Darker Side of Desire & the Sheikh's Pregnant Prisoner(15)

What must he think of her? Her face stung with scarlet colour. She knew what he thought of her. He thought her an experienced woman of the world who thought nothing of satisfying her physical need with whatever man happened to be handy. But if they had continued to make love, he would have discovered for himself that she had had no previous lover.

She started to tremble, and as she hurried to her own room she tried to convince herself that it wasn’t disappointment that made her limbs feel as weak as water and her pulses thud with a pagan need. What was the matter with her? Was she honestly naive enough to believe that once Raoul discovered her innocence he would fall madly in love with her? That sort of scenario belonged to love stories, not real life. Somehow she had the lowering feeling that if Raoul knew the truth he would be at great pains to avoid her. All he wanted was simply to assuage his own physical need and she had happened to be there.

And yet she couldn’t help thinking about what would have happened if Saud hadn’t cried; if Raoul had taken her to the privacy of his own room, his body as naked as hers against the silk covers. She shivered suddenly in the darkness, perspiration springing up on her skin, a dull ache she refused to give a name to pulsing through her lower body. If she was wise she would keep her distance from Raoul from now on. Now only she knew she loved him, but if he should ever make love to her and discover the truth he would know how she felt about him. How contemptuous he would be. He felt nothing for her, and nor would he ever do so. He had chosen to follow the ways of his mother’s people, and if he ever loved it would be a doe-eyed slender girl like Zenaide, not a pale-skinned blonde who couldn’t even sit on a divan without getting cramp.

* * *

‘The Sitt has a visitor.’ Zenaide came quickly into the room, excitement sparkling in her eyes. Raoul had been gone for two days, and much to her amazement Claire had not felt either bored or lonely. This morning she had taken Saud down on to the beach, much to Zenaide’s disapproval, but the little boy had thoroughly enjoyed the experience, and as the small bay could only be reached from the palace, Claire judged it private enough for safety.

‘A visitor? But I don’t know anyone,’ Claire commented before she remembered Raoul’s comments about ‘bride visitors’.

‘It is the mother of the Sheikh,’ Zenaide told her importantly, her eyes round as saucers. ‘Ali has put her in the salon that looks out over the main courtyard.’

Claire had discovered in Raoul’s absence that the palace had several inner courtyards, the most beautiful of which was the main courtyard with its mosaic-tiled floor and tranquil fish pond. Overlooked by what had once been the women’s quarters, the courtyard was a small peaceful oasis of escape from the burning heat of the sun. Peach and fig trees provided cool splashes of green, their leaves carefully sprayed daily by the gardeners. Gleaming carp swam leisurely beneath large lily pads and Claire often brought Saud down to the courtyard when it was too hot to take him to the beach, enjoying his pleasure in the swift movement of the fish through the calm waters.

There was only one person in the large, formal salon, wrapped in black from head to foot and half a head shorter than Claire herself, with dark, alert eyes searching her face as she stepped into the room.

‘So, you are Raoul’s wife and the mother of his son.’ The dark fabric was withdrawn from her visitor’s face and Claire found herself looking at one of the wisest and most serene human faces she had ever seen. All that there had been in the Sheikh’s mother’s life was written in her face, both good and bad, and Claire knew instinctively that here was no dutiful Muslim woman content to be a mere cipher in her family’s life. She exuded an air of wisdom and great serenity. She had known great love in her life and great pain too, Claire sensed, as she returned her greeting. She had Saud in her arms, and had brought him down thinking that her unexpected guest would want to see him.

‘And this is Raoul’s child.’ Before Claire could stop her she had lifted Saud out of her arms, studying him thoughtfully, an expression Claire couldn’t read darkening her eyes. ‘He has little of you in him,’ she said at length, ‘and much of my son. Raoul will not be pleased by this marriage my son has forced upon him. As a child he always swore that he was more of the East than the West. Had he been allowed free choice he would have married his second cousin. All that was required was that he should change his religion, but Raoul has always been proud—and stubborn.’

