"Are you indeed?" Maud looked at him with obstinacy, and a touch of the alarm which he automatically inspired. Chrys was still feeling annoyed that he had fooled her, but desperately glad that he had been on
hand to divert a really bad accident. She kept silent, for this must be decided between Maud and Anton. The battle of wills was theirs this time, and as she knelt there she felt the sun striking down hot against her head, and she realized that during her race to catch up with Maud's horse the hat had blown from her head. She put up a hand and pushed the tawny hair from her brow, which was beaded with a fine sweat. She felt the flick of Anton's eyes, over her hair, her face, and the boyish shirt and trousers which she wore. She refused to meet his grey and devilish eyes . . . but somewhere inside her a little flame was leaping.
She was furious with him, and she wanted to tell him just what she thought of him for that game he had played on the train, pretending to be a mysterious Sheik in pursuit of her! The mortifying part was that he had succeeded so well in making her feel that she was in danger of her virtue!
How she longed to pay him back ... later on .. . when he wasn't quite the hero of the hour.
"And why do you think you can give me orders?" Maud demanded of him, speaking the words through lips that were drawn with pain. "Because you probably saved my life, eh ?"
"No, madame." He gave her his most charmingly sardonic smile. "Because Belle Tigresse is a rather lonely house these days, and it would welcome both of you. Also it will be more comfortable for you than a tent in the desert, for you can take it from me that you have more wrong with your foot than a mere twist of the ligaments. You are in bad pain, I can see that."
"It is rather sickening," Maud admitted. She glanced at Chrys. "Well, what do you say, my child? You're kneeling there without saying a word, but I'm sure you're thinking quite a lot. Do we accept the Prince's invitation ?"
Chrys wanted to cry out that it was the last thing she wanted them to do, but the pallor of Maud's face and the obvious distress in her eyes made her say quietly:
"I think it would be only sensible, Maud. You will be well cared for there, and made comfortable. I — perhaps I could go on to the camp site. Peter will be there —"
"That is the very reason why you cannot go there, Miss Devrel." The Prince broke in on her words, not harshly but in a voice as smooth as silk. "The kaid would be most displeased if he knew that a young man and a young woman were sharing alone a camping site which he has put at the disposal of Mrs. Christie. I am afraid that desert etiquette goes against your obvious desire to be alone with Mr. Dorn. If Mrs. Christie comes to stay at Belle Tigresse, then you must accompany her, and you have already agreed that it will be to her best advantage to be my guest while her foot is mending."
In the silence which followed his words, that little flame of fury leapt higher in Chrys, while Maud's head drooped against the robed arm of Anton. Chrys swallowed the angry words that leapt to her lips, the hot denial that she "desired to be all alone with Peter Dom" and instead she agreed to go with Maud to his desert house.
They went on horseback, the thin and now rather feverish figure of Maud held firmly in the saddle in front of Anton, her head at rest against his robed shoulder. The porter and the two camels followed on behind, and the sun was like a golden blaze in the sky when the white walls of the house rose against the tawny sweep of the sands, the green fronds of gigantic palm trees shading the dome of it, and the courtyard beyond its arched entrance.
CHAPTER IX
IT was such an unexpected house, all alone lie this in
the midst of the golden sands, and so fascinating with
its dome of coloured glass over the central courtyard,
so that the sun was filtered down in a myriad jewel colours, and the rampant tropic vegetation took on a mysterious jungle look, and curtained everything of stone or marble with a cloak of flame and purple and rich cream flower. Scents were trapped here, and the kick and scrape of cicades, not to mention the lizards that lay stone still or scuttled dragon-green across the tiles.
Chrys had come out from the cool hall, drawn by the fascination of this jungly courtyard, the colours playing over her white shirt and her pale skin as she drew breath and absorbed the relief of leaving Maud in the capable hands of Doctor Ben Omair
The master of the house had gone off to acquaint Peter Dorn with details of the mishap, and as Chrys wandered about and explored this amazing patio, she wondered exactly what he would say to the young Dutchman. She hoped that Peter would be allowed to come here. He was so blond and big and solid that he would dilute the exotic atmosphere of this place and dispel some of the heady magic with a hearty breath of common sense.
