Daughter of Hassan

by Penny Jordan

  'Forgive me,' she said simply. 'It is just that Jourdan and I . . .' She paused as though unable to go on, but in her eyes was the expression Danielle fought so hard to prevent showing, in her own. She went cold with shock and fear. Catherine Sancerre was in love with Jourdan and he had invited her here to his home knowing that, and knowing also that he was married to Danielle. Whom he did not love, Danielle reminded herself bitterly. Was Jourdan in love with Catherine?

  If so, he must never, never learn of her own feelings. Pinning a false smile to lips which threatened to betray her and tremble, Danielle slid her own fingers through Philippe's arm in an imitation of the possessive manner Catherine was adopting towards Jourdan.

  'There's nothing to apologise for,' she said brightly. 'In fact it's lovely to have you both here

  Catherine's trilling laughter broke the silence.

  'Oh, Jourdan, how unromantic your wife is!' she exclaimed huskily. 'I confess if I were so newly married to you I would not want another single solitary soul around.'

  'Danielle is English, Catherine,' Jourdan said dryly, 'and the English see things differently. However, she seems pleased enough to see your brother.'

  His eyes were on the hand Danielle had slid through Philippe's arm as he spoke, but she refused to remove it, lifting her head instead to meet the challenge written on his face.

  'You must be careful, cheri,' Catherine cooed, 'otherwise Philippe will steal your little wife away from you. However, I have not journeyed all this way to stand out in a dusty courtyard and ruin my complexion. Can we not go inside?'

  Belatedly remembering her duties as hostess, Danielle called to Zanaide to show their visitors into the main salon, asking at the same time that . the maids arrange for rooms to be prepared.

  'I should like to wash before I sit down, if that is possible,' Catherine exclaimed fastidiously. 'I am covered from head to foot in sand, and my poor skin is scratched in a thousand places from it. You wouldn't recognise it, cheri,' she said to Jourdan.

  Danielle overheard the remark and her cheeks burned, but she made no comment. Her soul writhed in torment. How could she hope to com­pete for her husband's love with a girl of Catherine's sophistication? No doubt Jourdan had not had to teach her how to make love.

  'Perhaps Danielle would take you to her room so that you can wash there,' Jourdan suggested, glancing at Danielle in a way that made it im­possible for her to refuse his implicit command.

  Neither of them spoke as Danielle led the other girl towards her room. Danielle opened the door and stood back to allow Catherine to enter. The French girl's eyes were cold as they swept the room before finally lingering on the double bed, patently unslept in.

  'Poor Danielle,' she murmured with false com­ passion. 'Married to a man who so plainly does not want you. You would have done better to per­ suade your stepfather to allow you to marry Philippe. He at least cares for you, while Jourdan' her eyes passed insolently over Danielle's slender frame, 'Jourdan is used to women, cherie, not awkward young girls. In aiming for him you aim too high and must only be hurt when you fall, is this not so? Did he tell you nothing of me? Of our plans? When we were in Paris we were so close . . .'

  From somewhere Danielle found the courage to retort, 'Many women have thought themselves close to my husband.'

  Retaliation was swift and merciless. 'Many women have been his mistress, you mean!' Catherine spat at her. 'But between us it was dif­ferent. Jourdan knows the importance and pro­minence of our family. He would never dream of insulting me by offering anything other than mar­riage. And he would have married me, if your stepfather had not offered him such a tempting carrot. Oh yes, I know all about it,' she told Danielle, not adding that it was Philippe who had mentioned the possibility to her, when explaining why the Sheikh had refused his offer of marriage. Catherine was a practical girl. She would have to marry money, but in Jourdan she would have both wealth and sexual excitement, and she had been carefully enticing him towards marriage for sever­al years, hoping to use his innate sense of responsibility and honour to force him into a situation from which he could not extricate him-self without marrying her. The information that Sheikh Hassan wanted him to marry Danielle had come as a shock. An unknown, docile Arab bride she could cope with, Jourdan was after all half French and must want more from a woman than passive obedience, but Danielle was a different matter. The news that Danielle was already in Qu'Har visiting the Sheikh's family had forced her into taking action. She had hoped to use her own time in Qu'Har to force Jourdan's hand in some way, and the discovery that he was already married to Danielle had come as a shock. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the luxurious room. How could Jourdan have married this stupid doe-eyed creature in preference to herself? She studied Danielle's slender form disparagingly, and looked once more at the large bed.

