WHEN Danielle woke up she was held fast in Jourdan’s arms. His eyes opened before she could move away and for a moment she felt sure he must read the truth in hers and know that she loved him.
‘Last night was the true beginning of our marriage,’ he told her in a husky voice. ‘There will be no more running away, chérie.’
In her heart of hearts Danielle acknowledged that she no longer wanted to run. Jourdan was her husband and desired her and she would have to learn to be content with that. It was more than many women had.
‘Come, we must return to the castle before my people come looking for us and discover the manner in which I punish my errant bride. I fear if I did so they would no longer consider me a fit person to lead them, and would blame your beauty for robbing me of my former strength. And they would not be far wrong.’
Before Danielle could make any response to this he was gone, striding away in the direction of the oasis the sun glinting on his bronze flesh.
He returned half an hour later and crouched down beside Danielle, who was still lying in the sleeping bag, the nearest thing she had seen to a grin transforming his features into a much more boyish mould.
‘Up you get, woman,’ he told her firmly. ‘Lying there like that you make far too tempting a sight; unless of course you want me to rejoin you?’ he added quizzically.
Her heart beating fast, Danielle wriggled obediently out of the quilted bag, wondering what his reaction would have been had she merely remained where she was. A shiver of mingled pain and delight quivered through her at the memory of the lovemaking they had shared, but Jourdan already had his back to her, busy clearing away the previous night’s fire.
‘When Danielle returned from the oasis he poured her a cup of still hot coffee from the flask he had brought with him, and they drank silently in companionable silence, the tensions Danielle had experienced since her marriage melting away as she basked in the heat of the early morning sun and the pleasure of her husband’s company.
All too soon the brief interlude was over. Jourdan rose and walked across to where the horses were tethered. Danielle heard them greet him with pleased whickers, and acknowledged that even as he was the pivot around which life at the castle ebbed and flowed, so he was the pivot of her existence too.
The ride back to the castle was a leisurely one, with Jourdan pointing out various landmarks and showing Danielle the old trade route once used by the silk caravans between China and Persia. He was a knowledgeable and entertaining teacher and Danielle listened avidly, reluctant for their precious time together to end. The hostility which had previously existed between them seemed to have been consumed in the heat of their mutual passion, and if the companionship they were now sharing was less than her aching heart yearned for, it was infinitely preferable to anger and indifference.
As they drew closer to the castle Danielle felt her fragile happiness evaporate. Jourdan was a man with many heavy responsibilities and she as the wife of a prominent Arab male would be expected to take a back seat in his life. For a brief moment Danielle wished she could hold back time; that they would always be as they were this morning; that there need never be duty or responsibilities to come between them. She was being childish, she acknowledged, when Zara, sensing her reluctance, slowed her pace, and Jourdan was forced to stop and wait for them to catch up with him.
Both stallion and master showed consideration for their womenfolk, Danielle acknowledged, for without doubt without Zara and herself to hinder them, they would be racing freely across the sand.
The castle cast long shadows over the desert; her heart held fast in the grip of heavy misery Danielle blinked away weak tears. Last night for the first time she had slept in her husband’s arms; once his hectic life stretched out to engulf him would all she see of him be the occasional visit to her room and bed when he remembered her existence.
Danielle’s gloomy train of thought continued as they neared the castle. Someone had obviously been watching for them, because the massive double gates swung open at their approach. In the outer courtyard Danielle saw a dust streaked Land Rover. Jourdan’s frown seemed to reinforce her own despairing thoughts. The magic they had experienced together in the desert was not strong enough to bridge the gulfs between them. Determined not to let him see the pain in her eyes, Danielle rode into the courtyard with a false smile pinned to her face and an ache in her heart. She saw Zanaide rushing towards her, and felt a pang of guilt for causing the little maid concern, then Zanaide was temporarily forgotten as male arms reached up and swung her down from the saddle, and she heard Philippe Sancerre’s familiar but unexpected voice murmuring huskily,
‘Danielle, petite, what is all this I hear about marriage to Jourdan? Surely you cannot have been so foolish, little one? If it was a husband you wanted surely you could have waited for me?’
While Danielle was still trying to gather her scattered thoughts Philippe kissed her firmly on the lips, devilment dancing in his eyes as Jourdan came towards them, his eyes cold.
‘The privilege of an old friend, mon ami,’ he told Jourdan gaily, ‘and one I am sure you would not begrudge me. Not when you have stolen such a jewel from beneath my very nose!’
