Lord of the Desert

by Diana Palmer

  It wasn’t. That first day set the pattern for the next few weeks. Philippe found time to take Brianne around his kingdom and show her all the sights Gretchen had longed to see for herself. The child was always with them, and Philippe paid so much attention to him that Gretchen felt her heart breaking in her chest. They would never have a child. But it seemed that he thought of Brianne’s as his own.

  To Gretchen, he was polite and courteous, like a host with a guest. He no longer came to her chamber, even in the daytime. She felt as if she had no status at all, that she remained in the palace on sufferance. She had been an experiment, to see if he could be a man again. And now that he knew he could, he was in hot pursuit of Mrs. Hutton—whom, gossip said, was temporarily estranged from her husband. They had argued, apparently, over her presence here with Philippe.

  Gretchen found an unexpected ally in her former adversary, Philippe’s father. He invited her one day into his conservatory and began to instruct her about orchids. She was an apt pupil, listening with rapt attention as he explained the different species, their growing conditions and the quality of their exquisite blooms. They grew in a bark mixture instead of in soil, which fascinated Gretchen.

  She touched a fragile phalanopsis blossom with delicate fingers. “They’re so individual,” she remarked. “Just like people.”

  “I like to think that they have personalities as well,” the old sheikh told her with a warm smile. “Some are shy and show their blossoms only under persuasive care. Others are flamboyant and showy. Still others are recluses, hiding their blooms under their leaves. I find them fascinating.”

  “Yes, so do I,” she agreed, her eyes embracing them. “Do they all have names?”

  “Every one,” he replied. “And many are old enough to be my children, much less my grandchildren,” he added on a chuckle.

  They walked quietly down the long rows of plants, surrounded on all sides by various tropical and subtropical trees and shrubs. It was a wonderland of a conservatory, one which any gardener would envy.

  He glanced down at her in the all-enveloping white and rose gellabia with its hood drawn up around her coiled blond hair. She fit in so well, he thought. She never pushed or tried to command; she persuaded and coaxed people to do what she wanted them to do. She was gentle even with servants. The cook sneaked her little treats through Leila. The seamstresses went to extra pains on her robes and dresses. The candy merchant sent her samples of his best chocolates, and the pastry chef sent her a selection of his best sweet rolls in a ribbon-festooned box every morning. Not since the old sheikh’s grandmother had there been a woman so beloved by the staff.

  But she wasn’t happy, either. He had heard through the servants about her wedding night with his son, and there was more than ample evidence that the marriage had been consummated. Even if Philippe couldn’t give her children, he was apparently able to give her a full and complete marriage. This was delightful news to a man who grieved for his only surviving son’s impotence. But something had gone wrong, very wrong. Philippe was spending every available moment with the visiting Mrs. Hutton and her son, and Gretchen was left to entertain herself.

  “Why does he desert you for the woman from Paris?” he asked suddenly.

  She stopped and turned to face him. “He loves her,” she replied honestly.

  “Have you no idea of competing with her?” he prodded gently.

  “How?” she asked with a sad little smile. “I’m not in her class socially, and I haven’t her looks or her history with Philippe. The minute he saw her, he went to her and never looked back at me. It’s been that way for weeks.” She stared down at the marble floor and thought irrelevantly how nice it would feel on bare feet. She wished she dared to go barefoot. “You must have noticed that I favor her,” she added, rubbing salt in the wound.

  “He wants you,” he said bluntly, ignoring the comment. “There is a weapon you could use.”

  “It wouldn’t be enough,” she said softly. “Not if he loves her.” She glanced out at a nearby palm tree in its nice ceramic pot. “I’ve been thinking about going home.”

  “What?”

  “You must see that it isn’t going to work,” she said with a gesture of her hands. “He wouldn’t have chosen me for his wife in a hundred years if I hadn’t appealed to his senses and his conscience. He knows that he can be a complete man now, and I think he’s already considering the qualities he wants in his consort. Believe me, I’m not even in the running.”

