The Sheik Retold

by Victoria Vane

  "Since that day his hatred of the English has been a monomania. He has never spoken another word of English. His avoidance of English people has been at times awkward and embarrassing, even to the extreme of forcing me to go through the farce of translating into French or Arabic remarks made to him by English travelers. That is, whenever he condescended even to notice the remarks, which was not often.

  "For two years we saw nothing of him. Then the old sheik asked us to visit. We went with some misgivings about Ahmed's reception, but he met us as if nothing had happened. He ignored the whole episode and has never referred to it since, but Ahmed himself had changed indescribably. All the lovable qualities that had made him so popular in Paris were gone. He had become the cruel, merciless man he has been ever since. Although I was eventually permitted back on the old footing and he has always been good to Gaston, he has otherwise spared nobody. He is my friend, I love him, and I am not telling you more than you already know."

  There was a longer pause, but still, I did not move or speak.

  "Five years ago the old sheik died. Ahmed's devotion during his illness was wonderful. He never left him, and since he succeeded as chief, he has lived continuously amongst his people, absorbed in them and his horses, devoting his life to the tribe, and carrying on the traditions handed down to him by his predecessor. His people are like children, excitable, passionate, and headstrong, and he has never dared to risk leaving them alone too long, particularly with the menace of Ibraheim Omair always in the background. For five years he has rarely been able to seek any relaxation farther afield than Algiers or Oran—" Saint Hubert stopped abruptly with a flush that brought home to me the true significance of "relaxation."

  Ahmed was a man of great passion and could not be expected to live as a eunuch. He had told me about his other women—callously, brutally, sparing me nothing, but I cared not what his life had been before, nor did I judge him. Somehow he seemed to stand outside the prescribed conventions that applied to ordinary men. He was his own law and followed only his own precedents, defiant of social essentials and scornful of criticism. The proud, fierce nature and passionate temper that he had inherited, the despotic leadership for which he had been reared, the adulation of his followers, and the savage life in the desert, free from all restraint, had combined to produce a man who would never submit to the ordinary rules of life. His faults and vices were as much a part of him as his mercurial moods, but I had never known him otherwise.

  And I loved him for it.

  I had felt it happening and had not wanted to own up to the fact that I could love a man who had done what he had done, but even before I saw him in the doorway of Ibraheim Omain's tent, I knew that I loved him. Fiercely. Passionately.

  Raoul abruptly pushed his chair back and went to the doorway. I watched him go, and then my gaze slipped back to Ahmed's face. Even now, I could never think of him as an Englishman. His parentage seemed merely an accident that had no bearing on the man. He was and always would be my own sheik, my desert lover.

  If he lived! He must live! My fingers crept lightly across his breast to rest over his heart. The slow and steady thrum gave me hope. He was so virile, so strong, so made to live. He had so much to live for. He was essential to his people. They needed him. He could not go out like this, with his magnificent strength and fearless courage extinguished by a treacherous blow from a coward who had not dared to meet him face to face.

  His dark hair was hidden by the bandages that swathed his battered head. His eyes were closed with the thick, dark lashes curling on his cheek, hiding the usual fierce expression that gleamed in them. The hard lines of his mouth were relaxed, making him look singularly young. I wondered what Ahmed the boy had been like, the Ahmed the vicomte had known before he grew into the merciless man.

  I thought of my own mother dying in the arms of a husband who adored her and then of the little Spanish girl slipping away from life, a stranger in a strange land, turning to the lover she had denied, and seeking comfort in his arms. A sudden jealousy of the two dead women shook me. They had been loved. Why could I not also be loved? How had I failed that he would not love me? Other men had loved me, and I had cared nothing for them, and now suddenly his love was all I longed for in the world, but that would always be impossible. To this man with his intractable will, I would always be English.

  My thoughts strayed back to the earl. "Does Lord Glencaryll know that you see Ahmed?"

