SHE couldn’t go on, Danielle thought wearily. She had no idea how far they had walked, or for how long. It felt like forever. She had protested once or twice at first that she had no hat and that they would be much wiser to remain with the Land Rover, but Philippe had bitterly opposed her objections. She stumbled and fell in the sand, her ankle wrenching awkwardly beneath her. In front of her she could see Philippe. He turned and glowered at her, coming back to yank her painfully upwards.
‘For God’s sake try to keep up with me, can’t you?’ he demanded.
Danielle knew better than to ask him where he thought they were going. They seemed to have been following this sandy track for a lifetime. Unlike her, Philippe was dark-skinned and used to the sun. Her face felt as though it were on fire, her head throbbing agonisingly with every step. Their water had all gone hours ago. She thought longing of the cool waters of the oasis; of English rain, and Philippe’s outline shimmered before her tired eyes and she felt herself slip into a world filled with hallucinations and mirages.
In one of them she thought she was lying on a soft bed, and that Jourdan was walking toward her. Only it wasn’t Jourdan, it was Philippe, his face contorted with anger as he shook her brutally and demanded that she get to her feet.
‘All right then, damn you, lie there!’ he screamed bitterly. ‘I’d be better off without you anyway!’
Danielle was glad when he had gone and she no longer had to listen to his hectoring voice. It was quite pleasant lying here really, or it would have been if her head didn’t ache quite so much and her skin feel so sore.
She was having a dream. She was on the beach, lying in the sun, and in the distance she could hear waves, only the waves kept on getting louder and louder and a sudden spurt of wind stirred the sand until it blew in her eyes and blinded her.
Philippe must have returned, because she could hear him speaking, his voice raised in sharp protest while someone else spoke in curt deeper tones in a voice whose icy disdain made Danielle flinch instinctively.
‘Danielle, Danielle, can you hear me?’
She moaned and turned away from the deep voice, not wanting to be bothered. Some instinct told her that to respond to that voice would be to open the door to pain, and she had endured enough of that.
‘No, it’s all right, I’ll carry her,’ she heard the same deep voice continue. ‘She’s been badly burned… I could kill Sancerre for this!’
There was a sensation of movement, and of warmth which had nothing to do with the fierce heat of the sun. She struggled instinctively against the treacherous lassitude of her own body, sensing a danger far greater than that represented by the harsh strength of the sun.
‘It’s all right, mignonne.’ the same deep voice reassured her. ‘I know how you feel, but all that matters right now is getting you back to the castle.’
Mignonne. The floodgates of her memory opened wide at the word and Danielle opened her painfully swollen eyelids to stare upwards into the face of the man who was carrying her.
He seemed to have changed since she last saw him; his features had become more drawn, accentuating the arrogance of his profile—and no wonder, Danielle acknowledged, trembling. How galling it must have been for him to learn that far from being free of her, he was obliged to rescue her once again from the consequences of her own folly.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ he told her curtly. ‘Your skin is badly burned, and we must get you back to the castle as soon as possible. What on earth…’ He stopped, obviously clamping down on the words, and sensing his question Danielle murmured painfully.
‘It seemed the best thing. I just wanted to spare us both further pain.’ There was no point now in pretending. He had said that he knew how she felt, and she could no longer keep up the pretence of concealing it. Not having to do so was a tangible relief, and she refused to think further than the moment. He was here; she was in his arms.
His face looked bitterly grim. ‘And you thought this was the way to do it? By choosing certain death?
‘Philippe thought he knew the way. Everything would have been all right if we hadn’t had the puncture,’ Danielle protested, moved to defend Philippe. She intended to say nothing about how Philippe had abandoned her—for now, with returning recognition, she realised that that was exactly what he had done, but Jourdan tossed her words contemptuously aside, his face an angry mask.
‘Oh yes, Sancerre is a great one for “thinking,”’ he agreed sardonically. ‘I’ve no doubt he also has a thousand plausible excuses for leaving you to die.’
‘He didn’t mean to,’ Danielle started to protest, but Jourdan’s expression forestalled her.
In front of them was a helicopter which she now realised was responsible for the noisy ‘waves’ she had thought she had heard. Jourdan lifted her into it, positioning her comfortably on his lap.
‘What about Philippe?’ She started to object as they became airborne, but her protests were waived aside with a curt, ‘He will remain with my comptroller and the Land Rover. When the puncture is mended they will travel on to Kuwait as Sancerre first intended.’ His mouth a forbidding line, he added bitingly, ‘Not even for your sake will I permit him to enter my house again. I have had my fill of uninvited guests!’
