‘Can’t you just have him—this head man—replaced with someone who believes in what you’re trying to do?’
Ramiz laughed. ‘That really would start a war. Enough of this talk. They are my problems, not yours. Come, the fabric district is just here. Take your time. Choose as much as you like.’
‘Oh, but I don’t have any money with me.’
‘I will pay.’
‘Absolutely not. I cannot allow you to buy my clothes. It wouldn’t be proper.’
‘It would not be proper for me to allow you to pay.’
‘Then I won’t have anything.’
Ramiz stared at her in consternation. ‘You honestly think I am concerned about the price of a few yards of material?’
‘It’s the principle of it,’ Celia said firmly. ‘In En gland only a—a courtesan allows a man who is not her husband to buy her clothes.’
‘We are not in England,’ Ramiz pointed out. ‘In A’Qadiz it is for the master of the harem to provide them. You are in my harem, I will pay for these, and that is an end to it.’
Celia was not at all convinced, but looking at Ramiz’s face, at his mouth setting in a firm line, she decided not to antagonise him further. The day was young, and she wanted to make the most of it. She wanted Ramiz to enjoy himself, and if that meant breaking one of her own rules to keep his dignity intact, then so be it. ‘Thank you, Highness,’ she said with a graceful curtsy. ‘In that case I will be most honoured.’
Ramiz grinned. ‘You don’t fool me with that meek and mild act. And you can stop calling me Highness. No one can understand what you’re saying.’
‘Thank you, Ramiz, then. I trust the royal coffers are sufficiently full, for I intend to make the most of these wonderful fabrics.’
If anyone had told him that he could enjoy the experience of shopping for silks in a souk, Ramiz would have laughed in his face. Though he enjoyed looking at a well-dressed woman as much as the next man, he had little interest in what that dress comprised of nor in any of the frills and furbelows which accessorised it. But Celia’s child-like enthusiasm was enchanting, and for the next hour he watched entranced as she threw herself with unwonted zeal into the business of choosing colours and textures and trimmings.
Celia, who had never before seen such a display of colourful silks, rich velvets and delicate gauzy fabrics she could not even name, went from stall to stall in the souk with a rapt expression on her face. She removed her gloves to plunge her fingers into the thick nap of a crimson velvet, to rub a shawl of the softest cashmere against her cheek, to stroke silks and satins and fine net and coarse damask, turning the purchase of cloth into a wholly sensual experience she could never have imagined. In her excitement she forgot all about deference and reserve. She forgot to put her gloves back on and she forgot to replace her veil, but she was so charming, able to make her wishes clear despite the language barrier, and careful to praise even the plainest of fabrics displayed to her, equally careful to spread her purchases over as many stalls as possible, that rather than cause offence she was treated with real hospitality and warmth. They drank several glasses of tea, and Ramiz found himself playing second fiddle for the first time since he had come to power.
‘Thank you for that,’ Celia said to him as they left a shop specialising in passementerie—elaborate braiding made from gold and silver thread. ‘I hope you weren’t bored.’
‘It was an education. Have you had enough?’
‘More than. Do you have to go back to the palace?’
Ramiz shook his head. ‘I have arranged a special treat for you.’ He led the way through the maze of alleys and terracotta buildings with their stalls opening out from the ground floors, back to a large square where a palace guard was waiting with two snowy white camels. ‘A short ride—half an hour, no more. Can you manage it in that dress?’ Ramiz asked when Celia looked at him enquiringly.
‘Where are we going?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s a surprise.’
They left Balyrma by a different gate than the one through which they had entered the city. This one led through an olive grove to the south, to a narrow track, only just discernible, wending its way towards the mountains. Ramiz told her a little more of Balyrma’s history as the camels made their stately way along the path. As before, Celia’s intelligent questions and thirst for knowledge made him relax his guard, drawing him out, making him laugh, extracting things from deep in the recesses of his mind—childhood memories and ancient legends he had forgotten until now. He liked her. It was a strange thing to say of a woman, but there it was. She was excellent company and he liked her.
