Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem (3 page)

He mounted with the ease of long practice, and took up the halters of the leading camel in the caravan, as well as a halter attached to Celia’s own camel. Under any other circumstances she would have been furious to have her mount’s control taken from her. Now she was simply relieved. It was one less thing to worry about.

They rode for about two hours. When the sun began its spectacularly fast slide down towards the horizon, striping the sky with gold and crimson, they stopped and made camp. Unbelievably, Celia had dozed for part of the way. Distance and rest had already started the healing process. As she fulfilled each of Ramiz’s curt instructions her mind sorted and sieved through the events, forming questions which she was determined he would answer.

They sat by a small fire, eating a simple meal which Celia prepared from their supplies. A new moon was rising.
Hilal.
The crescent moon. The sign of new beginnings.

‘Do you know what happened this morning? Why it happened, Your Highness?’ Celia asked when they had finished their food. ‘How did you come to be there?’

‘Ramiz. You may call me Ramiz while we are in private. I was following you. I wanted to see what kind of man your government had sent to talk to me. I wanted to run the rule over him before our official meeting. I had not anticipated him bringing his wife. If I had known you were coming I would certainly have made alternative arrangements for your journey to my citadel.’

‘Just because I am a woman it does not mean I need to be wrapped in cotton wool. I am perfectly capable of dealing with the hardships of a trip across the desert.’

‘From what I saw, you are far more capable than your husband was,’ Ramiz said dryly, ‘but that is beside the point. In my country we take care of our women. We cherish them, and we put their comfort before our own. Their lives before our own. Unlike your husband.’

Celia shifted uncomfortably on the carpet. The narrow skirts of her robe made kneeling difficult. ‘George was just—George was not—he was…’

‘Running away,’ Ramiz said contemptuously. ‘Was he armed?’

‘He had a gun,’ Celia admitted reluctantly.

‘He could have saved himself and the life of my honoured servant.’

‘Your Highness—Ramiz—my husband was a good man. It is just that this was all—and the attack—it was terrifying. He acted on—on instinct.’

‘A man whose instincts are to abandon his wife in order to save his own skin is not worth saving. Nature has bestowed upon women their beauty for man to appreciate. To man has been granted the strength to provide and protect them. To break such rules is to go against the natural way of things, the formula civilisations such as mine have been following very successfully for many thousands of years. Your husband was a coward and therefore not, in my eyes, worthy to be called a man. I am sorry to be so harsh, but I speak only the truth.’

Though all her instincts told her to defend George, Celia found she could not. To a man like Ramiz, what George had done was indefensible. And in a small corner of her own mind she agreed. She turned her attention to obtaining answers to the rest of the questions she knew would be asked of her when she returned to Cairo. Nothing could bring George back, but she could brief the Consul General, provide at least some information about this principality of which they knew next to nothing. In a tiny way it would mean that George had not died in vain. ‘You knew the men who attacked us today, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Who were they?’

Ramiz threw his head back to look up at the stars, suspended like lanterns so close above them. ‘Until two years ago my elder brother Asad was the ruler of A’Qadiz. This kingdom and those surrounding it are lands of many tribes, many factions, and my brother embroiled us in many battles. He believed that the sword was mightier than the tongue. It was to cost him his life.’

‘What happened to him?’

Ramiz shook his head slowly. ‘He was killed in a pointless, ultimately futile skirmish. I don’t share his philosophy. I believe most men are reasonable, and reasonable men want peace. Peace is what I have been working tirelessly to achieve, but not all my neighbours agree with me. Nor do all accept my strategy of negotiating with foreign powers such as the British. Today was a warning, and I must act swiftly or everything I have begun to achieve will crumble into dust. It is unfortunate that you have been caught up in this, but there is nothing I can do about it for now. It is another two days’ journey to Balyrma. We must start at first light.’

‘Balyrma!’ Celia exclaimed. ‘But surely—I mean, I had assumed you would take me back to Cairo.’

‘There can be no question of that. I must return home urgently.’

‘Can you not provide me with another escort?’