The words were said lightly enough, but Danielle sensed that beneath them, Philippe was deeply resentful of Jourdan. Jourdan himself was looking at her with a cold reproof which made her long to be back in the desert with him. Philippe meant nothing to her, she wanted to cry. He was the only man with the power to hold her heart, but Jourdan was already turning away, and Philippe was gripping her arm too tightly for her to follow him.
After murmuring some instructions to his comptroller, Jourdan turned back to Philippe, his face still cold.
‘To what do we owe the honour of this visit, Philippe?’ he asked him sardonically. ‘I seem to remember that you are no lover of the desert.’
‘Of the desert, no,’ Philippe agreed, adding outrageously, ‘But of your beautiful wife… that is a different matter.’
Danielle’s cheeks were scarlet. She glanced quickly at Jourdan, wondering how he was taking Philippe’s broad hint that they had been lovers. His face was shuttered, his expression inscrutable.
‘However, it was not my wish to come to Qu‘Har,’ Philippe went on. ‘It was Catherine who mooted the suggestion. She seemed to believe that you would not be exactly averse to her presence. Of course, then, we knew nothing of your marriage,’ he added, glancing at Danielle. ‘A sudden decision, I take it, ma petite? Or was it merely easier after all to give in to parental pressure? Your stepfather can be a very persuasive man, I know. You are a very lucky man, Jourdan,’ he added, seeming unaware of the thick silence of disapproval emanating from the other man. ‘A rich and beautiful wife… Your uncle chose well for you.’
Philippe took Danielle’s hand in his, the gesture far more intimate than their relationship called for, but he was gripping her fingers too tightly for Danielle to withdraw.
‘Poor petite,’ he murmured in a soft voice which nevertheless could not have failed to reach the ears of the man standing so close. ‘Sold into marriage like a slave in the market! Now more than ever I regret my gentlemanly refusal to accept what you so generously offered the last time we met. Perhaps if I had listened more to my feelings and less to the voice of caution urging me to remember how much my family owed your stepfather’s, I should now be your husband. Ah, here comes my sister,’ he added before Danielle had time to deny his appalling insinuations. She dared not look at Jourdan. She had no idea what he was thinking, but there could surely be only one interpretation to be put on Philippe’s so carefully calculated words. No matter how much she might try to erase them she knew that she would never be able to convince Jourdan that she had not, as Philippe had suggested, pleaded with him to be her lover. Clever Philippe, she thought bitterly. Had he merely been satisfied with claiming to be her lover, Jourdan must surely have disbelieved him—but Philippe, perhaps drawing his own conclusions from the way they had arrived from the oasis together, had subtly poisoned Jourdan’s mind against her, by insinuating that before he came along, she had been more than ready to accept Philippe as her lover. When he added that to the way she had responded to his lovemaking, he was bound to think her a sensual wanton, eager to take physical pleasure wherever she could find it.
Seared with painful agony, Danielle turned helplessly towards Jourdan, then fell back, the colour draining from her face, as she saw the tiny, dark-haired figure clasped tightly within his arms, her face raised for the kiss.
‘Catherine adores Jourdan,’ Philippe said at her side, ‘Indeed, chérie, you will not be very popular in our family when your marriage to Jourdan becomes known. My mother and Catherine had high hopes that she would be the one he would make his wife.’
‘Catherine?’ Danielle stared across to where the other girl was still entwined with her husband, her lips pouting enticingly, as, oblivious to everyone else, she slid her arms round his neck.
‘But surely… I thought your mother said that Catherine was not yet ready for marriage…’ Danielle bit her lip as she remembered exactly what Madame Sancerre had said about her daughter. Surely a girl like that could never adapt to the Arab way of life as Jourdan’s wife would have to?
‘Not ready for just any marriage,’ Philippe agreed, ‘but marriage to Jourdan is another matter altogether, is it not ma chérie?’ His eyes hardened slightly as they took in Danielle’s flushed, defensive features. His sister had urged him to bring her to Qu‘Har, with the promise that if, as she hoped, her proximity would cause Jourdan to propose to her, Philippe himself would not go unrewarded. As Jourdan’s wife she would be in a position to do a great deal for him… Philippe was a realist. He had not totally abandoned the notion of marriage to Danielle, but such a marriage must inevitably be for the future, and he needed money now. His gambling debts weighed uncomfortably upon him; Jourdon was supposedly already betrothed to a girl chosen for him by his family, but Catherine could be very persuasive, and neither was she too fussy about the methods she chose to get her own way.
