"You have been out in the garden, Miss Peters?" Ibrahim Khan asked.
"For a b-breath of fresh air," she stammered. 'I'm j-just going to my room. Good-night, Mr. Khan." He nodded, and she knew his eyes remained on her as she turned and ran up the stairs. As she reached the top she heard his voice again, harder and more inflexible.
"So you have been in the garden, too, my son."
Not waiting to hear any more, Fleur rushed down the corridor to the haven of her room.
Eight
No matter how many times Fleur told herself that people of different cultures could live successfully side by side, she knew there were many instances where this did not apply.
The Persians were a case in point. Though they had been conquered by Arab invaders who had taken over their country in the sixth century, they still saw them as enemies and felt a greater affinity with Southern Russia and India.
More than any other race in this region of the world, the Persians took pleasure in their identity. They might send their children abroad to learn trades and professions, but they had no fear that their children would not wish to return. Indeed, even when separated by thousands of miles, families still maintained strong links with each other, marrying within the Faith and within their race.
Because she knew this, Fleur was convinced she could never have a future with Karim. He had said he wanted her, and the passion of his kisses had shown this to be true. But wanting did not imply loving and, even if it did, then loving would still not imply marriage.
Hour after hour she paced the floor, knowing she was faced with a problem from which she could not escape— except by running away.
If only she could take a love affair lightly, the way so many of her friends did. Yet though she had often tried to overcome this attitude, she had not been able to do so. To give herself to a man, she needed to be in love with him and, to her, love meant marriage. That she would fall in love with someone whose religion and culture made marriage impossible was something she had never envisaged. But it had happened and she must face the fact and decide what to do. But first, for a few dangerous moments, she would revel in the love she felt for this strange and wonderfully dynamic man. How she ached to feel his strength and tenderness, to arouse his desire, and then assuage it
Fleetingly she wondered what sort of life she would have if she gave in to him. It would bring her a happiness she had never known before, but it would be of short duration. Passion did not last forever, and family commitments would inevitably exert their influence on him and turn him from her. What would happen to her then? Would she be able to accept a subsidiary role? To live with him in the shadows knowing he also lived in the sunlight with a wife and children? If she accepted Karim's love, there was no other way their future could evolve; and since this was a future she was unable to accept, her decision was already made for her.
Fatigue placed dark fingers beneath her green eyes which no amount of skillful powdering could disguise next morning. To draw attention elsewhere, she wore mascara on her gold-tipped lashes and applied a deeper than usual coral lipstick on a mouth still slightly swollen from the hungry ardor of Karim's kisses. She was still shattered by the events of last night and knew it was going to take time to pull herself together. For the moment she must rely on her will power to get her through the day; and she thanked heaven that Karim would be going back to Teheran with Desmond. At least it would cut the weekend short, and before the next one came around she would make arrangements to leave.
Had it not been for her desire to see her godfather before he left, she would have pleaded a headache and stayed in her room. But knowing he would think she was ill if she did not make an effort to be with him and, reluctant to have him worry about her, she went downstairs.
As she had supposed, he was by the pool, a favorite meeting place for most of the guests who came to stay with the Khans. Equally expected was the sight of Karim lounging beside him. Their shining wet hair told her they had been swimming, though they now wore cool cotton robes like djellabas. It was unnerving to see Karim in the daylight, and she started to tremble. Briefly her glance rested on him before moving quickly away to Desmond who drew her down to sit beside him.
"All dressed up," he commented. "Aren't you going in for a swim?"
"I have a slight headache; I slept badly."
"You do look peaky."
The very Englishness of the word brought quick tears to her eyes, and she was glad that her sunglasses hid them, though she felt nothing could hide her feelings from Karim whose black stare seemed to pierce through her.
Without looking at him she could describe him perfectly and her feeling of helplessness grew. No man had the right to look so handsome. The loosely fitting white robe made his skin glow like bronze, while the water clinging to his hair gave it the appearance of black metal. It was disarranged, and she saw that in the last few weeks he had let it grow longer, which gave the ends a tendency to curl. Relaxed as he now was in the chair on the other side of her, he still had too much the look of a hunter ever to seem completely in repose, and she wondered if he had that same air of watchfulness about him when he slept. That was something she would never know. Hurriedly she shifted her position, trying to Hock out her view of him. But she could still see his long body and the strong muscular legs which tapered down to well-arched feet. Again she had the impression of a coiled spring. But it was not one that would snap under strain. This was a spring that would grow tighter and tighter before suddenly uncoiling itself with a shattering strength.
"A swim might do your headache good." Karim spoke for the first time, his voice hauntingly soft, as if the words were meant only for her ears.
"I may go in later when the sun goes down," she murmured.
"You mean after we've left for Teheran and can't see you?" Amusement added depth to his tone and he looked in Desmond's direction. "Fleur doesn't like me to see her in a swimsuit. Don't you find that surprising?"
"Very much so since she's a champion swimmer." Desmond regarded her. "Surely Karim isn't right?"
