Her regular visits to Yasmina’s extended family had given her a smattering of the language, and when the ball game petered out Celia recognised the word for story as the children gathered around her and tugged pleadingly at her caftan. Sitting cross-legged on the sand, surrounded by a circle of expectant faces, she prayed that her enthusiasm and the children’s participation would make up for her lack of vocabulary, and launched into one of Samir’s favourite stories, which happened to be one of her youngest sister Cressida’s too. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.
‘As-salamu alaykum,’ Ramiz said to the last of the supplicants, a man seeking arbitration over the return of his divorced daughter’s dowry. ‘Peace be with you.’
‘Wa-alaykum as-salam, Highness,’ the man replied, bowing backwards out of the tent.
Ramiz rubbed his temples and looked around. ‘Where is Lady Celia?’ he asked Akil sharply.
‘She left some time ago.’
Ramiz glared at him. ‘I told you to keep watch over her.’
‘I did, Highness. A guard is with her.’
Ramiz made to leave.
‘Majesty?’
Ramiz eyed the restraining hand on his arm with a cold hauteur which made Akil step hurriedly back. ‘Well?’
‘I have arranged with Sheikh Farid to have his daughter formally presented to you tomorrow. I apologise if I speak out of turn, but you would do well to leave the Lady Celia to her own devices,’ Akil said, blanching at his friend’s glacial expression but remaining firm. ‘No-one believes this story you have had me put about,’ he hissed, ushering Ramiz to one side, away from listening ears and prying glances. ‘Anyone with eyes can see what you are to her. She turns to you as a flower does to the sun. And you, Highness, if you are not careful you will fall under the spell she casts. Her father is an influential man. Do you think he will take kindly to having his daughter used as a concubine?’
‘How dare you speak to me on such a subject? Just because you are my friend, Akil, do not think I will tolerate interference in my personal life.’
‘Ramiz, you are a prince. Unfortunately you do not have a personal life. It is because I am your closest friend that I dare to speak. You think I don’t know how tirelessly you have worked in the last two years? You think I don’t know how much you have done for A’Qadiz? How much more there is still for you to do? It would be foolish to offer insult to the English over such a trivial matter as a woman, and equally foolish to insult Sheikh Farid, whom you know holds sway over almost all of our Bedouins. Trust me on this matter. Leave that woman alone, or if you must go to her bed at least have the discretion to do so away from the eyes of those who hold power.’
There was a long silence. Furious as he was to be spoken to in such a way, Ramiz was even more furious at himself. He rubbed his eyes. ‘If I have been indiscreet it shall be remedied, but you are making a camel out of a flea. Lady Celia is under no illusions about our—our relationship. She is perfectly well aware of its temporary nature and will make no trouble.’
‘Ramiz, I tell you she is in love with you.’
Ramiz shook his head. ‘You are quite wrong. Like all foreigners she is obsessed with the sensual elements of our culture, and who can change her, coming as she does from a people who make a virtue of indifference, who equate virtue with frigidity and passion with vice? Lady Celia is indulging her passions safe from the prying eyes of her compatriots. She is simply taking advantage of the situation.’
‘Is that what you’re doing?’
Ramiz clenched his fists. ‘You overstep the mark, Akil. What I am doing is enjoying the company of one who wants nothing from me except myself. A rare enough thing since I came to power, you will agree.’
‘Ramiz, if it is just a woman you need, you could—’
‘Enough! That is quite enough!’ Ignoring the sudden hush around them, ignoring the guards who had rushed towards him at the sound of his raised voice, even ignoring Sheikh Farid, who was making his way to wards the commotion, Ramiz gripped Akil by the shoulders. ‘She is not just a woman! If I ever hear you speak so discourteously of Lady Celia in my presence again, I will have you banished—do you understand?’ he said through gritted teeth.
Akil nodded.
‘And if I ever hear from Lady Celia that you have treated her in any way disrespectfully, or if I hear from her that you have allowed your wife to see your own prejudices, I will have you banished. Yasmina is Celia’s only friend here. It would be a great shame if she were to lose her. Do I make myself understood, Akil?’
