Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem (12 page)

Chapter Ten

R
amiz wandered alone in the gardens of the royal palace. The relatively compact area was divided by a series of covered walkways and winding paths, linked with fountains and small pavilions to give it a sense of space. Watered by an ingenious system of sprinklers fed by underground pipes, it combined the traditional plants of the East, such as fig, oleander and jasmine, with a number of species brought back by Ramiz from his travels. Amongst these were several roses. One of his favourites, the lightly scented pink rose which climbed round the gilded trellis by the fountain where he sat now, had been given to him by the Empress Josephine herself, from her treasured garden at Malmaison. The petals appeared almost white when furled, the pink revealing itself like a blush only when the flowers opened fully.

They made him think of Celia. Three nights had passed since his last visit to the harem, and the only conclusion he had reached was that it was best to keep away from her. He had taken something precious, and there was nothing he could do to recompense her for the loss. What he had done was wrong, without a doubt, and Ramiz was unused to being in the wrong. He had never before been in a position where he could not put a wrong right, and he was wholly unused to the position in which he now found himself—torn between the desire to make amends and the equally strong desire to make proper love to Celia.

That was the most shocking thing of all. He had done wrong, commited a sin of honour, but he was struggling to regret it.

The fact that Celia herself refused to accept his crime didn’t help. Why had she not stopped him? Why had she not confessed? Why was she determined to brush it off as something trivial? Didn’t it matter to her? What did she want of him? Could it be that she was a pawn in some diplomatic game, ready to cry ravishment in order to gain advantage for her country? But she had already insisted she would
not
cry ravishment, and one of the few things he was certain of was that she did not lie.

So why? The last time he’d asked her, after the visit to Katra, she had blamed it on the harem.
Unreal
, she’d said. As in a fantasy? From the start she’d shown a fascination with the harem, or with her perception of the harem drawn from that set of fairytales
One Thousand and One Nights.
Like her compatriots on the Grand Tour, perhaps she was indulging in a fantasy safe from the prying eyes of her peers. It made sense. It made a lot of sense.

The only way to eliminate temptation is to yield to it.
An old saying of his brother’s. As the eldest son and his father’s heir, Asad had been much indulged. Asad had preferred action to words. ‘Women talk, men act,’ he’d used to say. ‘The sword is the instrument of the Prince. To his subjects falls the task of writing down his words.’ Too quick to the flame, their father had always said of Asad, but he’d said it in such a way as to make his pride in his eldest son clear.

If truth be told Ramiz and Asad had rarely seen eye to eye. If truth be told, Ramiz thought wryly, nor had he and his father, but that didn’t stop him missing them both. Nearly two years now since Asad was killed, and in that time Ramiz’s life had been turned upside down. While he had always felt strongly about what he would do differently were he to become ruler of A’Qadiz, he had never seriously considered it happening. Putting his long-considered policies into action had gone some way to help him through the loss of his last remaining close relative, for his mother had died when Ramiz was a teenager, but it had also prevented him from thinking too much about the loss itself. He missed Asad. Why not admit it? He was lonely. He was a rich prince, with thousands of loyal subjects, and he had everything except someone to confide in.

He hadn’t noticed until Celia came along. He’d been too immersed in state policy and state negotiations and state legislation. No time to think about anything other than A’Qadiz. No time to think that maybe he needed something for himself. Someone for himself. Perhaps Akil was right. What he needed was a wife.

But the idea of marrying one of the princesses from Akil’s list was even less appealing than ever. Such a wife would be taken for the sake of A’Qadiz. Such a wife would not give him anything other than more responsibility, one more thing to worry about. Such a wife would not be like Celia—would not
be
Celia.

Ramiz growled with exasperation. A whole hour wasted thinking, and he was right back where he started.
The only way to eliminate temptation is to yield to it.
One thing Asad had always been good at was getting to the nub of a problem. Lady Celia, with her copper hair and her creamy skin and her forthright opinions, was in danger of becoming an obsession. If she did not think herself dishonoured, why should he worry about it? Why not indulge her in her Arabian fantasy and at the same time rid himself of his unwelcome obsession?

