The Governess and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  She wanted to believe him. She wanted to be persuaded. If he could speak as he just had, if he could admit to so much that he had never before admitted to, and speak of it, too—she wanted so much to hope that this would lead to that. She knew she should resist, but that was the one thing she did not want to do. She was in danger of being swept away. Oh, lord, how much she wanted to surrender to the surging tide of her love for him. ‘I—Jamil, I…’

  ‘Cassie. Cassie, Cassie, Cassie. I want you so much. Let me show you how much,’ he said urgently, pulling her close, moulding her body into his, smoothing his hands over her back, down her spine to the delightful little curve where it ended at her bottom. ‘Let me prove to you that passion is enough, more than enough, to base a marriage on. Let me show you that this is what really matters.’ He nuzzled the tender skin behind her ear lobe, licking into the crease there.

  She wanted to be persuaded. She wanted to give him every chance. She wanted, wanted, wanted. His hands were trailing heat. His mouth was plucking desire from deep within her, raising it to the surface so that her skin burned with it. How could she resist?

  ‘Cassie?’

  She could not deny him. She could not deny herself. He was sure he was right? But how could she prove to him that she was right? ‘Make love to me, Jamil.’ She kissed his neck, the hollow of his throat, relishing the tangy, masculine scent of him. ‘Make love to me.’ Please, please, let me be right. Let it be love.

  She tilted her head back so that he could kiss her throat. His lips trailed heat down to where her breasts rose and fell from her décolleté.

  ‘I have waited so long for this moment,’ Jamil murmured huskily.

  He placed little fluttering kisses on the pulse at her collar bone, up to her ear, round to her mouth, making her thirsty for his, making her moan and clutch at him, until finally, finally, he kissed her, and she was lost. She had never tasted such kisses, could not ever imagined having enough of such kisses, thought she would die if she did not have more.

  He kissed her and, somehow, she did not know how, he had loosened her dress, and now he was kissing her breasts, sucking hungrily at her nipples, tugging kisses, first one, then the other, and then the first one again, so that she could not think, could not think of anything save the aching pull that connected Jamil’s mouth, his hands, her breasts, the throbbing, swelling pulse between her legs.

  She was lying on a divan now, though she had no memory of getting there. Her dress was loose. Her slippers were gone. Her skirts were rucked up. Jamil’s kisses were hard, demanding, his fingers stroking at the heat between her legs, making her buck under him, making her body clamour for satisfaction, for gratification, for him. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘please.’ Please love me. Please don’t ever leave me. Please. She clung to him and her climax neared, neared, neared, came, making her cry out.

  Barely had she floated back to earth than she became conscious of him naked beside her, his erection proud and curved and frighteningly large. He was arranging her on the divan, placing pillows under her, murmuring soothing phrases, promising her it would not hurt. What would not hurt?

  He looked at her, barely able to believe it was finally about to happen. He ached with need, was heavy with the seed he was desperate to spend inside her. And she was so ready for him, so wet and pink, still pulsing from her climax. He angled himself carefully over her. Not his favourite position, but the one least likely to hurt her. And he wanted to see her face. His manhood nudged at her entrance. By the gods, let him be able to control himself. He kissed her deeply, slowly, and slowly began to nudge inside her, almost crying out aloud at the delight of it.

  He pushed gently, deeper, testing for the point where her maidenhood would end, meeting it, readying himself to thrust, so taut with the strain of controlling his own urge to pound into her that he could barely breathe. ‘I will try my best not to hurt you, trust me,’ he said, and thrust.

  A sharp pain, like the tearing of cloth. Cassie tensed, but it was gone almost as quickly as it happened, submerged in the waves of something much more piercing. He was inside her. She could feel him, shaped into her, the most wonderful, unbelievable, indescribable feeling, as if he were made for her. Who would have thought? She opened her eyes, a hazy smile on her bruised lips, to tell him, and saw the strain of his control etched on his beautiful face. Instinct took over.