Ramiz indicated with two spread arms the vast empty expanse of the desert night. ‘You think I have magic powers? You think I can summon an escort for you by sheer force of will?’

‘I’m afraid I was not briefed, and my husband chose not to share the details of this mission with me. I can be of little use to you in that regard.’

‘It is of no matter. It would not be appropriate to hold such discussions with a woman in any event,’ Ramiz said dismissively.

She already knew that. George had said as much, and it wasn’t really so very different from the way things were back home in England. ‘If that is the case, surely it would make more sense for me to go back to Egypt. It is but a day’s travel to the port and…’

‘I have spoken. You would do well to remember that in this country my word is law.’

Celia was taken aback by the abrupt change of tone. Ramiz had removed his headdress. His hair was black, surprisingly close cut, emphasising the shape of his head, the strength in his neck and shoulders. Now he ran his fingers through it, making a small lick stand up endearingly on his forehead, and Celia realised he was younger than she had thought, perhaps only two or three and thirty. But his looks belied his maturity. He spoke with the voice of authority, the voice of a man used to being obeyed without question. A man, she reminded herself, who held the power of life and death over her.

Celia, however, was not a woman to whom unquestioning obedience came naturally. ‘Is it because of the attack this morning?’ she asked carefully. ‘Are you worried they may return?’ She had not thought of this until now—how vulnerable they were, only the two of them. Nervously, she peered out into the inky black of the desert, but she could see nothing beyond the vague contours of the hills.

She was immensely relieved when Ramiz shook his head decidedly. ‘They would not dare return now they know of my presence here.’ His mouth thinned. ‘It is a stain on my honour, and on that of A’Qadiz, that they came at all.’

‘You saved my life.’ Without thinking, Celia laid her hand over his. ‘You could not have known that your own men would turn traitor.’

Her hand was cool. Her fingers were long, that same lovely creamy colour as her face. Women with such colouring so often turned an ugly red in the sun, or freckled, yet she looked to be flawless. Ramiz wondered how flawless. Then he reminded himself that he should not be wondering. He removed her hand deliberately. ‘You will come to Balyrma with me, and that is an end to it.’

‘For how long?’

Ramiz shrugged. ‘Until I decide what is to be done with you.’

Celia frowned. It seemed she had no option. Would it not be best to accept her fate rather than estrange her host by arguing? Though she did not know the details of George’s mission, she knew much depended upon it. In any case, even if she was granted her wish to return to Cairo immediately, as George’s widow she would not be permitted to stay. She would be sent home. Was that what she really wanted? The answer to that question was obvious.

‘Where will I stay in Balyrma?’

‘In the palace, as my guest.’

‘I don’t think that would be good idea,’ Celia said uncertainly. ‘As an unaccompanied woman it would not be appropriate for me to stay in your palace, especially as you are clearly going to be occupied by urgent matters of state.’

Ramiz laughed harshly. ‘You may talk like a man, but you are a woman, are you not, Lady Celia? You need not worry about your virtue. You will be housed in the women’s quarters, to which no man but me is permitted entry.’ He turned towards her. In the firelight, his eyes seemed to glow like amber.

‘Do you mean I am to stay in a harem?’ Celia’s eyes widened in shock. Images from
One Thousand and One Nights
, of scantily clad concubines oiling themselves and lolling about on velvet cushions sprang to her mind. ‘You expect me to form part of your harem? You’re not serious. You can’t be serious.’ Her voice had a panicky edge to it. ‘I am not—you expect me to…’

It was that word—
harem
. Ramiz saw immediately what she was thinking. He had encountered the same misunderstanding time and again during his travels as his father’s emissary. Europeans imagined a harem to be some sort of exclusive bordello. It angered him to have such inaccurate assumptions made, so he no longer tried to explain. If their fevered imaginations wanted to conjure up scores of nubile women in a perpetual state of arousal waiting for their lord and master to take them to his bed, let them!

‘The harem is the place for women in the palace, so that is where you will stay.’

‘Your Highness—Ramiz—I am flattered that you should consider adding me to your collection of wives, but…’

‘My wife! You over-estimate your value. A sheikh may only marry an Arab princess of royal blood. It is the custom. A Western woman, even a titled one, could not aspire to such an exalted position. At best perhaps she could serve as a concubine.’

