Lucy Gordon - The Sheikh’s Reward

Like him she’d dreamed of this, but no dream could be as beautiful as the reality. As soon as their bodies were united she knew that it was right. She clasped him in her arms and held him close, sharing his rhythm as the pleasure mounted.

His face was close to hers, smiling, holding her eyes with his. She could hear him murmuring soft words. They were in Arabic, but she didn’t have to understand them to know their meaning. They were the words of a man absorbed in a woman, for whom nothing existed but her. They held passion, adoration, perhaps even true and lasting love.

She tried to answer, but no words would come, only a sigh. Why had she waited so long to be in his arms, when it was where she belonged? She felt her defences falling away. She didn’t want to fight him any more, only to be one with him.

Now it was happening, and her brain was telling her to beware the beauty of that oneness, while her heart was telling her that it was what she had been born for.

When she parted from him she wanted to weep, but the moment passed in the gentle pleasure of sleeping in his arms.

In the cool dawn Fran awoke to an unearthly silence. Ali lay naked beside her, on his front, one arm resting lightly across her, his face buried against her shoulder. He was breathing gently in a peaceful, contented sleep, like a man for whom everything in the world was good.

Fran lay staring into the distance, happy, but troubled. At last she knew the truth about herself that she had suspected, and feared. Cool, efficient Frances Callam, who’d always prided herself on her good sense, her rational approach to every situation, was actually a woman who became a slave to her sensations in her lover’s arms. His touch, his kiss, could make the real world vanish. In his embrace she had no will but to stay there for ever. And that scared her.

Now she was herself again, passionately loving the man who lay beside her, but still herself, separate from him, and knowing that this was right. For if she were not separate, what did she have to give him?

He stirred and woke, gazing directly at her, and at something she saw in his eyes she felt her resolve weaken. What did anything matter but being with him?

He touched her cheek. ‘Is all well with you, my Lady Almas Faiza?’

‘Almost too well,’ she whispered.

‘How can that be?’

‘Because it’s dangerous to be so happy.’

‘Words. Happiness is every lover’s right. You give me such joy. In return, everything I have is yours.’

Now she should demand her freedom, but she put it off. She couldn’t bear to spoil this moment.

‘I’ve wondered why you called me Faiza?’ she said. ‘Whose victory were you celebrating?’

He looked at her with lazy, contented eyes. ‘And now you know the answer. Come here, lady, and conquer me again.’

Unable to resist, she did so, and in the sweetness of that loving all fears were forgotten. Their second loving was like their first in ardour, but with a new sense of discovery. They knew each other’s bodies and explored them eagerly and with tenderness. Afterwards they fell asleep again. But when Fran awoke the problems were greater than ever, and she knew that they had to be faced.

‘What shall we do today?’ he murmured. ‘The desert again?’

‘No, not the desert.’

‘What, then, my life?’

She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers.

‘Ali, let me go home.’

He stared. ‘Let you go? Now? When we have just truly found each other?’

‘But what have we found? I can’t love you as your prisoner.’

‘As long as you love me, does it matter how?’

‘It does to me.’

He yawned and stretched. ‘I think I will keep you with me for ever. Never speak of leaving me.’

‘But-’

‘Silence, woman,’ he said, drawing her into his arms and covering her mouth.

It was sweet to be there, sweeter still to kiss him and feel his desire. But there was a core of independence in her that wouldn’t let her yield. Summoning all her strength, she freed herself from him.

‘Come back to me,’ he said, laughing and trying to take hold of her again.

‘No! Ali, I’m serious. This is beautiful, but it’s unreal.’

‘Then enjoy it as unreality. But if you must be so serious I will do something to please you. You may visit the Water Company and ask them any questions you like. They will have my orders to tell you everything.’

‘Oh, you’re so clever,’ she breathed. ‘Buying me off with titbits.’

‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but you think you can talk me round so easily.’

He tightened his arms, pulling her hard against his chest.

‘What I think is that, while I’m stronger than you, I don’t need to talk you round,’ he growled.

He spoke humorously, but beneath the teasing it was still an assertion of power, one step short of outright tyranny.

And again he’d managed to confuse her. As a journalist she would give her eye-teeth to get into the Water Company, and he knew that. It also implied that he would soon release her to return home and write her story. So she had nothing to worry about. And yet…

She knew the next words were unwise, but nothing could stop her saying them.

‘Aren’t you afraid that while I’m in there I’ll find a way of escape?’

He released her abruptly and sat up. When he turned, the change in his face shocked her. It was as though winter had come.

‘If you ever tried to leave me,’ he said in a hard voice, ‘I would never forgive you.’

Rising, he pulled on his clothes, and left without looking at her.

A T ANYother time the visit to the Water Company would have thrilled Fran. As Ali had promised, everyone had orders to help her, and what she learned about the work was fascinating. Many women worked there, one of whom was deputed to accompany her, and who seemed extremely knowledgeable. Wryly, Fran thought she could hear Ali laughing at her.

But while she listened and smiled, and asked intelligent questions, she couldn’t banish the picture of his face as she had seen it that morning, threatening never to forgive her.

She left in the early afternoon and settled in the gardens, writing up her notes. When she’d finished she put her notebook away and wandered about the gardens, watching the play of the fountains, wondering what would happen next. She and Ali should have talked about the problem this morning, but instead, after the most wonderful night of her life, he’d simply silenced discussion like a dictator, and walked out. A shiver went through her at the memory.

She sat on the edge of the largest fountain and leaned over to gaze down into the water. Suddenly another reflection joined hers, and she looked up, smiling, to find Yasir beside her.

‘I believe in England you say “a penny for them”,’ he said merrily.

‘That’s right.’

‘What strange thoughts you must be having to bring such a melancholy smile to your face. Are you happy or sad?’

‘Both,’ she said with a sigh.

‘I’m a very good listener.’

He led her away from the fountain and they began to stroll down winding paths.

‘Isn’t Ali treating you right?’ Yasir asked sympathetically. ‘I’d heard that you please him so well that he piles every luxury onto you.’

‘But the thing I want most isn’t a luxury,’ she protested. ‘It’s a right. I want my freedom.’

‘You seem free enough to me,’ he said, looking around. ‘I see no guards.’

‘Who needs guards in the middle of the desert? Where could I run to?’

‘True. But do you really want to run from Ali?’

‘Not really,’ she admitted. ‘If I had my freedom, I’d probably use it to come back to him.’