  "Oh yes. He and my father became great friends. He often stays with us in Paris. We serve as a link between him and Ahmed. He still clings to the hope that one day his son will relent. They have almost met accidentally once or twice, and Glencaryll has once seen him.

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. It was at the opera in Paris. I went to his box to speak to him when Ahmed entered into our box opposite. He was in the front looking over the theater with a scowl. The likeness was unmistakable. Glencaryll gave a kind of groan and staggered back against me. 'Good God! Who is that?' he asked. I don't think he even knew he was speaking out loud.

  "A man next to him laughed. 'That's the Saint Huberts' wild man of the desert. Looks fierce, doesn't he? The women call him le bel Arabe, but he is said to have a peculiar hatred of the English. You'd better give him a wide berth, Glencaryll, if you don't want to be bow-stringed or have your throat cut, or whatever fancy form of death the fellow cultivates in his native habitat.' Fortunately, the opera began and the lights went down, and I persuaded him to go away before the thing was over."

  The entire scene played out in my mind, and I gave a little shiver of sympathy for the lonely, old man hoping against hope for the impossible. He, too, would wear his heart out against Ahmed's intractable will.

  In listening to his story, I was struck again by a marked similarity between us. Hadn't I lived precisely as he? Governed by none? Until only a few months ago, I had flaunted every convention by denying my very womanhood. The only law I had ever abided was that of Aubrey, and even then it was only because he was my guardian. Once free of that sole legal constraint, I had done pretty much as I damned well pleased. I had the wealth to do so. Ironically, my wish for utter self-governance had brought me here, to a position of utter submission. But even with Ahmed, I had largely managed to get my way.

  The knowledge of his boyhood, of his life, had softened me even more toward him. His life seemed everything to me. He must live because I loved him. If he only lived, I could bear anything, even to be put out of his life.

  Raoul stood once more by the couch, looking down for a long time in silence. I raised my face to his, and he read the agonized question in my eyes. "I don't know," he said gently. "All things are with Allah."

  Two soft-footed Arab servants brought us a hastily prepared supper. It was a ghastly meal that nearly choked me, but I forced myself to eat a little. Later Henri appeared, bearing two little gold-cased cups of coffee that I gulped down eagerly.

  "You must rest tonight, Raoul, or you will be no good to either Ahmed or Gaston. I will stay here with him," I insisted.

  "As will I," he replied. "I will sleep here in the chair for a few hours if you will promise to wake me if he stirs or appears to worsen. You only need watch his breathing and check his pulse from time to time. If there are any changes at all, Diana, you must wake me."

  "I promise," I answered.

  For the longest time there was no change at all. Ahmed still lay pale and motionless, but later as the day crept into night and the last rays of the warm sun filled the tent, he stirred. He moved restlessly, and began a feverish muttering in a confused mix of Arabic and French that I could not decipher. I rose to wake Raoul, who still slumped in the chair, having fallen into a deep sleep of total depletion.

  My hand hovered over Raoul's shoulder as Ahmed's words slowed and his voice became clearer. The first words were in Arabic, but then he lapsed into French, pure as the vicomte's own. "Lie still, you little fool…Why have I brought you here? Mon Dieu! Are you not woman enough to know?"

 
I froze, my gaze fixed upon him through this verbal replay of the night he had taken me.

  "No! I will not spare you. Give me what I want willingly and I will be kind to you, but fight me, and by Allah, you shall pay the cost…! I know you hate me. You have told me so already. Shall I make you love me?"

  He had boasted that he could make any woman love him. He had said it purely to mock me and had now proven the truth of his claim. I never would have believed that I could grow to love the same man I had loathed and despised so deeply. I thought that I would never know what love meant. None of the men who had professed love to me had ever had the power to touch me. I had believed myself incapable of the emotion—that I was devoid of all natural affection. I was wrong.

