Desert Destiny

by Sarah Holland

  Dry-mouthed, intolerably attracted to him, she said, ‘Not if it is forced on me!’

  ‘And there lies the beauty,’ he said, gaze flicking intently to her breasts, taut and swollen with arousal beneath the gold caftan, ‘because woman surrenders to man: not the other way around. And you, my Sheba, will eventually come to see the beauty in that, for it is the only truth between the sexes, and one you must acknowledge if you are to be my Sheba.’

  ‘Sheba…’ she said. ‘Who is Sheba and why do you——?’

  ‘We will eat now.’ The sheikh clapped his hands, and at once three servants emerged from a tent, carrying trays on which were many domed dishes, coffee-pots, filigree cups, brass plates and a thousand different scents of herbs and spices assailing her nostrils and making her stomach clench in hunger.

  The dishes were placed on the trestle-table and Bethsheba looked angrily at Suliman’s hard profile, hating him for refusing to answer her repeated questions about Sheba. Surely she had a right to know? The lids were removed from the brass dishes. She saw hot chunks of meat in rich, spicy sauces, and thick hunks of bread, and her mouth watered.

  ‘Eat,’ Suliman said, pushing her plate towards her.

  ‘I’m not hungry!’ she said angrily, rebellion in her eyes. She would die rather than take anything from this arrogant desert prince.

  ‘Come!’ He frowned. ‘You are ravenous. Admit it and eat.’

  Her eyes flashed angrily to his face. ‘I’d rather die than eat anything you put before me!’

  ‘Out here,’ he said coolly, ‘death is always imminent unless one is on one’s guard. I would not joke about it so carelessly, bint, lest it should claim you for your foolish pride and arrogance.’

  ‘Arrogance!’ She stared, furious. ‘How dare you even mention it in connection with me after what you’ve——?’

  ‘Is it not arrogance to believe the dove can defeat the hawk?’ he asked softly.

  Her face flushed. ‘I’m a woman and you’re a man! Please drop the Arabian proverbs and hyperbole!’

  ‘Sheba,’ he said harshly, ‘when it is time I shall remind you most forcefully of the differences in our sexes! Until then, I advise you to think only of yourself and your well-being and eat!’

  ‘I will not eat!’ she said furiously, hating him. It seemed the only power left to her—the power to refuse to eat, and she wasn’t going to give it up without a fight, however stupid.

  ‘You are proud, Sheba. But your pride will be conquered—of that I assure you.’

  ‘Stop talking of conquering me,’ she burst out, trembling, ‘of mastering me, taming me, dominating me——’

  ‘Your eyes flare with excitement,’ he said, laughing softly, ‘and your face is flushed with fever. If I felt your pulse now—what would I find?’

  ‘I’m angry!’ she said, snatching her hand away before he could take it and feel her thudding pulsation. ‘I have every right to be angry!’

  ‘And every right to know the ecstasy of submission to a man.’

  She caught her breath, staring as the camp-fires flickered across the planes of that hard, handsome face.

  ‘Your body is made for love,’ said the sheikh, ‘yet it receives none. You are hungry, yet in foolish pride you refuse food. Tell me, Sheba—why do you deny your own needs?’

  ‘I…’ she was breathless, staring ‘…I don’t…’

  ‘You saw me in the desert,’ he said under his breath, ‘and you saw yourself in my arms, forced to yield to my kisses and my touch.’

  ‘Lies!’ she whispered, mouth dry. ‘Lies…’

  ‘Now you close the doors of your mind,’ his hand moved to her hair, then to her throat, stroking her to the pulse-beat as she stared, lips parted, ‘and you deny your need for love, your need for food, and your need for fulfilment. I say to you: end these denials. Take what you need. Feed your every desire and end your own starvation!’

  Unable to speak, she felt her gaze lock deeper with his, and, as his fingers stroked their farewell on her tense, throbbing neck, she was forced to realise that what he said was true—she was hungry, ravenously hungry, and yet she stupidly refused to eat.

  ‘So.’ Suliman turned from her, pushed her dish slowly back in front of her. ‘You will eat now and forget your pride, hmm?’

  She stared down at the food and said thickly, ‘Very well.’

