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Qutaybah was quick to forestall any concerns of his fellow Conclave member.
    “It is nearing midnight, Your Grace. You must be abed,” Brother Qutaybah stated.
    Jameela frowned beneath the constriction of the blindfold. Could the man who had won the bidding for her be the Master, himself?
    She shivered. Surely not, for that would have far-ranging consequences for her that she certainly did not want.
    “If it is the Master who wins you—and that would be an honor of the highest magnitude—then you will have only him to satisfy. He will allow no other male to place his hands upon you. Your body will be his and his alone until the day you cease to draw breath,” Dagan had said.
    Though she had enjoyed the ministrations of the Brother who had deflowered her, the thought had crossed her mind that if one man could bring her such satisfaction, any man could even if that man no longer had the sexual equipment to know such wondrous delight.
    For it was Dagan Kiel of whom she dreamed nightly. His hands were those she wished upon and—now that she had discovered such pleasure—in her body. She longed to feel his mouth covering hers, his tongue jousting with hers as he had explained some men enjoyed.
    “There are those who will wish to taste every inch of you. They are as adept at using their lips as most men are with their staffs. A tongue claiming your mouth can be as erotic as a dagger slipping into your sheath.”
    Dagan had never given her any reason to suspect he had feelings for her but there had been times when she had caught him watching her with such a look of longing—carefully and completely erased upon her notice—that she knew he was not immune to her charms.
    And charms she had ventured to extend toward the stalwart warrior who had been chosen to instruct her.
    So carefully did she follow his teachings, so intently did she carry out his directions, she knew she was earning high marks under his tutelage. No compliments were forthcoming from the man but he could not hide the admiration glistening in his amber eyes when she accomplished a task well.
    Nor had he ever laid a hand upon her except to guide her to where she should stand or to indicate how she should kneel. His fingers did not stray to her breasts or rump nor did he accidentally brush his body against hers as they passed in close quarters. He kept his distance when he spoke to her and was careful to keep his gaze impersonal.
    “Do you miss not having a woman?” she had once asked him.
    Dagan’s face had turned hard for a moment then the mask of remoteness dropped over that handsome façade as though a curtain had fallen.
    “You have no right to question me regarding my personal life,” he told her and had gone on to another subject.
    Yet Jameela had seen beneath the cover of his harsh words and had recognized the loneliness in the warrior. His appeared to be a tortured existence for she rarely saw him smile, never heard him laugh, and only on one occasion did she hear him speak wistfully.
    “There is great burden in being the man who wields the power,” he said when she had asked what the Master was like. “Much rests upon his shoulders and they must be broad, unflinching shoulders if he is to lead his men as he should. There are times when such men wish for the simplicity of an ordinary life.”
    “Do you wish for the simplicity of an ordinary life?” she asked. “Away from Lalssu Keep and the men you must serve here?”
    Dagan had sighed and looked down at the sleek stone floor. “Aye, Wench. I have craved it since the day I was told of my destiny.”
    But, he had told her—shrugging away such foolish thoughts—he had been born to serve the men of the Conclave and serving them was what he must do. There was no more escape for him than there would be for her.
    And the longer Jameela was with Dagan, the more her feelings grew for the handsome warrior.
    Her anger at what had been forced upon him grew as well. The sheer horror of his