The Punishment of a Vixen

by Barbara Cartland

  He was riding his horse and walking beside him were several turbaned men in djellabas, talking animatedly and gesticulating with their hands. He was giving them, Nevada knew, his undivided attention.

  She had learnt now and appreciated his one-pointed concentration on anyone in whom he was interested.

  It might be a man – and there were many of them who called to discuss their personal troubles and difficulties – or a child he had found crying in the street and whom he would stop to comfort.

  Nothing was too small or too insignificant to command his attention. Nevada would watch him and reason that he was so exceptional because he seldom seemed to be thinking about himself.

  She lived a strange life in the pink Kasbah, which was like no other existence she had ever known or imagined.

  They breakfasted together every day as soon as Tyrone Strome returned from riding.

  He usually left the Kasbah long before she was awake and, although she would have liked to accompany him, she was too shy to suggest it.

  When he returned, the sun was rising, and yet it was still cool and they would eat in the courtyard round which the Kasbah was built.

  There were exotic plants, flowers and even fruit trees in the confined space and a small stone fountain whose rising and falling water made a musical accompaniment to anything they said.

  Immediately breakfast was over, Tyrone Strome would start work and because there was nothing else for her to do Nevada would work too.

  She had the idea that he wanted her to be alone, as she had been on the yacht, with no one to talk to and nothing to occupy her.

  But after she had suggested that she could fair-copy his manuscript, he had taken her at her word and had set in front of her what pages of his book were completed.

  She had begun immediately to copy them out, frequently finding it difficult to follow his alterations, his inserts and to be correct in the spelling of some of the native words he used.

  They would not meet again until luncheon and after a light but delicious meal was finished the whole Kasbah became very quiet, for it was the time of the siesta and everyone slept.

  It was then that Tyrone Strome would talk to Nevada in the cool sitting room with the curtains drawn and the fans waving over their heads to keep the air moving.

  At first she had been nervous of asking him questions, in case he snubbed her, but, as they sat or lay comfortable in the deep couches, she was brave enough now to ask many questions she wished to know the answers to.

  Not about his career. She was quite certain he would not tell her about that.

  Yet she had learnt that no other Englishman could have moved about South Morocco as he did or built a house in Tafraout.

  “The tribes are fiercely suspicious of foreigners and infidels,” he told Nevada, “and travellers are received with a suspicion that usually ends in death.”

  “But you are different?”

  “They have grown to trust me for various reasons,” he replied evasively. “When I first came, I was handed from one tribe to another, always carrying a special spear talisman until I reached the borders of another territory.”

  He laughed and added,

  “Where we are now is so secret it is marked on the map as, ‘the Saharan mountains, relatively unpopulated’.”

  If Tyrone Strome would tell Nevada no more about his work, he did tell her about the places he had seen, the people he had met and in the last two days about his thoughts and philosophy.

  ‘I have learnt more here than I have ever learnt before in all the years of my life,’ Nevada thought now, her eyes on Tyrone Strome as he rode up the path.

  With the sun behind him, he seemed to be coming towards her haloed in light and she thought that no other man could be as aggressively male or have such a compelling personality. But, because she wanted to hear what he had to tell her, she tried not to provoke him.

  ‘There is so much he can teach me,’ she told herself. ‘I would be foolish not to take what advantage I can by being in his company – willingly or unwillingly.’

  Suddenly she remembered that one day, it might be tomorrow, it might be weeks ahead, he would decide to leave.

  He would take her back – back to the Social world with which she was so familiar. That was what she had longed for. But quite unexpectedly, with the violent impact of a pistol shot, she realised that she had no wish to go.

  There was no need to ask herself why.

  It was as if the ground had opened, there was a deep pit at her feet and the voices of demons jeered at her because she wanted to stay with him.

  She gave a cry that came from the depths of her being. “No! No!” she whispered. “I hate him – hate and loathe him – for the way he has treated me!”

  She could hear the fiendish laughter her words evoked, “You love him – you love him!”

  “No, I hate him!”

  But while her mind insisted she hated Tyrone Strome, her heart told her the truth – she loved him!

  “Oh, God, it cannot be true – it is impossible!” she said frantically.

  Yet the more she protested, the more she knew it was the truth – she loved him.

  She had in fact lost her hatred when she had trembled with fear behind the boulders and known he would protect her from the Sheik’s horsemen.

  And, when he had held her in his arms as they rode ahead of the caravan towards Tafraout, it had been not only a comfort, a relief, but something more to be close to him, to hide her face against his shoulder.

  But still she had not admitted it to herself, not even when she had slept that night as unafraid as a child because he was in the next room.

  ‘I loved him then,’ Nevada thought, ‘but every day it has increased until it was only my pride which would not let me acknowledge it.’

  She now admitted despairingly that every morning had seemed exciting because she had known that she would see him.

  The days passed quickly because she was reading his book, counting the hours until they could have luncheon together, talk afterwards and the evenings had been an enchantment that was irresistible.

