Where did he go? What did he do during the long hours he was away from the encampment? The answer came all too clearly to Lorna as her gaze dwelt on the tall figure and she heard him giving orders in his deep voice. He was in control of outlying villages and hillside communities. He went to supervise them, to attend the council meetings, to sit in judgment on law breakers.
His own self-made laws were not to be judged!
Lorna withdrew into the tent, and a moment later Hassan came to light the lamps. As they bloomed and cast their saffron glow, the pallor of Lorna' s face was revealed. Her eyes were dark blue with apprehension and her heart beat fast. It was pride alone that saved her from fleeing into the inner tent. She wouldn't run away when the Shaikh entered. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cowed and frightened.
`I will bring a jug of freshly made limoon,' said Hassan in his quiet way. 'The master is fond of it.'
Lorna looked at the manservant and barely restrained herself from saying that the master's likes and dislikes were of less interest to her than the moths that flew in from the darkness to flutter about the lamps. `No doubt he will be thirsty,' she said, with a cool composure that belied her inner tension.
Hassan bowed and withdrew, leaving her alone in the lamplit tent. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her breeches and every fibre of her body was taut; she hardly breathed, hardly moved, a pale statue in the centre of the carpet. There came the jingle of spurs and a cold thrill ran through her as with his soundless stride he entered the tent. His cloak was swept back over his shoulder, the silk lining a flash of scarlet against his white tunic and breeches. His supple knee-boots matched the lining colour. He was a barbaric figure as he stood just inside the entrance and swept his eyes over her.
`I am sorry to be so late,' he said in the deep voice that seemed to vibrate along her nerves. 'I hope you have not been too impatient for my tardy return, ma fine.'
She met bravely his startling eyes, tawny as the desert sands. 'I hoped your horse had thrown you and broken your neck!' she flung at him.
`A woman in a temper is one who has been lonely,' he mocked.
`Did you hope to find me in tears, Prince Kasim?'
He smiled wickedly as he flung aside his whip with its long plaited lash ... the weapon he was so adroit at using. 'You have too much spirit to be the weeping kind, ma fine.'
`How disappointing for you, m'sieu.'
He unbuckled his cloak and dropped it across a divan. 'On the contrary,' his eyes flicked the blue tunic that revealed the slender bareness of her arms, 'it intrigues me that tonight, or tomorrow, you may try again to plunge a knife into me.'
`The blade would break,' she said scornfully, but even as she spoke her gaze dwelt on the broad chest she had nicked with the gemmed knife. 'You have a heart of stone !'
'My heart of stone is not unmoved by the look of you, cherie.' His glance lingered on her hair, which the lamplight haloed about her pale heart of a face. 'I wondered all day if I had imagined your sun-coloured hair, your eyes deep blue as jasmine, your mouth that pleads so eloquently . .
There he broke off as Hassan entered the tent with a jug of limoon and stemmed glasses. He placed the
tray on one of the low tables and asked his master at what time he would like dinner.
`In one hour, Hassan. I have a fancy for roast lamb, and to follow those small sultana pancakes.'
`The lamb is on the spit, sidi.' The manservant smiled. 'I know your appetite when your ride has been a long one. Water is also heating for my lord's steam-bath when he is ready.'
The tent flap fell into place behind the Shaikh's servant, and Lorna felt amazement at the lordly way he lived here in camp. Even a steam-bath was provided for his pleasure . . . the pleasure he obviously took in being utterly clean.
`Please pour me a glass of limoon,' he said casually. `Your servant has just left,' she retorted, hands clenched in her pockets.
`Pour it, cherie.' A soft, dangerous note came into his voice, and seething inwardly she went to the table and filled a glass with the cool lime juice.
`Now bring it to me,' he ordered.
`Yes, my lord.' She turned from the table, walked straight up to him and flung the contents of the glass full in his arrogant face. Then, white-faced, she watched as the drops ran down on to his kibr and a flame leapt alight in his eyes.
`Now do you feel better?' he asked.
