Daughter of Hassan

by Penny Jordan

  The sudden cessation of the Land Rover's normal motion to a series of jerky bumps, followed by Philippe' swearing and crashing the vehicle through the gears to a halt, did little to jolt her out of her despair, and when Philippe clambered out of the jeep and returned seconds later, his face grim, to tell her that they had had a puncture, she simply stared at him, not really contemplating the danger they were facing.

  'Do you want me to help you change the wheel?' she asked Philippe, unable to understand the reason for the sudden furious contortion of his expression until he said bitterly, 'We don't have a spare.'

  It took several seconds to sink it; several seconds during which Danielle had time to con­template the truth and find herself strangely un-fearful of it. If they had no spare tyre there was no way they could go any further in the Land Rover. No one knew where they were, including themselves, and Danielle knew that unless they were found in the next few hours by some mir­aculous fluke, they would probably both die.

  Once she had accepted the truth a strange sort of calm seemed to descend upon her. Philippe was the one who raved and cursed the exigencies of fate, even going as far as to blame her for per­suading him to set out for Kuwait . With new adult clarity Danielle saw that Philippe was bas­ically insecure and juvenile in his outlook on life, and must always find someone else to blame for his own shortcomings. Until now Jourdan had been a convenient scapegoat—Jourdan who was everything he himself was not.

  Like a mother with a hysterical child, Danielle soothed him as best she could with platitudes which she herself did not for one moment believe. It was impossible to believe that they would be found, and yet Philippe with almost childlike trust allowed her to persuade him that they might. There was water in the Land Rover, although a pitifully small amount, and although the roof kept off the direct heat of the sun, it was nevertheless-stifling inside the vehicle. Danielle was beginning to feel painfully sick, but with Philippe alternately pacing up and down outside the Land Rover and cursing profanely with increasing bitterness she felt reluctant to exacerbate the situation by men­tioning her illness.

  'Well, I'm not staying to die,' Philippe said violently at last. 'Oh, it's all right for you,' he sneered when Danielle said nothing. 'If you can't have Jourdan you might as well be dead—that's what you think, isn't it?' When Danielle said nothing he continued viciously, 'God, what a waste! You and I could have had fun together, Danielle, and had it financed by that stepfather of yours. Well, I'm not leaving you here to die. I can't afford to,' he added cruelly. 'You're my insurance policy, Danielle, and one that's going to pay divi­dends once we're out of here. I should imagine Hassan will be very grateful to the man who saves his precious stepdaughter's life, shouldn't you?'

  It was in vain for Danielle to protest that it would surely be better to remain where they were, or to point out that the Land Rover made a far more visible landmark than they would. Philippe insisted, and so reluctantly, Danielle followed him out into the burning heat of the desert.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She couldn't go on, Danielle thought wearily. She had no idea how far they had walked, or for how long. It felt like forever. She had protested once or twice at first that she had no hat and that they would be much wiser to remain with the Land Rover, but Philippe had bitterly opposed her objections. She stumbled and fell in the sand, her ankle wrenching awkwardly beneath her. In front of her she could see Philippe. He turned and glowered at her, coming back to yank her painfully upwards.

  'For God's sake try to keep up with me, can't you?' he demanded.

  Danielle knew better than to ask him where he thought they were going. They seemed to have been following this sandy track for a lifetime. Unlike her, Philippe was dark-skinned and used to the sun. Her face felt as though it were on fire, her head throbbing agonisingly with every step. Their water had all gone hours ago. She thought longing of the cool waters of the oasis; of English rain, and Philippe's outline shimmered before her tired eyes and she felt herself slip into a world filled with hallucinations and mirages.

  In one of them she thought she was lying on a soft bed, and that Jourdan was walking toward her. Only it wasn't Jourdan, it was Philippe, his face contorted with anger as he shook her brutally and demanded that she get to her feet.

  'All right then, damn you, lie there!' he screamed bitterly. 'I'd be better off without you anyway!'

  Danielle was glad when he had gone and she no longer had to listen to his hectoring voice. It was quite pleasant lying here really, or it would have been if her head didn't ache quite so much and her skin feel so sore.