The mountains seemed to rear up out of the sand like a child’s model or an artist’s impression, without foothills or any other preliminaries, more like monuments than natural phenomena. There was no path that Celia could see, and her heart sank at the thought of having to climb, until she realised that Ramiz was leading them to what looked like a large fissure in the rock. A cave?
It was not a cave but a narrow passageway, curving in an ‘S’ shape only wide enough to allow them to pass through in single file. Enchanted, Celia saw that the rock was carved with strange symbols, and little niches contained carved idols scattered at regular intervals. Craning her neck, she could just see the sky, the brilliant blue colour of approaching noon, though here between the rocks it felt cool. Then they turned the final bend and she gasped with astonishment, for they were standing in a large open square and before her lay a ruined city, built into the rock itself.
‘The ancient city of Katra,’ Ramiz said. ‘We don’t know how old it is exactly, but we estimate about two thousand years.’
The city was compact, and despite its great age in a remarkable state of preservation. ‘I’ve never seen anything so wonderful,’ Celia said as she wandered through the buildings. ‘It’s marvelous. I can’t believe I’ve never even heard of it.’
‘That is because we have been at pains to keep its existence a secret,’ Ramiz explained. ‘It is well known that the British and French stripped Egypt of many of its ancient treasures during the wars with Napoleon, and it is well known that your Consul General continues to send artefacts collected by his friends from all over Egypt and the Levant to his own little museum in England, as Lord Elgin did with the Parthenon marbles. I don’t want that happening to Katra.’
‘No, and I can see why. It’s beautiful, and quite eerie too. I feel as if the people have just stepped out this morning and will come back any time. But if you don’t want anyone to know about it, why have you brought me?’
Why? Because it was special, and he wanted to share it with her. He realised he couldn’t say that. He knew he shouldn’t have thought it. He hadn’t until this moment. ‘Because to understand Balyrma’s history one must understand Katra’s. I knew it would interest you.’
‘You’ve no idea how much. It’s one of the most marvellous things I’ve ever seen. Thank you.’
Celia had pushed back her veil again. She smiled up at him, her eyes alight with excitement that made them glitter like diamond-chipped jade. Her mouth made the most delightful curve—soft and full. The taste of her, sweet and flowery, came back to him like a punch in the stomach. Her lips like petals on his own. Blossoming as she had blossomed under his touch. Bloomed. Ripened. What was he thinking?
‘It is past noon,’ Ramiz said brusquely, looking up at the sun high overhead. ‘I have arranged for shade and food. This way.’
For a fraction of a second she thought he had been going to kiss her. Her heart had begun to beat hard and fast, changing its tempo so suddenly she felt dizzy. Now he was striding ahead of her to where the camels were tethered, leading the way on foot back through the passageway so quickly she had to run to keep up.
As they emerged into the blaze of the sun she saw that a tent had been set up directly under an overhanging ledge. Like the one they had abandoned in the desert it was a square in shape, constructed from wool woven from camel or goat, supported by
large wooden props tied with rope, but there the resemblance ended. Thick-piled carpets covered the sand. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting scenes from ancient mythology. Tasselled cushions embroidered with silks, embellished with seed pearls and semi-precious stones, were strewn across the carpet around a low table, upon which a selection of gold dishes were covered. The appetising aroma of spit-roasted goat filled the air, making Celia’s mouth water.
Damask hangings created a small room to one side, where a pitcher of rose-scented water stood on a marble washstand. Celia rinsed the dust and sand from her face and hands, tidying her hair in the gilt mirror which had been thoughtfully provided, before she sat down to eat with Ramiz.
The food was delicate, packed with the exotic flavours she had come to relish. A lime and mint sherbet quenched her thirst. Aside from the usual selection of spiced meats and palate-cleansing fruits there was something called a pastille—a parcel of flaky pastry stuffed with pigeon, almonds and dates. Unlike at home, where it was the custom to partake only of those dishes within reach—even if one’s favourite dish was at the other end of the table—she had discovered that it was expected of her to try a little of everything here. It was a practice she enjoyed, and she said so to Ramiz.