"Of course, he isn't." Irritation made it possible to look at Karim without the fear that her love for him would give her away. She hoped he would go on saying things to annoy her. If he did, it might enable her to get through the rest of the week without giving herself away. "I swim a great deal when I have the pool to myself, but I don't think it's right for me to use it when there are guests around."
"You are a guest, too," Karim said.
"I'm here as Nizea's teacher."
"We invited you here to keep her company," he said flatly.
"You can play with words as much as you like, Mr. Khan, but you won't make me change my mind."
"Spoken like a true woman," he teased and, getting to his feet, slipped off his robe and walked to the edge of the pool.
Like a rabbit fascinated by a stoat, Fleur could not take her eyes away from the muscles that rippled across the bronze shoulders. How narrow-waisted and slim- hipped he was, yet what strength he emanated. He raised his arms and for an instant his biceps bulged. Then he dived into the water, clean as a knife in butter, and cleaved his way through it to the far end.
"He's a handsome man," Desmond said softly, "and a great worry to his father."
She could not talk about either of the Khan men and so remained silent. But it didn't worry the man beside her who seemed intent on his own thoughts.
"Of course, I can see why Ibrahim Khan wants to get him married. He's the only son and until he produces an heir—several heirs, in fact—there'll be no one to carry on the name."
"I suppose that still matters out here?" she said with an effort.
"It matters to every family where there's money and power."
She knew she had to say something and, because the question of Karim's marriage held a fascination for her, she remained with it
"He seems such a dutiful son to me that I'm surprised he hasn't done as his father wanted years ago. Thirty-two is quite old for a Per
sian to be single."
"Karim's a law unto himself—the way Ibrahim was before him. Besides, he's spent many years in the States and England. I often doubted whether he would be able to come back and settle here, but he's managed it extremely well."
"Extremely well," she said, remembering the way he had acquiesced to his father's attitude toward Nizea.
Karim was now swimming back to them, and she averted her eyes as he climbed out of the pool and came over to don his robe. The water gleaming on his skin emphasized its satiny texture, and she could almost sense how smooth it would be to the touch. He pulled his robe around him, then slipped his feet into leather sandals.
"If you'll excuse me," he said in an unusually crisp tone, "I have some things to attend to before lunch." He glanced in Fleur's direction. "As you have a headache, I
suggest you come back to the house. You will find it cooler."
"I'm quite cool here." Through her dark glasses she . looked at him, wishing she wore mirrored ones which would make it impossible for him to see her eyes.
"It will still be better if you come inside." He put out his hand. "Come."
"I prefer to remain here."
"Very well." He gave no sign of discomfiture and, with a casual smile, walked away.
"Karim isn't used to having his women disobey him," Desmond smiled. "I thought he took it rather well."
"I'm not one of his women."
"You are living in the Khan home and you come into his orbit. That qualifies you as one! Don't fight it, my dear. Most Persian men of his type have the same protective manner towards women."
"You're generalizing, Professor," she teased.
"So I am." He appeared faintly discomfited. "That's a particularly stupid thing to do where Karim is concerned. He isn't a man one should generalize about. I'd never like to hazard a guess how he'd react to any given situation, because he's likely to do the exact opposite."
"Except where tradition is concerned," Fleur said. "Then he acts true to form." Her godfather eyed her curiously, and she knew she would have to explain what she meant. "I was thinking of Nizea. I'm sure if he had stood up for her, his father might have been persuaded to change his mind."
"How do you know he didn't try? He'd be the last person to admit to any disagreement between himself and his father. Anyway, she could well be far happier if she remains within her family's influence. She is a high-strung girl…"
"She's very level-headed."
"Only if you judge her by European standards. Considering how restricted her upbringing has been, she's remarkably uninhibited. Let the Khans do as they think best, Fleur, and don't interfere."
"I've no intention of trying. I told them how I feel, and I've left it at that."
She settled back in her chair. It was good to talk to someone like Desmond. He reduced all contention to its basic difference, stripping away the fripperies of pretense and disclosing the bare bones. She wished she could ask his opinion of her own situation but knew she dare not mention it. Last night Karim had been overcome by emotion. In the clarity of daylight he would see his passion for what it was and recognize its foolishness. To discuss it with her godfather would give it a credibility it did not have.
"Is anything wrong?" Desmond's mild voice broke into her thoughts and she shifted in her seat and regarded him.
"Of course not. I've just got a headache."
"I wasn't thinking of your headache. Merely that you seem tense and unlike yourself."
"It's the climate," she hedged. "I find it very enervating."
"But otherwise you don't regret coming to Iran?"
What "would he say if she told him she regretted it bitterly and that her brief stay here had marked her life forever?
"I'm enjoying every minute of it," she lied. "It's like living in another world."
"It is another world. You would do well to remember that."
Something in the way he spoke made her search his face. There was no change in his expression, and she decided it was safer not to question him. In his own quiet way he was giving her a warning and hoping that if she saw it as such, she would pay heed to it. But she did not need anyone to warn her not to fall in love with a man like Karim Khan. She knew that for herself.