  He smiled, his fingers left her throat, and he turned to eat too.

  Bethsheba tore a slice of bread and dipped it into the thick, dark spicy sauce. The flavour exploded on her tongue, and she closed her eyes, surrendering to her hunger as warmth and energy flowed into her body and relaxed her a little.

  But tonight, she told herself, when the camp is dark I will steal a horse and escape. She ate hungrily, the thick chunks of meat delicious, and the barbaric freedom of dipping bread in sauce enjoyable.

  ‘Fulfillment is satisfying indeed, is it not, Sheba?’ asked Suliman beside her, and she turned her head, like a thief caught red-handed, to stare at him in the firelight and feel the dark flush of secret desire steal over her skin.

  ‘I was hungry,’ she said thickly.

  ‘And so you ate.’

  ‘Yes, I ate!’ she broke out hotly. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  The dark eyes glittered with satisfaction. ‘Nothing, bint. Nothing at all.’

  His meaning was not lost on her and she hated him for it, hated him for knowing how she felt when he…Her eyes closed as that dark passion pulsated through her body and she thought feverishly, I have to get away!

  After dinner, the sheikh said, ‘Come. It is a pleasant night. Let us walk.’

  Bethsheba rose obediently to her feet, the bells at her wrists and ankles jangling softly, the symbols of her captivity fastened there by her new master. Resentment burned in her.

  They walked together across the soft, cool sands, away from the tent and moving among the Bedouin who lounged around the camp-fires, talking. The murmured words of Arabic were strangely seductive to her ears as she walked beside the sheikh, heard his people speak respectfully to him, heard him reply in deep tones of authority, and realised anew how much power he truly held.

  ‘You were born here, weren’t you?’ Bethsheba asked as they rounded the last tent and the sickle moon glowed beside the diamond stars above. ‘Not at the palace, but here—in the desert.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at her with some surprise, dark brows lifting. ‘How did you guess that?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ She smiled slightly. ‘Maybe because you seem more at home here—more real than you did at Agadir.’

  ‘I see.’ A slight smile touched the hard mouth. He studied the sands as he walked, hands behind his back, the dark blue caftan heightening his masculinity as he moved. ‘Well, you are right, bint. I was indeed born in the desert, and brought up here, too.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, intrigued.

  The hooded eyes flicked to her coolly. ‘Because it was written.’

  ‘Kismet again!’ she said resentfully. ‘I suppose you believe everything is written!’

  ‘You do not?’

  ‘Of course not! We make our own destinies! Man’s fate lies not in the stars, as Shakespeare said—and I agree with him.’

  ‘Yet Shakespeare’s was a great and powerful destiny,’ Suliman said coolly, ‘and who among us can say it was not part of Allah’s great plan?’

  She smiled, gold eyes amused as they met his. ‘Shakespeare didn’t believe in Allah!’

  He laughed deeply. ‘We each have our own god.’

  Bethsheba’s smile remained, and she looked down at the cool sands as they walked, enjoying the feel of it beneath her soft-slippered feet, and aware that she was also enjoying Suliman’s company far more than she would admit.

  ‘And you, Sheba?’ Suliman asked. ‘Were you born in London?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her golden head.

  ‘Good. I cannot imagine the child Sheba playing in concrete canyons.’

  She laughed, loo
king up, eyes dancing. ‘That’s clever of you! As a matter of fact, I’m what they call an army brat. My father was a brigadier in the British army, and my mother an army wife.’

  ‘You were born in England, then? In a sleepy little village with green lawns and afternoon tea and——’

  ‘No, I was born in Bahrain.’

  He stopped walking.

  Bethsheba went on a step or two, then stopped, turning to look at his dark, powerful silhouette framed against that desert night sky of brilliant diamond light.

  ‘Bahrain?’ he asked thickly, staring. ‘You were born in Arabia?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said as her blood began to throb with strange excitement. ‘I lived there until I was five years old.’

  He stared at her fixedly, dark eyes glittering; then he was moving towards her, gripping her arms with strong hands. ‘You tell me this, yet you deny your destiny!’

  Breathless, she struggled against his male strength. ‘Yes, but what difference can it possibly make to——?’