She was a fool if she thought that simply by inveigling her way into Jourdan’s bed she could persuade him to marry her, Philippe had told her forthrightly, but Catherine had not been deterred. Her brother was forgetting that their family was an old and proud one, she reminded him, and there were ways and means which could be used to make Jourdan forcibly aware of his responsibilities, if necessary. She had paused delicately, but no further explanations had been necessary. Brother and sister understood one another perfectly, and Philippe also knew that their mother, while not approving of Catherine’s methods, would tacitly ignore them to aid her daughter to what would, after all, be an extremely advantageous marriage.
When Philippe had wondered out loud how his sister would cope with the restrictions of life in Qu‘Har, Catherine had laughed out loud. She had no intentions of living anywhere of the kind. Jourdan was after all half French. They would live in Paris, of course!
Philippe looked across at her now, her red lips parted invitingly as she gazed up at Jourdan, and then he transferred his gaze to Danielle’s pale face, correctly interpreting the expression he saw there. So the silly little fool had fallen headlong in love with her arrogant husband! So much the better. People in love were known to make great sacrifices for the objects of their affections. A plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. Perhaps coming to Qu‘Har was going to prove even more beneficial than he had originally thought. He looked at Jourdan, remembering their shared schooldays and his own resentment of the other, his superior in so many fields. How sweet it would be to wrench from Jourdan the prize he so obviously thought his. It had been Sheikh Hassan himself who had told him of his hopes for Danielle’s future. He loved his stepdaughter almost to the point of obsession, and in Danielle Philippe thought he saw not only a means of revenging himself on Jourdan, but also a way of making sure that he never had to want for anything ever again. Danielle’s marriage to Jourdan, which at first had seemed to signal the end to all his and his sisters’s hopes, could, after all be turned to their mutual advantage.
Smiling, he drew Danielle’s hand through his arm and swung her round so that she was facing Jourdan and Catherine.
‘Catherine is very much in love with your husband. In fact…’ he paused and seemed uncertain as to whether he ought to go on, but Danielle’s heart was already gripped in a vice of pain so agonising that she could not hurt more, or so she thought, until Philippe taking her silence for encouragement continued apologetically. ‘In fact… both my parents and myself thought that he returned her feelings, otherwise they would never have permitted her to travel out here. The two of them saw a good deal of one another the last time Jourdan was in Paris. He hadn’t actually approached my father, but Catherine at least had no doubts, and when his invitation came to visit him here…’
‘Jourdan invited you here?’ Danielle swung round, her eyes enormous in the pale oval of her face.
Philippe shrugged uncomfortably, and said gently, ‘Surely you do not think my sister would make such a journey uninvited?’
Out of the corner of her eye Danielle could see Catherine disentangling herself regretfully from Jourdan’s arms. Still holding his hand as though she drew support from the contact, she turned to Danielle, her voice softly apologetic.
‘Forgive me,’ she said simply. ‘It is just that Jourdan and I…’ She paused as though unable to go on, but in her eyes was the expression Danielle fought so hard to prevent showing in her own. She went cold with shock and fear. Catherine Sancerre was in love with Jourdan and he had invited her here to his home knowing that, and knowing also that he was married to Danielle. Whom he did not love, Danielle reminded herself bitterly. Was Jourdan in love with Catherine?
If so, he must never, never learn of her own feelings. Pinning a false smile to lips which threatened to betray her and tremble, Danielle slid her own fingers through Philippe’s arm in an imitation of the possessive manner Catherine was adopting towards Jourdan.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ she said brightly. ‘In fact it’s lovely to have you both here…’
Catherine’s trilling laughter broke the silence.
‘Oh, Jourdan, how unromantic your wife is!’ she exclaimed huskily. ‘I confess if I were so newly married to you I would not want another single solitary soul around.’
‘Danielle is English, Catherine,’ Jourdan said dryly, ‘and the English see things differently. However, she seems pleased enough to see your brother.’
His eyes were on the hand Danielle had slid through Philippe’s arm as he spoke, but she refused to remove it, lifting her head instead to meet the challenge written on his face.
