They scrubbed her all over, despite her half-hearted protests, then washed her hair, exclaiming at the bright beauty of it as the last of the sand and dirt fell away. Altogether Ross felt remarkably clean and refreshed.
'You enjoy Sidi Armel's bath?' Jamila smiled, spoiling a little of Ross's pleasure. Yet her heart jerked as the girl spoke. This must be his Christian name? It was one she had never heard .before. Somehow she liked it as it seemed to fall pleasantly on the ears, something which many of the names she had heard since coming here did not, although she had to admit they usually rhymed well on the whole.
And this was his bath! Uncomfortably she almost squirmed, then stood up quickly and climbed out. Because of Jamila's expectant face she muttered ungraciously that she supposed it was all right, then removed the last of their eager smiles by complaining, as if it was actually the fault of the bath, that her legs still felt sore.
In spite of a rather perverse satisfaction Ross was to regret her hasty words. Immediately, as if determined to alleviate her displeasure, the girls wrapped her in a robe and began to massage her slender limbs. They used a fragrant oil and it was like having a Turkish bath but much nicer, as their hands seemed to possess a kind of healing magic. Ross, after her first few protests, felt her prevailing tension magically drain away, together with most of the aches and pains which continued' to plague her. She felt drowsy and boneless after a very few minutes, and could quite easily have slept again if they would have let her. It seemed she was floating, completely relaxed, her eyelids heavy, without a care in the world. Vaguely she realised this could be her first real baptism with the mystic desert, and that it was only in some half-conscious corner of her mind that she found any objection.
'Mademoiselle will get dressed now?' Jamila said quiedy, gently disturbing Ross's dreams. 'You would be wise not to keep the master waiting.'
Ross sighed, but while impatient with Jamila's fears, made an effort to stir herself, too lethargic to voice her indignation. Nor could she find the energy to restrain the two girls when, as if correctly doubting her ability to make the right decisions, they hurried her into a pair of filmy trousers, topped by an even more transparent blouse. The serwals, as the trousers were called, were light, clinging to her slender hips and lovely, she discovered, to wear. But the blouse, although of a beautiful colour, was heavily embroidered and inclined to catch, making her very aware of her bare skin underneath.
Dressed at last, Ross felt slightly apprehensive about dining like this with a man. With a flutter of slightly bewildered lashes she pointed to Jamila's heavy woollen caftan. 'S'il vous plait,' she pleaded, in her halting French, 'please, would you lend it to me?'
'Non, mademoiselle!' With a small shriek Jamila threw up her milky brown hands before subsiding into another fit of the now familiar giggles. Clinging to her own garment, as if fearing that Ross was about to relieve her of it forcibly, she turned and searched through the pile of clothes behind her. Muttering loudly about not wishing to arouse Sidi ben Yussef's anger, she found another caftan, this one of satin. Swiftly, as if not noticing Ross's sudden frown, she draped it around Ross's shoulders before kneeling to button it all the way down to her feet. 'There,' she said, her face alight with satisfaction, 'the Sidi Armel will find you beautiful!'
With a sigh Ross realised she would have to be content. She had a suspicion that this robe she wore now was little less revealing than the fragile things she had on underneath. She doubted, however, in spite of Jamila's ridiculous exclamations, if Sidi Armel would ever notice. He would be too busy delivering another of his boring lectures!
With this inner assurance of his harshness somehow more comforting than his approval, she allowed herself to be led docilely to the other room. This dining area was, in its way, as attractive as the bedroom, with colourful Moroccan rugs covering the floor, and the wide couch covered ^with soft warm skins.
The girls bowed swiftly and departed, leaving Ross standing alone in the middle of the room gazing about her curiously. It was without windows but seemed more like a room in an ordinary house. Yet the low roof and the whisper- ing wind gave an air of intrigue to the already mysterious aura of the night. There was eerie illusion here, will-o'-the- wisp phantoms to haunt one's dreams. A feeling, in the desert at this hour of night, of standing alone on the edge of some vast eternity. Suddenly shaken, Ross found herself shivering, bound by the same silken threads of inevitability as had caught travellers and held them inexorably over the centuries. Even the great sand moth, beating its wide, gauzy wings against the smoked blue glass of the lamp seemed to have no conscious fear of its own self-imposed destruction! Bewildered by such distractions, Ross flinched. Where was Sidi ben Yussef?
