Gabrielle looked around the group of people ranged around the campfire and wondered how she could have borne to be away for so long.
As the sun began to slide behind the inky horizon, with the humps and rolls of the sand dunes all around the camp, encircling and cosseting them like a nurturing mother, the chanting of the Al-Taghrooda began.
First, the haunting strains of the rababa filled the air, the bow drawn back and forth over the strings, while the player’s fingers move quickly over holes in the pipe at the top. Then a man’s voice rose and fell as he honored his home and family with his poetry. No sooner had his voice faded, than another answered him, responding to his words, affirming their traditions—shared history and friends and companions, traveling across the deserts in a camel train. They were words that had been passed down through the generations by the community of elders.
The poets may have arrived by car, and the few camels grazed some distance away, but the sentiments were as relevant today as they had been over the centuries that the oral tradition had continued.
A lump came into Gabrielle’s throat, which she tried unsuccessfully to swallow, as tears sprung to her eyes. She blinked furiously. She wanted no one to see, particularly Zavian. Seated with the women, who’d be performing their own Al-Taghrooda later, she glanced at where he sat with the other men.
Zavian listened attentively, but she immediately noticed he had a different expression on his face than usual. His jaw was less tense, his eyes less guarded. She snatched in a short breath and returned her gaze to the poets, scarcely taking in the short movements of the poet’s whip—a reference to their heritage as camel riders—which marked patterns in the sand, emphasizing their poetry.
Somehow she’d managed to avoid seeing Zavian alone over the few days since the dinner with Sheikh Mohammed. Other than her work, she’d kept to her room, and even Zavian had drawn the line at seeking her out there. Which was good because she had nothing to say to him. She was back to square one. Zavian wanting her but not loving her, and she, a misfit in the country she loved so much.
But today she’d pushed aside any thought of being a misfit, to enjoy the traditional poetry which made her feel at one with this country.
Then silence fell, and it was time for Gabrielle and the women to perform. She’d felt honored to be asked, as it was a privilege to participate. After a couple of women had recited their poetry, it was her turn. Although acutely aware of her difference to the women—taller and paler, as well as her accent—by the time it was her turn, she was lost in the words she recited, all thought of nerves vanished.
She didn’t rise but, like the others, sat around the circle. The women’s poetry—Nabati poetry—focused more on the domestic world than the men’s. And the poem she’d chosen by a poetess called Bakhu Al-Mariyah was no different. It expressed, in Arabic, the poet’s longing for a tent and an over-riding love for the desert which called to Gabrielle above everything. It described how her gaze would rest on the “plain behind the mountain” where the Bedouin nomads would be making their desert camps.
There were nods of approval for the poem’s sentiments and for her delivery, and then another poet began to perform. As she sat back and listened, the last words she’d spoken echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t help wondering if Zavian had received the message which lay behind her choice of the poem. Her heart belonged to freedom and the desert, not tied down to one place, one man, especially with a man who had no love for her.
The dallah was taken from the burning embers of the fire, which were re-ignited, bursting a welcome warmth around the space. A woman poured hot water from the dallah into a tray of glasses, and the aroma from the sage-flavored tea rose into the air.
Gabrielle took a sip of the sweet tea, washing away the taste of the roast goat. The colors of the flags which draped the outside of the tent, together with the traditional patterns of the inside, muted as the sun disappeared and a swift twilight followed, lit only by the fire and lanterns.
Sheikh Mohammed spoke to Zavian, and he beckoned her over with a smile. With the formal part of the evening now over, people were moving around, greeting old friends. Gabrielle rose and greeted the sheikh.
“Gabrielle!” Mohammed said with a smile, cutting through her formal greeting. “Come, sit by my side.”
As Gabrielle sat between Zavian and the chief, more refreshments were brought, and she studiously looked at the tea rather than meet Zavian’s gaze which seared her cheeks.
“Thank you, Gabrielle, for your poem,” Mohammed continued.
“You’re most welcome.”
“I, for one, appreciate your patriotism. For someone not of our country, you certainly share a deep love and appreciation for it. You show a loyalty to our land and people which some of our own people would do well to emulate.”
“I’m deeply honored you should think so, and also to be invited.”
“You need no invitation from me to return to your spiritual home, Gabrielle,” Mohammed said.
As her host’s attention was caught by one of his grandchildren, Gabrielle took a sip of her tea and pondered the old man’s words. She felt it to be her home. And Zavian had said as much.
The flames of the firelight flickered into focus the paintings on the stone walls, which rose around them. The geometric designs of the tents under the towering palm trees shifted slightly in the night breeze. The smell of the blooms, large and white, hung heavily in the air.
