Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem (13 page)

Celia nodded.

‘It is what you want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Though ultimately it can mean nothing?’

She knew that! Why did he have to say it?
But she knew that too. Ramiz was a man who liked the rules of any pact clear cut and neatly drawn. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I understand, I assure you.’

He nodded. For one ridiculous moment she thought he would shake her hand, so formal had he become in that moment, but then she realised he was almost as tense as she was. She followed him back to the camp, where a small village of tents had appeared and fires were burning. The smell of goat and rabbit roasting should have been appetising, but though she was hungry it was not for food.

Two larger tents sat at a distance from the others. Ramiz led her towards one, pulling back the damask cloth which covered the entrance to usher her inside. Celia gave a gasp of amazement. Like the tent in which they’d had lunch the day Ramiz took her to the lost city of Katra, the walls were covered in tapestries and the floor in rich carpets. But this tent was much bigger, the coverings in the soft lamplight richer and more colourful.

‘Do you like it?’ Ramiz asked, smiling at the look of wonderment on her face.

‘It’s amazing. Like a mobile palace.’

‘I must go and speak to Akil. Make yourself at home. I won’t be long.’

Alone, Celia wandered around the tent, running her fingers over the tapestries, curling her toes into the luxurious carpets, stroking silken cushions and rubbing her cheek against velvet throws. A second room was obviously intended as a sleeping area. Here her luggage sat and her dressing case had been placed on a low table, beside which stood a full-length mirror. A smaller room led off from this one, where she was astonished to find a copper bath, already filled with water and scented with petals. Without further ado she stripped her dusty clothes off and sank into the water.

Clean, scented, and dressed in a loose caftan of organdie the colour of the setting sun, Celia returned to the main room. In her absence someone had set out dinner—an array of covered dishes from which delicious smells wafted towards her. She was investigating their contents when Ramiz entered the tent.

Like her, he had bathed and changed. His cropped black hair sat sleek on his head. He wore a robe of his favourite dark blue velvet. Though the tent was large, it seemed suddenly very small. His very presence seemed to fill it. It felt incredibly intimate, much more so than the harem. Against the soft drapes and jewelled colours of the hangings Ramiz looked very male. Very intimidating. Celia was assaulted by a jangle of nerves, taking up residence in her stomach like a cloud of little birds.

‘Dinner’s arrived,’ she said. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘No,’ Ramiz replied baldly.

‘Would you like something to drink, then?’ She reached for a jug of sherbet.

‘No.’

‘How is Akil?’ Celia asked, realising even as she spoke just how ridiculous was the question.

‘Celia, come here.’

She put down the jug, but made no move towards him.

‘If you’re having second thoughts, now would be a good time to tell me.’

‘I’m not.’ She adjusted the sleeve of her caftan. ‘I’m just a bit—well, as you know, I’ve never done this before.’

She tried to smile, but her mouth trembled. Her eyes were mossy green, fixed on him with a combination of appeal and defiance that he found irresistible. Ramiz strode over to her and swept her into his arms. ‘There’s no need to be nervous. I’ll show you.’

He nuzzled the tender skin in the crease behind her earlobe. The scent there was pure Celia. He tasted her with the tip of his tongue. Such a vulnerable spot—the softness of her lobe, the delicate bone of her ear behind it, the endearing little crease they formed together which he licked into. Something clutched at him, piercing its way into his heart like the lethal tip of a dagger. He would remember this always.

‘Ramiz?’

‘Come.’ He took her by the hand and led her through to the sleeping chamber. He dispensed efficiently with Celia’s robe, tugging it over her head before she could protest. She stood before him naked, blushing, fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands.

Her eyes betrayed her confusion at his lack of tenderness. His instincts were to be tender. It was what she needed. What she wanted too. But it was not what this was about. It was about finishing what they had started. It was about taking what he needed from her in order to cure himself of her too-tempting presence.

‘Lie down.’

