Linda Skye – Unveiled for the Persian King (страница 2)

Before he could think twice, Darius beckoned to the girl with one finger. She dropped her gaze and slowly ascended the thirteen marble steps of his dais. She stopped when she stood in front of his throne, then dropped to one knee before him with head bowed. Scylas, who stood a step lower than his daughter, did likewise.

“Are you pleased with our tribute, King Darius?” Scylas inquired, his voice low.

Darius did not deign to answer. Rather he placed the tip of one long finger under the girl’s chin, lifting her face to the light. He took a moment to study the alabaster hue of her delicate face. She had sweet, almost childlike features: a smooth, unwrinkled forehead, elegantly arching brows, long, thick lashes that fluttered over high cheekbones, a small, dainty nose and full, moist lips.

“Let me see your eyes,” he commanded quietly.

Hesitantly Myrine raised her blue-eyed gaze to the king’s—and it was only from years of training that she was able to hide the fine tremor that raced up her spine.

There could be no question that the man before her was a true ruler.

Even if she had been asked to pick out the Persian king from a crowd of strangers, Myrine knew that she would not have been able to mistake King Darius for any other man. Even seated and relaxed, he exuded an aura of power and privilege, of ironclad determination and ruthless authority. His irises were the colour of dark honey, and his stare was at once demanding and calculating. She felt trapped, as an insect in sticky golden sap, helpless except for the fact that she refused to wilt under his penetrating gaze.

He was devilishly handsome with a strong, square jaw, golden skin and glossy black curls. His broad shoulders were hidden in a stiff-necked silk jacket that was encrusted with precious jewels. Open at the front, the jacket exposed the lean ridges of his muscular chest, his skin bronzed and glowing from years under the desert sun. He wore simple white silk trousers that gathered at the ankles, and his feet were encased in ornately decorated Persian shoes.

Myrine knew instantly that though this was a young ruler, he was not one to be taken lightly. For one so young, his confident posture told of victory in countless battles, and his eyes gleamed with fiery passion, fearsome control and cool ambition.

So, Myrine thought to herself, this is a conquering emperor.

Meanwhile, Darius was fighting not to lose himself in the blue depths of the woman’s eyes or to the building ache in his loins. He carefully schooled his features into a stony expression as he studied the deposed princess. She was even more intriguing up close. Her eyes were like none he had ever seen before, and as they were lined with dark kohl, they stood out in her pale face like luminous jewels. It had been a calculated makeup trick of an experienced eunuch, no doubt; another ruse to lure him into a seductive relationship. As he stared down at her, he let himself imagine those perfect blue eyes misting over in rapture as he settled between her thighs and took his pleasure in her exotic body over and over again. She would cry out in a foreign tongue, cursing and praising him for his exploits in her lands and in her body. He could make her crave his touch, ache for his lips, and beg him to grant her release amid his silken sheets. And in turn, he knew that he would want her willing, yearn for her pliant flesh and shower her with gifts of affection.

No.

He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind of the lustful haze.

He could not—and would not—be so distracted.

“Stand, Myrine of Scythia,” he directed in a voice that was soft yet unyielding.

Myrine obeyed instantly, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. Darius’s gaze flicked over to the Scythian king, who was waiting with bated breath. He arched an imperious brow.

“Your gifts are well received, former king,” Darius said nonchalantly. “You may rise.”

“I am honoured, great conqueror,” Scylas said as he climbed to his feet. “May my daughter please you well.”

Darius inclined his head, acknowledging his tribute.

“Yes, a grand gift indeed” came a sibilant hiss from the other side of the dais.

The two kings turned to look as the vizier, a hunched-over old man, moved toward the throne. He casually fanned himself with a paddle decorated with the long plumes of a peacock, his beady eyes shining with glee. Here was another chance to further humiliate a defeated opponent—one who had been the source of great frustration during the time of Darius’s predecessor.

“May I make a suggestion, my lord Darius?” the vizier asked with a bow.