  Cassie arched her back the tiniest bit to encourage him. ‘Please,’ she whispered, this time in no doubt of what she wanted. Jamil tilted her towards him. He kissed her, tongue pushing into the heat of her mouth, and his manhood pushing into the heat of her sex. Like petals unfolding, like leaves unfurling, she felt herself give and give as he moved ever deeper into her, so slowly she felt every tiny fraction of him easing his way until he was sheathed. Ripples of sensation made her cling to him. She felt him pulsing as she clung, and clung all the more fiercely to him.

  Ecstasy. She was ecstatic with sensation. Jamil withdrew and then pushed back inside her, like an ebb and a flow, more decisive now, as if the tide were turning as she tightened around him. She arched her back and he plunged ever deeper. She could hear his little grunts of effort, heard her own strange mewling response, felt his shaft swell and thicken, felt herself tensing again, and, as he cried out his gratification as he surrendered suddenly to the intensity of his own climax, she felt her own surge and swirl around her again and again, catching her up and casting her adrift, lost in a world that was only she and he and the one that they had become. Who would have believed it? Cassie thought, clinging and clinging to him, holding him to her, inside her, feeling the last ripples of his orgasm send responding echoes of her own shivering through her, until she thought she would die of pleasure.

  Jamil rolled over on to his back, pulling her with him, reluctant to disconnect from her, already wanting more. It was all he had dreamed. All he had fantasised. More. He had never felt so—satisfied? Not just that. Sated? Not yet. Whatever it was, he wanted more. And he could have it now. Any time. Every day. Cassie was his. With a lazy smile of satisfaction, he twisted a long golden curl of her hair, which had escaped its elaborate braid, around his finger. Jamil was not a possessive man, but there was something primal about his feelings for this wilful, beautiful Englishwoman that made him want to mark her as his own. His woman. His wife.

  Cassie opened her eyes to find Jamil gazing down at her, his eyes glowing with satisfaction and intent. ‘A penny for them,’ she said, smiling up at him.

  He looked quizzically at her. ‘An English saying,’ she explained. ‘It means tell me what you are thinking.’

  Jamil’s laugh was a low growl of intent. ‘I’m thinking that, having made my point so eloquently, I would like to make it again. Right now.’

  She could feel his stiffening manhood nudging against the small of her back. He was indeed more than ready to take his pleasure. To give her pleasure. To make love? A crushing weight of disappointment hovered like a cloud, waiting to envelop her in its gloom. He had not said it. The words, which she was having to almost physically swallow, were never going to touch his tongue. She had poured her love over him, on to him, into him, in the hope that it would rouse the same feelings in him, but it had not. It had not. Had it?

  She had to know. ‘Jamil, don’t you feel any different, now that we have…?’

  He nuzzled her neck. ‘Feelings, always feelings with you, Cassie. You know how I feel.’ He took her hand and placed it on his manhood. ‘This is what I feel for you.’

  Passion. Desire. Not love. It would never be love. She had her answer. What a fool she had been! What a complete and utter fool! She felt the little fledgling of hope drop broken-winged to the ground. Jamil did not love her. Jamil would never love her. Worse! He’d made it clear, perfectly, abundantly, unequivocally clear, that he did not want her love. He wanted her body. It was all he’d ever want from her. She’d hoped he’d wanted her, Cassie, the person inside, not the packaging. She felt sick. And angry. And cheated. The pain enveloped her, a
dense black mass of despair. She had to get out of here, away from him, before he saw, because that would be the ultimate humiliation. Pushing herself free from his embrace, Cassie sat up. ‘No!’

  Jamil tried to pull her back down again. ‘Did I hurt you? Next time, I promise it will not…’

  She struggled frantically to release herself, terrified lest her love, her poor wounded love, would clutch at the crumbs he offered, pleading that they would be enough, knowing they were not. She had to get away. ‘Leave me alone. Get off me.’ She struggled to her feet, breathing harshly.

  ‘Cassie, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘You didn’t hurt me. And there won’t be a next time.’

  ‘If you mean you wish to wait until after we are married, then I would respect your wishes,’ Jamil said reluctantly. It would be a compromise. A severe compromise, but the rites could be arranged quickly. Well, relatively quickly. Six weeks. The very notion of waiting six weeks filled him with horror.

  ‘We’re not getting married.’

