THE following day was so busy that Danielle wasn’t given the opportunity to brood. As soon as she had breakfasted on fresh rolls, honey and hot sweet coffee she was hurried downstairs by Zanaide and out into a large courtyard where a large black Rolls purred softly in tune to the gentle fall of water from a fountain into a basin.
A white chauffeur wearing a dishdash opened the door for her and Danielle slid obediently inside, to sit next to the Sheikha, who greeted her with a kind smile.
‘You slept well, daughter of Hassan?’ she asked.
Danielle nodded wishing she could pluck up the courage to ask the Sheikha to call her by her own name; ‘daughter of Hassan’ roused too many memories she would rather leave sleeping, and she could feel her body tensing as they surfaced.
‘It is the normal practice for the silk merchants to visit the palace when we choose new clothes,’ the Sheikha explained. ‘They normally come once a month—an occasion of great excitement for my household, when everyone gathers in the audience room. My daughters-in-law join us also with their households, and we spend the day choosing fabric and drinking coffee.’
‘It sounds fun,’ Danielle murmured politely, but it was obvious that she had not deceived the Sheikha, because the older woman gave her a shrewd glance, and signalled to the driver to close the panel which separated the driver and escort seated in the front of the Rolls from the Sheikha and Danielle in the back.
‘When women live as we do, we must make our own pleasures,’ the Sheikha said firmly. ‘And you must not despise us for those pleasures, Danielle. My daughters-in-law all have university degrees; all are fluent in English and French, and all run large households, but it is the rule of our religion that the sexes may not mingle freely, and a rule to which we adhere.’ Her face relaxed a fraction and the smile she gave Danielle was comprehensive and understanding. ‘It sounds harsh to you, I know, but it is less so than it seems. My husband, although not as forward-thinking as Hassan, does permit us to have lectures and slides on topical subjects, to that we are all well versed on international matters. We have stimulating debates for those of us who wish to sharpen the mind, and if all these pleasures are restricted purely to our own sex, is it not really a little hypocritical of Europeans to take less pleasure in them for that, for surely if stimulating company and discussion is the sole object of debate and discussion, it is an insult to one’s own sex to presume that their company is less pleasurable than that of a man.’
The Sheikha was a skilled debator, Danielle acknowledged. And in essence what she had said was quite true, However, what she objected to most was not the lack of male company, but the lack of free choice.
When she said as much to her companion, the Sheikha shook her head and smiled.
‘You think this is so, but it is not. One may have the company of one’s husband, or one’s father…’
‘But only at their discretion,’ Danielle said bitterly.
The Sheikha’s eyebrows rose.
‘And you think it beyond a woman’s powers to ensure that a man—especially her husband—enjoys her company; treasures the precious moments he may spend with her like an oyster guarding pearls. Shame on you, Danielle! Your Woman’s Lib has robbed you Europeans of your faith in your own ability to attract and hold, something which our girls know almost from the cradle. A woman can make her husband’s life heaven or hell if she chooses; a wise women chooses to make it heaven, for when there is harmony in the home there is happiness in the heart. You underestimate your own sex, I think, Danielle,’ the Sheikha concluded. ‘Do you not have a saying, “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world”? Think upon the truth of those words.
‘Now,’ she said briskly, changing the subject, ‘Kadir will drive us down al Muhammad Street, so that you might see the new buildings our family are erecting. There is the new library,’ she announced, pointing out a gleaming new building, built on Eastern lines and extremely attractive. ‘And next to it the medical college and the hospital. Hassan has told my husband that we must educate our sons for the day when oil will no longer reign supreme, and to this end many new industries and technologies are being developed, but these are all concentrated on an area several miles away from the capital. Later we shall take you to see the other side of the town which lies along the coast. Beyond it are beaches and a small island which used to be the centre of our pearl industry.’
‘Do men still dive for pearls?’ Danielle asked, intrigued.
‘A few, but they are mainly Europeans,’ the Sheikha replied with a certain amount of dry humour. ‘It is a dangerous occupation and a brief one, and unless one finds pearls of perfect colour and shape a poorly rewarded one.’
Their driver turned off the main arterial highway and down another dual carriageway with a centre aisle planted with flowering shrubs and discreetly placed street lights from which hung flowering baskets.
‘You are admiring our flowers,’ the Sheikha commented. ‘They are indeed a pleasure to all of us, especially those of us who can remember when all this was arid desert. It is the work of my brother,’ she added proudly. ‘With Hassan’s encouragement he has built: a large desalination plant which provides water for the growing of food, and enough surplus to permit us to grow grass, trees and flowers in our city. Truly to the Arab there is no more miraculous sight than those, growing where once there was only sand. It is a mark of how far we have progressed that our children merely accept this miracle without wonder.’
