Lord of the Desert (18 page)

He handed her the purple
gellabia
and drew her to her feet before he slid it over her head.

“Come,” he said gently, and lifted her, carrying her back through the tent to her own chamber. He placed her tenderly on her own pallet and knelt beside her, watching her face in the dim light from the torch outside the tent.

“Why can't I sleep with you all night?” she asked.

He touched her bright hair. “I have nightmares,” he said simply. “You would not sleep.”

“You're my husband,” she began.

“In Qawi,” he said curtly. “And only in Qawi.” He got to his feet abruptly. “There has been a change in plans. We start home in the morning. Brianne will be at the palace by the time we arrive, and I must make sure adequate safeguards are in place. She arrives much sooner than I had expected.”

“What about Brauer?” she asked worriedly.

“We shelled his headquarters. Many of his men are missing, most of his equipment is destroyed. Even if he wishes to provoke another border skirmish, it will not be right away. He must raise more money for arms and men. In the meanwhile, all of us will be relatively safe. Especially with my uncle under guard, and his accomplices in prison.”

“You had them arrested?” she asked.

“Yes. They will be tried. As will he, if he is not careful.”

“And I thought you needed protecting,” she mused, moving a little gingerly on the pallet.

“Perhaps I do,” he mused. “You have an unexpected effect on me,” he added quietly. “I'm not sure I like it.”

“What effect?”

“These unexpected lapses of physical ravishment,” he said bluntly. “It was not what I intended when I brought you here.”

“You wouldn't have known you were still capable if you hadn't.”

His face would have shocked her, had she been able to see it. Capable. He was so obsessed by what had happened that he felt vulnerable. He'd never really known vulnerability in his rough, difficult past, but this woman could reduce him to his knees. She had power over him, and it was disturbing. He knew the treachery of women who used men for their own purposes. He didn't think Gretchen would ever behave in such a manner, but how could he be certain? Rushing headlong into physical ravishment had not been wise, even if circumstances had sent him racing to her bed. Now he had to manage the aftermath, and he was too confused at the moment to make sense of it all. Brauer was still loose, and Brianne was on her way. He looked at Gretchen and his whole body clenched. He needed time…

“You aren't sorry about what happened, are you?” Gretchen asked, quickly reading his dark mood.

He wouldn't look at her directly. “I don't know,” he said tautly. “It may prove as much curse as blessing,” he said curtly. “Sleep well.”

He turned and left her without a backward glance. She huddled under a thin sheet and wondered what she'd said or done to make him suddenly so remote. The most wonderful experience of her life had turned him into a stranger. Something had changed drastically between them, and not just intimacy. He'd taken several mental steps away from her. She wondered if he hadn't meant to seduce her at all now that Brianne Hutton was coming to stay, and if he felt guilty that he'd given in to desire now that his old love was making a reappearance in his life. Only time would tell, but she felt more dejected and uncertain than she ever remembered feeling in her life.

T
he next morning, Philippe was back in his flowing white robes, looking as much a part of the desert as his hard-bitten fighting men. He was still acting remote with Gretchen, although unfailingly polite and courteous. But she had her own horse going back, and he didn't offer to share his. The Land Rover had been sent ahead, on its way to the airport to pick up Mrs. Brianne Hutton and her little boy, who were arriving ahead of schedule.

By the time they arrived at the palace, the newcomers were already in residence. Brianne came out to meet Philippe, who took the palace steps two at a time to grasp her hands and kiss their palms warmly. He bent and picked up the little boy who was with the pretty blond woman, who looked no older than Gretchen herself. As Mrs. Hutton turned, Gretchen almost gasped. The woman could have been her sister, they resembled each other so much. While she stared, transfixed, without a backward glance or even an introduction, Philippe took Mrs. Hutton and her son into the palace and he never looked back once.

Hassan, Gretchen's bodyguard, escorted her inside and let Leila take charge of her. But he stayed close behind as they went toward her quarters.

“There is still danger,” Leila explained when they were sequestered in Gretchen's suite. “The
sidi
has told Hassan to stay always near you, while Monsieur Brauer is free.”

“They said he won't pose much of a threat for a while, since Philippe blew up his base,” Gretchen said.

“That is so. But it is never wise to take too much for granted.” Leila gave Gretchen a wise, quiet look. “You need to rest, Lady,” she said. “It has been an unsettling time for you.”

Gretchen flushed, and averted her eyes.

“There, there,” Leila said gently, and smiled. “It is something which all women share, this learning of men and their needs. It is not altogether a fearful thing, is it?”

Gretchen smiled shyly. “No,” she admitted.

