Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

by Marguerite Kaye

  The problem was he didn’t like being thought of as unreal. He didn’t like the idea of her thinking of him only within the confines of his harem. If he was to be her first lover, he wanted her memory of him to be very real and lasting.

  Ramiz looked up at the sky, where the sun was just coming into view on its slow arc over the northern wall of the garden. A slow smile crept over his face. He would bring her into the light of day, away from the shady confines of the harem. Seeing her more clearly would surely speed the cure along.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  Celia stood before Ramiz, his desk serving as a barrier between them. She wore a caftan of cerulean blue, with slashed sleeves pulled tight at the wrist, over a pair of pleated sarwal pantaloons the colour of the night sky. It was the traditional costume of a woman at home, but with her mass of copper hair uncovered and dressed in its usual fashion, piled in a knot on top of her head with wispy strands curling over her cheeks, the simple outfit seemed exotic. A lady dressed in the garb of an odalisque. Though she was draped with propriety from head to foot, the fluttery fabrics drew attention to the softness of her body underneath. He caught a glimpse of her forearm through the slashed sleeves of her tunic. Creamy skin. Ramiz dragged his eyes away. It was only her arm! But already he could feel himself hardening.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, annoyed to find that his voice sounded harsh, while Celia looked composed as she took the chair opposite. ‘You are well?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly I am well cared for,’ she said carefully.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She raised an eyebrow at the tone of his voice. ‘Is there something wrong, Ramiz?’

  ‘That is what I have just asked you.’

  Celia clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I told you, I am well. In fact I’m so well looked after that I’m in danger of forgetting how to do anything for myself. Adila and Fatima anticipate my every need.’

  ‘You mean to tell me you are bored?’

  ‘I was trying to be tactful about it, but yes. I am not used to having nothing to do save embroider and read.’

  ‘But you have been visiting Yasmina?’

  ‘Yes, where I embroider and play with the children—which is lovely, but…’ Celia bit her lip. The last few days, without so much as a glimpse of Ramiz, had given her ample opportunity to try and put her feelings for him into perspective, but it was almost impossible to do that within the confines of the harem, redolent as it was with sensuous overtones, not to mention the scalding memory of their previous fevered couplings. There, she was in thrall to him, obsessed by the feelings he could arouse in her. If only she could see him in more mundane surroundings—or what passed for mundane surroundings, given he was a prince. Then she would be rid of this continuous need to be with him, able to acknowledge that she was lonely, and she was bored, and that her body, having discovered something new and enjoyable, was quite naturally wanting to experience it again. That was all it was. Absolutely nothing else!

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ramiz said, interrupting her musing. ‘It would be a good idea for you to see more of A’Qadiz, to learn more of the problems we face—I face—in trying to bring our country into the modern world of the nineteenth century.’

  Celia stared at him in astonishment. Was he a mind-reader? ‘But what about—? You said because I am a woman that…’

  Ramiz shrugged. ‘If I choose to bend a few traditions, that is up to me. You said so yourself, did you not?’

  He smiled. Perfect white teeth. Eyes cold glinting metal. Had he guessed what Lord Wincester had asked her to do? Her stomach clenched at the very idea. But if he knew he would surely not be offering her such an opportunity to observe. Was he testing her? She knew with sudden blinding clarity that it was a test she would not fail. She could not possibly betray this man who had saved her life, made her feel alive for the first time in her life and who clearly trusted her. ‘I would love to see more of A’Qadiz,’ Celia said excitedly. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘A significant number of my people belong to Bedouin tribes. They live in the desert, moving from place to place with their livestock according to the season and their own inclinations. We have a tradition here of allowing them to petition the crown for alms. Three times a year they can come to me and ask for assistance.’

  ‘You give them money?’

  ‘Sometimes. Although more often it is food or animals. Money doesn’t mean much to the Bedouins. It’s not just that, however. I act as arbitrator in their disputes between families and between tribes. It is an opportunity for me, too, to see how things really are and to assess where I can best help them. You must not be thinking these are simply poor nomads. Some of them are very powerful men. It would not do to offend them.’