She mounted some shallow curving steps into another part of the house, and found herself walking beneath dark cedar beams, between ivory-white walls, and upon a massive carpet of mellowed colours. Here in this long cool room were squat coffee tables with mother-of-pearl inlay, low divans covered with wonderful old prayer rugs, and graceful, jewelled, lethal scimitars attached to the walls. There were also lances, and some fine old horse pieces. And there were books, massed on cedarwood shelves, of all sizes, and in a variety of languages, with bindings of deep-toned leather.
A man's room! Redolent of an aromatic smoke that clung to the pages of the well-read books . . . and to the robes in which the Prince had dressed himself in order to fool her into thinking she was being pursued by one of the local Sheiks.
Dam him! She glared at a jewelled scimitar as if she would have liked to do him an injury with it. And then a
reluctant smile touched her lips as she sank down on a thick animal pelt and took a delicious sweet from a hammered box on a nearby table. She lay back on the pelt — not knowing it to be that of a Siberian tiger —and her teeth crunched the nut buried in the thick chocolate.
Her gaze roved about this room that was such a mixture of the strongly masculine and the subtly sensuous, and she imagined him here taking coffee, clad in one of those monkish haiks, those narrow, adroit feet clasped in thonged sandals.
In London she had thought him the most worldly man she had ever met . . . now suddenly she was confronted by a more primitive side to him, all the more disturbing because the man was so educated, and at the same time so unafraid to do the crazy, maddening things that tamer men never even thought of. Chrys tried to picture Dove's husband in any other role but that of the devoted, time-keeping, candid young lover, and she smiled, and realized that in Dove's shoes right now she would have been hopelessly bored.
She listened to the hot, humming silence that lay over Belle Tigresse as she lay, too languorous to stir, on the furry pelt that was longer than her own figure. She let her eyelids fall slowly like shutters over her sun-tired eyes, and she wriggled her feet out of her shoes. Mmmm, it felt good to relax after all the tensions of the morning . . . she would stay here awhile, in the restfulness of this shadowy room, and then she would go and see how Maud was feeling.
And there on the pelt Chrys fell fast asleep, her tawny hair mixing with the tawny fur, emotionally worn out and secure in the knowledge that Maud was in good hands.
She slept dreamlessly for some time, and awoke quite suddenly to find herself in strange surroundings, and aware that she was being scrutinized Her eyes flew open, and there in the light of a lamp, booted feet deep in the carpet, wide cloak held back by an arm
crooked on his hip, stood Prince Anton. She swept the tousled hair back from her eyes, and knew instantly that she must look childish. She started to scramble to her feet, and immediately he took her by the shoulders and brought her to her feet quite close to him.
Still bemused from her nap, she looked at him without knowing quite what to say. Although close to her, he seemed a stranger in his Arab clothes, and the line of his moustache made him look so ruthless. It was as if he had left the civilized part of him back in London, discarded with his Savile Row suits and his savoir faire.
"It did not take you long to find my pri
vate sanctum," he said. "I wonder if some strange instinct led you to it? We are all creatures of instinct, you know, and here in the desert the primitive senses come close to the surface of ourselves and that is why for a while the newcomer feels as if he or she had quaffed a little too much champagne. Do you feel heady, a little dizzy, and yet tensely aware of the slightest sound, the smallest movement, the softest flutter of bird wing or petal?"
He described so exactly how she felt that Chrys would have lied if she had denied his description. His very touch on her shoulders was so acute as to resemble a pain.
"I suppose you're vastly amused that I didn't guess it was you on the train?" she said, her head thrown back so she could look at his face. "You have a strange sense of humour, milor. I suppose the Hand of Fatma was meant to warn me that your hand was reaching out to me? What is it you want of me . . . the usual melting heap of womanhood at your feet?"
