“You mustn’t be frightened,” began Murrough.
“I’m not,” said Velvet. “It will give me a chance to see the city, and then I shall have something to talk about when we return to England.”
“You surprise me more every day,” said Murrough quietly. “What happened to the hysterical young woman who boarded my ship five months ago?”
“She grew up a little more, brother. Alex’s death was a terrible shock to me for many reasons, but perhaps mostly because it was so unnecessary. Being away from everyone and everything, out on the sea with only the elements for companions, I have been able to come to terms with myself, for I really have only myself to rely on in the end. I will never forget my marriage, short though it was. I will never forget Alex. I, however, am alive, and I must go on for whatever purpose God intends. When we return home, I will retire toQueen’s Malvernand spend the rest of my days there with Mama and Papa. They were my life before Alex, and so shall they be once again.”
“There will be someone else for you one day, poppet,” Murrough said. “Has not Robin found new happiness with Angel? And our mother? Did not life treat her harshly time after time until she wed with your father?”
“There will be no one else for me,” said Velvet with all the dramatic certainty of a sixteen-year-old, and Murrough, knowing better, did not bother to argue with her further. One day another man would come along who would capture her heart.
“I will go on deck and arrange for the water casks to be refilled so that we may set sail for the fleet as quickly as possible after you’ve left the ship,” he told her.
She stepped forward and hugged her brother hard. She loved him greatly, and he had been so good to her.
Remembering it now, in Akbar’s zenana, fresh tears began to slide down Velvet’s face. Until this moment she had not realized how painful the memory was.
“I see now how you came to India,” said Akbar, “but there is more. I would not distress you, but you must finish your story for me.”
“I’ll be all right.” Velvet sniffed. “It was just that I was thinking of my brother. I love him very much. Are you sure, my lord, that I do not bore you with my taie?”
He smiled warmly at her. “No, you do not bore me. I feel very much like Sultan Schariar with his Scheherazade.”
“Who were Sultan Schariar and Scheherazade?” asked Velvet.
“Schariar was a ruler of Persia many centuries ago who, having been deceived by his wife, executed her in accordance with the laws of his land, and then decided that all women were wicked as she had been. Vowing never to be deluded again, he ordered that a new bride be brought to him each night and on each following morning he had her executed.
“Up until then Schariar had been much loved by his people, but now they feared him, and they feared for their daughters. Finally the elder daughter of the sultan’s grand vizier, a maiden named Scheherazade, was determined to put a stop to the tragedy and, despite her father’s distress, offered herself as the sultan’s bride.
“That evening Scheherazade begged the sultan to allow her sister, Dinarzade, to spend the night with her as it was her last night on earth. The sultan acquiesced, which was fortunate since Scheherazade’s plan required her sister’s cooperation. An hour before the dawn, Dinarzade awoke and begged her sister to tell one of her fabulous stories as it would be the last time she ever heard one. With the sultan’s permission Scheherazade began her tale. At daybreak she ceased speaking, though the tale was nowhere near finished, but she knew the sultan arose at dawn to attend his council. Dinarzade protested, and the sultan, who at this point was very much caught up in the story himself, delayed Scheherazade’s execution for a day.
“Each night for a thousand and one nights Scheherazade told the sultan fabulous tales of geniis, ghouls, and jinns; of peris, who are fairies; of princesses who worked magic spells; and of handsome princes, flying carpets, and horses that flew. In the end the sultan fell in love with her, made her his sultana, and when his reign of terror stopped, he was once more loved by his people as was Scheherazade.”
Velvet was intrigued by his story. “Will you order me executed after I have finished my tale?” she said with a little smile.
Akbar’s black eyes fixed themselves on her face, and he said in his deep, satiny voice, “I could never destroy such rare beauty as yours, I am more likely to make you one of my queens.”
Velvet’s cheeks pinked prettily. “You have many queens, I am told,” she said pertly.
A chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Continue your tale, my Scheherazade,” he said, thinking again that he liked her spirit.
“I was transported to the Portuguese governor’s house late that afternoon,” she began, remembering as she spoke the terrible, damp heat of Bombay that left her feeling totally limp. Beside her in the stuffy, closed carriage, Pansy was looking green again.
“Lord, m’lady, first ’tis the sea that makes me sick, and then no sooner am I upon dry land than I feel even worse. God help us, but I will be glad to go home.”
Secretly, Velvet agreed with her young tiring woman, but it was up to her now to keep their spirits up. “I’m sure that once we get to the governor’s house we will be able to have something cool to drink, and that should help.”
Pansy didn’t look particularly convinced, but she grew quiet again, and Velvet couldn’t decide which was worse, the silence or her maid’s complaints. The governor’s residence looked promising, a two-story white-brick building built around a large, flowering courtyard. They were settled into an airy suite of rooms overlooking the courtyard and given cool, scented baths, which after the months at sea was a great treat, but it was not until evening that Velvet met the governor, Don Cesar Affonso Marinha-Grande.
He was a tall, spare man, his skin bronzed by the relentless Indian sun, his eyes cold and flat, and his hair dark. He had a beautifully barbered small beard and a narrow moustache. To her amazement he was dressed in the height of fashion, in black velvet and white lace, which she couldn’t help thinking must be very warm considering the heat of the day. She herself had chosen to wear a simple brown silk gown with an open neckline in order to be as cool as possible.
Father Ourique moved to introduce Velvet as she entered the dining chamber. “Your Excellency, may I present Velvet Gordon, the Countess of BrocCairn, who will be your guest until her brother returns to complete our business. She is the only child of Lord and Lady de Marisco.”
Velvet curtsied politely. “Your Excellency,” she said.
He bowed, but his eyes were instantly fastened upon her breasts. “You are a widow, madame?” was his greeting.
“Yes, m’lord.”
