A LITTLE compromise took one a long, long way, Danielle thought ruefully, staring out of the window of the powerful jet—one of the twelve owned by Qu‘Har Air. This jet, though, was special. It was the personal property of her stepfather’s family, and a courteous, deferential young man had been conscripted from his normal job in the oil company offices to accompany her to Qu‘Har.
The whine of the high-powered engines changed abruptly, denoting the fact that they were nearing their destination. In spite of her resolution not to be, Danielle felt nervous. She smoothed the skirt of the silk two-piece she was wearing with fingers that trembled slightly. The silk was peacock green, highlighting her hair and flattering the golden tones the summer sun had given her skin. She eyed it ruefully. Never in all her holidays abroad had she ever tanned. When she had complained about it to a beautician the girl had chided her, telling her she ought to be grateful for having such a delicate English complexion and preserve it at all costs. The colour in it now was only as a result of slow and careful exposure over the entire length of a particularly good English summer, and her stepfather had told her that even though the worst of the humidity had passed the temperature in Qu‘Har in August was very high, and would continue to be high throughout the duration of her stay. For this reason she had been careful to include in her packing a good supply of sunscreen, essential if her skin wasn’t to get badly burned. The girl in the chemist had also suggested a new sunburn lotion which she had assured Danielle was extremely effective, and that too had been packed with her other cosmetics just in case.
What would her stepfather’s family think of her? Although she assured herself that she couldn’t care less, for his sake she knew that she hoped they would approve of her. Jourdan, thank goodness, would be in Paris, on business, or so she had been told, and she was grateful to her stepfather who she was sure had been responsible for this diplomatic move. It would have been awkward and embarrassing to have to meet the man who had so callously agreed to marry her, without even seeing her, and she was glad that she would not be called upon to do so.
The jet was descending; she glanced out of the window but could see nothing apart from dazzling blue sky. As she glanced back Danielle saw that her escort was watching her shyly, although he looked hurriedly away when he realised that she had observed his speculative glance. He was about her own age dressed expensively in a Western style suit, his black hair neatly groomed. He was, her stepfather had told her, the son of one of his cousins, in addition to being on the staff of the oil company. In Arab countries nepotism was obviously a virtue rather than a vice, and as the jet came to rest on the tarmac runway Danielle wished that she had had time to study the life style and customs of the people with whom she would be living, a little more thoroughly. What if she transgressed against some unknown rule and disgraced herself? Hassan’s eldest brother’s first wife would take her under his wing, her stepfather had told her, adding that she would like Jamaile, who had already brought up three daughters and had several grandchildren.
More grateful than she was prepared to admit for the presence of the shy young man at her side, Danielle descended the gangway. The staff were lined up at the bottom. The captain asked if she had enjoyed the flight. Although she had been accustomed to the respect people accorded wealth, she had never known the true meaning of the word ‘deference’ until she became a member of the Ahmed family, Danielle acknowledged; realising with a sudden startled shock that she was a member of that family, even if only by marriage.
That thought gave her the courage to walk calmly to the waiting limousine—no other words could describe the sleek black Mercedes parked prominently on the forecourt flying pennants which Danielle decided must reflect the status of her host and hostess. It was only just beginning to dawn on her that she would be staying with Qu‘Har’s Royal Family, and the realisation intimidated her a little.
The drive to the palace was completed in silence—an awed one on Danielle’s part as she observed the number and variety of buildings being erected on either side of the main road. Beyond them stretched the vast emptiness of the desert broken only by the odd clump of palm trees, until suddenly, quite out of the blue, they came to a vast acreage of tunnel greenhouses, which she was told were part of a new scheme to decrease Qu‘Har’s dependence on imports from abroad.
‘This and the new desalination plant just completed on the coast are the result of Sheikh Hassan’s wishes that our people share in the oil wealth of our country,’ Danielle’s escort told her proudly. And it was something to be proud of, Danielle acknowledged, observing the signs of technology all around her.
One particularly light airy building was pointed out to her as a new girls’ school—a very daring innovation and one which had caused considerable tension and high feeling until the country’s religious leaders had given the ambitious scheme their approval. Even so, Danielle caught the hint of disapproval in the voice of her young escort.
