Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem (10 page)

‘Peregrine Finchley-Burke,’ the young man said. ‘At your service on behalf of His Majesty’s government, Lady Celia.’

Realisation dawned. ‘You have been sent to escort me home?’

Peregrine frowned. For a moment he could have sworn the lady was disappointed. ‘No doubt you’re eager to return to the bosom of your family,’ he said cautiously.

‘Indeed—though I have been very well treated here, I assure you. The palace is most luxurious.’

‘Just so…just so.’ Peregrine rubbed his hands together. ‘Pleased to hear that, because the thing is I’m not actually here to take you back,’ he said, flinching away instinctively as he delivered his ill tidings. To his relief, however, the tall, elegant woman in front of him did not break down into immediate hysterics, grab his hand, plea for mercy or even cry out in dismay. Instead her sleepy eyes widened and a smile trembled on her rather full mouth before she lowered her lids again and looked away into the distance, clasping her hands together.

‘Not here to take me back?’ Celia repeated faintly. ‘You mean I am to stay here?’

‘For the present. Thing is—dashed awkward all this. Forgot—should have said straight away have to pass on condolences. Terrible thing to happen. Consul General seemed to think very highly of your husband.’

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Celia rummaged for her handkerchief in her reticule and dabbed her eyes.

‘And you, Lady Celia, it must have been a bit of an ordeal.’

‘I was very fortunate that Sheikh al-Muhana was there,’ Celia said with a watery smile. ‘He saved my life, you know. Forgive my rudeness, Mr Finchley-Burke, please do sit down. Have you spoken with the Sheikh? How did he react when you informed him that I was to stay here?’

Peregrine waited for Celia to take a seat before he eased himself onto a divan opposite her. Having spent the previous evening balancing his bulk on a cushion, feeling like a seal stranded by the tide on a rock which was too small, he was relieved to find that he was not expected to conduct this particular interview on the floor. ‘The Prince left this morning—visiting some outlying tribes or something. Won’t be back for quite a few days, apparently. Said to pass on his
adieu
and hoped you would be comfortable until his return.’

What was that supposed to mean?
Celia thought indignantly.

‘Seems a decent enough chap,’ Peregrine continued with a touch of condescension. ‘Bit on his high horse at first, but suppose that was to be expected.’

Celia raised her brows delicately. ‘He is Prince of A’Qadiz, and it is likely that he holds the balance of power in at least four of the neighbouring six principalities. He is also extremely intelligent, and wealthy beyond anything you can imagine. You underestimate him at your peril.’

‘Oh, I don’t, I assure you—not now I’ve seen the place for myself.’

‘Why exactly are you here, Mr Finchley-Burke, if you are not to take me back? It seems very strange that you have come all this way simply to pass on a message.’
And, now she thought about it, if Ramiz was as indifferent to her presence as he wished her to believe, why had he not insisted that she leave with this rotund young man?

‘Thing is, Lord Wincester sent an urgent despatch back to Blighty—to your father. Thought Lord Armstrong should be the one to come and get you—best person to make the arrangements and what not, and also best person to complete the negotiations with the Prince, you know? Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

‘So I am to wait here until my father arrives?’

‘Shouldn’t be too long,’ Peregrine said bracingly. ‘Matter of a few weeks at most. Said yourself you’re very comfortable here.’ Peregrine opened his watch, wound it up, then closed it again. ‘London time,’ he said, à propos of nothing.

Celia raised her brows. ‘Is there something else you wish to say to me, Mr Finchley-Burke?’

‘Well.’ Peregrine plucked a large kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Well… You said it yourself, Lady Celia, this Sheikh al-Muhana could turn out to be quite an important man. A’Qadiz has the only decent port on the Red Sea. If we can do an exclusive deal with him and Mehmet Ali in Egypt it opens up a whole new trade route to India. Takes the journey time down from two years to only three months. Imagine that!’ Peregrine eased forward confidentially. ‘Thing is, don’t want anyone else to steal our thunder, so to speak. Would be nice to know Sheikh al-Muhana isn’t talking to the competition. That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? But Sheikh al-Muhana won’t do business with a woman. And besides, I have not been briefed.’

