lush scents.
Leila laced her fingers together and rested her hands
upon her firm breasts. She hadn't felt such peace in days. She had been so busy
at the hospital and visiting her harem-bound patients scattered throughout the
city that she had simply been too exhausted when she returned home to avail
herself fully of the harem baths. But this afternoon had been blessedly
different.
After noting the sooty smudges under her eyes, and
fearing she had been working herself too hard of late, her father had insisted
she leave the hospital early. He had even provided a silk-curtained litter to
take her the short distance home.
A luxurious bath after a brief nap had been a balm to
her senses. Ayhan and Nittia ,
her two personal odalisques, had first slathered her skin with an aromatic
lemon paste and scraped her completely of body hair. Next they had washed her,
poured silver bowlfuls of tepid water over her in the hot steam rooms, massaged
her until her smooth white skin had flushed pink from their pummeling, and
anointed her with her favorite rose oil.
She felt clean and fresh and satiated, her body
tingling from her scalp to the soles of her feet. The sheer physical pleasure
of her slaves' ministrations left her feeling as if she were floating. Even her
long, knee-length hair felt charged and alive, brushed to a high gloss after
being vigorously shampooed and dried, then left free to hang down her back.
Leila coiled a perfumed tendril around her finger. As
the silken ebony threads caught the silvery moonlight, she smiled. The
glistening reflection reminded her of a poem she had recently received from
Jamal, written in praise of her beauty. Recalling its erotic content, cloaked in
flowery verse, she was filled with anticipation.
Truly, she looked forward to the day when they would
marry. But not only for the promise of sensual delights. There was a more
important reason to consider. She would not be allowed to practice medicine as a
full-fledged physician until she was a married woman.
That was simply the way of things. All decent women in
the Arab Empire were under the protection of a man, whether a father, husband,
brother, uncle, lord, or sultan.
She would have been married already if not for her
medical studies; she had been of marriageable age since her first monthly flow
when she was fourteen. Yet her father had insisted upon waiting until she
finished her training, believing pregnancy and children would hinder her
progress.
Now that her apprenticeship would soon be completed,
that was no longer a concern. She knew it would not be long before a date was
set for the marriage. When she was finally wed to Jamal Al-Aziz, she would have
the protection she needed to fulfill her heart's ambition. Her life would be
just as she had always envisioned it. Neat. Well-ordered. Perfect.
It didn't hurt that Jamal was everything she wanted in
a husband—kind, clever, possessing refined taste and manners. Perhaps one day
she would even grow to love him, though to her mind such affection was hardly
necessary . Their
profession demanded clearheadedness , rational
thought, and a firm grip on one's emotions. Love was no use to her at all. It
was more important that they understand and respect each other.
And desire each other, she added, thinking again of his
provocative poem. Once they were married, she would not hesitate to share his
bed. There was not a more handsome man in Damascus, other than the crusader—
Leila shook her head, forcing Guy de Warenne's striking blond image from her mind.
No, she would not think of him now! It was bad enough
that the barbarian's terrible curses and hungry glances had plagued her
thoughts all day. She determinedly imagined Jamal instead, with his smoldering
brown eyes, midnight curls, and strong, masterful hands which would someday
caress her and bring her quivering body to ecstasy just as he promised in his
poem.
Aroused by her wanton thoughts, Leila trailed her gaze
about the dark,
Leila laced her fingers together and rested her hands
upon her firm breasts. She hadn't felt such peace in days. She had been so busy
at the hospital and visiting her harem-bound patients scattered throughout the
city that she had simply been too exhausted when she returned home to avail
herself fully of the harem baths. But this afternoon had been blessedly
different.
After noting the sooty smudges under her eyes, and
fearing she had been working herself too hard of late, her father had insisted
she leave the hospital early. He had even provided a silk-curtained litter to
take her the short distance home.
A luxurious bath after a brief nap had been a balm to
her senses. Ayhan and Nittia ,
her two personal odalisques, had first slathered her skin with an aromatic
lemon paste and scraped her completely of body hair. Next they had washed her,
poured silver bowlfuls of tepid water over her in the hot steam rooms, massaged
her until her smooth white skin had flushed pink from their pummeling, and
anointed her with her favorite rose oil.
She felt clean and fresh and satiated, her body
tingling from her scalp to the soles of her feet. The sheer physical pleasure
of her slaves' ministrations left her feeling as if she were floating. Even her
long, knee-length hair felt charged and alive, brushed to a high gloss after
being vigorously shampooed and dried, then left free to hang down her back.
Leila coiled a perfumed tendril around her finger. As
the silken ebony threads caught the silvery moonlight, she smiled. The
glistening reflection reminded her of a poem she had recently received from
Jamal, written in praise of her beauty. Recalling its erotic content, cloaked in
flowery verse, she was filled with anticipation.
Truly, she looked forward to the day when they would
marry. But not only for the promise of sensual delights. There was a more
important reason to consider. She would not be allowed to practice medicine as a
full-fledged physician until she was a married woman.
That was simply the way of things. All decent women in
the Arab Empire were under the protection of a man, whether a father, husband,
brother, uncle, lord, or sultan.
She would have been married already if not for her
medical studies; she had been of marriageable age since her first monthly flow
when she was fourteen. Yet her father had insisted upon waiting until she
finished her training, believing pregnancy and children would hinder her
progress.
Now that her apprenticeship would soon be completed,
that was no longer a concern. She knew it would not be long before a date was
set for the marriage. When she was finally wed to Jamal Al-Aziz, she would have
the protection she needed to fulfill her heart's ambition. Her life would be
just as she had always envisioned it. Neat. Well-ordered. Perfect.
It didn't hurt that Jamal was everything she wanted in
a husband—kind, clever, possessing refined taste and manners. Perhaps one day
she would even grow to love him, though to her mind such affection was hardly
necessary . Their
profession demanded clearheadedness , rational
thought, and a firm grip on one's emotions. Love was no use to her at all. It
was more important that they understand and respect each other.
And desire each other, she added, thinking again of his
provocative poem. Once they were married, she would not hesitate to share his
bed. There was not a more handsome man in Damascus, other than the crusader—
Leila shook her head, forcing Guy de Warenne's striking blond image from her mind.
No, she would not think of him now! It was bad enough
that the barbarian's terrible curses and hungry glances had plagued her
thoughts all day. She determinedly imagined Jamal instead, with his smoldering
brown eyes, midnight curls, and strong, masterful hands which would someday
caress her and bring her quivering body to ecstasy just as he promised in his
poem.
Aroused by her wanton thoughts, Leila trailed her gaze
about the dark,
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