‘You don’t approve of education for women?’ she asked him directly.
Colour ran up under his dark skin. Danielle would have had to be blind to be unaware of the admiration in his dark eyes as they rested on her, but apart from being mildly flattered that such a handsome young man should so obviously find her attractive she didn’t give the matter another thought.
‘It is not the way of the East,’ was the only diplomatic response she could get to her question, and sensing that he would prefer not to pursue a subject which obviously embarrassed him, Danielle turned instead to his family and in particular those members of it with whom she would be staying.
‘The Emir is the head of our family and our country,’ Saud confided with a shy smile. ‘I am the son of his second cousin and thus of minor importance within the family. Indeed it was only through the good offices of Sheikh Hassan, my uncle, that I obtained my position with the oil company.’
‘But you have a university degree,’ Danielle persisted, remembering what her stepfather had told her about this personable young man. ‘You could have obtained a job elsewhere…’
‘I should not have wanted to. Qu‘Har is my home and the home of my fathers before me. Sheikh Hassan paid for my education, as he has done for many of us, and it is only fitting that I repay him by using my skills for the benefit of my country.’
It was said so simply, so without pretension and priggishness, that Danielle felt tears prick her eyes. This was the other side of the fierce desert warrior, this almost childlike simplicity and determined loyalty.
‘Sheikh Hassan is a generous and wise man,’ Saud added seriously. ‘Many within our family have reason to be grateful to him.’
‘Especially Jourdan,’ Danielle added, thinking of how her stepfather had rescued and brought up the small child.
‘Ah, Jourdan,’ Saud said warmly, so warmly that Danielle glanced at him, surprised to see a look almost approaching worship in the liquid eyes. ‘My father says that he is the natural successor to Sheikh Hassan and that without him our country would be torn to shreds and thrown to the winds. He is what in our family we call “The gift of the Prophet”.’
Danielle thought he was referring to a discreet way of describing Jourdan’s illegitimacy until he saw the look of solemn reverence on his face.
“‘The Gift of the Prophet?” What is that?’ she asked, curious, in spite of her aversion for the man who would have married her without thought or compunction.
‘Quite simply the birth of one with the power, the knowledge and the skill to hold our people together,’ Saud told her seriously. ‘Always such a one is born to our ruling house in times of conflict and need. Sheikh Hassan himself was thought to be such a gift by his father until it was realised that he could not father children. You must know that in a family such as ours with many brothers and sons there is always fierce rivalry. Sometimes that rivalry breaks out in warfare as rival factions battle for control.
‘We are only a small country, but very rich in oil. Unfortunately our people sometimes lack the education to use wealth wisely. It is important that we plan now for the future when we may no longer have our oil, and that is what Sheikh Hassan is trying to do. Many schemes have been launched, many of our brighter young men educated abroad, and much money spent in technological equipment and learning, but all this will be wasted if there is no one to continue Sheikh Hassan’s work when he is gone. It must be a man strong enough to quell opposition, fierce as the hawk and wily as the snake. Jourdan is such a man…’
He sounded very unpleasant, Danielle thought distastefully. ‘Fierce as the hawk.’ That no doubt meant domineering and aggressive. ‘Wily as the snake.’ She conjured up a picture of a Machiavellian mind capable of all manner of intrigue. She already knew how much the Muslim mind appreciated subtlety and how necessary it was to have this gift in full measure if one were to succeed in the Arab business world. The Arab would not respect a man he could cheat, and respect was all-important.
‘You obviously admire him,’ Danielle said in a neutral voice, wondering if Saud was aware of the marriage her stepfather had planned for her. In view of Jourdan’s importance it was strange that a full-blooded Arab girl from within the Royal Family had not been chosen for him, and she realised for the first time that her stepfather had been trying to confer a great favour (in the eyes of his family at least) upon her by this marriage.
‘I do,’ Saud agreed. ‘Although it is thought by some that his adherence to the religion of his mother is foolish. However, the Koran acknowledges the worth of other religions, and Jourdan accepts the precepts of the Koran and abides by them far more stricly than many of our race.’
