‘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.’