‘No, no. Of course not. Already said—your father coming out here provides a perfect opportunity. Obviously an opportunity borne out of tragedy, I hasten to add. Lord Armstrong is a skilled negotiator. If anyone can strike a deal with the Sheikh then he can.’

‘So what exactly do you want
me
to do?’

‘Ah. The Consul General said you’d understand because you’re Lord Armstrong’s daughter and you know what’s what.’

Celia shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Understand
what
is what?’

Peregrine swallowed nervously. ‘He expects you to—to use your position to England’s advantage.’

‘My position!’ Celia jumped up from her divan, forcing Peregrine to rise precipitately to his feet—an act which left him breathless and sweating. ‘And precisely what position do you and the Consul General assume I occupy?’

‘Well, I didn’t mean to imply—’ Peregrine broke off, blushing to the roots of his hair. ‘I’m just supposed to tell you that your father would expect you to keep your eyes and ears open. You know—find out as much as you can of the situation here. Anything—no matter how trivial. We know so little of the man and his country, and you are in a unique position to…’ he faltered under Celia’s basilisk stare ‘…to—you know—glean what you can. Lord Wincester said to tell you that at least this way the whole damned mission won’t have been a complete waste of time and money. Except,’ Peregrine added contritely, ‘wasn’t supposed to say it in quite that way. Beg pardon.’

Celia dropped back onto the divan. The idea of trying to extract information by subterfuge from Ramiz was repugnant, and she was pretty certain it would also be completely unsuccessful. She doubted very much that he would give away anything he did not want her to know.

On the other hand, he
did
trust her. He had trusted her with the secret of Katra. He had confided in her some of his troubles with regard to his neighbours too—had seemed glad of the opportunity to talk, in fact, within the cloistered confines of the harem.

No, she should not even be giving the idea thought. Even to pass on the little she already knew would be seen by Ramiz as a betrayal.

But if she refused, what would everyone think of her? What harm would it do poor George’s memory that his widow had no loyalty to her country? Bad enough that his widow was relieved she was no longer his wife—surely she owed him this much in reparation? And, after all, Ramiz might never know. By the time he found out, if he ever did, she would be safe back in Cairo. In England, even.

‘And if I do not agree with Lord Wincester’s proposal, what then?’ Celia enquired.

Judging by the startled look on Peregrine’s face, this was not a possibility which had been considered. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you? England, you know—empire and all that,’ he said vaguely. He scratched his head. ‘I suppose you could come back with me, but I’m not sure Sheikh al-Muhana would be too keen on the idea of you leaving without his say-so. Then there’s the guards. You’d be kicking your heels in Cairo until your father arrived, and there’s the issue of the treaty—because if you left against the Sheikh’s wishes I don’t doubt he’d be insulted, and your father would have come all this way for nothing and—well, you see how it is.’ Peregrine spread his hands in a fatalistic way.

If she left it would ruin things, in other words, Celia thought. And, actually, the one thing she was sure of was that she didn’t want to leave. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to A’Qadiz—not yet. Nor to Ramiz.

If she stayed she could agree to what Mr Finchley-Burke asked of her without actually acting upon it. In fact, Celia thought brightly, there was no need to make any decision right now, except to agree in principle to try and do as she was bid.

‘Very well. I will stay until Papa arrives,’ Celia said.

Peregrine executed as dignified a bow as he could manage. ‘Excellent. That is excellent news,’ he said with a relieved smile. ‘Have to say didn’t at all fancy having to run the gauntlet of those guards.’

Celia held out her hand. ‘Goodbye Mr Finchley-Burke. And good luck with your posting in India.’

‘What shall I tell Lord Wincester?’

‘You may tell him that he can rely on me to do the right thing,’ Celia replied. Which she would—whatever that meant.

