by Penny Jordan
'So white and soft! The man who looks upon such beauty must surely be blinded by it—but the Sitt must eat more and gain flesh.'
'In European countries men prefer their women to have less flesh,' Danielle explained with a wry smile, guessing the direction Zanaide's thoughts had taken.
'The Sitt is not already betrothed?'
Somehow the personal nature of the questions had ceased to bother Danielle. She shook her head, still smiling.
'Are you betrothed, Zanaide?'
The little maid nodded firmly.
'For many years, to my second cousin, as is the custom. We are to be married next year.' She sighed, standing up, whisking away the protection of the towel before Danielle could protest and opening a small cupboard. 'If the Sitt will lie on the divan, please . . .'
Bemused, Danielle did as she was bid, protesting halfheartedly as she caught the elusive perfume of the oil Zanaide was deftly massaging into her body.
'I have not seen Faisal for many years,' Zanaide told her. 'He has been at university in England and then working in Saudi Arabia , but my brother
tells me he has grown into a handsome young man.' A tiny dimple appeared by her mouth and Danielle smiled in response. So not all the spirit had been crushed out of these women whom legend described as frail and delicate as rose petals but who in reality needed the courage and stamina of a lioness.
'And you do not mind this arranged marriage?' Danielle asked her curiously. 'You do not wish that you might have fallen in love, chosen your own husband?'
'I shall fall in love with my husband,' Zanaide responded firmly. 'To do otherwise would be to disgrace my family.'
She left the room for a few minutes, returning with the jade green caftan on one arm.
'Not that one!' Danielle wanted to protest, remembering how shocked she had been by that brief image of herself in it earlier, but Zanaide frowned, and insisted,
'This one is the best in the cupboard. To refuse to wear it would be to insult the Sheikha. You do not like it?'
'It's gorgeous,' Danielle admitted. 'But I feel more at home in my own clothes, just as you would feel uncomfortable in mine.'
To her surprise Zanaide laughed, her eyes twinkling.
'I wear the jeans too, Sitt, but only at home with my mother and sisters. My mother is shocked, but my brothers tell her that in Europe all girls wear them. It is very pleasant to do this, to—what is it you say? Have the best of two worlds.'
'Both worlds,' Danielle corrected, surprised by Zenaide's admission. Was she then mistaken in thinking Arab women to be completely beneath the domination of their men?
Apparently so. Zanaide made several enlightening comments as she washed and dried Danielle's hair, and a far different picture from what she had previously had began to emerge in Danielle's mind. As well as receiving schooling many of the brighter girls were encouraged to train abroad, end as long as the Muslim laws were observed and they were discreet women had a far greater degree of freedom than Danielle had envisaged.
'Of course we cannot go dancing and mix freely with the opposite sex in the European fashion,' Zanaide told her practically, 'but Sheikh Hassan has already done much for us, and promises to do more. Many of us prefer to wear the chadrah and retain our way of life,' she added softly. 'Is it not true that there often lies enticement in the un-known which the familiar does not possess? So it is with us, our very unavailability is enticing to our menfolk.'
The meal was over at last. Danielle made her escape thankfully. Everyone had been very kind, but the strain of trying to remember so many different names, on top of her long journey and strange surroundings, had all culminated in her feeling that all she really wanted to do was to go and lie down on her bed.
She seemed to have drunk innumerable small cups of strong black coffee and would no doubt have been obliged to drink even more had Zoe not noticed her predicament and tactfully indicated that she was to shake her cup to signal that she did not want any more. Also the food, although delicious, had been richer than what she was accustomed to, and it was with a feeling of intense relief that Danielle followed the corridor towards the spiral staircase which led to her room, where she suspected that Zanaide would be waiting for her.
The stairs seemed to go on for ever, with far more flights than she remembered, but telling herself that it was just her imagination Danielle picked up the heavy folds of her enveloping chadrah and wearily climbed upwards.
