Daughter of Hassan & Heart of the Desert(28)

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.’