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Cover art (c) Jenny Dixon 2006
ISBN 1-58608-906-4
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The forbidden was never more attractive—or more dangerous.

Crown Prince Grentoori despises the old ways and plans to bring about reform once he ascends to the throne, but even he would not dare break the law of his father’s harem—until he meets Heather.

There is far more they need concern themselves over than the dangerous, passionate attraction they feel for one another, however. For even though Heather knows she could never forget him if she lived a hundred lifetimes, she also knows that she must return to her own time--and he must remain in his.

Rating: Contains explicit sex and graphic, adult language.

HEATHER AND THE HAREM SCROLL

By

Mardi Ballou

© copyright April 2006, Mardi Ballou
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright April 2006
ISBN 1-58608-906-4
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

The day's bright sunlight was rapidly fading when Professor Grant Drury arrived at the site of his archaeological dig in a remote sector of southern Turkey. He'd just completed the project's initial paperwork and could at last immerse himself in the hands-on work of searching for artifacts of the lost kingdom of Indurlia. Success would help solve a historical mystery and blast his career into the stratosphere. Hot and parched from his arduous trip in an overfilled jeep over rough terrain, Grant couldn't wait to meet with the crew for his first debriefing.

"So what have you all been working on?" Grant asked Mel Garth, his second in command, while he unpacked and stowed his gear in his quarters.

Mel recited an efficient summary of each researcher's discoveries. When he came to the most junior of their colleagues, he frowned. "Morrison has been wandering off by herself, not reporting much."

Grant paused in his unpacking. "Well, I'll put a stop to that. First of all, she's not safe wandering off."

"Oh, I'd be real careful about acting as if you think she's in need of protection."

Grant lifted an eyebrow. "You mean her reputation as a fire and brimstone feminist is accurate?"

"I've never heard it quite described like that," Mel said. "But you're probably not far off."

"As head of this dig, I'm responsible for everyone's safety. Even hers. And second, she needs to disclose all her findings. Even, as I suspect, if they do little to bear out her harebrained theories."

"You really didn't want to include her in this dig, did you?"

Grant waved his hand dismissively. "The project benefactors insisted on researchers with diverse views. And my department chair convinced me that I'd do better discrediting her in open confrontation than by excluding her. Kind of the give 'em enough rope to hang themselves approach."

Mel shrugged. "I used to agree with you. But I've read some of her work. It's solid scholarship, and there might just be something to her angle."

Grant snorted with disgust. "Never thought you'd go for the warm, fuzzy school of history."

"Can't say that I do. But I like to keep an open mind until I hear all sides."

"Which should happen in about an hour, right?" Grant asked, checking his watch.

Mel chuckled. "Did I mention that the men on this dig have voted Morrison the woman they'd most like to get caught in a sandstorm with? What a major fox, especially for a talented historical anthropologist with degrees up the wazoo."

"So that explains your open mind." Grant shook his head. "I just met Morrison once, briefly, at the Stringer Conference. Can't say I particularly noticed her looks or anything else about her."

"Hey, Drury, this is Mel you're talking to. You didn't notice Morrison, and you picked her for this dig just to placate the benefactors. Right. Buddy, got any bridges you want to sell me?"

Not for the first time, Grant asked himself why he'd arranged for his old friend to be part of this dig. Rather than responding to Mel's ridiculous innuendoes, Grant headed off to clean up for the night's meeting.

* * * *

"Eureka!" After searching for hours, Heather Morrison located an intact earthenware jar of the kind used for storage of parchment scrolls. Gritty with the constant sand of the surrounding desert, she wiped her hands on her khaki shorts then cleaned them with a square of antibacterial scrub. As pristine as she could make herself, she held her breath and took off the jar's lid.

She gasped when she saw the top of a scroll. Gingerly she touched the parchment. To her relief, it didn't start to disintegrate. Heather couldn't resist removing the scroll from the jar and unrolling it a bit for a preliminary peek. She quickly realized the parchment was written in Indurlian, the now dead language of the lost kingdom this project was designed to learn about. Heather, an expert in ancient Indurlian, found she could easily read the written symbols. She carefully put the scroll on top of the jar and, with her hoots of celebration echoing off the walls, did an unscholarly happy dance.