‘You must be careful, chért,’ Catherine cooed, ‘otherwise Philippe will steal your little wife away from you. However, I have not journeyed all this way to stand out in a dusty courtyard and ruin my complexion. Can we not go inside?’
Belatedly remembering her duties as hostess, Danielle called to Zanaide to show their visitors into the main salon, asking at the same time that the maids arrange for rooms to be prepared.
‘I should like to wash before I sit down, if that is possible,’ Catherine exclaimed fastidiously. ‘I am covered from head to foot in sand, and my poor skin is scratched in a thousand places from it. You wouldn’t recognise it, chéri,’ she said to Jourdan.
Danielle overheard the remark and her cheeks burned, but she made no comment. Her soul writhed in torment. How could she hope to compete for her husband’s love with a girl of Catherine’s sophistication? No doubt Jourdan had not had to teach her how to make love.
‘Perhaps Danielle would take you to her room so that you can wash there,’ Jourdan suggested, glancing at Danielle in a way that made it impossible for her to refuse his implicit command.
Neither of them spoke as Danielle led the other girl towards her room. Danielle opened the door and stood back to allow Catherine to enter. The French girl’s eyes were cold as they swept the room before finally lingering on the double bed, patently unslept in.
‘Poor Danielle,’ she murmured with false compassion. ‘Married to a man who so plainly does not want you. You would have done better to persuade your stepfather to allow you to marry Philippe. He at least cares for you, while Jourdan—’ her eyes passed insolently over Danielle’s slender frame, ‘Jourdan is used to women, chérie, not awkward young girls. In aiming for him you aim too high and must only be hurt when you fall, is this not so? Did he tell you nothing of me? Of our plans? When we were in Paris we were so close…’
From somewhere Danielle found the courage to retort, ‘Many women have thought themselves close to my husband.’
Retaliation was swift and merciless. ‘Many women have been his mistress, you mean!’ Catherine spat at her. ‘But between us it was different. Jourdan knows the importance and prominence of our family. He would never dream of insulting me by offering anything other than marriage. And he would have married me, if your stepfather had not offered him such a tempting carrot. Oh yes, I know all about it,’ she told Danielle, not adding that it was Philippe who had mentioned the possibility to her, when explaining why the Sheikh had refused his offer of marriage. Catherine was a practical girl. She would have to marry money, but in Jourdan she would have both wealth and sexual excitement, and she had been carefully enticing him towards marriage for several years, hoping to use his innate sense of responsibility and honour to force him into a situation from which he could not extricate himself without marrying her. The information that Sheikh Hassan wanted him to marry Danielle had come as a shock. An unknown, docile Arab bride she could cope with, Jourdan was after all half French and must want more from a woman than passive obedience, but Danielle was a different matter. The news that Danielle was already in Qu‘Har visiting the Sheikh’s family had forced her into taking action. She had hoped to use her own time in Qu‘Har to force Jourdan’s hand in some way, and the discovery that he was already married to Danielle had come as a shock. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the luxurious room. How could Jourdan have married this stupid doeeyed creature in preference to herself? She studied Danielle’s slender form disparagingly, and looked once more at the large bed.
‘Jourdan does not share this room with you.’ It was a statement rather than a question, and from somewhere Danielle found the resources to reply casually, ‘Not always; sometimes I go to his room.’
Anger flashed in Catherine’s pale blue eyes. ‘So… you have shared his bed, but that is not such a great thing, petite,’ she taunted. ‘Jourdan is a man above all else, and as such will take what is offered when there is nothing better to tempt his palate. And then of course there is the succession to think of.’ She looked slyly at Danielle, who was standing rigidly in the middle of the room. ‘Oh come,’ she pressed, ‘surely you aren’t naïve enough to think there could be any other reason? My dear!’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Jourdan is courted and pursued by some of the most beautiful and desirable women in the world…’
‘Including yourself?’ Danielle asked tightly, regretting the question the moment it left her lips, but it was too late to recall it and it gave Catherine the opportunity she had been looking for.
‘With me, it is slightly different,’ she purred. ‘Jourdan knows that I would never consent to be his mistress. In marrying me he would be allying himself to one of the foremost families in France—quite a tempting prospect, wouldn’t you say, for a man whose mother apparently sprang from the French gutters.’
‘And you would be content with that?’ Danielle asked, trying to turn Catherine’s own weapons against her, but the Frenchwoman was tougher than Danielle. She shrugged and smiled condescendingly.