Celia gave an outraged gasp. ‘You expect me to be your concubine? I absolutely will not! How dare you? How dare you suggest such an outrageous, indecent…?’

He moved so suddenly she had no chance of escape. He seemed to uncoil, to pounce, so that one minute she was sitting next to him, the next she was being dragged helplessly to her feet, held in arms so strong it would be pointless to struggle. Tall as she was, Ramiz topped her by several inches. She was pressed against him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. His breath was on her face. She could smell him, warm and overpoweringly male. She had never been held thus. She had never been so close to a man before. Not like this, held in such a way as to make her unbearably conscious of her own powerlessness. She should be afraid, and she was, but she was also—something else.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice was annoyingly breathless. ‘Let me go.’

‘You think me a savage, don’t you, Lady Celia?’ Ramiz said, his voice low and tight with anger.

‘I do not! You are obviously educated, your English is flawless, and…’

His grip on her tightened. ‘You think the ability to speak a simple language like yours is a measure of being civilised? I also speak French, Greek, German, Italian and at least four variations of my own language. Does that make me more civilised than you—or less? I have travelled widely too, Lady Celia,’ Ramiz said with a vicious look. ‘Far more widely than you or your pathetic husband. But still all of that means nothing to you, does it? Because I respect the traditions of my own country, and those traditions include keeping a harem. So I can never be anything other than a savage in your eyes, can I?’

Her temper, rarely roused, saved Celia from fear. ‘I don’t for one moment think of you as a savage! Your country is older by far than mine. I would not be so arrogant. I think it is you who are the one making assumptions about me.’

He had thought her slender, but even through the ridiculous constraints of her English corsetry he could feel her curves. The swell of her breasts pressed against his chest. The dip of her waist made the gentle undulation of her bottom even sweeter. She smelled of lavender and soap, and faintly of that enticing tang of female. The idea of her as his concubine, thrown at her out of anger, was shockingly appealing. Such a vision it commanded, of her creamy skin spread delectably before him, of her delightful mouth at his command, of her long fingers touching him, doing his bidding. Of her submission. He wanted her. Badly. Blood rushed to his groin, making him hard.

Celia struggled to free herself. ‘I won’t be your—your love-slave, no matter what you do to me. Anyway, they’re bound to come looking for me when they hear nothing from George, and if they find me in your harem—’

‘Enough!’ Ramiz pushed Celia contemptuously away from him. ‘I am a sheikh and a man of honour. I would never take a woman against her will. It is an insult that you think me capable of such an act.’

Realising just how foolishly she had leapt to all the wrong conclusions, Celia felt her cheeks burn. ‘I’m— I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I’m not thinking straight. It’s just, with everything that’s happened…’ A sudden wave of exhaustion hit her with such violence that she staggered. The horror of the day’s events came back to her. George was dead, and she was alone in the desert with a man who seemed to think the world should do his bidding. This world was his world; he had good reason for making such an assumption.

Noticing how pale she had become, Ramiz eased Celia back down onto the carpet by the fire. ‘You must rest now. We have a long day’s travel ahead of us tomorrow. The camels are an excellent early warning of danger, and I will be here by the fire. You need have no fears.’

In the light of the stars her skin looked translucent and pale as the new moon. Her eyes were glazed, vulnerable, and no wonder. She had been through much today, and endured it with a stoicism and bravery that was impressive. His anger fled like a falcon released from its fetters. Ramiz covered her gently with a blanket, then placed himself at a short distance, laying his scimitar within easy reach, and prepared himself for a long night’s vigil. He didn’t think the assassins would strike again, but he was taking no chances.

Chapter Three

C
elia slept heavily, waking the next morning just before dawn with a thumping headache and a brain which felt as if it was made of cotton rags. Ramiz was already up and about, readying their caravan, and a pot of sweet black coffee was bubbling appetisingly on the embers of the fire.