She did so without a word. He glanced down at her and caught his breath. She looked like the moon goddess, all creamy flesh and blushing curves, with the dark shadow of curls between her legs, the rosy tips of her nipples, the lush pink of her mouth, the deep copper of her hair spread out behind and over her. ‘Beautiful.’ The word was drawn from him, harsh and grating. He was hard. More than ready.

Ramiz hauled his robe over his head and stood before her, hugely aroused. Celia stared up at him. Wanting hurtled through her, fierce and hot, made urgent by the undertone of fear she was trying desperately not to acknowledge. He looked so remote. Like a conqueror standing over the vanquished—which was exactly how she felt. Except that the blade which would claim her as his was no scimitar. Her eyes were riveted on the curving length of his erection. It seemed impossible that she could contain such a size.

‘Ramiz,’ she said, sitting up. She wanted him to kiss her. ‘Ramiz…’ She held out her hand to him.

He stared at her for a long moment, an expression like pain slanting across his face. Then he was beside her. On top of her. Kissing her. Pressing her down under him, his mouth hard, his hands rough, his manhood insistent between her thighs. She was overwhelmed by the intensity of his passion, but excited by it too, and as he kissed her and touched her she became infected by a carnal need of her own, feverishly stroking and nipping and licking, until she was aware of nothing but skin on skin, heat on heat, the scent of him, the sound of his breathing, harsh, rapid, shallow, the thrumming of her blood raging like a torrent through her veins, the clenching pulse of her muscles hurtling her forward, upwards, mercilessly on to some destination of which she was only vaguely aware.

Ramiz grazed her nipples with his teeth. She dug her nails into his back. He moulded her breasts in his hands. She stroked the taut sloping muscles of his buttocks. His fingers found her entrance and slipped carefully inside. She moaned. He slid over the swollen centre of her, around and over, around and over, so that she could scarcely bear the tightening, clenching, sharpness of her response, resisting it, holding tight to it like a swimmer to a rock. But his fingers stroked and circled remorselessly, and she let go with a cry, arching under his touch, barely aware of him readying her, tugging her to him, until she felt the nudging of his shaft.

She closed her eyes and waited for the thrust and the pain, determined not to cry out, but he entered her so slowly, so carefully, she felt only a sort of unfolding as the aftermath of her climax drew him in. She opened her eyes. Ramiz was watching her, the strain of the care he was taking etched on his face. He pushed further into her and she moaned. He stopped. She reached for him, pulled his face towards her and kissed him deeply, tilting her hips encouragingly, moaning again, with pleasure this time, as he sheathed himself in her slowly, slowly, until she thought he could go no further, pausing, pushing again, waiting until she could not bear the waiting. He withdrew from her slowly, and thrust back into her again, slowly and deliberately, watching her, and she knew that she was going to lose herself again. This time she clung to him, felt the frisson of her muscles on his shaft from base to tip, then tip to base as he pushed back into her. She tilted instinctively, wrapping her legs around his waist, and he pushed higher, harder, making her moan and clutch at his back as the ripple of her climax started to build again, or started to finish, and still he continued to thrust, each plunge more deliberate, higher, until she could feel the tip of him touching some tender spot high inside her and she lost control instantly, crying out. Her surrender acted like a trigger. Ramiz lost control almost as she had, thrusting fast and hard with abandon, until she actually felt him swell before he pulled abruptly from her, spilling hot over her belly before collapsing on top of her, wrapping his arms so tightly round her, kissing her so hard that there was no space at all between them as their skin and mouths clung to each other, because to let go would be to die.

She lay exhausted, saturated with a bone-deep heaviness that pinned her to the bed, feeling weightless, as if she was gliding. As Ramiz’s breathing steadied he unwrapped himself from her. As he rolled away from her, Celia felt as if her wings had been clipped, so suddenly did she plunge back down to earth.

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No.’ She wanted him to hold her again, wanted reassurance, words of endearment, but she knew she could have none of those things, so she lay still, holding herself instead.

‘Are you hungry now?’

She was, surprisingly, but it seemed rude to say so.

‘I’m starving,’ Ramiz said with a grin. ‘Come on.’

Before she could move, he scooped her up in his arms, striding with her held high against his chest to the other room. ‘We can’t eat like this,’ Celia said, for they were both still naked.