Their return to the castle was a subdued one. It was dark when the helicopter put down, and Danielle learned from the few words that Jourdan exchanged with the pilot that the aircraft belonged to the oil company and that he had commandeered it immediately he learned of her and Philippe’s disappearance.
Ignoring the protests of his household, Jourdan carried Danielle not to her own room, but up to the room at the top of the turret, where Zanaide, who had been clinging anxiously at his side, was dismissed with a swift instruction in Arabic.
‘Your skin is badly burned,’ Jourdan told her curtly. ‘The pilot of the helicopter has gone to fetch a doctor to look at it. Until he comes Zanaide will sit with you.’
Danielle must have made a small inarticulate protest, because he paused for a moment at the door, turning to study her gravely.
‘You wanted something?’
‘Only you,’ Danielle longed to say, but instead she shook her head, a solitary tear coursing down her hectically flushed cheek.
‘Danielle, I…’ What he had been about to say was lost as the door was thrust open and Catherine stood there, a picture of elegance in the very latest Parisian fashion.
‘Jourdan, where’s Philippe?’ she demanded imperiously, barely sparing Danielle a glance.
‘Your brother is on his way to Kuwait.’ Jourdan said tersely, ‘with two of my men to speed him on his way.’
Catherine flashed Danielle a look of bitter dislike before laughing acidly and coming into the room to place possessive fingers on his arm.
‘Darling, was that really necessary?’ she purred. ‘Poor Philippe, I’m sure he wasn’t the only one to blame. It takes two, you know…’
‘It is not for running away with my wife that I refuse to have your brother beneath my roof for another night, Catherine,’ Jourdan replied curtly, ‘but because he callously left her to die.’
‘Oh, come, darling,’ Catherine protested, darting Danielle another venomous look. ‘Are you sure you’ve got your facts right? Couldn’t it have been Danielle who refused to go with him? After all, in giving up her position as your wife, she would be taking a considerable risk… You are after all a very wealthy man, while poor Philippe…’
It wasn’t like that at all, Danielle wanted to protest. The only reason she had consented to go with Philippe in the first place was to give Jourdan his freedom, but a terrible weariness seemed to be pressing down upon her. Her skin hurt and her whole body cried out for sleep.
‘We shall continue this discussion on another occasion,’ she heard Jourdan telling Catherine, no doubt wanting privacy to confirm to her that the fact that he had rescued Danielle from the desert made no difference to his love for the French girl.
The doctor came and made his examination with gentle hands. Her skin, being so fair, had burned quite badly he told her, but it looked worse than it actually was. Some deliciously cooling lotion was applied to her face and arms, immediately removing most of the pain. It was something new, the doctor told her in response to her hazy questions, containing an anaesthetic to effectively relieve the pain. Zanaide was to repeat the application whenever necessary, and in addition he would give her a sleeping pill to ensure that she got some rest. She was a very lucky girl, he continued, and only Jourdan’s prompt action had saved her from dehydration and ultimately death.
Danielle thanked him for his care and obediently drank the bitter-tasting liquid he produced. Whatever he had put in it quickly induced sleep and her eyes were closing even as he left the room.
When she opened them again the room was in darkness, and for a moment she panicked, not knowing where she was or why. A figure moved at the foot of the bed and she cried out in alarm.
‘No, it is not Philippe,’ she was told in harshly controlled tones. ‘By now Sancerre should be on his way to Paris, and if you find my presence here at your bedside unwanted, mignonne, try to remember that it is expected by my household. You are my wife…’
‘A marriage of convenience only,’ Danielle cried out bitterly. ‘A marriage that…’
‘You will not talk of this now,’ Jourdan silenced her firmly. ‘When you are recovered, then we will talk of our marriage and of the future.’
Danielle longed for the will power to tell him that she did not need his presence at her bedside and that he was free to go to Catherine, but it was all too fatally easily to give in to the desire to have him stay. She drew comfort from the knowledge of his presence and the false sense of intimacy it created. Tonight was hers, and she would guard its memory jealously.
* * *
It was three days before she was pronounced well enough to leave her bed, and then only to go as far as the inner courtyard, when the sun had lost most of its power. Zanaide had accompanied her, but the maid had gone to bring her a cooling glass of sherbert, and Danielle was alone when she heard the imperious tap of Catherine’s high heels on the cobbles. She knew who it was without turning her head or opening her eyes, and she felt-Catherine sit down at her side in the seat which Zanaide had just vacated.
