The Ice Maiden's Sheikh

by Alexandra Sellers

  Tell me to take it off. Tell me you break this engagement.

  She half smiled, her mind reeling, for he had truly made her drunk with pleasure. “I can’t do that,” she murmured.

  His dark frown came between her and the light. Not? Shall I stop loving you, my Jalia, my woman, my wife? Shall I let you go to this man, my perfect bride?

  “Because we were never engaged,” she continued dreamily, only dimly aware that she was throwing away her most potent armour and now nothing would protect her from the fierce wind of his love. “We just pretended, so I’d be safe. Michael’s a friend at the university.”

  She felt the ring leave her finger, felt it in the burning stroke of his fingers as they drew it off her supersensitized skin, heard it bounce from a carpet and skitter across the tiled floor, and then she was falling.

  Down, down he dragged her, to that sweet-smelling bed of boughs and blossoms so lovingly created by the women. His kisses grew wild and wilder, over her face, her throat, her ear, back to her swollen, starving mouth.

  Now he stripped off her shirt, exposing her breasts to the warm lamplight, and slipped out of the white silk that hid his dark body from her hungry gaze. He knelt between her thighs, his eyes moving over her beautiful body as his hands did, creating burning delight in their wake; and where he stroked, he knew her, and where he knew, he owned.

  She shuddered as desire abruptly made the leap to passion in her, and groaning, she reached hungrily to pull him into the hot, moist nest of need between her thighs.

  He resisted for a moment, and placed his mouth there instead, and as his strong tongue drove her higher up the peak of pleasure, with a last release of the invisible bonds that had constrained her, Jalia twined her fingers into his hair and pressed him against her flesh. His mouth obeyed, a rush of paralysing pleasure engulfed her, and she cried out with utter abandon and fell back against the bower spent and exhausted.

  Then he knelt between her legs again, and she saw the engine of his own pleasure, hugely engorged, push its way into her body. Dimly she felt there was nothing more to give or to feel. But her throat opened on a high wild cry, for a deeper pleasure invaded her being now, and the promise of yet more.

  She never afterwards knew how much time passed in that scented ecstasy of passion, with Latif’s hands and mouth and body stroking her, body and soul, and calling up the deepest, most charged pleasure of all her life. There was a thrilling passion in every part of her being, a yearning and a delight, so that she lost track not merely of time, but of herself, not knowing where she ended and lamplight began, where she ended and pleasure began, where she ended and Latif began….

  It was passion, and joy, and soaring, utter perfection. And now a roaring, burning pleasure began to build in her, unlike anything that had come before. She cried and whimpered, and moaned and called to him, as it built to a crescendo in them both, and his voice crying out his own hot urgency added to her delight.

  Then she understood that the trickles and rivulets and rivers of heat and delight that came before had been only the foretaste of a deeper, richer, unimagined joy. And now it erupted in and through them both, as if they two—body and soul—were the conduit by which joy and delight and happiness and perfect union burst into the world to feed the starving multitudes.

  And so Latif Abd al Razzaq Shahin took his beloved and made her his wife.

  Eleven

  Later she lay across his dark, damp chest and felt how right it was that she should be there. The memory of pleasure still coursed through her, so that small aftershocks shook her from time to time.

  She lifted her head and gazed down into eyes that glowed back at her with satisfied fulfillment at having given and received so much deep pleasure.

  After a moment, he picked up her left hand. His thumb stroked her ring finger.

  “You were not really engaged to this man?”

  “Michael was my insurance policy. My armour against—my parents,” she admitted. She couldn’t say against you.

  “How does a man pretend to be engaged to a woman like you, and not wish to make it real?” he wondered softly. “It is not possible. This was a tactic he used. He will want to hold you to it.”

  She smiled, because the look in his eyes was intoxicating, and shook her head.

  “No, it’s not like that. Michael’s gay. He hasn’t come out to his parents yet. I sometimes go to their family parties and things as his date, because he says he likes to keep his mother happy. So when I needed the return favour…”

  He looked as though he hardly believed her, but the smile on his face betokened ill for Michael if what she said was not the truth. Jalia’s voice faded into silence as she suddenly realized she might have taken powerful forces too lightly.

  “I hope what you say is true,” Latif said in a rough whisper.

  She faltered. “Wh-what?”

  “I will hold you, Jalia,” he promised. “I will keep you. You are my woman, and so it has always been.”

  Just for one treacherous second she half wished this moment could seal her fate, the way he intended, the way it would have done if life had been different. Just here, and just now, she half believed it might.

  It couldn’t, but she wasn’t going to let reality in yet. Tonight was dreamtime. Tomorrow was soon enough to awaken.

  “There’s some really delicious food over there,” she murmured. “Are you hungry?”

  One dark hand stroked her, and, exhausted as she was, her body sang another chorus for him. “For the food of my valley I am always hungry,” he said. “Just as I shall always be hungry for you, as long as I live.”

  Her heart kicked a response so deep she felt tears burn her eyelids, but she smiled and lifted herself away from him. She stood naked in the soft, gentle light, and his gaze in its golden glow felt like honey on her skin—sweet, warm, sensuous.