He quirked an eyebrow, and the edge of his moustache seemed to quirk as well. "If you are going to be a guest in my house, then there is one thing you must know from the start. I am not addicted to the usual, and much prefer the unusual. Secondly although you are now in the seraglio of my house, meaning the part where women are not normally allowed, there is no
harem at Belle Tigresse, and the only woman on the premises apart from Mrs. Christie and yourself is the housekeeper. If you are reassured that I won't suddenly demand your presence in the master bedroom, attended by eunuchs who will force you into my arms, then it might be possible for you to enjoy your stay without too much strain on your valued and closely guarded independence."
"Did you see Peter Dorn?" Her cheeks had flushed at his sardonic summing up of the needling little fears she did feel as a reluctant guest under his roof. It was a large house, a fantastic collection of rooms screened by meshrebiya balconies, roofs and flights of steps seen through copings of stone sculpture, walled enclosures, wooden doors draped in pale jasmine and deep violet plumbago.
There might well be a secluded wing to which no one went but this man in his picturesque robes, seeking the pleasures of which she had only a misty awareness. Although in ballet she had danced in the strong arms of warm, lithe partners, she was curiously innocent of what men really thought and desired.
There lay in the eyes of Anton de Casenove a thousand answers to any questions she might have asked, but she felt there would always be a part of him that was secluded and not to be known. The smoky beauty of his eyes, the black and screening lashes, the little stabs of mockery, all were aimed at shaking her youthful poise. He saw right through her with those worldly eyes, but there were depths to him, secrets known to him, which made her head spin.
He was really a thorough wretch, she told herself, as if all the time he inwardly laughed at her and planned her seduction. As the lean, sun-browned fingers pressed the fine bones at the base of her neck, she sought wild refuge in the Dutchman.
"What did Peter say about the accident? Will you allow him to come and visit Maud?"
"I would not dream of depriving either of you of a
visit from him," Anton drawled. "I don't want a frustrated young tigress prowling around my house, ready to fly at me with tooth and claw. He will come tomorrow to lunch. For myself, as I have been riding the hot sands, I feel in need of some tea. You will join me in the courtyard, but I am sure that first you would like to go and change into a dress. It would be cooler, and far more attractive than the riding trousers."
As it happened she felt like a change of clothing, so she didn't argue with him. She also fancied a cup of tea, out there under the cool greenery and the trailing flowers. She glanced at her wristwatch and was amazed to see how the time had fled.
"Come, I will show you to your apartment," he said. "In time you will grow accustomed to the house, but at first it can bewilder the stranger. Arabian houses are built rather like old English castles, so that one can always find a place to hide, but can very easily go astray."
With an imperious sweep of his cloak he led her from his own quarters and along corridors, up sudden flights of steps, and around unexpected corners of this odd and fascinating house until he paused outside an oval shaped vermilion door and opened it for her.
"I shall be in the courtyard when you are ready," he said. "One of Hazra's children will be sent to wait for you here in the corridor, to see that you don't lose your way."
"Thank you, but who is Hazra ?" Chrys stood in the frame of the vermilion door and looked up at him; the boots and robes and rope-bound head-covering made him very tall and imposing, and she saw again how easy it had been to mistake him for an Arab. The dense brows, the strongly etched cheekbones, and that devilish black moustache all added to the illusion. She felt quite sure that the years he had spent in the East had almost made him an Arab at heart. He seemed to exude the very breath of the desert through his bronzed skin, and the very light of the sky seemed to glitter in his eyes.
"She is my housekeeper." With a mocking inclination of his head he swung on his booted heel and strode off, taking it arrogantly for granted that Chrys would obey his orders without a murmur. What was so annoying was that she could really do nothing else but obey them. She couldn't ask for a pot of tea to be brought to her room because she didn't know the language, and she was simply dying for a cup !