  'Jourdan does not share this room with you.' It was a statement rather than a question, and from somewhere Danielle found the resources to reply casually, 'Not always; sometimes I go to his room.'

  Anger flashed in Catherine's pale blue eyes. 'So ... you have shared his bed, but that is not such a great thing, petite,' she taunted. 'Jourdan is a man above all else, and as such will take what is offered when there is nothing better to tempt his palate. And then of course there is the succes­ sion to think of.' She looked slyly at Danielle, who was standing rigidly in the middle of the room. 'Oh come,' she pressed, 'surely you aren't naive enough to think there could be any other reason? My dear!' Her eyebrows rose. 'Jourdan is courted and pursued by some of the most beauti­ful and desirable women in the world . . .'

  'Including yourself?' Danielle asked tightly, regretting the question the moment it left her lips, but it was too late to recall it and it gave Catherine the opportunity she had been looking for.

  'With me, it is slightly different,' she purred. 'Jourdan knows that I would never consent to be his mistress. In marrying me he would be allying himself to one of the foremost families in France —quite a tempting prospect, wouldn't you say, for a man whose mother apparently sprang from the French gutters.'

  'And you would be content with that?' Danielle asked, trying to turn Catherine's own weapons against her, but the Frenchwoman was tougher than Danielle. She shrugged and smiled conde­scendingly.

  'Did I say I would have to be? Jourdan loves me, Danielle. I already know that. His invitation to me to join him here is merely confirmation that to love he wishes to add marriage.'

  'He is already married to me,' Danielle reminded her.

  Catherine smiled coldly.

  'A marriage of convenience forced upon him by his stepfather, but once you have borne Jourdan a son to secure the succession, he will divorce you.'

  It was said so confidently that Danielle could not find the words to deny it.

  'You stare at me,' Catherine continued, pres­ sing home her advantage. 'Surely you knew this? The present Sheikh has sons, it is true, but none of them possess Jourdan's astuteness, and besides, Hassan has the final power of decision as to who will rule Qu'Har. It is only natural that he should choose Jourdan, especially if Jourdan should have a son to follow him; a son whose mother is Hassan's own stepdaughter.'

  It was all so logically convincing that Danielle was only amazed that she had not been able to see it for herself. Of course her stepfather would be delighted if she gave Jourdan a son. The child would be almost doubly his grandchild, and a certain successor to the Sheikhdom. How stupid she had been not to see this for herself! Their marriage was not going to be annulled, Jourdan had told her, but he had not told her the other reason he had made love to her.

  The room spun dizzily around her, and she reached sickly for the bed. Even at this moment she might be carrying Jourdan's child. The thought nauseated her. It was her own fault; she could blame no one else. It was she herself who had foolishly tried to deceive herself that their marriage might come to mean something more than a union of necessity. Jourdan had said nothing. He meant to divorce her and put Catherine in her place—o
nce she had given him a son. With a child he could remain certain of her stepfather's support, but Sheikh Hassan would do nothing to deprive his grandson of the Sheikhdom.

  'If you had a scrap of pride you would leave Qu'Har at once,' Catherine continued. 'Or are you so much in love with Jourdan that you will cling to any scraps he may throw you? How it must amuse him to know you are so pitifully besotted with him that you stay, even though you know that he touches you only for one purpose! I could never bear a man to make love to me knowing he loved another woman and that all he wanted from me was a child.' She laughed cruelly. 'I told you you had aimed too high, didn't I, Danielle?' and then she swept out, leaving Danielle alone staring sightlessly ahead of her.

  Danielle managed to avoid Jourdan for the rest of the day, but there could be no escape in the evening and she was forced to witness the sight of Catherine flirting with him over dinner, while Philippe gave her sympathetic glances and muttered under his breath that it might have been better had Jourdan and Catherine dined alone, because they plainly had eyes for no one but each other.