  Love had come upon the same one who had once scorned it with such ferocity, and I suffered with the knowledge that my love would ever be unrequited. The love that filled me was overwhelming, passionate, and frightening in its hold upon me. I wanted him for myself alone, craved his undivided love. Yes, I loved him, while no higher motive than a passing lust stirred him. I had tried to hold back the knowledge of my love, knowing it would only bring about the disaster I dreaded.

  "If you loved me, you would bore me, and I should have to let you go."

  He had been honest. He had never pretended to love. He had seen me, had desired me, and had taken what he wanted. He had said he would grow bored with me eventually. His callous words had bruised my pride even then. It was my injured pride more than anything else that had inspired my flight from him. I loved him—I had for a long time, even when I thought I hated him so passionately. I could not bear to permit him to weary of me and cast me aside, so to save myself, I had tried to leave him first.

  "Still disobedient?" his voice went on. "When will you learn that I am master…? When I have tired of you…Why do I want her still? Why does it give me no pleasure to have broken her at last? She is English, and I have made her pay for my hatred of her cursed race. I have tortured her to keep my vow, and still I want her…. "

  He still wanted me? My heart surged in a triumph that was short-lived. The passion that smoldered so often in his gaze was not the reciprocal love I craved. I had never seen the light that I longed for kindle in his eyes. His caresses had been passionate or careless with his mood. When the humor took him, he could be gentle, but gentleness was not love.

  "Diane, Diane, how beautiful you are! What devil makes me hate you? Allah! How long the day has been…. Has it been long to her? Will she smile or tremble when I come? Ibraheim Omair! That devil and Diane! Oh, Allah! Grant me time to get to her…. How the jackals are howling…. See, Raoul, there are the tents…. Diane, where are you? Grand Dieu! He has been torturing her! You knew that I would come, ma bien aimee. Only a few moments while I kill him, then I can hold you in my arms…"

  I reminded myself that Ahmed was a brute, a lawless savage who had used me many times with merciless cruelty, but the ferocity, passion, and mercurial temper were inseparable from the man. I had watched him squeeze the life out of his enemy and loved him still—perhaps even more for his very jealousy and passion. A year ago, a few weeks even, I would have shuddered with revulsion, but all that was swept away. I knew then as I know even now that no other man will ever touch me as Ahmed has done.

  Still, his fevered murmurings continued, "Where is Diane? Was I in time? Diane, Diane, how could I know how much you meant to me? How could I know that I would love you?”

  Love?

  Had I also become delirious? I closed my eyes in disbelief, yet these last words echoed in my ears. How could I know that I would love you? With caution, I turned this over and over in my brain, carefully examining every facet of the jewel.

  "Diane, Diane, my sunshine. The tent is cold and dark without you…. Dieu! If you knew how much I loved you… Diane, Diane, it is all black. I cannot see you, Diane, Diane…" he murmured my name over and over until finally growing once more silent.

  My God! It was true! Overcome by the evidence of what lay buried deep in his heart, my own leaped into my throat. All the confusion of my mind and my own mélange of contrary emotions were now explained. Suddenly all of his hurtful words and conflicting actions made sense to me. He loved me but could not reconcile this with his hate-filled prejudice. He loved me but could not bring himself to accept it.

  Although Ahmed's delirious mutterings were proof of his feelings, would his powerful self-will continue intractable against me? Would the vow of fifteen years duration against Lord Glencaryll, the vow he had never once broken, prove stronger than his love for me?

  Suddenly in all of its vivid horror, the vision came to me of the wailing Arab woman who had thrown herself at Ibraheim Omair's feet. She had pleaded with her lover for what he would not give, but now it was my face and my hands clutching the hem of Ahmed's snow-white robes.

  Could I lower myself to accept whatever crumbs he might drop? I knew I could not.

  Ahmed's pretense of indifference would snuff out my love as effectively as the robber sheik had snuffed out the Arab woman's life. I would remain faithfully by his side during his convalescence, but once my sheik was restored to full health, I swore I would never again let him punish me for my love.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Three weeks had passed since the awful night, three weeks that reduced me to a weary-eyed shadow of my former vigorous self and left marks on Raoul that would never be effaced. Once the fear for Ahmed was removed, I banished all else from my mind but the joy of knowing he would recover. He had deeply resented his confinement, despising it as weakness, but thanks to his great strength and splendid constitution, his convalescence progressed rapidly.