Ramiz grinned again. ‘Trust me—we can.’ He kicked a heap of cushions together on the floor, and picked up the huge silver tray upon which the dishes were held, placing it on the carpet in front of the cushions before sitting down. ‘Come here.’ He patted a cushion invitingly. When Celia didn’t move, hugging her arms around her breasts, he caught her hand and pulled her down beside him, so that she sprawled, half lying, half sitting, on a huge tasselled velvet cushion.

Ramiz lifted the cover from a dish and took out a
pastilla
, breaking it open so that some of the pastry flaked onto Celia’s arm. He leaned over her to lick it off. Then he offered her a bite of pastry, licking the crumbs from her lips when she bit, before popping the rest into his own mouth.

A pomegranate salad was flavoured with lime juice and finely chopped onion. He fed her from a silver spoon. The lime gave their kisses a tangy taste which sparkled on their tongues.

Roasted aubergines and sweet peppers drizzled with olive oil were next. The oil dripped over her fingers and Ramiz sucked at them, drawing each one into his mouth and licking it clean before moving to the next.

The juice of a pineapple which had been roasted with sugar and ginger he deliberately allowed to trickle down the valley between her breasts. By this time they had given up all pretence of eating. It was a game of call and response. Where Ramiz led Celia followed, so that what had started as his teasing was in danger of turning into his own undoing.

He feasted on her breasts, tasting pineapple juice and salt and sugar, and underneath the delicious tang of what he had already come to think of as essence of Celia. She lay beneath him, aroused, flushed, her hair tangled, her eyes alight with the passion he knew she could see reflected in his. He had never known this feeling before. He couldn’t put a name to it. It was as if she was drawing something out of him, mixing it with something of her own, so that she mingled in his blood, so that he felt mingled in hers. As if he knew her. Was inside her. As if she was inside him somehow.

He fastened his mouth around her nipple and sucked, then tugged, then sucked again, delighting in the way she cleaved to him, the way he could make her arch or jolt or writhe, depending on how soft or hard he licked or sucked or nipped. He sucked again, and cupped his palm over the mound of her curls between her legs. Damp. Hot. He pressed the heel of his hand against her in a little circling motion, felt the responding clenching at the base of his shaft. He wanted her again. Now. Urgently.

He nudged her legs to part them, but Celia resisted. Before he could stop her she had pushed him over onto his back. Before he could resist her she’d dipped her hand into a dish of something and trailed it neatly in a line from the middle of his ribcage. Down. It was cold. Creamy. Yoghurt of some sort, he thought vaguely. Then he stopped thinking as Celia began to lick it, daintily flicking her tongue along the path across his abdomen, dipping into his navel, down to where the path ended, at the point where his hair began to thicken. Ramiz closed his eyes and held his breath. There was a pause, during which he thought he would cry out with frustration, and then her tongue flicked over the tip of his shaft. Stopped. Another flick—a little longer. Another. Down. Down. Down the length of him and then back up, in one fluid movement that made him jolt with pleasure. Blood surged. He felt the tightening in his groin that presaged his climax. Dear heavens, he thought he would die with the pleasure of it. If only she would—now—like—just exactly like that! And like that. And—oh—like that!

‘Celia.’ She stopped. He didn’t want her to stop. Ramiz reached down to grip her by the shoulders. The look of surprise on her face would have been funny if he had been in the mood to be amused. He wasn’t. He pulled her down over him. Her knees brushed his shoulders. Her breasts were crushed into his stomach. Her mouth was back where he wanted it. And his was exactly where he wanted it to be too. He put his palms on the delightful swell of her bottom, he put his mouth over the delightful mound of wet curls and tender folds between her legs, and moaned as he tasted her and breathed her and sought out the nub of her. He moaned again as she followed him, reflecting and echoing every lick and stroke, resisting, but only just, the urgent clamouring of his climax until he felt hers, and then he let himself go as she came, and he had never, ever felt anything quite so heady as that feeling of her sweetness in his mouth as he surged and pulsed into hers.

