Читать книгу Desert Destiny - Sarah Holland - Страница 8

THE jingle of the harness soothed Bethsheba, the swaying motion of the Sheikh’s horse lulling her continually back into sleep. Occasionally, she opened her eyes, felt the stabs of agony in her head, and slipped back into unconsciousness, unable or unwilling to face what was happening.

The sheikh’s chest was strong and warm and comforting. Her face rested against it, her nostrils breathing in the scent of his flesh, and sometimes when her lids flickered open she looked drowsily at that tanned skin and the dark hairs that grew on it and thought of Arabia as though it were a dream; a colourful vivid dream of gold and silk and all the perfumes. The air grew steadily cooler. The sands, once gold, were now cool pink as the sun began to set, and the next time her eyes flickered open she saw the desert was lilac, then purple, then, finally, black.

Suddenly she heard voices and the crackle of wood fires, and when the horse came to a standstill she knew they had reached the douar.

‘Awake, Sheba.’ Suliman’s deep voice echoed in his chest. ‘Awake and behold your dream.’

Opening her eyes, she looked up into his hard, handsome face, and for a moment saw only his features; the heavy-lidded eyes, the strong arrogant nose and the firm sensual mouth below.

Then she saw beyond and knew it was night. Camp-fires flickered and spat in the darkness. Hair tents were dotted around the encampment, horses tethered beneath a tree, and the cool waters of the oasis gleamed with starlight from above. Men and the shadows of men were all about. They wore turbans and jellabas, some carried guns, some stood guard and some sat by the fires, eating.

‘Is it to your taste, Sheba?’ Suliman asked with a hard smile. ‘The douar of your fantasies?’

‘No!’ The fierce cry was weak, but her eyes flashed gold fire. ‘You must take me back at once.’

He laughed, and suddenly dismounted, catching Bethsheba before she unbalanced. His strong arms were around her, holding her as he strode in dark red boots and white robes towards the royal tent.

A servant leapt to sweep the tent flap aside. Suliman carried Bethsheba in as though she were a gazelle, and her startled eyes took in the luxurious surroundings; the royal blue cloth walls of the tent, the embroidered rugs, low brass trestle-table covered in Arabesque script, and the central bed of silk cushions.

The sheikh laid her on the bed of cushions. ‘How is your head, Sheba?’ he asked, sprawling beside her, his dark face above hers as he studied her. ‘You fell on the slope of a dune and your fall was softened. But still you lost consciousness…’

‘It throbs a little,’ she admitted, gold eyes wary. ‘But you must take me back, Suliman! You cannot keep me——’

‘You are my prisoner now, bint!’ he said softly, and his dark eyes mocked her as he flicked a cool, proprietorial gaze to her mouth. ‘And you will do my bidding!’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ she whispered, but her head was thudding like a drum and she could not take her eyes off that firm, sensual mouth. ‘You must know that what you’ve done is against the law.’

‘I am master here,’ he said under his breath, ‘and here—I am the law!’

‘No…!’ Her heart stopped and she tried to sit up.

‘Lie back, bint!’ he said, pushing her down again into the cushions. ‘And accept your fate!’

‘I will not!’ she said heatedly, ‘I won’t stay here a——’ The tent flap was swept aside, silencing her protest.

A servant entered in white jellaba and turban. He carried an ornate carved brass tray. On it, a coffee-pot gleamed, two brass filigree cups and a brass plate holding squares of halva, Turkish delight and spicy biscuits. He bowed low, placed the tray on a side-table, and said something respectful to his master.

‘What did he say?’ Bethsheba asked as the servant left. ‘That he disapproves of your kidnapping an English girl?’

The sheikh laughed under his breath. ‘He would not dare, bint!’

‘And I suppose you think I shouldn’t dare either.’ Rebellion flashed in her eyes.

‘You are brave and spirited, and I know you will fight me,’ he drawled coolly, one strong hand firm on her hip as he held her captive, ‘but it is part of our…shared fantasy, is it not, bint? That you will fight and I will conquer?’

Her breath caught and she said shakily, ‘You will not conquer me!’

Suliman smiled slowly and flicked his gaze from her to the table beside them. ‘Come. You need to rest and eat. Have some coffee and sweetmeats. They are prepared specially for you by one of my handmaidens in the——’

‘I don’t want any sweetmeats!’ she said, heart thumping at the nearness of his hard body and the sexual threat implicit in that soft, dark voice. ‘I want to go home right now!’