“Your ‘spiritual home,’ Mohammed said. ‘A patriot,’ ‘loyal to our land and people’.” Gabrielle turned to Zavian. He wasn’t looking at her, but gazing across the scene, at the people drinking, eating and talking. His face was rimmed with gold by the firelight.
“He’s an old friend of my grandfather’s.”
He turned to her sharply, and she could see a spark of anger and frustration in his eyes. “And what does that mean? That he says such things out of affection alone?” He leaned toward her, and his eyes darkened, transforming the anger into something quite different. “No, Gabrielle, he says them because they are true.”
She gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the onslaught. “Just look at me, Zavian.”
“I am.” And he was, more than she was comfortable with, but she’d invited it.
“And what do you see?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “A woman who looks and sounds very different from anyone else here.” She shook her head.
“Really, Gabrielle? You would not say such things of other people! You would not judge people in such a superficial, unimportant way as you have just described!”
She sucked in air to respond, but his words stopped her. Instead, she tore her gaze from him as the truth of his words repeated in her brain, bombarding her defenses. The darting flames of the fire distorted the people’s faces on the far side of the space, and she turned quickly away from them, looking across to where one of the women she’d been seated with earlier gave her a warm smile which bloomed across her face, encompassing Gabrielle within it. She swallowed and smiled back before looking up at the dark, inky sky, but it held no relief from her thoughts. The stars stared right down at her as if accusing her with the same direct views as Zavian.
She felt his hand on her arm. “Gabrielle,” he said softly, but she refused to turn to his word or touch.
She shook her head. “Don’t. It’s impossible.”
His hand squeezed around her arm, gripping it with an intensity that did make her turn to him. “You are a stubborn woman. What do I have to do, what do any of us have to do, to make you see clearly?”
“Don’t you understand, Zavian? I daren’t see clearly. It’s my last defense.”
“Defense from what?”
She shrugged. “From rejection, I guess.” She looked down at his hand, which still gripped her arm. It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know if he was gripping her arm like a lifeline, to be saved, or whether it was for her own benefit.
“Do I look like I’m rejecting you? Do I sound as if I’m rejecting you? Does anything I’ve done appear like that?”
“I know you want me now.” She didn’t tell him that she also knew why he wanted her. He wanted her because they couldn’t be near each other without wanting each other. But that was physical and ephemeral. “But it’s not enough to build a future on.”
“I say it is.” His undertone revealed a savage desperation that surprised her. “I need you, Gabrielle. You connect me to my country like no one else can.”
Something nagged at her mind. “When were you last here?”
He pressed his lips together. “Since I was last with you.”
“With me?” she repeated incredulously. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t been back to be with these people for over a year?”
He nodded and looked away. “I could not bear it.”
This got to her like nothing else had been able to do. “Zavian.” She placed her hand over his, which still lay on hers. He turned his around and captured hers, dropping it out of sight, beneath the table. His fingers explored hers, stroking along the length of hers, his eyes studying its progress as if mesmerized.
He looked up, and she could have sworn there were tears in his eyes if she hadn’t known better. The King of Gharb Havilah didn’t ever cry, and nor did her ex-lover, Zavian.
“Your hands are working hands,” he said with a strange gentleness.
She laughed, the tension broken by his words. “I see your gift for giving compliments hasn’t changed.” The laughter settled into a smile on her lips. It had no reflection in his own serious expression.
“I’ve never been good with words, you know that. It’s always been you who has possessed that gift.” He brought her hand up to the firelight, apparently uncaring if anyone should see. “But I do mean it as a compliment.” He slid his fingers up and down hers. “I remember watching you dig in the sands of the desert, and then at night…” Their gazes tangled for a moment as she wondered what he was going to describe. “Then, at night, your hardened fingers would hit the keys of your grandfather’s ancient typewriter, as you finished your work.”
“No electricity in the desert,” she replied softly.
He pulled her hand away and held it within both of his, carefully, examining it like a treasure which it was. He brought it up to the light. “I missed your hand.”
“Just my hand?”
She’d dipped her head to see his face better. He shook his head. “No, not just your hand.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, keeping her hand close, as he inhaled her as if she were a perfume.
She laughed uncertainly. “Don’t tell me you missed the way I speak to you? Like a human being, rather than an acolyte?”
He raised an eyebrow. “No, I don’t miss that. Why would I miss someone who fails to give Gharb Havilah royalty the respect it deserves?”
“Ah, now there you’ve got it wrong. I respect Gharb Havilah royalty greatly. I just don’t respect stupidity.”
He huffed a half-laugh at her direct response. “Are you calling me stupid, Dr. Taylor?”
Her grin faded on her lips. “Not stupid. Never stupid, maybe misguided.” She searched his face, still with that strange, gentle expression she hadn’t seen before. “Lost, even,” she added.
