Bought by the Sheikh

by Diana Fraser

  “He didn’t see it that way.” Gabrielle shrugged. “Besides, he’s gone now.”

  Mohammed leaned in toward Gabrielle, ignoring Zavian. “And the world lost a great man with his passing, but…” He sat back again, considering Gabrielle and then Zavian thoughtfully. “But, the debt remains. But it is to you now, rather than your grandfather.”

  Gabrielle smiled. “You owe me nothing, sir.”

  “On the contrary. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, all you have to do is contact me, and I will do my best to help.”

  “That is very kind of you, sir, but I assure you there is no debt either to my grandfather or myself.”

  He grimaced slightly. “You surely wouldn’t prevent an old man from repaying his debt?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good.”

  Zavian cleared his throat. “And your family are all well, Mohammed?”

  Mohammed rested his eagle glance on Zavian.

  “They are, Your Majesty. My wife thrives with her children and grandchildren all around her. Our life follows the traditional pattern and continues as my father and his father before him.”

  “Tradition is everything,” Gabrielle said.

  Mohammed smiled, but Zavian didn’t. Gabrielle was scoring another point. The comment was aimed at him, not Mohammed, who had turned away to respond to a waiter’s query.

  “Tradition is not everything, Gabrielle,” said Zavian in a low voice, hoping Mohammed wouldn’t hear. But then Mohammed turned to them both.

  Mohammed turned first one bushy-browed perceptive glance to Gabrielle before his gaze rested on Zavian. “Tradition is a complex thing, Zavian,” he said, dropping the formal title he’d been using all evening. “It can be changed and renewed, but it must always have an essence, don’t you think?” The old man turned to Gabrielle. “An essence, Gabrielle, is required. But the question is, what comprises that essence?” He smiled and stood up.

  “You’re leaving so soon?” asked Gabrielle, her heartfelt, genuine regret obvious. Zavian just wished she sounded so heartfelt with him. If Mohammed hadn’t been old enough to be her grandfather, he would have been jealous.

  “I am, my dear. We will be returning to my homeland early. But I hope you will be able to join us at our celebration of poetry.” What was the old man doing? Zavian saw the brief look of confusion on Gabrielle’s face. She recovered quickly.

  “It would be my honor as well as my pleasure.”

  “Good, then I will expect you as part of the royal entourage. That is all right, isn’t it, Zavian?”

  Zavian hadn’t thought to invite Gabrielle to such an event. It was small, insignificant and he was only attending because of his ties to Mohammed and his family. “Of course.”

  “Good,” replied Mohammed, looking back at Gabrielle once more. “And I hope that maybe I can repay that debt of mine.”

  Gabrielle smiled, but a frown settled as she watched the old man walk away.

  But Zavian didn’t frown. He felt his spirits lighten. As he watched Mohammed, Zavian thought for the first time that the old man might be on his side. He was going to look forward to this poetry celebration.

  Chapter 9

  Gabrielle looked around the group of people ranged around the campfire and wondered how she could have borne to be away for so long.

  As the sun began to slide behind the inky horizon, with the humps and rolls of the sand dunes all around the camp, encircling and cosseting them like a nurturing mother, the chanting of the Al-Taghrooda began.

  First, the haunting strains of the rababa filled the air, the bow drawn back and forth over the strings, while the player’s fingers move quickly over holes in the pipe at the top. Then a man’s voice rose and fell as he honored his home and family with his poetry. No sooner had his voice faded, than another answered him, responding to his words, affirming their traditions—shared history and friends and companions, traveling across the deserts in a camel train. They were words that had been passed down through the generations by the community of elders.

  The poets may have arrived by car, and the few camels grazed some distance away, but the sentiments were as relevant today as they had been over the centuries that the oral tradition had continued.

  A lump came into Gabrielle’s throat, which she tried unsuccessfully to swallow, as tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked furiously. She wanted no one to see, particularly Zavian. Seated with the women, who’d be performing their own Al-Taghrooda later, she glanced at where he sat with the other men.

  Zavian listened attentively, but she immediately noticed he had a different expression on his face than usual. His jaw was less tense, his eyes less guarded. She snatched in a short breath and returned her gaze to the poets, scarcely taking in the short movements of the poet’s whip—a reference to their heritage as camel riders—which marked patterns in the sand, emphasizing their poetry.

  Somehow she’d managed to avoid seeing Zavian alone over the few days since the dinner with Sheikh Mohammed. Other than her work, she’d kept to her room, and even Zavian had drawn the line at seeking her out there. Which was good because she had nothing to say to him. She was back to square one. Zavian wanting her but not loving her, and she, a misfit in the country she loved so much.

  But today she’d pushed aside any thought of being a misfit, to enjoy the traditional poetry which made her feel at one with this country.

  Then silence fell, and it was time for Gabrielle and the women to perform. She’d felt honored to be asked, as it was a privilege to participate. After a couple of women had recited their poetry, it was her turn. Although acutely aware of her difference to the women—taller and paler, as well as her accent—by the time it was her turn, she was lost in the words she recited, all thought of nerves vanished.