Ramiz seemed distracted, a heavy frown drawing his dark brows together under his
ghutra
, making him seem both more intimidating and older. As they wended their way inexorably east across the huge stretch of desert, following a trail which to Celia’s untutored eyes made only fleeting appearances, she had ample time to observe him. Despite the fierce heat of the sun, which made the horizon flicker hazily and seared relentlessly through her thin dress and the veil which she kept in place to protect her from the dust, Ramiz sat bolt-upright in the saddle, on full alert. One hand sought the constant reassurance of the curved sabre in its silver sheath. His eyes—the only part of his face she could see, for he had pulled his headdress over the rest of his face—were slits of bronze, casting their keen gaze in front, to each side, to the rear of the caravan. On one occasion he stopped, pulling his white camel up so suddenly that the beast seemed to freeze in mid-trot. It would have been comical had it not been frightening. Celia pulled up beside him, peering anxiously where he pointed.

‘Something moved,’ he whispered, though she could see nothing, and could still see nothing when he relaxed. ‘Just a rabbit,’ he said, pointing at a tiny dot a few hundred yards away. ‘If I had my falcon we could have had it for dinner.’

‘Your falcon?’

‘The wings for my heart,’ Ramiz said. ‘And a good provider too, out here.’

‘You have an affinity with animals, I think. What happened to your beautiful horse? The one I saw you with the day we landed?’

‘Stabled near the port. I think, from the way you hold your seat on a camel, that you like to ride?’

‘Very much, and to hunt too. My father owns a string of racehorses and my sisters and I were thrown into the saddle almost before we could walk.’

‘You have many sisters?’

‘Four. I’m the oldest.’

‘And your father? What does he do apart from race horses?’

‘He is a statesman. Lord Armstrong—he is quite well-known in diplomatic circles.’

Ramiz’s eyebrow lifted. ‘You are Lord Armstrong’s daughter?’

‘You know him?’

‘I met him once, in Madrid. He is a very influential man. Your marriage was of his making, then?’

‘Why should you think so?’ Celia asked, riled by his cool and annoyingly accurate assumption.

‘It’s obvious, having such a strategist as a father, and with such excellent family contacts—your uncle also serves in the British government, does he not?’

Celia nodded.

‘Despite my own poor opinion of your husband, he must have been well thought of, and also very ambitious to have been given and accepted this mission. A most welcome addition to your father’s sphere of influence, in other words. He would have been foolish not to recommend the match. Am I correct?’

Put like that, her marriage seemed a very cold affair indeed. But Papa had not put it like that. She could have said no—couldn’t she? And George—he’d thought of her as more than some sort of useful social appendage, hadn’t he? Celia found herself rather unwilling to answer this question.

‘It is true my marriage had my father’s approval, but the choice was mine. Just because such things are arranged in your country, you should not assume that we do things the same way.’

She could tell by the way Ramiz’s eyes narrowed that she had made a mistake. It was not like her to speak so rashly. In fact she was known for her tact—one of the few virtues which George had openly admired in his wife. But there was something about Sheik Ramiz al-Muhana that put her constantly on the back foot. He was so sure of himself. And unfortunately so often right!

‘I think it is you who are making assumptions, Lady Celia,’ he said.

He was right. She was wrong. Yet she could not bring herself to apologise. ‘Tell me, then, did your own wives have a say in the matter?’

‘My wives? How many do you think I have?’

‘I don’t know, but I do know it is the custom here to have more than one.’

‘Another lazy assumption. It may be the custom, but the reality is very much the choice of the individual. Some men have only one wife, others nine or ten—though that is very rare. Men provide their wives with the protection of their own household, they give them children and shelter, an established role. Women have a better life married than single. What is wrong with that?’

‘What is
wrong
with it?’ Celia bit her lip. She should not comment on things she did not understand, even things that just felt—wrong. Slanting a look at Ramiz from under her lashes, she wondered just for a moment how much of what he was saying he actually meant. The thought came to her that he was teasing, punishing her for her naïvety and a little for her English prejudice—which perhaps she deserved. ‘I would not have liked to share my husband with another woman,’ she said cautiously.

‘I doubt your husband would have had either the capacity or the inclination.’

