by Penny Jordan
‘Is that why you want to marry Faisal?’ Raschid asked astutely. ‘Because you see in him a shoulder on which to lean? Strange—I had not thought of you as a clinging vine; I see I shall have to revise my strategy. Clinging vines are notoriously difficult to remove, but Faisal is weak, Miss Gordon; whoever marries him will need to be mother, lover, and even jailer at times. Are you sure you are able to fulfil all those roles?’
‘It’s easy to list his failings when he’s not here to defend himself,’ Felicia retorted hotly, trying not to acknowledge the truth of what Raschid had said. Hadn’t she sometimes noticed an inclination to adopt the role of helpless little boy by Faisal, when all was not going his way?
‘You are loyal at least,’ Raschid responded in clipped accents, as though the admission displeased him, then changed the subject to draw her attention to the British Embassy. Because he hoped that she would soon be entering that building, asking to be sent home, all her dreams of marriage to Faisal turned to so much dust.
Not for the first time Felicia wondered at her own foolish impetuosity in allowing Faisal to persuade her to come to Kuwait. He had paid for her air ticket; her own slender savings had gone on her new wardrobe, but Faisal had glibly assured her that it would not be long before he was able to join her in Kuwait, taking it for granted that she would remain with his family until their marriage. If that was not to take place until he was twenty-five she would have to return to England. Which meant that she would have to write and ask Faisal for the money for her ticket, for she was convinced that Raschid would never allow him to return to Kuwait while she was there.
As soon as Zahra’s birthday was over she would write to him, she promised herself, comforted by this gesture of independence.
They drove past the Sief Palace, where guards stood stiffly to attention. A flag flew from the tall, square clock tower.
‘His Highness the Emir is holding his majlis,’ Raschid told her.
‘And I’m sure I’m safe in assuming the Emir’s government is overwhelmingly male,’ Felicia could not resist retorting.
‘You seem to have an outsize chip on your shoulder regarding my sex, Miss Gordon—or is it that having gained your independence, you find you no longer want it?’
Felicia turned away from the malice-spiked glance. She had never been an advocate of Women’s Lib, being quite happy to play the role for which nature had intended her; a role which she did not in any way consider to be subservient, however, so she now found herself saying quite heatedly, ‘You do not deny that in your country women often still have to fight for equal status?’
‘And that arouses your crusading instinct? Would it surprise you to know that women do have rights here; that they can vote or run for office?’
‘But they didn’t have those rights until very recently,’ Felicia responded briefly, looking away, suddenly conscious of the insolent appraisal of narrowed grey eyes.
Raschid swung the car over, throwing her heavily against him, his arm brushing against her breasts and leaving her tingling with an awareness she had never experienced in Faisal’s arms. What was this tension that seemed to vibrate in the air whenever she was near him? Whatever it was she did not like it.
‘We are now entering the main souk and banking area, Miss Gordon,’ Raschid informed her. ‘I suggest that I park the car so that we can do the rest of our tour at a more leisurely pace.’
They left the car in a huge underground car-park beneath a towering plate glass and chrome office block.
‘This is where we have our head office,’ Raschid explained. ‘In fact this building was one of our first ventures into the construction industry.’
‘But not your last,’ Felicia commented, remembering Faisal saying that the Bank had helped to finance the building of a hotel, amongst other things.
Raschid’s hand was under her arm, a courtesy she had not expected, and she stumbled slightly as they emerged into the bright sunlight, his hard body taking the full impact of her tensed slenderness as they collided. Even that brief contact was enough to disturb her; the grey eyes cynically amused as they took in her flushed cheeks and angry eyes.
‘No, not our last,’ he agreed. ‘Although this particular venture was extremely profitable. As I am sure you already know, construction finance accounts for some forty per cent of our profits.’ He looked at her averted profile, and gave her another thin-lipped smile.
‘Am I boring you? Surely not. It is my experience that most women find the making of money almost as absorbing as the spending of it.’