  The second night when she had walked into the courtyard to find him waiting for her, the table lit by candles, she had looked at the light reflected iridescently in the fountain and said mockingly,

  “This is very theatrical – a stage set!”

  “But very romantic!”

  “I would not know. You are aware I am not interested in romance.”

  “How much you miss!” he parried.

  “I don’t agree – I save myself from heartaches and unrequited yearnings which make the people who feel them sloppy and ridiculous.”

  “Love has inspired men since the beginning of time to do magnificent deeds of courage, to paint and compose great masterpieces, to build a tomb as exquisite as the Taj Mahal.”

  “I am sorry for the women who had to endure their maudlin talk of love.”

  “The ways of Allah are inscrutable,” Tyrone Strome replied. “He gave you the body and face of a woman and forgot to include a heart.”

  “For which I say a prayer of thankfulness every day of my life,” Nevada retorted. “While other women writhe in chains of their own making, I am free.”

  She saw the amusement in Tyrone Strome’s eyes and added coldly,

  “I am speaking of emotional freedom! I am well aware that physically I am your prisoner.”

  “If I behaved as my counterpart would have done a hundred years ago, I would incarcerate you in a deep dark dungeon. They lie beneath every Kasbah in South Morocco.”

  He smiled as he continued,

  “The prisoners were chained together with heavy iron collars and leg shackles. They received just enough food to sustain life.”

  “It was barbaric!”

  “I agree. They lay in darkness, sometimes shackled to a corpse until merciful death released them.”

  “So that is what would have happened to me!”

  “On second thoug
hts I doubt it – your captor would undoubtedly have found a place for you in his harem.”

  Thinking of how that might have been her fate, Nevada shivered. The harem or a dungeon! How many unknown women had been given no other alternative?

  Last night, however, she had been unable to scoff at the insidious atmosphere of the courtyard and she knew it bewitched her.

  In a caftan of deep blue embroidered with silver stars, she felt as if she was a part of the sky above.

  In a strange mood that was almost one of coquetry, she had put a blue veil over her red hair and ornamented it with brooches fashioned like stars.

  Little silver bells on her anklets tinkled softly and, as she moved towards Tyrone Strome, she knew, as a woman knows instinctively, that she was looking mysterious and alluring.

  He gazed at her with that strange expression in his eyes which she could not translate, but she felt he was acutely aware of her as she was of him.

  They talked of ordinary things, his book and some new discoveries he had made about another Moroccan tribe, but there were silences when the beauty of the flowers and the rise and fall of the fountain seemed to be speaking for them.

  She had known then, she thought, although she would not acknowledge it, that she vibrated to him like an instrument in the hand of a musician.

  It was as if every word he spoke had a special meaning which was assimilated not only by her mind but by her body. He was very quiet, yet she felt as if he overpowered and dominated her until she had no life of her own and her very breathing was a part of his.

  When it was time to say goodnight, she had risen to stand beside the fountain, feeling that the cool water soothed her as if she was feverish.

  She thought he was watching her but she was not sure.

  Was he aware, she wondered, that he was the cause of her restlessness, of a sudden sense of insecurity, of tumultuous feelings raging within her breast to which she dared not put a name.

  “Goodnight.”

  The word came to her lips because she wanted to stay, but was too afraid to do so.

  “Goodnight, Nevada.”

  There was nothing in the calm slow words to make her heart thump and her breath come quickly.

  Supposing, she thought wildly, she asked him to touch her, to kiss her goodnight, as any man in the same circumstances would have tried to do.

  Then she was appalled at her own thoughts. How could she think such things about any man, least of all Tyrone Strome?

  She hated him. He was everything she repudiated and which revolted her!

  “Goodnight!” she said again sharply and walked from the courtyard without looking back.

  Only in her bedroom behind a closed door had she lifted her hands to her burning cheeks and asked herself if the Moroccan sun had sent her mad.

  *

  The morning after their arrival, as Tyrone Strome had promised, the traders from the town had brought a large selection of caftans from which Nevada could choose.

  They were all beautiful in the clear vivid colours that the Berber women loved. The embroidery was exquisite, while some combined gold or silver thread with real turquoises, corals and amethysts from the High Atlas mountains.

  There were also shawls, veils and scarves that were each more attractive than the last.

  Nevada selected what she wanted and Tyrone Strome had done her bargaining for her. Not to bargain was to spoil the pleasure of the vendor, who expected every sale to be a battle of wits.

  The jewellers came too, sitting cross-legged as they spread out their wares on small pieces of black velvet.

  Nevada found it impossible to resist the exquisite work that craftsmen had put into silver earrings curved like crescents with fringes of precious stones or pearls.

  The bangles with strange designs engraved on them were a delight, as were the anklets that went with them.

  Because those that had tiny bells attached to them amused her, she wore them every evening when she walked bare-footed with hennaed feet to dine alone with Tyrone Strome in the courtyard under the stars.

  “You must keep an account of everything you spend on me,” she told him, “and I will pay you back. I had a lot of money with me on the yacht.”