  ‘It makes a great deal of difference, bint,’ he said harshly, ‘as you are about to find out!’ And he whirled her around, his strong fingers around her wrists as he pulled her to the royal tent.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded hoarsely, struggling, sand flying around her belled ankles as she fought him.

  ‘I am giving you your first lesson!’ he said as he thrust her into the tent. ‘Your first glimpse of the ecstasy of submission!’

  ‘Oh, God…!’ she whispered, stumbling back from him, body pulsing with a desire that appalled her as she was overwhelmed by him, pushed back on to the silk cushions though she cried out, jewelled slippers tumbling off slender feet, the bells on her wrists and ankles jangling as she fell and the scent of burning cassia oil filling her with evocative sensual memories.

  ‘Born in Arabia,’ Suliman said thickly, his body on hers as they fell, ‘with hair of gold and skin the colour of a sand-cat!’

  ‘Don’t!’ she burst out hotly, struggling beneath him.

  ‘You will admit your desire, bint!’ he said tightly, jerking her face round to meet his as they sprawled together on the cushions. ‘You will admit it and submit to your master!’

  ‘No!’

  His dark eyes flashed. ‘And I say you will!’ Then his head swooped, and that hard mouth closed over hers in a passionate kiss that made her gasp, moaning under the onslaught of unleashed desire, her whole body arching towards him as his tongue invaded her mouth and the hunger flared out of her as she opened her mouth beneath his.

  Moaning, head flung back, she gasped as he moved his burning mouth from hers, sliding it down over her throat to find the throbbing pulse he knew was there.

  ‘Stop it!’ Bethsheba whispered thickly, clutching his dark head, too weak to push him away, too weak to hold him close. ‘Stop…!’

  ‘Tell me you want me!’ he said harshly under his breath, his mouth at her throat. ‘Tell me and submit!’

  ‘Go to hell!’ she said wildly, heart thudding, and then caught her breath as his strong hand tugged down the bodice of her caftan to reveal her bare breast, springing into view, her pink nipple hard and engorged with need. ‘Oh, God, don’t…don’t…’ she whispered thickly as he stroked it with one finger, making her burn with heated desire. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Submit!’ he said thickly, and slid one strong thigh between hers, splaying her, helpless, beneath him.

  She stared at him in a hot grip of fever and hatred, breathing erratically, her heartbeat drumming beneath his strong hand as it lay motionless against her breast.

  ‘So be it,’ Suliman said softly, and smiled as he lowered his head to her breast.

  Bethsheba started to struggle but he pinned her arms above her head. His mouth fastened on her breast and she gave a low, hoarse moan, closing her eyes, gasping as he sucked hungrily at her nipple, his strong thigh moving in slow rhythmic motions between hers until she felt as though she were no longer flesh and blood but hot, molten lava to be moulded at his command, her body moving against his in blind response to that drumming, drugging rhythm, her eyes closed and her head back, reeling in hot sensuality.

  When his hand moved to her thigh she felt common sense flood back to her along with fear, and the panic as he pushed her caftan up to bare her thigh made her jackknife against him with a startled cry.

  ‘No!’ She struggled to be free of those pinning hands, her eyes wild. ‘Please!’

  He studied her fixedly, eyes burning, breathing harshly, nostrils flaring with a desire that terrified her as she looked into those black eyes and saw an answering fire of dark passion.

  ‘I’m frightened, Suliman!’ she broke out hoarsely, truthfully. ‘Frightened…this is madness…I can’t do it!’

  There was a tense silence. He was fighting for self-restraint, his body tense and she heard him take control over his breathing first before he spoke.

  ‘It is a madness we both feel, Sheba.’ His voice in fever was thickly accented in Arabic. ‘Do not deny what is in your soul, or your soul will deny you—and that is a hell I would not wish on my worst enemy.’

  Her eyes closed to shut out the dark truth in his eyes. ‘I can’t!’ she said hoarsely. ‘I just can’t!’ Tears sprang blinding-hot to her eyes and she struggled not to show them, but they squeezed out beneath her closed lids and slid down each temple to drop upon the cushions.

  His hands released her wrists, he covered her breasts, and then the strong arms were around her, pulling her tight against his hard chest, holding her tousled blonde head against the thud of his passionate heart.