  “Mrs. Hutton is married and has a son,” he said firmly.

  “She and her husband had a terrible fight before she came here,” she said, relating the gossip that Leila had whispered to her. “Philippe loves her and she has some sort of feeling for him.” She shrugged. “How do I fight that?”

  “You must try, if you love him,” he said.

  “And if I fail?”

  “If you fail…then I will help you to leave. On the condition that Hassan goes with you,” he added sternly. “Brauer has a long reach, all the way to the United States. Whatever my son’s failings, he will not want you in danger.”

  “Hassan would hate being away from here,” she tried to argue.

  “That is my condition.”

  She sighed. “Oh, very well.”

  “But not until you make one last effort to mend your marriage, young woman,” he told her. “I do not like the thought of sending away the one person in this palace who wants to learn about orchids!”

  She chuckled. “Fair enough. And thank you.”

  He shrugged and picked up a pair of clippers. “Now. Let me instruct you about the art of propagation!”

  That night, Gretchen bathed and pampered herself, adding perfume to her water and her hair. She dressed in her most beautiful blue velvet caftan with gold braid, and left her hair flowing and long. With every hope and prayer she walked on soft slippered feet to her husband’s suite with her heart beating like mad as she proposed seducing him. It was the last-ditch stand, she thought. She was like the last of the Texas Rangers holding off an outlaw gang. She was walking in where angels feared to tread. At least he did want her, and she was the one woman he’d been physically successful with. It was the one point in her favor, even if he didn’t love her.

  With her breath in her throat, she rounded the corner to the double door that led to his suite of rooms—and was stopped by two armed guards.

  She actually gasped. One of the men stared at her with narrowed eyes. “What do you want?” he asked. “No one may enter here without invitation. Especially not a woman who is improperly clothed and flaunting her body!”

  He spoke as if she were some mindless concubine. He didn’t know her. She didn’t know him, either. But his condescending attitude made her furious. Why did Philippe have guards who didn’t recognize his own wife? “I want to see my husband,” she said, gathering courage.

  “And why should you expect to find him here? Who is he?” he demanded curtly.

  Her green eyes flashed. “He is Philippe Sabon,” she said icily.

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I do not believe this. The sidi is not married.”

  Gretchen’s eyes burned like fire. “Yes, he is. And you get him. Right now!”

  “Oh, very well. Wait here,” he said irritably. He glanced at her, frowning, and went into the chamber, leaving the other guard standing rigidly at attention.

  There was muffled conversation, and the guard came back with Philippe at his heels. Her husband was still wearing his robes. He looked very foreign, and very attractive. He lifted his chin, staring at Gretchen as if he didn’t recognize her. A minute later, she heard movement and saw Brianne Hutton move into view. The woman was dressed in a nice green silk pantsuit, and she didn’t look ruffled, but the fact that she was with Philippe in his quarters at this hour of the night spoke volumes.

  “What do you want, Gretchen?” he asked formally. “It’s a little late for dictation, isn’t it?”

  She saw in his lean, hard face that wh
atever rapport they’d shared in the past was gone. The comment surprised her. “Dictation?” she stammered.

  “You are my social secretary, Miss Brannon,” he reminded her shortly. He looked very uneasy, and he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

  So that was his game. He was going to pretend that they weren’t married at all, that he was still single. No wonder he’d placed guards unfamiliar with Gretchen at his door, to protect him from her unwanted intrusion. It occurred to her unexpectedly that she didn’t even have a wedding band or a written marriage certificate. Only the people at the wedding, and Philippe and Gretchen and Leila, knew they were married. Leila, of course, would say whatever he told her to say.

  She lifted her chin proudly. Her heart was breaking, but she wasn’t going to beg. If Brianne was what he wanted, she couldn’t very well force him back into her arms.