‘Did I say I would have to be? Jourdan loves me, Danielle. I already know that. His invitation to me to join him here is merely confirmation that to love he wishes to add marriage.’
‘He is already married to me,’ Danielle reminded her.
Catherine smiled coldly.
‘A marriage of convenience forced upon him by his stepfather, but once you have borne Jourdan a son to secure the succession, he will divorce you.’
It was said so confidently that Danielle could not find the words to deny it.
‘You stare at me,’ Catherine continued, pressing home her advantage. ‘Surely you knew this? The present Sheikh has sons, it is true, but none of them possess Jourdan’s astuteness, and besides, Hassan has the final power of decision as to who will rule Qu‘Har. It is only natural that he should choose Jourdan, especially if Jourdan should have a son to follow him; a son whose mother is Hassan’s own stepdaughter.’
It was all so logically convincing that Danielle was only amazed that she had not been able to see it for herself. Of course her stepfather would be delighted if she gave Jourdan a son. The child would be almost doubly his grandchild, and a certain successor to the Sheikhdom. How stupid she had been not to see this for herself! Their marriage was not going to be annulled, Jourdan had told her, but he had not told her the other reason he had made love to her.
The room spun dizzily around her, and she reached sickly for the bed. Even at this moment she might be carrying Jourdan’s child. The thought nauseated her. It was her own fault; she could blame no one else. It was she herself who had foolishly tried to deceive herself that their marriage might come to mean something more than a union of necessity. Jourdan had said nothing. He meant to divorce her and put Catherine in her place—once she had given him a son. With a child he could remain certain of her stepfather’s support, but Sheikh Hassan would do nothing to deprive his grandson of the Sheikhdom.
‘If you had a scrap of pride you would leave Qu‘Har at once,’ Catherine continued. ‘Or are you so much in love with Jourdan that you will cling to any scraps he may throw you? How it must amuse him to know you are so pitifully besotted with him that you stay, even though you know that he touches you only for one purpose! I could never bear a man to make love to me knowing he loved another woman and that all he wanted from me was a child.’ She laughed cruelly. ‘I told you you had aimed too high, didn’t I, Danielle?’ and then she swept out, leaving Danielle alone staring sightlessly ahead of her.
Danielle managed to avoid Jourdan for the rest of the day, but there could be no escape in the evening and she was forced to witness the sight of Catherine flirting with him over dinner, while Philippe gave her sympathetic glances and muttered under his breath that it might have been better had Jourdan and Catherine dined alone, because they plainly had eyes for no one but each other.
After dinner Catherine insisted that they play some tapes she had brought from Paris.
‘Remember dancing to this the last time you took me out?’ she asked Jourdan as a particularly sensual number filled the room. Philippe and Danielle might simply not have existed, and Danielle would not have been at all surprised to see the two of them disappearing together in the direction of the turret room.
Jourdan had barely spoken a word to her since the Sancerres’ arrival, and Danielle felt too heart sick to do more than respond with monosyllables when he did.
He did ask her to dance, but she refused, shaking her head, and turning away so that he would not see the glitter of tears in her eyes. He had just reluctantly relinquished Catherine, and she had no wish to be endured, simply as a duty when he really longed to hold the Frenchwoman in his arms.
His expression tightened when she refused, and she was grateful for Philippe’s intervention when he suggested that she show him the courtyard.
They had been outside for half an hour when Philippe suggested that they return. The salon was in darkness, the music stilled. As they stepped inside Philippe reached for the light switch, and Danielle bit back a gasp of pain as light flooded the room illuminating the couple clasped in one another’s arms, oblivious to everything but their mutual passion.
Jourdan reacted immediately, releasing Catherine, and Danielle felt endlessly grateful to Philippe when he acted with promptitude, drawing her against him, his voice light as he apologised for their intrusion.
There was comfort in the arm he placed round Danielle’s bowed shoulders as he led her from the room. She made no demur when he insisted on escorting her to her door, nor could she find the energy to protest when, outside it, he paused, pushing it open and then taking her completely in his arms, kissed her. She felt nothing; neither pleasure nor revulsion; she was simply drained of the ability to feel anything but the raging pain of knowing that Jourdan loved Catherine.
Philippe lifted his head and muttered something and Danielle opened her eyes just in time to see the tall form of her husband disappearing in the opposite direction.
‘Most inopportune,’ Philippe murmured. ‘Never mind, petite. There will be other times.’