‘He sounds quite a paragon,’ Danielle said dryly, her dislike of the unknown Jourdan growing by the minute. ‘What a shame that I shall not meet him…’
She was too busy studying the scenery beyond the window to see the swift, startled sideways glance Saud gave her. They were driving up to an archway set in a high white wall, the white paint glittering so brightly in the brilliant sunshine that Danielle had to close her eyes against the glare.
When she opened them again the huge car had come to rest in front of a long, low building, its windows all shuttered like so many closed eyes, the delicate mosaic work adorning the gateway making her gasp with pleasure.
‘I must leave you here,’ Saud announced, climbing out of the car. ‘The driver will take you round to the women’s quarters where you will be received by the Sheikha.’
‘Will I see you again?’
All at once he had become an important link with home and all things familiar. Saud flushed and seemed to glance hesitantly at the driver as though reluctant for him to overhear their conversation.
‘It may be permitted. I shall ask my father,’ he muttered in a low voice, and then the car was sweeping away through another archway decorated with a continuous frieze of arabesques and into a courtyard enclosed on all four sides.
A door in one wall opened inwards, and feeling rather Alice in Wonderlandish, Danielle realised that she was supposed to get out of the car and enter the building.
She did so like someone in a dream, aware of activity behind her as another door in the adjacent wall opened and the car boot was opened and her luggage removed.
As she stepped through the open door, the scent of jasmine immediately enveloped her, together with a welcome coolness which she realised was stimulated by the powerful air-conditioning whose hum she could just faintly hear.
‘If the Sitt will follow me.’
The girl was draped from head to foot in black, her voice low and melodious, and Danielle could just catch the faint chime of ankle bracelets as she swayed down the corridor in front of her. At the bottom she opened a door and indicated that Danielle was to follow. She found herself in a small square room with a low divan under one window and a small sunken pool just beyond it.
‘If the Sitt will permit.’
Gently but inexorably Danielle was pushed down on to the divan, her high-heeled sandals removed. She was glad that she was not wearing tights when the girl promptly proceeded to wash her hands and feet with water from the pool, again scented with some elusive perfume which drifted past her nostrils and refused to be properly identified.
The girl’s movement were deft and sure, her hands delicately hennaed and her eyes modestly downcast all the time. She must be a maid, Danielle reflected when she walked across to the other side of the room and returned with a pair of soft embroidered slippers.
‘It is necessary to wear these in the presence of the Sheikha,’ the girl explained. ‘It is the custom to kneel and approach, and then to leave the room backwards, but in your case it is necessary only to kneel. For you the Sheikha has waived the normal formalities…’
The girl’s English was perfect, so perfect that Danielle felt ashamed of her own lack of Arabic. She had learned it from her father, she explained when Danielle questioned her, and had been fortunate enough to get her position in the Sheikha’s household because of it, because the Sheikha wanted all her daughters and granddaughters to speak it.
‘It is necessary when they go to school in England,’ she added. ‘The Sheikha wishes the women of her family to have the benefit of a good education. She says it is important that the women of our race do not cause our menfolk to have a contempt of them because of their ignorance. I shall take you to her now, if you will please follow me.’
The room they were in was an ante-room leading into a huge chamber with a vaulted, carved and painted ceiling, the intricacy of the arabesques and stylised carvings on the ceiling taking away Danielle’s breath; and the colours! Never had she seen such a multitude of rich, jewel-bright colours all in one room before, and yet as her eyes became accustomed to the richness she realised that they were carefully and subtly arranged so that turquoise ran into lilac and rich purple into crimson, into royal blue and back to turquoise, the skilful blending shown to its best advantage on the plain off-white divans placed around the room and covered with multi-coloured silk cushions.
At one end of the room was a raised dais with a single divan on it, and behind the divan was a delicately carved and scrolled screen that reminded Danielle of photographs she had seen of Russian iconostases, although of course these were not of a religious nature, nor did they depict the human form, relying entirely on colour for their beauty. Semi-precious stones studded into the screen glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the narrow slits left by the closed shutters, and as Danielle collected herself she realised that her companion had quietly left the room and that she was all alone.