  She was having a dream. She was on the beach, lying in the sun, and in the distance she could hear waves, only the waves kept on getting louder and louder and a sudden spurt of wind stirred the sand until it blew in her eyes and blinded her.

  Philippe must have returned, because she could hear him speaking, his voice raised in sharp pro­ test while someone else spoke in curt deeper tones in a voice whose icy disdain made Danielle flinch instinctively.

  'Danielle, Danielle, can you hear me?'

  She moaned and turned away from the deep voice, not wanting to be bothered. Some instinct told her that to respond to that voice would be to open the door to pain, and she had endured enough of that.

  'No, it's all right, I'll carry her,' she heard the same deep voice continue. 'She's been badly burned ... I could kill Sancerre for this!'

  There was a sensation of movement, and of warmth which had nothing to do with the fierce heat of the sun. She struggled instinctively against the treacherous lassitude of her own body, sensing a danger far greater than that represented by the harsh strength of the sun.

  'It's all right, mignonne.' the same deep voice reassured her. 'I know how you feel, but all that matters right now is getting you back to the castle.'

  Mignonne. The floodgates of her memory opened wide at the word and Danielle opened her painfully swollen eyelids to stare upwards into the face of the man who was carrying her.

  He seemed to have changed since she last saw him; his features had become more drawn, ac­centuating the arrogance of his profile—and no wonder, Danielle acknowledged, trembling. How galling it must have been for him to learn that far from being free of her, he was obliged to rescue her once again from the consequences of her own folly.

  'Don't try to speak,' he told her curtly. 'Your skin is badly burned, and we must get you back to the castle as soon as possible. What on earth . . .' He stopped, obviously clamping down on the words, and sensing his question Danielle murmured painfully.

  'It seemed the best thing. I just wanted to spare us both further pain.' There was no point now in pretending. He had said that he knew how she felt, and she could no longer keep up the pretence of concealing it. Not having to do so was a tangible relief, and she refused to think further than the moment. He was here; she was in his arms.

  His face looked bitterly grim. 'And you thought this was the way to do it? By cho'osing certain death?

  'Philippe thought he knew the way. Everything would have been all right if we hadn't had the puncture,' Danielle protested, moved to defend Philippe. She intended to say nothing about how Philippe had abandoned her—for now, with returning recognition, she realised that that was exactly what he had done, but Jourdan tossed her words contemptuously aside, his face an angry mask.

  'Oh yes, Sancerre is a great one for "thinking,"' he agreed sardonically. 'I've no doubt he also has a thousand plausible excuses for leaving you to die.'

  'He didn't mean to,' Danielle started to pro­ test, but Jourdan's expression forestalled her.

  In front of them was a helicopter which she now realised was responsible for the noisy 'waves' she had thought she had heard. Jourdan lifted her into it, positioning her comfortably on his lap.

  'What about Philippe?' She started to object as they became airborne, but her protests were waived aside with a curt, 'He will remain with my comptroller and the Land Rover. When the puncture is mended they will travel on to
Kuwait as Sancerre first intended.' His mouth a forbid­ding line, he added bitingly, 'Not even for your sake will I permit him to enter my house again. I have had my fill of uninvited guests!'

  Their return to the castle was a subdued one. It was dark when the helicopter put down, and Danielle learned from the few words that Jourdan exchanged with the pilot that the aircraft belonged to the oil company and that he had commandeered it immediately he learned of her and Philippe's disappearance.

  Ignoring the protests of his household, Jourdan carried Danielle not to her own room, but up to the room at the top of the turret, where Zanaide, who had been clinging anxiously at his side, was dismissed with a swift instruction in Arabic.

  'Your skin is badly burned,' Jourdan told her curtly. 'The pilot of the helicopter has gone to fetch a doctor to look at it. Until he comes Zanaide will sit with you.'

  Danielle must have made a small inarticulate protest, because he paused for a moment at the door, turning to study her gravely.

  'You wanted something?'

