Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

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Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem Page 4

by Marguerite Kaye


  ‘Your Highness—Ramiz—I am flattered that you should consider adding me to your collection of wives, but…’

  ‘My wife! You over-estimate your value. A sheikh may only marry an Arab princess of royal blood. It is the custom. A Western woman, even a titled one, could not aspire to such an exalted position. At best perhaps she could serve as a concubine.’

  Celia gave an outraged gasp. ‘You expect me to be your concubine? I absolutely will not! How dare you? How dare you suggest such an outrageous, indecent…?’

  He moved so suddenly she had no chance of escape. He seemed to uncoil, to pounce, so that one minute she was sitting next to him, the next she was being dragged helplessly to her feet, held in arms so strong it would be pointless to struggle. Tall as she was, Ramiz topped her by several inches. She was pressed against him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. His breath was on her face. She could smell him, warm and overpoweringly male. She had never been held thus. She had never been so close to a man before. Not like this, held in such a way as to make her unbearably conscious of her own powerlessness. She should be afraid, and she was, but she was also—something else.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice was annoyingly breathless. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘You think me a savage, don’t you, Lady Celia?’ Ramiz said, his voice low and tight with anger.

  ‘I do not! You are obviously educated, your English is flawless, and…’

  His grip on her tightened. ‘You think the ability to speak a simple language like yours is a measure of being civilised? I also speak French, Greek, German, Italian and at least four variations of my own language. Does that make me more civilised than you—or less? I have travelled widely too, Lady Celia,’ Ramiz said with a vicious look. ‘Far more widely than you or your pathetic husband. But still all of that means nothing to you, does it? Because I respect the traditions of my own country, and those traditions include keeping a harem. So I can never be anything other than a savage in your eyes, can I?’

  Her temper, rarely roused, saved Celia from fear. ‘I don’t for one moment think of you as a savage! Your country is older by far than mine. I would not be so arrogant. I think it is you who are the one making assumptions about me.’

  He had thought her slender, but even through the ridiculous constraints of her English corsetry he could feel her curves. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. The dip of her waist made the gentle undulation of her bottom even sweeter. She smelled of lavender and soap, and faintly of that enticing tang of female. The idea of her as his concubine, thrown at her out of anger, was shockingly appealing. Such a vision it commanded, of her creamy skin spread delectably before him, of her delightful mouth at his command, of her long fingers touching him, doing his bidding. Of her submission. He wanted her. Badly. Blood rushed to his groin, making him hard.

  Celia struggled to free herself. ‘I won’t be your—your love-slave, no matter what you do to me. Anyway, they’re bound to come looking for me when they hear nothing from George, and if they find me in your harem—’

  ‘Enough!’ Ramiz pushed Celia contemptuously away from him. ‘I am a sheikh and a man of honour. I would never take a woman against her will. It is an insult that you think me capable of such an act.’

  Realising just how foolishly she had leapt to all the wrong conclusions, Celia felt her cheeks burn. ‘I’m— I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I’m not thinking straight. It’s just, with everything that’s happened…’ A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her with such violence that she staggered. The horror of the day’s events came back to her. George was dead, and she was alone in the desert with a man who seemed to think the world should do his bidding. This world was his world; he had good reason for making such an assumption.

  Noticing how pale she had become, Ramiz eased Celia back down onto the carpet by the fire. ‘You must rest now. We have a long day’s travel ahead of us tomorrow. The camels are an excellent early warning of danger, and I will be here by the fire. You need have no fears.’

  In the light of the stars her skin looked translucent and pale as the new moon. Her eyes were glazed, vulnerable, and no wonder. She had been through much today, and endured it with a stoicism and bravery that was impressive. His anger fled like a falcon released from its fetters. Ramiz covered her gently with a blanket, then placed himself at a short distance, laying his scimitar within easy reach, and prepared himself for a long night’s vigil. He didn’t think the assassins would strike again, but he was taking no chances.

