Bertrice Small - Adora

She slipped silently into the orchard and found her way to the tree they had sheltered under the previous night. He was not there. But before she could decide whether to return to her house or wait, the heavily laden branches parted with a rustle, and he was with her.

“Adora!” He slid an arm about her tiny waist and kissed her, and she returned his kiss for the first time. Her soft lips parted willingly, her tongue darting like a little flame about his mouth. To her delighted amazement he shuddered, and she was filled with a triumphant awe that she, an inexperienced virgin, could rouse this sensual, experienced man! For the briefest moment it was she who held the upper hand.

But then, cradling her with one arm, his other hand parted the topmost buttons of her caftan and his warm hand slid in to caress a breast. She gasped, catching at his hand.

He laughed low. “Lesson two, my dove,” and pushed her hand away. She was trembling with a mixture that was half fright, half pleasure, though at first she could not identify the second sensation. His hand was gentle, tenderly stroking the soft flesh. “Please, oh, please!” she whispered, pleading. “Please, stop it!” Instead he rubbed the sensitive nipple with his thumb, and Adora almost fainted with the pleasure that swept over her.

When his mouth covered hers once again, she thought she would surely die with the sweetness of it. He was looking down at her now, his jet black eyes tender. “Always remember, my little virgin, that I am the master.”

“Why?” she managed, though her voice was ragged. “It is the woman to whom God gave the privilege of bearing new life. Why then, are we subservient to men?”

He was startled. She was not the soft, complacent female he had first thought her to be, but that most rare and intriguing of creatures-a woman with a mind. Murad was not sure he approved. But, he thought, at least she will not bore me. And what sons she might bear me!

“Did not Allah create woman second-and from a man’s rib?” he said quickly. “First came man. He must therefore have meant for man to be the superior, the master of woman, else he would have created woman first.”

“That does not necessarily follow, my lord,” she replied, unimpressed.

“Would you be my superior, Adora, and instruct me,” he asked, amused.

“Do not dare to laugh at me,” she stormed.

“I am not laughing at you, my dove, but neither do I wish to debate the logic of the superiority of men over women. I wish to make love to you.” And he felt her tremble against him as, again, he began to caress her soft breasts.

The gentle hand undid the remaining buttons on her caftan, rendering her naked. The hand moved lower to touch her little mound of belly. Her skin was like the finest Bursa silk, cool and smooth, yet the muscles were tense beneath his skilled fingers. This further confirmation of her innocence pleased his vanity.

He moved lower yet, one long, slim finger poised to touch her more intimately. And then, for a moment, their eyes met, and he saw her open terror. He stopped, and his hand gently touched her cheek. “Do not be afraid of me.”

“I do not mean to be afraid,” she said in a shaking voice. “It is wrong, I know, but I want you to touch me. Yet, when you do l am afraid.”

“Tell me,” he asked gently.

“I feel I am losing control of myself. I do not want you to cease, though I know you must.” Swallowing hard she said, “I want to know everything about being a woman, even the final act of love. I am married, but I am not your wife, and what we do is wrong!”

“No,” he said fiercely. “We do no wrong! You will never go to my father! You are nothing to him but a political necessity.”

“But when I am widowed I may not come to you either. If I belong to anyone I belong to the empire of Byzantium. Once your father is gone, my next marriage will be arranged for me, as this one was.”

“You belong to me,” he said huskily, “now and always.”

She knew that she was lost, whatever happened. She loved him. “Yes,” she whispered, amazed at her own words. “Yes! I do belong to you, Murad!”

And as his mouth savagely moved against hers, she felt a wild joy flood her. She was no longer afraid. Hands passionately caressed her, and her young body rose eagerly to meet his touch. Only once did she cry out-when his fingers found their way to the sweet core of her. But he stilled her protests with his mouth. He felt her wildly beating pulse beneath his lips. “No, dove,” he murmured hungrily, “let my fingers have their way. It will be sweetness, my love, only sweetness, I promise you.”

And he could feel her slowly relaxing in his arms. Smiling he teased the sensitive flesh while the girl beneath him moaned softly, her lashes dark smudges against her white skin, her slim hips writhing. At last, satisfied that she was ready, he gently thrust a finger into her.