‘Every meal is like a picnic, and if I don’t like something I can just leave it because I’ve only taken a little bit. At home, especially at dinner parties, it is expected that you eat whatever is put on your plate. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had to chew my way through a perfectly inedible piece of over-cooked meat or, worse, under-cooked fish.’
‘It is your habit to drown everything in sauces, which I don’t like,’ Ramiz said. ‘It makes me wonder why. Is the food so awful that it can’t be eaten on its own?’
Celia giggled. ‘You’re probably right. I’m afraid that cooking is not high on the list of British accomplishments.’
She dipped her hands into a little fingerbowl in which jasmine petals floated. He watched her, thinking again what a strange mix she was. He could not understand his attraction to her. No doubt she was thinking the same thing. He could not understand why she had allowed him such liberties. He was the first to stir her, he knew that. Perhaps that was why she stirred him so?
As now.
He wanted to kiss her. He had to kiss her. Taking her by surprise, he reached down and pulled her to her feet, pressing her close, satisfyingly close, so that he could smell her scent and hear her breathing. He smiled at the look in her big green eyes.
‘What are you doing?’ Celia said breathlessly, though she knew full well what he was doing, and she knew full well that she wanted him to. His mouth was only inches from hers. His eyes were like cast bronze, glazed with heat. Her heart pounded wildly. Her mouth was dry. She was acutely conscious of him, the strength of him, the power in him coiled tight like a stalking tiger beneath the silk of his robe. To her shame, she could feel a wicked excitement rising, making her nipples peak painfully against her chemise.
Ramiz groaned—a grating sound—as if it were rasped out of him. Then he kissed her. A hungry kiss without restraint. The kiss of a man pushed beyond endurance. A kiss of surrender, an admission of need that shamed him even as it incited him to pursue that need to its conclusion. His wanting was so urgent and so immediate he felt he would explode with it. Blood rushed to his groin, making him so hard he ached with a painfully pulsing urge to cast off all restraints and thrust into her, to take her fast and hard and thoroughly, to mark her for ever as his. Her lips were swollen with his kisses. A long strand of copper hair trailed down her cheek.
‘Last night,’ he said raggedly, ‘why did you not stop me?’
‘I should have, but I somehow couldn’t.’ Celia bit her lip. ‘It is the harem. There is something beguiling about it. Unreal. Otherworldly.’
‘Unreal.’ Ramiz nodded. ‘Will you stop me now? Here?’
Celia veiled her eyes with her heavy lids. ‘I think I won’t have to,’ she said eventually.
Ramiz sighed heavily. His smile was crooked. ‘A very diplomatic answer.’ He released her, tucking her hair back behind her ear and kissing the tip of her nose. ‘We should get back.’
Chapter Eight
Peregrine Finchley-Burke was the fourth son of an earl. Peregrine’s oldest brother, heir to the Earldom, was currently delighting the ladies of the ton with his illustrious person, and endowing the gaming tables at White’s club with his father’s guineas. Peregrine’s second brother had chosen the army. Captain Finchley-Burke of the Thirteenth Hussars had been wounded at Waterloo—a bullet which grazed his cheek, leaving him romantically scarred but otherwise unhurt. Since returning to England he had been assisting his elder brother’s attempts to gamble away his inheritance at the tables of White’s. Peregrine’s third brother was made of much sterner stuff, however. So imbued with moral rectitude was the Very Reverend Archdeacon Finchley-Burke that the Earl himself was wont to question his wife’s fidelity on the few occasions when his son blessed him with his presence.
Which left Peregrine to serve his country by way of the East India Company. He had, in fact, been on his way to India when the vagaries of the weather had left him stranded in Lisbon long enough for the ambassador there to persuade him that by travelling to Cairo on his behalf to deliver some urgent papers he would be doing his country a great service. In fact, although the diplomatic bag entrusted to Peregrine did contain some documents pertaining to matters of the state, the consignment of port which accompanied it was the real matter of urgency. Of this fact, as of so many others, Peregrine remained in blissful ignorance.
