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  “Miriam Minger is a master storyteller who illustrates the full gamut of emotions felt by her characters. Emotions so strong that you are pulled into the pages and into their lives.” - Inside Romance

  CAPTIVE ROSE

  MIRIAM MINGER

  Copyright (c) 1991 by Miriam Minger. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Originally published by Avon Books, March 1991

  Cover Copyright (c) 2010 by Hot Damn Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9828835-2-5

  Other Electronic Books by Miriam Minger

  Medieval Romances:

  Twin Passions

  The Pagan’s Prize

  Wild Angel

  Wild Roses

  Regency Era Romances:

  Secrets of Midnight

  My Runaway Heart

  Historical Romances:

  Stolen Splendor

  Defiant Impostor

  Highland Romances:

  A Hint of Rapture

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  To lovers true, what matters dark or fair?

  Or if the loved one silk or sackcloth wear,

  Or lie on down or dust, or rise to heaven?

  Yea, though she sink to hell, he’ll seek her there.

  -OMAR KHAYYAM

  (translated by E. H. Whinfield)

  Prologue

  Damascus, Syria

  Summer, 1253

  “He comes, my mistress.”

  Majida’s simple words elicited a nervous fluttering of excitement in Eve Gervais’s breast. She ceased her gentle crooning and glanced at the striking Circassian odalisque, a slave woman who had been purchased from the teeming Damascus slave market on the same day as she, six months ago. Majida’s lithe, broad-shouldered frame filled the narrow archway leading from Eve’s private apartments.

  “Is all in readiness, Majida?” Eve asked quietly, careful lest she wake the baby sleeping so peacefully in her arms. She watched as Majida crossed the shaded courtyard on strong, silent feet and knelt beside the marble couch where she was sitting.

  “Yes, mistress. All is prepared.”

  He comes, Eve thought. Sinjar Al-Aziz. Her master. Her protector. He had spent every third night with her since she had been brought to this house; long, passionate nights she had once dreaded. Now she yearned for those nights as she yearned for him, this man who would become her husband in a week’s time.

  Eve felt a moment’s panic, and raw guilt constricted her throat.

  Forgive me, William!

  “How sweetly she sleeps,” Majida whispered, oblivious to Eve’s distress. The odalisque’s large gray eyes were soft as she gazed upon the baby. She reached out and lovingly caressed a plump limb. “Her skin is like the finest pearl, O my mistress,” she said in hushed admiration. “White as the full moon and delicate as a dove’s satin wing.”

  Distracted by the husky, soothing quality of Majida’s voice, Eve smiled faintly as the odalisque bent her head and kissed the baby’s curled fist. “You will spoil her with such talk, Majida,” she said, gently reproaching her. “‘Tis a good thing Leila is only seven months old and does not yet understand your many compliments.”

  “Ah, she knows,” Majida insisted softly, sitting back on her haunches and looking solemnly at Eve. “She hears, she smiles. She listens to her devoted Majida.” The odalisque raised her hand, shielding the baby’s face from the dappled late afternoon sunlight. “Leila,” she intoned, “dark as night. Your ebony hair vies with the raven’s gloss. Your eyes sparkle like twin amethyst jewels, fit for a sultan. Perhaps one day it might even be said your beauty rivals that of your fair mother.”

  “Then I will be the most fortunate of men to have a wife and a daughter blessed so richly by Allah.”

  Majida gasped slightly and bowed low to the floor, her indigo silk caftan splaying in shimmering folds around her. She touched her forehead to the cool paving stones as Sinjar Al-Aziz, at thirty years of age the wealthiest and most respected physician in Damascus, entered the courtyard. “O master, I have a foolish and flapping tongue—”

  “Not foolish if one speaks the truth,” Sinjar interrupted pleasantly as he strode toward them. “Rise now, woman, and leave us. I wish to be alone with my beloved.”

  As Majida scrambled to her feet, Eve’s face grew warm at the stirring sight of her Arab lord.

  He was so darkly handsome, his features finely etched beneath a short, carefully barbered beard, his body strong and virile beneath his flowing robes … a body she knew as intimately as her own. His last words were like a forbidden caress upon her skin; they burned into her mind.

  “Go, Majida, and take the child,” she said, her heart thundering as she felt Sinjar’s gaze drift over her in a manner that never failed to unnerve and excite her. She lifted her daughter into Majida’s outstretched arms. “See that my lord and I are not disturbed, yet remain close at hand in case I have need of you.”

  “Yes, my mistress.” Hugging Leila to her chest, Majida hurried past Sinjar with her head lowered and eyes downcast, and disappeared through the archway.

  A tense silence ensued, mocked by splashing fountains and sweet birdsong.

  Overcome by Sinjar’s presence, Eve bowed her head and stared at the small, man-made stream gurgling through the square courtyard. Lifeblood to the fruit trees and flowers blooming in colorful profusion around her, the stream was fed by the Barada, the Cool River, which flowed just beyond these thick, ivy-covered walls and supplied the water for the entire city.