White as his master’s headdress, Akil nodded again.
Ramiz released him. ‘Then let us put this behind us. We go too far back to allow it to come between us.’
Akil straightened the igal which held his own headdress in place. ‘I hope that is true,’ he murmured, but he did so very quietly.
Ramiz’s anger had shocked him to the core. For once Akil was certain he knew better than his friend. The sooner Lady Celia was on her way back to Egypt the better, so Ramiz could get on with the serious business of taking a suitable wife.
In search of a little quiet before the feasting began, for it would last much of the night, Ramiz encountered Celia in the centre of a circle of ragged children with rapt expressions on their faces. Taking care to remain out of sight, he watched, fascinated, as she recounted a tale, amused by the clever way she encouraged the children to join in with words and gestures when her own surprisingly large stock of vocabulary failed her. He hadn’t known she could say anything other than good morning and thank you, but she’d picked up a lot more than that in the time she’d been here. From the maids, he presumed. And Yasmina, of course.
Akil’s words had angered him, but he knew his friend well enough to understand how strong his feelings must be for him to have spoken in such a way. He was wrong about Celia, though; it was a ridiculous notion to think her in love. Almost as ridiculous as the idea that he, Prince Ramiz al-Muhana of A’Qadiz, could feel such a thing. Princes did not fall in love except in fairytales. English roses did not fall in love with Arabic princes except in fairytales—which was almost certainly how Celia saw it, and exactly what he’d just said to Akil.
He looked at her now, absent-mindedly stroking the hair of the little girl who sat by her side while balancing another on her knee. He’d noticed it the day she’d arrived at the port, and again the day they went to the market in Balyrma—how children were drawn to her, how naturally she talked to them, stooping down to their height, never using that patronising tone with them which so many childless women used. Affinity—that was the word. It must come from looking after her sisters.
Akil worried too much. He was so focused on his great plan to tie up their hard-won peace with a good marriage that he couldn’t see clearly. No matter how comfortable Celia might look here, A’Qadiz was not her home. No matter how incredible last night had been, it was just a temporary passion. Like all passions, it would take flight sooner rather than later. Sooner, if he continued to indulge it. She would be gone soon enough. He would do his duty to A’Qadiz, as he had always done his duty. After thirty-five years of doing so he deserved these few days.
The privilege of sitting in Celia’s lap was now being disputed by a little boy. Without pausing in her narrative Celia managed to accommodate both children, but it left her no hands free. ‘Open sesame!’ she declared, but without being able to throw her arms wide the English version of the words fell flat. The children looked puzzled.
‘Iftah ya simsim,’ Ramiz said, unable to resist joining her, much to the children’s awed delight. ‘Open sesame,’ he said carefully, lifting up a small boy to clear a space by her side.
‘Open sesame,’ the children repeated gleefully.
‘Thank you,’ Celia whispered. She smiled at him—a smile he hadn’t seen before. Tender. It must be the children. She was thinking of her sisters. Akil was wrong.
Akil was definitely wrong, Ramiz thought again later, much later, as they made their weary procession b
ack to the tents after a long drawn-out dinner. He nodded goodnight to his friend. Akil bowed stiffly and retreated to his own tent without a backwards glance, still piqued by the dressing-down Ramiz had administered.
Celia would be asleep by now. She had eaten separately, with the women, and been escorted back at least an hour ago. Ramiz had intended going straight to his own divan, but Akil’s unspoken disapproval and the need to prove him wrong sent him to Celia’s tent. If she was asleep he would not wake her.
But she was not asleep. When he pulled back the curtain the lamps were lit in the main room. She was reclining, still dressed in her velvet caftan, on a heap of cushions, reading a book which she put immediately to one side as soon as he appeared in the doorway, holding out her hand invitingly.
Ramiz hesitated. She didn’t look any different to him. Beautiful. With more awareness, maybe, in the way she smiled at him—but that was because she was more aware of her body. Of how it could feel. Of what he could do to it. Of what she could do to him. His manhood stirred.