The gentleness was immediately replaced by a frowning indignance. “You think I’m lost? Whatever gives you that idea? It is I who am king of this country where I have lived my whole life, among my family, among my people. Why on earth would you think I was lost?”
“Because you cling to rules and regulations and principles for dear life. If they slip from your grasp, where will you be? Adrift? Floundering? Out of control?”
He ground his teeth. “You are letting your imagination run away with you. My life is ordered because it is most efficient that way. I don’t expect you to understand this. Your life has always been lived in chaos.”
A look of regret passed over his face, and he opened his mouth to speak but shook his head instead. She slipped her hand out of his, and he didn’t try to stop her. He turned and called for a refill of his coffee.
“I thought you missed my honest speech,” she said quietly.
He glanced at her before holding up his cup to be refilled. “Only up to a point.”
“And that point being no further than you can accept. Not beyond your own understanding.”
“Enough!” he said. People looked around at his raised voice. His eyes closed briefly before nodding reassurance to those around him. “I’m not here to argue.”
“Tell me, Zavian, truthfully, why do you want me?”
“Is it not enough that I do want you?”
“No.”
He frowned. “Not enough that a day hasn’t gone by since you left, without me dreaming of you, or imagining you, your kiss, your touch, you in my arms, in my bed?”
She swallowed and shook her head.
“Gabrielle! You cannot deny what we have.”
She couldn’t deal with this anymore. “I don’t,” she said, jumping up and looking around. The desert had always been her escape, her world where she felt safe, but now she felt exposed and confused. “I have to go.”
He rose, ignoring the curious looks from others. The music drowned out their words. “Not like this, please. I didn’t intend to drive you away. Quite the opposite. Please, sit down, and let’s talk.” His grip on her hand tightened. “Please, I need to be clear about why I brought you here from Oxford.”
She nodded reluctantly, intrigued despite herself, and sat down. “Okay, tell me what you need to tell me, and then I’m going to bed.”
He nodded and drew in a deep breath. Gabrielle could feel the effort it was taking him to do this.
“You know I arranged it all.”
She nodded. “Yes, I know now. At first, I didn’t.”
“And that was because I didn’t mean you to. But what you don’t know is why.”
“I have a good idea.”
He held up his hand. “Let me tell you. I’d arranged it to get you out of my system.” She blanched, recoiled, but he didn’t stop. “I hated the fact I wanted you so much. That you wouldn’t leave my mind. And, I thought, it was because of lack. A question of simple economics—supply and demand.” She shook her head in disbelief. “If the supply was there—”
“Me, being the supply?” she asked, incredulous.
He nodded. “Then the demand—”
“Your need for me.”
“Would diminish, yes. But it didn’t work. I’d forgotten to factor into my plan certain things.”
“What things?” She could hear the sharp edge of anger in her voice but did nothing to stop it.
He dipped his head closer to her cheek and breathed in. “Things like your fragrance. Apparently, the law of economics doesn’t apply to fragrance.”
She softened slightly and couldn’t prevent a smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth. She was about to reply, but his thumb swept across her cheekbone as his gaze deepened into her eyes.
“Nor the luminous look in your eyes.” His eyes pinched at the corners as if trying to understand something inexplicable. “It’s… unquantifiable.”
The last of her tension left her and Gabrielle laughed. She shook her head. “I’m a woman, Zavian,” she said gently. “I’m not a thing, a box to be ticked or crossed off. People are far more complex than that.”
His frown deepened for a second and then lightened, and he did something she didn’t expect. He smiled. “Apparently. Particularly you.”
“Particularly when there are feelings involved.”
He rose and offered her his hand, and slowly she stood up. The palm fronds clattered overhead, and the night breeze quickened, bringing with it the scent of blossom. There were few people left seated around the fire now, but those that were glanced briefly up at them and smiled before returning to their reveries and conversation.
“You want me to come to your bed?” she asked.
“Only if you also want it.”
“I want to, make no mistake about that. It’s whether I should is the question.”
“What can I say to help you make up your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Then I will do something to forget your thoughts.” With that, he slid his fingers through her hair and brought her head to his and kissed her. From the moment his lips touched hers, and she felt the sharp intake of his breath the hard knot of tangled thoughts unraveled. It was a kiss which obliterated all thought—both his and hers. It seemed, while people might be more complex, there were some things about them which were simple.
He pulled her close, as he explored her mouth with his tongue, his lips with hers, and caressed her cheek as he held her steady as if scared she’d run away. It was the last thing on her mind. It was as if he’d struck a match and tossed it into a landscape starved of water—a desert of emotion—and one which exploded at the first sign of fire. And there was nowhere else either of them could go now, except to feed that fire.