'Good evening, mademoiselle!' Even as she wondered, there came instantly his deep, disturbing voice behind her, seeming to add a touch of unknown danger to her already anxious thoughts.
Wordlessly she spun around to face him, propelled more by the vibrant command of his tones than by her own inclinations. 'Good evening, monsieur.. .' Was it fear she felt trembling in her throat at the sight of him?
He acknowledged her greetings with the same slight bow of his head he had used earlier, the same interrogating expression in his eyes. 'You are feeling better?' he inquired, his level glance playing coolly over her colour-tinted cheeks, the softly entrancing fall of fair hair, before continuing with what she could only describe as detached interest down the entire length of her body.
'Yes, of course,' she exclaimed breathlessly—anything to break his arrogant scrutiny! Hadn't he stared long enough that afternoon? Was it possible that because he so seldom saw a woman in this sandy wilderness, he never tired of looking when he did have one before him? How she wished she still wore her old jeans! 'Jamila and her sister have looked after me well,' she hurried on, thanking him politely, 'but it has occurred to me that I am probably depriving you of your sleeping quarters, as well as your bath,' she finished in an embarrassed rush.
His broad shoulders shrugged lightly. 'Don't flatter yourself, girl, that I am making deliberate sacrifices on your behalf. One tent is much the same as another. If you admire the comfort of your present abode thank Jamila and her sister, not me.'
'I'm afraid I don't understand.' Uncertainly she glanced at him. 'You mean this was their tent?'
'No. When I brought you here it was to a plain, unadorned desert tent. The fripperies you see they managed to find somewhere.'
'And—these clothes?'
'Ah, well, that is something different."
'But,' Ross hesitated, not knowing why she persisted, 'they must belong to you ?'
'And it is a fact, also, that women like you can never contain their curiosity. Well, mademoiselle, I suggest you swallow it along with your dinner, and I shouldn't allow it to give you indigestion.'
Again, over the short period she had known him, Ross felt the stirrings of active dislike. She sensed it was reciprocated but considered his excuse not nearly so valid as her own. She had caused him some bother, wasted his time, hadn't he said, but surely, living as he did, his time couldn't be all that important? Never by the widest stretch of the imagination could he have any real reason to be rude.
If he hadn't any inclination to answer her merely interested query or to make any comment about her outfit, he had noticed it all the same. Ross could have sworn she had seen even a gleam of admiration in his eyes. He wouldn't confess it, though. He appeared to scorn acting as a man normally would in the company of a moderately attractive girl. Ross didn't flatter herself that she was in any way a raving beauty. Of course, by her transgressions, she must be a special case, which would account for the lack of sympathy on his part. He wouldn't believe in sparing her a few complimentary words.
Hostility naked in her eyes, she gazed at him. His heavy burnous was missing and he had on a pair of traditional trousers, like hers. They were very, loose around his strong thighs but more tapered in the legs. With them he wore a shirt of fine linen, open at the neck to reveal the b
rown, powerful column of his throat. This evening there was no haik on his head and for the first time she saw the darkness of his hair, the way it grew thick but was brushed neatly back, apart from the crisp curls which refused to be subdued behind his well set ears. He had a handsome head, Ross decided morosely, and he knew it. Or, if not, there would be many women who did. He was not a man, she suspected, to withhold his undoubted charm if the exercising of it could guarantee he would get his own way. Well, he wasn't wasting any on her, which might be something to be thankful for, if indirectly.
She was not aware that he watched her. closely until he said dryly, 'If you could remove that hint of spite from your otherwise charming face, and compose yourself, then perhaps we might eat. A cross companion rarely enhances the flavour of any meal.' Smoothly he indicated the skin-covered couch, waiting until she was seated before he sank down beside her.