Either side of the road stretched impressively façaded shops filled with a mouthwatering assortment of goods, especially jewellery, but it was in front of a discreet, small establishment up a narrow street that the Rolls eventually stopped.
Their escort was in uniform and armed, and Danielle shuddered when she saw his gun.
‘It is better to be safe than sorry,’ the Sheikha told her gently, seeing her expression. ‘These are dangerous times in the Middle East. Qu‘Har is a very small and a very rich country, without a strong guiding hand on the reins it could all too easily be torn apart by our powerful neighbours, should they so desire. But today is not the day for serious discussion,’ she added, smiling again. ‘To do so will cloud the colours of the silks, and spoil their beauty.’
To Danielle’s relief the guard remained outside while they entered the shop. To Danielle’s surprise, a woman came forward to attend to them, nothing servile about her as she prostrated herself before the Sheikha and then rose with one lithe, swift movement.
Danielle gasped when she saw her face. She was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, her complexion flawless.
‘Zara, this is Danielle, daughter of Hassan,’ the Sheikha said by way of introduction. ‘Danielle, Zara is my cousin, and what you would perhaps call a career woman, is this not so, Zara?’ she appealed, obviously enjoying Danielle’s patent astonishment.
Zara laughed.
‘My cousin the Sheikha teases you a little, I think, Danielle. It is true that my father permits me to buy silks and run this shop, although of course I only attend the ladies of the palace… I am fortunate in having such a generous and understanding family,’ Zara continued on a more serious note, ‘for otherwise I must surely have lost my senses. My husband was killed in an explosion at the oilfield a week after we were married. I was eighteen,’ she told Danielle briefly, her eyes clouding. ‘As I had no children to comfort me, no will to live without my husband whom I had loved since we were children, Jourdan suggested I start this business. I believe his suggestion saved my sanity and my life. He is a very generous and understanding man.’
‘And also a very attractive one,’ the Sheikha said, so wryly that for a moment Danielle’s heart almost stopped beating. Jourdan was all male animal; she knew that, and Zara was an extremely beautiful woman. Could she be his mistress? Or should she say, one of his mistresses?
She wasn’t given time to dwell on the matter. Zara gave a brief command in Arabic and two girls appeared carrying bales of silk which were placed on the low table surrounded by silk cushions.
‘Please sit down, Danielle,’ Zara offered. ‘One of my girls will bring us coffee and then we shall settle down to the serious business of choosing silks.’
‘Do you require anything my cousin?’ she asked the Sheikha, who shook her head. Danielle envied the way the other two women could sit so comfortably cross-legged, while her muscles protested violently at the position, and she knew she looked nowhere near as elegant and relaxed as her two companions.
A shy young maid brought coffee which they drank, while more bales of silk were brought to the table and when, and only when the coffee cups were removed did Zara assume her business manner and start describing the silks, pointing out those she considered most suitable for Danielle.
‘The green with the gold embroidery, and the bronze… There is also an amber, a good shade for one of your colouring, and of course yellow.’
In the end the Sheikha insisted on purchasing half a dozen different silks for Danielle, which she told her would be made up by the palace dressmakers.
‘Many of our women now prefer to buy their clothes in Paris and New York, but personally I think there is nothing quite as flattering as the caftan.’
‘It is very exotic.’ Danielle admitted, fingering a bolt of pretty turquoise silk embroidered with tiny crystal beads. ‘But I should be very reluctant to put away my jeans for ever.’
‘We have yet to purchase perfume for you, and shoes,’ the Sheikha announced when they had taken their leave of Zara. ‘The shoes will be made especially for you at the palace, but perfume blending is an art best left to the experts, and we must visit the suk another day for that. We of the East are great believers in the value of perfumes. Correctly used they can greatly influence the senses, more than you may imagine. You have a saying amongst the men of your country, “At night all cats are grey.” Is this not so? However, in our country it is believed that a woman expresses herself as much by her perfume as her personality and that because of it she is instantly recognisable to those who know her even clad in her robe on the darkest night. We take pride in wearing our scent, knowing it to be an important way of expressing ourselves.’
