Читать книгу Penny Jordan Tribute Collection - Пенни Джордан, Penny Jordan - Страница 14

‘YOURS?’

The word trembled between them, as Raschid inclined his head in sardonic acknowledgement.

‘In my country, Miss Gordon, a woman does not flaunt herself unclad before male eyes—but I have already told you this. This pool and courtyard are part of my own private quarters—but then I’m sure you know that already.’

What on earth was he accusing her of now? Despite his suave manner Felicia had the distinct impression that he was battling with overpowering rage, and yet she could not understand why this should be so.

‘I’m sorry if I intruded into your private domain,’ she apologised stiffly, but he swept the words aside, his mouth twisting contemptuously.

‘Oh, come, you can do better than that. It seems that I owe you an apology for the other night, and opportunist that you are, I’m sure you are aware that I would have to seek you out to tender it. Where better than here, where we could not be disturbed; where the enticement of your unclad body can tempt my instincts to overrule my common sense? I am a man as any other, Miss Gordon, and no more immune than they to the charms you so provocatively display, in that apology for a swimsuit.’

A note of iron had entered his voice as his glance burned over her, but it was lost on the girl standing at his side, filled with a growing indignation and longing only to be free of the smooth voice and its hateful insinuation. She forgot about Faisal and his letter, and why she had assumed that Raschid had sought her out, and demanded,

‘Are you suggesting that I deliberately came down here to entice you?’ Incredulity sharpened her normally soft voice, but Raschid seemed unaware of her heated cheeks and flashing eyes. His mouth curled cynically.

‘Are you suggesting that you did not?’ He shook his head. ‘There is no need for pretence between us, Miss Gordon.’ He lowered his head suddenly, grasping a handful of half damp hair and twisting it round his hand, imprisoning her.

As she struggled his grip tightened inexorably, propelling her towards him until there was nothing between them but the flimsy barrier of her swimsuit, and not even that where it plunged seductively to reveal the taut thrust of her breasts.

Her muffled protest was lost. She could feel the heat coming off Raschid’s skin. She arched desperately away from him, but his strength was the greater and her tired muscles were forced to concede victory and allow him to draw her slender body against the hard length of his own. Muscle for muscle he overpowered her, her body losing its fight to reject the punishing familiarity of his. His shirt was open, allowing him to hold her captive against his golden skin, her senses swimming with the emotions she was fighting to control.

Useless to protest that she had never been held so close to any man before, or that the intimacy he was forcing upon her with the hard arrogance of his body was a violation of her innocence, because she knew he was beyond all reason.

As his hands slid the straps of her swimsuit from her shoulders she cried a protest, embarrassed colour flooding her cheeks as he stepped back to look down at her unprotected body. Her hands went instinctively to shield her breasts, but he grasped her wrists, looking his fill until her skin was on fire with rage and humiliation.

‘Charming, but not necessary,’ he drawled, plainly amused. ‘Faisal may have been deceived by that air of mock modesty, but you waste it on me, Miss Gordon.’

‘Miss Gordon!’ Felicia swallowed mounting hysteria. Dear God, he had the audacity to treat her body as though it were just another of his possessions, and yet he still called her ‘Miss Gordon’!

Stiff as a figure of marble in the circle of the arms Raschid clamped round her, she tilted her own head upwards to meet the sardonic mockery she knew would be written in his eyes.

‘You have a strange way of apologising, Sheikh Raschid!’ She was trembling with fury, but he barely spared her flushed face a glance; his eyes rested on the fragile bones of her shoulders, his mouth traced a downward path that spelled destruction to her self-control.

‘You think so?’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps I consider that whatever reparation was necessary has been made.’

‘You think I wanted this?’ Furiously she tried to push him away, but his hands curled into her shoulders, hauling her against him to lie defeated against the hard wall of his chest, her heart pounding in terror as his mouth swooped, capturing her defenceless lips and subjecting them to merciless plundering as they closed stubbornly against him. Relentless pressure forced them to part. Above her his eyes glittered as harshly as the pitiless sun in the sky, reminding her that soon she would be gone; that soon he must receive Faisal’s letter and then there would be no more moments such as these…. Then she would never know the harsh mastery of his embrace….

As though someone had murmured ‘Open Sesame’ her body yielded, melting against him, her fingers curling into the warm darkness of the hair matting his chest. He muttered something, the blood beating up under his skin, and then she was crushed against him, moulded to his body, her mouth parting willingly to allow him full licence to savour its inner sweetness.

She neither knew nor cared what she was betraying; all that mattered was this moment, this stolen sweetness, which she would cherish for the rest of her life, the feel of Raschid against her bitter-sweet as she acknowledged that only passion stirred him. It stopped her in her tracks. Appalled by her response, she tried to push him away, her fingers trembling against bruised lips.