This scroll, the first major discovery at the site, would be her entrée to tenure, grants, and academic nirvana. Her fingers trembling, she picked it up and continued to unwind the well-preserved document. With no conscious thought, Heather sank down to the hard-packed sand broken up by a few cracked mosaic tiles that formed the floor of the chamber. Used to deciphering symbols in the poorest light, she soon lost herself in the tiny marks aligned across the scroll.

This is great, she thought as she immersed herself in the text. She estimated it must come from the fifteenth or sixteenth century of the current era. According to what she read, the chamber where she now sat had been a place of ritual for the residents of a King Hashimur's harem. Residents, she snorted to herself. More like inmates. Stop that, her academic monitor snapped. It's not up to you to apply twenty-first century standards and judgments to the people whose lives you come across in digs. A tough lesson for a dedicated feminist like Heather when she learned how women fared in the past. But an important one for any anthropologist who wanted to bust through her university's glass ceiling and get to the top, where she'd be able to make a real difference.

So yeah. She needed to put her sensibilities on hold and objectively gather and analyze data. She'd just landed smack in a gold mine. Though King Hashimur appeared to be only a minor character in Indurlia's history, he'd merited having a substantial harem and the servants required to run it. Heather winced. Considering how little most female lives were worth throughout much of history, a male didn't need to be very powerful or important to have many women at his beck and call.

Heather's main professional agenda was to discover and spotlight the details of women's everyday lives … lives that much of mainstream research previously overlooked or trivialized. And here in her hands was this treasure trove of instruction about the functioning of the harem. Written by an educated servant named Melgart, the section of the scroll Heather now read included a detailed step by step description of a young woman's preparation for presentation to King Hashimur as a concubine. It was fascinating and included many details previously unknown to Heather.

She knew that the people in charge of most harems were eunuchs. From her study of the ancient Indurlian tongue, Heather recognized the name Melgart as one given to males. Based on his writing, Heather surmised that Melgart was exacting, precise, and a bit of a control freak--probably all excellent qualities for a harem eunuch.

Come to think of it, those same qualities also described Grant Drury, the leader of this particular expedition. Professor Grant Drury, the history whiz-kid who had it all. At age thirty-four, just four years older than she, he'd already achieved everything Heather hoped for: tenure, professional respect, and recognition as an authority.

Too bad the guy himself was such a reactionary … prick. Heather grimaced at the thought of having to work with him. Grant Drury, known in female academic circles as Hunky Drury. Leading man handsome, unfortunately a throwback to a male-centric view of history and anthropology. She'd met him only once, briefly, at the Stringer Conference. Knowing what she did about the man, she'd tried to avoid him. In light of their differences, she'd been amazed when he picked her for this project. She disliked feeling obligated in any way to him. However, she really wanted to be part of this dig, and now she was glad she'd swallowed her pride and applied. As leader of the project, Drury would get a huge chunk of the credit for Heather's find. Well, she'd have to work around that. Most important, she had to make sure he didn't bury the scroll, denying its earth-shattering significance because it primarily spotlighted women's lives.

When her right leg fell asleep, Heather reluctantly put down the scroll. She must have been sitting in the same position for a long time to have grown as stiff as she now felt. She stretched and shifted, rotating her head as she drummed her leg up and down to get rid of the pins and needles. After she stood up and stomped around the chamber for a few steps, Heather's leg began to feel better. She had little time to register relief before a high, keening sound whistled around her. She clutched the precious scroll to her as an impossible wind raced through the chamber, and everything around her began to shake, hurtling her from one wall to another. A grumbling sound vibrated around Heather, and then everything went black.

* * * *

Melgart, son of Jegai, frowned. He did not easily tolerate imprecision, lack of punctuality, or other failures in people's obligations to him. As a eunuch and thus supposedly weak in the traditional male sense, he often had to accommodate the peccadilloes and rudenesses of normal men, his so-called "betters". But within the walls of his harem, well, Melgart's word and his rule reigned absolute. It almost made up for the imperfections he was forced to put up with. Like right now, when the arrival of the newest virgin for King Hashimur's harem was yet again delayed. This lapse threatened to severely unbalance his meticulous schedule. Someone would pay.