* * *
A week passed. Danielle saw very little of Jourdan—or Catherine. The two of them were constantly together, riding, hawking, laughing. She grew pale and lost weight, causing Zanaide to exclaim worriedly over her inertia. Philippe spent a good deal of time with her and made an undemanding companion.
One afternoon when Jourdan had taken Catherine into the city because she had insisted that she simply must have a breath of civilisation, Philippe found Danielle sitting in the courtyard, staring absently into space.
‘You have to get away from here, Danielle,’ he announced abruptly. ‘You are destroying yourself, and to what purpose? You are not blind. You know how it is between Catherine and Jourdan.’ He took hold of her hand and stroked it gently. ‘I know that you love him, petite, but where is your pride? Can you honestly endure any more? You are a mere shadow of the girl I once knew. I haven’t heard you laugh once while I have been here. Leave now, Danielle, before he destroys you completely.’
‘How can I?’ Danielle asked listlessly. What Philippe said was quite true, and Catherine’s contemptuous words still held the power to hurt. Where was her pride? Was she just going to stay here until she conceived Jourdan’s child? A child which its father intended to take away from her and discard her so that he could marry another? If she really loved Jourdan surely she would want his happiness above her own, and she had to accept that his happiness lay with Catherine. She might not like the French girl with her pale blue eyes and cruel tongue, but she was not Jourdan.
‘If I could leave I would,’ she told Philippe. ‘But I can’t.’
‘If you really want to go I could help you,’ Philippe told her. ‘The Land Rover is there. I could drive you to Qu‘Har, or if you prefer across the border into Kuwait where you can fly to England.’
‘I haven’t any money,’ Danielle told him. ‘I…’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll lend you as much as you need. And Danielle… don’t think I’m doing this for purely altruistic purposes.’ Her fingers were raised to his lips. ‘One day when the pain of this fades I hope you will turn to me and let me be the sort of husband you deserve.’
‘Oh, Philippe, I…’
‘Don’t say anything now,’ he told her, frowning suddenly. ‘It’s just struck me that it might not be a bad idea to let Jourdan think that there is something between the two of us. It would certainly prevent him from coming after you, dragging you back here to provide him with a son.’
It was too much of an effort to protest. Danielle was sure that Jourdan would never believe for one moment that she loved Philippe, but for the sake of her pride she agreed, shuddering at the thought of Jourdan coming after her, to drag her back down to the depths of self-degradation she had experienced since discovering that he loved Catherine. Perhaps she might even be able to reason with her stepfather and convince him that he still ought to give Jourdan control of the oil company. She was sure that this was what he really wanted to do, and she had no desire to rob Jourdan of what was rightfully his.
Having gained her consent, Philippe lost no time in making the arrangements for their departure. Catherine and Jourdan were going riding the following morning, he told her one evening after dinner. That was when they would leave. There was no need for her to bring anything with her. With luck they would be in Kuwait by nightfall. He had plenty of travellers cheques and could draw on his father for extra funds. ‘Just think,’ he comforted her, ‘within forty-eight hours you could be home.’
Home! Danielle bit her lip, turning her head away. Didn’t he realise there would be no ‘home’ for her ever again without Jourdan? He was her home; her world. And he loved Catherine.
The morning was just like any other. The sun shone brassily from a perfectly blue sky. Danielle heard the sounds of Catherine and Jourdan departing on their ride as she dressed. She went to her window, her eyes searching greedily for what would be her last sight of Jourdan, and as though sensing her eyes upon him, he glanced up towards her window. Just for a moment she longed to rush downstairs, to throw her arms round him and beg and plead to be allowed to stay, but the impulse was ruthlessly squashed. For Jourdan’s sake, if not for her own, she must go.
They set out within half an hour of Catherine’s and Jourdan’s departure. Danielle paid scant attention to the arrangements Philippe had made. It was all she could do to get herself into the Land Rover. He kissed her lightly as they drove out of the castle. Danielle had left a note for Zanaide thanking the little maid for all she had done for her. For Jourdan she had left nothing. He would make all the explanations that were needed once he had seen her safely on the plane, Philippe told her.
Danielle guessed that scant explanation would be necessary. Jourdan would surely draw his own conclusions and be grateful for the opportunity of regaining his freedom and marrying the woman he actually loved.