  Her words had a finality to them that cut into him like a dagger. For a few moments Jamil could only stare at her in stupefaction as Cassie began to right her clothing. ‘You are being ridiculous,’ he finally managed. ‘I thought you understood. Tonight—’

  ‘I do understand. I wish I didn’t, but I understand. You’ve made it perfectly clear.’ She was trembling. Her fingers could not manage her buttons. She could not tie her lacings. Hastily clutching her dress together anyhow, she clenched her fingers into little fists and folded her arms across her chest, partly to steady herself, partly to hide her anguish from Jamil. If only he would not look at her so. If only…

  She steeled herself. If only belonged in the world of fairytales and poetry. This was the real world. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice cracking, ‘I can’t marry you.’ He looked so thunderstruck that she could not resist touching him, putting her little clenched fist to his arm, but Jamil shook her off angrily.

  ‘You still insist on love, Cassie? You are deluded, for you are looking for something that does not exist. You will not find it. Here or anywhere else.’ Cassie flinched. I have found it, I have. But it was no use. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, for there was nothing more to be said.

  He felt as if the world was coming crashing down around him. All his certainties. All his plans. Gone, in an instant. Suddenly, it was too much. ‘Get out!’ he roared. ‘Get out of here, and never let me set eyes on you again.’

  She had the distinct impression that her heart was breaking, something that turned out to be no poetic licence. Not just her heart. Her world. She was on the brink of a precipice. The urge to hang on with her fingers was so strong she almost followed it. To have just a little was surely better than to have nothing?

  Cassie wavered. To be his wife, to be desired, if not loved—surely that was still worth having? But one look at Jamil’s face told her that option was no longer open to her. And anyway, in her heart, that poor, wounded heart of hers, she knew it would be wrong. She loved him absolutely. Nothing else would suffice.

  Jamil’s skin was pale, his lips two thin lines. Almost, Cassie did not recognise him. ‘I’ll bid you goodbye then.’ Her voice wobbled. She waited, but Jamil made no reply, staring resolutely over her head, as if she did not exist. Cassie turned, with a heavy heart, and made for the courtyard door.

  After it closed behind her, Jamil retrieved his scimitar from the ceremonial case in which it lay glittering wickedly. Returning to the courtyard, with a fierce intake of breath, he lifted it high over his head and brought it down in a series of smooth, vicious arcs, neatly slicing through a row of ornamental bay trees, leaving the tops of the bushes lying like the heads of decapitated soldiers on a battlefield.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jamil left Daar-el-Abbah early the next morning. Cassie had dealt a bitter blow to his pride, but the knowledge, lurking in the dark recesses of his mind, that it was not sufficient to quell his overwhelming need to make her his, was what made it necessary for him to leave the royal palace. Knowing she was there, within its walls, was too much of a temptation. He would not beg, he would not demean himself by showing such weakness, but Cassie had the ability to scramble his senses so effectively he decided not to take the risk. Taking decisive action would help restore his shattered equilibrium. He decided to act on Halim’s advice and deliver the news of the broken betrothal to Princess Adira’s family in person.

  He rode out on his white camel at the head of a small caravan. At least, it was what Halim called a small caravan, for it consisted of ten guards, about the same number of servants, and twenty mules carrying, in addition to the tents and hangings, a number of valuable gifts for the princess and her family. Jamil did not wish to be accused of a lack of generosity. Most certainly he did not want to risk offence. Though no one, he thought cynically, could possibly be offended by such an excessive hoard of gold and precious jewels.

  He had no real reason to break the betrothal now, but he was more convinced then ever that he could not take the Princess Adira or the Princess Anyone as his wife. In fact, the very notion of a wife at all filled him with repugnance. With one exception. But that he would not think about.