A door in the screen started to open and remembering the maid’s whispered instructions Danielle knelt hastily on the small mat placed strategically in front of her on the beautifully tiled floor.
She heard a soft chiming sound, and the rustle of heavy silk but dared not lift her head, and then a pleasant voice commanded softly,
‘Come here, child, and let us see this daughter of whom my brother Hassan is so proud.’
Danielle stood up and walked hesitantly towards the dais. The woman seated on it was tiny, the rich silk of her caftan burnished by the thin light, the jewels on her fingers and round her plump throat making Danielle gasp in awe.
‘She has hair the colour of the desert after rain,’ the Sheikha commented to one of the women clustered behind her. Danielle had been oblivious to their presence until the Sheikha spoke, having eyes only for the diminutive woman on the divan.
‘Such hair colour is an indication of a swift temper in England,’ one of the women replied softly, but not so softly that Danielle couldn’t hear her.
The Sheikha smiled, and indicated that Danielle was to mount the dais.
‘How fortunate then are English men,’ she said dryly, ‘for unlike our men who must judge by repute alone, one look indicates whether they have a wife of spirit, as temperamental as an Arab mare, or one with the docility of a courtyard dove. Which do you think a man would prefer?’ she demanded, looking at Danielle with shrewd brown eyes.
Thrown off guard, all Danielle could say was, ‘I don’t know. I suppose men like women have different needs. Some prefer placid women and some spirited.’
‘She speaks wisely,’ the Sheikha said to her women, ‘And Hassan has not lied, her beauty is that of the waterlily which flowers in our pools, pale and delicate, curling in on itself when threatened. While you remain in Qu‘Har you will live amongst my household,’ the Sheikha told Danielle. ‘As Hassan has no doubt told you, it is not permitted for our women to walk unescorted in the streets, nor to go unveiled in the presence of men other than their fathers and husbands. Naturally as a European you would not be expected to observe these rules, but as the daughter of our brother you would reflect upon his standing were you to be seen flouting them. The choice is yours, Danielle. Should you wish to adopt our customs while you live among us Zoe will provide you with a chadrah and instruct you in the laws of our country, but should you prefer to retain the customs of the West this we shall quite understand.’
Choice? What choice? Danielle wondered with a certain amount of grim bitterness as she acknowledged the shy smile of the girl the Sheikha had indicated. Were she to insist on wearing her own clothes she would be branded as selfish and uncaring of her stepfather’s reputation, but were she to dress and behave as an Arab girl it would be tantamount to denying her own personality.
Everyone was waiting for her to speak. She remembered all the generosity and love her stepfather had given her, and acknowledged that there was only one thing she could say.
‘I shall wear the chadrah’, she said bleakly, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of presience so strong that she immediately wanted to recall the words. It was as though she had committed herself to an alien uncharted course; as though her life would never be the same again simply by the speaking of that one sentence. Don’t be so silly, she chided herself. All she was doing was ensuring that none of Hassan’s family would ever again have cause to criticise his choice of second wife!
The Sheikha smiled.
‘So be it. Go with Zoe. We shall talk again, you and I. It is many years since I have seen Hassan and you will tell me all about England which I have not visited since I was a girl.’
Remembering that she was supposed to back out of the room, Danielle moved slowly away from the dais, earning an approving smile from Zoe who was at her side.
Once outside the audience chamber, as Zoe told her the room was called, she led Danielle back down a long corridor.
‘A suite of rooms has been prepared for you….’
They went up a flight of spiral stairs which seemed to go on for ever, Zoe pausing on the landing for Danielle to catch up with her before opening a door.
A suite, she had called it! Danielle stared round at her palatial surroundings in mingled bemusement and awe, following Zoe like a sleepwalker as she led her from the exquisite salon to a sumptuous bedroom, the low bed draped in silk coverings which closed over it very much in the fashion of a fourposter, but far more delicate and gilded with what Danielle recognised to her astonishment was gold leaf. Beyond the bedroom was a small dressing room lined with mirror-fronted wardrobes, an obviously modern innovation, and beyond that a bathroom with sunken bath, shower and other sanitary fitments, all in a delicate pale pink marble to match the colour scheme in the bedroom.