  “Come, then,” she said, for the food was laid out to keep warm on a brazier beside piles of embroidered cushions, artfully arranged by the experts of the valley’s wedding team.

  They both pulled on the silk trousers of their outfits, and sank down again on the cushions, he looking like a genie sprung from one of the antique lamps, she like a dancing girl, her bare breasts glowing with the mix of oil and love-sweat.

  Roasted eggplant in olive oil, spiced meats, yogurt and garlic, fresh herbs with goat’s cheese, and a delicious pan-fried bread…nothing in her life had ever tasted so delicious, or so potently aphrodisiac, as this meal.

  With smiles and lazy eyes they ate, and murmured appreciation both of this feast and of the one just past, fed each other morsels and tidbits, and, mouths shiny with spiced oil, licked each other’s lips, and their own.

  “The women around here certainly know how to cook,” Jalia exclaimed once, a little breathlessly, as one such lip licking turned into a spice-flavoured kiss.

  “The dishes of the Marzuqi are known through all the countries bordering the Gulf of Barakat,” he said. They talked a little about the food they ate, while their eyes carried other messages, some lazy and slow, some electric with promise.

  Once she gestured to the empty walls and niches of the room.

  “One of the women—Golnesar, I think—said something about the treasures of the valley having been hidden from Ghasib’s men, and they all laughed, as if that was a joke. But no one explained.”

  He smiled. “You know what a taste Ghasib had for ancient art treasures.”

  Jalia nodded. One of Latif’s tasks had been to help her parents trace and reclaim family heirlooms grabbed by Ghasib or his minions in the years of the republic. They had looted in the name of the country’s museums, but most of the treasures went into Ghasib’s personal treasury.

  “We all knew what it meant when the tunnel was being blasted through the rock to make way for Ghasib’s road—first through would be Ghasib’s acquisition team. There were many treasures decorating the homes of the valley, some of inestimable historical value.

  “My father made
the decision to prevent the stripping of the valley. He instructed the people to bring their treasures to him, and said that he would personally hide them all in a secret location.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been safer to have dozens of hiding places, so if they found one the others would still be safe?”

  “Recollect that Ghasib had ways to extract information from people. Once he learned that one village or family had hidden something, no one in the valley would have been safe. This way, if Ghasib’s men suspected a trick, under duress everyone could honestly say that they had been ordered to give up their treasures to the Shahin, and knew nothing more.”

  “And your father would be the one who was tortured,” Jalia suggested.

  “Exactly. But he believed that the secret would be better kept if all knew that their Shahin’s life hung in the balance, and he was right. Ghasib’s men took the valuables that had been left in a few homes to allay suspicion, and never got a hint of the truth.”

  Jalia frowned. “And why haven’t the treasures been brought out of hiding since the Sultan’s return?”

  “Because my father hid the treasures too well. Only he and a very old and trusted servant knew the location. He deliberately chose an old man—If they torture us, we will die quickly, he said. Pir Gholam died soon after, and my father, sadly, also died before Ash’s plans succeeded. Just before his death he told me he had left directions for me, but I haven’t found those directions.”

  Jalia laughed. “Have you any idea where the hiding place might be?”

  “None. But I have been absent so much, there has been little time to conduct a search, even through my father’s papers. When work with Ash eases off, and there is more time for the valley’s concerns, I will embark on a systematic search.”

  His expression was completely open and true, and Jalia experienced a sharp jolt of culture shock. In the West, she thought, his father would have come under immediate suspicion of having stolen or sold off his people’s treasures, and his son would be anxious to avert that suspicion.

  But in Latif’s face there was no awareness that such a suspicion might enter her mind or anyone else’s. He trusted in his father’s probity, and therefore in his own. And so, clearly, did his people.

  “Now I see why they call your family the Third Shahin,” she murmured.

  He frowned quizzically. “Yes?”

  “This afternoon I asked the women how the valley got its name,” Jalia explained.

  “And what did they tell you?”

  “Sey-Shahin. Three Royal Falcons,” Jalia said, unconsciously settling into the role of storyteller, as if she had been born in the valley herself.

  “They said that in very ancient times, this valley was a plain. It was fertile, but because it was so flat, the wind used to blow over it, taking their seed before it had rooted, and carrying off the rich soil.

  “So the people sent a messenger to the Great King—some say to God—and in reply the Great King sent his favourite royal falcon to stand guard over the valley, and protect it from the winds.

  “And the falcon stood so long, and guarded them so loyally, that he became a mountain, and still stands guard now.

  “But the people were still troubled, for the floodwaters came down from the mountains in spring, and because there was nothing to stop them, they flowed through the valley, carrying with them the seed before it could sprout, and the rich soil.

  “So the people sent another messenger to the Great King, and he sent a second of his royal falcons, to guard the valley against the floodwaters. And the falcon stood guard so loyally that he became rock, and he is the mountain on the south.

  “And the valley prospered with its two mountain guardians, but the people began to worry, for there was trouble in the lands, and a great conqueror was on the move.