‘Let me go!’ She backed away, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes as she slid her swimsuit straps back over her shoulders. While she was unable to deny the cathartic effect of Raschid’s lovemaking, he seemed completely unmoved by the incident. He leaned his long length against a stone pillar, his smile cruel as he surveyed her distressed state.

‘Why the charade?’ he asked coolly. ‘You invited, I accepted. Not to have done so would have been churlish, as I’m sure you will agree.’

She invited! She had done no such thing. She told him so, half stammering with anger.

‘No? You weren’t hoping I would succumb to your charms and agree to your betrothal to Faisal? Wasn’t that the whole purpose of your visit?’ His lip curled. ‘I am not a complete fool, Miss Gordon. If that was not the reason for your momentary acquiescence, then what was? I doubt my nephew would be very pleased to learn of the methods you adopt to gain my approval. What was in his letter, I wonder, to force you to such desperate measures? He wouldn’t be growing tired of you, would he?’

‘If he had I’m sure you would be the first to know about it,’ Felicia parried, her mouth dry. So he had not heard from Faisal, but she had no doubts that his behaviour was deliberately designed to humiliate and denigrate her into giving in and returning home. She was only surprised that he had not tried bribing her into giving Faisal up, but perhaps treating her in this way afforded him some sort of satisfaction. Punishment for daring to aspire to marriage to a member of his family.

‘One more thing,’ he cautioned as she turned away. ‘You will not run crying to Zahra of this. I do not want her birthday spoiled.’

Had he so little opinion of her that he thought she would do that, knowing how much Zahra thought of him?

She let a little of her scorn show in her voice.

‘We have a saying, evil be to him who thinks evil. I wouldn’t dream of hurting Zahra. I’ve grown very fond of her.’

‘An emotion which plainly does not extend to include me.’

His audacity took her breath away. What did he expect when he treated her like some amoral gold-digger?

‘An emotion which could never extend to include you,’ she retorted. Never, never must he be allowed to think her momentary surrender sprang from anything other than a calculated intention to win him round to her cause. She could only hope that before he discovered that that cause had been lost long before she responded to his kiss, she would be gone, and she would not have to endure his amused contempt when he finally realised the truth.

During supper Zahra was rather subdued. Raschid had been particularly scathing about her harem outfit, she told Felicia, adding that she found her uncle changed of late, less inclined to show humorous indulgence, his temper sharper.

‘When I asked him why Faisal could not come home for my birthday, he really snapped my head off. He and Faisal have never got on,’ she admitted. ‘Raschid thinks Faisal should be more conscious of his duty.’

A duty which no doubt included marriage to a girl of his own kind, Felicia thought wryly.

DESPITE THE laughter at the breakfast table Felicia felt as though a lead weight were attached to her heart. She had barely slept, tossing and turning, almost at one point ready to go to Raschid and tell him that she wanted to leave, but always the thought of his contemptuous indifference held her back, making it impossible for her to confess that he had been right and she wrong.

Zahra had been thrilled with her perfume, and Felicia’s thoughts turned automatically to the unopened bottle in her drawer. One day, when her heart was less tender, she would open it, and the scent would bring back memories of that dusty alley and the feel of Raschid’s hands on her skin.

All night long she had battled with her pride, and at last in the soft pearly light of the false dawn had admitted the truth. She loved Raschid. Only he had the key to awaken her dormant emotions, to draw from her a response she had never thought herself capable of giving. To no other man had she reacted as she did to Raschid. For no other man had her body quivered with deep, aching need, which overcame all her fears of rejection, built up during her lonely childhood. Raschid had the power to make her forget every single consideration but the overpowering need to satisfy the throbbing hunger his touch awoke within her.

Now she could admit that what she had felt for Faisal was merely gratitude for his attention to her. She had accepted his kisses without being stirred by them, thinking her lack of response sprang from some coldness in her nature, but Raschid had proved once and for all that this was not true. With Faisal she had always been passive, content to follow his lead, but in Raschid’s arms she knew a longing to be consumed by the fierce passion of which she knew instinctively he was capable. Those fires would never burn for her. She knew that now, and every instinct for self-preservation warned her to flee before Raschid discovered her vulnerability.

She closed her eyes, her face pale, startled when Nadia asked anxiously if she was all right.

All right! She smiled hollowly. She doubted if she would ever be ‘all right’ again, but since she could not say so she smiled weakly and brushed aside Nadia’s kind concern.