Ramiz sent no word to Celia for the duration of his absence, though she learned from Yasmina that he was in regular contact with Akil. She spent another enjoyable day at Yasmina’s house, eager to discover for herself what ‘ordinary’ life in Balyrma was like. Surprisingly like life at home was what she found, with much of the day given over to caring for the children—readying the bigger ones for school, teaching the smaller ones their letters, managing their meals, sewing their clothes, wiping their tears and telling them stories.

‘Before Ramiz came to power, only my oldest son went to school,’ Yasmina told Celia as the two women sat companionably embroidering a section each of a large forest scene stretched on a frame, while the younger children took their afternoon nap in a separate salon. ‘There were no schools for girls. Most of them could not even read, for their mothers couldn’t read so there was no one to teach them.’

‘Because of course none of the men would,’ Celia said sarcastically.

‘Of course not,’ Yasmina agreed. ‘It is the way of things here, Celia. Things are changing, some things are changing very fast, but we must not let the wind carry us to places we do not want to go. Ramiz knows that.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude. It is just that things are so different.’

‘Just because it is different doesn’t make it wrong,’ Yasmina reminded her gently. ‘There are many ways to skin a rabbit.’

Celia smiled. ‘We say that too, only it is a cat, I don’t know why. Tell me about the schools. What did Ramiz do?’

‘Well, he was very clever. He knew unless they trusted the teachers the women would not allow their girls to attend school, so he brought in a teacher to teach the teachers, not the girls. The men didn’t like it at first, and even now there are only three teachers and about a hundred girls, so my older daughter is very lucky to have a place, but it is a start, and Akil said Ramiz has big plans. One day everyone in A’Qadiz will be able to read and write. Of course many of our people think this is madness—they say it will change the old order for ever, because people will lose sight of their place and no one will want to do real work, which is why it is all going so slowly. That and the fact that Ramiz is stretched as thin as the finest lace, which is why Akil says he should take a wife.’ Yasmina snipped the vermilion thread she had been using and selected a length of burgundy. ‘Talking of Ramiz, did you look at those charm books I gave you?’ she asked with a slanting smile.

Celia nodded, concentrating on her stitching. The books were filled with extremely explicit pictures showing men and women engaging in an astonishing variety of acts. ‘Some of the things,’ she whispered, ‘I didn’t think were physically possible.’

Yasmina giggled. ‘I don’t think they are. You are not supposed to take them literally. They are meant to inspire, not to instruct. Have they?’

‘Have they what?’

‘Inspired you?’ Yasmina asked with a sly look. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.’

Celia blushed. ‘It just seems wrong to plan such things. Shouldn’t they just happen—you know, naturally?’

‘Of course—at first,’ Yasmina agreed. ‘And it certainly does not do for a woman to lead the way. Men like to think they do that. But later, when you know each other well, there is much to be said for something different.’

‘Oh, well, then, I don’t need to worry about it,’ Celia said with relief.

‘You and Ramiz have not…?’

‘No. And we will not. I can’t think why we’re talking about this, I was just curious.’

‘Curiosity killed the goat.’

‘We say that too. Only it’s a cat again.’

‘Be careful, Celia. Remember what I said.’

‘I know. He is not meant for me. As if I could forget it,’ Celia muttered. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on the true nature of her relationship with Ramiz except her. And Ramiz, of course, who didn’t have an opinion because as far as he was concerned there was no relationship. With a sigh, Celia resumed her sewing.

Chapter Nine

T
he negotiations had stretched Ramiz’s patience to the limit. Twice he had threatened to walk away, relenting only because of his determination not to let one of his own people destroy his hard work through ignorance and greed. An agreement had finally been reached and, following the twelve-hour feast ordered by the tribe’s elders to celebrate their concord, Ramiz returned to Balyrma exhausted but well satisfied.

