by Leslie North
"Ah, but this woman—she is different."
"Meaning she did not fall at your feet." Tarek stood. "Tread cautiously, cousin. Tess has told me that her friend is interested only in her career as an archeologist. From what Tess has said, Christine and her father are just the same in that. She might not be what you think she is."
Arif stood and smiled. "The heart knows what it wants, my cousin."
Tarek shook his head. "That is an impractical notion." Arif opened his mouth to speak, but Tarek held up a hand. "No, don't repeat yourself. I just urge you to remember that you may know your heart, but you know nothing of what this woman wants."
Arif grinned. "Ah, but finding out about her will be pure joy. And now I must go and be the Minister of Education and see surly old Sahl ibn Harun about a pass for my Christine."
Chapter Four
Arif had never had a tour of the palace given to him. It was a novel and amusing situation, and he wondered if Christine knew she was babbling like a nervous guide.
"This has to be what was once called the Hall of the Ambassador. It's marvelous. Far better in person—larger. I've read that the site of the original palace was chosen in 540 and construction lasted twenty years, with over ten thousand craftsmen. Four hundred kilograms of gunpowder were used to blast through the bedrock to lay the foundation. Of course, it's been expanded over the centuries. I read that, in total, the palace now includes six hundred rooms, and the archives takes up the entire south side. Of course, the archives is really the heart of the palace."
"Of course," Arif said. He was delighted to allow Christine to lead him. Her eyes and skin glowed as she spoke. Her hands danced in front of her as if she could not contain them. She had worn what must be her work clothes—close-fitting black trousers and a linen shirt that clung to her curves. Gold sandals flashed on her dainty feet, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes off her. Her short hair curled slightly, still damp from her shower, and that sparked images of her naked, her creamy skin bared and wet…and…and he really needed to pay heed to what she was saying.
"—decreed this would be a learning center that would rival Bagdad. Over 140,000 books are stored here now, including works in the Greek and Syriac languages from the Hellenistic period, Chinese, Sanskrit, Latin, and Persian works in physics and mathematics, and collections obtained from the School of Nisibis, the Academy of Gondishapur, and the Imperial Library of Constantinople. Some of the works are even said to be from the Library of Alexandria—copies of course, but it's still remarkable to think not everything was burned back in ancient Egypt. Most works have been translated into Arabic, but I'm hoping to find primary sources. I've heard it referred to as the Khizanat Kutub al-Hikma or Storehouse of the Books of Wisdom. According to the legendary fourteenth-century traveler, Ibn Battuta, Zahkim built one of the great libraries."
Still smiling, Arif stopped and opened a heavy, ornate door, carved from sandalwood and decorated with gold leaf. "Do watch out for the spiders."
Christine's mouth formed a small circle. He wanted to touch a finger to those lush lips of hers. She stared at him. "You have spiders in the archive? Intentionally?"
"They protect the books from silverfish and insects. The archive also has a number of cats, but they tend to be elusive creatures, keeping mostly to themselves. Consider them guardians of all this knowledge." He ushered her past the doorway.
Once inside the vast hall, she stopped again, her mouth falling fully open now. She breathed out her next words, her tone hushed, "I've seen a few old photos, but they don't do it justice."
Looking around, Arif tried to see it as she might. Was it impressive? He supposed so, but then “the Bod” back at Oxford had overwhelmed him with its English Gothic architecture, soaring ceilings, and its far more extensive collection of over twelve million items. By comparison, the palace archives seemed to him to be far more intimate.
The floor offered intricate mosaics in rose, gray, and white marble in a geometric pattern that Arif had always found soothing. The wooden bookcases in the Rococo style formed two rows, separated by a balcony with a wooden railing. True, the shelves did seem to stretch on forever, but that was only an illusion. Next to him, Christine pulled in a breath. She gave him a wide smile, and Arif's pulse kicked up and his stomach tightened. He was not certain why she should be as delighted as if he had showered her with jewels. To him the archives smelled musty, as if the weight of the centuries hung heavy in the room. The silence seemed almost forbidding.
