He laughed. "Bon Dieu! What happened to my huntress?"
"Do you expect to receive from me what you refuse to give?" I asked.
He cursed beneath his breath and then flashed an amused smile. "I have no harem and, thanks be to Allah, no wives, cherie. Does that please you?"
"Why should I care? It is nothing to me," I replied sharply, but my defiance had somewhat softened.
He chuckled and swept me into his masterful grasp, covering my face with fierce, burning kisses that instantly awakened my desire. I clung to him passionately, returning kiss for hungry kiss with an absolute abandon until we were both panting and breathless. But instead of carrying me to his bed as I expected…as I wished he would…he abruptly let me go.
He rose from the divan and drew his hand across his eyes. "You go to my head, Diane," he said thickly, in a voice that was half anger.
I gazed at him in bewilderment. What did he mean?
Suddenly I understood. He wanted me but regarded his desire as weakness within himself. He had already confessed that I was not like his other women, that he wanted me more than he had wanted the others, which further disturbed his peace. The strength of his desire filled me with warmth and self-satisfaction, yet my happiness dimmed.
His passion was powerful—like a falling star that burned hot and bright while in the heavens— and just as fleeting. I knew his lust for me would extinguish as abruptly as that star that fell to earth. I doubted any woman alive could keep him happy for long. The conviction made me even more surly and ill tempered, bitter, jealous and insecure. Yes, I was possessed of many new and unfamiliar demons. Pandora's box had sprung wide open.
Gaston shortly entered, bearing a little tray with two filigree-cased cups of coffee. He set it on a low table beside the divan. He spoke a few words in Arabic to his master, after which the sheik took up a cup, swallowed the boiling coffee, and hastily went back out—without a word of explanation to me. I struggled once more to suppress my resentment of this negligent disregard.
The valet moved about the tent with his usual deft noiselessness, gathering up cigarette ends and spent matches and tidying the room with an assiduousness that was peculiarly his own. I watched him peevishly. Was it the influence of the desert that made all these men cat-like in their movements, or was the servant consciously or unconsciously copying his master? In an irrational fit of childish pique I flung out my hand, sending the little inlaid table with the tray and coffee cups flying. I was ashamed of the impulse even before the crash came.
Gaston immediately moved to clear up the debris with anxious eyes. "Perhaps madam prefers tea?" He spoke in tones of deepest distress and with a gesture that conveyed a national calamity.
In my naiveté I had believed that our shared passion of last night would bear fruit, that the sheik would somehow be changed in his manner toward me. Why else would I care if he spoke to me? Where he was? Or that he was not with me?
What had come over me? Had one night in his bed beset me with the same idiotic feelings of infatuation and petty jealousies that I had scorned so long in others? I was an even greater fool than all of them to allow any tender feeling for him to take root.
It was his callous indifference toward all of those around him that struck me even more than his mockery and capacity for cruelty. He ruled his unruly followers as a despot and thought it was obvious that they loved him and feared him, equally. I had even seen Yusef, his young lieutenant, cringe from his heavy scowl. I had deluded myself that he would ever come to respect and treat me as his equal, even after we became lovers. No, he seemed to demand from me the same unquestioning deference to his moods and whims as he expected from everyone else. The only person whose devotion seemed completely devoid of any conflicting sentiment was the French valet, Gaston.
"He treats everyone like dogs," I complained to him. "Are you not afraid that one day they will rise up and murder him?"
Gaston shook his head. "You do not comprehend these people, madam. Such harshness is required to maintain their loyalty and respect."
It is true that I did not and could not comprehend their ways.
***
It seemed my sheik was highly occupied with tribal affairs that took him from the camp for hours at a time. In the last days there had been a constant coming and going amongst his followers—messengers arriving on exhausted horses at all hours of the day and night, and the sheik himself had seemed unusually preoccupied. Upon one or two occasions he had stayed away for the entire night, returning at daybreak with all the evidences of hard riding. He had not condescended to give any reason for the special activity of his people, and I had not asked him.