It had been a long few days in more than one way. He had found himself missing Celia. It was always a tedious business dealing with the tribes. They favoured a convoluted, highly formal bargaining process with which he was all too familiar, but he hadn’t realised how alone it made him feel until now. It was not just the fact that he was one against many; it was also that, being the Prince, he had to appear inviolable and imperious. It was expected of him. Nothing must touch him, which meant there was no one to take his part except himself.

At night, alone in his tent in the middle of the desert, he’d found himself thinking of Celia. The scent of her, the feel of her petal-soft skin against his own. The taste of her mouth, succulent and honey-sweet. He’d wondered what she was doing. He’d wondered if she thought of him. He had cursed himself for wondering, for wasting precious time on such pointless and frustrating thoughts, though still he had indulged them. He had missed her.

He had not intended to seek her out immediately, but upon his return to the palace on the evening of his sixth day away, dusty and tense from the long ride back, that was what he did—without even stopping to change. She was sitting in the courtyard on a cushion, leaning against the fountain. She had been staring up at the stars framed by the square of the top floor of the building, her head thrown back, her long hair rippling loose down her back. When the door opened she turned, startled. Upon seeing him standing there a hand went to her breast.

For a few seconds she stared at him wordlessly. Her skin was ghostly pale in the twilight, her eyes glittering dark. As she got fluidly to her feet, he saw that she was dressed in clothes made from the materials they had bought at the market. Only a week ago, yet it seemed like months. She wore a long caftan slit to the thigh in mint-green silk. The sleeves and hem were weighted down with silver
passementerie
braiding. Loose
sarwal
pantaloons of a darker green, made of some gauzy material transparent enough for him to see the shape of her legs beneath, fluttered out around her. She was barefooted. She seemed to float rather than walk. Her hair rippled like silk ruffled by a breeze. She looked so different. Exotic. An English rose in an Eastern garden.

Ramiz stood rooted to the spot. He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t anticipated the unsettling effect seeing her like this would have on him.

‘You’re back,’ she said, stopping uncertainly before him.

‘Only just now. I came to see how you were, since I did not have a chance to see you after the visit from your countryman. I half expected to hear from Akil that you had asked to return to Cairo with Mr Finchley-Burke.’

‘Since my father has been summoned to complete the negotiations which brought my husband here in the first place, I thought it best to wait. Would you have allowed me to leave if I had asked it?’

Ramiz raised a brow. ‘Is that what you would have preferred?’

Celia laughed. ‘I should have known better than to expect a straight answer from such an accomplished statesman as yourself.’

‘Or from such an accomplished diplomat’s daughter as yourself,’ Ramiz rejoined with a smile.

‘Did your trip go well? You were away longer than you anticipated.’

Ramiz shrugged. ‘It’s done.’

‘At a cost, I take it?’

Ramiz nodded. ‘A cost worth paying, though.’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

He looked weary. There were little grooves of tiredness at the corners of his mouth. A frown furrowed his brow. Celia’s heart contracted. Now he was back, now her heart was beating out its excitement at his presence, she could admit to herself how much she had missed him. Without thinking she reached out to smooth away the lines on his forehead. His skin was warm, gritty with sand under his headdress.

‘You’re all dusty,’ she said inanely, for suddenly she could think of nothing to say, so overwhelmed was she by his presence.

‘I should go and change.’

‘Stay a while,’ Celia said impulsively. ‘Talk to me. I’ve—it’s been lonely here without you.’

‘You’ve missed me?’

There was the tiniest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Celia managed a shrug. ‘What do you think of my clothes?’ she asked, executing a little twirl.

The soft material clung lovingly to her slender frame, hugging the curve of her breasts, the slope of her bottom. He saw the nakedness of her feet on the tiles, the soft flutter of her hair drifting out behind her as she twirled, heard the swish of her caftan as it floated out from her body then settled back down to caress her thighs. The scent of amber and musk drifted towards him, mingling with the warmer, fragrant smell that was Celia, and the whole combination went intoxicatingly to his head. Ramiz reached out to catch a long tress of hair, wrapping it like a bond of copper silk around his hand, pulling her towards him.