‘I know you aren’t asleep,’ Catherine began without preamble. ‘Just how long do you intend to continue with this farce? Jourdan and I both know that you are now well enough to leave, but still you persist in remaining. Why? Do you hope to persuade Jourdan to continue your marriage out of pity? Surely even you must be aware by now that he doesn’t want you?’
Painfully weakened by her ordeal, Danielle could summon no defence. What Catherine said struck home to her heart. She was well enough to leave, but she had been putting off the final decision, dreading taking her final leave of Jourdan.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Catherine goaded her. ‘Jourdan to ask you to leave? Have you no pride?’
Danielle heard the angry swish of silk skirts as the other girl moved away and Zanaide returned, but her words remained with her, and Danielle brooded on them until dawn pearled the sky. What was she waiting for? Jourdan to return her love? He knew how she felt, he had told her, and knowing, undoubtedly pitied her. She bit deeply into her lip, refusing to cry. Catherine was right: she did not have any pride. When Zanaide came in with her breakfast she had made up her mind. She would leave today, but not as she had done before. She would tell Jourdan of her decision and wish him well for the future. Her mind made up, Danielle asked Zanaide to convey a message to Jourdan saying that she would like to see him.
All day long she was on tenterhooks, expecting with every knock on her door that he was going to enter her room, but it was not until evening, when Zanaide had dressed her in a breathlessly fragile silk caftan and led her down to the courtyard, that she saw her husband. He looked tired and drawn. The strain of all his heavy responsibilities, Danielle thought compassionately, and no doubt she had added to them.
‘Zanaide tells me you want to see me,’ he said as he strode towards her. Danielle was sitting on the rim of the stone fountain, and found herself wishing that Jourdan would sit beside her, instead of towering above her. Now that the moment was upon her she was finding it incredibly difficult to find the words she knew she must. It would be fatally easy to lapse into self-pity and mutely plead with Jourdan not to send her away, but for his sake she must be strong.
‘What about?’
This was her cue. Smiling as bravely as she could, she said lightly, ‘About our marriage, Jourdan. We don’t need to pretend to one another—it was a mistake…’
In the shadows of the garden his face seemed to grow taut, a muscle compressing along his lean jaw.
‘I too have been giving our marriage some thought,’ he said emotionlessly. ‘I had hoped…’ he paused and seemed to hesitate, and then continued smoothly, ‘No matter. Our marriage could perhaps be annulled providing you are prepared to perjure your soul by saying that we never came together as man and wife. I should not stand in your way, it was after all something you never wanted to happen, and no doubt an annulment would be more acceptable to the Sancerres.’
Danielle stared up at him through a mist of pain: Was Jourdan trying to tell her that he wanted her to lie; to pretend that he had never made love to her? A feeling of bitterness seemed to rise up inside her and choke her. She got to her feet, barely knowing what she was doing, a stiff little voice she barely recognised as her own saying that if he would make the arrangements she would leave as soon as possible.
She had half expected the French girl to gloat over her at the dinner table, but instead she seemed sullen and preoccupied. The reason became obvious later in the evening when Danielle learned that Catherine was returning to France.
‘Don’t think just because of this that Jourdan wants you,’ she hissed vindictively at Danielle. ‘I shall be back.’
No doubt she would, Danielle thought miserably. Jourdan was probably sending her away for her own sake, so that she would not be involved in any way in the annulment of their marriage.
She was back in her own bedroom, and undressed quickly, dismissing Zanaide, who was watching her with pensive eyes. How would Zanaide enjoying looking after Catherine? Danielle wondered. She had grown fond of the Arab girl and would miss her. Her cases were already packed and she had sensed Zanaide’s disapproval as she watched her remove her clothes and make the preparations for her departure.
Sleep seemed to elude her, and tonight more than any other night since her marriage Danielle needed its panacea. At last, acknowledging that her overwrought mind was not going to allow her to find oblivion, she climbed out of bed and found the thin silk robe Zanaide had placed at the foot of the bed. In the tower room were the tablets the doctor had given her. One of those would help her to sleep.
The stone stairs felt cold to her bare feet, and too late Danielle acknowledged that she should have worn something on them. The tower door yielded immediately beneath her fingers, the moonlight turning the pale silk of her gown into a cobwebby substance through which the slender lines of her body were immediately visible to the a man seated by the window.