There was, however, at least some improvement to my dreary existence during this period. He had begun to allow me the freedom of the camp—albeit always under Gaston's watchful surveillance. He also provided me with a horse, a beautiful grey called Silver Star, to help alleviate my ennui. Whenever the sheik was in the encampment, he and I rode together in the morning, and although he rarely spoke on these occasions, I still greatly enjoyed the intervals that let me forget, at least while on my horse's back, that I was his captive.
A week went by during which I rarely encountered him outside our rides, but even when I did, he appeared to keep himself at an even greater distance than before. There were a few short spells where he let down his guard, when we lay together on the divan and he held me close, looking deeply into my eyes and holding them as only he could. His was a mesmerism I could never resist. In these passing moments it was difficult to remember that I must make a show of reluctance when I longed to give myself unreservedly, but then he would suddenly remember himself, and a curtain would drop, all tenderness replaced with his old, mocking cynicism.
At first I was perplexed but then I realized it was not me—he tested himself.
My sheik stayed away from me that night and the next, but I knew he really only tortured himself. The more distance he maintained from me, the more taxing it would become, until he would only want me all the more. In the end, the iron self-restraint and supreme control he exercised over himself could, and would, snap.
The next evening was the hardest. Gaston had come and gone for the last time, and I was once more alone with my sheik. Although it had become a trial for me to anticipate his moods and make myself subservient to his temper, I had nevertheless determined to maintain the same air of aloofness as he did for as long as needed.
I wandered the room, fingering knick-knacks and slanting covert gazes at him from beneath my lashes while he reclined and smoked, his restless eyes never leaving me. The air between us had grown heavy to the point of stifling with suppressed sexual desire, until it seemed ridiculous to me to deny what we both so greatly desired— the pleasure we both craved.
It had already been several days since our night of unbridled passion. He looked edgy and tense, and I strongly suspected that I could break him quite as easily as he had once broken me. But I would not go to him. No, I must compel him to come to me.
I considered precisely what this meant and decided it was all merely a matter of approach, of choosing the right tactic. A moment later, the bear skin caught my eye. I smiled and stretched myself out full length upon it, thinking that oftimes the most the direct method is also the most effective. With one hand beneath my head, I reclined with a soft sigh that I knew would get his attention.
I was right. Although he didn't move, his gaze had transfixed upon me.
I was wearing my only other gown this evening, a soft and loosely fitted blush-colored crepe de Chine with a plunging neckline. Although pearls would have better suited it, I wore the jade necklace he had given me. It was a small concession on my part that I thought might please him.
I turned onto my right side, facing him in a position that exposed more of my feminine flesh to his gaze. At first I merely fingered the necklace at my throat, but then I slid my hand lower to my breast and idly caressed the exposed skin. His body stiffed. I could barely even see him b
reathe.
I licked my lips and slid the gown free of one shoulder. It was a brazen move that sent a heated flush not only to my face, but throughout my body. I was rapidly becoming aroused by my own attempt at seduction, which made me more than ever determined to persevere…to prevail. My left shoulder and breast were completely exposed. I cupped it, squeezed it, and then toyed with my nipple until it became painfully erect.
"Take it off," he said, low and husky.
I smiled in smug satisfaction and sat up, determined to make a slow torture of it. Never taking my eyes from his, I leisurely peeled the gown away from both shoulders. Once released, the billowy fabric slipped to my waist. I didn't wait for his next command but threw my head back and arched my spine, a position that thrust my breasts forward and displayed them to best advantage, before taking both soft mounds in my hands.
He groaned, and my gaze darted to his crotch. My efforts were not in vain. The loose folds of his Turkish trousers were tented. But my vanity died an agonizing death when he released his erection and took himself in hand.