Under the caftan she wore only a wisp of silk. She might as well be naked. They were as close as they could be without touching. Heat rose between them.
Could he feel it too?
There was a smudge of dust on his right cheek. His left hand was wrapped in her hair, tugging her head back. The need to touch him was unbearable. Could he see her heart beating? Could he hear how shallow and fast was her breathing? Why was he here? Did she care as long as he was?

‘Did you miss me?’ Ramiz asked again.

‘Yes,’ Celia whispered, for it was the truth. She had missed him enormously. She had spent hours and hours wrestling with her conscience over the Consul General’s proposal, concluding time and again only that she must do nothing she would later regret, nothing which would compromise her integrity, nothing she could not undo. Which meant avoiding exactly the sort of situation she was now confronting.

But it was all very well to think such thoughts and to hold such high-minded opinions when alone. In Ramiz’s disconcerting presence she had no such control. Her mind—that disciplined, logical part of her which had ruled her life until now—was in real danger of surrendering control to her body. And her body was not slow to take advantage, so that without meaning to, without realising she was doing it, Celia closed the tiny gap between them and tilted her head up and put her arms around him. And that was it. She kissed him. She had to. There was nothing, nothing at all she could do about it, for if she did not kiss him she was afraid she would stop breathing.

And when his lips met hers she stopped breathing anyway, just for a moment, so literally breathtaking was the feel of his mouth and the scent of his skin and the complex magic of his just being there. She murmured his name, she pressed herself into the hard lines of his body, and he groaned. And then he kissed her back—a surprisingly gentle kiss, feathering its way along the line of her lower lip, licking into the corners, then the softness inside. His free hand was stroking the nape of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, the column of her throat.

Then it was over. Ramiz stepped back. He unwound her hair from his hand. He rubbed his forehead, pushing back his headdress so that it fell to the floor. ‘I must go and change,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I must see Akil.’

‘Don’t go. Not yet. Stay and talk to me. Please.’ Celia held out her hand. His hair was rumpled. Without the frame of his
gutra
his face looked younger, almost vulnerable. Her own needs vanished, superseded by the desire to erase Ramiz’s lines of fatigue, to ease the tension she could see in his shoulders, just to have him to herself for a little while.

He hesitated, then allowed her to lead him into one of the salons. She made him tea on the little spirit stove there, taking care with the ritual of measuring the leaves from the enamelled chest into the silver samovar, serving it just as he liked it, with no sugar but lemon and mint. And as Celia busied herself with the tea she talked—of her visit to Yasmina, of the books she had read, of her letter to Cassie. Ramiz listened at first with detachment, simply enjoying the graceful way she went about the small domestic task, the sound of her voice and her gentle wit, and then he was smiling over her description of the play Yasmina’s children had put on for her, and making her laugh with his description of the English emissary’s falling asleep on the cushions over dinner, relaxed enough to tell her about his trip into the desert.

As before, she listened with understanding—sympathetic without being fawning, contributing her own opinions without being asked, contradicting him without offending. Tea was taken, the lamps were lit, and still they sat on, talking and laughing in unperceived intimacy until Ramiz yawned and stretched and said he should go. They both realised that was the last thing they wanted.

‘Five nights on a carpet in someone else’s tent,’ he said, rolling his shoulders. ‘I’d forgotten how uncomfortable it can be.’

‘Would you like me to give you a massage?’

Ramiz looked as startled as she herself was, for she hadn’t meant to offer—only she hadn’t wanted him to go, and she wanted to do something that would preserve this unaccustomed intimacy. ‘Do you know how?’ he asked.

Celia nodded. ‘Fatima has shown me what to do, though I’ve not really had a chance to practise. I find it helps me sleep. Perhaps it would help you too?’

He doubted Celia’s touch would make him sleepy. He knew it was one of the things which breached the boundaries he’d told himself to establish, but then so too was talking to her alone like this. And he
was
tired. And sore. And in no mood for anything other than sleep. Not really.