  My happiness, however, diminished in direct proportion to his regained strength. His attitude toward me had taken another marked change. The camaraderie that we once enjoyed was gone, replaced by a new reserve that chilled me. Gone was the former intimacy that had been so precious to me.

  He avoided me as much as possible, insisting that I ride twice every day, sometimes with Saint Hubert, sometimes with Henri. I didn't mind because I badly needed the exercise—hard physical exertion that kept my mind occupied and prevented me from thinking. The new horse I rode supplied both needs, almost to an extreme. He was pure white, not as fast as Silver Star, but very tricky. He was called The Dancer, from a nervous habit of dancing on his hind legs at starting and stopping, much like a circus horse. He required watching all the time, but I let him out to his full pace for both his sake and mine. During these rides, the air and the movement banished my anxiety, replacing it with my old exhilaration.

  Ahmed seemingly used Raoul as a barrier between us, and I was often thrown into the vicomte's company. I didn't mind this. All that we had gone through together had drawn us close. I loved Raoul as a dear friend and admired him greatly. I often wondered what my girlhood would have been had I had the benefit of his guardianship rather than that of Sir Aubrey Mayo. The sisterly affection I never felt toward my own brother, I freely gave to him.

  Since Ahmed's recovery, his attitude of aloofness had augmented each passing day. The one time I encountered Ahmed without Raoul or Henri, he was in one of his taciturn moods, characterized by his black scowl. Although Ahmed rarely spoke to me, I was ever conscious of his constant surveillance, of jealous eyes that watched with a fierce scrutiny.

  I was thankful the vicomte had brought a pile of newspapers and magazines. I curled up on the divan with an armful, as if hungry for news, but they only served as a pretext for silence. I dipped into the batch of papers, but my zeal quickly waned. I had little interest in current events, and the allusions were now incomprehensible to me anyway. I had been away from the world too long.

  I was relieved when Raoul joined us for coffee. When Henri entered with the tray, Raoul brought me a cup and set it on a stool beside me. His sympathetic eyes looked straight into mine, sending the quick rush of blood into my face that I hid with a magazine. I knew he was trying to help, but his chivalry only made Ahmed's disrega
rd all the more painful by comparison.

  I left them shortly after that, determined to do all in my power to make Ahmed take notice of me again. I refused to stand by waiting like a dog for a bone until the baser part of him had need of me—the woman he had taken merely for his pleasure.

  I lingered over my bath and changed into the green dress and the jade necklace that Ahmed preferred, but when I entered, they were already seated at the dinner table and deep in conversation. I took my place with a murmured apology.

  Raoul gave me a welcoming smile, but Ahmed barely acknowledged my presence.

  "Et toi, Raoul, eh? Do you remember—?" He immediately resumed the conversation I had interrupted, plunging afterward into a flood of reminiscences that lasted until the end of dinner. I watched them unheeded as their voices rose and fell continuously. The spoke indiscriminately in both French and Arabic so that much they said was incomprehensible to me. It seemed as if they had both forgotten my presence with the accumulated conversation of two years.

  As soon as the table was cleared, I pled a headache and retired. Once in my room, I buried my face deep in the pillow. His complete rejection was the greatest humiliation I had yet experienced. There seemed only one interpretation of his silence and studied avoidance of me—his passing fancy had passed. His passion had drained from him with the blood that flowed from the terrible wound.

  Three weeks had slipped away since my mad flight that had ended in tragedy—weeks mixed with poignant suffering. My joy in his recovery was marred by the passionate longing for the love he denied. He had slept in the outer room since his illness. It was torture to be alone in the same bed we had shared, to stretch out my hand to emptiness.