  She didn’t rise but, like the others, sat around the circle. The women’s poetry—Nabati poetry—focused more on the domestic world than the men’s. And the poem she’d chosen by a poetess called Bakhu Al-Mariyah was no different. It expressed, in Arabic, the poet’s longing for a tent and an over-riding love for the desert which called to Gabrielle above everything. It described how her gaze would rest on the “plain behind the mountain” where the Bedouin nomads would be making their desert camps.

  There were nods of approval for the poem’s sentiments and for her delivery, and then another poet began to perform. As she sat back and listened, the last words she’d spoken echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t help wondering if Zavian had received the message which lay behind her choice of the poem. Her heart belonged to freedom and the desert, not tied down to one place, one man, especially with a man who had no love for her.

  The dallah was taken from the burning embers of the fire, which were re-ignited, bursting a welcome warmth around the space. A woman poured hot water from the dallah into a tray of glasses, and the aroma from the sage-flavored tea rose into the air.

  Gabrielle took a sip of the sweet tea, washing away the taste of the roast goat. The colors of the flags which draped the outside of the tent, together with the traditional patterns of the inside, muted as the sun disappeared and a swift twilight followed, lit only by the fire and lanterns.

  Sheikh Mohammed spoke to Zavian, and he beckoned her over with a smile. With the formal part of the evening now over, people were moving around, greeting old friends. Gabrielle rose and greeted the sheikh.

  “Gabrielle!” Mohammed said with a smile, cutting through her formal greeting. “Come, sit by my side.”

  As Gabrielle sat between Zavian and the chief, more refreshments were brought, and she studiously looked at the tea rather than meet Zavian’s gaze which seared her cheeks.

  “Thank you, Gabrielle, for your poem,” Mohammed continued.

  “You’re most welcome.”

  “I, for one, appreciate your patriotism. For someone not of our country, you certainly share a deep love and appreciation for it. You show a loyalty to our land and people which some of our own people would do well
to emulate.”

  “I’m deeply honored you should think so, and also to be invited.”

  “You need no invitation from me to return to your spiritual home, Gabrielle,” Mohammed said.

  As her host’s attention was caught by one of his grandchildren, Gabrielle took a sip of her tea and pondered the old man’s words. She felt it to be her home. And Zavian had said as much.

  The flames of the firelight flickered into focus the paintings on the stone walls, which rose around them. The geometric designs of the tents under the towering palm trees shifted slightly in the night breeze. The smell of the blooms, large and white, hung heavily in the air.

  “Your ‘spiritual home,’ Mohammed said. ‘A patriot,’ ‘loyal to our land and people’.” Gabrielle turned to Zavian. He wasn’t looking at her, but gazing across the scene, at the people drinking, eating and talking. His face was rimmed with gold by the firelight.

  “He’s an old friend of my grandfather’s.”

  He turned to her sharply, and she could see a spark of anger and frustration in his eyes. “And what does that mean? That he says such things out of affection alone?” He leaned toward her, and his eyes darkened, transforming the anger into something quite different. “No, Gabrielle, he says them because they are true.”

  She gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the onslaught. “Just look at me, Zavian.”

  “I am.” And he was, more than she was comfortable with, but she’d invited it.

  “And what do you see?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “A woman who looks and sounds very different from anyone else here.” She shook her head.

  “Really, Gabrielle? You would not say such things of other people! You would not judge people in such a superficial, unimportant way as you have just described!”

  She sucked in air to respond, but his words stopped her. Instead, she tore her gaze from him as the truth of his words repeated in her brain, bombarding her defenses. The darting flames of the fire distorted the people’s faces on the far side of the space, and she turned quickly away from them, looking across to where one of the women she’d been seated with earlier gave her a warm smile which bloomed across her face, encompassing Gabrielle within it. She swallowed and smiled back before looking up at the dark, inky sky, but it held no relief from her thoughts. The stars stared right down at her as if accusing her with the same direct views as Zavian.

  She felt his hand on her arm. “Gabrielle,” he said softly, but she refused to turn to his word or touch.

  She shook her head. “Don’t. It’s impossible.”

  His hand squeezed around her arm, gripping it with an intensity that did make her turn to him. “You are a stubborn woman. What do I have to do, what do any of us have to do, to make you see clearly?”

  “Don’t you understand, Zavian? I daren’t see clearly. It’s my last defense.”

  “Defense from what?”

  She shrugged. “From rejection, I guess.” She looked down at his hand, which still gripped her arm. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know if he was gripping her arm like a lifeline, to be saved, or whether it was for her own benefit.

  “Do I look like I’m rejecting you? Do I sound as if I’m rejecting you? Does anything I’ve done appear like that?”

  “I know you want me now.” She didn’t tell him that she also knew why he wanted her. He wanted her because they couldn’t be near each other without wanting each other. But that was physical and ephemeral. “But it’s not enough to build a future on.”

  “I say it is.” His undertone revealed a savage desperation that surprised her. “I need you, Gabrielle. You connect me to my country like no one else can.”

  Something nagged at her mind. “When were you last here?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Since I was last with you.”

