Daughter of Hassan & Heart of the Desert(9)

‘Are you betrothed, Zanaide?’

The little maid nodded firmly.

‘For many years, to my second cousin, as is the custom. We are to be married next year.’ She sighed, standing up, whisking away the protection of the towel before Danielle could protest and opening a small cupboard. ‘If the Sitt will lie on the divan, please…’

Bemused, Danielle did as she was bid, protesting halfheartedly as she caught the elusive perfume of the oil Zanaide was deftly massaging into her body.

‘I have not seen Faisal for many years,’ Zanaide told her. ‘He has been at university in England and then working in Saudi Arabia, but my brother tells me he has grown into a handsome young man.’ A tiny dimple appeared by her mouth and Danielle smiled in response. So not all the spirit had been crushed out of these women whom legend described as frail and delicate as rose petals but who in reality needed the courage and stamina of a lioness.

‘And you do not mind this arranged marriage?’ Danielle asked her curiously. ‘You do not wish that you might have fallen in love, chosen your own husband?’

‘I shall fall in love with my husband,’ Zanaide responded firmly. ‘To do otherwise would be to disgrace my family.’

She left the room for a few minutes, returning with the jade green caftan on one arm.

‘Not that one!’ Danielle wanted to protest, remembering how shocked she had been by that brief image of herself in it earlier, but Zanaide frowned, and insisted,

‘This one is the best in the cupboard. To refuse to wear it would be to insult the Sheikha. You do not like it?’

‘It’s gorgeous,’ Danielle admitted. ‘But I feel more at home in my own clothes, just as you would feel uncomfortable in mine.’

To her surprise Zanaide laughed, her eyes twinkling.

‘I wear the jeans too, Sitt, but only at home with my mother and sisters. My mother is shocked, but my brothers tell her that in Europe all girls wear them. It is very pleasant to do this, to—what is it you say? Have the best of two worlds.’

‘Both worlds,’ Danielle corrected, surprised by Zenaide’s admission. Was she then mistaken in thinking Arab women to be completely beneath the domination of their men?

Apparently so. Zanaide made several enlightening comments as she washed and dried Danielle’s hair, and a far different picture from what she had previously had began to emerge in Danielle’s mind. As well as receiving schooling many of the brighter girls were encouraged to train abroad, and as long as the Muslim laws were observed and they were discreet women had a far greater degree of freedom than Danielle had envisaged.

‘Of course we cannot go dancing and mix freely with the opposite sex in the European fashion,’ Zanaide told her practically, ‘but Sheikh Hassan has already done much for us, and promises to do more. Many of us prefer to wear the chadrah and retain our way of life,’ she added softly. ‘Is it not true that there often lies enticement in the unknown which the familiar does not possess? So it is with us, our very unavailability is enticing to our menfolk.’

* * *

The meal was over at last. Danielle made her escape thankfully. Everyone had been very kind, but the strain of trying to remember so many different names, on top of her long journey and strange surroundings, had all culminated in her feeling that all she really wanted to do was to go and lie down on her bed.

She seemed to have drunk innumerable small cups of strong black coffee and would no doubt have been obliged to drink even more had Zoe not noticed her predicament and tactfully indicated that she was to shake her cup to signal that she did not want any more. Also the food, although delicious, had been richer than what she was accustomed to, and it was with a feeling of intense relief that Danielle followed the corridor towards the spiral staircase which led to her room, where she suspected that Zanaide would be waiting for her.

The stairs seemed to go on for ever, with far more flights than she remembered, but telling herself that it was just her imagination Danielle picked up the heavy folds of her enveloping chadrah and wearily climbed upwards.

Wall sconces illuminated the stairwell, and in the corners shadows flickered in the draught from the open shutters. One of them even seemed to move towards her, and Danielle bit back a startled gasp as she realised that what she had mistaken for a shadow was in fact a man clad in a dark robe, which was nowhere near as enveloping as her own because it had fallen open to disclose a tanned chest, sprinkled with crisp dark hairs, still damp from a shower or some similar activity, as was the thick dark hair lying crisply over a skull whose structure reminded her of the heads depicted on ancient coins. The face beneath it was arrestingly male, with high prominent cheekbones set below eyes so dark that at first she thought they were actually black until the man moved, addressing some crisp words to her in what she presumed to be Arabic, and she saw that his eyes—eyes which were studying her with an arrogance that sent the hair prickling up on the back of her neck—were actually very dark grey.

