by Penny Jordan
'No!'
The word was torn from her throat on an anguished cry. She had responded only because of the tea she had drunk—tea she knew had been drugged despite his denials. There could be no other possible explanation for the wild abandon of her final capitulation to his arrogant dominance. Could there?
All at once a terrible weariness overcame her, an aching pain in the region of her heart and throat, a burning sensation behind her heavy eyelids, presaging tears. What was happening to her? Danielle wondered wretchedly. Where was her determination, her independence? She lay down on the narrow bed and closed her eyes merely intending to rest them for a moment.
The sound of someone moving intruded on Danielle's dream. It had been such a happy one too. She had been back in London . Back with her parents. She sighed, her hand reaching up toward her stiff neck, her voice strained as she called Zanaide's name.
'The maid, unlike the mistress, does not dare to penetrate the eagle's lair,' a cool male voice drawled softly. 'What are you doing here, petite? Or am I to draw my own conclusions from your presence here in this tower which is my preserve and mine alone?'
He had come to stand beside her. Danielle was conscious of him with every nerve ending, despite the darkness of the room, which had, with the coming of night grown cold. How could she have managed to fall asleep up here?
'Draw whatever conclusions you wish,' she told Jourdan bitterly. 'But the truth is . . .' She paused, her eyes focusing blindly on the stars shining so brightly outside the narrow windows.
'The truth is that I came up here because I wanted, to be free. I wanted to see the world beyond the confines of your kingdom . . .'
Jourdan's harshly indrawn breath warned her that she had gone too far, her gasp of pain ignored as his fingers bit deeply into her arms and he hauled her to her feet and dragged her over to the window.
'Look as far as you like, mignonne,' he whispered harshly. 'But while your eyes are fixed on the earth, the horizon, however distant it may be,! still belongs to me.'
Danielle shuddered as she felt his breath on the back of her neck, his mirthless laughter as cold as the night air.
'Come
His fingers on her arm propelled her back into the room and directed her to where the telescope was fixed on its stand.
'The man who built this castle was crushed beneath a block of stone when it was being erected. Although his life was spared he was left a cripple, and it was then that he had this observatory built.'
Danielle was standing before the telescope. She shivered briefly as Jourdan's arms closed round her, but his touch was completely impersonal, his hands directing her to look through the glass to the stars beyond.
'Freedom is a state of mind, mignonne,' he said against her hair. 'My ancestor found it in this room, studying the constellations, even though physically he was a prisoner of his own infirmity. Other men are prisoners of their own emotions, their hearts given in bondage to a woman as cold and remote as the distant stars.'
'And I am your prisoner,' Danielle finished bitterly.
'No, ma cherie.' The telescope was removed and she was forced to meet the sardonic mockery in Jourdan's eyes. 'You are a prisoner of your own pride, for without that you would surely admit that marriage to me has its ... compensations . . .'
He could have meant many things; after all, he was an extremely wealthy and powerful man and no doubt many women would find those irresistible lures, but Danielle knew instinctively that he was referring to her body's treacherous betrayal of her, and her face flamed with the knowledge.
She walked unsteadily towards the door.
'Where are you going?'
The silky words halted her. She turned, probing the darkness to find the tall white-robed-figure, his face masked by the shadows.
Somehow, without her being aware of him moving, he had interposed the bulk of his body between herself and the door. She stared at him, hoping he wouldn't see the fear leaping suddenly to life in her eyes.
'I want to go to my room,'
It was both an answer to his question and a demand, and Danielle realised that she had made a tactical error the moment the words were uttered. Something—and she feared it could only be anger—leaped to life in the dark eyes which lingered with insolent intensity on the firm thrust of her breasts beneath the flimsy chiffon robe Zanaide had chosen from her wardrobe.
'Your room?'
There was a world of meaning in the two softly drawled words and Danielle found to her chagrin that her pulse rate had suddenly quickened, her breath coming in short nervous gasps. Jourdan was deliberately trying to unnerve her, she told herself, that was all; he could have as little desire to repeat the events of their wedding night as she; he was a man of the world, used to women as skilled at lovemaking as he was himself, and she . . .
Her cheeks burned as she remembered how completely she had abandoned herself to the delights of Jourdan's touch in those few final minutes when everything else had ceased to exist.
'Stop playing with me, Jourdan!' she stormed, trying to banish the insidious memory of his hands on her skin. 'You want me as little as I want you . . .'
'I wouldn't be so sure—on either count,' Jourdan murmured with a soft mockery that sent the fine hairs at the back of Danielle's neck standing up on end in alarm.
All at once he was far too close for comfort—close enough for her to breathe in the wholly male scent of his body mingling with the spicy tang of cologne. She tried to step back, but the white flash of his teeth as his lips parted in a smile warned her that he had seen through her artless movement and knew quite well why she wanted to avoid him.
This suspicion was borne out when his arm lifted and hard fingers grasped her chin.