  ‘So you go to them rather than ask them to come to you?’

  ‘Exactly. We will be away about a week or so. You will come?’

  ‘I would love to.’

  ‘Good. You may go now. I will see you first thing tomorrow morning. We will start before dawn.’

  The caravan which snaked out behind them put the one with which Celia had arrived in Balyrma firmly into the shade. She counted at least twenty guards on camels, and it looked like double that number of servants with mules. Akil took on the role as leader of the train. To Celia’s surprise Ramiz insisted she ride ahead with him, mounted on a camel as snowy white as his own, its saddle draped with a bejewelled cloth of crimson damask, silver bells jangling on its reins, which were adorned with golden tassels. Covered by an abeyah of gold silk—a long robe with side slits to make riding astride easier—and with her hair and face protected from the sun and prying eyes by a headdress of the same colour, Celia felt like an Arabian princess.

  She said so to Ramiz, who laughed and said no one looking at her could ever mistake her for what she was: an English rose disguised as a desert flower. He was in a strange mood. She would almost call it relaxed. They would dispense with the formalities and deference while they were in the desert, he told her. She was to remain by his side at all times. She was to address him as Ramiz. She was free to ask whatever she wished to know. He valued her opinion.

  At first she thought he was teasing her, but as they rode through the day she discovered he meant it—telling her unprompted all about the meetings to come, the ritual and the forms, even sketching out the main personalities for her. He was altogether charming, showing a side of himself she had not seen before. As the miles of the desert stretched out behind them he became almost carefree. The tension in his shoulders eased. The lines around his eyes relaxed. The formidable air departed, leaving a stunningly attractive man who was frankly beguiling.

  And Celia was completely beguiled. Perhaps even mesmerised, for she noticed no one but Ramiz. The caravan might as well not have existed. As far as she was concerned they were alone in the desert, riding forever onwards across the sands under the blazing sun, to a destination which would remain elusive, for to arrive would be to break the spell, and she didn’t want that to happen.

  But when they arrived at the oasis where they would rest for the night the magical atmosphere continued. Instructing Akil to see to things, Ramiz led Celia away from the braying mules and bleating camels and muttering guards to a secluded part of the oasis, where a small pool lapped around a group of palms. The stars above them were like saucers of beaten silver.

  ‘It’s a full moon,’ Celia said, sitting down by the edge of the pool and removing her sandals to trail her bare feet in the water.

  ‘Qamar,’ Ramiz told her, sitting beside her. ‘A time for wishes to be granted.’

  His thigh was pressing against hers. Her shoulder brushed the top of his arm. Celia circled her ankles in the cool of the water. ‘What would you wish for, Ramiz?’

  ‘A starry night. A tent to cover me. A beautiful woman to share it with.’

  She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a choke. ‘Well, you’ve got the first two, at least.’

  ‘No, I have i
t all.’ Ramiz cupped the back of her head, gently turning her towards him. ‘See—above us the starry sky. Over there the tent. Beside me a beautiful woman. And I intend you to share it with me, Celia. All of it.’

  Before she could ask him what he meant, he kissed her. His kiss made his intentions clear, and as she kissed him back she signified her agreement with no thought of refusal. It was why she was here. In his desert. In his arms. It was why he had brought her, and it was why she had come. It was what she wanted more than anything. She saw that now with a brilliance and clarity to match the very moon suspended above their entwined bodies.

  Celia put her arms around Ramiz. She nestled into the familiar stirring scent of him. She parted her lips at his bidding, and kissed him in such a way as he could be under no misapprehensions. She would share the night with him. All of it.

  They kissed for long, languorous seconds, their arms entwined, their tongues tangling, their toes touching in the cool of the water. Then Ramiz broke away and got to his feet, pulling her with him. ‘You understand?’ he said. ‘There is no going back from this moment.’