Ramiz got to his feet. ‘Where?’ he asked, and when she indicated they use the large circular divan on which she slept he allowed himself to be led into that salon, watched as she spread a fresh silk sheet over the velvet cover while he pulled off his robe, wrapping his lower half in a linen towel, lying down on his stomach and closing his eyes. A swish of material told him Celia had discarded her caftan. He could smell the orange and amber in the oil as she rubbed it onto her hands. When she leaned over him a long strand of her hair brushed his cheek. She tutted and swept it back. Then she leaned over him again. He could feel the heat emanating from her skin, the feathering of her breath on his. Then he surrendered to the supple kneading of her fingers.

She started at his shoulders, where the tension knotted his muscles together like rope. Carefully at first, her touch experimental, she leaned over, trying to keep the contact to her hands, though the temptation to brush her breasts against him, to prostrate herself on top of him, skin to skin, was strong. His eyes were closed tight. His lashes, sooty and soft, fanned onto his cheeks. His hair grew in a shape like a question mark on the back of his head, tapering down like an arrow to his nape. The veins on his neck stood out, so bunched tight were his shoulders. Celia pressed into them with her spread fingers as Fatima had shown her, rolling her thumbs up his spine, circling back down and round again in a soothing motion, pressing harder as she felt Ramiz relax, kneading him with her palms, concentrating on levelling out the twisting stress, smoothing and kneading, pressing and soothing in a smooth rhythm so that she forgot everything except the feel of her hands on his body.

Breathing a little harder with the effort, she leaned a little closer, and a little closer yet, to get just the right angle—until she was kneeling on the divan beside him, then kneeling between his legs as she worked her way down his back, then over him, so that her breasts brushed his heated skin, slick with the delicately scented oil, and her nipples budded through the thin layer of silk which contained them. Below her, Ramiz kept his eyes tight shut. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sleeping? The scent of him, a subtle something, male and other, rose like a whisper of smoke from his skin.

She worked her way down to the base of his spine, pulling away the towel which covered him, waiting for a sign that she should stop which did not come. His buttocks were firm and slightly rounded, his flanks were firm too, with a feathery smattering of black hair, surprisingly soft. The softer flesh at the inside of his thighs was hot. Tender from the time spent in the saddle. Heat. It was not just coming from Ramiz.

A trickle of sweat shivered down between Celia’s breasts. Wiping it away, she trailed oil over her own skin. She picked up the bottle to trickle more oil onto her hands. A drop escaped onto Ramiz’s shoulders. She leaned over to rub it in. Her breasts pressed into his back, her stomach onto his buttocks. Skin slick with oil. A sensual sliding. She lay motionless, relishing the melding of skin on skin, of heat on heat. Below her, Ramiz lay still as a statue.

She had convinced herself he was asleep. Then, as she sat up, he turned underneath her, so quickly she would have fallen had he not grasped her by the arms, rolled her with him, so that somehow she was under him and he was on top of her, and he did not look at all as if he had been asleep.

His eyes blazed like molten bronze sparked with gold. A slash of colour highlighted his cheekbones. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell almost as rapidly as her own. She could feel the pounding of his heart. Then he kissed her, wildly and passionately, yanking away the strip of silk which covered her breasts. And then he devoured them.

His mouth was on her nipples, hot on their aching hardness. His hands moulded her breasts, shaping them and stroking them, and his mouth was sucking and nipping, making her writhe and moan, strange little gasping pleas she didn’t recognise as she bucked under him. Her own hands were grasping and pulling at him. The hardness of his erection was pressing solid and insistent against her thigh. In minutes, seconds, it would be too late. She knew that absolutely—as she knew absolutely that she would not stop him. She wanted this with an urgency she had not dreamed possible. Some thing as fundamental as the stars urged her on, made her push against him, arch into him, pluck at him as if she would spread him over her, all the time gasping and moaning his name. His mouth on her nipples forged a burning path of sensation, stirred up a cauldron of heat in her belly, and their oiled skin slid and glided and clung.