Bertrice Small - Fascinated

A woman lying naked among crumpled bedcovers, with her hair unkempt and her face shiny with dried sweat, should not manifest dignity. But Megan did.

Unexpected pain ripped through his rage.

This woman had not belittled him. Ridiculed him. Pitied him.

I do not judge you , she had said.

Why not?

She was an Englishwoman, if not of good breeding, at least from a respectable family.

How could she accept what harem women did not?

"I am hadim ," he said brutally.

"I am English," she returned.

Literally translated, hadim meant hairless; in any other language, it meant only one thing.

He gritted his teeth and forced out the hated word-a word he had hoped not to use with this woman; a word that had haunted him for forty years. "I am a eunuch, madam."

The desert was a place of treacherous sand and shrieking wind; it was also a place of stillness and perfect quietude. He had never before witnessed such stillness in an Englishwoman, but he witnessed it now, in Megan.

Her gaze did not waver from his. "I would say, sir, that your performance last night attests otherwise."

Silently, he cursed the heat that blistered his cheeks. He had not blushed in forty years. Twice now this woman had caused him to blush.

"They cut off my stones," he said crudely, hoping to shock her. To horrify her.

To prove that he was not the man she believed him to be, but which he had felt like for one single night.

She regarded him calmly. "By stones, I take it you mean your ballocks?"

The tips of his ears pricked hotly at her blunt English. "I have no seed."

I have no seed reverberated inside his head-the cry of the thirteen-year-old boy he had once been, irreparably altered. The excuse of the Muslim he had grown up to be, filled with rage.

His heartbeat pounded in his temples and his groin, counting the seconds, preparing for defense.

"My husband was a vicar," Megan said in a clear, dispassionate voice. "When the surgeon told him I was fashioned in such a manner that I would never be able to carry his children, he refused to share my bed. He did not want to endanger my life, he said, by causing me to have any more miscarriages. The local midwife apprised me of certain prophylactics that would prevent conception. My husband refused to use them, even though their use would have allowed us to be together. He said such devices were immoral, and that marital pleasure was solely for the benefit of procreation."

The faint protest of a carriage squeaking and the dull clip-clop of hooves broke the stark silence that followed her words; just as suddenly the external sounds faded.

"I would to God that my husband had had no seed-or that I had been barren," she concluded with cool decisiveness. "It would have been far more preferable than the loneliness he condemned us to."

He stood still, remembering her admission that a man had rejected her.

Not a young swain, as he had thought. But a man who had shared with her the sexual intimacy that was indeed one of life's true miracles. A man who had given her pleasure and who had seeded her womb with children she could not bear.

A man who, by her own admission, she had loved.

A tide of emotion swept over him: jealousy, at the depth of her affection for her deceased spouse; envy, at the long years of companionship she had shared with him; uncertainty, at how to comfort a woman whom he had admitted into his life solely for his own comfort.

Anger came to his rescue, that he should feel the need to comfort and, feeling it, did not have the wherewithal to express it.

Eunuchs could not afford softer emotions.

"How long have you been a widow?" he asked curtly.

"Two years."

"How many men have you been with since you were a widow, or were you in the habit of slipping into other men's bedchambers before your husband died?" he asked, cringing at his cruelty, yet wanting to prove that she was a whore in flesh if not profession.

Wanting to destroy the bond that had been forged between them in the night lest she expect more than he could give, eunuch that he was but did not want to be.

"My husband is the only man I have ever been with, save for you," she said stiffly. Her face, framed by her dark hair and white bedding, was ashen. "We were not intimate the last twenty years that he lived."

Twenty years. Two years.

She had been abstinent more than half the number of years he had been a eunuch. Yet she had come to him, a man who was no man.

"It was your husband whom you asked to touch you," he said flatly.

To kiss her. To lick her. To suckle her.

All the things he had done to her last night.

Had she imagined that he was her husband?

"Yes."

"He was the man you loved."

"Yes. I thought he loved me, too, but he could not have, could he? A man cannot love a woman if he does not respect the needs of her body."

She rapidly blinked back tears.

Of pain. Of anger. Of betrayal.

Megan, too, knew loneliness.

Memories of their joining washed over him: the hot core of her vulva; the silky-soft hardness of her feminine bud; the prickle of her pubic hair grinding into his pelvis while she swallowed him whole and did not once judge either his inexperience or his lack of testicles.

"Women in Arabia use vinegar-soaked wool-plugs," he said abruptly.

"I beg your pardon?"

Heat crawled down his neck. "As a prophylactic," he explained shortly.

"I see."

Tension thickened the air.

Any moment now she was going to get up, dress, and leave. Never knowing what the night had meant to him.

He desperately strove to divert her. "Is Megan your true name?"

Even as the words left his mouth, he realized the incongruity of his question. He asked a truth from her that he was not willing to give in return.

"Yes," she said, terse as he had been terse. "If you will allow me a few moments of privacy-"

"Don't," he grated.

He could feel the stiffening of her body. "Don't what?"

Don't leave me.

"I am not an easy… man."

Megan's silent agreement was decipherable in any language.

He persevered, as he had persevered the last forty years.

"I do not know how… to talk to women." He spoke carefully, trying to soften his severity, to be what she would want a man to be. "I do not know what pleases them-"

"I have told you-"

"But I would please you, Megan," he interrupted, the harshness kicking in to block out her pending rejection. "If you would let me."

Her expression remained inscrutable. "I do not understand what it is that you want from me."

Last night she had uttered similar words.

His needs had not changed.

He wanted to know what other men knew.

He wanted to be what other men were.

"I would have no more pretense or illusions between us," he said, reigning in hope, harnessing fear.

"Are you asking me to… to spend more time with you?" she asked guardedly.

He would never have another chance to experience a woman's honest sexuality.

"I am asking you to spend another night with me," he said tautly.

"And if I did?"

His spine felt ready to snap. "I will do whatever you wish."

"My husband…" Megan shifted; the squeak of the bed-springs scraped across his skin. "I did not ask him to do the things I said to you last night."

"You did not ask him to touch you?" he asked, heart pounding, verge stirring, hope thickening his tongue.

Megan held his gaze, suddenly seeming far younger than her years. "I did not ask him to… to kiss my breasts."

"Did you ask him to touch you between your legs?"

"I did not have the courage to," she admitted.

But she had possessed the courage to come to him. To tell him what she wanted.