He gripped her hand, and they dissolved into the shadows away from the flickering firelight, unnoticed by the few who remained sleeping or drinking before the fire.
They wove their way through the tents until they reached his and entered the shadowy interior, lit by oil lamps, which shed a rich light onto the rugs and decorations which lined the tent.
Their hands were upon each other immediately, tugging at their clothes, slipping beneath the layers to feel the warmth and contours of each other’s bodies. Within moments they were stripped of their robes and underclothes, and Zavian carried her naked to the bed, lit only by a sidelight of brass lamps.
She took his hand and pulled him down to her, and they kissed as she wrapped her legs around him. With one swift movement, he was inside her. She cried out, and her head fell back as he pushed further, filling her completely.
He held her face, his eyes searching hers as if needing to know something only her body could tell him, as he thrust rhythmically into her. What he wanted to know from her, she couldn’t tell, but as she watched his expression change and intensify, she knew that, whatever he didn’t say, he was hers.
The thought gave her power, and she writhed in his arms, determined to break down the barrier he refused to drop and make him see what was before his eyes. Her. Not a woman to own, or to dominate, but a woman to love.
But in the end, it was her own barriers which dissolved under his skillful lovemaking, and she came first, her whole body—from the tips of her toes to her fingers—tingling as the orgasm rolled and coiled inside her and then doubled again as he came, filling her with himself.
They lay gaining their breath for a few moments, and then she slid on top of him, determined to gain the upper hand. After a long lingering kiss, he was ready for her again, and she sat astride him and slipped slowly onto him.
Zavian watched as Gabrielle rose and fell, her breasts peaked and rosy under the warm lamplight, her hair in messy disarray around her shoulders, and her eyelids fluttering closed. Her movement were so sensuous, so natural, so instinctive, so primeval that the setting seemed perfect. The flickering candles encased in their brass lanterns cast her moving shadows across the undulating walls of the tent, which moved slightly with the quickening breeze.
The music continued outside, the strains of the stringed violin echoing their own passion. Gabrielle rose and fell with the vibration of the music floating in on the wind. It felt as if they were one. Zavian was no longer aware of anything except for Gabrielle, at the center of the maelstrom of passion, her tight, wet body encasing him, shifting against him, his hands caressing her skin, his eyes drinking in the beauty of her slender body, so slight and yet so powerful. His control was fracturing at the onslaught of her power. He saw the moment she orgasmed, her body and face lit up with an ecstasy that was ethereal, other-worldly. And he desperately wanted to bring her back into his world.
She leaned over, her breasts brushing against his chest, and kissed him. He put his arms around her and their kiss deepened. As one they rolled over, and he withdrew and took satisfaction at the corresponding jerky movements of her body, as she reacted to his thrusts. He threaded his fingers through hers and spread her arms wide, pinioning with his hips, taking his pleasure just as she’d taken hers. Except this was no one-sided pleasure. It was as if they were one entity, each movement, each thought, each feeling echoed in the other, felt by the other.
Slowly, imperceptibly, they inched their way to the brink. Their eyes fastened onto each other with an urgency and intensity as if holding onto each other in a turbulent sea to save each other. They came as one, his seed spilling deep inside her, claiming her for his own. She opened her mouth in a soft moan, and his lips found hers.
He rolled to his side, Gabrielle captured tight in his arms, and he kissed her hair, her forehead, her closed eyelids. Then he settled back. There were no words between them because they’d communicated far more than words could. But as the music stopped and the wind picked up, and sand crept under the tent, reality seeped back in, and a sullen dread filtered through Zavian’s consciousness. His arms didn’t loosen their hold of Gabrielle, but his mind shifted away.
What had he done? He’d thought to bring her to Gharb Havilah, he’d thought to seduce her, to rid himself of the memories of her which had haunted his every waking and sleeping moment since she’d left him. He’d thought to cauterize the pain she’d caused by proving to himself that it was ephemeral, that it was a residue, a ghost in his mind which would be extinguished. Except it hadn’t.
Like some wandering seed, it had, instead, lodged deep inside of him, and it had proved not to be uprooted so easily. Indeed, it had blossomed. He could feel the tentacles of her growing inside, trying to take over his body and mind. The thought of being taken over, being under the control of someone else, terrified him.
He swallowed as he moved first his hand, then his arm from her body. She was fast asleep, but she shivered and snuggled against him. He closed his eyes and grimaced as he freed himself again. This time she didn’t move. Her breathing was regular, and a soft, rosy blush lay on her cheeks.
He shook his head and slowly got dressed. He wanted her in his life, of that he was clear now. The trouble was, she wanted something he couldn’t give. Because how could you give your heart when it was made of stone? His own hard heart lay between him and happiness, and there was nothing he could do about it.