  Chapter Three

  Celia slept heavily, waking the next morning just before dawn with a thumping headache and a brain which felt as if it was made of cotton rags. Ramiz was already up and about, readying their caravan, and a pot of sweet black coffee was bubbling appetisingly on the embers of the fire.

  Ramiz seemed distracted, a heavy frown drawing his dark brows together under his ghutra, making him seem both more intimidating and older. As they wended their way inexorably east across the huge stretch of desert, following a trail which to Celia’s untutored eyes made only fleeting appearances, she had ample time to observe him. Despite the fierce heat of the sun, which made the horizon flicker hazily and seared relentlessly through her thin dress and the veil which she kept in place to protect her from the dust, Ramiz sat bolt-upright in the saddle, on full alert. One hand sought the constant reassurance of the curved sabre in its silver sheath. His eyes—the only part of his face she could see, for he had pulled his headdress over the rest of his face—were slits of bronze, casting their keen gaze in front, to each side, to the rear of the caravan. On one occasion he stopped, pulling his white camel up so suddenly that the beast seemed to freeze in mid-trot. It would have been comical had it not been frightening. Celia pulled up beside him, peering anxiously where he pointed.

  ‘Something moved,’ he whispered, though she could see nothing, and could still see nothing when he relaxed. ‘Just a rabbit,’ he said, pointing at a tiny dot a few hundred yards away. ‘If I had my falcon we could have had it for dinner.’

  ‘Your falcon?’

  ‘The wings for my heart,’ Ramiz said. ‘And a good provider too, out here.’

  ‘You have an affinity with animals, I think. What happened to your beautiful horse? The one I saw you with the day we landed?’

  ‘Stabled near the port. I think, from the way you hold your seat on a camel, that you like to ride?’

  ‘Very much, and to hunt too. My father owns a string of racehorses and my sisters and I were thrown into the saddle almost before we could walk.’

  ‘You have many sisters?’

  ‘Four. I’m the oldest.’

  ‘And your father? What does he do apart from race horses?’

  ‘He is a statesman. Lord Armstrong—he is quite well-known in diplomatic circles.’

  Ramiz’s eyebrow lifted. ‘You are Lord Armstrong’s daughter?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I met him once, in Madrid. He is a very influential man. Your marriage was of his making, then?’

  ‘Why should you think so?’ Celia asked, riled by his cool and annoyingly accurate assumption.

  ‘It’s obvious, having such a strategist as a father, and with such excellent family contacts—your uncle also serves in the British government, does he not?’

  Celia nodded.

  ‘Despite my own poor opinion of your husband, he must have been well thought of, and also very ambitious to have been given and accepted this mission. A most welcome addition to your father’s sphere of influence, in other words. He would have been foolish not to recommend the match. Am I correct?’

  Put like that, her marriage seemed a very cold affair indeed. But Papa had not put it like that. She could have said no—couldn’t she? And George—he’d thought of her as more than some sort of useful social appendage, hadn’t he? Celia found herself rather unwilling to answer this question.

  ‘It is true my marriage had my father’s approval, but the choice was mine. Jus
t because such things are arranged in your country, you should not assume that we do things the same way.’

  She could tell by the way Ramiz’s eyes narrowed that she had made a mistake. It was not like her to speak so rashly. In fact she was known for her tact—one of the few virtues which George had openly admired in his wife. But there was something about Sheik Ramiz al-Muhana that put her constantly on the back foot. He was so sure of himself. And unfortunately so often right!

  ‘I think it is you who are making assumptions, Lady Celia,’ he said.

  He was right. She was wrong. Yet she could not bring herself to apologise. ‘Tell me, then, did your own wives have a say in the matter?’

  ‘My wives? How many do you think I have?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I do know it is the custom here to have more than one.’

  ‘Another lazy assumption. It may be the custom, but the reality is very much the choice of the individual. Some men have only one wife, others nine or ten—though that is very rare. Men provide their wives with the protection of their own household, they give them children and shelter, an established role. Women have a better life married than single. What is wrong with that?’

