Sarah Holland - Desert Destiny

‘And where will he look?’ Suliman drawled coolly, turning, and handing her a cup of rich spicy coffee. ‘At my palace of Agadir? What will he find there? Nothing but an abandoned car and my men ready with explanations.’

‘The car will be proof enough,’ she said fiercely, sitting up. ‘He’ll inform the authorities at once and——’

‘And the authorities will read the note attached to the car.’ Suliman watched her, mockery in his eyes, his stance arrogant as he raised the brass filigree cup to his lips and drank.

‘What note?’ she demanded, her heart missing a beat.

‘The note I had drafted before you arrived, chérie. The note telling Burton that you requested a tour of my land, many days’ ride, in order to give your work new depth.’

She stared, breathless, horrified, then said on a rush, ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that?’

‘Why not?’ he drawled. ‘In America I believe it is called method acting.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘Chris went to RADA and has often discussed acting with me. He knows I’m not an actress—and certainly not interested in the Stanislavsky method!’

‘Yet you were acting in the desert not three days ago.’

‘For a pop video! It’s hardly the same thing!’

‘But it will give me the time I need, bint ,’ he said softly, ‘and that, I assure you, is all I require from your friend Burton!’

Fear shot through her and she said hoarsely, ‘Chris has known me for years. He’ll know something’s wrong. He knows me better than anyone in my life. He’s almost family to me, and I to him!’

‘No one can ever be sure of the contents of another’s heart and mind,’ Suliman said coolly, draining his coffee and setting the cup back on the brass tray.

‘You say that,’ Bethsheba’s eyes were angry and frightened, ‘yet you insist you saw silent approval in my eyes last night!’

He laughed softly. ‘I saw more than silent approval when I kissed you just now, bint!’

Hot colour stung her cheeks and rage made her tremble as she stared at him, unable to reply for fear she would scream at him like a banshee and fly at him, hitting him for speaking such a humiliating truth.

Suliman laughed again, and turned, walking to the tent flap, saying, ‘I will send a girl to you with water and fresh clothing. When it is time to eat you will be sent for.’

Fury overwhelmed her. Her shaking hands closed over a silk cushion and she found herself hurling it at his arrogant head as he swept the tent flap aside. ‘Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!’ she shouted hoarsely, but the cushion hit the side of the tent with a dull thud, and the sheikh’s mocking laughter echoed in her ears to increase her rage and sense of helplessness.

In the dusky corners of the tent, cassia oil burnt in lamps that hung from tent-poles, and the rich drapes of royal blue seemed to mock her, saying, ‘I am master here and you shall do my bidding.’

The hell I will! she thought furiously, almost gnashing her teeth; then she realised that her hands still shook, and she struggled for self-control, for the dignity that was left her. Closing her eyes, she drew long, deep breaths, momentary calm flooding her.

Suliman believed she had given her consent to this barbaric fantasy, and, even though her pride rose up in furious denial, she knew deep inside that the excitement had flashed from her eyes and communicated itself to him. However much she hated herself for having got herself in this position, she knew she had been at fault—partially.

But she hadn’t meant this to happen! Panic flooded her, and she reached for her coffee with trembling hands, drinking deep, suddenly realising that she was struck by a raging thirst. She poured another cup and drank deep of the spicy coffee, and her hands reached for sweet, sticky halva and Turkish delight and biscuits as she remembered she had not eaten since this morning’s meagre breakfast of fruit.

The tent flap was swept aside. Bethsheba’s eyes flashed to the entrance, and stared at the shadowy figure there.

‘I am Khalisha.’ The girl was ravishing, her voice as beautifully Arabian as her face. ‘My lord sent me to wash and clothe you.’

‘How kind of him,’ Bethsheba said through tight lips.

‘Is the sitt ready?’ Khalisha moved into the dim gold light of the tent, and Bethsheba stared in admiration. She was as slender as a gazelle, dusky-skinned, with long black hair and deep, lustrous eyes of brown above high cheekbones and a small dark red mouth. The purple silk of her harem trousers was edged with gold, as was her bodice, and little purple slippers on her feet were embroidered with gold.

“I’m sorry, Khalisha,’ Bethsheba said angrily, unable to swallow her rage, ‘I don’t wish to offend you—but nor do I wish to be washed and clothed like a sacrifice for your master!’

‘A sacrifice?’ The girl’s dark brows met over her lustrous eyes in a frown.

‘I was brought here against my will and——’

‘I know nothing of this,’ said Khalisha at once, cool and serene as she moved further into the tent. ‘I know only the orders that my lord gave me.’

‘Your lord!’ Her nose wrinkled the pent-up anger. ‘He’s not your lord, he’s just——’

‘He is my lord, sitt. And without him my people would be scattered in the desert as the wind scatters dead men’s bones.’ Pride of her race and heritage made the girl even more beautiful.

Getting to her feet, Bethsheba said, ‘Is there a bathroom I am to use?’

‘No. The sitt may wash behind the shiraz.’

Bethsheba looked at once to the back of the tent where a selection of gorgeously patterned shiraz rugs hung from poles to form a protective covering where she might bathe. Memories of Bahrain flooded through her at the sight of the rugs, and she moved slowly towards them.

Khalisha held one up to let her pass, and gold bangles jangled softly on her dusky-skinned arm as she watched Bethsheba. Behind the rugs was a little makeshift room, with a bowl, soaps, scents, a dark blue towel and a small mirror.

Khalisha emptied her own jug of water into the bowl. Steam rose from it, scented steam, which made the room feel even more Eastern. Khalisha turned to Bethsheba to unbutton her blouse.

‘I can do that!’ Bethsheba jumped back from the girl’s fingers, shocked.

“The sitt will find it more pleasant if she is bathed by another.’

Flushing, Bethsheba said, ‘It is not my way, Khalisha! In England, we bathe alone!’

‘I have heard it is so.’ Khalisha nodded. ‘But I am glad to be of a more hot-blooded and sensual race. Here, we are taught to give our bodies the pleasure they crave.’

‘We consider ourselves to be a sensual race,’ she said defensively.

‘Yet you bathe alone?’ Khalisha smiled, eyes gently mocking. ‘Come! The sitt is weary and I am fresh. Close your eyes and let me wash the scent of the horse and the desert from your body!’

Feeling she now had something to prove, Bethsheba allowed Khalisha to undress her. The white blouse fell to the floor, followed by her lacy white bra, and she kept her eyes closed, burning with embarrassment, but refusing to show it. No doubt they would gossip about the cold-blooded English girl around the camp-fires tonight if she refused to let Khalisha wash her! Yet, after the girl had tugged Bethsheba’s jodhpurs off, she couldn’t help feeling a leap of shame as her lace panties followed them a moment later and she stood naked at last.

There was a splash of scented water, then Khalisha’s hand guiding a soft sponge over Bethsheba’s slim thighs. Gradually, she began to relax. The warm water slid softly over her aching shoulders, her back, and her joints began to unbend until at last her eyes flickered open and her shame receded in the trappings of the sensual Orient all around her.