by Anne Mather
‘But you do not understand.’ Hussein’s small face grew indignant. ‘Uncle Alain always comes to see me, as soon as he gets home. He did not come last night, so—’ he shrugged his thin shoulders, ‘he will come today.’
Ashley did not quite know how to handle this. Somehow, Hussein had made it impossible for her to tell him that she had already seen Alain, and she looked once more at Muhammed, begging his intervention.
The hawk-faced Arab acknowledged her difficulties with a curiously wry smile, then he interposed smoothly: ‘You know your grandfather demanded your uncle’s presence at dinner last evening, little pigeon. I told you so.’ His eyes flickered briefly over Ashley. ‘Miss Conway is right. Today your uncle may have other matters to attend to.’
Hussein’s small chin quivered. ‘But he always comes to see me first, always!’ he exclaimed, and once again Ashley felt the Arab’s eyes upon her.
‘Perhaps there was something more urgent that he had to do,’ he responded, his obsidian-dark eyes boring into Ashley’s, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Muhammed knew exactly where Alain had been.
Hussein heaved a deep sigh. ‘Well, I do not believe you,’ he declared at last, sulkily. ‘Uncle Alain loves me best. He said so. I—I am the son he has never had.’
Ashley could feel the colour draining out of her face at his words, and she prayed that Muhammed would not notice. She had no doubt that Hussein was repeating, parrot-fashion, something that had been said to him by Alain, and the pain that it evoked was impossible to avoid. It was like a knife turning savagely in her stomach, and she unconsciously wrapped her arms around her middle, as if to staunch an open wound.
‘Little boys must learn to grow up,’ said Muhammed firmly, and Ashley was eternally grateful for his support, involuntary or otherwise. ‘Come, get your sword. Let us show Miss Conway how the son of a Bedouin chief faces his adversaries and defeats them!’
Hussein was not enthusiastic to begin with, but under Muhammed’s controlled encouragement his spirit reasserted itself, and it was Ashley who watched with her heart in her mouth. The tipped foil blades could still effect injury, and she was standing with her hands pressed to her mouth when a masculine tread sounded on the tiled courtyard. She turned, instinctively steeling herself to meet Alain’s hard features, but it was Tariq who hailed her with a salute from a gloved hand.
The fencing lesson was speedily abandoned, and Hussein came to greet his younger uncle with smiling anticipation. ‘Did you know? Uncle Alain is home?’ he demanded, wiping his face with a somewhat sweaty hand. ‘Did you come to tell me when I can see him?’
‘I am afraid not, Hussein.’ Tariq’s drawl was regretful. ‘Unfortunately, I am not privy to your uncle’s actions, and so far as I am aware he is at present in Khadesh, with the Prime Minister.’
Hussein’s expression drooped again. ‘Then why are you here, Uncle Tariq? Do you have another invitation for Miss Conway?’
Tariq’s dark face flushed with unbecoming colour. ‘You have too much to say for yourself, Hussein,’ he retorted, his expression mirroring his impatience as he transferred his attention to the tall Arab, listening with his usual impassivity to this exchange. ‘Your charge is needful of soap and water, Muhammed. See to it, will you, while I speak privately with our English guest.’
Guest! Ashley looked askance at this new interpretation of her position, but Muhammed was more used to taking orders. ‘As my lord wishes,’ he averred, and only Ashley sensed the gentle irony, as he took Hussein’s hand and led him unprotestingly into the palace.
‘So—this is better, is it not?’ commented Tariq smugly, when they were alone, plucking the tender leaves from a fig tree and crushing them carelessly between his fingers. ‘It is difficult to find an opportunity to speak with you, mademoiselle. You are either teaching Hussein, or driving with my stepmother, and I did not think you would care for me to send a message with your maid, Nuzab.’