  ‘What is wrong with it?’ Celia bit her lip. She should not comment on things she did not understand, even things that just felt—wrong. Slanting a look at Ramiz from under her lashes, she wondered just for a moment how much of what he was saying he actually meant. The thought came to her that he was teasing, punishing her for her naïvety and a little for her English prejudice—which perhaps she deserved. ‘I would not have liked to share my husband with another woman,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘I doubt your husband would have had either the capacity or the inclination.’

  Once again, although Ramiz’s words were shocking, he had merely voiced what Celia herself had begun to question. Entrenched loyalty and guilt, rather than faith in what she was saying, made her leap to George’s defence. ‘You are quite right, he wouldn’t,’ Celia said shortly. ‘Because unlike you he believed in constancy.’

  ‘He was so constant to you that he left you to die. If you were my wife…’

  ‘I am very glad I am not.’

  ‘If you were, at least you would know what it meant to be a wife.’

  Celia bit her lip, torn between the desire to ask Ramiz what he meant and the knowledge that she would not like the answer.

  ‘One of the differences between our cultures,’ Ramiz continued, sparing her the indignity of asking him to elaborate, ‘is that in mine we appreciate that women as well as men have needs. If you were my wife, they would have been generously satisfied. As George Cleveden’s wife…’ He shrugged.

  She was extremely glad of her veil. Heat flushed Celia’s skin, prickling uncomfortably on the back of her neck. What did he know? How did he know? Though her curiosity was certainly roused, embarrassment got the better of her. ‘In my country, such things are not mentioned.’

  ‘Which is why, in your country, so many women are unhappy,’ Ramiz countered.

  Were such things discussed in the harem? If that was where she was destined to go—not that she would for a minute actually allow Ramiz to… But if it was where she was going, would she be able to find out from the other women? Another wave of heat spread its fingers over Celia. ‘We should not be discussing this,’ she said primly.

  ‘Between a man and a woman there is nothing more important to discuss.’ Ramiz could see she was mortified, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself. There was something about the too-cool Lady Celia that made him want to test her limits. And, though he should definitely not be thinking such thoughts, now that he had, in his imagination, placed her within his harem, he could not stop picturing her there. ‘To take pleasure, one has also to give. In order to give, one must have knowledge. If you were to be my concubine,’ Ramiz said outrageously, ‘then I would first need to understand what gives you pleasure. And you would need to do the same for me.’

  ‘But I am not going to be your concubine,’ Celia said, the tension in her voice evident. ‘You said so yourself.’

  ‘True. But I wonder, Lady Celia, what bothers you more? The idea of being my concubine or the knowledge that, if you were, you would enjoy it?’

  She was nonplussed by this question, as it had never occurred to her to think that this imperious sheikh, who could have any woman he wanted, might actually find her desirable. No one else ever had. Until George had asked her to marry him she had never been kissed. In fact, rather shamefully, no one had ever even tried to kiss her, whereas they seemed never to stop trying to kiss Cassie.

  Men wanted to make love to Cassie. They wanted to make conversation with Celia. She was obviously lacking something. She was witty, she could be charming, she was educated and she was good company, but she wasn’t desirable. It was not something which had bothered her until recently. Not until George had—or had not! Now, it was a curiously deflating feeling.

  Was Ramiz toying with her? Celia peered through her dusty veil, trying to read his face, but with only his eyes visible, and those carefully hooded by his heavy lids, it was impossible. ‘I think,’ she finally said, after a long silence, ‘that I have enough to cope with in real life without indulging in hypothetical and frankly ridiculous speculation.’ She couldn’t know for sure, but she sensed that he was smiling beneath his headdress. ‘Can we change the subject, please? Tell me about Balyrma. There is so little written about your country, I don’t know very much about it at all beyond the name.’

  They had been in the saddle for most of the day, riding through the heat of noon which, under less pressing circumstances, Ramiz would have avoided. Celia had made no complaint, sitting straight in the saddle, drinking water from the canteen only when it was offered, maintaining by some miracle a cool, collected appearance in clothes more fitted to a stroll in an English garden than a long trek across the merciless heat of the desert. Looking at her now, Ramiz felt a faint twinge of guilt. She might not have loved her husband, and in his view she was well rid of him, but she had endured a hugely traumatic time with remarkable courage, and deserved to be indulged a little.