‘The maid will bring you some caftans to choose from,’ Zoe announced when the tour was finished. ‘And then tomorrow the dressmaker will call and you will be able to choose exactly what you want…’
‘I shall only be here for three weeks,’ Danielle protested weakly. ‘It really isn’t necessary, Zoe.’
‘To refuse the Sheikha’s gift is to insult her,’ Zoe said seriously.
‘Oh, well, in that case…’
Zoe spent half an hour with her going through a few basic do’s and don’ts, her smile kind when Danielle stopped her, protesting that she would never remember everything she had been told.
‘It is not as hard as you imagine,’ Zoe comforted her. ‘And one of us will be with you always to help you… I shall see you again at the evening meal,’ she added, rising lithely from the divan. ‘You remember the way?’
Assuring her that that at least was something she would not forget, Danielle watched the door closing behind her, feeling rather forlorn. Despite the disparity in their cultures and upbringing she liked Zoe, with her gentle eyes and soft voice. She was the Sheikha’s niece, she had explained to Danielle, and had been chosen to be one of the Sheikha’s attendants, much to her family’s delight, for it was a very great honour, and if the Sheikha was pleased with her at the end of her year’s service she would reward her by adding handsomely to her dowry and helping her parents to find her a good husband.
Danielle had been aghast by these revelations, but Zoe seemed to find nothing to question in them, happily accepting her father’s right to find and choose her marriage partner. Nothing had been said about her proposed marriage to Jourdan, and Danielle wisely kept silent, surmising that it was not generally known.
When Zoe had gone Danielle examined the contents of the wardrobe Zoe had discreetly pointed out to her. Half a dozen jewelled silk caftans wafted gently in the draught from the opening doors, their colours ranging from palest pink to deepest jade green. She lifted one out and held it against her, surprised to discover how the Oriental robe transformed her from a neat European into a sultry Easterner. It must surely have been a trick of the light which gave her lips that sultry pout, she decided, hastily replacing the caftan with the others. There was a gentle knock on the door and when Danielle went to answer it a young girl stood there, eyes modestly downcast.
‘The Sheikha has sent me to attend the Sitt,’ the girl said, stepping into the room. ‘She has also sent you this chadrah so that you will be able to conceal yourself as you walk about the palace.’
Danielle took the thick, black, enveloping cloak with thinly concealed distaste, shrinking away from the thought of wearing a garment whose sole purpose was in such direct opposition to her own principles, but she was here in many ways as her stepfather’s emissary, she reminded herself, and rather than cause offence she would wear the tentlike garment. She was only grateful that the fasting month of Ramadan was past, she was just thinking, when the high, thin sound of the muezzin broke the silence, startling her to such an extent that she dropped the cloak.
The maid prostrated herself immediately, remaining prone for several seconds before rising calmly with lithe grace and walking over to Danielle.
‘You will want to bathe before the evening meal, and I shall attend you. The Sheikha has sent some perfumed oil for you made from the roses of her own garden. You are greatly honoured.’
Danielle wanted to protest uncomfortably that she did not need any help, but the girl was already walking through into the sumptuous bathroom, running the water and pouring something from a small vial into the marble depths, which immediately turned the water milky.
‘I can manage by myself,’ Danielle began, but the girl’s expression was so puzzled and hurt that Danielle found herself relenting when she asked if Danielle meant to send her away.
‘European girls are not used to having a personal maid,’ Danielle tried to explain, asking the girl her name.
‘Zanaide,’ she replied shyly. ‘The Sheikha will think I have offended you in some way if the Sitt sends me away…’
The huge brown eyes looked so mournful that Danielle hadn’t the heart to insist, but her British heritage told her there was something vaguely sybaritic about lying full length in the deliciously scented water while Zanaide’s small hennaed hands gently sponged her body, but by the time she was ready to step out of the bath and into the towel Zanaide was holding for her, Danielle was beginning to feel her inhibitions completely slipping away, until Zanaide commented admiringly on the colour and texture of her skin.