The fortress owned by Saud’s family was a huge pile of stone perched grimly on a rocky outcrop and commanding excellent views of the surrounding countryside—a reminder of the days when his forebears would have lived by preying off unwary travellers or other tribes daring or desperate enough to cross their territory.

Here the old ways still held sway. They drove in under a formidable stone gateway and the women were led to a side entrance, barely discernible. Following Umm Faisal’s example, Felicia removed her slippers as they entered the dark cavernous hallway.

Saud’s mother came forward to greet them. The traditional Arabic welcome and prayers for a long and healthy life were exchanged. The visitors were led to opulent cushions spread about the room, Felicia’s muscles protesting a little as she tried to imitate the grace of the others.

In addition to Saud’s mother there were various aunts and cousins, all of whom had to be introduced to the visitor from England, although Felicia was aware that their real interest was, quite naturally, in Zahra.

It was Nadia who whispered to her that to mention the marriage before it was a fait accompli was to put the ‘evil eye’ upon it, but there was no mistaking the value of the expensive gifts they pressed upon a blushing Zahra.

One of the women, obviously very old, commanded Felicia to come forward.

‘That is Saud’s grandmother,’ Nadia whispered. ‘She has seen six sons die in defence of their country, and even His Highness puts great store by her advice.’

Felicia could well understand why. Despite the simplicity of her clothes, the strangeness of her henna-patterned hands and feet, Felicia knew she was in the presence of great wisdom. Although she spoke very little English, her eyes were shrewd as they assessed Felicia’s slender beauty. She said something in Arabic to Umm Faisal, who responded:

‘She said that you are very like the English girl who married her third cousin—she means Raschid’s grandfather.’

The visit seemed to last for a long time. A maid came round a second time with fresh coffee. Felicia found the ceremony endlessly fascinating. Zahra told her now to shake her coffee cup to signify that she had had sufficient to drink, and she also added the warning that it was considered impolite not to drink at least three of the small cups of the beverage.

Arabs placed great store by hospitality and ritual, as Felicia was coming to learn, and to refuse what was given so graciously could be considered a grave insult.

The visit was obviously a formal one, but when the other ladies rose to leave, Umm Faisal and Zahra were invited to stay on. Nadia touched Felicia’s arm, indicating that she leave with her.

‘Raschid is discussing the final arrangements for Zahra’s dowry; Saud’s mother will want to talk about the wedding, so you and I will walk in the courtyard and let them get on with it.’

It was pleasantly cool in the garden, and Felicia felt her tensed nerves relax for the first time since the previous day.

‘You do not like Raschid, do you?’ Nadia asked shrewdly, out of the blue. ‘I have seen the look in your eyes whenever he is mentioned. What is wrong? Can you not tell me?’

‘He does not approve of my… my relationship with Faisal,’ Felicia admitted, glad of the opportunity to unburden herself. ‘He thinks me a woman of the very worst sort—avaricious, designing…. It is natural for him to want to protect your brother….’

‘But not natural to be so blind,’ Nadia interposed softly. ‘Not Raschid, whose astuteness is fabled within our family. He treats you as he treats no other woman, Felicia. You must know of his English blood? He has learned to guard his heart well, so that it is like an inner courtyard, its beauties revealed only to a privileged few.’

Felicia’s heart ached with the weight of a thousand unshed tears. The delights Nadia’s words painted so vividly were not for her.

‘Raschid has no interest in me, other than an overriding desire for me to return home,’ Felicia told her quietly. ‘And were it not for the fact that if I left now it would spoil some of Zahra’s pleasure in her birthday, I assure you I would already be gone.’

‘Zahra is fond of you,’ Nadia agreed. ‘But as to your presence here, that is as Allah wills it.’

No, it was as Raschid willed it, Felicia thought despairingly. He alone had the power to banish her at will! If only she dared confide in Nadia and beg her help. She still had some of her savings left. Perhaps if she could borrow her fare from Nadia she could repay it within a few months if she was really careful with her budget. She started to speak, but Nadia stopped her. ‘Quickly!’ she urged. ‘We must return to the harem.’

She whisked Felicia inside so quickly that she barely had time to comprehend what was happening, before Nadia was pulling her veil across her face and hurrying her away.

In the distance she caught the sound of male voices, footsteps ringing across the courtyard they had so recently vacated.

‘That was a close call!’ Nadia breathed. ‘Living away from home I tend to be less strict with myself, but it would have shamed Raschid before Saud’s father had we been discovered in the garden. Achmed would have been furious with me.’ She made a small moue. ‘Fortunately I heard them coming in time. I’m trying to persuade Raschid to take us all out hawking. It used to be his favourite pastime, and his falcons are a sight to behold. It will be the last time we are all together as a family before Zahra marries, and it seems fitting that we should revert to the freedom of our childhood years, if only for a few hours.’