“Speak your mind, Araxes,” Darius replied with a wave of his hand.

Araxes turned cunning eyes on Scylas, his lips rising in a sardonic smirk.

“It is a great gesture indeed,” Araxes said, “to offer up a Scythian princess as a bed slave—but how can we be sure such a woman would please our lord, one who has most...distinguished tastes?”

“Is my daughter to be compared to cattle...or dinner fare?” Scylas began to sputter, his face reddening.

“Well,” Araxes replied, casually continuing to fan himself as he spoke, “she is meant to satisfy the appetites of a king, is she not? How are we to know that she is...adequate?” He grinned lecherously. “Or even pure?”

Scylas’s chest began to heave, and colour spread from his cheeks to his neck. Darius raised a brow and turned to his vizier.

“Do not stoop to baiting our guest, Araxes.” He coolly interfered. “What is your suggestion?”

“My lord,” the vizier said, bowing at the waist, “I humbly suggest that you but try this woman for yourself. Examine her fully before you add her to your harem. We daren’t pollute your playground, after all.”

“Do you dare to suggest he take her here,” Scylas retorted, his red face a mask of horror, “in front of his guests? You would dare to shame a princess of Scythia?”

Darius’s expression hardened.

“And do you dare to object to the rulings of your empire, Scylas of Scythia?” Darius challenged. “Remember, she is princess no longer—you yourself gave her to me as tribute for my every whim.”

Scylas trembled under his merciless glare, and he stepped back with his head bowed. Darius’s eyes slid to the disinherited young woman. She stood statue-still, her face carefully neutral and her eyes downcast. Though he could read no fear from her body language, he caught a glimpse of her fists clenching tightly at her sides.

He could have her strip naked and expose her to all—a definitive show of force and power. After all, he had even heard of former kings lavishing their carnal affections upon prospective concubines in full view of the court. But it did seem a pity to degrade such a dignified woman after her sultry performance just moments before. He had no desire to break the creature or to make the defeated king chafe even further under his hand. Making his decision, Darius rose from his throne and stepped forward to stand at the edge of the platform.

“People of Persia,” he boomed, raising his deep voice so that it echoed from the four corners of the great hall, “behold the tribute of a conquered people—gold for our city and pleasure for your king!”

A great cheer rose from the crowd.

“Continue the celebration,” Darius commanded. “Drink and be merry, my people, for tonight I have claimed lands for our empire. And I will take their princess for my own.”

The musicians immediately began to play, a string of dancing girls started to circulate through the crowds, and laughter and the sounds of merrymaking once again filled the hall. Darius looked down at Araxes and Scylas.

“Step down from my dais,” he commanded sternly.

They bowed their heads and began to descend the steps backward. Darius turned sharply and strode back to sit again upon his marble throne. With a flick of his fingers, he gestured to his eunuch attendants.

“Draw the curtains,” he commanded imperiously.

Several rich, purple velvet curtains were quickly pulled shut around the top tier of the dais, completely cutting off the throne from the rest of the hall. Even the sounds of revelry were muffled by the thick drapes.

And so finally the conquering king and his living tribute were alone.

Darius leaned back, studying the woman who had not budged a millimetre since being commanded to rise. She stood perfectly still, presumably waiting.

“So, Scythian,” Darius asked, his tone hard, “do you speak our tongue?”

“Who does not speak the language of the Persians?” she replied without lifting her head. After a moment’s pause, she added, “My king.”

Darius smirked. So there was fire underneath her docile facade after all.

“You speak well enough to be insolent, then?”

“I speak well enough to be understood.”

His grin widened. Her voice was sweet and high, her foreign accent lending a unique melody to her words. But there was an edge to her dulcet tones that he had not been expecting.

Interesting. He changed tack.

“Then do you also understand well enough to know why you are here?”

She glanced up, and the look in her eyes was all he needed to confirm that she did in fact understand her position quite perfectly. Yet still he waited for her answer in the long silence that followed.