On their return to the palace Danielle was tempted outside into the courtyards she had been told were specifically for the women. After making sure she was wearing an adequate amount of barrier cream and having declined Zanaide’s offer to accompany her she went out into the courtyard, walking at first beneath the shady clumps of palms and along the bougainvillea-smothered cloisters before venturing out between the intricately paved paths to sit by one of the many ornamental ponds and watch the multi-coloured carp basking by the lily pads. The courtyard was an oasis of peace in what was obviously a busy household, and Danielle had it to herself. No expense had been spared in its construction, and each direction one looked delighted the eye with fresh pleasures. Tiny humming birds darted in and out of the creepers, moving so fast that one only had to blink to miss them; doves cooed softly in the background and the strident call of a peacock somewhere in the distance barely disturbed the drowsy peace of the afternoon.
Danielle sat back and closed her eyes, but the minute she did so the image of a mocking dark face imprinted itself behind her eyes and she had to open them again. She would not think of Jourdan, she told herself firmly, walking aimlessly down one of the paths which terminated at a heavy wooden door set into the wall.
Memories of reading The Secret Garden enticed her to turn the iron handle.
Beyond the door was another courtyard around which were arranged horseboxes, velvety muzzles stretched over half open doors. As Danielle stood wondering whether to go or stay, a familiar figure came towards her, and she forgot Zanaide’s warning lessons and she hurried towards him, her face breaking into a pleased smile.
‘Saud!’
He blushed a little but took her hands and held them firmly, his eyes alight with pleasure.
‘What are you doing here?’ Danielle asked him. She had never met him before he escorted her to Qu‘Har, but now he seemed like an old friend.
‘The Sheikh wishes to ride and I am come to instruct the men to saddle his stallion,’ he replied, indicating the glossy black Arab stallion which was being led into the courtyard. The animal’s coat gleamed like silk, the small ears twitching a little intimidatingly as he minced delicately over the stones.
‘He comes from a long line of stallions bred only for our Royal Family. Only they are allowed to mount such animals, and in days gone by it used to be considered a test of a young sheikh’s manhood to see if he could mount and ride one of these animals. Although the test is no longer applied, there is still much honour to the man who can ride and control such an animal.’
Danielle could well believe it. It was taking two grooms to hold the stallion, who was pawing the ground and snorting resentfully as they held grimly on to the reins.
‘You are enjoying your stay in our country?’ Saud asked Danielle. ‘I hear from my sister that you have this morning been shopping.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Zoe,’ he explained with a smile, suddenly biting his lip and glancing cautiously over his shoulder. ‘Forgive me, Miss Danielle, but you should not be here, nor talking to me like this. I tell you for your own sake, not mine,’ he added earnestly, his eyes suddenly warm as they rested on Danielle’s soft mouth. ‘For myself there is nothing I would rather do than be here with you, unless it were perhaps to walk in the velvet darkness of the oasis with you, just the two of us beneath a new moon…’
‘But, Saud, you are betrothed,’ Danielle reminded him, suddenly feeing that the conversation had got out of hand.
Before he could reply a deeply authoritative voice called abruptly.
‘Saud, where is my mount?’ and Danielle’s heart dropped as she saw coming towards her, dressed in riding breeches, a falcon resting on one leather-gauntleted hand, the man whose image had pursued her in her nightmares, and whose presence now made the blood drain from her face, and a weak desire to turn and run engulfed her.
Saud, for his part, looked as guilty as a small child caught out in some forbidden misdemeanour, the look he gave Danielle at once apologetic and full of fear.
Jourdan, on the other hand, looked completely relaxed and in control. One hand held the reins of the prancing stallion, the other transferred the hooded falcon to a waiting servant before turning to coolly survey Danielle and Saud, for all the world as though they were a pair of miscreants caught out in some dreadful crime, Danielle thought wrathfully, deliberately closing her mind to the tiny voice telling her that Jourdan’s expression held undertones of an anger kept strictly in check, but still dangerously close to the surface.
‘Saud, I shall speak to you later,’ Jourdan announced crisply, watching the younger man crimson at his tone, without a hint of compassion. There was something cruel about the way his lips curled faintly, Danielle thought, her heart beating hurriedly as he turned from Saud, suddenly crestfallen and very, very young, to study her flushed cheeks and defiant eyes.
‘It is my fault, not Saud’s,’ Danielle told him imperiously, her words ringing out across the yard, and causing a couple of the grooms to glance curiously in her direction.
‘I came here by mistake, and he was just telling me so.’
‘You seem to have a habit of doing things “by mistake”, daughter of Hassan,’ Jourdan said with heavy irony, ‘You leap to my young cousin’s defence like the lioness defending her cub… why?’