‘In that case you won’t want me along,’ Felicia began, but Nadia swept her protests aside.

‘Of course we shall want you.’ She bent forward and kissed Felicia’s cheek. ‘You are a delight to us all, Felicia, and far too unassuming, although I hope Zahra does not speak the truth when she says that you may marry Faisal. Although he is my brother, I have to admit that he is weak, too changeable in his ways to make a good husband. Not like my Achmed.’ She glanced speculatively at Felicia. ‘You know, in a way I am surprised that you do not get on well with Raschid. He has always been a great admirer of beauty, and you have much of that. Also your manner cannot help but please; you are of his religion.’

‘Liking does not come from any of those things,’ Felicia said shakily, trying to stem the flood of longing Nadia’s words had aroused. ‘It comes from the heart, and Raschid’s heart is closed to me.’ This was her chance to beg Nadia for her aid, but she was too shy to ask, and by the time they had returned to the others it was too late.

Later, she was to regret her weakness, but when they joined the rest of their party, her own worries subsided in the general excitement over Zahra’s wedding.

It was late when they started back. Somehow or other Felicia found herself travelling with Raschid, sitting in the front seat while Umm Faisal and Zahra occupied the back.

He was concentrating on the road, a barren landscape in black and silver, and she stole a glance at his remote profile, swept by a wave of love. Where on earth Nadia had got the idea that he could feel anything but disdainful contempt for her, Felicia could not imagine. She sighed, letting weary eyelids drop over aching eyes.

The land had already cast its timeless spell over her, and the man…. She looked again at his shadowed profile. His head turned and their eyes met, pleasure and pain mingled as another fierce wave of longing swamped her.

At last she had given her feelings their rightful name—she loved Raschid, against all the odds, in spite of the unbridgable gulfs of background and upbringing that yawned between them, she loved him.

She sighed as tiredness drained even the ability to think properly. She might as well love the sun or the moon. Her eyes closed and opened as she struggled against waves of exhaustion. At her side Raschid turned and frowned.

‘It has been a long day for you, Miss Gordon. My sister and Zahra are both sleeping. Feel free to join them if you wish. We have a good hour’s journey in front of us.’

They were following Achmed and Nadia, and as he spoke the powerful headlights of the Mercedes picked out the car in front quite clearly—and its occupants, Nadia’s dark head cradled on Achmed’s shoulder. An aching longing so intense that it was almost a physical pain hit her. She longed to cry out against it, stifling it, but the sound was trapped in her throat. She fought to subdue the urge to move closer to Raschid, to place her head on his shoulder and know she would not be rebuffed.

Pride alone kept her upright in her seat, her eyes sliding away from Nadia and Achmed, but it was Raschid who said curtly:

‘You’re practically falling asleep sitting up, Miss Gordon. If pride prevents you from using my shoulder as a pillow, try telling yourself that very soon I shall be your uncle and capable of commanding your obedience. I know you detest me, but this road is very uneven in parts. If you fall asleep as you are you could easily be thrown against a window or do yourself some other injury, so let common sense take the place of pride and accept my offer in the spirit in which it is given.’

What could she do? Even so, she had not expected his arm to curve round her, pulling her against the warmth of his body, and in response to her unvoiced question he said curtly:

‘I am perfectly able to drive with one hand—this is not a busy road, and I am not a young fool intent on showing off. Try to relax, I do not intend to harm you.’

But he was, whether he intended it or not. Merely the pressure of his body as he changed gear, the warm male smell of his flesh, harmed her irreparably as her heart wept for the unattainability of its one desire. She drew a steady breath and instantly her nostrils were full of the masculine odour of his body. She closed her eyes, but with his hard shoulder beneath her cheek, it was impossible to banish the tormenting image of his mouth, its well cut lines as well known to her as the softer shape of her own.

She fought against sleep as long as she could, not wanting it to steal from her these precious moments when Raschid gave his strength unstintingly, but the warmth of his body made her drowsy and her tormented senses were not proof against the smothering waves of sleep. Her body relaxed, her head falling against his shoulder. His arm tightened, holding her steady, as they drove into the endless night of the desert.

Felicia had no clear recollection of their arrival. Sleepy and bemused, she stumbled from the car, and Raschid’s strong arm caught her as she fell.

She thanked him, returning awareness making her desperate to avoid the sharpness of his eyes.

Sleepily Umm Faisal offered a cup of coffee, but Felicia refused. Like a greedy miser, she wanted to gloat over her precious hoard of happiness to fall asleep, dreaming of those sacred moments when Raschid’s arms had held her without anger or punishment.

