Court of Veils

by Violet Winspear

  Da-ud hopped off with a grin that cut a white line in his brown face. ‘He’s a Berber,’ Duane said in answer to Roslyn’s inquiring look. ‘They and the Arabs are two distinct peoples.’

  ‘But like the Arabs you consider that grey eyes are not to be trusted.’ Her ice-cooled drink had a delicious spicy taste.

  ‘Eyes of grey stay away,’ his look pierced her over the rim of his glass. ‘They do have something a trifle mysterious about them. Maybe it’s because they can catch the light, and also the shadows, like a deep lake.’

  ‘I must go and see the Temcina Lake,’ she said quickly, heat in her cheeks. ‘Why did your boy call you El Rumh?’ He shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s a name I have around these parts.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  'I’ll be darned if I’ll tell you.’ He laughed curtly and set aside his empty glass. ‘You women are as inquisitive as horses.’

  ‘How flattering!’

  ‘I never flatter.’ There was a twist to his mouth. ‘It makes a woman look coy, and I dislike coyness.’

  ‘I think you dislike quite a lot about women,’ she dared to say.

  ‘Like horses, I prefer those with a bit of temper in them.’

  ‘The women rate second place, I notice.’

  ‘Why not?’ His face in that moment was as hard as teak. ‘Women are too often less loyal than the horse, and though both are equally greedy for sugar, a horse can’t sweet-talk a man into making an ass of himself.’

  ‘That is your definition of a man in love, I take it, Mr. Hunter?’

  ‘Take it whichever way you like, Miss Brant. Love is a fool’s game, and if Armand hadn’t got enticed into playing it, he’d have come home much sooner and would probably be alive today.’

  Her face tightened with pain at his words. ‘The Arabs say In sha Allah. Don’t you believe that what is to be will be?’

  ‘If all our little histories are already written,’ he said cynically, ‘then this whole shebang of a world is a puppet show, with you, me, and everyone else all dancing on the end of strings. I don’t like that! I want to be the boss of my own fate.’

  ‘You would “cleave the earth and equal the mountains”?’ she half smiled. ‘You’re an arrogant man, and a rather frightening one, Mr. Hunter.’

  ‘You carry plenty of sail for a cockleshell, Miss Brant.’ He was beside the divan in a stride ... offering her a hand up, a grin on his lips.

  ‘I thought you never flattered women.’ Uncurled off the divan and standing in front of him, she had to put back her head to look at him, way above her, tough and tanned.

  ‘I don’t,’ he jeered. ‘Kids don’t matter, and you look like one in pants, curled among those pelts of mine.’

  ‘You certainly live up to your name,’ she gestured round the room. ‘Quite a few animals must have fallen to your gun.’

  The jaguar and leopard skins are off cats I killed, he agreed mockingly. ‘Both are killers for the sake of the kill, but the ocelot skins were a gift from a Jivaro chieftain. Does your store of remembered facts include the Jivaro and their main speciality?’

  How sarcastic he could be! With her hand itching for contact with his jaw, she turned from him and went and stood in the archway that framed the walled garden. ‘Your arrogant head would have made a redoubtable trophy,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘I can’t understand why the Jivaro weren’t tempted.’

  He laughed right behind her, and she stepped out quickly into the patio where Da-ud was laying the ironwork table for their breakfast. He flashed her a mischievous smile, which she answered absently. She didn’t want to eat breakfast with Duane Hunter in his patio. She didn’t like the man, and as Da-ud went indoors she swung round on Duane and saw him lounging against a palm trunk, crushing the bougainvillea at its base. ‘You’re so sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she accused. ‘Armoured against most of the pricks and pains felt by other people.’

  ‘Most of the pricks and pains?’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Surely I’m immune to all of them?’

  ‘I thought so, at first,’ she fingered the cape of green and mauve creepers, and added recklessly: ‘It quite surprised me to hear that someone did manage to find a chink in your armour - a woman, I understand.’

  The patio was hung with silence, then Roslyn’s gasp was almost a cry as Duane’s hands caught hold of her shoulders. ‘Who told you that?’ His face above her was a series of harsh, cold angles. ‘Was it Nanette ?’