‘No.’ Ashley made the polite denial, hoping Muhammed would not take too long over washing Hussein’s face and hands. She had no desire for her relationship with Tariq to develop beyond the lines she had already set, and realising silence was more dangerous than speech, she hastened on: ‘It was most enjoyable driving with Princess Hélène yesterday. We went to a place called Samaka, and on the way back we took the time to explore a little of Khadesh. It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it? One day I hope to be able to look around some of its museums; the history of the area is quite fascin—’
‘Wa’if!’ he broke in on her impatiently, crossing the patio to stand by her side. ‘Miss Conway—min fadlik, I do not even know your first name!—I did not come here to discuss the architectural beauties of my country, nor indeed to discuss its museums or its history. I came because I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to gain your promise that you will dine with me again—perhaps tomorrow?’
‘Oh, please—’ He was going too fast for her, much too fast, and she glanced urgently towards the arched doorway through which Muhammed and Hussein had disappeared, hoping that she might see them coming back. But as yet there was no sign of them, and she was left to face Tariq’s growing ardency. ‘I—I don’t think—I don’t think your father would approve,’ she temporised, moving her head decisively, but Tariq was unmoved by this appeal to his family honour.
‘My father does not choose my friends, mademoiselle. I am not a child. I make my own decisions. And while, I admit, my family’s dealings with your race have not always been enthusiastic, no one could compare you to the woman who took my brother’s life!’
Ashley’s lips parted. ‘The woman who took your brother’s life? she echoed with real horror, and Tariq, taking her reaction in an entirely different way, nodded complacently.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and for the moment he was diverted from more personal pursuits. ‘Poor Hassan! He was Hussein’s father, you understand? He also was my brother, my real brother, not like Alain who is only my half-brother.’
Ashley was torn between the desire to stop him there, and the equally powerful urge to have him go on. What had his father and his brother told him of Hassan’s death? What construction had they placed on that brief but disastrous marriage?
She was given no chance to choose. As if enjoying her shocked immobility, Tariq continued: ‘Hussein does not know this, of course, but his mother was English, like you, mademoiselle. Hassan met her while he was working in London—we have offices there, as you might imagine—and Hassan was always susceptible to a pretty face.’ He sighed. ‘She was completely unscrupulous. As soon as she realised who Hassan’s family were, she determined to have him, and I regret, she used the oldest trick in the book. Hence—my nephew.’
Ashley felt too numb to respond. It was not that his words had told her anything she didn’t already know, it was simply the matter-of-fact way he said them. As if they had to be authentic. There was no room for doubt. But if Hussein ever heard those words, was ever given that explanation…She would stand no chance of convincing him of the truth.
Moistening her lips, she endeavoured to sound only mildly interested, as she asked: ‘But—your father, Prince Ahmed. Couldn’t he have persuaded your brother to change his mind? Or—or Prince Alain?’
‘Ah!’ Tariq threw the remains of the leaves away, and they fluttered heedlessly to the ground. ‘That is something I used to wonder myself. But,’ he drew a little nearer as he spoke, ‘it appears that my lordly older brother was involved, too.’
‘Oh?’ Ashley hoped he would attribute her sudden colour to his nearness.
‘Yes.’ Tariq’s lips curved in sensuous amusement. ‘I have learned that it was because of Alain Hassan was sent to London. It was he who introduced Hassan to this—female huntress. Apparently Alain had become involved with her himself, and it was his wish that Hassan might sever the connection.’
Tariq was so engrossed in his story, he was unaware of Ashley’s stiffening countenance. It was evidently a story he had related many times before, and sh
e was appalled at the thought of how distorted it was from the truth. It was like seeing the other side of coin, or herself in a mirror reflection. The events were there, but hopelessly misrepresented, so that roles were reversed and characters changed. But the most damning thing in Ashley’s eyes was Alain’s perversion of their relationship. She ought to have suspected it, of course, but until this moment she had not considered why Hassan should have chosen that particular time to join his brother in London. She remembered now, right at the start of her association with Alain, he had told her Hassan was at the university in Khadesh. She should have suspected something when he suddenly turned up in London, but she had been so blindly infatuated with Alain, she had never questioned Hassan’s appearance.
‘You look dismayed, mademoiselle,’ Tariq said now, and Ashley made an effort to pull herself together.
‘I—I was—surprised, that’s all,’ she admitted faintly. ‘Don’t—don’t you think Hussein should be told who his mother was?’
