The falcons lowered their hooded heads to their master’s chest. Their feathers stood up in anticipation. They had been trained to translate his heartbeat as a cue to pounce on a quarry. Were they responding to the tumult in her bones or to his pulse?

The Shah followed the trail of Gold Dust’s gaze toward the finger dagger. He placed it on a stool, settled on his divan, and patted a space next to him. She approached with a seductive swing, her gaze brimming with secrets and as if drunk with wine. She was a rarity among sultanas who communicated with him through eunuchs. He had learned of her fear of the evil eye and that she believed it afflicted fortunate women; he had smiled at her fashion of arousal with herbs and oils in preparation for the day he would invite her; he discovered even the most intimate detail of her nights when, despite the temptation to stroke herself, she displayed restraint so as to save herself for him.

Yes. Tonight he would have her.

He had been assured by his spiritualists that a woman of small stature with tiger eyes and the boldness of a she-lion would bear him sons. This woman would end his shame. Years ago his father had predicted that he, the Shah, would cause the demise of the Persian dynasty. That curse had come true. He had tried and tried and had failed to sire heirs. Before long, he could not tolerate his own company, or that of the fruitless sultanas Narcissus selected for him.

In a silence saturated with the scent of black roses, he unwrapped his turban. Blade-straight hair the color of onyx fell to his shoulders. He had the olive complexion of men of the mountains; his muscles seemed carved from bronze. His chest expanded with desire, the breath of leather and tobacco on him. He buried her fingers in his massive palm.

His fierce grip startled her. She lowered herself onto the divan and set her head in his lap. She raised his hands and helped him uncoil her braids, feeling his effort to imitate her gentleness. His fingers were not used to delicate tasks.

Hazel-Boy had warned that the king would sometimes make love and sometimes wrestle with her. What would he do now? He seemed in one of his cloudy moods. She would await his next move. Then she would know how to react. His desire for her, and the smile on his lips, gave her confidence. His harsh hands and wild falcons frightened her. Where was the man who cultivated roses?

At his touch, she shuddered, and her temples drummed with the effort to contain the raucous symphony her bones were about to embark on. She would present him with a world different from the boredom of his palace, but she must proceed with care. He would invite her back, again and again. Until she mastered the deep orgasm her mother had promised would assure her of sons.