No, I had not anticipated that move at all, and it displeased me excessively. I still would not go to him, and he would not come to me. It was another test of wills, a challenge to see which of us would break first.
I ground my teeth to think he intended to deny my pleasure and gratify only himself, but that appeared precisely the case. Nevertheless, my extreme pique was quickly supplanted by rapt fascination as he began stroking himself. His verge grew in length and breadth before my mesmerized eyes.
"Take it off," he repeated.
I raised my hips and wriggled out of the dress. I now wore only my lace-trimmed French knickers. The bearskin was soft and luxurious against my exposed skin. The stillness in the tent was broken by his accelerated breaths and the soft slapping of his flesh.
"The rest of it." He jerked his head, commanding me to remove my knickers.
I tore my gaze from his to lie on my back again, quietly staring at the canopy of canvas above me. The night air was cool on my skin, causing ripples of gooseflesh, but still I burned. I heard music, the distant wail of a tadghtita, the Algerian bagpipe, accompanied by the rhythmic and persistent drumming heard in the camp every night. The drum beat echoed the sounds of my heart and the blood pounding sluggishly in my veins. I was growing more frustrated by the second—fevered by my own lust. But I still would not go to him. Yet in my rising desperation of desire, I thought perhaps there might be room in our battle of wills for an arbitration of sorts…a compromise.
"Ahmed," I whispered his name, making use of it for the very first time. "Please, come to me."
"What was that, my dove?"
I slanted a gaze back to his face. There was a triumphant gleam in his eyes. One corner of his mouth curved upward. I shut my eyes and bit back an inward curse that he would make me repeat myself.
"Ahmed, Monseigneur, I want you. Please come to me."
It was definitely not a full concession on my part, but a compromise. I had not gone to him at his beckoning but had told him what I wanted. Supposing a bit more inducement wouldn’t hurt, I raised my hips and slowly removed the knickers. Waiting and watching through slanted lids, I plucked at my nipple with one hand and toyed with my nest of curls with the other. If he refused me and insisted instead on self-gratification, two could certainly play that game.
To my satisfaction, I didn't have to wait long.
He rose abruptly, venturing toward me with his customary tiger-like stealth. He quickly shed his shirt and trousers and knelt on the skin beside me. He kissed me only once, long and deep, but with a bruising passion that left me breathless.
"On your knees," he commanded the moment he released me.
Although he had deigned to come to me, it was clear the rest was to be on his terms. But I burned with a feverish lust and didn't care. He turned me away from him, pressing my chest down and onto the rug with my hips and buttocks raised. When he positioned himself from behind, I understood that I was to be taken as a mare to a stallion. The idea excited me. Tremendously.
But rather than the fierce fury with which he had entered me on the first occasion, he now took his time. He caressed my thighs and buttocks and then stroked his hot tongue down the length of my spine and back again with little nips on each vertebra. I moaned and shivered in my growing frustration. I could stand his teasing no longer. I thrust my backside into him.
"You grow impatient, my huntress?" His chuckle sent ripples into my belly. Suddenly, his sharp teeth sank into the junction of my neck and shoulder, and his verge plunged inside me—simultaneous pleasure and pain that made me cry out.
"Perhaps I give you more than what you want?" He growled low against my ear as he withdrew and slammed back into me.
"No," I moaned back. "I want it all." I arched up to meet his next thrust. My lust was a living force that refused to be denied any of him.
"Greedy one," he replied with a note of satisfaction.
There were no more words after that. We had neither use nor breath for them.
His fingers dug deeply into my hips as he pounded himself into me. I squeezed my eyes in intense concentration, milking him with my inner muscles and listening, enthralled, to the sharp and erotic echo of flesh slapping against flesh. I didn't last long. My orgasm didn't build slowly but roared through me like a wildfire. As soon as I cried out, his hands were in my hair jerking my head back with his next explosive thrust, followed by a guttural groan that shook him. His body trembled against mine as he withdrew to spill hot liquid spurts onto my back.