Adora gasped, but before she could protest she was lost to the sweet wave of delight that possessed her completely. She arched to meet his hand, floating weightless until the tightness building within her shattered like a mirror into a rainbow of flashing lights.

Her amethyst eyes finally opened, and she asked, her voice soft with the wonder of it, “How can such sweetness be, my lord?”

He smiled down at her. “It is but a taste of delight, my dove. Just a taste of things to come.”

In Constantinople, the night was as dark as Emperor John Cantacuzene’s mood. His beloved wife, Zoe, was dead in a last futile attempt to give him another son. The awful irony was that she had given her last bit of strength to push twin sons from her exhausted and weakened body. Misshapen scraps of deformed humanity, they were joined at the chest and shared, so the physician claimed, a single heart. These monstrosities had been, praise God, born dead. Their mother, curse God, had followed them.

If this tragedy were not terrible enough, his daughter, Helena, wife to the co-emperor John Paleaologi, was plotting with her husband to overthrow him, to take complete control of the empire. While her mother had lived Helena had been recognized only as wife to the young Paleaologi. Her mother had been recognized as the empress. Now Helena wished to be recognized as empress.

“And if I remarry?” asked her father.

“Why on earth would you remarry?” demanded his daughter.

“To give the empire more sons.”

“My son, Andronicus, is the heir. Next comes the child I now carry.”

“There is no decree to that effect, my daughter.”

“Really Father!”

Every day Helena sounded more and more like her mother-in-law, the wretched Anna of Savoy.

“My husband,” continued Helena, “is the rightful emperor of Byzantium, and therefore our son is the true heir. Surely you must realize that by now. God has spoken quite plainly. Your eldest son is dead, and my brother, Matthew, has chosen to follow the monastic life. In the last six years Mother miscarried five times of six sons. Now God has taken her from you-in obvious disapproval. What more do you want? Must the words of God’s will be engraved in clouds of fire over the city for you to accept it?”

“The seer, Belasarius, has predicted that from my loins and my seed would spring a new empire out of Constantinople. How can this be if I do not have sons to carry on my line?”

“Perhaps through me, Father,” said Helena smugly.

“Or your sister, Theadora,” he snapped back.

Helena glared and, without another word, left the room. John Cantacuzene paced restlessly. He would have more sons, but before he could take another noble wife he must make his position more secure. John Paleaologi must be disposed of, along with his snot-nosed offspring. Remarried elsewhere, Helena would forget. Perhaps he would offer her blonde beauty to Sultan Orkhan’s heir, Prince Suleiman.

This thought reminded him of his youngest daughter, Thea. How old was she now? Thirteen? He thought so. Certainly old enough to be bedded, and to bear a child. He was going to need fresh military aid from the sultan-aid that was more likely to be given if Orkhan were enamored of his young wife. Especially a young wife who proclaimed her elderly husband’s virility with a belly full of new life.

The girl was still within her convent, and the latest miniature he had of her showed a young creature beautiful enough to rouse a stone statue. Her only failing was that she had a mind. Mother Marie Josepha was forever writing him of the girl’s intellectual accomplishments. A pity she had not been a son. Well, he would write and instruct her to behave meekly, modestly, and quietly with her husband.

He would also write to Orkhan tonight, reminding him that the marriage contract called for the consummation of the union when the girl was mature. She certainly was mature now. It meant, of course, that he would have to come up with the final third of Theadora’s dowry, and relinquish the fortress of Tzympe-but no matter. Opening the door to his private suite he summoned the monk who was his secretary.

Several weeks later, in Bursa, Sultan Orkhan chuckled over the recently received correspondence from his fellow ruler and father-in-law. He was well aware of the reason behind the Byzantine’s sudden desire for his marriage to Theadora Cantacuzene to be consummated. John Cantacuzene was expecting another fight for his shaky throne and needed the Ottoman’s support. He offered his daughter’s virginity plus the rest of the gold from her dowry. Most important, he would finally turn over Tyzmpe to the Turks.

Orkhan the Ottoman had grown sexually insatiable in his old age. Each night he was presented with a new and well-trained virgin. His appetite varied and it was rumored that he even occasionally amused himself with young boys. His young wife, Theadora, was a totally innocent girl. It would take months to train her so that she would be able to please her lord.