`Much better,' she re-joined. 'I only wish it had been acid . I'd like to spoil for ever your devil's face I'
`You have the temper of a little devil yourself.' He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, and then he took a swift step forward and before she could evade his touch she was caught and held
against him; each curve and line of her was crushed to his hard body.
`How much you hate me, eh?' His lips were tormentingly close to her own, his eyes sparkled dangerously. 'First you try to stab me, now you try to arouse my temper in the hope that I will break your neck. It is too lovely a neck to break, ma cherie. I would much sooner kiss it.'
As she felt his lips, she closed her eyes and blotted out his face, but she couldn't numb her senses and not feel his urgent mouth against her throat, the delicate line of her cheek, her temple. She shuddered from head to foot as his mouth closed warm and hard on hers, forcing back her head until she was utterly consumed by his kiss.
`Please ... let me go,' she pleaded, when at last she could speak.
`There.' He released her from his arms with a soft laugh. 'You are free.'
`Don't torment me!' Her eyes blazed jewel-blue and beseeching in the tumbled frame of her soft hair. `Give me a horse and a guide ... let me return to Yraa. I'll say nothing about being here !'
`You would spare me punishment for my sins?' he taunted, pouring a second glass of limoon and drinking it down thirstily. 'You would say nothing because you would hate anyone to know that in the desert you have met your match. How many men, my little fury, have you put to flight with your scorn and your coldness?'
`You brute !' Colour flamed into her cheeks. 'That horse thief was less outrageous than you, with your steam-bath, your books, and your Spanish mother !' `We will not discuss my mother,' he said curtly. `She at least had a warm heart.'
`If I am so cold, then I am surely out of place in the tent of a prince? Surely you would prefer someone a little more ardent?'
`One of my fines de joie?' He quirked a black eyebrow. 'As you know, I breed horses and have a great fondness for them. Now and again one turns out to have a wilful streak and I enjoy the taming process.'
`You mean you enjoy breaking its spirit,' she retorted.
`Only one of my horses has ever come close to being broken in spirit, and I flogged in front of you the man responsible.'
`I take it the abduction of a girl troubles you hardly at all? I am aware, Prince Kasim, that in your opinion a female can hardly hope to compete with the attractions of a good horse, but as it happens I am not an Arabian girl and I resent being held a prisoner to your whims. I have rights and you can't altogether ignore them. I am not a thing.'
`No Arabian girl was ever as lucid,' he said. 'You think the authorities will start combing the desert for you, eh? They will no doubt take a look around the Oasis of Fadna, they will make a few enquiries and upon learning that you are headstrong, wilful, and most unusually beautiful, they will shrug fatalistically and say you were more than foolish to go riding alone.'
Lorna gazed at him, speechlessly. 'You . . . you have no intention of letting me return to the Ras Jusuf?' A terrible weakness seemed to sweep over her and she wanted to give way to it, to crumple to the carpet, to weep and claw like a little chained animal. `You mean to keep me here?'
`For as long as it pleases me,' he said lazily. 'A man looks forward to some distraction after the affairs of the day, and you are very distracting, ma fille. You have spirit, and I like that. You are lovely but cool, and I find that a challenge.'
`You have no mercy,'
she flung at him.
`You, as yet, have no awareness of the body and its merciless demands,' he rejoined.
She stared at him, her every nerve shocked and tingling. 'You are a devil!' she choked.
`Perhaps—but then a woman's face is the devil's mirror when it's blue-eyed, soft-lipped, tantalizing.'
He drew open the flap of the tent and as he stood there, looking at her, his leopard grace and assurance were an affront. His possessive glance outraged her.
`Garments were provided so that I might see you looking like a girl instead of a charming boy. You will wear them !'
`Things, you bought to please a slave girl at your palace?' Her lip curled. 'You will have to force me into them!'
`I am sure I would get more pleasure out of the procedure than you would, ma fille: His eyes were wickedly amused. `Turqeya is my sister, not a slave.'
With a sardonic bow he was gone, leaving his forceful image superimposed upon the closed flap. Lorna heard him address someone outside, and she lifted a hand to her throat as if to still her frantic pulse. He
spoke to one of his Arab guards, installed at the entrance of the tent to ensure that she did not run away . . .