  So he told her of Balyrma, and became so engrossed and passionate when talking of his beloved city and its people, of their ancient traditions and its sometimes violent history, that he barely noticed the miles being eaten up. He discovered in Celia an attentive and intelligent listener, with a wide frame of reference, who surprised him with some of the astute observations she made. She was enthusiastic too, and eager to find links between A’Qadiz and the ancient Egypt of the pharaohs whose tombs she had explored. Her enthusiasm was infectious. In his anxiety to defend a point she disputed, enjoying the cut and thrust of their debate, Ramiz almost forgot she was a woman.

  ‘You may be right about the true purpose of the Sphinx,’ Celia said triumphantly, ‘but the fact is you will never be able to prove it, for nothing like that was written down.’ The sun was sinking. Ahead, she could see what looked like a small copse of trees. Thinking she must be mistaken, Celia pushed back her veil and shaded her eyes with her hand. It certainly looked like greenery.

  ‘It is an oasis,’ Ramiz explained, ‘where water comes up from the ground and provides succour for plants, animals and weary travellers alike. We will stop here for the night. You will be able to bathe, if you wish.’

  ‘Bathe!’ Celia breathed the word ecstatically.

  It was the first time Ramiz had seen her smile. It changed her completely, warming her complexion, softening the clean lines of her face with the curve of her full bottom lip, highlighting the slanting shape of her eyes, giving him the most tantalising glimpse of the sensual woman hidden beneath her cool exterior. There was something incredibly alluring about her. Unawakened. He remembered now that it was how she had first struck him. Perhaps it was the implied challenge in that which aroused him. Yet again he reminded himself that he should not be thinking such things.

  They had reached the oasis. It was small—a watering place, n
o more—not big enough to encourage permanent settlement. But it was a well-known stop and Ramiz was surprised to find they were the only ones there. His camel dropped obediently to its knees and he dismounted, going immediately to assist Celia, who clambered stiffly down. Ramiz put his hands around her waist and lifted her clear of the pommel. She was light as a feather. He set her to her feet and reluctantly let her go.

  ‘I will see to the animals. The bathing pool is over there, away from the well.’

  Ramiz lifted her portmanteau down from the mule and handed it to her. Needing no further encouragement, Celia headed in the direction he had indicated. Underfoot, the sand of the oasis was much softer than the rough track they had followed, much more like the gently undulating desert she had imagined. The trees she had seen were palms, growing high in clusters by the drinking well, around which also grew little patches of green scrub. The bathing pool was an ellipse of vibrant blue set into the sand, no more than ten feet across, backing into a high wall of rock. Water trickled out from a fissure a couple of feet above the level of the pool. Over the years it had worn a track, so that now it formed a tiny waterfall.

  Celia longed to stand beneath it. A quick check assured her that she was screened by the palm trees. In minutes, she had discarded her dusty layers of dress, petticoats, stays and stockings, and stood, for the first time in her adult life, shockingly naked, outdoors. It was a fantastically liberating experience. She stretched her arms above her head, tilting her face to look up at the first twinkle of the stars. A scatter of pins and her hair fell in a heavy sweep down her back.

  She stepped into the warm pool. The sand sloped gently down, soft and firm underfoot. The water caressed her skin like velvet. At the deepest point, in the middle, it came up to her waist. She sank down to her knees, sighing with contentment as it worked its balmy magic on her aching limbs and dusty skin, before lying flat on her back, floating, her hair trailing out behind her. She soaped herself thoroughly, then washed her hair, rinsing it under the crystal-clear waterfall, relishing the contrasting icy cold of the water trickling over her shoulders before it merged with the warmer water of the pool. The crescent moon was reflected on the surface. In its pale light her skin seemed milky, other-worldly, as if she were a statue come to life.

 

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