The problem was he didn’t like being thought of as
unreal
. He didn’t like the idea of her thinking of him only within the confines of his harem. If he was to be her first lover, he wanted her memory of him to be very real and lasting.

Ramiz looked up at the sky, where the sun was just coming into view on its slow arc over the northern wall of the garden. A slow smile crept over his face. He would bring her into the light of day, away from the shady confines of the harem. Seeing her more clearly would surely speed the cure along.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Celia stood before Ramiz, his desk serving as a barrier between them. She wore a caftan of cerulean blue, with slashed sleeves pulled tight at the wrist, over a pair of pleated
sarwal
pantaloons the colour of the night sky. It was the traditional costume of a woman at home, but with her mass of copper hair uncovered and dressed in its usual fashion, piled in a knot on top of her head with wispy strands curling over her cheeks, the simple outfit seemed exotic. A lady dressed in the garb of an odalisque. Though she was draped with propriety from head to foot, the fluttery fabrics drew attention to the softness of her body underneath. He caught a glimpse of her forearm through the slashed sleeves of her tunic. Creamy skin. Ramiz dragged his eyes away. It was only her arm! But already he could feel himself hardening.

‘Sit down,’ he said, annoyed to find that his voice sounded harsh, while Celia looked composed as she took the chair opposite. ‘You are well?’ he asked.

‘Certainly I am well cared for,’ she said carefully.

‘What does that mean?’

She raised an eyebrow at the tone of his voice. ‘Is there something wrong, Ramiz?’

‘That is what I have just asked you.’

Celia clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I told you, I am well. In fact I’m so well looked after that I’m in danger of forgetting how to do anything for myself. Adila and Fatima anticipate my every need.’

‘You mean to tell me you are bored?’

‘I was trying to be tactful about it, but yes. I am not used to having nothing to do save embroider and read.’

‘But you have been visiting Yasmina?’

‘Yes, where I embroider and play with the children—which is lovely, but…’ Celia bit her lip. The last few days, without so much as a glimpse of Ramiz, had given her ample opportunity to try and put her feelings for him into perspective, but it was almost impossible to do that within the confines of the harem, redolent as it was with sensuous overtones, not to mention the scalding memory of their previous fevered couplings. There, she was in thrall to him, obsessed by the feelings he could arouse in her. If only she could see him in more mundane surroundings—or what passed for mundane surroundings, given he was a prince. Then she would be rid of this continuous need to be with him, able to acknowledge that she was lonely, and she was bored, and that her body, having discovered something new and enjoyable, was quite naturally wanting to experience it again. That was all it was. Absolutely nothing else!

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ramiz said, interrupting her musing. ‘It would be a good idea for you to see more of A’Qadiz, to learn more of the problems we face—I face—in trying to bring our country into the modern world of the nineteenth century.’

Celia stared at him in astonishment.
Was he a mind-reader?
‘But what about—? You said because I am a woman that…’

Ramiz shrugged. ‘If I choose to bend a few traditions, that is up to me. You said so yourself, did you not?’

He smiled. Perfect white teeth. Eyes cold glinting metal. Had he guessed what Lord Wincester had asked her to do? Her stomach clenched at the very idea. But if he knew he would surely not be offering her such an opportunity to observe. Was he testing her? She knew with sudden blinding clarity that it was a test she would not fail. She could not possibly betray this man who had saved her life, made her feel alive for the first time in her life and who clearly trusted her. ‘I would love to see more of A’Qadiz,’ Celia said excitedly. ‘What did you have in mind?’

‘A significant number of my people belong to Bedouin tribes. They live in the desert, moving from place to place with their livestock according to the season and their own inclinations. We have a tradition here of allowing them to petition the crown for alms. Three times a year they can come to me and ask for assistance.’

‘You give them money?’