  Damascus. The original Garden of Eden, or so the Damascenes called their ancient home. A land of trees and rivers, fruits and birds, rising up like a verdant miracle from the desert.

  A paradise.

  A prison. Eve’s prison … and Leila’s. An opulent prison filled with every luxury, every comfort—even love if she would only accept it from the man who had found such favor in his Christian concubine that he had made her his favorite, and soon his third wife.

  A small, plaintive sigh escaped Eve’s lips. Once she was married she would be a free woman, but not so free that she could ever leave the confines of the city walls unescorted. She would still be a prisoner, trapped by tragic circumstances and a fierce, burgeoning love that was threatening to envelop her completely.

  Six months ago she had wanted desperately to escape, to return with her infant daughter to the nine-year-old son she and William had left behind in England last summer when they began their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Now she wasn’t so sure she wanted to escape. She was certain of only one thing; of the terrible guilt festering within her like a livin
g, breathing presence.

  Eve closed her eyes tightly against the sudden tears welling there.

  Oh, William, my dearest husband, why did you have to die? Why did you abandon me to the vile slave trader who murdered you and then brought me here to Damascus, selling me to this man who has the power to make me feel again … make me love again? I would rather be suffering a thousand torments than betray you in my heart. But I am helpless against it. Please forgive me!

  “Eve.”

  She started as Sinjar took her gently by the shoulders and raised her up beside him. She opened her large, violet eyes and regarded him through spiky lashes, tears tumbling down her cheeks. With infinite tenderness he cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs caressing away the warm wetness.

  “You weep for William, yes?”

  She stared into the smoldering, mahogany depths that seemed to know her soul, and nodded.

  “I weep for William … for what is lost,” she said truthfully, for strangely with Sinjar she had never thought to lie. “And I weep at the remorse which is like a dagger twisting in my heart—”

  Sinjar silenced her with a finger to her lips, his gaze burning intently into hers. “Say no more, my beloved. I understand,” he said quietly, enfolding her in his arms. “But know this. Kismet has brought you to me, and there is nothing that will alter what has gone before. Nothing. You must accept your kismet, Eve. Your fate.”

  Eve said nothing as she buried her damp face against his shoulder. His familiar masculine scent, tinged with musk and sandalwood, was a compelling comfort. Her arms crept around him, and she returned his embrace.

  “I am a patient man, but I am also a jealous man,” Sinjar continued, his arms tightening possessively. “You lost your William ten months ago. I know you have yet to mourn, but I will not live forever with his spirit between us, Eve. In time, I hope you will leave him to his eternal rest and return my love.”

  Eve silently cried out her anguish as Sinjar bent his head and kissed her, the demanding warmth of his lips driving William’s image from her mind. She clung to him as a drowning creature would cling to a rock, unconsciously making her choice, the living over the dead.

  She knew that in time, just as Sinjar had said, her guilt would ease and she would be able to voice her love. And she knew, deep in her heart, that William would wish her happiness in the new life fate had brought her.

  “Come with me, my beloved,” Sinjar said softly, his breath stirring her gossamer veil and the lustrous black hair curled at the base of her throat. He took her arm, and together they walked from the jasmine- and rose-scented courtyard, passing through the archway into Eve’s luxurious apartments, which were set apart from the rest of the harem as befitted a favored concubine.

  Now Eve led the way, taking his hand as she drew him into the salon across velvet carpets embroidered in gold and crimson.

  The room was dark and cool, a welcome relief from the dry summer heat. Two window grilles looking out onto the courtyard provided soft, diffused light through elegantly carved lattices. Beautiful gilded hangings with intricate mosaic designs graced the four walls, while on three sides of the room the floor was raised several feet, forming a divan furnished with inviting brocade cushions.

  Eve was pleased to see that Majida had done her job well. The low tortoiseshell table in the center of the room was set with gleaming silver plates with cream silk napkins wrapped in mother-of-pearl rings, and in the middle sat a large platter covered with plump figs, bowls of caviar, salty olives, and feta cheeses. Next to the platter was a basket of bread, the crusty, flat loaves still steaming from the harem ovens. It was a simple repast. The heavier meal would come later that evening.

  While Sinjar settled himself on the tasseled pillows strewn beside the table, Eve picked up a carved crystal pitcher and poured them each a goblet of cool, citron-flavored water.

  “That is work for a slave,” Sinjar objected mildly, as he had done since Eve had first entered his harem. “A woman in your exalted position should have a multitude of slaves, yet you accept only one, Majida, and she is forever doting on the child instead of you.”

  Eve knelt on a cushion, smiling as she handed him the goblet. “I have simple needs, my lord. Simple wants. And I enjoy doing these things myself. More slaves would only disturb my privacy, which I treasure more highly than ease of living.” She gave a small laugh. “As for Majida, she does dote overmuch on Leila, but she is a great help to me, and Leila adores her. It is enough.”