It was quiet in the courtyard. Zahra was with Umm Faisal. With the month of Ramadan fast approaching, the arrangements for the wedding had to be finalised. Only that morning Umm Faisal had shown Felicia the soft rose silk from which Zahra’s bridal caftan would be fashioned. Shimmering threads of beaten silver flashed in the sunlight, and Felicia fingered the fabric in awe.

Later Zahra had shown her the gifts Saud had sent her—the silver and turquoise hand jewellery handed down through seven generations of his family, necklaces of beaten gold studded with rubies, rings and ankle bracelets, a whole treasure trove of precious and semi-precious stones guaranteed to excite the most prosaic female imagination.

Lastly Zahra produced an intricately worked girdle of beaten silver. This was the symbolic girdle used to fasten the bride’s shift, she explained, and once it was fastened in place, none but her bridegroom had the right to remove it.

‘Raschid still has the girdle made for his grandmother,’ Zahra told her, ‘and although he is Christian, he will marry according to the laws of our faith as well, for that was his grandfather’s wish, thus the two religions will live side by side in harmony with one another.’

Every mention of Raschid brought nervous tension to Felicia’s body. Every day she expected to be summoned to his study and told that he had heard from Faisal. Why did she torture herself like this? Why did she not go to him and ask to be sent home before he discovered the truth about why she had been content to linger long after she knew of Faisal’s change of heart? Her own heart gave her the answer. She was sitting by the fishpond, staring lazily into space. A tortoiseshell carp jumped in the water, showering her with tiny droplets; in the distance doves cooed; even the perfect symmetry of the house echoed the same pervasive sense of peace. Her red-gold head bent over the pool, unaware that she was being observed by the man who stood in the shade of the lime trees, the fragile vulnerability of her lightly tanned skin exposed to his searching gaze. His expression unfathomable, he continued to watch, and then turned abruptly, his progress across the courtyard fluttering the doves into noisy protest. Felicia glanced up, her expression unguarded, unable to quench the fierce joy running through her veins.

‘Sheikh Raschid!’ There was even pleasure in saying his name.

He inclined his head in the manner which had become so familiar that it was engraved on her heart. A small pang shot through her, and a hesitant smile quivered on her lips, as she suppressed her alarm.

‘Have you heard from Faisal?’

Now what had made her ask that? His brows drew together in blank disapproval.

‘No,’ he replied curtly. ‘Are you missing him so much that you are willing to beg me for news of him? Perhaps I did you an injustice. Perhaps you do care for him after all.’

Now was her chance to tell him the truth. The words trembled on her lips, only to be silenced as he added cynically, ‘However, as we both know, appearances can be deceptive. Our strong sun darkens the colour of your skin to the colour of ours, but it cannot change what lies underneath. There can be no happiness in a marriage between yourself and Faisal.’

‘East and West can live in harmony,’ Felicia protested. ‘Your own grandparents….’

‘They were an exception,’ Raschid interrupted curtly. ‘My grandmother willingly gave up everything to be with my grandfather. Can you honestly tell me that your love for Faisal possesses that strength? Would you willingly wander the desert with him, an outcast to your own people?’

Her eyes gave him the answer. Not for Faisal, but for him…. She would willingly walk barefoot to hell and back for him. She longed to reach out and touch him, to slide her fingers through the dark crispness of his hair, to kiss those firmly chiselled lips and to urge that lean body to take her and make her a part of him, her flesh yielding and melting into his as his hard hands possessed her. She closed her eyes and prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might banish these tormenting images.

When she opened them again Raschid was watching her dispassionately. ‘It is not safe for you to walk alone out here, Miss Gordon,’ he warned her.

‘In case I might be carried off by some desert barbarian, do you mean? Surely they would scorn me as you do, as being worthless and of little account. An unwanted intruder in their lives; a female of no virtue whose life means no more than a few grains of sand.’

‘Faisal did not scorn you,’ Raschid pointed out. ‘And it is after all, he who holds your heart, is it not?’

She watched him disappear into the shadows, her body aching as though she had been beaten; which metaphorically she felt as though it had. She herself had lashed it unmercifully with the reminder that Raschid cared nothing for her.

All her pleasure in the garden was gone. She went to her room, drawn to the drawer where she had concealed the small phial of perfume. Almost against her will she unstoppered it, and the fragrant, fresh smell of the English countryside stole through the room, coupled with a scent almost bitter-sweet, but faintly haunting, so in tune with her emotions that she could only marvel at the perfume blender’s ability to correctly judge her mood and transform it into this perfume which would always bring home to her the senselessness of unwanted love.