She withdrew into the rooms which were to be hers while she remained a guest at Belle Tigresse, and she saw that her suitcases had been placed on an ottoman at the foot of the carved bed, draped in clouds of almond-pale netting. The bleached walls of the room were like rough silk to the hand, and the furniture was darkly ornate, while the windows were set within richly carved wooden cages, through which in days gone by the women of the household would have looked without being seen. A wonderful old lantern, fitted with panes of coloured glass, hung between the windows, and there were painted cupboards, carved brackets on the walls filled with copper ornaments, and over the floor lay one of the fabulous Eastern carpets, teeming with warm colour and a thousand intricate designs.
Beyond the bedroom lay a smaller room, less ornate, with a divan and a little carved table, and a shelf of books. And beyond that was the bathroom, and Chrys stood speechless in the doorway, both amazed and a trifle shocked by the black marble bathtub that was sunk into the floor, with chiselled nymphs decorating the huge mirror, and a leopard skin across the black and white tiles.
After her first breathless moments of adjustment to such luxury, Chrys felt an irresistible urge to wallow in that tub and let her cares go by.
But he would be waiting, and he was impetuous and impatient enough to come charging up here in search of her if she did not appear for tea. She had to make do with a cool splash at the pyramid wash-basin, and after spraying herself with cologne she took a pale
blue, shake-out dress from her suitcase and zipped herself into it. She brushed her hair until it crackled and shone, dashed lipstick across her mouth, and noticed how large and deep her eyes looked as she took a glance at herself in the wall mirror.
She looked like Alice in Wonderland, she thought, but there just wasn't time to do adult things to her hair, so leaving it to swing free on her shoulders she left her apartment and went out into the corridor. She glanced around for this child who was to take her downstairs to the courtyard, and her gaze fell instead upon a slim creature in a dress of coloured stripes, whose long black hair was pinned back in slides, and whose eyes were the colour of dark honey set round with long black lashes. In her earlobes hung small gold hoops, and her narrow feet were bare below the rather long hem of her dress.
She and Chrys stared at each other, one so fair, the other so dark, with a skin of warm, flawless amber and rather full lips.
"Are you Hazra?" said Chrys, for to her mind this was no child but a young woman, and Prince Anton had said that only his housekeeper, apart from Maud and herself, shared this house with him in the capacity of a woman.
"I am Saffida, and the sidi has asked me to conduct Mademoiselle to the courtyard." The
girl spoke in French, with a soft and attractive accent, and behind her heavy lashes she was studying Chrys with an unchildlike curiosity.
Chrys looked at Saffida and felt a stab of scorn that Anton should call her a child. The girl was a raving little beauty, with centuries of Eastern love lore running in her veins.
"Are you Hazra's daughter?" Chrys broke into a rather dry smile. "I was expecting someone much smaller and younger."
"I have very much grown since the sidi was last here." The girl's full lips made a sort of bee-stung
movement. "I am now ready for marriage."
"At what age," asked Chrys, "does the marriage of an Arabian girl take place ?"
"At fourteen, if she has sufficient dowry."
"You are more than that, surely?"
"I am sixteen, mademoiselle, and the sidi will provide my dowry."
"That is very generous of him, Saffida."
"Is it not the custom in your own land?"
"Well, not exactly." Chrys glanced at the girl as they stepped out of a sculptured doorway into the coins of sunlight tumbling down through the feathery branches of some pepper trees. "In England the father usually pays for the wedding —" There she broke off as Prince Anton stepped from among the trees, bare-headed now, and clad in a slash-throated tunic of grey silk, with narrow black trousers and sandals with a leather thong holding them to his feet.
"Ah, so there you are! Merci, mon enfant," he said to the Arabian girl, slanting a smile that held not a hint of flirtation. In answer to his smile Saffida placed her slim hands together and gave him a graceful, feminine version of the salaam. Her lashes fluttered and her golden ear hoops caught the sunlight. Then she turned and walked silently away on her bare narrow feet, showing the heels that were hennaed.
"What a very pretty child," said Chrys. "I was expecting a gamine and found myself face to face with a sylph."
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