  ‘No-no—’

  ‘Who, then ?’ He shook her and a strand of fair hair fell into her eyes. ‘Come on, tell me!’

  ‘I - I heard you telling Isabela - last night.’ Roslyn was suddenly frightened of his touch, which bruised, and the copper flames in his green eyes. ‘L-let me go - you’re hurting me!’

  It only hurt her all the more to struggle, and indignation blazed in her eyes when he said coldly: ‘Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect the privacy of other people?’ ‘You should keep your voice down when you say good night to Isabela right under my window,’ she fought back. ‘I don’t want to overhear the secrets you confide to her. I’m just not interested, or concerned because some woman caused you to become hard-boiled and cynical.’

  Again there was that taut silence between them, so that the hidden chirr of cicadas and the trickle of water among the encircling trees seemed more persistent. Roslyn’s heart was beating rapidly and though Duane Hunter’s face was now deadly still, she could envisage the wince that had flicked across it a moment ago.

  That wince of pain confirmed what she had thought last night ... he cared still for the woman he had known before he came to Dar al Amra.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE tension became a palpable humming, then Roslyn saw a ruby-throat go whirring by, gay as a kiddy’s toy.

  ‘Come, we had better eat our kebabs before they get cold.’

  Duane let her go and she walked past him to the table, where Da-ud stood regarding them with slant-eyed interest. Roslyn slipped into the patio chair which Duane drew out for her with curt politeness, and as soon as they were both seated Da-ud, bursting with pride, whipped the domes off the plates set in front of them. Le petit déjeuner est servi,’ he said, turning at once to Roslyn to add: ‘You think, lella, I am speaking English and French pretty good?’

  ‘As good as all this, Da-ud,’ she smiled, gesturing at the liver kebabs with sections of onion and tomato, bread with a glistening crust, a rose of butter, and the jar of honey beside a mound of small fluffy doughnuts.

  ‘You’ve excelled yourself, Da-ud,’ Duane said approvingly.

  Da-ud beamed all over his face and after pouring their coffee into brass-held cups, he plucked a fistful of marigolds and laid them beside Roslyn’s plate. ‘Bon appetit,’ he said in French, and backed off into the house with an Eastern salaam.

  Roslyn laughed and fingered her posy, the bean-spici-ness of the coffee mingling with the sun on trees and creepers. ‘How charming,’ she said meaningly.

  ‘If a Berber or an Arab takes to you, then you’ve made a friend for life.’ Duane informed her, forking kebab into his mouth. ‘They can also be as heartless as vultures, and shrewd as Swiss bankers. I found Da-ud a couple of years ago working in the Berber hills, using a sling that whizzed stones at the birds who came after the sparse crops they managed to grow up there. He was half-starved, eager as anything to work for a European. Everything that comes to the table is native, and I’m afraid my guests have to put up with what is provided.’

  ‘You’re never afraid, Mr. Hunter,’ she rejoined. ‘Anyway, I’m enjoying every mouthful of Da-ud’s cooking -this bread has an intriguing flavour!’

  ‘It’s semolina bread,’ he informed her. ‘Makes crunchy toast. We should have asked for some - shall I call the boy?’

  She shook her head. ‘I like it as it is, with butter.’

  ‘D’you like your coffee?’

  She nodded, and he refilled her cup. ‘Well made Arab coffee is about the best,’ he said. ‘But take m
y advice and steer clear of mint tea. It’s as horrible as it looks.’

  ‘Then it’s taken for granted that I’m staying at Dar al Amra,’ she remarked in a while, her lips sticky and sweet from doughnut and honey.

  ‘Nanette needs someone,’ he said crisply. ‘Be good to her, I’m warning you. She’s the first woman in my life, and I can be hellishly angry on her behalf.’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’ Roslyn hid the sudden shake of her lips behind her table napkin. She was half annoyed again, half wounded. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling to be under suspicion, even by the Hunter man who had a down on all women outside the magic circle that included only his grandmother and the lovely Latin whose golden voice seemed to tame his savage breast.

  When the time drew near for him to take her home, he told Da-ud to get the stable-hand to saddle him a mount. One mount? Roslyn stiffened in her chair, her eyes fixed on Duane as he bent his head to fire a cheroot.