‘You do not listen, bint,’ Suliman said flatly, mouth hardening as he looked back at her. ‘And you do not learn. You are my captive: I am your master. And eventually, bint, you will admit your own silent approval of this shared fantasy.’

She stared, breathless, heart thudding. ‘My approval! What do you mean—my approval?’

‘We discussed it in great detail last night,’ he said softly, and the long fingers selected a sweetmeat for her, sliding it on to her lips and watching her with a slow, lazy smile.

‘We did not!’ She pushed the sweetmeat away from her mouth with a shaking hand.

‘I made myself more than clear,’ the sheikh told her, and allowed his gaze to move insolently, possessively over her body, resting on the full breasts beneath her white blouse. ‘And you, Sheba, responded in kind.’

‘No…’ She knew his gaze was provoking her to remember the way her breasts had swollen under his gaze then, as they did now, and the erection of her pink nipples only served to humiliate her further as she felt the excitement shiver through her.

‘Yes.’ His strong hand moved slowly to the buttons on her blouse and slid one open while she stared, trembling, hypnotised by those eyes. ‘You welcome your destiny, and your ultimate surrender.’

‘I don’t!’ she protested, then gasped, face flushing scarlet with hot arousal as Suliman’s strong fingers slid over her breast and they both felt her taut nipples burn in electric response to his touch.

‘Your body betrays you,’ he said softly, and as his head lowered to block out the light Bethsheba heard herself give a faint moan, eyes closing helplessly as that hard mouth took possession of hers.

She struggled, but he pinned her arms to the splay of cushions. She cried out but he silenced her with his mouth, and as she lay helpless beneath him the blood raced through her body with a wild throb of excitement that made her moan as his kiss took fire, pulling her down into a sudden dark flare of hot desire that made her gasp against his mouth.

‘So.’ Suliman raised his dark head, breathing roughly, his face flushed as he watched her, and the soft sound of desert sands blowing in the night air came from outside the tent. ‘Let us have no more protests or denials, bint!’

He got to his feet and reached for the brass coffee-pot, pouring hot spicy coffee into the two cups.

Bethsheba watched him, intolerably aroused, intolerably confused, and unbelievably angry with him for kissing her like that. How dared he? How dared he bring her here against her will, kidnap her and put her in his desert encampment specifically to play some vile game with her that would end in her complete physical surrender to him…?

She hated him! Her eyes moved over his strong back, his arrogant head, and she said hoarsely, ‘You think you can get away with this, but you’re wrong! Chris will be frantic when I don’t come back! He’ll look for me, and——’

‘And where will he look?’ Suliman drawled coolly, turning, and handing her a cup of rich spicy coffee. ‘At my palace of Agadir? What will he find there? Nothing but an abandoned car and my men ready with explanations.’

‘The car will be proof enough,’ she said fiercely, sitting up. ‘He’ll inform the authorities at once and——’

‘And the authorities will read the note attached to the car.’ Suliman watched her, mockery in his eyes, his stance arrogant as he raised the brass filigree cup to his lips and drank.

‘What note?’ she demanded, her heart missing a beat.

‘The note I had drafted before you arrived, chérie. The note telling Burton that you requested a tour of my land, many days’ ride, in order to give your work new depth.’

She stared, breathless, horrified, then said on a rush, ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that?’

‘Why not?’ he drawled. ‘In America I believe it is called method acting.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Chris went to RADA and has often discussed acting with me. He knows I’m not an actress—and certainly not interested in the Stanislavsky method!’

‘Yet you were acting in the desert not three days ago.’

‘For a pop video! It’s hardly the same thing!’

‘But it will give me the time I need, bint,’ he said softly, ‘and that, I assure you, is all I require from your friend Burton!’

Fear shot through her and she said hoarsely, ‘Chris has known me for years. He’ll know something’s wrong. He knows me better than anyone in my life. He’s almost family to me, and I to him!’

‘No one can ever be sure of the contents of another’s heart and mind,’ Suliman said coolly, draining his coffee and setting the cup back on the brass tray.

‘You say that,’ Bethsheba’s eyes were angry and frightened, ‘yet you insist you saw silent approval in my eyes last night!’

He laughed softly. ‘I saw more than silent approval when I kissed you just now, bint!’

Hot colour stung her cheeks and rage made her tremble as she stared at him, unable to reply for fear she would scream at him like a banshee and fly at him, hitting him for speaking such a humiliating truth.

Suliman laughed again, and turned, walking to the tent flap, saying, ‘I will send a girl to you with water and fresh clothing. When it is time to eat you will be sent for.’