As they were heading for Kuwait they were not taking the road to Qu‘Har, Philippe explained to Danielle, but one which led away from it.
When he said this Danielle asked worriedly if that meant that they would have to cross the desert, but Philippe told her there was no cause for concern. He had visited Qu‘Har as a boy and was quite at home in the desert. They would reach the border within a couple of hours, he confidently predicted.
Four hours later he was forced to admit that this had been an foolishly optimistic claim. Heat shimmered all around them and Danielle was beginning to feel faintly sick. Although sturdy, the Land Rover possessed no air-conditioning and they were deep in the desert in the hottest part of the day, with no sign of the Kuwaiti border ahead.
‘We must have taken the wrong turning at that last fork,’ Philippe admitted when Danielle questioned him anxiously. He frowned as he glanced at the petrol gauge and muttered, ‘We’ll have to turn back.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if we rested for a while?’ Danielle suggested timidly. Her head was beginning to throb agonisingly.
‘In this heat?’ Philippe scoffed. ‘How can we? If we don’t keep moving the sun will melt the Land Rover around us. God, it’s hot!’ he complained, not for the first time, a petulant note entering his voice. It struck Danielle that he had been over-confident and was now not as sure of his directions as he was trying to pretend. Neither was he the ideal companion to find oneself with in a crisis. He complained endlessly about their surroundings—the heat, the idiocy of not having the desert tracks properly signposted, and Danielle, her head throbbing, said nothing. Jourdan had already told her how easily these desert roads were obliterated during sandstorms. Philippe was behaving more like a spoiled child than an adult male, but even the knowledge that they were probably in danger of becoming lost in some of the most inhospitable terrain in the world failed to puncture the bubble of misery that insulated her from normal fear.
The sudden cessation of the Land Rover’s normal motion to a series of jerky bumps, followed by Philippe’ swearing and crashing the vehicle through the gears to a halt, did little to jolt her out of her despair, and when Philippe clambered out of the jeep and returned seconds later, his face grim, to tell her that they had had a puncture, she simply stared at him, not really contemplating the danger they were facing.
‘Do you want me to help you change the wheel?’ she asked Philippe, unable to understand the reason for the sudden furious contortion of his expression until he said bitterly, ‘We don’t have a spare.’
It took several seconds to sink it; several seconds during which Danielle had time to contemplate the truth and find herself strangely unfearful of it. If they had no spare tyre there was no way they could go any further in the Land Rover. No one knew where they were, including themselves, and Danielle knew that unless they were found in the next few hours by some miraculous fluke, they would probably both die.
Once she had accepted the truth a strange sort of calm seemed to descend upon her. Philippe was the one who raved and cursed the exigencies of fate, even going as far as to blame her for persuading him to set out for Kuwait. With new adult clarity Danielle saw that Philippe was basically insecure and juvenile in his outlook on life, and must always find someone else to blame for his own shortcomings. Until now Jourdan had been a convenient scapegoat—Jourdan who was everything he himself was not.
Like a mother with a hysterical child, Danielle soothed him as best she could with platitudes which she herself did not for one moment believe. It was impossible to believe that they would be found, and yet Philippe with almost childlike trust allowed her to persuade him that they might. There was water in the Land Rover, although a pitifully small amount, and although the roof kept off the direct heat of the sun, it was nevertheless stifling inside the vehicle. Danielle was beginning to feel painfully sick, but with Philippe alternately pacing up and down outside the Land Rover and cursing profanely with increasing bitterness she felt reluctant to exacerbate the situation by mentioning her illness.
‘Well, I’m not staying to die,’ Philippe said violently at last. ‘Oh, it’s all right for you,’ he sneered when Danielle said nothing. ‘If you can’t have Jourdan you might as well be dead—that’s what you think, isn’t it?’ When Danielle said nothing he continued viciously, ‘God, what a waste! You and I could have had fun together, Danielle, and had it financed by that stepfather of yours. Well, I’m not leaving you here to die. I can’t afford to,’ he added cruelly. ‘You’re my insurance policy, Danielle, and one that’s going to pay dividends once we’re out of here. I should imagine Hassan will be very grateful to the man who saves his precious stepdaughter’s life, shouldn’t you?’
It was in vain for Danielle to protest that it would surely be better to remain where they were, or to point out that the Land Rover made a far more visible landmark than they would. Philippe insisted, and so reluctantly, Danielle followed him out into the burning heat of the desert.