It felt right. Which was absolutely wrong. But for now Ramiz cared for nothing, nothing—at all.

Chapter Eleven

R
amiz did not sleep in her tent but returned to his own. For a long time Celia gazed at her reflection by the light of the lamps. She barely recognised the woman staring back at her from the mirror. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were huge—a darker green than she had ever seen them. Her bottom lip seemed swollen. Her skin was flushed all over, with the faint marks of Ramiz’s fingers on her breasts, a slight bruise on her bottom. Between her thighs she was tender. Under one of her nails was a trace of blood where she had dug her fingers too deep into his back. Something else she couldn’t put a name to shone from her face too. A different kind of glow she hadn’t experienced before. Sensual, that was what it was, she finally decided. Wanton, even. For the first time since she had arrived in the East she saw the point of the veil. She would certainly not like anyone else to see her like this. They’d know straight away.

Sliding between the silk sheets of the divan, she wondered if Ramiz looked the same. Somehow she doubted it. None of this was new to him. They had done nothing he had not done before, and no doubt he would do it again. The idea of him with another woman made her feel sick.

She must be careful. Though she had pleased him, though he had seemed most reluctant to leave, she must remember it meant nothing to him. And he was just a passing fascination for her. She would do well to re member that, too. It meant nothing. No matter how right it felt, or how amazingly he had made her feel. Ramiz was an oasis of sensuality in the desert of her life.

Celia chuckled at that, for it was the sort of thing Cassie would have said. She wondered if he was sleeping. She wondered if he was thinking about her. Celia drifted into a deep sleep, most certainly thinking about him.

When she awoke, the sun was rising and the caravan was already being prepared to depart. She ate a hurried breakfast alone in her tent, conscious that the men were waiting to take it down. Ramiz was waiting with her camel, anxious to make a start, leaving Akil to lead the caravan which would again follow in their wake.

She expected Ramiz to ignore her. She expected him to be brusque, to have returned to his princely remoteness now he had what he wanted from her, but he surprised her, helping her onto the camel with a smile so warm it might as well have been a kiss. They set out as yesterday, in companionable closeness. If this were not Ramiz she would feel she was being courted. But it
was
Ramiz, and he could never court her.

They made camp that night in the same manner as before, but this time they were not alone. ‘Sheikh Farid and his tribe,’ Ramiz told Celia, nodding over at the cluster of tents about five hundred yards distant. ‘We must pay our respects tonight. Dress up. It is expected.’

‘You want me to come with you?’

‘If you don’t he will be insulted. You think they haven’t heard of the mysterious English lady travelling with me?’

She hadn’t given it much thought, though she realised now that she should have. ‘What will they think of me?’

‘I have asked Akil to put out the word that you are here as an emissary of the British Government.’

‘A woman! They’ll hardly believe that.’

Ramiz shrugged. ‘Just another Western quirk—treating a woman as a man. It is why we have separate tents. You would not want them to think you my concubine.’

‘No, of course not. I—thank you, Ramiz.’

‘It is my own honour as much as yours I must protect. Besides,’ he added, acknowledging Akil’s summons, ‘Sheikh Farid’s daughter is one of the princesses on my council’s list of brides.’

She had been touched by his care for her reputation. Now she saw it was care for his own, and was angry—not at Ramiz, but at herself for reading something into nothing. Celia made her way to her tent, mortified and fighting a wholly unaccustomed feeling which she realised, as she stepped into her waiting bath, was jealousy. ‘Of a woman I have never met,’ she muttered in disgust, ‘and whom he may not marry in any event.’

The bath calmed her, and the oil she rubbed into her arms and legs afterwards soothed her. She must find out the receipt for it from Fatima. Cassie would like to try it, and she knew they would not be able to buy such a thing at home.

Home! The word startled her. Soon she would be going back to England. Far away from the heat and the smells of this beautiful land, from the contrasts of barren deserts and green oases, from A’Qadiz and its exotic foods and vibrant colours. And far away from Ramiz. She wasn’t ready to go, not yet, but, counting up the days, she knew it could not be long before her father arrived in Cairo. ‘Home.’ She said it out loud, experimentally, but it still didn’t work.