Fury overwhelmed her. Her shaking hands closed over a silk cushion and she found herself hurling it at his arrogant head as he swept the tent flap aside. ‘Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!’ she shouted hoarsely, but the cushion hit the side of the tent with a dull thud, and the sheikh’s mocking laughter echoed in her ears to increase her rage and sense of helplessness.

In the dusky corners of the tent, cassia oil burnt in lamps that hung from tent-poles, and the rich drapes of royal blue seemed to mock her, saying, ‘I am master here and you shall do my bidding.’

The hell I will! she thought furiously, almost gnashing her teeth; then she realised that her hands still shook, and she struggled for self-control, for the dignity that was left her. Closing her eyes, she drew long, deep breaths, momentary calm flooding her.

Suliman believed she had given her consent to this barbaric fantasy, and, even though her pride rose up in furious denial, she knew deep inside that the excitement had flashed from her eyes and communicated itself to him. However much she hated herself for having got herself in this position, she knew she had been at fault—partially.

But she hadn’t meant this to happen! Panic flooded her, and she reached for her coffee with trembling hands, drinking deep, suddenly realising that she was struck by a raging thirst. She poured another cup and drank deep of the spicy coffee, and her hands reached for sweet, sticky halva and Turkish delight and biscuits as she remembered she had not eaten since this morning’s meagre breakfast of fruit.

The tent flap was swept aside. Bethsheba’s eyes flashed to the entrance, and stared at the shadowy figure there.

‘I am Khalisha.’ The girl was ravishing, her voice as beautifully Arabian as her face. ‘My lord sent me to wash and clothe you.’

‘How kind of him,’ Bethsheba said through tight lips.

‘Is the sitt ready?’ Khalisha moved into the dim gold light of the tent, and Bethsheba stared in admiration. She was as slender as a gazelle, dusky-skinned, with long black hair and deep, lustrous eyes of brown above high cheekbones and a small dark red mouth. The purple silk of her harem trousers was edged with gold, as was her bodice, and little purple slippers on her feet were embroidered with gold.

“I’m sorry, Khalisha,’ Bethsheba said angrily, unable to swallow her rage, ‘I don’t wish to offend you—but nor do I wish to be washed and clothed like a sacrifice for your master!’

‘A sacrifice?’ The girl’s dark brows met over her lustrous eyes in a frown.

‘I was brought here against my will and——’

‘I know nothing of this,’ said Khalisha at once, cool and serene as she moved further into the tent. ‘I know only the orders that my lord gave me.’

‘Your lord!’ Her nose wrinkled the pent-up anger. ‘He’s not your lord, he’s just——’

‘He is my lord, sitt. And without him my people would be scattered in the desert as the wind scatters dead men’s bones.’ Pride of her race and heritage made the girl even more beautiful.

Getting to her feet, Bethsheba said, ‘Is there a bathroom I am to use?’

‘No. The sitt may wash behind the shiraz.’

Bethsheba looked at once to the back of the tent where a selection of gorgeously patterned shiraz rugs hung from poles to form a protective covering where she might bathe. Memories of Bahrain flooded through her at the sight of the rugs, and she moved slowly towards them.

Khalisha held one up to let her pass, and gold bangles jangled softly on her dusky-skinned arm as she watched Bethsheba. Behind the rugs was a little makeshift room, with a bowl, soaps, scents, a dark blue towel and a small mirror.

Khalisha emptied her own jug of water into the bowl. Steam rose from it, scented steam, which made the room feel even more Eastern. Khalisha turned to Bethsheba to unbutton her blouse.

‘I can do that!’ Bethsheba jumped back from the girl’s fingers, shocked.

“The sitt will find it more pleasant if she is bathed by another.’

Flushing, Bethsheba said, ‘It is not my way, Khalisha! In England, we bathe alone!’

‘I have heard it is so.’ Khalisha nodded. ‘But I am glad to be of a more hot-blooded and sensual race. Here, we are taught to give our bodies the pleasure they crave.’

‘We consider ourselves to be a sensual race,’ she said defensively.

‘Yet you bathe alone?’ Khalisha smiled, eyes gently mocking. ‘Come! The sitt is weary and I am fresh. Close your eyes and let me wash the scent of the horse and the desert from your body!’

Feeling she now had something to prove, Bethsheba allowed Khalisha to undress her. The white blouse fell to the floor, followed by her lacy white bra, and she kept her eyes closed, burning with embarrassment, but refusing to show it. No doubt they would gossip about the cold-blooded English girl around the camp-fires tonight if she refused to let Khalisha wash her! Yet, after the girl had tugged Bethsheba’s jodhpurs off, she couldn’t help feeling a leap of shame as her lace panties followed them a moment later and she stood naked at last.

