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awful ignorance and the idleness of most women of rank.
    She slipped into a caftan of violet silk gauze with a row of little pearl buttons down the front. The color was meant to flatter her amethyst eyes, yet be dark enough that she would not require a cloak. Her feet were shod in matching kid slippers. Her dark hair hung freely down her back bound only by a silk ribbon.
    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. Iwish 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 I 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