She almost called his name. Luckily it stuck in her throat. She almost ran towards him. Luckily she stumbled. Luckily, for just then the scarred man raised his sword and were Jamil’s attention not completely focused he would have been slain there and then.
Cassie watched, scarcely able to breathe as the battle raged. The men were well matched, but Jamil fought with the skill and determination of a man possessed. It felt like for ever, but it was over in minutes. A feint. A side step. A movement of the arm that was almost balletic, and Jamil’s scimitar sliced through Numair’s shoulder, neatly disabling the arm. Blood spurted, crimsoning on the sand. Numair fell to his knees, screaming in agony, his own scimitar dropping useless to the ground.
Cassie tottered towards Jamil, calling his name. He turned towards her. She was almost beside him, her arms held out, thinking only that it really was him, it really was, thinking of nothing else, when the glint of steel caught the corner of her eye. Numair had drawn a knife, was holding it in his left hand, was aiming it high, into the middle of Jamil’s back.
Cassie screamed and threw herself between them with all her remaining feeble force. The cold kiss of steel pierced her as easily as a needle through silk. Blood blossomed on her dusty habit. She looked at it in astonishment, for she felt no pain. In slow motion, she saw Jamil, his face rigid with horror, pull a small vicious dagger from the strap around his ankle. He sank the dagger deep into Numair’s chest. The brigand fell back on to the sand. Blood trickled from his mouth. Jamil turned to her. He was saying something. It sounded like her name. It sounded like ‘I love you’. So this was a dream after all, then. It was a dream and now she was very, very tired. She had to sleep. ‘I love you,’ she said to Jamil before she sank into the blissful, black-velvet oblivion of unconsciousness. ‘I love you.’
He feared for her life. The blood loss, combined with her weakened state from lack of sustenance, would make it a close-run thing. Though he bound it as best he could, and made the journey back across the desert to Daar at a painstakingly slow pace in order to prevent any jolting causing the wound to open again, by the time Jamil handed Cassie over into the care of her sister, she looked so lifeless that he could not help thinking the worst.
He paced nervously up and down all through the long night. He prayed as he had never prayed before. He watched, feeling completely helpless, as Celia changed the blood-soaked bandages, changed the sweat-drenched sheets in which Cassie writhed. He listened terrified to Cassie’s feverish ramblings. He knelt by her divan, clasping her hot, dry hands in his, willing some of his own life-force to transfer itself to her, offering it all if only she would live.
Still Cassie’s fever raged. Not even Prince Ramiz’s arrival, along with her infant daughter, could lift Celia’s mood.
On the fifth night, Jamil rode out alone into the desert, to the sanctuary of the ancients. The ritual was described in one of the oldest texts and kept under lock and key in the vaults of the palace, for its profane practices contravened all the sacred laws. But Jamil was desperate.
The moon was full, a good omen. He took the ring, the great seal of Daar-el-Abbah, from his finger, a symbol of what had been most precious to him. His kingdom. He offered it up as a sacrifice for something more precious still. Cassie.
He laid the ring on the stone boulder that had been used for centuries as an altar. He tore open the front of his tunic to reveal his bare chest. Then he took his dagger and made a cut over his heart, murmuring the ancient words. Blood dripped down his torso on to the altar. Throwing his arms wide, Jamil looked up at the moon and made his fervent wish. For love to heal.
Dizziness caught him unawares. A rushing in his ears. A blackness, like a thick blanket. He tumbled forward on to his knees. Blood dripped from the cut over his heart, crimson drops on to the silver sand. He fell. As he lost consciousness, a white owl, the traditional messenger of the ancients, hovered overhead, watching.
In the royal palace of Daar, Cassie stirred and opened her eyes.
He arrived back at dawn to find the palace in an uproar. Such an uproar he thought at first that Cassie had died, until he saw that Celia, rushing to meet him, was crying from happiness, and that she was smiling. ‘The fever broke in the night,’ she said, clutching at his sleeve in a most un-Celia-like manner. ‘She’s sleeping now, a proper, restful sleep. Oh, Jamil, I think she’s going to live.’
He watched from the curtained doorway of Cassie’s chamber, too afraid to wake her, so shaken with love and tenderness that he could not, in any case, trust himself with more for the present. Beside him Linah tucked her little hand into his. ‘She’s going to get better, Baba,’ she whispered. ‘Now you don’t have to be sad any more.’
