“Ye have been to Constantinople?” How fortunate he was to have such freedom. “Tell me what it is like,please.”
“Oppressively hot.”
She grinned.
“If ye dinna know sand dominated the landscape as yer ship entered the harbor, ye’d swear the place was made of gold.”
She sat on the edge of the padded chair, his simple description as exciting as he was. “And?”
“The ancient buildings are cut from stone with wide arches and decorated with colorful tiles. There’re bath houses and endless markets, white mosques where Muslims worship Allah, palaces filled with riches beyond imagination, and…” he paused.
“Aye?”
“Forgive me, milady. I lost myself.”
“Ye canna stop now.”
“Nay?” he eyed her speculatively. “I doona wish to overwhelm yer delicate senses.”
Did he mistake her as weak? “I assure ye, sir, I am capable…”
He smiled, revealing straight, white teeth and a dimple in his chin. “Veiled women who will dance for ye upon command.”
Her eyes widened in fascination. “Are ye teasing me?”
“Nay. Dancing is verra important.”
“What sort of dancing?”
He rubbed his chin. “Not a Highland dance.”
“I doona understand.”
“They doona dance with men.”
“Nay? Then how…”
Jamie moved his hips in a strange manner. “I canna do it.”
Just then, Petro rustled some papers on the table and cleared his throat. “What are ye doing, Master Jamie?”
“Trying to show Lady Helen how dancers in the palace entertain.”
Petro frowned. “Perhaps the lady would prefer to hear about the food or palace ruins in the desert. Or maybe about the Bedouins?”
“Bedouins?” she asked.
“Aye,” Jamie said. “Nomadic people who travel the desert and live in tents.”
“That canna be verra comfortable.”
“Doona think of the kind of tents we use. These shelters are made from goat or camel hair and supported by multiple poles. The chiefs live in large tents with silk pillows and thick carpets on the floor. His wives serve him night and day, seeing to every creature comfort. Guests are welcomed like royalty, fed fresh meat and fruit, given wine and honey-sweetened camel milk, entertained as princes.”
Helen tried to imagine what he meant, and when she pictured the beautiful dancers Jamie had spoken of, her cheeks heated. “Apples?”
“Nay,” Jamie said. “Think every color—as brilliant as a bird’s wing. Pomegranates. Peaches. Lemons. The sweetest grapes.”
“And what is a pomegranate? What does it taste like?”