‘Sometimes. Although more often it is food or animals. Money doesn’t mean much to the Bedouins. It’s not just that, however. I act as arbitrator in their disputes between families and between tribes. It is an opportunity for me, too, to see how things really are and to assess where I can best help them. You must not be thinking these are simply poor nomads. Some of them are very powerful men. It would not do to offend them.’

‘So you go to them rather than ask them to come to you?’

‘Exactly. We will be away about a week or so. You will come?’

‘I would love to.’

‘Good. You may go now. I will see you first thing tomorrow morning. We will start before dawn.’

The caravan which snaked out behind them put the one with which Celia had arrived in Balyrma firmly into the shade. She counted at least twenty guards on camels, and it looked like double that number of servants with mules. Akil took on the role as leader of the train. To Celia’s surprise Ramiz insisted she ride ahead with him, mounted on a camel as snowy white as his own, its saddle draped with a bejewelled cloth of crimson damask, silver bells jangling on its reins, which were adorned with golden tassels. Covered by an
abeyah
of gold silk—a long robe with side slits to make riding astride easier—and with her hair and face protected from the sun and prying eyes by a headdress of the same colour, Celia felt like an Arabian princess.

She said so to Ramiz, who laughed and said no one looking at her could ever mistake her for what she was: an English rose disguised as a desert flower. He was in a strange mood. She would almost call it relaxed. They would dispense with the formalities and deference while they were in the desert, he told her. She was to remain by his side at all times. She was to address him as Ramiz. She was free to ask whatever she wished to know. He valued her opinion.

At first she thought he was teasing her, but as they rode through the day she discovered he meant it—telling her unprompted all about the meetings to come, the ritual and the forms, even sketching out the main personalities for her. He was altogether charming, showing a side of himself she had not seen before. As the miles of the desert stretched out behind them he became almost carefree. The tension in his shoulders eased. The lines around his eyes relaxed. The formidable air departed, leaving a stunningly attractive man who was frankly beguiling.

And Celia
was
completely beguiled. Perhaps even mesmerised, for she noticed no one but Ramiz. The caravan might as well not have existed. As far as she was concerned they were alone in the desert, riding forever onwards across the sands under the blazing sun, to a destination which would remain elusive, for to arrive would be to break the spell, and she didn’t want that to happen.

But when they arrived at the oasis where they would rest for the night the magical atmosphere continued. Instructing Akil to see to things, Ramiz led Celia away from the braying mules and bleating camels and muttering guards to a secluded part of the oasis, where a small pool lapped around a group of palms. The stars above them were like saucers of beaten silver.

‘It’s a full moon,’ Celia said, sitting down by the edge of the pool and removing her sandals to trail her bare feet in the water.

‘Qamar,’
Ramiz told her, sitting beside her. ‘A time for wishes to be granted.’

His thigh was pressing against hers. Her shoulder brushed the top of his arm. Celia circled her ankles in the cool of the water. ‘What would you wish for, Ramiz?’

‘A starry night. A tent to cover me. A beautiful woman to share it with.’

She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a choke. ‘Well, you’ve got the first two, at least.’

‘No, I have it all.’ Ramiz cupped the back of her head, gently turning her towards him. ‘See—above us the starry sky. Over there the tent. Beside me a beautiful woman. And I intend you to share it with me, Celia. All of it.’

Before she could ask him what he meant, he kissed her. His kiss made his intentions clear, and as she kissed him back she signified her agreement with no thought of refusal. It was why she was here. In his desert. In his arms. It was why he had brought her, and it was why she had come. It was what she wanted more than anything. She saw that now with a brilliance and clarity to match the very moon suspended above their entwined bodies.

Celia put her arms around Ramiz. She nestled into the familiar stirring scent of him. She parted her lips at his bidding, and kissed him in such a way as he could be under no misapprehensions. She would share the night with him. All of it.

They kissed for long, languorous seconds, their arms entwined, their tongues tangling, their toes touching in the cool of the water. Then Ramiz broke away and got to his feet, pulling her with him. ‘You understand?’ he said. ‘There is no going back from this moment.’