Or perhaps he was trying to tell her something. The color drained from her face and the deep leather chairs and furniture seemed to sway before her eyes. Was that why he was explaining everything so carefully-talking about her father when it was a subject they had never discussed, and she had never dared mention.
The silence continued as Sharif studied Juliette's delicate profile, now so very pale. He had spoken hoping for a better understanding between them. Nothing could change the past or the present circumstances. He was what he was and the time would come when English blood would be shed. How could he ever expect her to understand or forgive?
His gaze slipped lower then, to where the tops of her creamy breasts were visible, and he gritted his teeth against an impulse to take her in his arms. Since her illness he had slept in an adjoining room in a bed far too small for his large frame, cramped, sleepless, and thinking of her. Already now desire had crept into his loins, straining his reserves. How she bewitched him and, tonight, it was too much.
His mind made up then, he paused, feeling awkward with a woman for the first time in his life and, inwardly cursing his weakness, he cleared his throat and finally said,
"It seems you have recovered."
"I am completely well again," came her answer.
"Yes, and . . . are you still comfortable in your ... in my bed?" The expression on his face was one of a man starved, but Juliette's head bad dropped and she didn't see it as tears flowed into her eyes.
She blinked them down. "Comfortable enough," she said in a voice barely audible.
Sharif unclasped his hands from the arms of the chair, moving away across the room to pour him a drink and down it quickly. Their eyes met, and Juliette thought she had never seen his expression so opaque-like the desert sky on a starless night.
"Then I don't think it's necessary for me to sleep out of my bed any longer," Sharif said quietly, as unconsciously his fingers tightened round the fine etched glass.
Something in Juliette fell, her heart squeezing into a small painful fist. It was all she could do not to burst into tears again. But she would never, never give him that satisfaction
. The time for parting had come, just as she imag¬ined it would. Her knuckles whitened as her fingers joined in her lap. She drew herself up stiffly, rising to her feet and facing him squarely. "Of course, there is no reason at all you should be inconvenienced anymore," she said. "I am quite strong again and would be relieved to return to my own room and . . . greater privacy."
There was a small tinkling and Juliette realized Sharif's glass had shattered in his hand. Calmly, he dropped the pieces onto the sideboard, his eyes still resting unreadably on her even as he struck the bell.
Juliette turned away as the servant arrived, unobtrusively clearing up the debris and disappearing again. Had her answer surprised him? Isn't this what he wanted? But then he was speaking again, his voice quietly ominous.
"I'm sure it will be a relief," he said. "And you don't need to worry that I will trouble you anymore. Our time together has ended, Juliette. Soon I go to war with the Hussar and afterward will come the even more dangerous work of creating an independent nation. I won't risk your getting hurt, particularly if anything should go wrong."
Juliette felt turned to wood. "What do you mean?'
“I mean," he said, never seeming so coldly factual, "I've decided to send you back to England."
Chapter 70
The rest was like a bizarre play and Juliette felt herself a mechanical doll, so shocked that she could only nod her assent even as her guts rebelled. No, no, he couldn't send her away, though he continued talking in a low factual voice, telling her she would have only a few days to prepare.
"We won't see each other again," he said. "It is better this way. And if you should ever need anything, now or in the future-anything at all, you have only to contact my agents and it will be taken care of."
No, none of it seemed real, least of all the passionless lips that briefly brushed her brow before suddenly he was gone. Was it possible? Juliette kept asking herself. Could it all end so abruptly? For months now they had struggled and fought between moments of desire and passionate hatred that had touched both the heights and depths of her being.
And now, in an instant, it was all finished. "A chapter to leave behind her," was how he had put it.
"You'll learn to start over. And don't worry about returning to England. Months ago I arranged Rodney's death to appear a suicide. As far as anyone knows, you have been on an extended, and very private, vacation to escape the scandal. Anyway, I think you'll find that when you're rich enough, people have a way of not asking too many embarrassing questions."
He had thought of everything-obviously had planned it from the beginning. Always he had been vague about just how long he would keep her. Certainly he had made no promises. So why now did she suddenly feel shocked abandoned? Wasn't leaving him what she had wanted all along?
For the next few days, a bleak sense of hopelessness filled Juliette as a sandstorm stirred the desert's surface into waves of pelting sand that confined her aimless wanderings to within her room and also delayed her departure. And as she waited she couldn't help remembering the last sandstorm when the caravan had been pinned down.
For those two days Sharif had been like a friend, and she had felt, or thought she felt, a bond forming between them. But the storm had not lasted long and, afterward; he had become just as he was before, as if those moments of intimacy had never been. Oh, why did remembering hurt so? She asked, tears clouding her sight. And why had she believed Dr. Santapalo, even a little bit, when it had all been lies?
Dejected, cooped up, Juliette became more and more restless, and finally, to occupy herself, she began exploring every inch of her new quarters for some hint of Sharif's mother.