There was a splash of scented water, then Khalisha’s hand guiding a soft sponge over Bethsheba’s slim thighs. Gradually, she began to relax. The warm water slid softly over her aching shoulders, her back, and her joints began to unbend until at last her eyes flickered open and her shame receded in the trappings of the sensual Orient all around her.

‘Truly,’ Khalisha said suddenly, ‘the sitt is as beautiful as I had heard.’

‘You had heard?’ Bethsheba stared down at the girl who knelt at her feet.

‘It was whispered this morning that you would arrive. They said my lord the sheikh had found his Sheba, and that she was as beautiful as it was written she would be.’

Bethsheba stared, incredulous. ‘Written!’

‘Now that I see you,’ said Khalisha, ‘I see they did not lie. The sitt is the Sheba with hair of gold and skin the colour of the sand-cat. Truly, you are the she-cat.’

‘The she-cat?’ Bethsheba was frowning, completely bewildered and suddenly even more uneasy about her situation. ‘But what does that mean? And why do you call me Sheba, as Sheikh Suliman does?’

‘It is written,’ Khalisha said simply, and picked up the royal blue towel to dry her body.

‘Can’t you tell me what is written?’ Bethsheba studied her. ‘I must know what you——’

‘I have said enough.’ Khalisha’s mouth tightened.

Bethsheba sighed, then changed tack, asking, ‘Where are we?’

‘In the Sahara.’

‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘but where exactly in the Sahara?’

‘I will not help you saddle a horse and escape, sitt.’

‘Khalisha, can’t you see how I feel?’ Bethsheba said at once. ‘I’m a prisoner here!’

Suddenly Khalisha got to her feet, small mouth tightening as she said, ‘I know nothing of this, and my lord will be angry with me if I say more. Come! Stand, please. I will dress you and go.’

Bewildered, she got to her feet, staring at the girl, who bent to get her clothes. Bethsheba’s body was partially reflected in the mirror; she looked leonine, gold and scented and beautiful.

‘You will wear these.’ Khalisha presented her with a luxurious pile of gold silk clothes, jewellery, slippers and make-up of kohl, henna and red-staining cream in small earthenware pots.

Bethsheba’s mouth tightened, but she obediently slipped into the gold silk briefs, the tiny scrap so fragile, so luxurious that she felt almost nude in them. She searched for a bra and found only a gold silk caftan remained.

‘Am I not to wear a bra?’

Khalisha shook her head. ‘My lord does not wish it.’

Bethsheba’s eyes flared angrily. ‘Your lord is a selfish, arrogant——’

‘He is a prince of royal blood, sitt!’ Khalisha’s eyes flared back, just as angry suddenly. ‘And you are honoured to be chosen by one such as him!’

Shocked by the girl’s outburst, Bethsheba realised now that she was jealous. Jealousy! she thought, staring as Khalisha flushed betrayingly and bent her head, mouth angry.

‘Khalisha…’ Bethsheba reached out to comfort her ‘…I’m sorry if I trod on your feelings. But you must understand—I’ve been brought here against my will, and I don’t want to stay. Certainly not to be “chosen” by an arrogant sheikh to——’

‘The sheikh is arrogant, yes!’ Khalisha’s head lifted angrily. ‘But he is magnificent in his arrogance! He would make a woman cry with pleasure if she was lucky enough to be chosen to lie in his arms! Yet all you can do, English sitt, is to——’

‘Enough!’ Sheikh Suliman El Khazir’s voice cracked like a whip from the main entrance to the tent, making Bethsheba jump out of her skin, her heart suddenly banging like a drum.

Khalisha gasped and turned. The sheikh’s approaching footsteps were accompanied by bitten- out words in Arabic, and then the shiraz rug was swept angrily aside.

‘No!’ Bethsheba cried instinctively, whirling to stare at his hard face, her hands up to protect herself from his searing gaze as he stopped dead, staring down at her almost nude body clothed only in transparent gold silk briefs.

There was an electric silence. She couldn’t look him in the face, her mouth open with shock, her hands shaking as she realised there was nowhere to hide herself from his burningly intense gaze.

Khalisha threw herself at his feet. He stood watching her, unmoved, and when she whispered her apologies to his dark leather boots he said something harsh in Arabic and lifted her to her feet with a strong hand. She gave a muffled sob, bowed to him, then ran from the tent, ankle bracelets jingling with tiny gold bells as she moved.