  ‘Hush,’ he said deeply, ‘no tears in a lovers’ bed. Lovemaking is the sweetest pleasure—even the pain must be sweet.’

  ‘I’m so afraid!’ she whispered huskily into his warm chest. ‘I should never have let you see what was in my mind, Suliman! It was folly…’

  ‘Ah…’ his soft voice taunted, ‘you admit it, then?’

  Shame burnt her face. ‘You knew…you knew all along!’

  He laughed under his breath. ‘I saw it in your eyes, bint. That first day in the desert. And in the tension of your body as I rode up.’

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate!’ she said hoarsely. ‘It wasn’t conscious!’

  ‘I saw that, too,’ he said softly, his head fitting perfectly above hers as he held her close. ‘You have the face of a virgin and the body of a she-cat. A potent mix, for any man. To tame such a woman…’ his arms tightened possessively around her ‘…makes my head spin with such desire! Makes my blood throb to the beat of a powerful drum. And makes my body——’ he slowly pressed his hardness against her lower belly ‘—yours!’

  ‘But you don’t understand——’ she began fearfully.

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ he cut in. ‘You accepted the challenge in my eyes and the destiny I offered you, but as a virgin you are too afraid to fulfil it.’

  ‘I never at any time accepted——’

  ‘You are here, bint,’ he said deeply. ‘Behold—destiny is upon you.’

  Slowly, silently, Bethsheba drew back to look into that hard royal face, and her heart skipped beats in the silence as she tried and failed to deny in her heart what he said.

  ‘You understand me, Sheba,’ Suliman said deeply, ‘do you not?’

  ‘What choice do I have?’ she said bitterly, fighting her desire.

  ‘Good.’ He nodded, eyes moving slowly over her face. ‘Then tonight we sleep on our understanding, and tomorrow…we leave for the Great Palace of Suliman!’

  ‘What…?’ she stared, appalled. ‘But—but I thought you wanted to stay here!’

  ‘No,’ he said, mouth hard. ‘When your moment of surrender comes, Sheba, it will be in the palace of my ancestors, as it is written.’

  ‘I won’t let you do it!’ she protested fiercely, pushing back from him, both hands on his hard chest, determination glittering in her gold eyes. ‘I won’t let you take me there and I won’t let you——’

  ‘You will do as
you are told, bint,’ he said flatly, eyes narrowing, ‘and go where you are taken.’ He got to his feet, face hard and determined, and strode to the tent entrance, turning to look back at her over one broad shoulder. ‘Rest well tonight, Sheba, for tomorrow we ride for the palace of my ancestors—and the fulfilment of our destiny!’

  He swept the tent flap aside and strode out, leaving Bethsheba staring after him, eyes filled with fear and anger, hands clenched with impotent fury as those words rang in her ears.

  I won’t let this happen to me! she told herself fiercely. I must do something, I must!

  The camp was asleep by one o’clock. Bethsheba had paced the tent for hours, listening to the movements of the douar, her ears attuned to every sound.

  When at last all was silent she slipped out of the royal tent. The camp-fires were all out; all but one, and a guard sat propped against a palm tree beside it, a rifle in his hands.

  Bethsheba refused to be stopped by one guard! Determinedly, she removed her slippers and inched forward, her eyes flicking tensely between the guard and the row of horses tethered to oasis trees at the edge of the encampment.

  The guard did not move. Suddenly she realised he was asleep, and relief flooded her as she moved quickly, silently, to the tethered horses. They were bare-backed, so she looked around for some saddles.

  No saddles.

  Her heart sank in despair. No saddles! How on earth would she manage? She had never ridden bareback before and—but yes, she had! The sickle moon seemed to smile at her as memory flashed in her mind and she thought of Bahrain…

  When she was a small child in Bahrain there had been a large horse-enclosure close to the Brigadier’s—her father’s—house. Bethsheba had often ridden bareback, defying convention and making her father roar furiously after her to come back as she rode, fearless and free, into the desert.

  I was fearless, once, she thought; but where was that fearlessness now? Eroded by adult life, by tragedy and desperation. Helpless little songbirds who had to sing for their supper could do no more than face the daily challenge of a microphone, a new medley and twenty lengths before breakfast.