‘So white and soft! The man who looks upon such beauty must surely be blinded by it—but the Sitt must eat more and gain flesh.’
‘In European countries men prefer their women to have less flesh,’ Danielle explained with a wry smile, guessing the direction Zanaide’s thoughts had taken.
‘The Sitt is not already betrothed?’
Somehow the personal nature of the questions had ceased to bother Danielle. She shook her head, still smiling.
‘Are you betrothed, Zanaide?’
The little maid nodded firmly.
‘For many years, to my second cousin, as is the custom. We are to be married next year.’ She sighed, standing up, whisking away the protection of the towel before Danielle could protest and opening a small cupboard. ‘If the Sitt will lie on the divan, please…’
Bemused, Danielle did as she was bid, protesting halfheartedly as she caught the elusive perfume of the oil Zanaide was deftly massaging into her body.
‘I have not seen Faisal for many years,’ Zanaide told her. ‘He has been at university in England and then working in Saudi Arabia, but my brother tells me he has grown into a handsome young man.’ A tiny dimple appeared by her mouth and Danielle smiled in response. So not all the spirit had been crushed out of these women whom legend described as frail and delicate as rose petals but who in reality needed the courage and stamina of a lioness.
‘And you do not mind this arranged marriage?’ Danielle asked her curiously. ‘You do not wish that you might have fallen in love, chosen your own husband?’
‘I shall fall in love with my husband,’ Zanaide responded firmly. ‘To do otherwise would be to disgrace my family.’
She left the room for a few minutes, returning with the jade green caftan on one arm.
‘Not that one!’ Danielle wanted to protest, remembering how shocked she had been by that brief image of herself in it earlier, but Zanaide frowned, and insisted,
‘This one is the best in the cupboard. To refuse to wear it would be to insult the Sheikha. You do not like it?’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Danielle admitted. ‘But I feel more at home in my own clothes, just as you would feel uncomfortable in mine.’
To her surprise Zanaide laughed, her eyes twinkling.
‘I wear the jeans too, Sitt, but only at home with my mother and sisters. My mother is shocked, but my brothers tell her that in Europe all girls wear them. It is very pleasant to do this, to—what is it you say? Have the best of two worlds.’
‘Both worlds,’ Danielle corrected, surprised by Zenaide’s admission. Was she then mistaken in thinking Arab women to be completely beneath the domination of their men?
Apparently so. Zanaide made several enlightening comments as she washed and dried Danielle’s hair, and a far different picture from what she had previously had began to emerge in Danielle’s mind. As well as receiving schooling many of the brighter girls were encouraged to train abroad, and as long as the Muslim laws were observed and they were discreet women had a far greater degree of freedom than Danielle had envisaged.
‘Of course we cannot go dancing and mix freely with the opposite sex in the European fashion,’ Zanaide told her practically, ‘but Sheikh Hassan has already done much for us, and promises to do more. Many of us prefer to wear the chadrah and retain our way of life,’ she added softly. ‘Is it not true that there often lies enticement in the unknown which the familiar does not possess? So it is with us, our very unavailability is enticing to our menfolk.’
* * *
The meal was over at last. Danielle made her escape thankfully. Everyone had been very kind, but the strain of trying to remember so many different names, on top of her long journey and strange surroundings, had all culminated in her feeling that all she really wanted to do was to go and lie down on her bed.
She seemed to have drunk innumerable small cups of strong black coffee and would no doubt have been obliged to drink even more had Zoe not noticed her predicament and tactfully indicated that she was to shake her cup to signal that she did not want any more. Also the food, although delicious, had been richer than what she was accustomed to, and it was with a feeling of intense relief that Danielle followed the corridor towards the spiral staircase which led to her room, where she suspected that Zanaide would be waiting for her.
The stairs seemed to go on for ever, with far more flights than she remembered, but telling herself that it was just her imagination Danielle picked up the heavy folds of her enveloping chadrah and wearily climbed upwards.