  “Yes, Monsieur Sabon, I am, indeed. That, and nothing more,” Gretchen said calmly, barely catching the flicker of his eyelids. “You must excuse the intrusion. I only came to tell you that I am returning home tomorrow and you will have to replace me. Good evening!”

  Having delivered that bombshell, she turned to the young guard who had been insolent to her and was now looking perplexed. She shot a furious oath at him in the Arabic dialect she’d been painstakingly learning since her arrival, in a secretive effort to please her husband. It must have been a good oath, because he blanched. She’d learned it from the old shiekh, who was eloquent when a servant broke one of his orchid pots, and the orchid inside it. He’d repeated the phrase enough that it had stuck in her mind. He did love those orchids.

  “Mademoiselle!” the guard choked. No woman had ever spoken to him in such a way in his life. He was dumbfounded.

  “Madame, to you, you sidewinder!” Gretchen raged, infuriated by her whole situation, not the least in having her identity denied by her own husband. And lifting one slippered foot, she kicked the guard in the shin as hard as she could and stormed back down the corridor.

  Philippe’s eyebrows arched almost to his hairline as he stood, shocked, watching Gretchen’s fiery retreat. His now-lame guard was hopping on one foot and trying to look dignified in the process. Philippe shot a curt order at him and let him go back to his quarters. He glared hotly at the other guard, who was trying very hard not to grin. The guard stood at attention and faced forward, quickly.

  Philippe went back into the chamber and closed the door, ill at ease with Brianne. He was behaving badly. His uninhibited ardor with Gretchen had shocked and frankly embarrassed him. Even in his younger days, his prowess in bed had been largely silent, controlled. With Gretchen, he had said and done things that would never have occurred to him to do with any woman. His weakness and vulnerability had made him uneasy around her. He didn’t completely trust her not to take advantage of his vulnerability, as well. Women did so enjoy having a man at their mercy. His past was full of women who would have used that vulnerability to get what they wanted from him. But in the weeks since their return from the desert, his wife had not come near him, not to flirt, not to demand. Her avoidance of him had shamed him, and now he was fighting guilt as well. His treatment of her tonight would haunt him. What did he think he could have with Brianne Hutton now, except friendship? She loved her husband. She grieved like a widow since her arrival, after their estrangement.

  Besides that, the sudden arrival of Brianne and her ordeal in Paris had been much on his mind. He had loved her once. He had avoided Gretchen, living in a land of dreams where Brianne and her child were his family. But the dream had not been realized. And tonight he had come to his senses abruptly and with shock. Gretchen was going to leave him. He would be left with nothing, because that was all he could expect with Brianne Hutton.

  He still adored Brianne, but she was married and so was he. If there had ever been a chance for them, it was far too late now. All she talked about was Pierce and how miserable she was since they’d parted in anger. There was another problem, one that had shaken him to his very soul—he was unaroused by her. His body, so receptive and immediately responsive to Gretchen’s, was as dead as sand when he was near Brianne. Amazing, he thought, that it had taken him weeks to realize how indecent his behavior would seem to the people around him. And tonight he’d committed the worst error of them all, by denying his marriage and letting Gretchen walk away.

  “Why did you have an American secretary?” Brianne was asking curiously.

  He ran a hand through his thick, black hair and sighed heavily as he looked down at her with troubled eyes. He grimaced. “I have made many mistakes in my life. Tonight is the crowning glory of them all.” He smiled faintly. “Gretchen isn’t my secretary, Brianne. She’s my wife.”

  Brianne’s face was a study in fascination, surprise, and then, amusement. “Your wife?” she asked, almost with glee.

  He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “She’s from Texas,” he said, smiling. “She rides like the wind and shoots a Colt .45 like a movie cowgirl.” He chuckled. “She rode right into an ambush and was kidnapped trying to save me from harm.”

  “What an interesting woman,” Brianne said warmly. “Trying to save you…?”

  “She’d only ever seen me in business suits,” he explained ruefully. “She thought I was a, what is the word, a wimp.”