  'Only you,' Danielle longed to say, but instead she shook her head, a solitary tear coursing down her hectically flushed cheek.

  'Danielle, I . . .' What he had been about to say was lost as the door was thrust open and Catherine stood there, a picture of elegance in the very latest Parisian fashion.

  'Jourdan, where's Philippe?' she demanded imperiously, barely sparing Danielle a glance.

  'Your brother is on his way to Kuwait .' Jourdan said tersely, 'with two of my men to speed him on his way.'

  Catherine flashed Danielle a look of bitter dis­like before laughing acidly and coming into the room to place possessive fingers on his arm.

  'Darling, was that really necessary?' she purred. 'Poor Philippe, I'm sure he wasn't the only one to blame. It takes two, you know . . .'

  'It is not for running away with my wife that I refuse to have your brother beneath my roof for another night, Catherine,' Jourdan replied curtly, 'but because he callously left her to die.'

  'Oh, come, darling,' Catherine protested, dart­ing Danielle another venomous look. 'Are you sure you've got your facts right? Couldn't it have been Danielle who refused to go with him? After all, in giving up her position as your wife, she would be taking a considerable risk .. . You are after all a very wealthy man, while poor Philippe

  It wasn't like that at all, Danielle wanted to protest. The only reason she had consented to go with Philippe in the first place was to give Jourdan his freedom, but a terrible weariness seemed to be pressing down upon her. Her skin hurt and her whole body cried out for sleep.

  'We shall continue this discussion on another occasion,' she heard Jourdan telling Catherine, no doubt wanting privacy to confirm to her that the fact that he had rescued Danielle from the desert made no difference to his love for the French girl.

  The doctor came and made his examination with gentle hands. Her skin, being so fair, had burned quite badly he told her, but it looked worse than it actually was. Some deliciously cool­ing lotion was applied to her face and arms, im­mediately removing most of the pain. It was something new, the doctor told her in response to her hazy questions, containing an anaesthetic to effectively relieve the pain. Zanaide was to repeat the application whenever necessary, and in addi­tion he would give her a sleeping pill to ensure that she got some rest. She was a very lucky girl, he continued, and only Jourdan's prompt action had saved her from dehydration and ultimately death.

  Danielle thanked him for his care and obedi­ ently drank the bitter-tasting liquid he produced. Whatever he had put in it quickly induced sleep and her eyes were closing even as he left the room.

  When she opened them again the room was in darkness, and for a moment she panicked, not knowing where she was or why. A figure moved at the foot of the bed and she cried out in alarm.

  'No, it is not Philippe,' she was told in harshly controlled tones. 'By now Sancerre should be on his way to Paris, and if you find my presence here at your bedside unwanted, mignonne, try to re­member that it is expected by my household. You are my wife . . .'

  'A marriage of convenience only,' Danielle cried out bitterly. 'A marriage that . . .'

  'You will not talk of this now,' Jourdan silenced her firmly. 'When you are recovered, then we will talk of our marriage and of the future.'

  Danielle longed for the will power to tell him that she did not need his presence at her bedside and that he was free to go to Catherine, but it was all too fatally easily to give in to the desire to have him stay. She drew comfort from the knowledge of his presence and the false sense of intimacy it created. Tonight was hers, and she would guard its memory jealously.

  It was three days before she was pronounced well enough to leave her bed, and then only to go as far as the inner courtyard, when the sun had lost most of its power. Zanaide had accompanied her, but the maid had gone to bring her a cooling glass of sherbert, and Danielle was alone when she heard the imperious tap of Catherine's high heels on the cobbles. She knew who it was without turning her head or opening her eyes, and she felt Catherine sit down at her side in the seat which Zanaide had just vacated.

  'I know you aren't asleep,' Catherine began without preamble. 'Just how long do you intend to continue with this farce? Jourdan and I both know that you are now well enough to leave, but still you persist in remaining. Why? Do you hope to persuade Jourdan to continue your marriage out of pity? Surely even you must be aware by now that he doesn't want you?'