  The sun struck full on his coppery hair as he blew a plume of strong smoke. ‘Even if you could ride, I wouldn’t trust you alone on one of my Barbs,’ he drawled.

  ‘Couldn’t we walk?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘I’ve wasted enough valuable time this morning, Miss Brant.’ He quizzed her through his cheroot smoke. ‘There’s no need to look apprehensive. Barbs are highly strung, but I’m quite proficient at handling them. What are you scared of ?’

  He knew all right! It was a relief when his Saluki came bounding to the table, still wary of her but not averse to the scraps of liver left from her breakfast.

  The Barb was saddled and brought round to the patio. It was a glossy fawn colour with a dark-honey muzzle, sidling nervously until Duane approached and ran a soothing hand down the curving neck. He spoke to the horse in the Berber tongue, then he beckoned to Roslyn, who came to his side feeling less nervous of the spirited Barb than of its master.

  ‘You’ll add no more weight to Lekna’s back than the cloak I wear for my evening gallops,’ Duane said.

  ‘Lekna? What a beautiful name for a horse.’ Her hand was pale against the silky coat, then her fingers were clenching the dark mane as without warning Duane took hold of her and shot her on to the back of this animal with wicked ears close to its head and the speed of the wind in its every sinew. With a supple bound Duane was in the saddle behind her, his arms a muscular arc around her as he took the reins.

  ‘All set?’ he demanded.

  She nodded, the breath knocked out of her throat at finding herself in his arms in this way, the wall of his chest against her lightly-clad shoulder, firm and alive with the vigour of the man.

  The Barb broke into a canter and they passed under the patio archway and out among the date-palms. The green coolness swooped down like a wing, and Roslyn held herself rigid so as not to feel again the lift and fall of Duane’s chest. The human feel that rendered him less frightening and at the same time more unnerving ... ‘H-how tall these trees are,’ she said nervously.

  Thirty to forty feet,’ he replied. ‘The trees of life that grew in the Garden of Eve. Did you know that the date palm as to be “married” by human hand?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her eyes on the brown hand that held the reins in front of her.

  ‘The male palm has about ten “brides” who yield fruit to him after pollination,’ Duane went on. ‘The date-palm bears its first fruit at eight years of age, and is mature at thirty. It yields for close on a century. Wonderful, eh?’

  ‘A woman should be as clever,’ she agreed pertly. ‘No wonder you’re in love with your trees.’

  ‘No wonder.’ He gave a short whiplash of a laugh. ‘What woman could provide so well for a man for a hundred years? FrUit to subsist on, shade in the sun, a roof and bedding provided by its leaves and fibres. Everything - even peace of mind.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought that peace of anything appealed to you,’ she said. ‘Anyway, if the primitive offers peace, then women must also provide it to a certain extent. We are primitive, aren’t we?’

  ‘Primitive, but far more subtle than either the jungle or the desert,’ he drawled.

  ‘You said I should like the desert, Mr. Hunter. Did you mean it?’

  ‘Why not?’ His tone of voice was indifferent. ‘You seemed on the harem tower last night to appreciate its mystery, its sense of the infinite that invites forgetfulness.’ It flashed across her mind that she had more than her share of forgetfulness to contend with already, but she held back from reminding him of the fact. To him her amnesia was like a red rag to a bull, and being this close to him drained her of fight, made her helplessly aware that his mercy would never be sweet.

  ‘If you’re keen to see something of the desert, I daresay Tristan could be persuaded to take you exploring.’ He glanced down at her, and as it happened she was half turned to meet that glance. His face in the green light of the trees had something devilish about it; all that was untamed in the desert - his desert, which he didn’t offer to show her - seemed reflected in his eyes as they met hers.

  ‘Is Tristan fond of the desert?’ she asked. ‘Somehow he seems too sophisticated.’

  ‘For all his city manners, Tristan has more illusions about places and people than I had even as a schoolboy,’ came the dry reply. ‘He’s like his namesake, the Knight of Brittany. A gallant in search of a damsel in distress.’ ‘Anyone can see that Tristan is kind.’ Roslyn was rigid with awareness of the arm that half encircled her, ridged with muscles whose steel was only inches from her body.