I was at first appalled and thought myself ill-used by this repeated practice, but then I understood and was glad of it. I was a mistress, not a wife. He would not chance his seed taking root inside my womb. It was a small sacrifice for him, a tiny act of self-denial, but to do otherwise would have chanced enormous consequences for me. I was thankful he would sire no bastards upon me.
While I lay prone on the rug, breathless and spent, he rose and went into the next room, returning with a wet cloth. He washed my back and then his hands were on my hips, helping me to my feet. Wordlessly, he took my hand and led me back to his bedchamber where we copulated twice more before daylight.
After days of misery, we had finally achieved a mutually agreeable and highly satisfying truce.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next three weeks passed so unlike the first. The couriers and random comings and goings to and from camp had not altered, but Ahmed's mood and attitude toward me had changed utterly. When he entered our tent at the end of the day a warm, almost-ebullient smile would light his face. The relaxation he sought in the privacy of his own tent meant more to him than he would ever admit, more than perhaps he even knew. I was growing in the certainty that he secretly desired a willing mate. It was no easy thing to rule his wild followers, and he was human, after all. Although he still had his periods of taciturn reflection in which I would leave him in peace, his conversation with me was now more relaxed and voluble.
And the nights… Allah be praised! The nights! There were many times we sat together outside gazing at the stars. He loved them, and when the mood was on him, he watched them untiringly. He told me countless Arab legends connected with the various constellations while sitting under the awning far into the night, and then we would retire to spend hours in lovemaking. With his new attitude, I had begun thinking of our sexual relations in those terms, despite myself.
In bed Ahmed was magnificent, a lover par excellence. He was both insatiable and capricious—brutal in his passion one moment and indescribably tender the next. Although I had been inexperienced, his attention to me, his prowess, his sheer virility, took my breath away. I knew his skills had to be superior to those of other men, or no woman would ever wish to leave her bed! There were many times that I lazed away half the day in mine. Wrapped in this idyllic erotic cocoon, my days went by quickly, until the morning my lover told me he was going away.
"I won't ride with you tomorrow, ma
belle," my sheik said with a yawn and a stretch after a bout of lazy and languorous lovemaking.
"Why not?" I asked.
"A courier arrived from a friend I have not seen for two years."
"A friend?" I asked stupidly. The advent of a stranger was a shock to me.
"Yes, by Allah!" he exclaimed. "The best friend a man ever had. He has already arrived at Algiers. I shall go to meet him." He looked positively joyful, and this filled me with inexplicable envy.
"In Algiers? That must be two hundred miles." It was a wild guess on my part, but I hoped to gain some knowledge of my location with the question.
"Almost three hundred, ma belle," he corrected. "But I do not ride all the way to Algiers. Raoul is already traveling south to the place where we have appointed to meet."
"Raoul?" I repeated. I recalled the name at once from the books in his bookcase. "Raoul de Saint Hubert? The man who wrote the books?"
"Yes. He has written many books, has my friend Raoul. He is a wide and enthusiastic traveler. Much as you once were."
Were. That one word struck me. Hard. It was a brutal reminder that I was his captive, something I had all too frequently let myself forget— until a word or a gesture vividly brought back the fact. "He is coming here?" I asked.
"Yes, of course he comes here." He looked mildly annoyed at my question. "It is my home, after all."
"Where will you be meeting him?" I inquired.
I tried to sound casual, but my pulse was already racing with the idea of escape. If they were meeting at Biskrah, perhaps I could contrive somehow to send a message. I had many acquaintances there. But then my heart sank. I didn't know anyone among his men that I could entrust with a message and had nothing to offer by way of a bribe.
His ability to read my thoughts was uncanny. He smiled his old, mocking smile. "No, ma belle. I do not return to Biskrah, and there is no one among my men who would risk death by betraying me."
I plucked idly at the coverlet. "How long will you be gone?"
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