She smiled briefly, her teeth still white and even in the dark olive of her face. How old she was Claire could not tell, but she had a bone structure that was ageless, and must have been very beautiful in her youth. Raoul was like her, Claire realised with an aching pang, and like her he would age well. ‘His father had made his mother promise that she would bring him up in the Christian religion. That was the price she had to pay for deserting her husband and Raoul has continued to pay it for her.’

‘If Raoul hates his father and his French inheritance so much, why has he not become a Muslim?’ Claire asked.

‘Perhaps because he wants to be accepted for what he is. It is always hard for a child torn between two cultures. Zenobi, Raoul’s mother, was accepted back into her father’s home, but she was never allowed to forget her sin in marrying outside her own faith and race, and it is always hard for a child to come to terms with the apparent rejection of a parent, although in Lucien’s case…’

‘He told Raoul’s mother that he did not love her before they married.’

‘So you know about that? Lucien was working here when they met. I liked him, but it was obvious that Zenobi could not see beyond her besotted adoration of him. What man could resist such a gift—a rich, adoring bride?’ She shrugged fatalistically. ‘I have always thought Lucien more sinned against than sinning, and one day Raoul too will accept this. He has already proved that he is not totally opposed to all Westerners,’ she added dryly, smiling when Claire flushed. If only she knew the truth! If anything Raoul destested her even more than he disliked his father.

‘I am honoured that you have come to visit me, Princess,’ Claire murmured, trying to get the conversation back on to more mundane lines.

‘Not just to visit you,’ the old lady said calmly. ‘A hundred miles is a long way for a woman of my years to travel without a purpose. For a long time now I have been looking for someone to continue my work after I am gone. The women of my family have their own concerns and much less freedom than I in my time.’

She saw Claire’s look of astonishment and chuckled. ‘I was born in the desert. My people were nomads and I knew no home but the desert until I married my husband. My bride-price was the strip of desert where Omarah’s oil-wells are now situated.’ She chuckled again. ‘Poor Khalid, there were times when he wished he had taken a tame dove to wife rather than the wild kestrel that he called me. I was not used to the formality of the Sheikh’s palace. My life had been one of freedom. I was the only child of a prince of the desert and proud of my heritage. Many of my tribe still roam the desert and it is my self-appointed task to help them. What we know as civilisation encroaches further into their homeland with every year that passes, making it harder and harder for them to survive. They are offered pieces of land on which to build homes and settle down, but what nomad can ever live in one place for long and not pine for shifting sands beneath his feet? But civilisation does have its benefits—medical care, education—and it is these that I try to bring to the women of the desert. They accept me because I am one of them, and today I intend to drive out to a small oasis where I know they will be encamped. You seem to me to be a woman of spirit, Raoul’s English wife, I should like you to come with me. Remember,’ she added cryptically as she realigned her all-enveloping robe, ‘nothing that is worth having is ever easily won. Now, do you come with me?’

‘Yes… Yes, I would love to,’ Claire assured her eagerly, ‘but I shall have to take Saud with me.’

Once again she saw a strange look flit across the older woman’s face. ‘It is a foolish man who seeks to part the lioness from her cub,’ was all she said, standing up and walking towards the door.

Zenaide was nowhere in sight, but Claire found her maid waiting for her in her bedroom, placidly straightening the silk cushions. ‘I will come with the Sitt,’ she pronounced firmly when Claire told her where she was going, calmly producing two enveloping hooded cloaks similar to the one the Princess had worn.

It was a three-hour journey to the oasis and Claire stared overtly at the black tents pitched beneath the shade of the palms. Small children played noisily in their shadow, and several men were grooming the pale cream Arab horses which Claire knew were among the nomads’ most prized possessions. The moment the Princess’s car stopped it was surrounded, both men and women abasing themselves before her as she stepped out. An old, gnarled man whose proud bearing proclaimed him the leader of the tribe came forward and escorted them to the largest of the tents. Inside it was far more luxurious than Claire had dreamed, hung with silk tapestries, priceless rugs adorning the floor. The leader of the tribe departed and almost at once the tent became full of chattering women, as inquisitive as magpies as they stared at Claire’s pale hair and skin, laughter gleaming in dark eyes as they spoke to one another.