She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Ramiz. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. ‘Because I might as well admit it,’ she said to her reflection. ‘I’m not just beguiled. I’m not just in thrall to him. I’m in love with him.’

Her reflection smiled. A soft, tender smile, which crept warily across her lips. ‘I’m in love with Ramiz.’ Her smile spread. Her skin tingled. ‘I’m in love with Ramiz. Oh, God, I’m in love with Ramiz.’ Celia tottered backwards onto the divan. ‘I’m in love with Ramiz, and I’m just about to meet the woman he may well marry.’ A hysterical little bubble of laughter escaped her, followed by a large solitary tear which trickled like acid down her cheek.

She was in love! Who’d have thought it? Certainly she’d never considered herself capable of such a thing. Not this kind of love, at any rate. She’d always thought of love as something comfortable, something that grew slowly over time, something stolid, dependable, rather than essential. But this, this thing she called love, was nothing at all like that. It glowed inside her like a living thing, pulsing and throbbing with life, the source of her being rather than a pleasant appendage. The reason for her being. Ramiz completed her. He was the heart which beat in her, the sun around which she revolved.

Celia laughed. Such fancies were the stuff on which Cassie thrived, and she had always mocked them, but now she found they were true. It was all true. She had been waiting to be woken. The way he made her feel, the way only
he
could make her feel, was nothing to do with the harem and everything to do with Ramiz. Her body was in thrall because she was in love. Her body responded to him at some elemental level because it had recognised, long before her mind did, what he meant to her. She loved him.

And Yasmina was right too. She would always love him. She was not the type to love twice. There would never be anyone else. She loved Ramiz. He was the beginning of her story and the end.

Except there could never be a happy ever after.

Fortunately Celia had never allowed herself to hope for one. There would be an end to this, and she would have to cope with it. Cope with it and never allow Ramiz to know. For if he thought she cared he would feel responsible, and that responsibility would touch his honour and—no, she could not allow that.

Celia dressed with care in a pair of lemon pleated pantaloons bound at the ankles with silver and pearl beading. The same design was embroidered onto the long loose sleeves of her caftan, which was velvet, in her favourite jade green, and on the matching velvet slippers too. Around her neck and wrists she roped her mother’s pearls, and there were pearls in her hair too, which she wore up, but with a loose knot over one shoulder.

Passable, she thought, looking at herself again in the mirror. The caftan, which was slashed to the thigh, drew attention to her height, and the length of her legs. The pearls lent their lustre to her skin. Her hair was glossy from the care lavished on it by Adila and Fatima. She looked exotic, she realised. Although the outfit covered more of her than a ballgown, the diaphanous material of the pantaloons, visible through the caftan’s vents, made her legs clearly visible. The soft folds of the caftan itself hinted at her uncorseted shape beneath. Celia laughed, wondering what Aunt Sophia would think of her going to pay a visit without her stays!

Ramiz might not love her, but he desired her, and in this outfit even Celia could see that she had a certain allure. Which was consolation enough, she told herself firmly as she left the tent.

Ramiz was conferring with Akil. Dressed in his formal robes, white silk edged with gold, the state scimitar glinting at his waist, he looked every inch the regal prince. He was preoccupied, giving her a cursory glance only as he rapped out instructions to the guards, inspected the gifts which were to be given to Sheikh Farid, and listened impatiently as Akil read through his seemingly endless notes.

The procession they formed to walk the short distance to the Bedouin tents was impressive. Ramiz took the lead, preceded by his Head of Guards, a great hulk of a man whose robes, Celia thought, were large enough to form a tent of their own. She herself followed Ramiz, with Akil behind her, flanked by the remainder of the guards carrying blazing torches to light the way.