‘Celia, you do not—you know this cannot last?’
She lowered her eyes. ‘Of course not. Are you come to tell me our fairytale is over already, Ramiz?’
‘Fairytale?’ he repeated, taken aback by her repetition of the very word he himself had used.
‘That is how I think of it. Don’t you?’
He took her outstretched hand, allowing himself to be pulled down to join her on the cushions. ‘A fairytale? Am I your prince?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must do my bidding,’ Ramiz said, pulling the pearl pins from her hair and running his hands through it.
‘Your wish is my command, master.’
‘Excellent,’ Ramiz said, pulling her caftan over her head. He ran his palms down her shoulders, across her breasts, skimming the indent of her waist to rest on the curve of her hips before tugging his own robe over his head. ‘Though tonight I think it should be your wish which is my command. What would you like me to do with this?’
Sheikh Farid presented his daughter Juman the next morning. The visit was obviously expected. Watching from the shade of her tent, Celia saw Akil fussing over the positioning of the furnishings in the tent in which Ramiz slept. The whole front of the main room had been lifted up to reveal an interior bigger and much richer than the one she enjoyed. Akil was supervising the placing of a tea service, watching carefully as one of the servants polished the gold samovar to his satisfaction, while Ramiz sat in a corner reading.
Sheikh Farid arrived on horseback—a magnificent and extremely rare black thoroughbred which contrasted perfectly with the grey on which his daughter was mounted. A third horse, another grey, pranced delicately on a leading rein behind them. Even from a distance Celia could see that father and daughter rode well—hardly surprising since she had learned last night that the thoroughbreds, with their distinctively arched necks and high, swishing tails, formed a significant part of Sheikh Farid’s livelihood.
The Sheikh’s daughter was younger than she had expected—nearer Caroline’s age than Cassie’s, perhaps only sixteen or seventeen. Though Yasmina had told her that girls married young here in A’Qadiz, Celia could not help thinking that sixteen was far too young for Ramiz. The girl would bore him to death. What on earth were Akil and the council thinking about, suggesting such a baby for a man like Ramiz?
But, watching her spring lithely from the horse, she began to see exactly why this girl had been recommended, and when she was invited to join them for tea in Ramiz’s tent her understanding was completed. Juman Farid was extraordinarily beautiful, with ebony hair that shone with health, almond eyes which man aged to be both mysterious and seductive, and vermilion lips which no matter how hard Celia stared at them showed not a trace of artifice. She had a figure which was a perfect hourglass too, and not only that she was quite obviously as blue-blooded as the horse which had carried her here. No doubt, Celia thought bitterly to herself, she had a pedigree just as long and impressive, for she was the firstborn of Sheikh Farid’s first wife, and even Celia knew how important such precedence was.
Though she was dressed in the traditional sarwal trousers and tunic under the abayah which had cloaked her upon the horse, Juman’s charms were nonetheless subtly on display, for the gauzy gold and crimson chiffon left little to the imagination.
So Celia thought—until she realised what she was thinking and castigated herself for it. She was jealous! It was hardly Juman’s fault that she was so attractive and so eminently suitable a princess for Prince Ramiz. It was not as if she was behaving with anything other than perfect propriety either. Juman spoke only when spoken to, insisted that Celia pour the tea, and kept her eyes discreetly lowered. Only when Sheikh Farid suggested she show Ramiz the horse they had brought for him to try out did she leap up excitedly and clap her hands, her enthusiasm shining through in a way so entirely genuine that Celia was mortified.
It was Akil who suggested to Ramiz that he try out the horse’s paces, and Akil who suggested to Sheikh Farid that he allow Juman to accompany Ramiz. Sheikh Farid agreed, but only on the proviso that he go along as chaperone. Celia was ashamed to find herself relieved by this, but it was still with a heavy heart that she waved them off.
She retired to her tent, occupying herself with the embroidery of a caftan which she intended to leave as a present for Ramiz when she left. As the sun rose to its apex she fell asleep, waking in the afternoon to discover that the trio had gone straight to the Bedouin camp, where a new tribe of supplicants had arrived.