‘Well, I’m not most women,’ Felicia replied shortly, pulling up with a start as they rounded a corner.
The wide street in front of them was laid out with trees and flower beds, greenery and tropical colour rioting everywhere. Where once there had been barren desert, fountains played, and instead of walking beneath the scorching glare of the sun, cool shady trees spread their green cloak invitingly over the strolling shoppers.
‘Kuwait’s Bond Street,’ Raschid offered sardonically, as Felicia stared at the bewilderingly exotic display of precious stones in a jeweller’s window.
‘I have no doubt that you would far rather tour this area in Faisal’s company than mine,’ he drawled coolly, intimating that Faisal could have been persuaded to do more than merely glance disparagingly at the glittering diamond display that commanded the front of the window.
‘I would have preferred to. But not for the reasons you suppose,’ Felicia stressed pointedly, peering a little closer into the plate glass in the hope of finding something a little more modestly priced that she could buy for Zahra. Already she had learned of the younger girl’s love of jewellery, and she smiled a little as she contemplated her reaction to the display of gems in front of her. She gave a faint sigh. There was nothing here to suit her slender pocket, and the shops, although luxuriously expensive, were disappointingly Westernised.
‘What did you expect?’ Raschid asked in thinly veiled amusement when she ventured to say as much. ‘Souks in the traditional manner, complete with beggars with alms bowls? At one time the blind men of the city were employed to call the muezzin from the minarets, lest strange male eyes perceived an unveiled woman—such are the wonders of modern science that nowadays the minaret towers are fitted with loudspeakers which do the job far more effectively, and our poor are supported by the State.’
‘Blind men were deliberately employed for such a purpose?’
Intrigued despite her hostility, Felicia hesitated, to turn an enquiring face up to the saturnine dark one above her.
‘You find such safeguarding of the modesty of our women amusing, I am sure. But not so long ago for a man to look upon the face of another’s wife was a gross insult to them both—in your country a worse crime than sleeping with one’s best friend’s wife—although I learn that nowadays such occurrences are commonplace.’
Felicia’s face flushed.
‘Not in the circles in which I move,’ she denied energetically.
Raschid’s eyebrows rose and he shrugged dismissively. ‘It matters little to me one way or the other, so you may save your protestations for other ears. Now, if you have seen enough, I suggest we return to the car.’
‘But I haven’t bought Zahra a present,’ Felicia began in dismay, faltering into silence as Raschid turned to stare at her.
‘That was why you agreed to come? What did you have in mind?’
He looked so bored and remote that Felicia almost stamped her foot.
‘It isn’t what I have in mind, but what I can afford,’ she said bluntly, gesturing towards the jeweller’s window. ‘Certainly nothing in there.’
For a moment she thought she saw his mouth curl in faint, amused condescension.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Sadeer’s is probably the most expensive jeweller’s in Kuwait, and anyway, you could not hope to rival the gifts Zahra will receive from Saud and her family.’
‘It isn’t a question of “rivalling”,’ Felicia stormed, furious at hi
s lack of understanding. ‘It would be embarrassing and impolite if I had no present for her.’
‘Are you asking for my help?’
Was she? She fought against a desire to tell him to go to hell and instead nodded her head mutely.
Was that satisfaction she read in his smile? Seething, she stared across the road, not really seeing the constant stream of opulent cars flashing past.
‘Very well, Miss Gordon.’ He took her arm, guiding her across the road towards a narrow alley, but before they could enter it a young woman hailed them, her eyes heavily kohled and her jeans and thin cotton blouse a replica of the uniform worn by her Western sisters. Felicia judged her to be around her own age, perhaps a little younger. She had the impression that Raschid would have preferred not to acknowledge her, and yet his smile was polite enough, and he listened attentively enough while she talked in rapid Arabic.
‘Yasmin is the daughter of a friend of mine,’ he explained for her benefit, commanding the other girl to speak in English. ‘She was at university in England for a while. Miss Gordon is a friend of Faisal’s, Yasmin, and is staying with us for a while.’