  After dinner Catherine insisted that they play some tapes she had brought from Paris .

  'Remember dancing to this the last time you took me out?' she asked Jourdan as a particularly sensual number filled the room. Philippe and Danielle might simply not have existed, and Danielle would not have been at all surprised to see the two of them disappearing together in the direction of the turret room.

  Jourdan had barely spoken a word to her since the Sancerres' arrival, and Danielle felt too heart sick to do more than respond with monosyllables when he did.

  He did ask her to dance, but she refused, shak­ing her head, and turning away so that he would not see the glitter of tears in her eyes. He had just reluctantly relinquished Catherine, and she had no wish to be endured, simply as a duty when he really longed to hold the Frenchwoman in his arms.

  His expression tightened when she refused, and she was grateful for Philippe's intervention when he suggested that she show him the courtyard.

  They had been outside for half an hour when Philippe suggested that they return. The salon was in darkness, the music stilled. As they stepped inside Philippe reached for the light switch, and Danielle bit back a gasp of pain as light flooded the room illuminating the couple clasped in one another's arms, oblivious to everything but their mutual passion.

  Jourdan reacted immediately, releasing Catherine, and Danielle felt endlessly grateful to Philippe when he acted with promptitude, draw­ing her against him, his voice light as he apolo­gised for their intrusion.

  There was comfort in the arm he placed round Danielle's bowed shoulders as he led her from the room. She made no demur when he insisted on escorting her to her door, nor could she find the energy to protest when, outside it, he paused, pushing it open and then taking her completely in his arms, kissed her. She felt nothing; neither pleasure nor revulsion; she was simply drained of the ability to feel anything but the raging pain of knowing that Jourdan loved Catherine.

  Philippe lifted his head and muttered some­ thing and Danielle opened her eyes just in time to see the tall form of her husband disappearing in the opposite direction.

  'Most inopportune,' Philippe murmured. 'Never mind, petite. There will be other times.'

  A week passed. Danielle saw very little of Jourdan—or Catherine. The two of them were constantly together, riding, hawking, laughing. She grew pale and lost weight, causing Zanaide to exclaim worriedly over her inertia. Philippe spent a good deal of time with her and made an unde­manding companion.

  One afternoon when Jourdan had taken Catherine into the city because she had insisted that she simply must have a breath of civilisation, Philippe found Danielle sitting in the courtyard, staring absently into space.

  'You have to get away from here, Danielle,' he announced abruptly. 'You are destroying yourself, and to what purpose? You are not blind. You know how it is between Catherine and Jourdan.' He took hold of her hand and stroked it gently. 'I know that you love him, petite, but where is your pride? Can you honestly endure any more? You are a mere shadow of the girl I once knew. I haven't heard you laugh once while I have been here. Leave now, Danielle, before he des­troys you completely.'

  'How can I?' Danielle asked listlessly. What Philippe said was quite true, and Catherine's con­temptuous words still held the power to hurt. Where was her pride? Was she just going to stay here until she conceived Jourdan's child? A child which its father intended to take away from her and discard her so that he could marry another? If she really loved Jourdan surely she would want his happiness above her own, and she had to accept that his happiness lay with Catherine. She might not like the French girl with her pale blue eyes and cruel tongue, but she was not Jourdan.

  'If I could leave I would,' she told Philippe. 'But I can't.'

  'If you really want to go I could help you,' Philippe told her. 'The Land Rover is there. I could drive you to Qu'Har, or if you prefer across the border into Kuwait where you can fly to England .'

  'I haven't any money,' Danielle told him. 'I ...'

  'Don't worry about it. I'll lend you as much as you need. And Danielle . . . don't think I'm doing this for purely altruistic purposes.' Her fingers were raised to his lips. 'One day when the pain of this fades I hope you will turn to me and let me be the sort of husband you deserve.'

  'Oh, Philippe, I . . .'

