lord
Lyndon, is such a lord, and I humbly request that he be granted
this gift, a token of respect between our countries.”
The Grand Vizier began to speak, his words
fading into silence at a wave of the Sultan’s hand. “If such a gift
is made,” Sultan Selim intoned, “it is required that the pasha
marry the girl immediately.” His dark eyes regarded the viscount
with considerable interest, as if certain the young man would
refuse.
Jason bowed so low his head nearly touched
his knees. Ever since the bundle woman had told them of this
ancient custom, there had been little doubt it was the only hope
for Penelope’s rescue. He was reconciled to the inevitable. “Your
Magnificence, I would be honored to take Miss Blayne to wife.”
“ You may return in two days time with
whatever man of your religion you choose,” the Sultan decreed. “You
will be married here. You will spend your wedding night in the
palace so we may know the matter is properly accomplished. And then
you may take your woman and go.”
Jason had thought himself prepared for
almost anything, but a wedding night in the palace . . . with a
hundred eyes watching. Impossible!
While Viscount Lyndon suffered from
speechlessness, Lord Elgin made a sincere, and properly flowery,
speech of thanks. He bowed. Jason, recovering his outward aplomb,
also bowed, and the two men backed their way out of the presence of
his Magnificence, Sultan Selim the Third, ruler of the Ottoman
Empire.
Good God ,
Jason groaned, how will I
manage?
On a day a little over a month after Miss
Penelope Blayne’s kidnapping at the Grand Bazaar, events seemed to
be repeating themselves. Penny was bathed, oiled, massaged,
scented, and dressed in the fine garments she had worn at her
presentation to the Sultan. The Kislar Agha escorted her back down
the shaded passage that ran between the seraglio and the throne
room. Two eunuch guards brought up the rear.
Penny’s heartbeat quickened. She
was out . Though still in the
palace, she was out of the harem, which was very odd indeed, for
the Sultan came to his women, not the other way round. But there
was no time to think why. Their small procession entered the throne
room, Penny following demurely behind the Kislar Agha, eyes cast
down, as she had been painfully taught. She did not see the Sultan,
the Grand Vizier, the Grand Mufti, the Sultan’s Sword Bearer, the
Chief Executioner, the bodyguards, or the many other men
surrounding them. She kept her eyes fixed on the tips of her soft
kid slippers and wondered if she was to be given away yet again
because she had failed to live up to the standards demanded of an
odalisque in the royal palace.
Suddenly, the Kislar Agha gripped her arm and
drew her forward. “Is this the woman you seek, my lord?” the giant
black man inquired in French.
Penny’s eyes snapped up to follow the
Chief Black Eunuch’s gaze. Jason! And Lord
Elgin! And a third man in English garb. But a month’s
training was enough to keep her in her place. She did not cry out,
she did not attempt to run. But her heart soared, as did her
prayers.
“ I cannot know,
Lyndon—Lord Elgin gestured toward his companion—were most
distressed and wished to have her returned to them immediately. If
his Magnificence would be so kind—
“ You must be aware this is not
possible,” the Grand Vizier interjected, the dragoman interpreter
precisely imitating the official’s sharp tone. “No woman leaves the
seraglio.”
Thomas Bruce, Lord Elgin, squared his
shoulders, summoning all his stubborn Scots ancestry to aid him. He
spoke slowly and clearly so the translator would be certain to
interpret his words correctly. “Lord Lyndon is the eldest son of an
earl, the heir. In England an earl is a great pasha. It is known
that, on occasion, his Magnificence, the Sultan, may give one of
his women—if she is untouched—as a gift to a great lord. I
therefore assure you that Jason Victor Granville Lisbourne, Lord
Lyndon, is such a lord, and I humbly request that he be granted
this gift, a token of respect between our countries.”
The Grand Vizier began to speak, his words
fading into silence at a wave of the Sultan’s hand. “If such a gift
is made,” Sultan Selim intoned, “it is required that the pasha
marry the girl immediately.” His dark eyes regarded the viscount
with considerable interest, as if certain the young man would
refuse.
Jason bowed so low his head nearly touched
his knees. Ever since the bundle woman had told them of this
ancient custom, there had been little doubt it was the only hope
for Penelope’s rescue. He was reconciled to the inevitable. “Your
Magnificence, I would be honored to take Miss Blayne to wife.”
“ You may return in two days time with
whatever man of your religion you choose,” the Sultan decreed. “You
will be married here. You will spend your wedding night in the
palace so we may know the matter is properly accomplished. And then
you may take your woman and go.”
Jason had thought himself prepared for
almost anything, but a wedding night in the palace . . . with a
hundred eyes watching. Impossible!
While Viscount Lyndon suffered from
speechlessness, Lord Elgin made a sincere, and properly flowery,
speech of thanks. He bowed. Jason, recovering his outward aplomb,
also bowed, and the two men backed their way out of the presence of
his Magnificence, Sultan Selim the Third, ruler of the Ottoman
Empire.
Good God ,
Jason groaned, how will I
manage?
On a day a little over a month after Miss
Penelope Blayne’s kidnapping at the Grand Bazaar, events seemed to
be repeating themselves. Penny was bathed, oiled, massaged,
scented, and dressed in the fine garments she had worn at her
presentation to the Sultan. The Kislar Agha escorted her back down
the shaded passage that ran between the seraglio and the throne
room. Two eunuch guards brought up the rear.
Penny’s heartbeat quickened. She
was out . Though still in the
palace, she was out of the harem, which was very odd indeed, for
the Sultan came to his women, not the other way round. But there
was no time to think why. Their small procession entered the throne
room, Penny following demurely behind the Kislar Agha, eyes cast
down, as she had been painfully taught. She did not see the Sultan,
the Grand Vizier, the Grand Mufti, the Sultan’s Sword Bearer, the
Chief Executioner, the bodyguards, or the many other men
surrounding them. She kept her eyes fixed on the tips of her soft
kid slippers and wondered if she was to be given away yet again
because she had failed to live up to the standards demanded of an
odalisque in the royal palace.
Suddenly, the Kislar Agha gripped her arm and
drew her forward. “Is this the woman you seek, my lord?” the giant
black man inquired in French.
Penny’s eyes snapped up to follow the
Chief Black Eunuch’s gaze. Jason! And Lord
Elgin! And a third man in English garb. But a month’s
training was enough to keep her in her place. She did not cry out,
she did not attempt to run. But her heart soared, as did her
prayers.
“ I cannot know,
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