The word cut into her like a lash, but Danielle still stood her ground.
‘Primarily because I hate to see anyone bullied,’ she retorted promptly, ‘and secondly because I happen to be very fond of Saud.’
An electric silence followed her uncompromising statement. Saud’s face lit up as though illuminated from within, and Danielle immediately regretted her words, seeing that Saud had read into them a meaning she had never meant to convey—and Jourdan? She glanced sideways at the impassively handsome face. There was nothing to be read there, only a certain dangerous glint in the eyes which were studying her, faintly narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, the mouth pulled down at the corners.
‘Go back to the women’s quarters, daughter of Hassan,’ Jourdan ordered abruptly, ‘and try to remember that my cousin is a betrothed man. Besides,’ he added, casually turning to mount the stallion, and holding him in with iron control while he walked him to Danielle’s side, to stare down into her upturned face with cool scrutiny. ‘If you wish to experiment, mignonne, you would be wiser choosing a man if not older, then at least… wiser.’
Without a backward glance he was gone, the stallion’s hooves thudding in time to Danielle’s swiftly beating heart.
Quite why she remained where she was staring after the unyielding retreating back she could not have said, but at last she roused herself as though from a trance, and hurried back the way she had come to the tranquillity of the Sheikha’s garden.
It was later in the afternoon, when Danielle was resting in her room, and avoiding the full heat of the day, that she had a summons from the Sheikha to attend her to be measured for her new clothes.
‘The girl will measure you and then the caftans will be made up for you,’ the Sheikha told Danielle.
While the shy young girl was carefully sliding a tape round her slim hips Danielle heard the dressmaker say something to the Sheikha.
‘Naomi says that you are as slender as the young fig tree before it bears fruit,’ the Sheikha said to Danielle. ‘She is also to make Zoe’s wedding gown. It is the tradition for the women of my husband’s family to be married in crimson silk and the one hundred and one buttons closing the caftan to be of pearl. Zoe’s robe will be embroidered with the emblems of fertility and her husband-to-be will give her the silver girdle which after the ceremony only he will have the right to unfasten.’
Bondage in more ways than one, Danielle told herself. But for some reason, it was not Zoe’s pale face she saw rising from a mist of crimson silk, as lean, dark hands that reached arrogantly for the silver girdle, but her own, her eyes strained and nervous as she stared upwards at the man towering above.
‘You have been standing for too long,’ the Sheikha anounced, breaking Danielle’s reverie. ‘I have arranged that this afternoon you will be shown the coastline which stretches from the town east and west. The drive will do you good. Zanaide will accompany you.’
Thus dismissed, Danielle thanked the dressmaker and her assistants and hurried back to her own room, where she found Zanaide waiting for her, one of the pretty silk suits she had brought with her already lying carefully on her bed.
Danielle frowned a little when she saw it. The silk was pretty but creased easily, and she had planned to wear something a little more casual as they were simply going for a drive, but Zanaide was already hurrying into the bathroom, and rather than hurt the girl’s feelings by ignoring the clothes she had so painstakingly laid out, Danielle slipped off her skirt and blouse and padded over to the dressing room to fiind clean briefs and bra.
She hadn’t intended to do more than have a quick wash, but once again Zanaide has other ideas, and as Danielle stepped out of the dressing room, the scent of sandalwood enveloped her in its heavy sweetness.
‘I don’t want a bath, Zanaide,’ she protested, but the girl looked so perturbed and upset that Danielle was forced to relent and step into the warm perfumed water.
Had someone told her three days ago that she would be lying full length in a marble bath almost deep enough to swim in, actually enjoying having someone gently massage perfumed oils into her skin, and bathing her, she would have laughed outright, but there was something so soporific about being thus shamelessly indulged that it was too much of an effort to resist, never mind protest.
Dried and perfumed, Danielle stepped into brief silk underwear and the silk suit Zanaide had put out for her.
It was a rich golden yellow, the shade of mellow buttercups and Danielle knew that the colour emphasised the dark, living russet of her hair, and the pure unclouded green of her eyes. A touch of soft beige and green eyeshadow, the merest suggestion of lipstick, and the reflection staring back at her from the mirror was all at once that of a woman and not an adolescent. Caught off guard, Danielle stared at herself, as though at a stranger. Had her mouth always had that tremulous fullness? Had her eyes always been so mysteriously shadowed and secret? It must surely be a trick of the light?