‘Jourdan!’ Without thinking Danielle released the door, her eyes flying to the divan, where she half expected to see Catherine’s seductive form reclining, even though she knew that the French girl had already left the castle. She had thought that Jourdan had gone with her, and if the truth were known, it was this which had contributed to her own inability to sleep.
Jourdan stood up, his own robe doing little to conceal the potent masculinity of the body beneath it, the deep vee exposing the hair-darkened breadth of his chest, making Danielle’s heart lurch betrayingly, as she dragged her eyes away from his tall frame. He had been looking at something which he placed face downwards on the seat beside him, before crossing the room.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Danielle explained weakly. ‘My sleeping pills were up here.’ Jourdan was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. Her legs suddenly refused to support her and she stumbled towards the seat he had just vacated, dislodging a framed photograph as she did so.
Her shocked gasp mingled with Jourdan’s curse, and she reached instinctively towards the floor to retrieve the frame. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the photograph within it, and Danielle stared at it, unable to look away.
‘So now you know,’ Jourdan said harshly, taking it from her. ‘I was in Qu‘Har when I learned of my uncle’s marriage to your mother. I went to England to try to dissuade him from such a foolish step and instead of doing so, fell headlong in love with a child…’ His mouth twisted bitterly, pain scored deep in the grooves running from nose to mouth.
‘I don’t understand,’ Danielle whispered. ‘That photograph—it was of me… I remember having it taken. My stepfather…’
‘Commissioned it at my request,’ Jourdan said harshly. ‘You were fifteen at the time, growing from adolescence towards womanhood. I told myself I was losing my mind, but it made no difference… I couldn’t get you out of it, and Hassan, of course, did little to discourage me.’
‘What… what… what are you saying?’ Danielle demanded tremulously, gasping as Jourdan turned suddenly, his fingers grasping her arms as he dragged her to her feet, his face a mask of pain and self-contempt as he said hoarsely.
‘Damn you, Danielle, what are you trying to put me through? You know how I feel about you. I didn’t want you to… I wanted to wait… I wanted to give you time to get used to me, to come to feel something for me, but Sancerre forced my hand. He knew how I felt all right…’
‘Philippe? But…’
‘You love him, I know,’ Jourdan said grimly, ‘and if you knew how close I’ve come to killing him because of it! Jealousy is a very powerful emotion—just as love is a very strong one. God knows I’ve tried to smother my love for you. You were fourteen, for God’s sake, and I was already a man, but I wanted you… It was as though I knew what you were going to be, and wanted the woman I could see growing inside the child. Hassan understood, encouraged me even. He loves you and thought it would be an excellent way of securing your future and Qu‘Har’s, and I didn’t discourage him. I wanted you too much.
‘I told myself that once you were married to me I could woo you, teach you to love me in return, and then Hassan told me that you had refused to even consider marriage to me; that you wanted Sancerre. I think I must have gone a little mad. When I discovered from Hassan that you were in Qu‘Har, I left Paris immediately. The Sheikha knew how I felt; she helped me… I wanted you, Danielle, and like a blind fool thought that I could teach you to want me in return. Instead I’ve stolen from you the right to bestow your love where you wished. I can’t say I approve of your choice…’
‘Can’t you?’ A deliciously heady sense of excitement engulfed Danielle. She was sure she must be dreaming. This couldn’t be Jourdan admitting that he loved her; had loved her from childhood. This couldn’t be Jourdan looking so haggard and drawn; so much the supplicant instead of the arrogant, lordly creature she knew.
‘Don’t play games with me,’ he told her roughly. ‘Oh, I don’t blame you for wanting your revenge… Catherine told me you would; told me about how you and Philippe had planned to run away…’
How clever Philippe and his sister had been, Danielle reflected, twisting and turning the facts until both she and Jourdan were convinced that their lies represented the truth.
‘Catherine told me that you wanted to marry her,’ she said lightly, still not wholly convinced that she wasn’t dreaming.
Jourdan made an arrogantly disdainful gesture, his face hardening. ‘Never,’ he said succinctly, moving away abruptly. ‘Now where are your sleeping pills? The midnight hour is not a good one to share confidences, Danielle, because inevitably, when emotions ride high it leads to the sharing of other things… things which are often regretted in the sober light of day, and while I hope I am not an animal governed by basic instincts, neither am I a saint.’
‘And you really love me?’ Danielle queried in a low voice.