That silence was broken a moment later by the shuffle of sandals on tiles, and Sahl ibn Harun appeared from between the bookshelves, his usual frown in place, his eyes dark and sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his thin, aged frame the same as it had been for as long as Arif had known the man. He wore the traditional white robes and turban, his one concession to modern life being a Kronsegler's watch that showed the constellations in the sky on a blue dial. Arif and his cousins had avoided the archives as much as possible, for Sahl did not tolerate fools or young boys looking for trouble. It seemed he was also not in a mood to tolerate women scholars. He looked at Christine over the top of his glasses as if he would just as soon throw her from the palace off one of the turrets.
That could not be allowed, so Arif stepped forward to make the introductions. "Sahl ibn Harun, may I present to you Dr. Harper."
Christine stuck out her hand and made the split-second decision to speak in Arabic. "Salam, ibn Harun. It is good to meet you.” She switched to English. “It is an honor to meet the man entrusted with the true wealth of Zahkim."
Sahl's lip had curled at the offer of a handshake, but Christine's use of Arabic and her praise seemed to work some charm on the old man. Sahl at least unbent enough to touch his fingers to hers before he turned to Arif and said, his voice gravely and dry, "We are not ready. Come back tomorrow."
Arif swallowed a laugh. He could see how it would be—tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He had no intention of allowing Sahl to put Christine off indefinitely. Arif lowered his voice and stepped closer to Sahl.
"Tomorrow we will return. See to it that all is in order for Dr. Harper. I have given my promise she will have access."
"And how do you know she won't steal books? Or worse, ruin them! What if she brings her American cola in here and spills one on—"
"Spill a soda?" Christine turned to face Sahl, her voice crackling and her eyes hot. "I will have you know I have reading privileges at the Peterborough and the Bodleian, as well as being responsible for cataloging my father's rather extensive collection. We in New Hampshire love our libraries."
Sahl stiffened, and Arif could see an argument brewing that might well end with Sahl forbidding Christine from setting foot in his domain again—or even worse, the old man might have a stroke. A vein throbbed near his forehead.
He had no idea what the Peterborough was, but the Bodleian—the Bod—had been his stomping grounds at Oxford. He was impressed, even if Sahl wasn't. Arif took hold of Christine's elbow.
"Tomorrow, Sahl. We shall arrive no later than ten in the morning. Please be ready to provide a tour and full access." He stressed the last words and then hurried Christine from the archives before Sahl—or Christine—could protest. Or start a war.
Once outside the sandalwood door, Christine turned on him, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. "Are you going back on your deal? Was your offer just a…a ploy to get me to stay?"
Arif held up his hands. "Sahl takes his position most seriously. Would you trust a man who was not protective of the treasures of Zahkim?"
Some of the heat left her eyes, and her arms fell to her sides. "Well, when you put it that way…I suppose I could spend the day organizing my research notes."
Arif smiled. "Oh, I have a much better idea."
Christine eyed the horse with about the same level of distrust she thought the horse was giving back. The last time she'd swung a leg over any animal, she'd been eight and had walked her aunt's old mule once around the barn. He'd h
ad two paces—amble and stop. This creature, with her exotic flaxen and red coloring, large brown eyes, arched neck, dainty hooves, and high tail, looked as if she came off a carousel or a wedding cake. Drinkers of the Wind—that was what many Arabs called their horses, and this one looked as if she could not only drink it but fly on it as well. At least the saddle seemed large and safe, with a high front and back. But Christine didn't trust her skills on anything that wasn't automatic.
She glanced over at Sheikh Arif, who stood talking to the grooms closer to the entrance of the barn aisle where they stood. His horse—as black as her mare’s mane and tale were pale—nudged the sheikh, and he absently dug into a pocket and produced a treat for his mount. Christine's heart softened. She looked away. She'd always been a sucker for guys who loved animals, and it seemed Sheikh Arif was loved at least by his horse. Also by his grooms, judging by the way they kept smiling and laughing, sharing a joke of some kind. Her Arabic was good, but the grooms had a local accent and spoke so fast she could only catch one word in three. She hoped they weren't saying something about the Westerner who didn't look as if she knew what to do with a horse.