  Sinjar chuckled, shaking his turbanned head. He drank deeply from his goblet, then set it down and leaned toward her. “You, my beloved Eve, are truly a wonder,” he whispered, his gaze moving slowly over her face as if memorizing its shapely contours. “My two other wives grow fat and lazy because they do not lift a finger for themselves except to bring food to their mouths, while you”—he reached out and tenderly stroked her cheek— “insist upon serving me with your own hands.”

  Eve closed her eyes and inclined her head, her skin tingling from his touch. She felt his smooth fingertips stray ever so slowly along the high curve of her cheekbone and down her throat, lingering at the hollow pulse point, then drift still lower. She drew in a sharp breath when he traced the firm swell of her breasts through her silken clothing.

  “My touch excites you, yes?” Sinjar asked huskily, circling his palm over her taut nipples. “Your pulse betrays you, my beloved. It pants for love as a wild beast pants for water beneath the desert sun. As I pant and bum for the softness of your body. Our meal must wait.”

  Sinjar raised himself up suddenly and sucked hungrily at her breast despite the silken barrier, a wet and frustrating sensation that caused Eve to moan deep in her throat. How she longed to be free from her clothing and feel his lips, his flicking tongue upon her skin!

  As if in answer to her wish, Eve opened her eyes to find Sinjar kneeling in front of her. She watched, fascinated, as he reached around her narrow waist and deftly unfastened the embroidered belt securing her qumbaz, then pushed the outer garment from her shoulders. And still he suckled her. His movements were abrupt and impatient, his breathing becoming as rapid as her own. Wherever he touched her, she could feel him trembling

  It was always like this when he had not seen her for three days. Sometimes his hunger was so great he would rip the clothes from her body in his haste to possess her.

  Sinjar pulled the filmy thob over her head and tossed the dress to the floor. Eve shivered as the cooler air in the salon found her naked torso. He bade her stand as he tore wildly at the silk tikkeh, the drawstring gathering together the waistline of her voluminous sirwal. It was all she could do not to collapse, her knees were so weak with desire. She leaned on his broad shoulders while he dragged the shimmering pants from her hips, his nails lightly raking her skin, and she laughed giddily when he pulled her into his lap with an exultant cry.

  His need for her was so overpowering he did not bother to remove his robes. With a quick adjustment of his sirwal he freed himself and entered her, supporting the weight of their bodies on his heels.

  Eve’s cries of passion were silenced by his kiss. His long fingers ripped off her veil and threaded through her hair as he moved powerfully within her. Their fusion was swift and furious, their release as wild as a sudden thunderstorm breaking over the distant mountains of Lebanon. And when it was over, Sinjar drew her down beside him on the pillows, their flesh still joined.

  “How you please me!” he whispered raggedly into her ear, wiping long, midnight strands from her shoulder and nuzzling her earlobe.

  Eve shifted her weight, draping a slim leg over his hip and winding an arm around his neck. She played languidly with his turban, which amazingly was still atop his head. The thought made her giggle, and she hugged him impulsively. “How you please me, my lord!” she said brazenly, her eyes shining into his.

  They lay entwined together until their breathing had slowed, and then for a long time afterward, simply basking in the warmth and nearness of the other
.

  At last, Sinjar drew himself reluctantly from her, retying his pants, and Eve covered herself with her wrinkled thob, pulling it over her head. Yet they remained close together on the pillows, sitting side by side and clasping hands.

  Thinking he might be hungry, Eve picked the choicest fig from the platter and offered it to him, holding it to his lips. Sinjar smiled playfully and took the fig between his even white teeth, but he did not bite into it. He bent his head to her in a funny, familiar game, and she bit the plump fig in half, the sweet juice dripping down their chins. Sticky kisses followed, and much laughter, and they both sank back down on the pillows, embracing.

  “My beautiful, wondrous Eve,” Sinjar said, sifting her silken hair through his fingers. “I have found my dearest treasure in you.” He kissed her soundly, then brought himself up on an elbow and gazed into her eyes. “I want to give you a gift. A marriage gift.”

  Eve shook her head gently, though she was touched by his offer. “No, my lord. I have riches enough. You have been more than generous with me, even adopting my daughter as your own and promising her an education that would be unheard of in my country.” Her voice softened with wonderment. “I still cannot believe it, the possibility of training Leila one day to follow in your footsteps as a physician—”

  “Tell me what you want, Eve.” He interrupted her so firmly that she knew he would not be swayed. “And if it is within my power, I will give it. Allah has blessed me; I am a wealthy man. What can I give you? Jewels? If you wish for a sparkling diamond as large as that fig or even larger, you shall surely have it! I could build you a country villa, with fragrant rose gardens and tiled pools, and a pavilion with a gilded roof that will shine in the sun like beaten gold …”