“And the
sidi
is a man of great experience,” Leila chattered as she began to unpack Gretchen's things and put them away in drawers. “When he was younger, there were always beautiful women stalking him. In recent years, he has been quite circumspect, especially since he assumed power in Qawi. But he will want an heir. And an American wife,” she added with a grin, “is quite a coup for him. It will be of great help when he asks for technical assistance from your government to help with his modernization programs.”

Gretchen sat down in a low chair and smoothed her hands over the carved wood arms. “Mrs. Hutton is American,” she mentioned.

“She is married, Lady,” came the surprised reply. “A guest, certainly, but hardly in the same class with the wife of the sheikh!”

“Do you think so?” she asked absently, and sighed. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, seeing again the painful sight of her husband walking away with Brianne and her son. Remembered bits and pieces of conversation filtered through her misery, and she recalled what Philippe had said about Pierce Hutton's young wife. Now that Gretchen could see the resemblance, she was frightened that what Philippe felt for herself was the desire he couldn't express for Brianne. It didn't help to wonder if he'd been pretending even in their most intimate moments that she was no more than a poor shadow of the woman he really wanted. She remembered his remoteness after they'd made love, and his sudden and total lack of awareness of her presence the minute he saw Brianne. She had a feeling that it wasn't going to be an isolated incident.

 

It wasn't. That first day set the pattern for the next few weeks. Philippe found time to take Brianne around his kingdom and show her all the sights Gretchen had longed to see for herself. The child was always with them, and Philippe paid so much attention to him that Gretchen felt her heart breaking in her chest. They would never have a child. But it seemed that he thought of Brianne's as his own.

To Gretchen, he was polite and courteous, like a host with a guest. He no longer came to her chamber, even in the daytime. She felt as if she had no status at all, that she remained in the palace on sufferance. She had been an experiment, to see if he could be a man again. And now that he knew he could, he was in hot pursuit of Mrs. Hutton—whom, gossip said, was temporarily estranged from her husband. They had argued, apparently, over her presence here with Philippe.

Gretchen found an unexpected ally in her former adversary, Philippe's father. He invited her one day into his conservatory and began to instruct her about orchids. She was an apt pupil, listening with rapt attention as he explained the different species, their growing conditions and the quality of their exquisite blooms. They grew in a bark mixture instead of in soil, which fascinated Gretchen.

She touched a fragile phalanopsis blossom with delicate fingers. “They're so individual,” she remarked. “Just like people.”

“I like to think that they have personalities as well,” the old sheikh told her with a warm smile. “Some are shy and show their blossoms only under persuasive care. Others are flamboyant and showy. Still others are recluses, hiding their blooms under their leaves. I find them fascinating.”

“Yes, so do I,” she agreed, her eyes embracing them. “Do they all have names?”

“Every one,” he replied. “And many are old enough to be my children, much less my grandchildren,” he added on a chuckle.

They walked quietly down the long rows of plants, surrounded on all sides by various tropical and subtropical trees and shrubs. It was a wonderland of a conservatory, one which any gardener would envy.

He glanced down at her in the all-enveloping white and rose
gellabia
with its hood drawn up around her coiled blond hair. She fit in so well, he thought. She never pushed or tried to command; she persuaded and coaxed people to do what she wanted them to do. She was gentle even with servants. The cook sneaked her little treats through Leila. The seamstresses went to extra pains on her robes and dresses. The candy merchant sent her samples of his best chocolates, and the pastry chef sent her a selection of his best sweet rolls in a ribbon-festooned box every morning. Not since the old sheikh's grandmother had there been a woman so beloved by the staff.

But she wasn't happy, either. He had heard through the servants about her wedding night with his son, and there was more than ample evidence that the marriage had been consummated. Even if Philippe couldn't give her children, he was apparently able to give her a full and complete marriage. This was delightful news to a man who grieved for his only surviving son's impotence. But something had gone wrong, very wrong. Philippe was spending every available moment with the visiting Mrs. Hutton and her son, and Gretchen was left to entertain herself.

“Why does he desert you for the woman from Paris?” he asked suddenly.

She stopped and turned to face him. “He loves her,” she replied honestly.

“Have you no idea of competing with her?” he prodded gently.

“How?” she asked with a sad little smile. “I'm not in her class socially, and I haven't her looks or her history with Philippe. The minute he saw her, he went to her and never looked back at me. It's been that way for weeks.” She stared down at the marble floor and thought irrelevantly how nice it would feel on bare feet. She wished she dared to go barefoot. “You must have noticed that I favor her,” she added, rubbing salt in the wound.

“He wants you,” he said bluntly, ignoring the comment. “There is a weapon you could use.”

“It wouldn't be enough,” she said softly. “Not if he loves her.” She glanced out at a nearby palm tree in its nice ceramic pot. “I've been thinking about going home.”