  Yet later, unable to sleep, padding silent as a panther beyond the perimeter of the camp, Cassie was all Jamil could think about. That he still wanted her with an unabated passion, he could not understand. She had rejected him not once but twice. That fact alone should be enough to tear her from his thoughts, to rip all desire for her from his body, but it was not. He could not fathom it, any more than he could understand Cassie’s refusal. Her passion for him was as strong as his for her, there was no mistaking that. She had given herself with an abandon that fired his loins, had relished their union every bit as much as he. She would have given herself again with very little persuasion, he was sure of that, yet she would not take him as a husband. It was ironic—not that he was in the mood for irony—that all he believed of Englishwomen previously was proving quite untrue. They had a reputation for being keen to snare a husband, but less than enthusiastic about activity in the marital bed afterwards. Cassie, unfortunately, was proving to be the exception.

  Jamil sat down on a large boulder at the furthest edge of the oasis and watched morosely as two scorpions carried out an elaborate mating dance on the sand. Ritual and instinct. The dance. The copulation. The production of young. Not so very different from the way he had been raised to think of his own marriage. The wedding contract and formal rites. The mating. The production of heirs. The separation of the harem, of women and children from men. As in the world of the scorpions, so in the world of the royal palace. He had his role. His wife had hers. So it had always been.

  Not any more. He did not want it. He would not have it. Traditions had often irked him, but until recently he had not been inclined to challenge them. It was Cassie who had questioned, Cassie who had given him pause, Cassie who had, without him noticing, subtly altered his whole way of thinking. And Cassie who had made him realise how lonely life as a prince could be. She had taken away that loneliness, too.

  Everyone needs someone! A curse upon her! If she had not challenged and provoked and forced him to see his life through her eyes, then he could have carried on as he was. As he had always been. If not happy, then content.

  But that was a lie. He had not been content; she was right about that, too. His past had always haunted him. He realised with a start that it no longer did. The dreams, the memories that had tortured him, had gone since that day she had broken his father’s whip over her knee. Cassie had performed some sort of exorcism.

  She did not deserve his curses, she deserved his admiration for the way she had adapted to a foreign land, one with a fierce climate and an alien tongue. Had thrown herself with gusto into the fray, transforming his daughter in the process, demonstrating a love of the desert and Daar-el-Abbah’s history that rivalled his own. She had even begun to master the rudiments of the language. Underneath that beautifu
l and desirable exterior lay a quite remarkable person, Jamil could now see.

  He smiled, thinking of the many occasions upon which she had blurted out her thoughts, the way she would cover her mouth with her hand as if to push the words back, the endearing combination of guilt and defiance in her big blue eyes. The memories triggered others. The fearless way she rode, the endless patience she displayed with Linah, the care she put into the smallest of tasks, the way she smiled and the way she laughed and the way she frowned, chewing on her lower lip when she was thinking something over. The way she clasped her hands when she was nervous. The tender way she talked about her sisters. The hurt she tried to hide when talking of her father. She never lied, or even prevaricated. She said what she thought, often—too often, maybe—regardless of the consequences. She would not be ordered, but she would be guided. And she listened. She really listened, in a way that no one else did. She wore her feelings plainly on her beautiful face.

  The scorpions had gone. The oasis was perfectly still. Above him, a crescent moon shone weakly through an unusual covering of light cloud. Jamil picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers. He had made no arrangements for her departure, but he had given no commands to prevent it, either. That note of finality in her voice could not be ignored. She would go, might even be gone by the time he returned. He should be pleased. Temptation would be removed. But as he watched the sand trickle from his palm, Jamil felt a piercing sadness. Closing his fingers, he tried to catch the last few grains, but it was too late. His hand was empty. Beyond the oasis, the vast plain of the desert stretched. His desert. His kingdom. His life. Empty.

  There was a time for enduring alone, a time for nursing one’s feelings back to health without anyone ever knowing they had been hurt, a time for trying to prove that one could rise above one’s reputation as the flighty, irresponsible one of the Armstrong girls. And then there was a time to seek solace with the person who had been her chief comforter and solid supporter since Mama died. Cassie’s first action the morning after making love to Jamil was to write to Celia, urging her to send someone to fetch her as quickly as possible. She must get away, and until she did, she must stay clear of Jamil. After last night, she was under no illusions about her strength of will. She would surrender herself to him whenever he asked. Her body was his—and he knew it. Her heart, too, though that, he did not know and must not. And her soul. That, she must keep safe, for both their sakes.