  “Then the people sent to God a third time, begging for protection from the invader, and God sent a third royal falcon—a great leader. And the leader reigned a long time, and protected them so well that his family became a rock for the people of the valley, and every generation produces a strong, able leader to protect them.

  “They are called the Shahini, The People of the Falcon, and they will be leaders in the valley till the time comes for the valley to be destroyed. That’s you, and they are so proud of you and your family, Latif.”

  Latif watched her from under drooping eyelids. “And what else?”

  “So the valley was protected from the winds, and the floods, and from foreign conquerors, but there was still one thing that was not protected, and that was the hearts of the people.

  “So the people asked God for protection for their hearts, and God sent the fourth and last protection—he sent them Islam. And now the valley is protected in all four directions, and no harm can come to the people, and that’s why they are now called al Marzuqi, the Blessed, the Provided For,” she finished, smiling.

  “Did I get it right? It’s a lovely story.”

  “You tell it well. One day, if God wills, you will tell it to our children.”

  She could only press her lips together and shake her head.

  When they had finished the meal with fresh fruit, they washed hands and mouths with rose-scented water poured each for the other from the intricately moulded silver ewer with its matching bowl.

  Then Latif lifted the trays and brazier to one side and Jalia lay back on the cushions, feeling crazily free and unlike herself in bare breasts and harem pants.

  He lay down again and rested on one elbow beside her, gazing into her eyes in a way that made her body remember delight.

  He drew out a tiny white flower that still lurked in a twist of her hair, lazily touched it to the end of his nose, inhaled like a man tasting fine wine, and, watching her with a look in his eyes that she would never forget, thoughtfully caught it on the end of his tongue, drew it into his mouth, and ate it.

  Jalia’s throat gave a little involuntary whimper of reaction and she lost track of what she was saying.

  Latif lay back on the cushions and drew her onto his chest. Her breasts brushed hungrily against the mat of hair, and her hips melted with renewed yearning as his strong hand stroked down her back and over the swell of her bottom, lightly, possessively.

  “Why did the women do all this?” she asked, nodding at the now empty trays and the room. “They know we aren’t married.”

  “They tell me that the date is very auspicious for the wedding of the Shahin. There won’t be another such beneficial day for months, or maybe years, according to the old way of reckoning such things.”

  Jalia frowned curiously. “What is the old way of reckoning such things?”

  “Only the women know.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  He shrugged. “It was predicted to me last year that this year would be beneficial for our attempts to put Ash on the throne. They also said that if the Sultan returned the drought would end.”

  “Pretty impressive. But we aren’t married, so how can it be beneficial just to decorate a bedroom?”

  Latif smiled. “By the rules of the old, pre-Islamic tradition, we are married. This is all it takes, that bride and groom should be bathed and perfumed and led to bed by the women.”

  “What?” She leaped as if from an electric shock, and Latif laughed.

  “The ritual allowed the women of the tribe to make sure that bride and groom had the necessary parts in good working order. Some parts of the ritual have been abandoned since Islam came to the valley—the groom used to be put through his paces by the women, they say.

  “But the practice itself has never been wholly abandoned. Tradition is a powerful thing, and most people here would not feel married without this.”

  He toyed with another lock of hair, twirled another flower, smiled at her. “They didn’t explain this to you?”

  “No. They just—started stripping me off. Latif…what will you say when you come back to the valley and I’m not with you?”

  He didn’t move, didn’
t flinch. But she saw something hit him, all the same.

  “What does man do when he loses what is most precious to him?” he asked, his voice raw. “I will tell them the truth. That I could not hold my woman, even though the world is black for me without her.”

  Twelve

  In the morning the council sat again, while Jalia was taken around all the houses in the village and introduced to children and pet goats. The women began to tell her of their lives and their problems, laughing with delight to hear her formal, archaic speech.

  Bagestani Arabic was not the first language of the mountain tribes, and most people still spoke Parvani by preference, but even so they were all—even the oldest women—a whole lot more fluent than Jalia.

  It didn’t take Jalia long to understand what was going on—they were petitioning her interest as the wife of the Shahin. In this way they hoped to bring their problems to his attention.

  Jalia began to deeply regret that she hadn’t told the villagers at once that she was not going to marry their leader.

  But she was also a cousin of the Sultan, she reflected after a moment. She could still be of use. So she listened as patiently as if she had been Latif’s bride, after all.

  Late in the morning, when she had been offered tea and a plateful of delicious little delicacies she couldn’t resist, she was invited to visit the village’s “carpet room.”

  “Indeed, it would honour me to make such a visit,” the Princess said, making the young girls giggle again, and repeat her archaic speech. But there was no malice in their delight, and no one scolded them.

  So they took her to a house where she was surprised to see a circle of hand looms. In honour of Latif and Jalia’s visit, no one was working at them, but that it was a busy place when it got going was evident in the beautiful carpets partly finished on many looms and the stacks of coloured thread around the room.

  Predominant among the clusters of wool and silk was a mountain of beautiful purple-blue thread, rich and luxurious, a unique colour; and with a gasp Jalia bent over the nearest loom.