Jamil stooped down to give his daughter a hug, holding her fiercely close. ‘No, now none of us need be sad any more,’ he said gruffly.
He watched for hours. He had no comprehension of time. Cassie slept. Jamil stood guard. He was almost asleep on his feet when she spoke.
‘Jamil.’
Her voice was so faint he barely heard it. Instantly, he was at her side, gazing anxiously into her beloved face, so pale and wan. Her eyes though, her beautiful turquoise eyes, no longer had the opaque glaze of fever.
Cassie blinked. She was so tired. How could she be so tired, when she felt as if she had been sleeping for ever? ‘Jamil. What are you doing here? What happened? Why can’t I move my arm?’
‘The brigand stabbed you. You saved my life.’
She remembered. Vague pictures, becoming clearer. ‘You killed him.’
‘Yes,’ Jamil said tersely.
‘I’m glad. He was going to kill you. I couldn’t bear that. Is Linah…?’
‘She’s all right. You can see her later.’
‘I had the strangest dream about a white owl. When I woke up I found this in my hand.’
She handed him his ring. The ring of Daar-el-Abbah, with the seal. The ring he had left on the altar of the ancients. Jamil stared at it in astonishment.
‘In my dream, your heart was bleeding,’ Cassie told him. ‘You’ll think that’s silly. Hearts don’t bleed, you’ll say.’
‘No. I was wrong. I know now they can and they do.’
He had not intended to declare himself like this. Though Cassie was still weak, he found he could wait no longer. Kneeling down on the floor, he took her hand in his. ‘My heart was bleeding for you. I love you, Cassie. I was wrong. It exists. True love. Real love. One love. I love you with all my heart.’
‘Jamil!’ A single tear trickled down her pale cheek. ‘Don’t say it unless you really mean it. Please, I don’t want you to say it just because you think it’s what I want to hear. Or out of honour or duty because you think I saved your life. Or because you feel sorry for me. Or because—’
‘Darling Cassie,’ Jamil said with a smile, ‘I am saying it only because it is true. You will forgive me for not saying it earlier, but I didn’t realise I was in love with you. Halim did. And Celia did, too. I was too blind, too stupid to see it, but now I do.’
‘Please tell me this isn’t a dream.’
‘It is no dream. Or if it is, it is the most wonderful one, one we will never wake up from.’
‘Jamil,’ Cassie said softly, ‘I love you, too.’
‘My darling.’ He kissed her. Gently, a whisper of his mouth on her cracked lips. He held her tenderly against his heart, felt the faint flutter of her own against his chest, and felt a settling take place inside him as if something was finally resolved, concluded. As if something had taken root. Happiness.
He held her until she fell asleep, her head nestled into the crook of his arm. He held her while she slept, and he was still holding her when she woke again, ready to reassure her, to tell her how much he loved her, how much he would always love her, how he already loved her more than when he had first told her and how he would love her more again the next time she asked.
Ten days later, Cassie’s strength was fully returned. She and Celia were sitting by the sun
fountain. Linah was taking an afternoon nap. With baby Bashirah asleep in her basket in the same room, the sisters were free to talk confidentially.
‘We thought we were going to lose you,’ Celia confessed. ‘I even wrote to Papa, to prepare him for the worst.’
‘Lord Armstrong will have had a surfeit of mail from Arabia then, because I, too, wrote to him,’ a strong male voice said.
‘Jamil,’ Cassie said, jumping to her feet.
‘Cassie. You look well.’
‘I am well. I’m very well. I’ve never been healthier,’ she said fervently. ‘In fact, I am completely recovered, am I not, Celia?’
Celia, too, got to her feet, shaking out her caftan. ‘Completely,’ she said with a smile.
‘No small thanks to you, Lady Celia. You have my eternal gratitude. But your work here is done and you must be anxious to be reunited with your husband.’
‘I confess I am.’
‘As you should be,’ Jamil said with a smile. ‘I have taken the liberty of readying your caravan. Your maidservants have just finished your packing. My guards will escort you to the border, where your husband will be waiting to meet you. He will be as pleased to see you both as you are to see him, no doubt.’