Wall sconces illuminated the stairwell, and in the corners shadows flickered in the draught from the open shutters. One of them even seemed to move towards her, and Danielle bit back a startled gasp as she realised that what she had mistaken for a shadow was in fact a man clad in a dark robe, which was nowhere near as enveloping as her own because it had fallen open to disclose a tanned chest, sprinkled with crisp dark hairs, still damp from a shower or some similar activity, as was the thick dark hair lying crisply over a skull whose structure reminded her of the heads depicted on ancient coins. The face beneath it was arrestingly male, with high prominent cheekbones set below eyes so dark that at first she thought they were actually black until the man moved, addressing some crisp words to her in what she presumed to be Arabic, and she saw that his eyes—eyes which were studying her with an arrogance that sent the hair prickling up on the back of her neck—were actually very dark grey.
He spoke to her again, more sharply this time, the words commanding.
‘I… I… don’t understand. I only speak English,’ she faltered hesitantly, not sure that he would understand her.
His teeth flashed brilliant white in the darkness of his face, faint creases fanning out from his eyes and the sardonic curl of his lips. A sensation she had never experienced before curled insidiously through her lower stomach, making her clench her muscles and taken an involuntary step backwards.
A lean hand grasped her wrist, cool mint-scented breath wafting past her ear as she was hauled unceremoniously forward.
‘You were looking for me?’
His English was faultless, but the question held no hint of kindness; rather a suggestion of leashed power combined with cool impatience.
Danielle could only stare at him, mechanically rubbing the wrist he had grasped to prevent her from moving backwards.
‘I was looking for my room.’
His dark eyebrows shot upwards in disbelief. ‘In this part of the palace? Surely you must realise that these are not the women’s quarters…’
It was the haughty tone of the words rather than their content which caused Danielle to flush guiltily and stare disbelievingly down the way she had come, stammering, ‘Oh, but I know I took the right way…’
Her companion was plainly not impressed. His smile had disappeared, leaving a sternly autocratic expression in its place. How old was he? Danielle wondered. Thirty? Perhaps a little older? It was hard to tell in the half-light, but whatever his age there was no doubt that he was a man to be reckoned with. In spite of her immediate antipathy towards him Danielle could not help but be aware of his intense masculinity, of the spare, narrow waist beneath the thin robe; the taut, muscular thighs which the thin silk did little to disguise.
‘So…’ His eyes seemed to burn past her defences, ruthlessly removing them and reading her mind with lazy ease. He knew exactly what effect his presence was having upon her, Danielle thought resentfully. She even suspected that he could have gauged the rate of her heart and pulse beats with exact accuracy. She turned away, unwilling for him to see the betraying quiver of her lips, suddenly overwhelmed by an instinctive desire to escape. Escape from what? she asked herself crossly. Was she so susceptible to her surroundings that already she was behaving in the presence of an unknown man as Zoe or Zanaide might? What had happened to all her British independence; all her determination to retain her own personality?
Her chin lifted unconsciously.
‘I did not realise that I had left the women’s quarters. If you would be kind enough to direct me…’
She stiffened as she caught the white flash of his teeth once more, convinced that he was laughing at her, but there was no laughter in the dark eyes as they studied her features with lazy scrutiny.
‘You are very daring,’ he said softly. ‘Or is it merely ignorance which lures the dove to trespass on the hawk’s domain without asking what penalty he may exact for that trespass?’
Tired and confused, Danielle stared mutely up at him, gasping with shock when both arms came out to grip her waist, propelling her forward until her body was pressed against the alien male one, his warm breath fanning her cheek as he bent his head and without mercy took her lips in a kiss far more intimate than any she had experienced before, the hands at her waist, biting into her flesh like steel pincers, holding her against a body which she realised with icy shock was completely naked beneath the brief robe.
That realisation restored some of her stunned senses. She pushed fiercely against the solid wall of muscle beneath her fingers, appalled by the unwanted intimacy of her fingertips against the hair-roughened flesh, but it was too late to withdraw. Her futile attempts to be free were stifled with a cruel laugh and the immediate capture of her protesting fists, her fingers uncurled and placed fingertip to palm against the smoothly muscled flesh, while the pillaging lips left hers long enough to quirk mockingly and say softly,
‘So… the British are not always as careless of their women’s virtue as we would believe. You blush like the rose which blooms in the inner courtyard,’ the taunting voice continued. ‘You too are an enclosed courtyard… unknown and undiscovered…’
‘Stop it!’ Danielle protested, at last finding her voice. ‘I won’t listen to you! Let me go… I shall complain to the Sheikha!’