Melgart shook his head as he paced restlessly in his chamber. The time for preparing the new female would be cut unacceptably short. With Melgart in charge, the king and all the men of the royal House of Gsiladmi had learned to expect perfection as the norm. But perfection took time. If the female did not arrive within the next twenty-four hours, Melgart would be forced to either compromise her program or change the schedule. He'd never before done either.

Melgart paused in his pacing when his second in command, Tramador, son of Tragaron, at last arrived. "Where did you say the female is now?" he asked.

Tramador motioned that Melgart should sit down at his table and sample some red wine from a newly arrived shipment. Melgart, wondering why Tramador felt impelled to distract him, sat. He accepted a goblet of wine and took a small sip. "It will do. Would you also care to partake?"

Tramador, a large man several years Melgart's senior, shook his head.

Melgart hid his surprise at this. Tramador enjoyed his wine and never turned down an opportunity to taste a new one. Now Melgart knew for sure that something exceptional was going on. He repeated his question as to the virgin's whereabouts.

Tramador, usually the most forthcoming of men, looked away. "I understand that the young woman has arrived at the palace but, alas, feels too ill to be presented."

Melgart curled his lip. "What nonsense is this? We are not yet presenting her to the king. There's far too much preparation to be done before she meets His Majesty. You know this as well as I. Illness is no impediment to my beginning to work with her."

Tramador didn't respond, which was also unlike him. Melgart bit back his irritation. "Go down to the receiving quarters and tell them she must appear to me now. After all, the harem healers are equipped to help her recover from any indisposition. Probably better than whomever she is with at the moment."

Tramador inclined his head. "Very good. I will convey the message."

"I want more than that. See that you return with her by your side. We are already behind our schedule."

Tramador moved more slowly than was his wont. Melgart, half dreading to hear what excuse the eunuch would come up with next, took another sip of wine and prepared to record his observations about the day. Melgart was in mid thought when he heard a clatter from the doorway and saw a flash of light.

Standing before him was a strange sight. A female unlike any he'd ever encountered before. Taller than average and less voluptuous--a detriment, but startling blue eyes and hair the color of sunlit sand would compensate some. She must hail from some distant land. Melgart knew of no land where females wore short divided skirts that bared their legs. A white garment with round buttons in the center covered her small breasts, and brown leather encircled her waist. Short brown leather boots encased her long, narrow feet. He rose and went to examine her.

Common sense told him this must be King Hashimur's newest virgin. After all, women did not just blunder unbidden into his part of the harem. But why wasn't Tramador with her? "I am Melgart, your guide as you prepare for His Exalted Majesty, King Hashimur," he said slowly and calmly. "Do you still feel ill?"

She did indeed look ill. Or perhaps in shock. She appeared not to understand what he said or where she was. She might have been dazed or simply a half-wit.

Melgart walked around the woman, studying her from all angles. Then he reached out to measure her rear end, and she reacted like a wildcat--hissing at him and baring claws. Clearly perturbed at his touch, she screamed in some strange tongue. Melgart backed away and fought back the beginnings of a headache--and the urge to have one of the guards toss her into a dungeon very deep beneath the palace. Deficient as she might be, she was all he had to work with and they were desperately behind schedule.

He hated having to deal with anyone ignorant of his tongue. Damn that Tramador for not being here. He could speak and understand several strange tongues. Melgart found his second in command's absence the most puzzling aspect of all the strangeness going on. Where was he? Why did he act secretive?

The woman looked at Melgart and, in his language, slowly said, "Where am I?"

Despite her accent, Melgart understood her words. If she could speak even a few words in his tongue, why was she confused? Females brought to the harem knew where they were and why. Entering the harem brought honor and distinction to their worthless lives.

"You are in the harem of the exalted, almighty King Hashimur, of the House of Gsiladmi," he intoned solemnly. "And I am your guide, Melgart, son of Jegai." Melgart directed his intimidating glare at her. The proper response was for her to lower her gaze to the ground, incline her head, and curtsey deeply. Instead, the hoyden laughed.