‘He is a good husband and a fine father. I am blessed,’ Celia replied.
‘He is to be envied,’ Jamil said.
‘I am sure one day soon you, too, will make an admirable husband and father,’ Celia said, with a sidelong glance at Cassie.
‘Jamil,’ Cassie said quickly, embarrassed by her sister’s blatant probing, ‘You mentioned writing to my father. What about?’
‘We will discuss it later,’ he said with an enigmatic smile. ‘First you must say your farewells to your sister. If you will excuse me, I have some things to take care of.’ He raised her hand to his mouth, and planted a kiss on her palm.
Cassie stared after him in consternation. ‘What…?’
Celia chuckled. ‘What do you think? He wants to be alone with you. Now come and help me change into my travelling clothes.’
Celia left just an hour later with Bashirah strapped, Bedouin-style, across her chest. The caravan disappeared out of the palace gates, leaving Jamil and Cassie alone. She was nervous. So, too, it seemed, was he, though she could not understand why.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the eastern wing of the palace. She had been there just once before, but she had never forgotten it. The door to the courtyard had been newly painted. It stood ajar. She looked up at Jamil questioningly, but he said nothing, only urging her forwards, into the ante-room.
White tiles, with a mosaic pattern of emerald-and-turquoise. The sweetest smell of orange blossom and something more familiar. Lavender, that was it.
Cassie took a tentative step through and into the courtyard. It had been transformed. Gone was the panther-cub fountain. In its place, a new fountain tinkled, with a mermaid as its centre piece. Outside, the garden had been replanted. Bay trees and lemons, oranges and figs. Gone was the air of desolation. Gone were all traces of Jamil’s boyhood quarters. The place had been transformed into a riot of colour and light.
A little stream meandered into a pool where water lilies floated and silver fish darted in the green depths. A delightful little pavilion was tucked into another corner, jasmine and honeysuckle mingling on its trellis. The jasmine flowers were closed with the rising heat, allowing the sweet scent of the honeysuckle dominance. Delighted, Cassie smiled up at Jamil. ‘The hedgerows in England are a riot of honeysuckle in the early summer. How did you know I loved its scent—oh, Celia, I suppose. There’s a lane going down to the mill pond at home, I used to sneak out of the house before any of my sisters were awake, to walk there—and sometimes if there was no one around I would bathe. Jamil, this is beautiful. It’s wonderful. How did you manage to do all this without my knowing?’
They wandered arm in arm through each of the rooms, Cassie’s fingers trailing over delicate hangings, her slippered feet curling into rich carpets. The bathing chamber had the most enormous bath she had ever seen. Sunk into the floor, with two steps leading down into the tub, it had gold taps in the shape of fishes. ‘Big enough for two,’ Jamil said with a smile that made Cassie shiver in anticipation. The whole place gleamed with vibrant colour; it sang with vibrant life.
‘You like it?’ he asked when they had finally completed the full circuit of the rooms.
‘I love it. It’s magical.’
‘Our own quarters. Yours and mine. I wanted to make a break with tradition, I don’t want to spend any more time apart from you than I have to.’ Jamil led her back to the fountain. ‘This is one tradition—an English tradition—I want to respect, though.’ Dropping gracefully to his knees, he took her hand. ‘You can do me no greater honour than to be my wife, Cassie. You can make me no happier than to say you will spend your life with me. All I have is yours. I offer you my heart. That, too, is yours, always. Say you’ll marry me.’
Cassie dropped to her knees beside him. ‘Oh, Jamil, yes. Yes. For you have my heart, too, my dearest, darling Jamil. My own desert prince.’
His kiss was resonant with love. Always, afterwards, Cassie would associate lavender and jasmine with the most extreme happiness. For the first time ever, he kissed her as a lover, as if she were the most precious thing in the world, and the most desirable. Tenderly and passionately he kissed her, as if it were his first kiss, as if he had never kissed, as if he would never leave off kissing. Her lips. Her lids. Her cheeks. Her ears. Her throat. Murmuring his love. Whispering her name. He kissed her, and she returned his kisses, as lovers do, with adoration and fervour, just exactly as if they had never kissed, and always would.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the sleeping chamber. Placing her on the divan, he kissed her while he removed each scrap of her clothing. Kisses that coiled their wispy magic around her, raising her pulse, heating her blood, so gradually she did not notice at first. She lay spread before him naked, relishing the reverence in his face, in his touch, on his lips, relishing the way he looked and tasted and touched, anxious to do the same, tugging at his caftan until he lifted it over his head and stood before her proudly erect, magnificent.