‘You may join them if you wish,’ Akil told her, in a voice which suggested she should not. She took heed of it, eating a lonely supper and retiring early to her divan with her book.
But Ramiz arrived as he had the night before. And, as he had the night before, he made love to her with a fervency and a passion which took them both by surprise all over again.
So it continued the next day and the next, as each new tribe arrived, with Celia spending some time alone, some time at the camp with the children, but avoiding Ramiz in public. Ramiz’s spare time was monopolised either by Akil or Juman, but his nights were reserved for Celia.
They made love. They talked. She read to him. He told her of the more interesting cases he had adjudicated that day. She shared with him her ideas for a school camp which could be set up like the alms camp, where Bedouin children could come for at least a smattering of education, even if they did not stay long.
‘If you chose one of the bigger oases, where they are likely to stay longer, and made sure the teacher did not mind that one day her class might be five strong, another fifty, then I think it would work,’ she said eagerly. ‘They are such a huge part of A’Qadiz’s population, yet they have virtually no schooling. Yasmina told me one of your sayings: not having the opportunity to test your talents does not mean you do not have them. It’s not as if they don’t want to learn; it’s just that they don’t get much opportunity. Their parents have no education either, and cannot teach them.’
With Ramiz’s encouragement, she went on to outline in more detail the practicalities of how her ‘tent school’, as she thought of it, would work.
‘You’ve thought this all through very thoroughly. I’m impressed,’ Ramiz said, looking at her with new respect.
‘Will it work, do you think?’
‘With the right teachers, I don’t see why not. But where am to find people willing to take on such a challenge?’
‘I would do it,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Live in a tent teaching Bedouin children? I don’t think so. Your father would never permit it.’
‘Probably not.’
‘What will you do when you go back to England?’
‘I don’t know.’ Celia looked away, biting her lip. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I will teach at a charity school there. There is no shortage of children in England needing education, and I seem to have a gift for it.’
‘You should have children of your own,’ he sai
d, then wished he had not, for the idea of Celia bearing anyone’s child but his was unexpectedly painful.
‘Ramiz, let us stop this conversation,’ she said gently.
‘You mean it is none of my business.’
‘Ramiz, don’t! I do not ask you whether you will marry Juman, but it does not mean I don’t think about it. It does not mean I don’t feel horribly guilty thinking about it, and what we do here in this tent every night. I don’t feel guilty enough to stop, but that is because I know it will end anyway—and soon. I do not ask you because I don’t want to know, and because, as you say, it is none of my business—as my life will be none of yours when I leave here.’
His expression darkened, his anger arriving without warning and whipping him into a stormy rage. ‘I won’t be marrying Juman. She is a child, and she bores me rigid with her endless talk of horses, horses, horses and nothing else. I cannot contemplate taking her or any other woman into my bed when I have you waiting for me. You obsess me! Do you not understand? I cannot get enough of you—yet I must, for you must return to your homeland.’
‘Ramiz, it is the same for me.’ She gripped his arms, shaking him so that he looked at her. ‘Can you not see it is the same for me? I want you. All the time I want you.’
‘Celia, I…’
‘For heaven’s sake, Your Highness, just shut up and kiss me.’
And, for once in his life, Ramiz did exactly as he was commanded.
Chapter Twelve
Lord Henry Armstrong, who had hitherto considered himself in robust health, had been much worn down by the journey across the Mediterranean in the cramped and infested quarters of His Majesty’s frigate Hyperion, suffering grievously from mal de mer exacerbated by some rather vicious fleabites. While the redoubtable Lady Sophia flourished under the conditions, her brother and niece were laid low, forced to remain below decks upon their bunks for much of the voyage. Lady Sophia it was who saw to it that the invalids were provided with what little nourishment their delicate stomachs could tolerate, and it was she who obtained a salve from Captain Mowbray himself, which rid Lord Henry of his unpleasant infestation.
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