  “It will be quite safe.”

  “We shall need a caravan of at least twenty camels to carry all my purchases,” she laughed.

  “It shall be arranged,” he promised, “as soon as we decide to leave.”

  “When you decide,” she corrected.

  He smiled.

  “As you say – when I decide to take you back.”

  She longed to ask him when that would be. But, even as the words came to her lips, she knew that to ask the question was a pretence that she was eager to go.

  I love him!’ she told herself now her eyes on him as he drew nearer the Kasbah. ‘However could it happen? – what can I do?’

  Since they had come to Tafraout, he had been courteous and considerate of her comfort in the same way as he would have treated any other woman who was staying in his house.

  But underneath the superficial courtesy, there was nothing to make her think that he had changed his previous opinion of her.

  She could hear his voice all too clearly, saying, “You are not ordinary, Nevada, you are cruel, hard-hearted and, I am almost inclined to think – evil!”

  His voice had been almost like a whiplash and she could also hear him say, his expression very grim and stern,

  “I brought you on this voyage not only to save my nephew and young Dundonald, but also to find out if it would be possible to turn a vixen into a woman.”

  “A vixen into a woman!”

  The words haunted her and sometimes she would wake in the night thinking she could hear him saying them again, condemning her from the end of her bed.

  It had been easy then to tell herself that it was not of the least importance to her what he thought or felt. Once she was free of him, she would get her revenge.

  She was not sure what form it would take, but somehow she would humiliate him and make him suffer as she was suffering.

  “I hate him – I hate him – I hate him!” the words were a talisman she recited to herself over and over again.

  ‘Yet now I love him!’ Nevada said despairingly. ‘How could I love any man who feels about me as he does?’ Yet there was no doubt that she was in love.

  She had only to see Tyrone Strome come into the room to feel her heart turn over in her breast.

  She had only to hear his voice to feel a strange excitement rising in her throat and, when he smiled at her, it was as if the sun shone and her whole being came to life.

  Below her he had reached the wall of the Kasbah and, as he turned his horse towards the entrance, they were out of sight.

  Now there was only the silence and beauty of the valley and Nevada sat looking at it feeling that she could not miss one second of its loveliness before it was taken from her.

  Once he took her back, once she became not a vixen whom he was trying to turn into a woman, but herself – a rich American called Nevada van Arden – she would be left with nothing but memories.

  How long would it be before this happened?

  She looked down at his manuscript and realised that he had done a great deal of work in the last week.

  Perhaps the book would soon be finished.

  She had no idea how long he intended it to be.

  Would he then become restless? Would he want another of the adventures that meant so much to him?

  Despairingly she knew the answer. He was a man who would never be content to do nothing for long.

  A rest, a holiday, was one thing, but to fulfil himself he must be active.

  ‘Suppose I never see him again?’

  The question, Nevada knew, had been in the back of her mind for a long time.

  Because it was as painful as if a dagger had been stuck in her breast, she rose to her feet and went into the sitting room to await Tyrone Strome’s arrival.

>   He came in a few seconds later and she saw that he held a letter in his hand.

  She looked at it in surprise and he explained,

  “I heard that a Courier was looking for me and so I saved him the trouble of coming here.”

  “You mean people know that this is where you live?”

  “Only the people I wish to know it,” he answered, “but perhaps I should explain that this letter is of diplomatic importance.”

  She was curious, but, when he put the letter on his desk without opening it, she did not like to ask him anymore. “I have neglected my work this morning,” he said, as she stood watching him, and she realised that he was expecting her to leave him alone.

  “It was unlike you to go out riding after breakfast.”

  “If you are taking me to task,” he said with an amused smile, “I must point out that I have only missed a little over an hour’s work.”

  “I was not complaining,” Nevada answered quickly, “I was only thinking how unusual it was.”

  “We are keeping almost office hours,” he said, “and I am beginning to think it is a mistake. It’s cooler today. Would you like to come riding with me?”

  “Could I do that?” Nevada asked.

  “I have not taken you before for obvious reasons,” he answered. “But my friends who have been reconnoitring on the outskirts of the town tell me that there is no sign of the Sheik’s men and I think frankly he will have given up the chase.”

  “I hope so,” Nevada said fervently. “I can really come riding?”

  “I am afraid you will have to wear your litham. But I have a young horse that I think you will appreciate and it can carry a saddle on which you can be comparatively comfortable, even though it does not boast a pommel.”

  “I will be ready in two minutes.”

  She ran back to her bedroom to find her haik.

  She was wearing a new caftan of white silk embroidered in silver and it was not, she thought, a very appropriate garment in which to go riding, but there was no time to change.

  She put her litham over her nose, covered herself with the all-enveloping haik and hurried back to Tyrone Strome. “You have been very quick!” he smiled.

  “I was afraid you would not wait for me.” “We cannot go far, you realise that,” he said, “because it will soon be too hot, but tomorrow we will start earlier. If you like you can come with me before breakfast.”