‘Yes, damn you!’ Jourdan ground out, in a decidedly unlover-like voice. ‘Now get the hell out of here before I forget all my good resolutions and take you to bed with me!’
He had his back to her, but Danielle made no move to leave, nor to pick up the bottle of sleeping pills he had placed on the window, and she could almost feel the tension stiffening his body as he waited for her to go.
‘Danielle.’ It was more of a groan than a command, and it took all her courage to meet the look in his eyes. ‘This is your last warning,’ he said thickly. ‘Go now, or face the consequences.’
When she still didn’t move he gave a muttered curse and reached for her, his voice raw with a longing which was like a match to her own desire. ‘So be it,’ he groaned, his arms closing round her. ‘But why? As a punishment? Or is it just that that tender heart of yours wants to leave me at least one sweet memory?’
He was lifting her off her feet, carrying her to the divan, his fingers trembling over the fastening of her robe which was discarded with an impatient haste, baring her body to the hunger of his gaze.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’ she asked innocently.
A hectic flush lay along his high cheekbones, his eyes glittering beneath the thick lashes. His body seemed to burn against hers as he flung off his own robe.
‘Danielle.’
It was the hoarse plea of a man who knows he has reached the limit of his endurance and prays that he will not be pushed past it, and Danielle felt his agony as though it were her own, her control breaking as she reached up towards him, her arms urging him impatiently downwards, her body yielding to the fierce heat of his touch.
‘Love me, Jourdan,’ she whispered against the lips he had clamped shut in a tight line, shivering against him. ‘Please love me the way I love you.’
His control broke like the giving of a dam, his mouth hotly possessive on hers, forcing from her a sweet surrender to the passion she could feel rising up inside him.
Not until every inch of her skin had been sensuously explored and worshipped by his hands and lips did Jourdan allow her the freedom to respond in kind, their mutual need to assuage their longing for one another obliterating everything else.
Jourdan’s fierce cry of triumph in the ultimate moment of possession reminded her of the first time they had made love, and her body responded paganly to the need to know complete abandonment and fulfilment.
Later when they were both at peace, Jourdan’s dark head resting against her breast, his tongue making lazy forays against her flesh, he said softly, ‘You little witch. You enjoyed tormenting me like that, didn’t you… getting me to unburden myself to you…’
‘Only because I couldn’t believe it was really true,’ Danielle responded indignantly, loving the feel of his crisp dark hair beneath her fingers. ‘I thought you loved Catherine. She told me you loved her. You said you knew how I felt, and I thought you meant you knew I loved you and felt sorry for me.’
‘When in reality what I meant was that I knew you loved Sancerre, or thought I did,’ Jourdan added wryly. ‘For two comparatively intelligent people we were very easily duped.’
‘Because we were in love,’ Danielle said softly, her eyes shining. ‘Oh, Jourdan…’
‘Oh, Jourdan what?’ he mimicked lazily.
‘Nothing. Just—Oh, Jourdan, I’m so glad we discovered the truth before it was too late. Just think if I hadn’t come up here tonight looking for my sleeping pills, we would have gone our separate ways and never known…’
‘Maybe, and then maybe not. I doubt if, when it actually came to it, I would have been able to let you go,’ Jourdan admitted wryly.
‘Daddy will be pleased,’ Danielle murmured idly. ‘He told me that Philippe was exaggerating your murky past and that I wasn’t to pay too much attention to what he was saying.’
‘Well, it isn’t entirely spotless,’ Jourdan admitted, suddenly serious. ‘Oh, I’ve never loved anyone else, but…’ he grimaced slightly, ‘there were times when I thought it might be a good idea if I erased your image from my mind, and that’s what I tried to do. But never successfully.’
Danielle was too wise to dig more deeply into the past. What was past was past. Jourdan had been a man when she was still a child.
‘Are we going to talk all night?’ she asked with exaggerated impatience, her eyes wide and mock innocent.
‘Why, what alternative did you have in mind?’
The words were tinged with lazy indulgence, but the gleam in the night-dark eyes was far from lazy, and Danielle’s pulses raced in answering acknowledgement as Jourdan lowered his head, his voice cool no longer but husky with emotion as he murmured, ‘Praise be to Allah, Danielle, for he has given me that which I most coveted, a jewel I shall forever treasure and keep from envious eyes.’
Her own reply was lost beneath the sweetly fierce passion of his kiss, as he drew her down with him into a whirlpool of emotion where nothing existed save their love.
* * * * *