The car was waiting for them—not the Rolls this time, but a discreetly opulent BMW. Zanaide slid quietly into the front next to the driver. A servant opened the rear door for Danielle to get into the back. She was in, the door closed, and the car gliding smoothly away before she realised that she wasn’t alone in the back of the car.
‘You look pale, daughter of Hassan,’ the smooth male voice mocked.
‘Jourdan!’ Danielle whispered the name through shocked lips. ‘What are you doing here?’
She felt rather than saw the broad shoulders lift. ‘Why should I not be? The Sheikha requested me to escort you, and here I am.’
Despite the perfectly logical explanation Danielle felt curiously uneasy. Jourdan had not struck her as a man to tamely accept the orders of another, especially a woman, even though that woman was the wife of the ruler of Qu‘Har.
‘Perhaps you would have preferred me to be Saud?’ the smooth voice mocked unkindly. ‘It seems you have quite a disastrous effect on impressionable young men, daughter of Hassan.’
‘All we were doing was talking,’ Danielle protested angrily. ‘It was completely innocent.’
‘There is no such thing as innocence between a man and a woman,’ Danielle was told arrogantly, ‘and to imply that there can be shows how little you know of the world, mignonne, or how competent you are at deceiving yourself.’
Rather than listen to his taunts any longer, Danielle stared deliberately through the window. She could just see the sweeping blue-green shimmer of the gulf beyond gardens sheltered with clusters of palms, but as she watched the coastline seemed to recede rather than draw nearer, and she frowned as she looked ahead and saw that the dual carriageway they were travelling was taking them away from the coast rather than closer to it.
They came to an intersection and she waited for them to turn towards the gulf, but instead the car moved swiftly in completely the opposite direction, through what were obviously the suburbs of the town, dotted with expensive villas, which grew sparser in inverse proportion to the empty acres of sand. Concerned, Danielle glanced over her shoulder. They had come several miles out of the town. Where were they going?
She voiced the question sharply, and for her pains received only a taunting command to, ‘wait and see.’
Anxiety changed to fear. Danielle turned sharply in her seat, staring at the retreating city. Where was she being taken? She looked wildly towards the driver, intending to demand that he stopped the car instantly, then she remembered that Zanaide was seated in front with him and her fear dissolved a little. Jourdan was playing with her. He had deliberately fostered her alarm. She wished she hadn’t let him see how well he had succeeded.
She sat in silence as they travelled further and further into the desert. It was a battle of wills, Danielle told herself grimly, and one she had no intention of losing. They had been travelling for nearly an hour and the signs of human habitation they had passed had been a cluster of tents round a small oasis. They were probably travelling in a huge circle, Danielle reassured herself, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the vastness of the desert which now surrounded them. Sandhill succeeded sandhill; the sun was starting to dip down to the west, a crimson ball of fire, turning the sand the colour of blood. Danielle’s head ached despite the car’s luxurious uholstery and air-conditioning.
At last, when she could bear it no longer, she drew a painful breath and said shakily.
‘You have had your fun, Jourdan, and I’m properly impressed, but surely we must be nearing the palace now? The Sheikha will be expecting us?’
‘Right and wrong,’ Jourdan replied laconically, ‘We are nearing the palace, daughter of Hassan, but not that of my uncle the Sheikh.’
Even as he spoke a building appeared on the horizon, a wall, crenellated and set with huge wooden doors such as Danielle had. seen in films. As they approached these swung open, swallowing them like a giant maw, she thought apprehensively, wondering why Zanaide made no protest.
Beyond the outer wall was a courtyard, shady with palm trees and clumps of flowers, two lions couchant in pale marble guarding the steps to the main doorway to the palace. The car came to rest exactly between the lions and Danielle reached for the door.
‘You must wait until I precede you,’ Jourdan told her calmly, his fingers gripping hers hard, and warm. ‘Otherwise my people will think I do not have the respect of my wife…’
‘Your wife?’ Danielle gasped disbelievingly. A combination of heat and shock was making her feel dizzy, so dizzy that she could not protest as Zanaide helped her from the car out into the blood red rays of the dying sun, and from there to the cool shadows of a hallway tiled with mosaics and filled with the sound of the water which rose from a fountain and fell back into a bowl of rose quartz banded with gold.
‘But I’m not your wife, Jourdan,’ Danielle managed to stammer.
He stopped and turned, surveying her arrogantly from the advantage of his extra height, and Danielle shivered with a feeling which had nothing to do with the sudden change of temperature.
‘Not yet, daughter of Hassan,’ Jourdan agreed blandly. ‘But before dawn you will be.’