'I'm sorry my looks displease you,' she retorted childishly before she could stop herself.
His sensuous mouth twisted cynically. 'As such, they don't displease me at all, mademoiselle,' he murmured suavely. 'If you must read the expression on a man's face wrongly the fault is scarcely mine. Are you so blind that I must supply words? Which ones shall I use? How best to tell you that your hair is like the silver gleams of moonlight that lights the desert sky at night, and your skin reflects the smoothness of the finest sand swept to a flawless texture by the cleansing purity of the hamsin. A mouth that could be likened to a rose with the dew still clinging to its soft red petals, and that your slender young body has about it the virginal freshness of the early dawn, as yet untried. Only in the last instance, mademoiselle, do I fear the eloquence of my flowery tongue to have led me slightly astray. Imagine I didn't wish to spoil the last line of such beautiful prose.'
Ross's burning cheeks almost scorched her, fanned as they were by the mocking timbre of his cool voice. She had been right in thinking him the devil incarnate! If for a short while his words had held her enchanted, she derided herself now for ever listening for one second. Flowery tongue indeed! His sarcasm was enough to wither a girl's heart! As for his last deliverance ! 'You are determined to think the worst of me,' she choked, her violet blue eyes flashing dark fire. She didn't care awfully what he thought but felt strangely hurt that he should be so far from the truth. She had never been interested in playing around. She had never been interested in a boy-friend long enough for that!
His answer came, disbelievingly, as she guessed it would. 'If you must persist in leading the sort of life you do then you must expect people to jump to these sort of conclusions, and not resent it.'
'Of all the . ..' she began.
'No more!' decisively he cut her off, holding up his hand. 'Spare me another round of your temper before dinner. You have not eaten for over two days. I doubt whether you can find much more energy.'
Silently, and surprising herself, Ross subsided, her vital spirit suddenly quailing as her eyes met his. He was stronger than she, and she was more than a little afraid of him, although she would hate to confess it, never yet having met a man who could dominate her completely. She blamed her regrettable lack of courage, as she had blamed everything over the past week, on the insidious effect of the desert.
Fretfully, she glanced around. He talked of dinner, but there was no sign of it. A cloth and napkins were set on the low table before them, that was all. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Jamila returned with a laden tray which she placed carefully before them.
'Thank you. That will be all, Jamila,' Armel ben Yussef smiled at the girl. 'We will manage. You may send Saida back in half an hour with coffee.'
'Merci, Sidi Armel. That I will do,' she replied as she went out.
He caught and interpreted Ross's quick glance. 'Like it?' he asked suavely.
'My name?' he prompted, not fooled as she hesitated, as if she didn't understand.
'If it interests you,' she replied, with as much prim dignity as she could muster, 'I think it is very nice, if rather unusual. I wouldn't have thought it strictly Moroccan.'
His heavy brows merely lifted fractionally as he began removing the covers from the tray, her opinion, one way or another, obviously of no real consequence. Which, to Ross's way of thinking, seemed completely unfair, seeing how he had insisted!
The appetising aroma, however, from the various dishes sent every other consideration from her mind, and she sniffed appreciatively. 'It smells wonderful!' she said eagerly, not having realised how hungry she really was.
Consideringly he picked up an earthenware bowl and spooned into it a thick soup. 'This is called harira,' he told her, 'and is composed of chunks of meat along with eggs and chick peas. I think you might like it.'
'Yes.' Ross was too busy eating to spare time to say any more. She heard him say that the dish was very simple but that even in a camp such as this such things were always cooked with care. Each dish was prepared slowly and made interesting with the addition of herbs and spices. To follow there was a chicken stuffed with almonds and honey as well as nuts and raisins. She was so replete after this that she couldn't manage a sweet, of which there was a truly delectable choice. Instead she ate a little fruit, the juice dripping over her lips, staining them to a ripe softness that drew her companion's eyes consideringly.
The Turkish-style coffee that eventually arrived with Saida was strong and served without milk. After the wine which had accompanied the meal, Ross would have preferred it without sugar too, but Armel insisted that a spoonful would do her nothing but good, and she was surprised at the difference it made.