Wall sconces illuminated the stairwell, and in the corners shadows flickered in the draught from the open shutters. One of them even seemed to move towards her, and Danielle bit back a startled gasp as she realised that what she had mistaken for a shadow was in fact a man clad in a dark robe, which was nowhere near as enveloping as her own because it had fallen open to disclose s tanned chest, sprinkled with crisp dark hairs, still damp from a shower or some similar activity, as was the thick dark hair lying crisply over a skull whose structure reminded her of the heads depicted on ancient coins. The face beneath it was arrestingly male, with high prominent cheekbones set below eyes so dark that at first she thought they were actually black until the man moved, addressing some crisp words to her in what she presumed to be Arabic, and she saw that his eyes—eyes which were studying her with an arrogance that sent the hair prickling up on the back of her neck—were actually very dark grey.
He spoke to her again, more sharply this time, the words commanding.
‘I ... I ... don't understand. I only speak English,' she faltered hesitantly, not sure that he would understand her.
His teeth flashed brilliant white in the darkness of his face, faint creases fanning out from his eyes and the sardonic curl of his lips. A sensation she had never experienced before curled insidiously through her lower stomach, making her clench her muscles and taken an involuntary step backwards.
A lean hand grasped her wrist, cool mint-scented breath wafting past her ear as she was hauled unceremoniously forward.
'You were looking for me?'
His English was faultless, but the question held no hint of kindness; rather a suggestion of leashed power combined with cool impatience.
Danielle could only stare at him, mechanically rubbing the wrist he had grasped to prevent her from moving backwards. 'I was looking for my room.' His dark eyebrows shot upwards in disbelief. 'In this part of the palace? Surely you must realise that these are not the women's quarters . . .'
It was the haughty tone of the words rather than their content which caused Danielle to flush guiltily and stare disbelievingly down the way she had come, stammering, 'Oh, but I know I took the right way . . .'
Her companion was plainly not impressed. His smile had disappeared, leaving a sternly autocratic expression in its place. How old was he? Danielle wondered. Thirty? Perhaps a little older? It was hard to tell in the half-light, but whatever his age there was no doubt that he was a man to be reckoned with. In spite of her immediate antipathy towards him Danielle could not help but be aware of his intense masculinity, of the spare, narrow waist beneath the thin robe; the taut, muscular thighs which the thin silk did little to disguise.
'So . . .' His eyes seemed to burn past her defences, ruthlessly removing them and reading her mind with lazy ease. He knew exactly what effect his presence was having upon her, Danielle thought resentfully. She even suspected that he could have gauged the rate of her heart and pulse beats with exact accuracy. She turned away, un-willing for him to see the betraying quiver of her lips, suddenly overwhelmed by an instinctive desire to escape. Escape from what? she asked herself crossly. Was she so susceptible to her surroundings that already she was behaving in the presence of an unknown man as Zoe or Zanaide might? What had happened to all her British independence; all her determination to retain her own personality?
Her chin lifted unconsciously.
'I did not realise that I had left the women's quarters. If you would be kind enough to direct me . . .'
She stiffened as she caught the white flash of his
teeth once more, convinced that he was laughing at her, but there was no laughter in the dark eyes as they studied her features with lazy scrutiny.
'You are very daring,' he said softly. 'Or is it merely ignorance which lures the dove to trespass on the hawk's domain without asking what penalty he may exact for that trespass?'
