Sarah Holland - Desert Destiny

‘Let’s have lunch out!’ Chris said when they had finally finished recording. ‘Go to the kasbah, get some knick-knacks, discover an intriguing harem, perhaps.’

‘I’m rather tired,’ Bethsheba heard herself say. ‘I think I’ll stay home and get some rest.’ As the words left her mouth her stomach started to churn and she knew she was going to Suliman’s palace.

They left on foot, and Bethsheba watched them go, her body alive with sick excitement. As soon as they had disappeared from view in their bright summer clothes, she raced upstairs, tugged on cream jodhpurs, a white shirt, long black boots and brushed her tousled curls into a mass of silk, then added a dash of pink gloss to her mouth for luck and rang down to the kitchen to get the car keys.

‘Got bored and decided to go sightseeing in Rabat,’ she wrote on a piece of paper. ‘Might have dinner there. Don’t worry.’

Leaving the note on the kitchen table, she slipped out of the front door so that Mohammed, their manservant, would not see her leaving and ask awkward questions about her riding outfit.

The drive to the sheikh’s palace was long but relatively easy, a straight road, more or less, all the way there. As she approached the palace from Agadir she began to panic again, her stomach churning and her mouth as dry as ashes.

But as she drove through the main gates, and saw Achmed waiting for her at the doors, her stomach lurched with excitement. Suliman had not forgotten either.

The courtyard was so different by daylight—there were stone arcades and guards with dogs and a slumbrous air of mystery about it; fountains gushing into sculpted marble, greenery hanging from meshed wood balconies, and the dogs were roused from their slumber, barking as Bethsheba stepped from the car.

‘Greetings, sitt.’ Achmed gave a deep salaam. ‘The sheikh is expecting you. Please to follow me.’

Locking the car door, she shoved her keys in her handbag and followed Achmed into the palace. This time she was led a different way. The cool arcades with high Moorish arches were carved with Arabesque script, and small alcoves with richly embroidered divans nestled along the way, the scent of spicy coffee clinging to the air and the low murmur of Arabic voices lazy in the hot afternoon. Obviously, these were the day quarters.

Achmed stopped outside a purple hanging, swept it aside and gestured for her to enter.

The room was vibrant with colour and brass-ware. Incense filled the air, cushions littered the floor, and everywhere was the stamp of barbaric luxury that seduced her with its blatant sensuality.

‘So, Sheba.’ Suliman stood at the far end of the room, magnificent in white robes and gold iqal, oxblood riding boots on his strong legs, the dark blue and red of his shirt deepening that skin to mahogany. ‘You have kept our appointment.’

Her heart missed several beats. ‘I always keep my promises.’

The hard mouth curled. ‘So do I, bint!’ he said softly, and the look in those dark eyes made her body throb in response to him as he stepped forward, tall, primitive and magnificent. ‘Come.’ He took her hand. ‘Let us ride while the sun lights our way!’ He led her across the room and into the corridor, drawling, ‘We start as we mean to go on—the hawk leading the dove!’

Bethsheba laughed, allowing him to lead her along the cool arcade. ‘The hawk and the dove…! Arabia…!’

‘You embrace my culture,’ Suliman observed, flicking a glance at her. ‘I have noticed it before.’

‘I find it very beautiful,’ she agreed.

‘And it is,’ he drawled coolly, ‘particularly in regard to women. Here, our women are admired for everything that is uniquely feminine about them. They are the goddesses of our desires, our hearts, our childhood—and we anoint them with our love.’

‘That is not the Western view of the East,’ she said.

‘You are but one woman,’ he pointed out, ‘not one quarter of the world, and it is your view of my culture that I desire, not theirs.’

Suddenly they reached a vast arched doorway, and beyond it lay the bleached stone-dust of a courtyard. The scent of horses, of manure, of leather and of sweat pervaded the air.

A groom in grubby beige jellaba led two horses to them. A white Arab stallion and a gold Arab stallion with a mane the colour of honey. Bethsheba was handed a riding whip, and the groom made a bridge with his hands for her to mount the gold-coloured horse.

She mounted, laughing with a sudden rush of excitement as she sat astride that honey-coloured stallion and felt it dance beneath her as the sheikh swung on to his powerful white steed and met her gaze, laughing also.

‘You are keen, bint!’ he shouted across to her, and kicked his horse. ‘Let us ride!’

They cantered out of the courtyard, hoofs clattering as the men cried in Arabic, hands raised in salute to their sheikh as he thundered into the desert, white robes flowing.

Exhilarated, the wind in her hair and sand stinging her face, Bethsheba galloped beside her sheikh and saw the light of dreams in the blue, blue sky above that ocean of golden sand. She felt brave and beautiful and free, the scent of horseflesh in her nostrils and the feeling of power as she rode fast, fast, faster.

The spurs on the heels of Suliman’s dark red boots flashed gold in the hot sun. His head-dress flashed back to show the strength of his jaw, the narrowed determination of his dark eyes.

Desert landscape engulfed them, a great silence broken only by the sound of their horses’ hoofs. She saw thick clumps of greenery strangled by clustered boulders near a well, and the dusty white gleam of dead animals’ bones close by. Sweat covered her face and body, the saddle thudded against her thighs, her hair whipped back in a golden, tousled banner.

How far had they come? The sun was a furnace in the sky. There was nothing, had been nothing, for miles, and still they rode, still they bore down across the desert as a hawk flew overhead with a piercing cry.

‘Stop!’ Bethsheba reined in her horse suddenly, but Suliman rode on, and she was left cantering in a wide circle, struggling to prevent her horse following its master. ‘Stop!’

Suliman reined in his horse, a quick look over one shoulder making his eyes narrow as he turned, cantering back to her, his dark, handsome face sheened with sweat.

‘What is it?’ he called harshly. ‘Do you need water?’

‘Why didn’t you stop earlier?’ she demanded angrily. ‘You heard me calling!’

‘We have only two hours before sunset,’ he said, black brows meeting like scimitars above his arrogant eyes. ‘We must reach the douar before dark.’

Her breath caught. ‘The douar!’ She knew what that meant! It conjured up a world of long ago, a world she had almost forgotten: of tents and gold sands and elegant men and women drinking hot mint tea at trestle-tables in the sun.

‘Come!’ Suliman waited, stallion dancing beneath his powerful thighs. ‘Let us waste no more time!’

‘I can’t go there with you!’ Bethsheba cried hoarsely. ‘Not there!’

‘But you must!’ The dark eyes flashed. ‘It is written.’

‘It is not written!’ she cried fiercely. ‘It is not written and I won’t go there with you!’ Turning her horse, she tried to kick it back the way they had come, but it whinnied, worried and unsettled.

‘You cannot go back!’ Suliman shouted. ‘Not without me!’

‘I can and I will!’ Fear made her whip the horse sharply on its flanks as it danced out of control.

The horse rose up in angry protest, and Bethsheba cried out in shock as she was flung backwards into the air. The last thing she saw was a blur of white Arab robes and white horse thundered towards her as the sand slammed into her and blackness claimed her.