‘No.’ Tariq was adamant about that. ‘She’s still alive, you see, this woman! She gave Hussein to us when he was just a baby, and she hasn’t seen him since. I suppose Hussein has told you that both his parents are dead? Yes, well—that was the simplest explanation. After all, she didn’t really want him. She only wanted money.’
‘Money!’ Ashley almost choked, but Tariq did not notice.
‘Yes,’ he drawled with heavy disapproval. ‘So many thousands of dollars, to silence her wagging tongue, in the clear and certain knowledge she would never interfere.’
Ashley’s legs felt like jelly, and she sought the rim of the fountain, sinking down upon it with shaking limbs. It was worse, so much worse than she had expected, and painful indignation burned like a flame inside her. She had been feeling sympathy for Alain, she realised. She had actually experienced moments when she had felt guilty at the way she had manipulated him. But she had not manipulated him at all. He had manipulated her, and what was more, he was going on doing it!
‘Are you all right?’ Tariq came to stand near her, one booted foot raised to rest on the stone rim beside her. ‘You look pale.’ He glanced upward at the ball of gold above them. ‘It is the sun. You must be careful, chérie. Its rays can be deceptively powerful.’
Ashley drew an uneven breath and looked up at him. ‘Like people,’ she remarked, her tone unmistakably bitter, and Tariq frowned.
‘Pardon?’
‘This girl,’ declared Ashley unsteadily. ‘Hussein’s mother, monsieur. You do not think perhaps she may have been dazzled by a deceptively powerful light? That she may have been burned by its remorseless rays?’
Tariq looked puzzled for a moment, then he smiled. ‘Ah, I see. You make the metaphoric comparison.’ He shook his head. ‘But no. Spare no sympathy for her, mademoiselle. She knew exactly what she was doing.’
Ashley hesitated. ‘But she got nothing out of it, did she? I mean—’ she quivered, ‘if she gave her baby away—if her husband died—’
‘You forget the money, mademoiselle,’ announced Tariq, with triumphant emphasis. ‘She was well recompensed, you may be sure. My father is not a poor man, and he would give much to assure the future of his grandson.’
Ashley could not believe what he was saying. ‘You—you think—Hussein’s mother was paid!’ she exclaimed tremorously, and Tariq dropped his foot to the ground as the sound of Hussein’s boyish treble drifted irresistibly nearer.
‘Iman, the boy is coming back!’ he exclaimed, with evident impatience. ‘And you have not yet given me your assurance that you will consider my invitation!’
Ashley got to her feet with some misgivings, but the sight of her son was a potent restorative. What could she expect, after all? she asked herself bitterly. No one here would ever believe the truth. But the baseness of the lies that had been fabricated against her had left her feeling sick and angry.
‘I regret I can make no assignations with you, Prince Tariq,’ she declared in an undertone, as Muhammed and Hussein approached them across the sunlit patio. ‘After all, how do you know I am not like this—this woman you speak of? How do you know I would not demand proof of the seriousness of your intentions?’
Tariq was taken aback, she could tell, and before he could think of any suitable rejoinder, Hussein was holding out his hands to them, displaying their pristine cleanliness.
‘I think it’s time we settled down to some proper lessons, Hussein, don’t you?’ Ashley remarked tightly, taking her son’s hand. ‘Come along. Your Uncle Tariq has wasted enough time with us, I am sure. And we do not want Muhammed to give Prince Alain a poor report, do we?’
Her gaze challenged Muhammed’s as she made this last statement, and she saw the Arab’s eyes move speculatively towards his master’s brother. She wondered if he had any idea what Tariq had been saying to her, or whether he imagined she might be flattered by the younger man’s attentions. Whatever his inner feelings, his expression was enigmatic, and it was left to Tariq to make an abrupt and tight-lipped withdrawal.
CHAPTER NINE
THE following morning Hussein was dejected and heavy-eyed, and showed little aptitude for learning. He sat at his desk, his dark head propped on one small fist, gazing broodingly into space, and only spoke when Ashley addressed a question to him.
