Daughter of Hassan & Heart of the Desert(45)

Ibrahim shaved, which he did not normally do in the desert, but his face was rough and as watched the blade slice over his chin, he thought of Georgie’s cheeks, of her mouth and her face and, yes, deny it as he may, he was preparing himself for her.

Preparing himself for tomorrow, Ibrahim warned himself, because this tent was a place you brought your bride. This was a place where the union   was sealed and even if he didn’t strictly believe in the tradition, tonight he would respect it.

He headed out to the lounge area. He wanted to eat and wondered what was taking her so long, because he was ready and had prepared dinner too. But every moment of waiting was worth it as, looking just a little bit shy but definitely not awkward, she came to him.

‘You look…’ He did not finish, he could not finish, because not only did she look beautiful as she stood with her long blonde hair coiling as it dried, her skin flushed from the warm water, somehow she looked as if she came from the desert. Somehow, despite her pale features, despite it all, she looked as if she belonged here, and Ibrahim wondered if this night, together but apart, was more than he should have taken on.

Wondered how far he should tease her.

Her eyes were very blue in her pale face. She had none of that kohl that sharpened them, just a shimmer of silver on her lids that glittered each time she blinked. It was her mouth that had been painted, in the same blood red as her dress, and it trembled a little as his eyes fell on it, and it killed him that he must wait till tomorrow to kiss it.

She sat on the floor at the low table and Ibrahim did the same. He had seen her a little nervous around food, but now her eyes were just curious. The nerves, he knew, were for another reason, for long before she had sat down he had seen the leaping pulse in her throat, the glitter not just on her eyelids but in eyes that shone with arousal.

‘Here.’ He handed her a heavy fruit, which looked like a cross between a peach and an apple, and selected one for himself. As she went to take a tentative bite he shook his head. ‘It is marula, you drink it.’ He squeezed the heavy fruit between his fingers and she watched as sticky goo ran between them. He selected a straw and plunged it into the fruit and he took her mind to mad places, because the fruit was her flesh and she held her breath as he pierced it.

‘You,’ he said, and she broke the skin of her fruit, not as easily as him but it worked and she drank from it. Though the fluid was sweet and warm and delicious, somehow she wanted to lean and lick the moisture still damp on his fingers.

She ate, and it was different, because she was thinking about food again, about every morsel that slid down her throat, but it was far from with loathing, because each swallow of her throat was watched by him—and she wanted his mouth there.

She wanted their tongues to meet in one half of the pomegranate, but he offered her only her share and then ate his.

‘No spoons.’ Ibrahim said, and made eating seem debauched, but in the most thrilling of ways, and for the first time there was regret that a meal was over. As they moved to the couches, she wanted back at his table.

And Ibrahim knew.

But it was safer on the sofa and she sipped sweet coffee gratefully and had another cup to help her sober up, because that was how he sometimes made her feel.

‘The trouble with antiques,’ Ibrahim drawled, filling her cup with the jug that had been used since his child hood, ‘is that nothing gets thrown out. Nothing changes. Always it is the same.’

‘You hate it here?’

‘No.’ Ibrahim said, and then went on, ‘Not always.’ He saw her confusion. ‘I know every corner of this tent. We came as children—it was good then.’ He didn’t want to talk, he wanted to slowly seduce, he wanted her wanting him in the morning, but somehow she demanded, without him always realising, more from him.

Sometimes he found himself talking with her, not about things that teased but things that tortured. He heard his voice saying things he had never said before, and she didn’t just listen, as others would have, she did not agree but partook.

‘When your mother was here? Was it after she left when it changed?’ she probed, and he closed his eyes, but her question remained and he thought about it, because when his mother had been here, it had been different. Then his father would laugh and the children would play and spend a whole day searching for one rare wild flower for the maid to put on their mother’s breakfast tray. He and Ahmed would play in a cave a morning’s walk from here and the servants would find them at dusk, but the scolding had always been worth it.