Tired and confused, Danielle stared mutely up
at him, gasping with shock when both arms came out to grip her waist, propelling her forward until her body was pressed against the alien male one, his warm breath fanning her cheek as he bent his head and without mercy took her lips in a kiss far more intimate than any she had experienced before, the hands at her waist, biting into her flesh like steel pincers, holding her against a body which she realised with icy shock was completely naked beneath the brief robe. That realisation restored some of her stunned rises. She pushed fiercely against the solid wall of muscle beneath her fingers, appalled by the unwanted intimacy of her fingertips against the hair-roughened flesh, but it was too late to with-draw. Her futile attempts to be free were stifled with a cruel laugh and the immediate capture of her protesting fists, her fingers uncurled and placed fingertip to palm against the smoothly muscled flesh, while the pillaging lips left hers long enough to quirk mockingly and say softly,
'So . . . the British are not always as careless of their women's virtue as we would believe. You blush like the rose which blooms in the inner courtyard,' the taunting voice continued. 'You too are an enclosed courtyard . . . unknown and undiscovered . . .' 'Stop it!' Danielle protested, at last finding her voice. 'I won't listen to you! Let me go ... I shall complain to the Sheikha!'
His laughter completely unnerved her, but at least she was released from that uncomfortably intimate contact with his body, although his long fingers still circled one slender wrist.
'Do that, mignonne,' he taunted softly. 'But first do you not want to know whom you must complain of?'
Confused by his abrupt change of front, Danielle could only stare at him through the darkness, wondering a little at the prickly, warning sensation being relayed to her by her senses. What was the matter with her? she demanded of herself. Surely she hadn't gone so completely spineless that the presence of a mere man (and an arrogantly unpleasant one at that) had the power to overwhelm her like this?
She glanced upwards uncertainly at the dark chiselled features, noting instinctively the autocratic curl of the long mouth and the taut line of a jaw which she sensed could clench frighteningly in anger, but which was now relaxed in lazy amusement.
'What, nothing to say?' the soft voice taunted.
The lean fingers moved from her wrists to her shoulders, tracing the shape of her through the double thickness of her robe and her caftan with a sure knowledge that made her clench her teeth against her frantic protest. This was a man who knew women, and he was playing with her, enjoying her anguished embarrassment. Sparks flew from her eyes and she stiffened automatically, but he only laughed again, a low, warm chuckle which infuriated her more than everything that had gone before, one hand hovering tauntingly over her breast without actually touching her flesh until both of them could hear the nervous shallowness of her breath.
'Your heart sings under my hand like a trapped bird,' he said softly, placing palm and fingers against that organ.
Danielle stepped back as though she had been burned, and indeed the warmth generated by his hand against her body was such that she wouldn't have been surprised to discover that it had actually scorched her flesh, but his grip of her shoulder prevented her from moving very far.
With lazy appreciation his hand was removed from her now fast beating heart, to push back the hood of her robe and reveal the tumbled disorder of the curls Zanaide had so carefully brushed before the evening meal. The thin light from the wall sconce turned her hair to living fire, and Danielle gasped as the soft voice drawled with a thread of living steel,
'Well met by candlelight, daughter of Hassan.'
It should have sounded ridiculous, and in any other circumstances it might well have done so, but here in this ancient palace fortress, surrounded by strangers, Danielle could only react after the fashions she had always despised in novel heroines, by demanding breathlessly,
'Who are you?'
He moved fractionally and in the faint light she could see the sardonic lift of his eyebrows, the smile that twisted his lips with bitterness and never reached his eyes; the powerful thrust of his body, which almost seemed to menace her as they stood together a frozen tableau in a world in which no other human beings might have existed.
'You mean you honestly don't know?'
His abrupt change of front, from laconic mockery to ice-cold hauteur, frightened Danielle. The air around her seemed to grow colder, filled with some malevolent presence.
‘How could I do?' Danielle found herself stammering nervously. 'I have only just arrived, I . . .'
'So have I, and finding you on your way to my private apartments made me think that you must have some pressing purpose in seeking me out. A logical conclusion, would you not say, daughter of Hassan? You see, I know much of your race. The British are addicted to logic, are they not?'
'Well, you're wrong,' Danielle said hotly, ignoring the latter part of his speech to deny his claim that she had been looking for him—or for anyone, for that matter. 'I was on my way to my own apartment. I must have taken a wrong turning . . .'
Now, too late, she remembered how the stairs had seemed to go on for ever. If only she had stopped then and retraced her steps! 'Besides, what possible motive could I have for seeking you out?'