  ‘And anyone can see that I am not.’ His laughter brushed her nape, and even as she felt its warmth something in the path of the Barb caused it to rear suddenly and sharply into the air. Roslyn was pitched against Duane and his arm crushed her as he gripped the reins and forced the Barb back to a canter. His arm relaxed and as Roslyn caught her breath, he glanced down at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said curtly. ‘Did I hurt you?’

  She shook her head, and though his arm was now held away from her, she still felt the hard muscles straining into her softness.

  The green shadows were gradually turning gold, and a few minutes later they came in sight of the lion-coloured walls of Dar al Amra. Relief was a taste in Roslyn’s throat. She could hardly wait to escape from Duane Hunter.

  ‘I’ll drop you off just here,’ he said, and the Barb was halted just short of a side entrance. Duane dismounted and gave her a hand down.

  ‘Thank you for coming to my rescue, and for feeding me,’ she said, her triangular eyes of rain-grey lifted to his face, her face here in the green-gold shadows that of a young and wistful witch.

  ‘It was a mere stroke of luck that I came along with my dog.’ A smile crisped the edge of his mouth, mocking and careless. ‘Kismet, as they say here in this land of locusts and honey.’

  ‘You don’t believe in Kismet,’ she reminded him.

  ‘The Devil knows!’ His wide shoulders lifted on a shrug. ‘I am not constituted to accept, I want to take. And you, young Roslyn, are you woman enough to know that it is the basic difference between the sexes?’

  His brows made a fierce, straight line, the flesh was close to the hard, thrusting bones of his face. His eyes were green as the palm leaves that lanced in the sun, narrow and glittering.

  ‘I know that we shall fight whenever we meet,’ she said. ‘I have been warned.’

  ‘Men and women are always at war with each other about something,’ he drawled. ‘Even in each other’s arms they only recoup their energy for more fighting.’

  ‘What a cynical outlook on life,’ she chided him.

  ‘I wasn’t being entirely cynical,’ he rejoined. ‘Sex is a fundamental truth, but very few people like facing it. Instead they dress it up in all sorts of romantic garments, veils of illusion, disguising a basic drive as a dream. It is better to see things as they are, Miss Brant. Dreams are for those who want to be hurt.’

  With that he turned from her and vaulted into the saddle of his Barb. He threw her a farewell salutation and as he wheeled his horse
, man and mount were outlined vividly against the trees. Both were alive with a violence that made Roslyn retreat against a bush of flowers, some of which burst and shed musky petals over her shoulders and bare arms. Duane gave the Barb its head, and soon the pair were lost among the trees and their thunder died away into silence.

  As Roslyn entered Dar al Amra, the slave gate gave a clang behind her. The lion-coloured walls all around were high ... guarding the citadel where she must remain until the spell upon her was broken. .

  The Sleeping Beauty was awoken with a kiss, she thought, and with a sigh she sat down under the weeping-pepper tree and watched the fountains pulsing upwards, pluming into the sun. Well, whatever kind of person she had been before the crash, one thing was certain. She was deeply responsive to the things of nature. She felt more at ease among them than with people.

  ‘... books in the running brooks, and good in everything.’ Though her mind was divided territory, she remembered lines like that, but she could not tell Nanette about the happiness she must have felt with Armand ... if she had loved him?

  Love, the quiet delight that surges beneath the surface ... the torrent that breaks its dams at high-tide. The wonder, and the wild desire, they left their wounds, too deep for the heart or the soul’s forgetting.

  Yet she had forgotten what love had felt like, and so she must doubt that she had ever felt its full force. She shivered in the sun of the east, and knew a desperate yearning for the truth that was locked away in her mind, the key to it lost. She couldn’t bear to think that she might be the kind to deceive a man . . . yet when Duane Hunter had talked about deception she had felt a curious sensation of guilt, as though subconsciously she knew his distrust of her to be justified.

  Oh no! She jumped to her feet and ran from her thoughts to the comfort of Tristan and his music.

  In the days that followed Roslyn didn’t venture again into the palm groves, where she might meet Duane unexpectedly.