  Celia nodded.

  ‘It is what you want?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Though ultimately it can mean nothing?’

  She knew that! Why did he have to say it? But she knew that too. Ramiz was a man who liked the rules of any pact clear cut and neatly drawn. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I understand, I assure you.’

  He nodded. For one ridiculous moment she thought he would shake her hand, so formal had he become in that moment, but then she realised he was almost as tense as she was. She followed him back to the camp, where a small village of tents had appeared and fires were burning. The smell of goat and rabbit roasting should have been appetising, but though she was hungry it was not for food.

  Two larger tents sat at a distance from the others. Ramiz led her towards one, pulling back the damask cloth which covered the entrance to usher her inside. Celia gave a gasp of amazement. Like the tent in which they’d had lunch the day Ramiz took her to the lost city of Katra, the walls were covered in tapestries and the floor in rich carpets. But this tent was much bigger, the coverings in the soft lamplight richer and more colourful.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Ramiz asked, smiling at the look of wonderment on her face.

  ‘It’s amazing. Like a mobile palace.’

  ‘I must go and speak to Akil. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.’

  Alone, Celia wandered around the tent, running her fingers over the tapestries, curling her toes into the luxurious carpets, stroking silken cushions and rubbing her cheek against velvet throws. A second room was obviously intended as a sleeping area. Here her luggage sat and her dressing case had been placed on a low table, beside which stood a full-length mirror. A smaller room led off from this one, where she was astonished to find a copper bath, already filled with water and scented with petals. Without further ado she stripped her dusty clothes off and sank into the water.

  Clean, scented, and dressed in a loose caftan of organdie the colour of the setting sun, Celia returned to the main room. In her absence someone had set out dinner—an array of covered dishes from which delicious smells wafted towards her. She was investigating their contents when Ramiz entered the tent.

  Like her, he had bathed and changed. His cropped black hair sat sleek on his head. He wore a robe of his favourite dark blue velvet. Though the tent was large, it seemed suddenly very small. His very presence seemed to fill it. It felt incredibly intimate, much more so than the harem. Against the soft drapes and jewelled colours of the hangings Ramiz looked very male. Very intimidating. Celia was assaulted by a jangle of nerves, taking up residence in her stomach like a cloud of little birds.

  ‘Dinner’s arrived,’ she said. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No,’ Ramiz replied baldly.

  ‘Would you like something to drink, then?’ She reached for a jug of sherbet.

  ‘No.’

  ‘How is Akil?’ Celia asked, realising even as she spoke just how ridiculous was the question.

  ‘Celia, come here.’

  She put down the jug, but made no move towards him.

  ‘If you’re having second thoughts, now would be a good time to tell me.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She adjusted the sleeve of her caftan. ‘I’m just a bit—well, as you know, I’ve never done this before.’

  She tried to smile, but her mouth trembled. Her eyes were mossy green, fixed on him with a combination of appeal and defiance that he found irresistible. Ramiz strode over to her and swept her into his arms. ‘There’s no need to be nervous. I’ll show you.’

  He nuzzled the tender skin in the crease behind her earlobe. The scent there was pure Celia. He tasted her with the tip of his tongue. Such a vulnerable spot—the softness of her lobe, the delicate bone of her ear behind it, the endearing little crease they formed together which he licked into. Something clutched at him, piercing its way into his heart like the lethal tip of a dagger. He would remember this always.

  ‘Ramiz?’

  ‘Come.’ He took her by the hand and led her through to the sleeping chamber. He dispensed efficiently with Celia’s robe, tugging it over her head before she could protest. She stood before him naked, blushing, fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands.

  Her eyes betrayed her confusion at his lack of tenderness. His instincts were to be tender. It was what she needed. What she wanted too. But it was not what this was about. It was about finishing what they had started. It was about taking what he needed from her in order to cure himself of her too-tempting presence.

  ‘Lie down.’