He kissed her thighs, then licked into her sex. ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ she said, tossing and turning, clutching, trying to hold on, but he would not let her. He kissed her and she came, wildly, jerked into paradise with the force of it, clutching his shoulders for fear of being lost, saying his name over and over.
Even as the pulsing shook her, he pulled her on top of him, easing her down on to the long silken length of him, his face etched with the pleasure of it. Even as the throbbing receded and began to build again, he lifted her, showing her how to sheathe him and how to unsheathe, to move to a rhythm that was just theirs, only theirs, lost in the power of his thrust conjoined with her own, lost in the beauty of him, below her, inside her, swelling and pulsing until he came, crushing her to him, holding her tight against his chest, his heart beating the same wild rhythm as her own.
Her fingers traced the small scar above his heart. The place where he had bled for her. His fingers traced the deeper scar on her arm, where she had bled for him. ‘You were right. To embrace true love is a sign of strength, not of weakness. You make me stronger. I love you, Cassie. I will always love you,’ Jamil said hoarsely. ‘I will never, ever tire of making love to you.’
‘I know,’ she said. Because she did.
Epilogue
London—two months later
‘Henry, haven’t seen you in ages.’ Lord Torquil ‘Bunny’ Fitzgerald strode across the salon and helped himself to a glass of their hostess’s rather poor claret and plonked himself down opposite his old friend. ‘Frightful squeeze this, only came because I heard Wellington was bound to drop by. Didn’t realise we’d be subjected to some damned caterwauling female though.’
‘La Fionista,’ Lord Henry said. ‘If you’ve seen her, you’ll realise
why Wellington’s here—you know how much he likes a good vibrato!’
The two men chuckled heartily. ‘Saw your good lady wife somewhere,’ Bunny said, flicking open his snuff box. ‘Here with one of your daughters—sorry, can’t remember her name. The plain one, intimidating gal, bookish.’
‘Cressida.’
‘Aye, that’s the one. Pity she took after your side of the family. T’other one now, she’s a fine-looking girl. Cassandra.’ Bunny lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Last time we met she was in a bit of a spot—assume you got it all sorted, right and tight?’
Lord Henry took a generous pinch of snuff, inhaled it, sneezed twice, wiped a few specks from his coat sleeve and drained his glass. ‘I suppose you could say that,’ he said, waving the waiter over and telling him to leave the bottle. ‘Aye, you could say that, though, by God, Bunny, for a while there it was all hell to pay. After we last spoke, you should know I acted pretty sharply. Sent off a despatch to Cairo; there’s a chap there owes me a favour, bit of a bumbler but reliable enough. So I sent him off to fetch Cassandra home.’
‘And?’ Scenting scandal, Bunny pulled his chair a little closer.
‘Well, next thing is, I get a letter from Celia—my eldest, married to Prince al-Muhanna—usually very level-headed gal. Chip off the old block and all that. Anyway, she informs me that Cassandra has taken it into her head to become a governess. For this other sheikh. Al-Nazarri. Something about proving herself, I don’t understand it—but all perfectly respectable and above board according to Celia.’
Bunny shook his head. ‘And this sheikh, is he…?’
‘Rich as Croesus.’
Bunny drew in his breath. ‘Tricky.’
‘Very. Of course, I sent another dispatch to Cairo, but it was too late, Finchley-Burke had already gone. No post for weeks. No idea what was happening, then I got three letters all at once. Cassandra blithering on the way she does about what a marvellous job she’s doing teaching the Prince’s brat—dismissed that, needless to say. Then one from Celia telling me that Cassandra has been kidnapped and stabbed and not likely to survive. Well…’ Lord Henry drank deep. ‘You can imagine how that went down with the other girls. Hysterical, they were. Had to call in Sophia. Bella no use whatsoever, burning feathers and drumming her heels. Took myself off to Boodle’s pretty damn smart.’
The Governess and the Sheikh Page 22