It was serendipitous for the Consul General of Egypt, Lord Wincester, that Peregrine’s arrival coincided with the need to send a messenger to A’Qadiz with a response to Sheikh al-Muhana’s communication, informing him of the death of George Cleveden and the whereabouts of the Lady Celia, his widow. The Consul General had a small, overworked staff—a fact of which he was constantly reminding the Foreign Office—so the naïve and clearly biddable young gentleman who had just delivered his long-anticipated sup plies of port was commandeered to act as emissary—a suggestion which much flattered the aforesaid young gentleman, who blessed his luck and began to dream of a glittering career in the diplomatic corps.
Thus was Peregrine’s onward journey to India further postponed, and thus did he arrive, dusty, sunburned, saddle-sore and feeling considerably out of his depth, at the royal palace in Balyrma, in the company of the Prince’s own guard.
Ramiz was informed of the arrival of this unexpected guest by Akil, immediately upon his return from Katra. It had been a silent ride back, giving him ample time to try to regret kissing Celia and ample time to wish that he had kissed her more. Assuming that the visitor had come to reclaim her, Ramiz found himself extremely reluctant to let her go—though he knew he should be relieved, and continued to tell himself so as he bathed and changed his robes.
Without success.
Ramiz arrived in the throne room, where it was the custom to receive foreign visitors, in a black mood. He wore a formal robe of dark blue silk, fastened with gold buttons embellished with sapphires. At Akil’s insistence he wore a bisht over this, the jewelled cloak elaborately embroidered with his falcon and crescent insignia. It was a heavy garment, and consequently uncomfortably warm, as was the headdress and its gold-tasselled igal, which Akil had insisted upon too. With the famous Balyrman scimitar weighing down the belt at his waist, and the great seal of A’Qadiz weighing down the middle finger of his right hand, Ramiz strode into the throne room with Akil behind him, breathlessly attempting to keep up while avoiding the royal bisht which trailed along the tiles, and completing the briefing he had in turn received from Peregrine’s escort, all at the same time.
‘So this man Finchley-Burke is basically a junior secretary?’ Ramiz said, throwing himself onto the throne. A large gilded and scrolled chair, it sat on a carpeted dais at the top of the room, which was some sixty feet long—a vast tiled space, with an ornat
e mosaic floor bordered on each side by ten pillars, lit by ten stained-glass windows, but otherwise empty of furnishings, forcing visitors to stand in exposed isolation in front of the seated monarch. ‘What do you think, Akil? Are we to be insulted at this minion’s lack of status, or impressed by the speed with which they have sent him to us?’
Akil took his place by Ramiz’s side. ‘I doubt they intend to insult you, Highness.’
‘They certainly don’t mean to flatter me either,’ Ramiz replied acerbically. ‘Nor Lady Celia, for that matter. Do they expect me to provide an escort across the desert for her? They take too much for granted!’
‘Maybe they don’t want her back.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Ramiz asked sharply.
‘Nothing, Highness. A jest, that’s all,’ Akil said hurriedly, wondering at his friend’s mood.
‘If you can’t find anything sensible to say you will do better to hold your tongue. Go and fetch the Englishman. I’ve better things to do than sit and stew in this outfit.’
‘Ramiz, is there something wrong?’
‘Only that I seem unable to make myself clear today.’
Akil opened his mouth to remonstrate, caught the glitter in Ramiz’s eye, and changed his mind.
Ushering the Englishman in from the ante-room where he had been pacing anxiously, Akil could not but feel sorry for him.
‘How do I address him?’ Peregrine asked, tugging at his sweat-soaked neckcloth.
‘Highness. Leave your hat here, and your gloves. You must not shake hands, only bow like this.’ Akil demonstrated gracefully. ‘And do not meet his eyes.’
‘What about this?’ Peregrine said, pulling a sealed letter from the pocket of his cutaway coat. ‘It’s from the Consul General.’
‘You may kneel at the foot of the dais and hold it out to him. Are you ready? Follow me. He is looking forward to meeting you,’ Akil said, making a quick apology to the gods for the lie. ‘Try not to look so terrified.’
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