She was pleased with the amount of scorn she managed to inject into the words, but her pleasure was soon swamped by another emotion as she witnessed the sudden tightening of the lean jaw. As she had suspected, it denoted anger; an anger which was soon unleashed about her, inducing the dry-mouthed terror of a sudden storm as he said with a softness which menaced where it had earlier mocked,
'A very strong one, I should have thought, daughter of Hassan. I am Jourdan Saud Ibn Ahmed.'
CHAPTER FOUR
Was it her imagination or had the earth really moved under her feet? Danielle thought weakly, her mind a frantic jumble of thoughts as she sought to come to terms with what she had just been told.
'But you're supposed to be in France ,' she protested. 'I . . .'
'You would never have come had you thought otherwise?' he said for her. 'How little you know of men, daughter of Hassan, for all your modern upbringing. Did you honestly think I would allow you to insult me in such a fashion? To refuse me us your husband?'
Cruel fingers gripped her wrists like the talons of the eagle her stepfather claimed he represented. A terrible cold fear gripped Danielle in a numbing embrace. She couldn't believe that this was happening. She would have to return home immediately; she would phone her parents. But they were in America , travelling from coast to coast in a hectic round of business and social commitments. The Sheikha, then, Danielle decided, her thoughts leaping the chasm of her fear. She would surely help her. If only she had insisted on her stepfather providing her with some money! She would have no need of any, he had told her calmly. Indeed her hosts would think it an insult if she tried to use any. But surely her air fare home, she had protested, but again her protest had been swept aside. She would be travelling in the family jet; a luxury which would not be bought simply by queueing up at an airline desk and purchasing a ticket.
Round and round went her thoughts until Danielle was dizzy with the effort of containing them, and all the time the man standing only feet away from her in the shadows retained his biting grip of her wrist.
'I shall not apologise to you,' she said swiftly, colour burning her face as anger came to her rescue. 'I've done nothing to apologise for.'
He was more astute than she had bargained for, for instead of letting the matter drop, he enquired with dangerous calm.
'Meaning?'
When Danielle remained stubbornly sile
nt, he goaded softly, 'So, the daughter of Hassan lacks the courage she would lay claim to. It is very easy to scatter insults in the heat of the moment, mignonne, but far harder to justify them.'
'Meaning that any man who marries a girl purely for financial gain, as a business undertaking, has everything to apologise for?' Danielle burst out furiously. 'I disliked what I heard about you before I knew what you and my stepfather had planned between you, but after that . . .'
'What did you hear about me?' Jourdan demanded, his eyes narrowing sharply. He was like a panther, Danielle thought fearfully, tensed and waiting, coiled to spring upon her fragile arguments and rend and scatter them to the winds. 'And where?'
'From a friend of mine,' Danielle responded, refusing to be quelled, her chin firming courageously. 'Philippe Sancerre.' Her upper lip curled faintly. 'I suppose I should consider myself fortunate. All I would have been forced to bear was your name, while other women are obliged to endure your possession of them without even the saving grace of that.'
For a moment she thought he meant to strike her. She stepped back instinctively, appalled by the fierce glitter in the now almost black eyes.
'Think yourself fortunate that I realise that your insults are those of a child who knows not what she is saying,' Jourdan told her grimly, adding with a cold sneer, 'A child, who betrays her very youth in her speech.' He leaned a little closer to her, his warm breath grazing her temple.
'A child, who knows nothing concerning that of which she speaks so disparagingly.' His eyes swept Danielle's now shivering form. 'So you think my possession is to be endured, do you, mignonne? You shrink from me in horror and disgust? And you talk of a marriage where all you would be required to bear would be my name. 'Think again, little fool, and so that you may have something to think about . . .' He bent his head, at the same time drawing her towards him, his fingers leaving her wrist to grip her shoulder while his free hand tilted her face upward until she was blinking protestingly as the light from the wall sconce fell fully on to her startled features.