'Why the virginal fear, mignonne? he asked softly. 'You are my wife in fact as well as law, and in the cool of the nights when the sands of the desert shift restlessly beneath the stars is it not only natural that a man should seek solace in the arms of a woman. Are you woman enough for me to find solace in your arms, Danielle?' he asked, the timbre of his voice deepening huskily and causing Danielle to tremble with emotions his presence and touch suddenly brought to life. Caught fast in the grip of some strange paralysis, she was powerless to move, even when Jourdan's head lowered.
Her heart seemed to stand still. The room was virtually in darkness. Jourdan still grasped her chin, but the quality of his touch changed from that of a goaler to a lover.
His lips felt cool and firm. Danielle's trembled beneath them, her instincts urging her to flee.
'You are my wife,' Jourdan reminded her huskily against her lips. 'My companion of the night . . . Shall we share together once more the pleasure we enjoyed on our wedding night? Is that why I found you in my own private domain? Were you waiting for me, Danielle?'
She wanted to deny it, but the words were never allowed to be uttered. Jourdan's lips were trailing lire against her throat and lower, pushing aside the frail chiffon and finding unerring the taut peaks of her breasts. His shoulder bones were hard beheath her fingers and she clung mindlessly
to them, making no demur when her robe was pushed aside to reveal the slender beauty of her body.
'Jourdan?'
Her uncertain murmur was crushed beneath the hard warmth of the male mouth imposing its dominance against the softness of her flesh, her inarticulate cry lost as Jourdan lifted her in his arms and carried her across to the low divan.
This time Danielle could not blame any drug for the uninhibited passion of her own response; unless it was the mind-bending force of Jourdan's kisses, the knowledgeable touch of his hands on her skin, teaching her pleasure and making her shudder deeply with the intensity of her response.
'Is this what you came up here for, Danielle?'
The cold words froze the passionate warmth of her response. What on earth was she doing? She could hardly blame Jourdan for looking at her with such open contempt. She tore herself free of his grasp and ran towards the door, careless o
f the curt command he ground out behind her.
The cold night air of the stairs felt like ice against her exposed skin, and she was trembling when she reached her own room. For once Zanaide was not there waiting for her. Thankfully Danielle tore off her robe and ran a bath, plunging into the warm water and soaping herself vigorously. What had come over her? For a moment in Jourdan's arms she had experienced . . . Her busy hands stilled and the scented water, started to cool. Why had she run away from Jourdan? Because she was frightened of him? Or because she was frightened of herself and the emotions he aroused within her?
Very slowly she climbed out of the bath and started to dry herself, her eyes enormous in her pale face.
For a moment in Jourdan's arms she had forgotten that he was her enemy; had forgotten what he had done to her; how he had cheated her and known only that he was the man who had brought her body to life, who had released a fountain of emotion deep down inside her such as she had never dreamed she possessed.
With a small, almost inarticulate cry, Danielle flung herself on her bed, her body shaking with soundless sobs as she forced herself to face the truth. She had gone up to the turret room not because she wanted to see the far distant horizon but because she had wanted to be close to the man whose room it was; the man whom she had married in hatred and whom she now . . . loved.
How could she? Logically it was impossible. Since when had the emotions been guided by logic? Danielle asked herself cynically. Her response to Jourdan's touch this evening had not been that of a woman who hated or was indifferent . . . She stared sightlessly into the darkness. Now, more than ever, it was imperative that she left Qu'Har. A deep shudder wracked her as she dwelt on Jourdan's likely reaction to the discovery that she had fallen in love with him. How he would mock her! The long mouth would curl in cynical disdain. He would reach for her and . . .
Shivering, Danielle curled into a small tight ball, her flesh on fire with the memory of Jourdan's hands against it. She had to find a way of leaving the castle before she made a complete fool of herself and was forced to admit to Jourdan her longing for him. Even now, knowing what she knew, there was still regret that she had not stayed in the turret room. If she had done so, she would not now be sleeping alone in this vast bed . . .
CHAPTER NINE
'The Sheikha must not go too near the horses,' Zanaide warned Danielle protestingly. 'They belong to the Sheikh and can be dangerous to those they do not know.'
Danielle ignored her maid's comments, moving from stable to stable, her breath caught in wondering awe at the beauty of the pure-bred Arab mares. Several grooms were busily at work in the stable yard, and Danielle was conscious of being scrutinised discreetly as she walked amongst them. It was only by dint of pestering the comptroller that she had been allowed to visit the stables at all, and even then she doubted that she would have been allowed to do so if Jourdan hadn't been away.
A pain like a sharp knife twisted her heart. Where he was she didn't know. He had disappeared the morning after her visit to the turret room, and at first in his absence she had seen the means of her own escape. The comptroller had been polite, but firm, and all her efforts to beg or borrow a car had been met with a series of excuses. Jourdan must have give instructions that she was not to be allowed to leave the castle, Danielle thought bitterly, but somehow she must find a way of doing so, and soon—before Jourdan returned. His absence had been all she needed to convince her on that head, and she knew she could not trust herself not to betray her love for him when he did return.
