She smiled mischievously. “Chili. The spicier it is, the happier it makes you. But wait! Some sweet tea will counteract the spiciness.”
She placed the tray on the floor and clapped her hands. Tamra rushed in and handed her mistress a glass of lukewarm tea. André saw the two women exchanged a quick glance. When Aynur was about to hand him the glass, he shook his head.
“Come on, tell me. What are you two up to?”
She opened her dark-rimmed eyes wide. “Are you not happy, my lord? Do you not like it? Drink some tea. It will do you good.” She leaned forward to hand him the glass. He smelled her intoxicating scent of roses, vanilla, and ambergris and had to force himself not to stare at her breasts, with their large, dark nipples. He hastily gulped the tea. When Aynur extended one hand to take the glass, he grasped her small wrist and turned it around.
“What did you do here? It looks pretty.”
She looked at the artful ornaments that Tamra had drawn with henna on her palms and whispered, “It is mehndi. A bride uses it to adorn herself before her wedding night.” The spirals spun before André’s eyes. He let go of her hand and fell back on the cushions. “How old are you, Aynur?”
“Seventeen,” she replied shyly. Seventeen and still a virgin, a disgrace! She feared the Frenchman would reject her because she was so old, but to her surprise, Rouston mumbled, “You’re much too young for me, child. You could be my daughter.”
She regarded the chiseled masculine contours of his face, his skin, which shimmered like gold in the light of the oil lamp, his curly black hair, and his eyes, drowsy from the effects of the opium she and Tamra had mixed into his food. The feelings she had for him were not at all like those of a daughter for her father. She rose lithely. “Do you want me to dance for you, Monsieur Rouston?”
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and began to laugh uncontrollably. Sibylla appeared in his mind’s eye. She was the woman he loved, and not this little seventeen-year-old siren.
“Don’t dance for me, Aynur,” he protested with a heavy tongue. “Go to sleep! Leave me alone!”
But already he heard the melodious sounds of the al rababa coming from behind the screen, accompanied by Tamra’s voice, deep and raspy. Aynur moved toward André. Her arms moved like snakes, her breasts bobbed, and her hips swayed to the music. He watched with fascination as the tips of her hair swept along the floor as she bent back her supple and immaculate body.
At this moment, he was anything but lethargic and dazed. All of his senses were keen. Tamra had now put the al rababa aside and was beating the darbouka, still hidden behind the screen. Despite the thud of the drum, he could hear Aynur’s feet, beating the ground to the rhythm. Her breath reverberated in his head. Her scent filled the room and aroused his desire, unexpectedly and overwhelmingly. The silver threads of her tunic flashed like shooting stars, and the notion that she might have colored not only her nipples with henna but also the triangle between her thighs aroused him.
Thoughts of Sibylla dissolved into nothingness. When Aynur danced directly in front of him, he reached for her. She dodged with such speed that his hand grasped only her tunic. The thin material tore and fluttered to the floor. Now all she was wearing was silk harem pants. The flickering light glittered on her shoulders, her breasts, and her stomach.
“Come here!” he commanded hoarsely.
“Of course, my master.” She slowly sank to her knees before him, placed one hand on his trousers, opened them, and clasped his hard member.
He sat up with a groan, but she placed her other hand on his chest and pressed him back onto the cushions.
“Are you comfortable, my master?” she asked softly. “Yes? Then stay as you are. I will take care of everything.” She leaned over his lap.
Late the following day, André staggered across the courtyard. Qasr el Bahia was deserted and quiet except for a few doves cooing on the rooftops.
“Salam, master.” The stable boy was hauling a bucket of water.
André suppressed a groan. At the slightest movement, his head felt ready to burst. Overwhelmed with nausea, he could not remember his stable boy’s name.
“You!” He beckoned the boy. “Come here!”
The boy shyly obeyed. André took the bucket and poured its contents over his head in one motion. The water was ice cold. He gasped for air, but at least he felt more awake now.
“Where is Feradge?” he asked the stable boy. “Where are the Chiadma and the workers?”
“The caravan with the workers and the sultan’s eunuch left for Marrakesh at the break of dawn, and the Chiadma have returned to their tribe. The sheikh said that you would keep Aynur. If not, he said you should send for him,” the boy reported.
André stared at him. His memories of the previous night ended with the moment he had entered the room where Aynur was awaiting him with the farewell meal. Everything after that was shrouded in blackness, but he did not have a good feeling. He squinted at the sky, felt a sharp pain behind his eyes, and quickly lowered his head again. “What time is it?”
The stable boy also looked up. “The sun will set in two hours, master.”
André groaned once more. What had Aynur and Tamra done to him? And where were they now? He would confront them, both of them! But first he needed some strong tea. Maybe he would also manage to eat some dry flatbread. He was about to return to the house when he heard horses’ hooves and turned around painfully. Two riders were trotting through the gate. Two women.
“Hello, André! Your directions were excellent. We had no trouble finding Qasr el Bahia.”
He was stunned. “Sibylla, what are you doing here?”
“For not having seen me for six weeks, you don’t seem particularly pleased that I am here!” She turned toward her companion. “Perhaps my idea of visiting Monsieur Rouston was not such a good one after all, Nadira.”
“Mais oui! Of course it was!” André hurriedly replied. But his head throbbed.
Sibylla looked him over. “You look ill. I’ll make you some tea and some good strong broth.” She was about to dismount but suddenly froze.
He slowly turned around. There was Aynur, young and beautiful like the rising sun, wearing a pearl-studded garment with a thin red veil over her black hair. Her brown eyes flitted back and forth between Sibylla and André.
“Who is that, dearest?” Aynur asked softly. “Is she your other wife? Or just a concubine?”
The pain in André’s head suddenly became like a thunderbolt. He looked at Sibylla and tried to remember the previous night, vainly searching for words.
She scrutinized him icily. “Now I see what has kept you from visiting me! Come, Nadira, we don’t want to intrude any longer.” She pulled her horse around and galloped away through the gate.
“You surely know it yourself, don’t you, my lady?” Nadira said three days after their return from Qasr el Bahia. “You are expecting another child.”