His laughter completely unnerved her, but at least she was released from that uncomfortably intimate contact with his body, although his long fingers still circled one slender wrist.
‘Do that, mignonne,’ he taunted softly. ‘But first do you not want to know whom you must complain of?’
Confused by his abrupt change of front, Danielle could only stare at him through the darkness, wondering a little at the prickly, warning sensation being relayed to her by her senses. What was the matter with her? she demanded of herself. Surely she hadn’t gone so completely spineless that the presence of a mere man (and an arrogantly unpleasant one at that) had the power to overwhelm her like this?
She glanced upwards uncertainly at the dark, chiselled features, noting instinctively the autocratic curl of the long mouth and the taut line of a jaw which she sensed could clench frighteningly in anger, but which was now relaxed in lazy amusement.
‘What, nothing to say?’ the soft voice taunted.
The lean fingers moved from her wrists to her shoulders, tracing the shape of her through the double thickness of her robe and her caftan with a sure knowledge that made her clench her teeth against her frantic protest. This was a man who knew women, and he was playing with her, enjoying her anguished embarrassment. Sparks flew from her eyes and she stiffened automatically, but he only laughed again, a low, warm chuckle which infuriated her more than everything that had gone before, one hand hovering tauntingly over her breast without actually touching her flesh until both of them could hear the nervous shallowness of her breath.
‘Your heart sings under my hand like a trapped bird,’ he said softly, placing palm and fingers against that organ.
Danielle stepped back as though she had been burned, and indeed the warmth generated by his hand against her body was such that she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that it had actually scorched her flesh, but his grip of her shoulder prevented her from moving very far.
With lazy appreciation his hand was removed from her now fast beating heart, to push back the hood of her robe and reveal the tumbled disorder of the curls Zanaide had so carefully brushed before the evening meal. The thin light from the wall sconce turned her hair to living fire, and Danielle gasped as the soft voice drawled with a thread of living steel,
‘Well met by candlelight, daughter of Hassan.’
It should have sounded ridiculous, and in any other circumstances it might well have done so, but here in this ancient palace fortress, surrounded by strangers, Danielle could only react after the fashions she had always despised in novel heroines, by demanding breathlessly,
‘Who are you?’
He moved fractionally and in the faint light she could see the sardonic lift of his eyebrows, the smile that twisted his lips with bitterness and never reached his eyes; the powerful thrust of his body, which almost seemed to menace her as they stood together a frozen tableau in a world in which no other human beings might have existed.
‘You mean you honestly don’t know?’
His abrupt change of front, from laconic mockery to ice-cold hauteur, frightened Danielle. The air around her seemed to grow colder, filled with some malevolent presence.
‘How could I do?’ Danielle found herself stammering nervously. ‘I have only just arrived, I…’
‘So have I, and finding you on your way to my private apartments made me think that you must have some pressing purpose in seeking me out. A logical conclusion, would you not say, daughter of Hassan? You see, I know much of your race. The British are addicted to logic, are they not?’
‘Well, you’re wrong,’ Danielle said hotly, ignoring the latter part of his speech to deny his claim that she had been looking for him—or for anyone, for that matter. ‘I was on my way to my own apartment. I must have taken a wrong turning…’
Now, too late, she remembered how the stairs had seemed to go on for ever. If only she had stopped then and retraced her steps! ‘Besides, what possible motive could I have for seeking you out?’
She was pleased with the amount of scorn she managed to inject into the words, but her pleasure was soon swamped by another emotion as she witnessed the sudden tightening of the lean jaw. As she had suspected, it denoted anger; an anger which was soon unleashed about her, inducing the dry-mouthed terror of a sudden storm as he said with a softness which menaced where it had earlier mocked,
‘A very strong one, I should have thought, daughter of Hassan. I am Jourdan Saud Ibn Ahmed.’