Once again, although Ramiz’s words were shocking, he had merely voiced what Celia herself had begun to question. Entrenched loyalty and guilt, rather than faith in what she was saying, made her leap to George’s defence. ‘You are quite right, he wouldn’t,’ Celia said shortly. ‘Because unlike you he believed in constancy.’

‘He was so constant to you that he left you to die. If you were my wife…’

‘I am very glad I am not.’

‘If you were, at least you would know what it meant to be a wife.’

Celia bit her lip, torn between the desire to ask Ramiz what he meant and the knowledge that she would not like the answer.

‘One of the differences between our cultures,’ Ramiz continued, sparing her the indignity of asking him to elaborate, ‘is that in mine we appreciate that women as well as men have needs. If you were my wife, they would have been generously satisfied. As George Cleveden’s wife…’ He shrugged.

She was extremely glad of her veil. Heat flushed Celia’s skin, prickling uncomfortably on the back of her neck.
What did he know? How did he know?
Though her curiosity was certainly roused, embarrassment got the better of her. ‘In my country, such things are not mentioned.’

‘Which is why, in your country, so many women are unhappy,’ Ramiz countered.

Were such things discussed in the harem?
If that was where she was destined to go—not that she would for a minute actually allow Ramiz to… But if it was where she was going, would she be able to find out from the other women? Another wave of heat spread its fingers over Celia. ‘We should not be discussing this,’ she said primly.

‘Between a man and a woman there is nothing more important to discuss.’ Ramiz could see she was mortified, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself. There was something about the too-cool Lady Celia that made him want to test her limits. And, though he should definitely not be thinking such thoughts, now that he had, in his imagination, placed her within his harem, he could not stop picturing her there. ‘To take pleasure, one has also to give. In order to give, one must have knowledge. If you were to be my concubine,’ Ramiz said outrageously, ‘then I would first need to understand what gives you pleasure. And you would need to do the same for me.’

‘But I am not going to be your concubine,’ Celia said, the tension in her voice evident. ‘You said so yourself.’

‘True. But I wonder, Lady Celia, what bothers you more? The idea of being my concubine or the knowledge that, if you were, you would enjoy it?’

She was nonplussed by this question, as it had never occurred to her to think that this imperious sheikh, who could have any woman he wanted, might actually find her desirable. No one else ever had. Until George had asked her to marry him she had never been kissed. In fact, rather shamefully, no one had ever even tried to kiss her, whereas they seemed never to stop trying to kiss Cassie.

Men wanted to make love to Cassie. They wanted to make conversation with Celia. She was obviously lacking something. She was witty, she could be charming, she was educated and she was good company, but she wasn’t desirable. It was not something which had bothered her until recently. Not until George had—or had not! Now, it was a curiously deflating feeling.

Was Ramiz toying with her? Celia peered through her dusty veil, trying to read his face, but with only his eyes visible, and those carefully hooded by his heavy lids, it was impossible. ‘I think,’ she finally said, after a long silence, ‘that I have enough to cope with in real life without indulging in hypothetical and frankly ridiculous speculation.’ She couldn’t know for sure, but she sensed that he was smiling beneath his headdress. ‘Can we change the subject, please? Tell me about Balyrma. There is so little written about your country, I don’t know very much about it at all beyond the name.’

They had been in the saddle for most of the day, riding through the heat of noon which, under less pressing circumstances, Ramiz would have avoided. Celia had made no complaint, sitting straight in the saddle, drinking water from the canteen only when it was offered, maintaining by some miracle a cool, collected appearance in clothes more fitted to a stroll in an English garden than a long trek across the merciless heat of the desert. Looking at her now, Ramiz felt a faint twinge of guilt. She might not have loved her husband, and in his view she was well rid of him, but she had endured a hugely traumatic time with remarkable courage, and deserved to be indulged a little.

So he told her of Balyrma, and became so engrossed and passionate when talking of his beloved city and its people, of their ancient traditions and its sometimes violent history, that he barely noticed the miles being eaten up. He discovered in Celia an attentive and intelligent listener, with a wide frame of reference, who surprised him with some of the astute observations she made. She was enthusiastic too, and eager to find links between A’Qadiz and the ancient Egypt of the pharaohs whose tombs she had explored. Her enthusiasm was infectious. In his anxiety to defend a point she disputed, enjoying the cut and thrust of their debate, Ramiz almost forgot she was a woman.