Until he tired of her ! Until then she would be kept in this silken trap with its lamplit shadows. She would be forced to endure the Prince's company . . . and his caresses.
She fled from the thought into the harem, and there in a while Zahra came to help her dress. Lorna was quiet and subdued. She made no protest about wearing a smoky velvet tunic with tiny pearl buttons from throat to waist, or the silken trousers caught in at the ankle. She stepped into the babouches of ruby red with uplifting toes, and allowed Zahra to brush her hair until it shone more silkily than her garments.
So Turqeya was the Shaikh's sister. He bought her gifts, so he must be fond of her. Lorna tried to imagine so ruthless a man being fond of anyone. Fondness, affection, indicated the presence of a heart, and to Lorna the man was quite heartless.
`Zahra?'
`Yes, lella?'
`Is the master's sister very pretty?'
`The Princess Turqeya is like a golden doll, with lashes in which a moth might become entangled, and dusky hair to her waist. It is said that many wealthy men have asked to marry her, but the Prince Kasim has refused all of them on her behalf.'
`Does her father have no say in the matter?'
`The Emir is too busy a man to concern himself with a mere daughter. The Sidi Kasim is the Emir's
great pride and joy. He has let him have always whatever he has desired.'
`I can well believe that!' Lorna bit her lip. Even with Zahra she was ashamed of revealing the anguish and the fear that she felt, and she turned away from the mirror, scornful of her harem image.
`The lella is not pleased with her appearance?' Zahra asked anxiously. 'Perhaps if you had ornaments to wear about your throat and gems for your ears
`Don't!' Lorna gave a. laugh that held a hint of tears. 'I look enough like an odalisque without adding to the picture. I look as though I am going to a carnival!'
`What is—carnival?' Zahra was very perplexed by this fair-haired roumia who occupied the forbidden tent of a most powerful Prince and yet was not pleased or proud.
`A carnival is a parade of people, Zahra, who can only be brave or gay behind a mask. It's like life, really. We smile to hide a pain. We laugh to hold back the tears.'
`Everything is mektub,' Zahra said in all seriousness. 'We cannot help the things we do. It is written!'
`Which is like saying, "Hate the sin but love the sinner. He sins to written orders." '
Lorna gripped the beaded curtain and steeled herself to enter the outer tent. Hassan was there laying the table. The Shaikh had not yet returned and she felt his manservant following her with his eyes as she went outside to breathe the cool night air and to look at the stars. A shadow moved in the shadows around the great tent, and Lorna knew it was her guard, silently watching her as she stood in the silvery darkness and breathed the strange scents of the encampment mingling with those that stole in from the desert beyond the oasis.
She had a longing to see the vast and silent desert beneath the climbing moon, but with a sigh she returned to the tent. Zahra and Hassan had departed. The saffron glow of the lamps added to the luxury of the mellow carpets, the sheen of the cushions and the hangings and the copper ornaments. On the knee-high table in front of the large divan stood a round dish with a pewter dome covering it. There was wine to accompany the meal, and Lorna was struck anew by the realization that her captor was so cosmopolitan.
Lorna tensed as he entered the tent, bare-headed, fresh from his steam-bath, and clad in a kibr which was deeply open at his brown throat. His presence overwhelmed Lorna. He was like some vital and dangerous animal whose purr was uncertain.
His thonged sandals made no sound on the carpets as he came to her. He took her hands and at the softening of his gaze she grew even more afraid of him. 'Fortune made you very fair,' he said, and he brushed his lips across her fingertips. 'Smile at me,' he coaxed.
She was frozen. She stood like a statue, inanimate but for the pounding of her heart at his nearness and his touch.
`Can you smile?'
`Smiling is for happy people,' she said.
`Does it not make you happy, my Dinarzide, to be told that you are beautiful?' His own smile slashed a deep line in his sun-bronzed cheek. `Dinarzade was the girl who knew nothing about love, by the way. She was very innocent.'
`Surely you would prefer a Scheherezade?' Lorna tilted her chin. 'Or have you become bored with all those you have known?'