What might she have been like? Had she been better suited to this life? Had she been happy? But after a methodical search, Juliette was disappointed when the most personal items she could find were several dried ink wells, a thick stack of writing paper, pens and an intricately bound book of French poems by Alfred de Musset.
Settling down on a scattering of cushions, thinking of ' Sharif, Juliette flipped indifferently through the book. Suddenly, an idea struck her that left her breathless with hope.
Maybe if I told him I don't want to go . . . I've never told him how I really feel. I've given him no reason to want me to stay. I've said terrible things though, lately, he's been kind. What if I went to him now, just like this, and told him?
She stood with a rush of energy, dropping the book in her excitement. When she bent to retrieve it, she saw that a folded paper had fallen out from between its pages. Actually, there were several sheets, discolored along their folded edges, as if they had been in the book for many years.
Impulsively she opened them, spreading them flat, her eyes jumping to read the scrawled feminine handwriting.
I am Anna Louise Phillips, a French citizen by birth and wife to Captain Brandon R. Phillips of Queen Victoria's army . . , it began.
Juliette's eyes widened incredulously. Karim's mother and this was her letter!
Juliette's eyes ran down the page, reading faster and faster as the letter continued telling the fantastic story of how Anna had been kidnapped and kept by Hamid al¬Sharif. And Juliette felt herself struck immobile as it said, please forgive me, Brandon, my son, when I tell you the Sheik of El Abadan is not your father, but in fact the murderer of your real father, Captain Brandon Phillips, killed during the raid when I was taken captive. Little did I know at that time that I already carried you within me, the product of the true love and devotion which your father and I felt for one another.
I wanted so much to tell you this earlier, but fear prevented me. I always knew the sheik believed you were his son and that if he had discovered your real identity as the product of my husband, and by inheritance English, he would have murdered you as well.
The letter continued then, telling of Anna's agony lest the
secret be discovered-her devotion to her son, and her attempts to educate him along the lines of his civilized heritage. The last part of the letter grew more scrawled, I am sick now, and while those around me say I will live, I think I will not.
I wanted so much to tell you all this myself, my son-to explain. But though you are twenty, you are still impetuous. I couldn't risk the sheik discovering this secret, yet I cannot die without leaving you this and hoping it is discovered at a time when it will help rather than harm you...
I grow weaker. I fear I will not last this night. Yet now that finally I have unburdened my heart to you, I can accept death. Please take pity upon me, and try to understand the mother who loved you.
Anna Louise Phillips
Juliette's head whirled. Karim-English! And he didn't know! If he knew he were English himself, then he wouldn't-no, how could he hate me? He would reconsider . . . he would . .
Oh, how could she tell what he might do? And drawing a deep breath, she pulled back the curtain covering the doorway leading to his room and, to her sudden surprise, spotted a pair of ankles that kicked violently against cords that shackled them.
"Cassia!" she cried as she pulled the curtain back and saw the girl, lying bound and gagged on the floor. Cassia moaned a warning, but already it was too late: Juliette both felt and saw the huge arm that encircled her, pinning her own arms helplessly to her sides as a cloth was forced against her nose and mouth, smothering her cries.
Juliette refused to inhale the noxious fumes, jerking her head and kicking with all her strength. But it was useless, her lungs were almost at once ready to burst and waves of darkness swirled in her head as her oxygen ran out. And when she couldn't endure any more, she breathed deeply, from the bottom of her bursting lungs. The sickening odor permeated her brain and blackness flooded her as in the flick of an eye, everything vanished.
PART XII
WOMAN WARRIOR
Chapter 71
Thick waves of nausea persisted as Juliette regained consciousness, aware first of a sour taste in her mouth, and then of the dank smells of dirty leather, rancid cooking oil, and sweat tainting the air. Then, sensing someone near, she opened her eyes and saw a heavy, white-robed Arab squatting on cushions a few feet away.
"Ah! So the petite poule is awake at last. You see what good drugs your countrymen bring us. Ether they call it. It makes everything so easy, does it not? No scratching or biting, and now here you are waking up again, magic, eh?"
"So, you are surprised I speak French," he continued before chuckling derisively. "But did you think your lover Karim al-Sharif was the only Arab with . . . how do you say . . . an education?"
He spoke with incongruous politeness, his thick thighs overhanging the sides of the soiled pillow where he sat cross-legged looking down at her. Everything about him was thick, his arms, his lips, even his face was puffy and held small piggish eyes that watched with thinly veiled enmity, and as he smiled, an uneven row of rotting teeth came into view.
"But don't be frightened, little pigeon. We are going to be friends, you and I-that is, if you cooperate. And what round eyes you have. I can never remember seeing any quite that color before . . . and your hair. Now I think it is true that five thousand pieces of gold were bid for you in Tripoli. Ah, yes, so lovely, and so fragile, eh? I will have Amin cut those bonds from your wrists. You will eat first and afterwards, when we have gotten to know each other better, we will talk."