  Painfully weakened by her ordeal, Danielle could summon no defence. What Catherine said struck home to her heart. She was well enough to leave, but she had been putting off the final decision, dreading taking her final leave of Jourdan.

  'What are you waiting for?' Catherine goaded her. 'Jourdan to ask you to leave? Have you no pride?'

  Danielle heard the angry swish of silk skirts as the other girl moved away and Zanaide returned, but her words remained with her, and Danielle brooded on them until dawn pearled the sky. What was she waiting for? Jourdan to return her love? He knew how she felt, he had told her, and knowing, undoubtedly pitied her. She bit deeply into her lip, refusing to cry. Catherine was right:, she did not have any pride. When Zanaide came in with her breakfast she had made up her mind. She would leave today, but not as she had done before. She would tell Jourdan of her decision and wish him well for the future. Her mind made up, Danielle asked Zanaide to convey a message to Jourdan saying that she would like to see him.

  All day long she was on tenterhooks, expecting with every knock on her door that he was going to enter her room, but it was not until evening, when Zanaide had dressed her in a breathlessly fragile silk caftan and led her down to the court­yard, that she saw her husband. He looked tired and drawn. The strain of all his heavy re­sponsibilities, Danielle thought compassionately, and no doubt she had added to them.

  'Zanaide tells me you want to see me,' he said as he strode towards her. Danielle was sitting on the rim of the stone fountain, and found herself wishing that Jourdan would sit beside her, instead of towering above her. Now that the moment was upon her she was finding it incredibly difficult to find the words she knew she must. It would be fatally easy to lapse into self-pity and mutely plead with Jourdan not to send her away, but for his sake she must be strong.

  'What about?'

  This was her cue. Smiling as bravely as she could, she said lightly, 'About our marriage, Jourdan. We don't need to pretend to one an­ other—it was a mistake . . .'

  In the shadows of the garden his face seemed to grow taut, a muscle compressing along his lean jaw.

  'I too have been giving our marriage some thought,' he said emotionlessly. 'I had hoped . . .' he paused and seemed to hesitate, and then con­ tinued smoothly, 'No matter. Our marriage could perhaps be annulled providing you are prepared to perjure your soul by saying that we never came together as man and wife. I should not stand in your way, it was after all something you never wanted to happen, and no doubt an annulment would be more acceptable to the San
cerres.'

  Danielle stared up at him through a mist of pain. Was Jourdan' trying to tell her that he wanted her to lie; to pretend that he had never made love to her? A feeling of bitterness seemed to rise up inside her and choke her. She got to her feet, barely knowing what she was doing, a stiff little voice she barely recognised as her own saying that if he would make the arrangements she would leave as soon as possible.

  She had half expected the French girl to gloat over her at the dinner table, but instead she seemed sullen and preoccupied. The reason became obvious later in the evening when Danielle learned that Catherine was returning to France .

  'Don't think just because of this that Jourdan wants you,' she hissed vindictively at Danielle. 'I shall be back.'

  No doubt she would, Danielle thought miser­ ably. Jourdan was probably sending her away for her own sake, so that she would not be involved in any way in the annulment of their marriage.

  She was back in her own bedroom, and un­ dressed quickly, dismissing Zanaide, who was watching her with pensive eyes. How would Zanaide enjoying looking after Catherine? Danielle wondered. She had grown fond of the Arab girl and would miss her. Her cases were already packed and she had sensed Zanaide's dis­ approval as she watched her remove her clothes and make the preparations for her departure.

  Sleep seemed to elude her, and tonight more than any other night since her marriage Danielle needed its panacea. At last, acknowledging that her overwrought mind was not going to allow her to find oblivion, she climbed out of bed and found the thin silk robe Zanaide had placed at the foot of the bed. In the tower room were the tablets the doctor had given her. One of those would help her to sleep.

  The stone stairs felt cold to her bare feet, and too late Danielle acknowledged that she should have worn something on them. The tower door yielded immediately beneath her fingers, the moonlight turning the pale silk of her gown into a cobwebby substance through which the slender lines of her body were immediately visible to the a man seated by the window.