Sheikh Farid was a small man of about the same age as Celia’s father. He was simply dressed, in a black robe and red-checked headdress, but his womenfolk more than made up for his lack of ostentation. Celia counted six wives, bedecked in so many gold anklets, bracelets, necklaces and earrings that they jangled when they moved. Bedouin women covered their skin with complex ink and henna tattoos—swirling designs encompassing leaves and flowers, mixed in with ancient symbols. Their nails were stained red with henna, and their eyelids stained black at the corners, much in the way the eyes of the pharaohs were painted. They did not wear the veil, and stared with blatant curiosity at Celia, though when she smiled in their direction they giggled and lowered their eyes.

She kept discreetly in the background, under Akil’s watchful eye. Though he had said nothing, she was aware that Akil did not approve of her presence here. No doubt he fretted over the propriety of it, and she could not blame him—especially since his suspicions had all too recently been proved correct. He would think her a loose woman. No doubt he would be glad when she was gone, for he could not approve of her relationship with Yasmina. It saddened Celia, and she determined to do all she could to ensure she intruded on official business no more than necessary.

As it turned out, she enjoyed her role as onlooker immensely, for it gave her the opportunity to observe Ramiz the Prince. It was a role he performed with the assurance and dignity she had come to expect of him, but as the ritual of the alms-giving got underway what impressed her most was his complete lack of arrogance. Throughout the long process of receiving each person who wished to make a plea, Ramiz showed only patience and concern. He had that rare ability to talk without talking down, taking time to calm the most nervous of the supplicants or the most aggressive of the litigants, treating the ancients with touching deference, joking with the younger men as a contemporary. Despite the long line of supplicants, there was no sense of hurry. Every case was given due consideration, every decision proclaimed formally to the audience before the next commenced. Not everyone received the outcome they’d hoped for, but all seemed to be treated fairly, and Celia realised that this, and not the sums of money given out in alms, was the point. Prince Ramiz was seen to be fair and just, as well as accessible.

She was impressed and touched—not just by Ramiz’s humanity, but by his vision, for he was obviously intent on demonstrating to his people the principles by which he ruled. The principles to which too many other rulers, in Celia’s experience, paid merely lip-service. He truly was a remarkable man. She loved him so much.

Humbled, and slightly overcome by the strength of emotion which enveloped her, Celia crept unnoticed from the ceremony. Away from the blaze of the torches which lit Sheikh Farid’s tent, the full moon cast a ghostly light across the Bedouin encampment. She wandered a little distance from the tents, absorbed in her thoughts, enjoying the cool of the evening and the scents of the desert which came to life after dark. The vast stretches of sand which surrounded her began to have their usual effect, imbuing her with a strange combination—a sense of her own insignificance and at the same time a feeling of endless possibilities. Desert euphoria, she called it, for it was both exhilarating and chastening, like flying in Signor Lunardi’s balloon, which Papa had been fortunate enough to witness on its inaugural flight from Moorfields.

A shuffling sound alerted her to the presence of another person. A glint of steel showed the shadowy figure to be one of Ramiz’s guards, no doubt instructed to keep an eye on her. Strange to think that when first they’d met she would have been insulted by this apparent lack of trust. She knew better now, and recognised it for a combination of deeply embedded chivalry and an equally strong duty of care which was an essential part of him. She had come to like it.

Nodding to the guard as she passed, Celia made her way back to the Bedouin camp. The line of people was coming to an end. Fires had sprouted up outside many of the tents, and the smell of cooking filled the air. Women were gathering around the glowing embers, chatting and laughing. A group of semi-naked children were playing a ball game. As Celia stopped to watch, the ball landed at her feet, and before she knew it she was embroiled in the game, whose complex rules were explained with many gestures and much hilarity.

Her regular visits to Yasmina’s extended family had given her a smattering of the language, and when the ball game petered out Celia recognised the word for story as the children gathered around her and tugged pleadingly at her caftan. Sitting cross-legged on the sand, surrounded by a circle of expectant faces, she prayed that her enthusiasm and the children’s participation would make up for her lack of vocabulary, and launched into one of Samir’s favourite stories, which happened to be one of her youngest sister Cressida’s too.
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.

‘As-salamu alaykum,’
Ramiz said to the last of the supplicants, a man seeking arbitration over the return of his divorced daughter’s dowry. ‘Peace be with you.’