He waved a flabby arm and a boy of about nine appeared. At least he seemed like a boy, though his lips and face were painted like a harem girl's, and his dark brown hands held rings of gold and small jewels.
He wore loose striped pants that drew tight at his knees and, as he came closer, flourishing a long dagger, the hostility in his movements was obvious even before he cut the ropes, purposely running the blade over her skin so a thin trace of blood appeared. Then, smiling like a young weasel, he retreated to sit on his haunches just behind his master.
"Amin, Amin," the Arab scolded as if to himself before saying to her, "Amin is so careless with a knife, mademoiselle. Please forgive him." He dabbed absently at her bloody wrists with a crumpled rag. "And please permit me to introduce myself. I am Abu Cassium Hussar. Perhaps Karim al-Sharif has spoken of me?"
He paused, peering at her, and apparently reading the startled look in her face, he continued, "Yes, I see my old friend has mentioned my name. But come, sit up! Our meal is being served."
His smile did not reach his closest eyes as Juliette lifted herself from the dirty palm-mat floor and pulled the shredded ropes from her, wrists before tearing at the bindings around her ankles. Hussar, Hussar, her mind echoed over the pounding in her head.
"But let me help you," came Hussar's silky voice as he thrust his own dagger forward, running it between her ankles to sever the ropes and then continuing in the same motion upward until the knife point pricked lightly beneath her chin.
Juliette swallowed hard, gathering her robes together across her breasts as his head jerked toward the cushion beside him. "Sit there. Amin will serve us."
Wordlessly, Juliette placed herself beside him. A wave of nausea traveled through her as she smelled his overpowering odor of sweat. So this was Abu Hussar, leader of Sharif's enemies. She must be calm, must think clearly.
Oh, God, how he was going to enjoy killing her. Already she could see the lusty anticipation in his eyes. And to get away from his scrutiny, she looked around the tent, noticing a large chest, a hassock with dark stains on the cushions, and a tumble of saddles and blankets and assorted objects all tossed together in one corner.
Outside it was night. How far were they from El Abadan? How long ago had she been taken? Was it only hours, or had she slept round the clock? And listening intently, she tried to detect any stamp of a hoof that might indicate a horse tied nearby.
Sardonically, Hussar laughed. "Don't look so worried, mademoiselle. We are not so uncivilized. You will have a chance to save yourself." His small eyes tapered nearly closed. "But it will be on my terms. And don't expect your lover to rescue you. He won't know where you are-that is, until he receives our message."
He smiled, pushing a plate in front of her with a fat hand that lingered beside her arm, his voice cajoling, "Come. Let me see you eat something. And when your little mouth has satisfied you, then we will see how much pleasure it can give me."
Juliette's eyes darted to his. What did he mean? Another wave of nausea passed over her. He couldn't be thinking that she . . . that she would. Her eyes dropped her face blanching.
"How frightened you are, mademoiselle. Really, I think you have overestimated me. I only have a few questions for you, nothing difficult. And after you have told me what I want, and after we have a little entertainment of our own-also nothing too difficult for a sharmuta like yourself, then you will be free to go."
Juliette stared blankly. Then, pinching a portion of rice between her fingers in Arabic fashion, she began conveying bite after bite to her mouth.
"There! Yes, that is better. My friend Karim has already taught you to obey. He has a way with women, has he not? You must tell me about him-and show me what he likes a woman to do best."
He motioned to Amin who sullenly brought a basket full of steaming pita bread. Hussar took the liberty of setting one of the breads before her. Then, to add to the mockery of the situation, and no doubt to her terror, he began to talk about the desert and himself, and the battles and mouflon hunts in the past, as if she were a lady he was entertaining for an evening.
Juliette only half listened as he rambled on, thinking instead of some possible means of escape, and was recalled to him again only when he bent closer and said, "Tell me, little pigeon-is it true you killed a mouflon and the desert genies helped you?"
Juliette did not look up from her plate, pretending instead to concentrate on her food as she felt him peering at her.
"You don't answer when I ask you a question. Such a pity." He nodded to Amin, who was no longer sullen
as he jumped forward, slapping her sharply across the face, his rings cutting her lips and sending her mouthful of rice across the palm mats.
Her own hand automatically rose to where a red stinging hand print remained.
"Oh, but look what Amin has done. I don't think he cares for you, mademoiselle, or any woman in fact." And then to Amin, "No, you must be more careful. I don't like to see her lovely mouth harmed. Her breasts perhaps, next time. Breasts don't appeal to me, not like her mouth."
Then he was looking at her again. "Come now, mademoiselle. You seem intelligent enough. We can make you speak if we want to. I would rather leave you . . . intact, shall we say. But you will answer."
Juliette's flashing eyes fixed on his face. "Very well," she said with stiff features. "I can tell you that I did shoot a mouflon, but it was no more than a lucky shot." Her eyes narrowed to a defiant slant. "But I don't think that is what you are really interested in and, I assure you, I know nothing about more vital matters."
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