He spoke to her again, more sharply this time, the words commanding.

‘I… I… don’t understand. I only speak English,’ she faltered hesitantly, not sure that he would understand her.

His teeth flashed brilliant white in the darkness of his face, faint creases fanning out from his eyes and the sardonic curl of his lips. A sensation she had never experienced before curled insidiously through her lower stomach, making her clench her muscles and taken an involuntary step backwards.

A lean hand grasped her wrist, cool mint-scented breath wafting past her ear as she was hauled unceremoniously forward.

‘You were looking for me?’

His English was faultless, but the question held no hint of kindness; rather a suggestion of leashed power combined with cool impatience.

Danielle could only stare at him, mechanically rubbing the wrist he had grasped to prevent her from moving backwards.

‘I was looking for my room.’

His dark eyebrows shot upwards in disbelief. ‘In this part of the palace? Surely you must realise that these are not the women’s quarters…’

It was the haughty tone of the words rather than their content which caused Danielle to flush guiltily and stare disbelievingly down the way she had come, stammering, ‘Oh, but I know I took the right way…’

Her companion was plainly not impressed. His smile had disappeared, leaving a sternly autocratic expression in its place. How old was he? Danielle wondered. Thirty? Perhaps a little older? It was hard to tell in the half-light, but whatever his age there was no doubt that he was a man to be reckoned with. In spite of her immediate antipathy towards him Danielle could not help but be aware of his intense masculinity, of the spare, narrow waist beneath the thin robe; the taut, muscular thighs which the thin silk did little to disguise.

‘So…’ His eyes seemed to burn past her defences, ruthlessly removing them and reading her mind with lazy ease. He knew exactly what effect his presence was having upon her, Danielle thought resentfully. She even suspected that he could have gauged the rate of her heart and pulse beats with exact accuracy. She turned away, unwilling for him to see the betraying quiver of her lips, suddenly overwhelmed by an instinctive desire to escape. Escape from what? she asked herself crossly. Was she so susceptible to her surroundings that already she was behaving in the presence of an unknown man as Zoe or Zanaide might? What had happened to all her British independence; all her determination to retain her own personality?

Her chin lifted unconsciously.

‘I did not realise that I had left the women’s quarters. If you would be kind enough to direct me…’

She stiffened as she caught the white flash of his teeth once more, convinced that he was laughing at her, but there was no laughter in the dark eyes as they studied her features with lazy scrutiny.

‘You are very daring,’ he said softly. ‘Or is it merely ignorance which lures the dove to trespass on the hawk’s domain without asking what penalty he may exact for that trespass?’

Tired and confused, Danielle stared mutely up at him, gasping with shock when both arms came out to grip her waist, propelling her forward until her body was pressed against the alien male one, his warm breath fanning her cheek as he bent his head and without mercy took her lips in a kiss far more intimate than any she had experienced before, the hands at her waist, biting into her flesh like steel pincers, holding her against a body which she realised with icy shock was completely naked beneath the brief robe.

That realisation restored some of her stunned senses. She pushed fiercely against the solid wall of muscle beneath her fingers, appalled by the unwanted intimacy of her fingertips against the hair-roughened flesh, but it was too late to withdraw. Her futile attempts to be free were stifled with a cruel laugh and the immediate capture of her protesting fists, her fingers uncurled and placed fingertip to palm against the smoothly muscled flesh, while the pillaging lips left hers long enough to quirk mockingly and say softly,

‘So… the British are not always as careless of their women’s virtue as we would believe. You blush like the rose which blooms in the inner courtyard,’ the taunting voice continued. ‘You too are an enclosed courtyard… unknown and undiscovered…’