Devil's Daughter by Catherine Coulter

father had been, and she was more cunning and ruthless than Khar El-Din had ever imagined, the old fool.
    She said softly, with a touch of compassion in her voice, “After the earl is gone, his son will take his place. The daughter will doubtless wed an Englishman. They are both grown; they will survive.”
    “I asked you once if you wished to return to Italy, to Genoa, and you refused. You refused because in Italy you had not the power to act against the Earl of Clare, is that not true?”
    “Yes, my son, I wanted it done.”
    He sat back in his chair, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “If you were not my mother, you would die for what you have done. You have broken trust with me, and dishonored me. I will send Hassan to take back my seal. I will inform you tomorrow of my decision. But when it is over, you will no longer live in my household.”
    She sucked in her breath, unable to believe his words. Her hand fluttered, and her eyes filled with tears, but Kamal rose quickly.
    She gave a small sob, realizing how much she had won and what she had lost. “Please, Alessandro.”
    “Thank you for the dinner, madam,” he said, and turned on his heel.
    He returned to his bedchamber and looked with annoyance at the young girl who approached him, until he remembered who she was. His gift from the Sudan. She wore a soft yellow silk harem jacket that fastened under her high, pointed breasts, and silk trousers bound at her ankles. She was really quite lovely, he thought dispassionately, with her thick chestnut hair and green eyes, and very young. She peeped at him from beneath her lashes and smiled.
    “Master,” she whispered, and knelt before him, touching her lips to his leather slippers.
    “You may rise,” he said abruptly. The smile faded from her face, and he saw she was trembling. He sighed deeply, knowing she was afraid she displeased him.
    He gentled his voice. “Your name is Maya?”
    “Yes, highness.”
    “You are lovely, Maya,” he lightly caressed her silken hair. “How old are you?”
    “Fifteen, highness.”
    He heard a tremor in her voice. She was not to blame that the last thing he wanted this night was a fifteen-year-old virgin in his bed.
    “Shall I disrobe, highness?”
    “Yes.” Hoping she would not see the flat disinterest in his eyes, he added, “It would give me great pleasure, Maya.”
    He reclined on his fur-covered bed, pillowed his head on his arms, and stared a long moment at the ceiling. He heard the rustle of clothing, and forced his eyes back to the girl.
    She was undressing slowly, with great skill, her every movement meant to whet his desire. He found he was unstirred by the sight of her pale breasts and dark pink nipples. Her woman’s mound was shaved, her nether lips lightly rouged with henna.
    She stood uncertainly, her young body gleaming in the pale candlelight, staring toward him. Kamal knew he did not have to treat her gently, though she was a virgin. She was likely as skilled as any courtesan in Europe, her maidenhead merely a technicality. For a moment he was angered that this girl had known little of childhood, that her training had likely begun before she had even begun her monthly flow. He knew his anger would change nothing. He must take her, else she would be shamed.
    “Come here, Maya,” he said.
    She walked seductively toward him, her hips swaying, and sank to her knees beside him. He rose from his bed and allowed her to undress him. He was relieved at her skill, relieved that her fingers were well trained to heighten his senses. When he was naked, he discovered to his chagrin that his thoughts were still on his incredible conversation with his mother, and not the anxious girl who hovered over him.
    “Tell me of your home, Maya,” he said, drawing her down beside him on the bed.
    She stared at him in dismay. “Alexandria is a large city, highness,” she managed after a few pained moments. “I did not live in the city. I do not miss it. I want only to