The castle was a different place without him, and she ached for the sight of his tall robed figure, the sound of his voice, even his sardonic smile. She had never dreamed it was possible to feel like this about another human being, and the intensity of her emotions frightened her. Jourdan didn't want her as herself; all he wanted was the power marriage to her would give him, and even then not merely for his own benefit. How long would it be before he started to resent a marriage that was no marriage at all; a wife chosen simply because she was his uncle's stepdaughter? What was it Philippe had said about him? That there was a constant stream of beautiful women ready to throw themselves at his feet? Danielle could well believe it.
A servant came over and muttered something to the comptroller, who excused himself, returning to Danielle's side seconds later to explain that he was called away on business.
Left to her own devices, Danielle watched a couple of grooms preparing feed for the mares, an idea suddenly beginning to take shape in her mind.
'Tell one of the men to saddle a mount for me,' she instructed Zanaide. 'I want to ride out to the oasis.'
The oasis itself was several miles away from the castle, and although Zanaide looked a little concerned she made no demur, speaking to one of the young grooms in rapid Arabic.
Seconds later he was leading a daintily prancing mare out into the cobbled yard for Danielle's inspection, his eyes resting appreciatively on her pale skin and flame-coloured hair.
'Tell him she will do very well,' Danielle told Zanaide, 'and that I will return in ten minutes.'
It took her less than that to change into her jeans and a thin but long-sleeved shirt. She had no idea how far she might have to ride—but certainly it would be farther than the oasis. She had no idea how far it was from the castle to the city, but surely it could not be too far; after all, Jourdan would scarcely live somewhere inaccessible to his business.
She could remember that they had travelled east out of the city, so if she headed west to begin with . . . Her mind working overtime, Danielle hurried back to the courtyard, where the young groom was still patiently holding the mare.
'I will ride with the Sheikha,' he began importantly, but Danielle shook her head.
'No, I wish to ride alone.' She was mounted before he could add any further protests, thankful of the riding lessons she had had all those years ago when she had been a pony-mad pre-adolescent. But excellent though they had been they had not really prepared her for a mount like her present one. 'Fleet as the wind' was how she had heard the Arab horses described, and now she knew what that meant. The little mare had a mouth as soft as velvet and seemed to need no instruction from Danielle to head for the oasis. However, she was well behaved enough to respond to Danielle's light touch on the reins, and thankfully Danielle curbed her eagerness to gallop along the sandy road. It would benefit neither of them if the little mare were allowed to tire herself out. Just for a moment she allowed herself to contemplate Jourdan's reaction to her disappearance, but then she reminded herself that by the time he did she would be safely out of the country. She was going to demand that the Sheikha permitted her to return home. Urging the mare forward, Danielle ignored the small treacherous voice that whispered that she was a fool and that perhaps, with time, Jourdan might come to care for her. Why should he? For all his French blood he was a man of the East, brought up to hold women in contempt . . . Marriage to such a man could only in the long run destroy her.
The oasis was deserted. Danielle had expected to find at least a few wandering tribesmen resting beneath the shade of the palms, and she scanned the road uncertainly, checking that she was taking the correct fork.
The mare suddenly became obstinate, refusing to move. Danielle clicked her tongue, gently urging her forward, but the mare dug her heels in, her dainty ears twitching.
'What do you want?' Danielle demanded crossly when several minutes had passed. She was not going to be beaten by a mere animal!
At last she managed to get the mare to move. She had wasted valuable time at the oasis and as they trudged down the sandy track it seemed to her that the sun moved through the sky all too quickly. Soon it would be nightfall and she would be completely alone in the vastness of the desert with nothing before her but its emptiness. A feeling of panic seized her by the throat, and as though sensing it the mare sidled slightly, pawing at the ground. Darkness fell swiftly, the sudden dropping of a midnight velvet coat sprinkled with silver
stars. Danielle had to rub her arms to ward off the cold, wishing she had thought to bring some means of protection, but she had expected to be in sight of some village if not the city itself long before now. She glanced at her watch, appalled to realise that she had been in the saddle for well over four hours. No wonder her back and thighs ached!
Darkness masked the landscape; relief at her escape began to give way to a fear which crept over her as inexorably as the fierce cold of the desert night. Even the little mare seemed less sure of herself. The high hopes with which Danielle had set out faded faster than the daylight. Her escape had been ill-planned and the result of a momentary impulse, she acknowledged, and now she was alone in the desert with no way of knowing where she was or where she was going. Too late memories of tales her stepfather had told her of the fate of unwary travellers in this harshly inhospitable land began to filter through her mind, her fingers tightening on the reins as fear mingled with tension. A cold wind sprang up out of nowhere, making her shiver, the little mare pricked up her ears as though in sympathy and Danielle felt tears blur her vision. She had been stupid and acted without forethought, and because of that both she and the mare could die here in this vast wilderness where only the eagle could survive unscathed.