‘You may be right about the true purpose of the Sphinx,’ Celia said triumphantly, ‘but the fact is you will never be able to prove it, for nothing like that was written down.’ The sun was sinking. Ahead, she could see what looked like a small copse of trees. Thinking she must be mistaken, Celia pushed back her veil and shaded her eyes with her hand. It certainly looked like greenery.

‘It is an oasis,’ Ramiz explained, ‘where water comes up from the ground and provides succour for plants, animals and weary travellers alike. We will stop here for the night. You will be able to bathe, if you wish.’

‘Bathe!’ Celia breathed the word ecstatically.

It was the first time Ramiz had seen her smile. It changed her completely, warming her complexion, softening the clean lines of her face with the curve of her full bottom lip, highlighting the slanting shape of her eyes, giving him the most tantalising glimpse of the sensual woman hidden beneath her cool exterior. There was something incredibly alluring about her. Unawakened. He remembered now that it was how she had first struck him. Perhaps it was the implied challenge in that which aroused him. Yet again he reminded himself that he should not be thinking such things.

They had reached the oasis. It was small—a watering place, no more—not big enough to encourage permanent settlement. But it was a well-known stop and Ramiz was surprised to find they were the only ones there. His camel dropped obediently to its knees and he dismounted, going immediately to assist Celia, who clambered stiffly down. Ramiz put his hands around her waist and lifted her clear of the pommel. She was light as a feather. He set her to her feet and reluctantly let her go.

‘I will see to the animals. The bathing pool is over there, away from the well.’

Ramiz lifted her portmanteau down from the mule and handed it to her. Needing no further encouragement, Celia headed in the direction he had indicated. Underfoot, the sand of the oasis was much softer than the rough track they had followed, much more like the gently undulating desert she had imagined. The trees she had seen were palms, growing high in clusters by the drinking well, around which also grew little patches of green scrub. The bathing pool was an ellipse of vibrant blue set into the sand, no more than ten feet across, backing into a high wall of rock. Water trickled out from a fissure a couple of feet above the level of the pool. Over the years it had worn a track, so that now it formed a tiny waterfall.

Celia longed to stand beneath it. A quick check assured her that she was screened by the palm trees. In minutes, she had discarded her dusty layers of dress, petticoats, stays and stockings, and stood, for the first time in her adult life, shockingly naked, outdoors. It was a fantastically liberating experience. She stretched her arms above her head, tilting her face to look up at the first twinkle of the stars. A scatter of pins and her hair fell in a heavy sweep down her back.

She stepped into the warm pool. The sand sloped gently down, soft and firm underfoot. The water caressed her skin like velvet. At the deepest point, in the middle, it came up to her waist. She sank down to her knees, sighing with contentment as it worked its balmy magic on her aching limbs and dusty skin, before lying flat on her back, floating, her hair trailing out behind her. She soaped herself thoroughly, then washed her hair, rinsing it under the crystal-clear waterfall, relishing the contrasting icy cold of the water trickling over her shoulders before it merged with the warmer water of the pool. The crescent moon was reflected on the surface. In its pale light her skin seemed milky, other-worldly, as if she were a statue come to life.

She had never really looked at her body before—had taken for granted her unblemished skin, her slim figure, well-suited to the fashion for high-wasted narrow dresses, but otherwise unexceptional. Now, released from the fetters of her corsets and the bounds of polite society, she explored her shape. Standing under the waterfall, she watched the paths each drop made, down her arms to nestle in the crook of her elbow, between the valley of her breasts, along the curve of her ribcage to the dip and swell of her stomach. So familiar, and yet so new. She lay on her back again, floating weightlessly, gazing up at the stars. How would her body look to someone else. Too skinny? Too tall? Too pale? Her breasts were not small, but they were hardly voluptuous. Was this good or bad? What would a man think? Ramiz, for example…