  “With me?” she repeated incredulously. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t been back to be with these people for over a year?”

  He nodded and looked away. “I could not bear it.”

  This got to her like nothing else had been able to do. “Zavian.” She placed her hand over his, which still lay on hers. He turned his around and captured hers, dropping it out of sight, beneath the table. His fingers explored hers, stroking along the length of hers, his eyes studying its progress as if mesmerized.

  He looked up, and she could have sworn there were tears in his eyes if she hadn’t known better. The King of Gharb Havilah didn’t ever cry, and nor did her ex-lover, Zavian.

  “Your hands are working hands,” he said with a strange gentleness.

  She laughed, the tension broken by his words. “I see your gift for giving compliments hasn’t changed.” The laughter settled into a smile on her lips. It had no reflection in his own serious expression.

  “I’ve never been good with words, you know that. It’s always been you who has possessed that gift.” He brought her hand up to the firelight, apparently uncaring if anyone should see. “But I do mean it as a compliment.” He slid his fingers up and down hers. “I remember watching you dig in the sands of the desert, and then at night…” Their gazes tangled for a moment as she wondered what he was going to describe. “Then, at night, your hardened fingers would hit the keys of your grandfather’s ancient typewriter, as you finished your work.”

  “No electricity in the desert,” she replied softly.

  He pulled her hand away and held it within both of his, carefully, examining it like a treasure which it was. He brought it up to the light. “I missed your hand.”

  “Just my hand?”

  She’d dipped her head to see his face better. He shook his head. “No, not just your hand.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, keeping her hand close, as he inhaled her as if she were a perfume.

  She laughed uncertainly. “Don’t tell me you missed the way I speak to you? Like a human being, rather than an acolyte?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t miss that. Why would I miss someone who fails to give Gharb Havilah royalty the respect it deserves?”

  “Ah, now there you’ve got it wrong. I respect Gharb Havilah royalty greatly. I just don’t respect stupidity.”

  He huffed a half-laugh at her direct response. “Are you calling me stupid, Dr. Taylor?”

  Her grin faded on her lips. “Not stupid. Never stupid, maybe misguided.” She searched his face, still with that strange, gentle expression she hadn’t seen before. “Lost, even,” she added.

  The gentleness was immediately replaced by a frowning indignance. “You think I’m lost? Whatever gives you that idea? It is I who am king of this country where I have lived my whole life, among my family, among my people. Why on earth would you think I was lost?”

  “Because you cling to rules and regulations and principles for dear life. If they slip from your grasp, where will you be? Adrift? Floundering? Out of control?”

  He ground his teeth. “You are letting your imagination run away with you. My life is ordered because it is most efficient that way. I don’t expect you to understand this. Your life has always been lived in chaos.”

  A look of regret passed over his face, and he opened his mouth to speak but shook his head instead. She slipped her hand out of his, and he didn’t try to stop her. He turned and called for a refill of his coffee.

  “I thought you missed my honest speech,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at her before holding up his cup to be refilled. “Only up to a point.”

  “And that point being no further than you can accept. Not beyond your own understanding.”

  “Enough!” he said. People looked around at his raised voice. His eyes closed briefly before nodding reassurance to those around him. “I’m not here to argue.”

  “Tell me, Zavian, truthfully, why do you want me?”

  “Is it not enough that I do want you?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “Not enough that a day hasn’t gone by since you left, without me dreaming of you, o
r imagining you, your kiss, your touch, you in my arms, in my bed?”

  She swallowed and shook her head.

  “Gabrielle! You cannot deny what we have.”

  She couldn’t deal with this anymore. “I don’t,” she said, jumping up and looking around. The desert had always been her escape, her world where she felt safe, but now she felt exposed and confused. “I have to go.”

  He rose, ignoring the curious looks from others. The music drowned out their words. “Not like this, please. I didn’t intend to drive you away. Quite the opposite. Please, sit down, and let’s talk.” His grip on her hand tightened. “Please, I need to be clear about why I brought you here from Oxford.”

  She nodded reluctantly, intrigued despite herself, and sat down. “Okay, tell me what you need to tell me, and then I’m going to bed.”

  He nodded and drew in a deep breath. Gabrielle could feel the effort it was taking him to do this.

  “You know I arranged it all.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I know now. At first, I didn’t.”

  “And that was because I didn’t mean you to. But what you don’t know is why.”

  “I have a good idea.”

  He held up his hand. “Let me tell you. I’d arranged it to get you out of my system.” She blanched, recoiled, but he didn’t stop. “I hated the fact I wanted you so much. That you wouldn’t leave my mind. And, I thought, it was because of lack. A question of simple economics—supply and demand.” She shook her head in disbelief. “If the supply was there—”

  “Me, being the supply?” she asked, incredulous.

  He nodded. “Then the demand—”

  “Your need for me.”

  “Would diminish, yes. But it didn’t work. I’d forgotten to factor into my plan certain things.”

  “What things?” She could hear the sharp edge of anger in her voice but did nothing to stop it.

  He dipped his head closer to her cheek and breathed in. “Things like your fragrance. Apparently, the law of economics doesn’t apply to fragrance.”