Holding out a hand to let the mare sniff her fingers, she said, "Make you a deal, I won't make your life hard if you don't make this ride hard for me." The mare blew out her nose and turned aside as if she wasn't offering any promises. Christine gave a sigh. Sheikh Arif stepped away from the grooms and came over to her.
"I will help you mount." It wasn't a question, and before Christine had time to tell him she could manage, he'd gripped her waist and tossed her up onto the saddle. She sat sideways, and Sheikh Arif grinned at her. "I see we need a few lessons. Throw your leg over. Here are your reins, but Tayr will listen better if you talk to her."
She rearranged herself, using his shoulder to keep herself from falling.
"Tayr—bird?" Christine smiled and relaxed a little once she sat astride. "She is like a bird."
She gathered up the leather reins. She'd changed her sandals and trousers for jeans and soft boots and had shoved a cloth boonie on her head, but now she wished she could copy the sheikh's traditional garb of loose white trousers, high black boots, and keffiyeh. They looked far more dashing—or maybe that was just Sheikh Arif.
He walked away and swung up onto his horse. Glancing at her, he smiled. "You are ready?"
"Ready or not," she muttered. She clucked to the mare and dug in her heels. The mare gave a squeal and trotted over to the sheikh's horse, then stopped.
Arif smiled and shook his head. Reaching down, he stroked his horse's neck, but his eyes never left Christine's face. Heat that had nothing to do with the warming day crept into her face. "This is Mahbouba," he said, his voice soft.
Beloved. She translated the word in her head. The way he'd said it, as if the word itself was a caress, had her thinking it was meant for her as well, and not just for his huge black mare. A smile curved his lips as if he knew he'd unsettled her. "She is Tayr's dam—her mother."
Christine sat a little straighter. "Well, perhaps she can tell Tayr to behave and take pity on me. Now where are we going?"
Sheikh Arif put his horse into a slow jog, and Tayr seemed content to follow her mother. Christine was happy about that. The heat hit as soon as they left the thick walls and shade of the barn. Arif urged his horse to a faster pace, and Tayr followed. Christine clutched the saddle but soon relaxed; Tayr was as smooth a ride as any carousel horse. Arif struck out for the desert, following a path between the sand dunes and the rocky areas.
It was better than flying, Christine decided. The horses skimmed over the ground, surefooted and steady. She relaxed and let her body follow Tayr's easy lope. All too soon, Arif slowed the pace to a walk as their horses climbed a hill. They crested the top and the green of date palms and blue of an oasis came into view, water sparkling in the sunlight. Two black tents fluttered in the hot, dry breeze, and black-robed nomads stopped to stare at the riders.
Arif turned in the saddle. "Are you ready for a break? This is the Amin oasis."
Fussing with the reins, she asked, "Aren't we interrupting these people?"
He smiled, white teeth flashing against the black of his beard and mustache. "I've arranged a feast with the nomads of Zahkim. How can you understand the archives of Zahkim if you do not understand our people?"
She stared at him, mouth dry, heart thudding. This was like something from a fairy tale—the exotic sheikh stealing her away to his desert oasis. He looked the part, with his keffiyeh fluttering in the breeze, his easy smile, the sunlight turning his skin bronze. He sat his horse as if he had been riding all his life, which he must have been.
Christine looked away and told herself not to be foolish. She just wasn't the kind of girl that guys fell for—certainly not instantly. She was too serious. Too focused. And, frankly, too obsessed with history. She usually bored a date to death with facts and trivia, just as she had this morning on the way to the archives. She could have kicked herself for prattling on like she had earlier, telling Arif things he had to already know.
And then Tayr was following Mahbouba down to the oasis, and she had to cling to the saddle as the horse broke into a fast jog.
Arif was pleased to see all had been arranged—a feast fit for a sultan, the music of his people playing on the stringed oud and a flute. Christine looked as if she belonged, now, in her black thobe and veil. She smoothed the garments and sat on one of the pillows arranged on the rugs inside the tent.