How self-assured Karim had been when he had asked her to go back with him to the house. She remembered the way his eyes had flashed when she had refused and knew that ahead of her lay an unpleasant meeting with him. What unkind fate had brought her to the Khans' summer home and made her virtually a prisoner here? Had she been in Teheran she could have avoided seeing him after last night. Yet it was not having to see him that worried her so much as the explanation she would have to give, for Karim would use all his persuasive powers to prevent her from turning him down. He would try to make her believe she was wrong; urge her to consider their love for one another. Her breath caught in her throat. He had never used the word "love"; only the word "want." And there was a world of difference between the two.
She swung her feet to the ground and stood up. "I must go and see Nizea. Do come and talk to her, Uncle Desmond. I'd like her to show you some of her stories."
"Fine. I didn't even know she was interested in literature until Ibrahim told me about it He seemed quite proud of her."
"But not proud enough," Fleur said bitterly.
"Now, now," her godfather warned, putting his arms across her shoulders as they walked back to the house. "I thought I told you not to get involved in family matters."
As they entered the hall they saw Nizea being carried downstairs by one of the servants.
"Dahlia Sadeh and her family are coming to lunch," she explained, naming a friend from school.
"That will be fun for you." Fleur was pleased, for Dahlia was a sweet girl. "I didn't realize her family were friendly with yours."
"They're hoping for even stronger links," Nizea said with a swift glance into the salon where servants were circulating among a few of the guests who had already arrived. "My father is anxious for Karim to marry Dahlia's sister, Ferada, but at the moment he still prefers his freedom. I think he…"
"Let the servant put you down," Fleur interrupted. "You're heavy for him to keep carrying."
"I'll let him take me into the salon. But go up and change and hurry back down."
Once more Fleur mourned her godfather's presence here, for now she was forced again to enter into a family occasion she would have preferred to avoid. She was not surprised to learn there was one particular girl whom Ibrahim Khan wanted his son to marry. From her knowledge of Middle Eastern customs, she knew that the marriage of a son, particularly when he was the sole heir to a considerable fortune, was a matter of great importance and not undertaken lightly. For the Khans in particular, the girl would have to fulfill many requirements—suitable family and financial endowment being the two most important. From what she knew of Karim, the girl would also have to be beautiful and, coming unobserved into the salon a little later, this last belief was aptly confirmed.
The girl had the full, yet delicate beauty often seen in ancient Persian miniatures. Her face was a classical oval with large, doelike eyes, a small full mouth, and a thin, slightly long nose with finely arched nostrils. Her hair was black and lustrous, like that of most of her countrywomen, though she wore it in an extremely sophisticated style: parted in the center and waving on either side of her face before being drawn on to the nape of her neck and held there in a pearl spangled net. She was as exquisitely formed as a ballerina and walked with the same grace. But her smile was gay and uninhibited and animated her face each time she looked up at Karim who was standing beside her. Though she did not touch him Fleur had the impression that the girl was intensely conscious of his nearness. But then what woman wouldn't be?
"So there you are," he said to Fleur and came across to her, lowering his voice appreciably. "I was watching for you. Why didn't you come back to the house with me earlier? I wanted to talk to you."
"I thought you had things to do," she
said, avoiding his eyes.
"Didn't you know that was an excuse? You were trying to avoid me—I know that—but you won't succeed."
"Please," she whispered, "leave me alone. People are watching us."
"You won't always be able to use them as an excuse."
Nonetheless, he stepped away from her, and she noticed with wry bitterness that he did not suggest introducing her to the girl to whom he was returning. She glanced round and, seeing her godfather in the corner talking to a group of people, went over to join him, stopping on the way to accept one of the delicious fruit drinks that were always served on these occasions.
The salon was now full of people, and their voices echoed in the airy lightness of the room. As usual everyone was impeccably dressed, with none of the casualness that would have been the norm on a similar occasion in England. Even in a country house in the height of summer, there was no relaxation from formal attire, and the men wore perfectly cut suits in lightweight material while the women resembled jeweled butterflies.
Fleur knew her coloring made her stand out among them. Her sleepless night might have increased the pallor of her creamy skin, but it had not diminished the vibrancy of the red-gold hair that framed her face.
To emphasize the fact that she did not consider herself a guest here, she wore one of her usual shirtwaisters. It was a pale lilac with a soft, standing collar and long sleeves casually rolled back to the elbows. The very casualness of the style suited her tall slenderness, as did the narrow circlet of shining gold around her neck and the simple gold sandals on her feet. She presented a picture of studied elegance that was more apparent because of its simplicity, and many appreciative male eyes observed her as she stood chatting to Desmond.
To her discomfiture Ibrahim Khan joined them, and the talk veered to politics, which was always a topic of conversation where men were gathered. Fleur had her own opinion of the world situation but knew better than to voice it here, and it was not until Desmond Anderson deliberately drew her into the discussion that she gave it
Roberta Leigh - Flower of the Desert Page 9