The meal had been delicious, if it seemed utterly surprising that a wandering vagabond like Sidi Armel ben Yussef should be able to afford to live like this. It wasn't, she felt sure, the fare of a poor man's table. How did he manage it? she wondered, gazing around more intently than she had done previously. Did he plunder the caravans of the rich, ravage and steal that he might live like them? He was some- thing of an enigma, this rough, mysterious son of the desert who could change like the flash of an Aladdin's lamp into a disturbingly sophisticated stranger.
It was while her darkened gaze lingered so closely that she noticed for the first time how the two first fingers of his left hand appeared to have been badly crushed. It was not immediately apparent as the skin over the slightly misshapen bones was healed and perfect. If it had not been for the stiff way he placed them around his coffee cup they would not have drawn her attention.
Startled beyond caution, she exclaimed, 'You've hurt your hand!'
He said nothing for several minutes and knowing he must have heard, she had a feeling she had transgressed. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered, 'I didn't. . .'
'Stop to think,' he cut in mildly as she floundered with some confusion. He spoke calmly, but she saw the tightening angle of his jaw. 'I had an accident,' he continued, 'but don't bore me by asking when and how. It's a long time ago and something I prefer to forget.'
'But you can't just.. .'
This time he ejaculated sharply. 'Miss Lindsay!'
'Oh, very well!' She knew it was ridiculous to speak so petulantly in her position. It showed an even greater stupidity to resent his rejection of her sympathy. She realised the possibility of their being friends was remote, but surely they need not part as enemies! Every time she felt they were drawing a little closer he repulsed her, as if the obstacles between them were too great ever to be overcome. He was prepared to be reasonably cordial while they discussed the weather, that was all!
Mulling over this morosely, she accidentally caught an ankle with the upturned toe of her gold babouche and, inadvertently, her face whitened.
'It still hurts?' With the eagle-like sharpness she was coming to know, he caught the flicker of pain in her clouded eyes. 'Where the rope bound you it left quite a weal. I'd better have a look.'
Reluctantly, because he had been so abrupt over his own injuries, Ross lifted a slim ankle for his inspection. He took it closely in both hands and she felt a fire from
his fingers travel like lightning through her veins. Involuntarily she gasped, and hearing it he snapped, 'So even the touch of my bent fingers disgusts you, mademoiselle! If you find this repulsive then you must learn to curb your childish reactions. Your spoilt disregard of another's'feelings disgusts me ! Perhaps it would prove a just lesson to feel these same fingers exploring other, more intimate parts of your body. Plow loud would you scream then, girl? You are perhaps so proud that no hand less than perfect has ever been allowed to explore such delectable curves !'
His eyes scorched her no less than the flame from his fingers and wildly she jerked away. That any man had ever spoken to her like this, let alone touched her intimately with any kind of hand at all, Ross could have instantly denied. Oh, it was not that she had never thought of it, but she had always felt that any pleasure from such an experience would only be possible if instigated by love. And love being an emotion she had personally no proof of, she had contented herself with the odd, faintly questioning daydream. Certainly she had never indulged in the kind of petting Sidi Armel seemed to have in mind. This, in spite of odd surges of curiosity, she had resisted, to the extent of being occasionally thought frigid by would-be suitors. Never before could she remember a reaction like the one she had felt when Sidi Armel had first picked up her ankle.
Broodingly, antagonism stiffening every responsive nerve, she watched as, evidendy pocketing his tight-lipped disapproval, he examined her still livid bruises. His eyes had lashed her as his tongue condemned her, but she was sure she had not deserved it. Again she found herself puzzling as to what sort of man he actually was, where he had come from. In England she was sure no man would dream of being so outspoken, no matter what they might think. This Armel ben Yussef evidently considered he could say what he liked, a licence that went with his own particular kingdom. He appeared to regard himself as a king, an arrogant
director of these wastelands which bred a certain lawlessness into a man.
The Jewelled Caftan Page 5