"Thanks for the fresh clothes,” she said. “I was more than sweaty from the heat and the ride."
"All my pleasure." He had left the flap of the tent tied open to allow in the scent of the cooling desert. The sun hung in the western sky like an orange ball. It was not yet late, but in this season, the cool of the evening came early. Mahbouba and Tayr stood nearby, content with their grass and water.
Christine glanced over her shoulder at the horses. "They're like big dogs. Are they housebroken?"
With a grin, Arif poured mint tea into tiny, gold-trimmed glasses. "Never mind the horses. Try this first. And then what is your pleasure?" Christine's cheeks flushed, and Arif smoothly added, "Lamb, chicken, breads, fruits, or something sweeter?"
She took the glass from him. Their fingers brushed, and a small shock traveled up his arm. He wanted to pull her close, lay her back on the pillows, and kiss her. But he could not with black-veiled women moving in and out of the tent to see to their dinner.
"Why does everything you say seem to have a double meaning?" she asked, and then sipped her tea.
"Perhaps because you are looking for something more?" Arif took her free hand and kissed her palm.
Heat flooded through Christine. The sheikh looked up at her from under long, dark lashes. "'To love is to kiss, to touch hand or arm or to send letters whose spells are stronger than witchcraft.'"
Face hot, she pulled her hand away—or tried to. Sheikh Arif wasn't letting go, and short of dumping her tea over his head she couldn’t think what to do. She tried for a prim tone. "The only letters of interest to me are those in the palace archive. Can we start early tomorrow?"
He shook his head and let go of her. Putting a hand to his chest, he quoted, "'I would split open my heart with a knife, place you within and seal my wound, that you might dwell there.'"
Christine laughed. "Okay—now you are laying it on a little thick. Whose poem is that?"
"Ah, you have found me out. Those are ancient Arabic poems. Are you not pleased? What more could a woman ask for—fine food, a perfect afternoon, a man who is laying his heart before you."
"Well…I am impressed. Back home, I'm lucky to even find a guy who likes to read."
Tipping his head to one side, he studied her. "Are the men where you live blind that they do not read and do not appreciate a woman such as you?"
"No, they just prefer a girl who isn't too much of a bookworm. I don't get out much."
"Ah, well, that is because you were fated to be mine." He smiled and tu
rned to select pieces of fruit from the plate.
She frowned. He seemed utterly sincere, but she couldn't help but think maybe this was just a line he used on women to get them into bed.
And would that be so bad?
She knew the answer—it wouldn't be bad at all. She snuck a glance at him—straight nose, strong jaw, those dark eyes and the sweep of black lashes over them. He'd taken off his keffiyeh and his boots. He had strong feet, elegant hands. She liked those long fingers of his and tried not to imagine how they'd feel, stroking over her skin. It wouldn't be at all bad to have a fling with him. The trick would be not losing her heart and her head. How dangerous was it to mix pleasure and the business at hand of getting to the research she needed?
Sheikh Arif offered her a date with his fingers. "Try this. The honey and spices are an old recipe from my great-great-grandmother." He held up the date. She put up her hand to take it, but he pulled back and shook his head. Smiling, she let him pop the date into her mouth. Her tongue slipped over his finger. His eyes darkened, the pupil expanding. Her breath caught. Sweetness exploded in her mouth, but all she could think about was how beautiful he looked.
She swallowed and tried to focus on the feast spread out before them, but the sheikh caught her chin and turned her face to him. For an instant, she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His eyes held her captive. There seemed to be such need in those depths—such longing. He moved closer, and when his mouth covered hers, Christine closed her eyes.
Chapter Five
Ah, but she was beautiful—his Christine. And such an innocent. Her eyes fluttered closed, but Arif kept his open. He wanted to remember everything about this instant. The way her lashes looked against her pale skin. How she tasted of honey. How her scent—something warm and musky—mixed with the earthy spices of the meal. How she opened to him like a flower to the warmth of spring.