  'Don't say anything now,' he told her, frowning suddenly. 'It's just struck me that it might not be a bad idea to let Jourdan think that there is something between the two of us. It would cer­tainly prevent him from coming after you, drag­ging you back here to provide him with a son.'

  It was too much of an effort to protest. Danielle was sure that Jourdan would never believe for one moment that she loved Philippe, but for the sake of her pride she agreed, shuddering at the thought of Jourdan coming after her, to drag her back down to the depths of self-degradation she had experienced since discovering that he loved Catherine. Perhaps she might even be able to reason with her stepfather and convince him that he still ought to give Jourdan control of the oil company. She was sure that this was what he really wanted to do, and she had no desire to rob Jourdan of what was rightfully his.

  Having gained her consent, Philippe lost no time in making the arrangements for their depar­ture. Catherine and Jourdan were going riding the following morning, he told her one evening after dinner. That was when they would leave. There was no need for her to bring anything with her. With luck they would be in Kuwait by nightfall. He had plenty of travellers cheques and could draw on his father for extra funds. 'Just think,' he comforted her, 'within forty-eight hours you could be home.'

  Home! Danielle bit her lip, turning her head away. Didn't he realise there would be no 'home' for her ever again without Jourdan? He was her home; her world. And he loved Catherine.

  The morning was just like any other. The sun shone brassily from a perfectly blue sky. Danielle heard the sounds of Catherine and Jourdan de­ parting on their ride as she dressed. She went to her window, her eyes searching greedily for what would be her last sight of Jourdan, and as though sensing her eyes upon him, he glanced up towards her window. Just for a moment she longed to rush downstairs, to throw her arms round him and beg and plead to be allowed to stay, but the impulse was ruthlessly squashed. For Jourdan's sake, if not for her own, she must go.

  They set out within half an hour of Catherine's and Jourdan's departure. Danielle paid scant at­tention to the arrangements Philippe had made. It was all she could do to get herself into the Land Rover. He kissed her lightly as they drove out of the castle. Danielle had left a note for Zanaide thanking the little maid for all she had done for her. For Jourdan she had left nothing. He would make all the explanations that were needed once he had seen her safely on the plane, Philippe told her.

  Danielle guessed that scant explanation would be necessary. Jourdan would surely draw his own conclusions and be grateful for the opportunity of regaining his f
reedom and marrying the woman he actually loved.

  As they were heading for Kuwait they were not taking the road to Qu'Har, Philippe explained to Danielle, but one which led away from it.

  When he said this Danielle asked worriedly if that meant that they would have to cross the desert, but Philippe told her there was no cause for concern. He had visited Qu'Har as a boy and was quite at home in the desert. They would reach the border within a couple of hours, he confi­dently predicted.

  Four hours later he was forced to admit that this had been an foolishly optimistic claim. Heat shimmered all around them and Danielle was beginning to feel faintly sick. Although sturdy, the Land Rover possessed no air-conditioning and they were deep in the desert in the hottest part of the day, with no sign of the Kuwaiti border ahead.

  'We must have taken the wrong turning at that last fork,' Philippe admitted when Danielle ques­tioned him anxiously. He frowned as he glanced at the petrol gauge and muttered, 'We'll have to turn back.'

  'Wouldn't it be better if we rested for a while?' Danielle suggested timidly. Her head was begin­ning to throb agonisingly.

  'In this heat?' Philippe scoffed. 'How can we? If we don't keep moving the sun will melt the Land Rover around us. God, it's hot!' he com­plained, not for the first time, a petulant note entering his voice. It struck Danielle that he had been over-confident and was now not as sure of his directions as he was trying to pretend. Neither was he the ideal companion to find oneself with in a crisis. He complained endlessly about their surroundings—the heat, the idiocy of not having the desert tracks properly signposted, and Danielle, her head throbbing, said nothing. Jourdan had already told her how easily these desert roads were obliterated during sandstorms. Philippe was behaving more like a spoiled child than an adult male, but even the knowledge that they were probably in danger of becoming lost in some of the most inhospitable terrain in the world failed to puncture the bubble of misery that in­sulated her from normal fear.