  She did so without a word. He glanced down at her and caught his breath. She looked like the moon goddess, all creamy flesh and blushing curves, with the dark shadow of curls between her legs, the rosy tips of her nipples, the lush pink of her mouth, the deep copper of her hair spread out behind and over her. ‘Beautiful.’ The word was drawn from him, harsh and grating. He was hard. More than ready.

  Ramiz hauled his robe over his head and stood before her, hugely aroused. Celia stared up at him. Wanting hurtled through her, fierce and hot, made urgent by the undertone of fear she was trying desperately not to acknowledge. He looked so remote. Like a conqueror standing over the vanquished—which was exactly how she felt. Except that the blade which would claim her as his was no scimitar. Her eyes were riveted on the curving length of his erection. It seemed impossible that she could contain such a size.

  ‘Ramiz,’ she said, sitting up. She wanted him to kiss her. ‘Ramiz…’ She held out her hand to him.

  He stared at her for a long moment, an expression like pain slanting across his face. Then he was beside her. On top of her. Kissing her. Pressing her down under him, his mouth hard, his hands rough, his manhood insistent between her thighs. She was overwhelmed by the intensity of his passion, but excited by it too, and as he kissed her and touched her she became infected by a carnal need of her own, feverishly stroking and nipping and licking, until she was aware of nothing but skin on skin, heat on heat, the scent of him, the sound of his breathing, harsh, rapid, shallow, the thrumming of her blood raging like a torrent through her veins, the clenching pulse of her muscles hurtling her forward, upwards, mercilessly on to some destination of which she was only vaguely aware.

  Ramiz grazed her nipples with his teeth. She dug her nails into his back. He moulded her breasts in his hands. She stroked the taut sloping muscles of his buttocks. His fingers found her entrance and slipped carefully inside. She moaned. He slid over the swollen centre of her, around and over, around and over, so that she could scarcely bear the tightening, clenching, sharpness of her response, resisting it, holding tight to it like a swimmer to a rock. But his fingers stroked and circled remorselessly, and she let go with a cry, arching under his touch, barely aware of him readying her, tugging her to him, until she felt the nudging of his shaft.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the thrust and the pain, deter
mined not to cry out, but he entered her so slowly, so carefully, she felt only a sort of unfolding as the aftermath of her climax drew him in. She opened her eyes. Ramiz was watching her, the strain of the care he was taking etched on his face. He pushed further into her and she moaned. He stopped. She reached for him, pulled his face towards her and kissed him deeply, tilting her hips encouragingly, moaning again, with pleasure this time, as he sheathed himself in her slowly, slowly, until she thought he could go no further, pausing, pushing again, waiting until she could not bear the waiting. He withdrew from her slowly, and thrust back into her again, slowly and deliberately, watching her, and she knew that she was going to lose herself again. This time she clung to him, felt the frisson of her muscles on his shaft from base to tip, then tip to base as he pushed back into her. She tilted instinctively, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he pushed higher, harder, making her moan and clutch at his back as the ripple of her climax started to build again, or started to finish, and still he continued to thrust, each plunge more deliberate, higher, until she could feel the tip of him touching some tender spot high inside her and she lost control instantly, crying out. Her surrender acted like a trigger. Ramiz lost control almost as she had, thrusting fast and hard with abandon, until she actually felt him swell before he pulled abruptly from her, spilling hot over her belly before collapsing on top of her, wrapping his arms so tightly round her, kissing her so hard that there was no space at all between them as their skin and mouths clung to each other, because to let go would be to die.

  She lay exhausted, saturated with a bone-deep heaviness that pinned her to the bed, feeling weightless, as if she was gliding. As Ramiz’s breathing steadied he unwrapped himself from her. As he rolled away from her, Celia felt as if her wings had been clipped, so suddenly did she plunge back down to earth.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘No.’ She wanted him to hold her again, wanted reassurance, words of endearment, but she knew she could have none of those things, so she lay still, holding herself instead.