‘While Faisal is in New York?’ She tossed her long, dark hair and eyed Felicia assessingly. ‘I wonder if he knows how friendly you are with his “friend” Raschid, or perhaps he no longer minds sharing.’
She was gone before Felicia could say anything, and Raschid watched her depart in grim silence.
‘If you found Yasmin’s hostility strange, perhaps I should explain that she is one of the casualties of Faisal’s ability to fall in and out of love. They became very close when she was in England, and I suspect she read more meaning into my description of you as Faisal’s “friend” than I would have wished. No matter…. She is hardly likely to broadcast the true nature of your relationship. Not in view of her own feelings for Faisal.’
Yasmin and Faisal! Strange that the thought of them together caused her no jealousy, Felicia reflected. Indeed what she actually felt for the other girl was a vague pity, despite her insinuating remarks concerning herself and Raschid. ‘Sharing’ indeed! If only she knew! A bitter smile curved her mouth. She was the last woman Raschid would want in his life.
Raschid directed her down the narrow alleyway, shadowed and almost secret in the blank face it showed to the world.
Plainly he knew where he was going. He guided her through a labyrinth of narrow streets, some built from the original mud bricks from which the earlier town had been constructed.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked him at one point, alarmed by the sudden transformation from West to East, as cloaked figures shuffled silently past them, and exotic, unrecognisable fragrances filled the air.
Raschid chuckled.
‘Not to the slave market, if that’s what you think. Oh yes, they still have them in the more remote oases, where captured tribes are sold as slaves. It is illegal, of course,’ he shrugged, ‘but by the time the crime is discovered it is often too late to prevent it. All that one can do is to make sure that the unfortunate victims are set free.’
Felicia shuddered, suddenly glad of his tall presence at her side. They were walking through an old-fashioned covered souk, where merchants called to passers-by from their open doorways. Above one hung jewelled Eastern rugs so beautiful that Felicia stopped to stare.
‘They are made by Badu from Iran,’ Raschid told her. ‘They use patterns passed down from generation to generation.’
The merchant called out a greeting, sensing a possible sale, but although Raschid acknowledged his presence, he did not stop.
Eventually he touched Felicia lightly on the arm, directing her footsteps towards an open doorway.
When her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness within the small shop Felicia saw that the shelves were stacked with bottles and boxes, the air redolent with cedarwood, ambergris, sandalwood, and other scents too unfamiliar for her to recognise. With dawning delight she realised that Raschid had brought her to the shop of a maker of perfumes.
While she stared round her surroundings in an absorbed trance the two men talked in low undertones. The owner of the shop was as wizened as a walnut, his face dried and seamed by time, but the dark eyes that glanced at Felicia were shrewdly assessing. He said something to Raschid and Felicia saw him shake his head, his expression cold.
‘Will he be able to mix something for Zahra without seeing her?’ Felicia whispered anxiously, wondering what they had been saying.
‘The perfume is for Sitt Zahra?’ the old man asked, betraying a knowledge of English Felicia would not have expected. Under her fascinated gaze the old man ran his eyes along the shelves, at last removing one small bottle. ‘I have here the perfume I made for her the last time she came. If the Sitt cares to purchase some?’
It was dark in the interior of the shop, but Felicia saw Raschid nod his head, as she glanced at him for guidance.
‘Yes, please,’ she murmured.
A wide grin split the merchant’s face.
‘May Allah curse me, I had almost forgotten that the Sitt is to be married shortly. We must add something for fertility, and something else to enhance the womanhood that will shortly be hers.’
While they waited he measured and poured, sniffing occasionally, and then he was transferring the mixture to a small crystal jar.
‘May I smell it?’ Felicia asked eagerly.
To her disappointment he shook his head.
