Читать книгу Arabian Nights With A Rake - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 8

Alex Grayfield unwrapped the long lengths of his turban and breathed a deep lungful of night air, expelling it with a long “Ahhh.” On the nearing horizon, the flickering of torch lights illuminated a massive array of tents, a Bedouin village rising from the sands. The faint sounds of music and laughter beckoned welcomingly across the distance. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes in satisfaction. Beside him, Crispin Ramsden’s horse shifted on the sands.

“Do you smell what I smell?” Alex exhaled almost reverently. God, he loved the desert. Out here, he was free.

“Trouble?” Crispin gave a low chuckle.

“Women.”

“Is there a difference?”

They laughed together in the rising darkness, spurring their horses forward, both of them eager to arrive at the encampment now that the journey was nearly done. Algiers, with its narrow streets and smells of fish and coffee, was two days behind them, the edge of the desert before them.

“You can’t really smell them at this distance.” Crispin challenged good-naturedly, pulling his horse alongside.

“Can’t you?” Alex couldn’t resist the gibe. He smiled. “I can smell incense and wine, meat roasting in its own juices on a spit. Only women can conjure such delicious smells.”

“Where there’s a woman, there’s danger.” Crispin warned and not without reason. Europe was littered with his bedroom intrigues.

“Well, you would know best on that score.” Alex shrugged. “There’s bound to be danger anyway, women notwithstanding.” Their journey into the desert was no pleasure trip. He and Crispin had been sent to this gathering of Bedouins to take the political temperature of the nomads.

Algiers had capitulated to the French, and Britain wanted to know if there was anything to be gained by supporting the desert rebels rallying against the French occupation. Guerrilla forces under the Emir of Mascara, Abd al Qadir, were already amassed and established after their victory. In November, the emir’s army had stopped a French advance into the desert. Buoyed by the emir’s success, would others join the fight to liberate Algiers? If so, perhaps Britain might covertly assist in an attempt to offset the growing power of French colonialism. Alex knew as well as Crispin the import of their mission. He who controlled the desert controlled North Africa.

“Do we have a connection or are we just showing up and hoping we aren’t killed on the spot?” Crispin turned the conversation towards more serious issues now that their appearance at the camp was imminent. They weren’t the first team to attempt to arrive here, although they might be the first team to arrive intact. Six months ago, Lord Sutcliffe’s entourage, including his daughter, had set out from Algiers. But they’d never arrived at their destination. The entire group was presumed most tragically dead.

“Your Arabic is fluent enough to pass,” Crispin mused, “but no one would believe I was anything other than an Englishman once I opened my mouth.”

“They might think you’re French and that would be far worse.” Alex joked.

Crispin’s French was impeccable and had been immensely useful in the circles they had penetrated in Algiers. But it was Alex’s Arabic—compliments of growing up as a British diplomat’s son in Cairo—that they’d rely on out here in the desert.

“We have an introduction to Sheikh Muhsin ibn Bitar through my father’s connections in Algiers,” Alex offered. Beyond that, it was too complicated to explain the circuitous network of friendships so common to the way of life in the Arab world.

Crispin nodded, not expecting more detail. Like Alex, Crispin had had enough experience in this part of the world to know how things worked. An introduction would be all they needed. This gathering was a happy occasion. A moussem like this one brought the wandering tribes together for a celebration and the exchange of news. It would be a prime opportunity to hear from many tribes at once.

Truth be told, Alex was looking forward to the moussem. There would be food and dancing, competitions and music. They approached the outer circle of tents and Alex smiled. If he was charming and careful, there’d be women too. Ah, life was good.

She would get one chance to escape. If she was overcareful, she’d miss her opportunity. If she was over-hasty…well those consequences were too horrific to contemplate.

Susannah Sutcliffe eased back into the tent, letting the flap fall discreetly. For six months, since her father’s death in a desert skirmish, she’d lived in the awkward limbo of the captive-slave. Muhsin ibn Bitar desired her greatly, which meant she’d not been sorely used in labor. But it also meant she owed him her gratitude. So far, she’d been able to satisfy him with entertainments and sitting at his feet during his meals.

They both knew those acts were nothing more than an extended prelude to his final seduction. He would not be put off any longer. He’d told her as much when they’d set out for the gathering. If she did not please him by the end of the moussem she would be given to another. That other was likely his brother-in-law, Bassam.

Susannah shuddered at the thought. Bassam was a man known for his love of diverse pleasures in the bedchamber. But neither did she prefer the company of the sheikh himself, who desired her as an earthly houri. That left only one option; taking her chances in the desert, a most dangerous option in itself. A wrong direction could lead her away from the settlements and caravan routes. It was easy to die in the desert and she would only be able to carry a few days worth of water at best.

Her plan was simple. She would steal a hardy desert horse or, if necessary, a camel and set out at night while everyone slept. With all the people here for the moussem, it would be hours before anyone noticed she or the beast were gone. There would be no margin for error.

She would stake it all on a single action. Camel or horse thievery was a grave crime among the Bedouin. She doubted if the sheikh’s desire for her would be great enough to protect her from Bedouin justice. She would live or die on the success of her plan.

Part of her argued against taking such risk. She could stay. Surely there was no shame in pleasing the sheikh. Surely, she could bear it if it meant she could live. If she lived, there might be a better opportunity later. What was it her father used to say? Live to fight another day? But he’d also been fond of saying Never surrender. She would face the desert and complete her father’s mission. When she returned to the consulate in Algiers, she’d have the information her father had been sent to seek.

A girl slipped into the tent, holding a collection of filmy fabrics in her arms. She held them out to Susannah. “The sheikh bids you attend him. I am to wait and help you with your hair.”

Susannah nodded. Her knowledge of Arabic had grown enough over the months that she understood the commands. So the game begins, she thought as she dressed. By English standards, the garments were scandalous, far more revealing than any good Englishwoman’s nightgown. By Bedouin standards, the outfit was sumptuous. The sheikh had spared no expense. Of course, she understood it was important to put on a display of his wealth. She just didn’t like being part of that display.

The girl combed out her hair, letting it hang long and loose behind her. A woman entered with a soft bag containing jewelry and placed a small gold circlet on top of her head and bracelets on her wrists. She should be used to the routine by now. This would not be the first night she had danced for the sheikh and his friends. The women who tended her had told her it was a great honor to dance for the sheikh, but she could not dismiss the feeling of being a slave led to market or a cow to slaughter. She’d not been raised to this life. She’d been a diplomat’s daughter raised in a proper British household. Never in her darkest dreams had she’d thought she’d end up in a Bedouin encampment, enslaved for the personal enjoyment of a desert chieftain.

The woman held aside the flap. It was time to go, time to set aside any self-pity over her plight. It was time to survive, and to do that, she needed to dance with all the abandon she possessed, to tease and withdraw, to conjure forth every male fantasy in the tent while allowing the sheikh to believe she danced only for him.