“What?”

“You must see that it isn't going to work,” she said with a gesture of her hands. “He wouldn't have chosen me for his wife in a hundred years if I hadn't appealed to his senses and his conscience. He knows that he can be a complete man now, and I think he's already considering the qualities he wants in his consort. Believe me, I'm not even in the running.”

“Mrs. Hutton is married and has a son,” he said firmly.

“She and her husband had a terrible fight before she came here,” she said, relating the gossip that Leila had whispered to her. “Philippe loves her and she has some sort of feeling for him.” She shrugged. “How do I fight that?”

“You must try, if you love him,” he said.

“And if I fail?”

“If you fail…then I will help you to leave. On the condition that Hassan goes with you,” he added sternly. “Brauer has a long reach, all the way to the United States. Whatever my son's failings, he will not want you in danger.”

“Hassan would hate being away from here,” she tried to argue.

“That is my condition.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well.”

“But not until you make one last effort to mend your marriage, young woman,” he told her. “I do not like the thought of sending away the one person in this palace who wants to learn about orchids!”

She chuckled. “Fair enough. And thank you.”

He shrugged and picked up a pair of clippers. “Now. Let me instruct you about the art of propagation!”

 

That night, Gretchen bathed and pampered herself, adding perfume to her water and her hair. She dressed in her most beautiful blue velvet caftan with gold braid, and left her hair flowing and long. With every hope and prayer she walked on soft slippered feet to her husband's suite with her heart beating like mad as she proposed seducing him. It was the last-ditch stand, she thought. She was like the last of the Texas Rangers holding off an outlaw gang. She was walking in where angels feared to tread. At least he did want her, and she was the one woman he'd been physically successful with. It was the one point in her favor, even if he didn't love her.

With her breath in her throat, she rounded the corner to the double door that led to his suite of rooms—and was stopped by two armed guards.

She actually gasped. One of the men stared at her with narrowed eyes. “What do you want?” he asked. “No one may enter here without invitation. Especially not a woman who is improperly clothed and flaunting her body!”

He spoke as if she were some mindless concubine. He didn't know her. She didn't know him, either. But his condescending attitude made her furious. Why did Philippe have guards who didn't recognize his own wife? “I want to see my husband,” she said, gathering courage.

“And why should you expect to find him here? Who is he?” he demanded curtly.

Her green eyes flashed. “He is Philippe Sabon,” she said icily.

The guard's eyes narrowed. “I do not believe this. The
sidi
is not married.”

Gretchen's eyes burned like fire. “Yes, he is. And you get him. Right now!”

“Oh, very well. Wait here,” he said irritably. He glanced at her, frowning, and went into the chamber, leaving the other guard standing rigidly at attention.

There was muffled conversation, and the guard came back with Philippe at his heels. Her husband was still wearing his robes. He looked very foreign, and very attractive. He lifted his chin, staring at Gretchen as if he didn't recognize her. A minute later, she heard movement and saw Brianne Hutton move into view. The woman was dressed in a nice green silk pantsuit, and she didn't look ruffled, but the fact that she was with Philippe in his quarters at this hour of the night spoke volumes.

“What do you want, Gretchen?” he asked formally. “It's a little late for dictation, isn't it?”

She saw in his lean, hard face that whatever rapport they'd shared in the past was gone. The comment surprised her. “Dictation?” she stammered.

“You are my social secretary, Miss Brannon,” he reminded her shortly. He looked very uneasy, and he wouldn't quite meet her eyes.

So that was his game. He was going to pretend that they weren't married at all, that he was still single. No wonder he'd placed guards unfamiliar with Gretchen at his door, to protect him from her unwanted intrusion. It occurred to her unexpectedly that she didn't even have a wedding band or a written marriage certificate. Only the people at the wedding, and Philippe and Gretchen and Leila, knew they were married. Leila, of course, would say whatever he told her to say.

She lifted her chin proudly. Her heart was breaking, but she wasn't going to beg. If Brianne was what he wanted, she couldn't very well force him back into her arms.

“Yes, Monsieur Sabon, I am, indeed. That, and nothing more,” Gretchen said calmly, barely catching the flicker of his eyelids. “You must excuse the intrusion. I only came to tell you that I am returning home tomorrow and you will have to replace me. Good evening!”

Having delivered that bombshell, she turned to the young guard who had been insolent to her and was now looking perplexed. She shot a furious oath at him in the Arabic dialect she'd been painstakingly learning since her arrival, in a secretive effort to please her husband. It must have been a good oath, because he blanched. She'd learned it from the old shiekh, who was eloquent when a servant broke one of his orchid pots, and the orchid inside it. He'd repeated the phrase enough that it had stuck in her mind. He did love those orchids.