‘This perfume is not harmonious to the Sitt’s beauty.’ He turned to Raschid and said something in Arabic, before saying to Felicia, ‘Your beauty is that of the rose before it opens fully; a bud which has not yet blossomed, and so it must be with your perfume.’
Felicia was glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, as he handed the small package to her. She dared not look at Raschid, fearful of what she might see in his face. And yet the old man had been uncannily correct; she was still a ‘bud’, the petals of innocence furled tightly about her, awaiting the warmth of a man’s lovemaking, before she could blossom into full flower.
In silence she followed Raschid from the shop, dazzled by the bright glare of the sun. It was the hour when the shops closed for the afternoon and everywhere shutters were being placed over windows, and doors closed against the heat. They were just emerging into the street when the perfume blender called something after them, and Raschid turned, glancing back into the scented darkness they had just left.
‘One moment,’ he said curtly, and disappeared back inside.
Felicia hesitated, unsure whether or not she ought to follow him. The two men were deep in a low-toned conversation, and unwilling to appear curious, she hovered in the doorway.
The old Arab was busily searching his shelves, moving jars and bottles. She caught the elusive scent of English lavender, instantly evocative of home, and then a more subtle, spicy scent. The old man pounded something in a wooden bowl with a small pestle and the fragrance of wild violets drenched the air. Fascinated, Felicia watched. Raschid was buying more perfume? For his sister? Then why the low-toned conversation? Some other woman, perhaps? A sophisticated creature with the chameleon ability to make the transition from East to West? A woman who would guard her beauty from curious eyes in public but who had the self-confidence to reveal it without shyness to the man she loved—in private?
‘Miss Gordon?’
How many more times would she have to endure hearing her name called in those bitingly imperious tones?
Her errant footsteps had taken her beyond the confines of the shop and cool exasperation laced Raschid’s voice as he strode towards her.
‘Has all that my sister and I have said to you been as so many grains of sand dispersed by the winds, or is it merely wilful caprice that prompts you into such constant disobedience?’
Disobedience! Felicia spun round, her eyes darkened to jade green with anger. Dear God, she did not want to quarrel with this man, but neither would she let him walk roughshod over her pride, trampling it beneath the fiery sc
orn of his contempt.
‘I walked away because I didn’t want to intrude,’ she flung at him. ‘Your business was plainly private.’ Anger made her reckless. ‘A gift for some woman who is permitted to share your bed, but forbidden any other part in your life….’
‘You have described the type of person for whom the perfume was intended to a nicety,’ Raschid gritted at her. ‘But the perfume maker does not share my view of you, Miss Gordon. Oh yes!’ He laughed scornfully at her shocked expression. ‘Did you not guess? The old man was making the perfume for you—his own idea, not mine, I hasten to add. Here, take it,’ he commanded, thrusting a small package into her hand. ‘He insists that it incorporates the innocence which he claims is an integral part of your nature. I did not want to tell him that his eyesight must be failing if that is what he thinks. I know my nephew, Miss Gordon,’ he concluded grimly, ‘and I know the type of women who share his life.’
Felicia turned, intent only on escaping from his cruel words, but his hands reached out and stayed her, his expression cautionary.
‘Do not be foolish,’ he advised her. ‘Even nowadays the souks are not entirely free from danger for the unwary. Your careless footsteps might have led you down any one of a hundred alleys and before too long you would have been hopelessly lost—an experience I am sure neither of us wishes to endure.’
She pictured herself, lost and frightened, dependent on this cold, autocratic man for succour, and her chin lifted proudly.
‘You need not worry, Sheikh Raschid,’ she told him. ‘If I were lost, you would be the last man I would want to rescue me.’
She pulled away from him as she spoke and a piece of flint half buried in the sun-baked earth caught her unprotected ankle, lacerating the soft skin. She winced as pain shot through her and blood welled from the cut.
Raschid tensed, frowning as he heard her involuntary protest, then dropped on to his haunches, a muttered curse falling softly into the golden silence of the afternoon when he saw what had happened.