He merely laughed, his teeth flashing white in arrogant amusement. 'Come, let us eat ! I have been riding hard all day and I groan for food.'
They went to the divan, where the Shaikh sprawled with the grace of a leopard and uncovered the spit-roasted lamb which gave off a delectable aroma of herbs. A knife and fork was laid ready for Lorna's use, and now and again her companion glanced at her as if amused by her demure way of eating.
`I have lived more in the desert than elsewhere,' he said. 'The ways of the tribesmen are mine in most ways, though I drink wine.'
`It amazes me that you don't spill rice and peas all over you,' she said, taking a sip at her own glass of French wine.
`It is a knack to eat this way—shall I show you?'
.No.' She shook her head and avoided his glance. She was intensely aware of his maleness, the width of his shoulders, the strong column of his throat merging into his deep chest. His skin in the lamplight had a bronze look. His eyes were slumberous between the dense lashes.
`Of what are you thinking, ma fleur?' He said it casually as he dipped his fingers into a small bowl of water and wiped them on a hand towel.
A shiver ran all the way through her. 'My flower . ..' That he should say it, like a lover, shocked her to the core.
`Am I not entitled to thoughts of my own?' she fenced.
`You are welcome to your thoughts . . . though half the time I can read them.' His glance played over her, and then with a smile he folded a pancake and bit into it with careless enjoyment. 'Come, join me. These are excellent.'
`I've had enough.' She dipped her fingers in the little bowl and dried them. 'I . . . I haven't been out riding like you to work up an appetite. Even when I took a small walk, one of your men shadowed me every inch of the way.'
`Would you like to ride?'
She looked at him with an unbelieving eagerness. `May I? Will you let me?'
`Will I let you?' He leant forward and held her with his eyes, golden in the lamplight. 'I may let you do many things, cherie, but I won't let you go.'
`I . . . I should so like to ride.' Her eyes were huge and wistful.
`Then you shall ride,' he said, and he smiled at her as she sat among the cushions of the shared divan, his toy, his whim, to be indulged or ignored as the mood took him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
`THERE is a splendid savagery about my land and you shou
ld see it,' he went on. 'You will ride with me, and when I am away from camp you will ride with one of my men. You have learned already that it is dangerous for you to ride alone . . . I could not permit that.'
`You know I'd ride off !' She resented his nearness and his power over her. 'If ever I get the chance I shall walk off, and I don't care if I die in the desert.'
`What a dramatic threat.' He ran a finger down her cheek. 'You would suffer the torments of heat and thirst and loneliness to get away from me, eh? We are many miles from Yraa.'
`Won't you consider my . . . family?' she said desperately. 'Would you like to see your own sister in my ... predicament?'
`Turqeya would not be foolish enough to ride alone in the desert. She has the wisdom of the East in her blood.'
`Perhaps Turgeya is wise because she judges all men by her brother!' Lorna met his eyes bravely. `Perhaps I have been unwise because I judged all men by my father. He was gallant and kind.'
`You speak in the past tense !'
Lorna' s hand crushed a cushion ... she had let slip the fact that her father was dead and could not be concerned for her. 'Don't you care that I hate you?' she cried.
`I should care if you were indifferent to me.' He unclenched her fingers from the cushion and held her hand so that it was very small and white in his brown hand. 'Hate is an intriguing emotion. I prefer it to the cloying pretence of love for the sake of gifts and favours. There are women, little one, who think only of themselves.'
`I am sure you are an expert at judging them !' She wanted to snatch her hand from his, but knew it would be futile to try.
`I would not presume to call myself an expert.' The smile deepened in his eyes as he rang the little brass bell that stood on the table. Almost at once Hassan appeared with their French coffee in its long-spouted pot, with the cups in silver holders.
`Madame will pour the coffee,' the Shaikh said to him.
Hassan bowed and withdrew, and Lorna cast a look at the man beside her, passionate with resentment. She took hold of the pot of steaming coffee and he lounged beside her without moving, his eyes upon her face, daring her silently to do with the coffee what she had done with the limoon.
Blue Jasmine Page 6