‘What is the matter?’ she said at last, giving in to a reluctant desire to reassure him. She had intended not to encourage his self-pity, but his forlorn little face wrung her heart.
‘He did not come,’ said Hussein simply, his lower lip trembling a little. ‘Uncle Alain did not come to see me. He has been home for two days, and he has not even sent me a present.’
Ashley forced a smile to lift her lips. ‘A present?’ she exclaimed, trying to sound reproving. ‘Is that all you want—a present? And here I was thinking you had missed your Uncle Alain’s company.’
‘I have! I did!’ Hussein was indignant. ‘I do not care about a present, not really. I only meant—he has not even thought of me.’
‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ said Ashley flatly, acknowledging Alain’s importance in Hussein’s small world with a sinking heart. ‘This trip to America your uncle has taken was on behalf of the government, and naturally his first allegiance must be to them.’
‘Al—al—algence?’ Hussein was finding it difficult to get his tongue round the word. ‘What is that?’
‘Allegiance,’ repeated Ashley gently. ‘It means he has to report to them first. To give them the information for which he was sent.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sure he’s not neglecting you deliberately, darling.’ She paused, and then Added unwillingly: ‘Your uncle isn’t like that.’
‘Am I not?’
The harsh masculine tones interrupted their exchange with wry mockery, and Ashley’s startled response was drowned beneath Hussein’s sudden whoop of excitement.
‘Uncle Alain!’ he squealed, bounding off his chair and across the room, and Alain caught him up in his strong arms and let Hussein wrap himself eagerly about him.
Ashley got to her feet less enthusiastically, struggling to contain her own violent reactions to Alain’s appearance. He stood there, tall and dark and disturbingly attractive, in his sleek European clothes, and all the frustration she had suffered at Tariq’s hands welled up inside her like a vile-tasting sickness. When he looked at her across Hussein’s head, she could hardly prevent the words of accusation from spilling from her lips, and she twisted her hands together painfully, digging her nails into her palms.
‘Eh bien, little one, and how are the lessons with Mademoiselle progressing?’ Alain enquired, drawing his vaguely speculative gaze from Ashley and looking at the boy in his arms with kindly insistence. ‘What is all this talk about my neglecting you? Did Miss—Conway not tell you how tied up I have been?’
‘Hussein has been rather upset that you haven’t been to see him,’ Ashley put in tautly, before he could say more. ‘I—I explained that if you had had the time, he would have been first on your list.’
Ashley would not have believed this, had she not been seeing it with her own eyes. Alain’s tenderness with her son was so unexpected, and so natural, and in spite of her resentment she could not doubt his sincerity.
‘Did you have a good trip, Uncle Alain?’ Hussein was asking excitedly. ‘Did you miss me? Did you bring me something back from New York?’
‘Hussein!’
Ashley’s remonstrance was automatic, but Alain did not seem put out by the boy’s impulsive chatter. On the contrary, setting Hussein down, he felt about his pockets, and while the boy watched in eager anticipation he produced a gaily-wrapped package from his jacket.
Hussein tore off the wrapping paper with careless fingers, and once again Ashley’s gaze encountered Alain’s as he appraised her silent antipathy. She wondered what he was thinking, what interpretation he was putting upon her attitude, and whether he thought she might be jealous of the attention her son was receiving. Did such thoughts cross Alain’s mind? Did he give her that much consideration? Or was he merely amusing himself by deliberately vaunting the boy’s favour?
The box inside the wrapping paper contained a silver bracelet—a delicately-moulded circlet, with fine links and a square identity disc. Hussein’s name had been engraved upon the disc, and he displayed this to Ashley proudly, after giving his uncle an embracing hug.
‘Look, look, mademoiselle!’ he urged delightedly. ‘Is it not pretty? My own bracelet with my own name! Did I not tell you my uncle would not forget?’
Ashley forced herself to admire the expensive bauble, but her emotions were tied in knots, and although her hatred still blazed inside her, she had to suppress it for her son’s sake. What did it matter what lies had been told of her! Why should she care what these strangers thought? But the fact remained, she did, and what was more, she knew an overwhelming desire to blow this whole charade apart.