Then there had been no fear when he had been with Ahmed, just the arrogance of youth, for surely nothing could harm the young princes.

‘It just changed,’ Ibrahim said.

‘After Ahmed died?’

She had gone where no one should, where not even he dared.

‘For him I would have been king.’ He was beyond angry, his voice was raw. ‘Had he just asked me, had he even bothered to tell me his fears. Instead…’ He could not forgive his brother, and that killed a part of Ibrahim too, and he could not linger on it either, so he spoke of other things instead. ‘It changed for many reasons. For a while it was a playground, but at seventeen you spend a month alone before you go to the military. It is a time of transition. For a month you wander and then return to the tent.’

‘No staff?’

‘None,’ Ibrahim said. ‘You remember the fear when you were left as a child, but there is no one watching this time. So slowly you build up for the walk home.’

‘You walk home?’ She could not keep the shock from her voice—that a teenager would be left to fend for himself then walk for miles. ‘And then you get to join the army—some reward!’

‘No.’ Ibrahim shook his head. ‘First you become a man. There is a very good reason to find your bearings and keep walking back to the palace. There, waiting, is your reward.’

Georgie blinked and as his eyes never left her face, as realisation slowly dawned, her pale skin darkened. ‘That’s disgusting,’ Georgie spluttered.

‘Why?’ He was genuinely bemused. ‘I am a royal prince—the woman I marry must be a virgin. It is my duty to be a skilled lover.’

‘To teach her!’ Georgie spat.

‘Of course.’ Ibrahim said. ‘But even a teacher first has to be taught.’

‘You make it sound so clinical.’

‘When?’ He challenged. ‘You interpret it as clinical—I assure you it was not.’

‘You can’t teach it…’ she flared but right there her argument started to weaken, because in his arms she had learnt so much. ‘It isn’t just…’ she tried again, but words failed her. ‘Some things,’ she attempted, and then closed her eyes in defeat, because how could she admit that it wasn’t just his skill that brought her to frenzy, it was him.

That just the curve of his arrogant mouth and the scent of his skin prompted vigilance, that if he sat there now and did not move, if all he did was stay still as she leant over and kissed him, if all he did was lie there as her hands roamed his body, it would be every bit as good as her recall. It wasn’t Ibrahim’s skill her body craved—it was him. ‘When we…’ Georgie swallowed. There was something she needed to say. ‘When I stopped you, it wasn’t because—’

‘I don’t want to discuss it,’ Ibrahim said, because it would be too dangerous here to recall that night. Going into the details of their time together would not help.

‘Please. I want—’

‘You heard what I said.’

He could be so rude. Annoyed at him, angry at how he just closed off whenever it suited him. She refused to drag conversation out of him. She wandered around the lounge and there was much to amuse and interest her. She ran her fingers along one instrument and another and for the first time in her life she actually wanted to dance. She wanted to turn up the music and turn to him, and she felt as if she was fighting insanity, wondered just what it was in the fruit, because the desert made her dizzy with freedom from inhibition. She forced herself to explore rather than linger, picked up a heavy glass bottle and pulled out the stopper, but Ibrahim came over.

‘They are not for cosmetic…’ Ibrahim shook his head, took the glass jar and replaced the stopper. ‘They are medicinal.’

‘I know,’ Georgie answered, irritated. ‘This is what I study.’

‘These are potent.’

‘I do know!’ She saw the dismissal in his single blink. It was a reaction she was used to, yet from Ibrahim it annoyed her. ‘Just because you don’t believe in my work…’

‘But I do.’

‘So why are you so scorning?’

‘I am not…’ His voice trailed off, because in truth he was. ‘There are thousands of years of learning, of wisdom in these oils, our ways—’

‘That can’t be learnt in a four-week course!’ Stupidly she felt like crying, not at his scorn, not at his derision, but because she felt there was truth in what he was saying. It was a question she had asked herself. She had sat in a classroom and later with clients wondering if she was worthy of imparting such ancient knowledge.