  She chuckled. “Oh, my.”

  “My father adores her,” he added. “He permits her to touch the orchids, a privilege even I do not enjoy.” The smile faded. “It is dangerous for her to leave now. Your stepfather is still nearby, probably plotting more mischief.”

  “Then shouldn’t you go and tell her to stay?” Brianne challenged with an impish grin.

  “It will take a brave man to walk in there unarmed,” he pointed out. “I fear my guard will limp for a week as it is. And he may never recover from the shock of her insults.” He burst out laughing. “I had no idea she knew such curses, and in a very archaic dialect of my people. I suspect my father has been giving her lessons, without proper definitions. I really must speak to him.”

  Her eyes softened as she looked up at him. “I’ve hoped for a long time that you might find someone who could, well, who could accept you as you are and make you happy. You’re my friend. I care about you.”

  He took her hand to his lips. “As I care about you,” he said gently. “As I always will. But Gretchen…” He hesitated, self-conscious. “I am…whole…with her.”

  Brianne caught her breath. “Philippe!”

  He smiled. “I never believed in miracles until she wove herself into the fabric of my life. I have been unkind to her. Now I must try to redress the balance. You will excuse me?”

  “Absolutely.” She chuckled. “I think I really must call Pierce and see if he’s as miserable as I am. If he grovels nicely, I’ll even go home.”

  “With a contingent of my men,” Philippe said firmly, “not alone. I refuse to let you put yourself at risk.”

  “I’ll tell Pierce.” She went on tiptoe and kissed his lean cheek. “Thanks, Philippe. You’ve been wonderful to Edward and to me.”

  “I adore your son. I wish…” He shrugged again. “But, then, one miracle is all many of us can expect. I must not be greedy.”

  “I’ve discovered in my life that miracles happen most often when you least expect them to,” she said. “Even doctors can be wrong.” She laughed wickedly. “As you’ve already found out, I gather?”

  He laughed, too. He left her and went down the long corridor toward Gretchen’s chambers. On the way he met Leila, who looked harassed and overwrought.

  “Sidi,” she exclaimed, running to him. “The Lady is packing. She will not listen when I try to reason with her, and she is speaking the most horrible sort of words…!”

  “You’re lucky you weren’t holding a rifle,” he murmured dryly. “She kicked one of my guards.”

  “She is out of her head!” Leila said.

  “I’ll deal with her. Go to bed,” he said.

  “But, sidi…”

 
; “Go.”

  She bowed and went along without argument.

  When Philippe reached Gretchen’s room, he met his own father coming out of it. He glared at Philippe from the doorway.

  “Go and look at your handiwork!” he raged in Arabic. “She is leaving, and this is your doing!”

  “How self-righteous you sound, when her language sent one of my guards into spasms of horror!”

  The old man cleared his throat. “She heard that from me when one of the guards tipped over one of my grandchildren and broke his stem. I did not translate the words.”

  “You should have. I expect to be chastised by the entire household. And she kicked one of my bodyguards so hard that he cannot walk.”

  His father pursed his lips. “Did she? Why?”

  Philippe cleared his own throat. “He, uh, stopped her at my doorway and refused to believe that I was her husband.”

  “One could be forgiven that, since you spend so much time with the woman from Paris and so little with the woman you married.” He gestured toward the door. “I cannot stop her. But I have insisted that she take Hassan with her when she goes.”

  “She is going nowhere,” Philippe said haughtily.

  The old man looked down at Philippe’s legs in the gold and white aba he was wearing over his thobe and chalwar. “I suggest more padding before you confront her,” he murmured dryly, and walked away.

  Philippe took a deep breath and walked into Gretchen’s room.

  Her big canopied bed was covered with her few articles of Western clothing. The gellabias and robes and silk and velvet abas he’d given her were piled in two chairs by the window. Her long blond hair was loose and falling into her face as she muttered, trailing the sash of a bathrobe as she deposited it with the rest of her unwanted clothing.