by Sanja
It was to be remembered that he had promised nothing, that first night when, with her senses wearily swimming, he had picked her up as if she had been little more than a feather, and ruthlessly carried her back into the inner room of the tent.
'You are still weak,' he had said, his eyes resting keenly on her waxen face. 'You aren't fit to travel even if I were to allow it. Rest and relax, girl, until I return. People of the West are too screwed up with inhibitions. Here in the desert, if you give yourself a chance, you can let the whole world, all the so important matters that hold you as tense as a little ramrod, slide by.'
Ross had tried to stiffen, but the warmth of his hard body holding her close had done nothing to help her endeavours.
Like some small burrowing animal she had drowsily only wanted to get closer, to rest her head forever against the tantalising warmth of his solid shoulder. Only half consciously she had whispered, 'You think you can guarantee happiness, monsieur}'
His mouth not far from hers, he had murmured in her ear, 'Why do you imagine the people here are so happy with so little, girl? If just a very few things could be altered, put right, it could be a virtual paradise on earth. One, moreover, girl, that you might come to know, if you will submit, for at least a short time.'
He had talked in riddles, finishing his few remarks as he had laid her on her bed. Half dazed, almost asleep, Ross wondered afterwards if she had not dreamt the soft, fleeting kiss he had dropped lightly on her lips. She might have been convinced of it all being in her drugged imagination if it had not been for the repetition of the sharp tremor that had gone through her when he had examined her ankle after dinner. She had stirred, murmuring incoherently, but before she could manage to lift her heavy lashes he had gone, leaving her only to struggle with her own uncertain confusion. A growing fear that while, if he chose, he could be reasonably civilised, he could also, just as easily, be exactly the opposite !
He wasn't uneducated, this she could tell, in fact she suspected he possessed an intelligence above average, but how much did that really count, out here in such a wilderness? It might seem accurate to believe that at one time he had followed some professional career which he had been forced to give up for some reason. Or possibly it was because he just couldn't resist the desert? Something here perhaps held him as inexplicably as he appeared to want to hold her. The bonds of ancestry, perhaps, that seldom completely let a man go.
Absorbed without realising it, Ross frowned. Being a nomad, and one so obviously in sympathy with his chosen environment, Armel must surely have come to terms with conditions which were less than perfect, yet about the slight deformity of his hand he seemed extremely sensitive. She remembered the way he had flinched more than his anger. It had been then, in that split second of time, that she had actually felt his pain. It was something she had never experienced before, a direct if brief link with a man's mind, and even as she had shivered, it had given her cause to pause and wonder. Now, having fretted against his absence for more than two days, her former sympathy had slowly changed to resentment.
Armel ben Yussef returned to camp early on the third evening, just before sunset. Hearing the soft thunder of many hooves on the sand, Ross was not surprised when Jamila told her he was home and would dine with her later. He ignored Ross's own message, sent immediately by return, demanding to see him at once.
Ross in her tent paced up and down in an anguished fashion. Not properly able to account for the flooding tumult within her, she continued to prowl, the short wrap she wore, procured by ruthlessly cutting the bottom off a flowered caftan, flaring briefly about her long, slender legs.
'It would be wise, perhaps, if Mademoiselle were to prepare herself.' Jamila, clearly not knowing what to make of her, glanced rather nervously sideways at Ross's enraged face, offering what she seemed to consider was sensible advice.
The way Jamila put it, unfortunately, only added fuel to the fire. 'I don't see why—' Ross began hotly, then stopped. It might not be sensible to let Jamila see just how bad things were between Armel and herself. The girl had been kind and she might need a friend yet. Jamila, she realised, was wholly loyal to her master, but she might be persuaded otherwise if the need became imperative. And each time Ross thought of Armel's dark face, the considering expression that had lain in his eyes when he looked at her, there was a movement deep down in her stomach which, in some gripping if indirect way, assured her that escape, other than for reasons she had immediately in mind, could become very necessary.
'Oh, all right, Jamila.' With a rueful smile Ross appeared to capitulate, her face composed again. 'I expect you mean well. You will just have to excuse me if I seem cross. You see, in my country we don't usually try so hard to please a man!'
Jamila frowned, gazing at Ross with her huge, dark eyes which often reminded Ross of a wounded fawn. 'I am not sure I understand, mademoiselle ,' she said slowly. 'Surely if a man is pleased he will also be kind, and with a loved one he will also show how much he cares. When my husband's arms are still around me when I see the dawn creeping through the door of our tent, then I feel good, mademoiselle. I know he would never have held me close all night if he had not been pleased with me.'
Her cheeks pink with confusion, Ross looked away from Jamila's anxious face, pretending to examine the tips of her oddly trembling fingers. In the Western hemisphere sex was used regularly as a basis for popular jokes and often discussed without undue embarrassment, yet in the desert it seemed to take on an altogether different meaning. At least, when Jamila spoke of it it did. She lent to it a kind of beauty in the way she mentioned her young husband which moved Ross unbearably. In her secret heart she knew a sudden wildness of regret that she would never be here long enough to experience such subtle delights as described by this humble Berber girl.
Involuntarily she sighed while forcing her mind to accept only that which was logical. 'But I am not a married woman, Jamila. As yet I have never had a—a relationship with a man, such as you describe, nor found one to love.' The thought of sharing a tent with somone like Armel brought a disturbing shudder. Where would his arms be in the morning? she wondered. Not around her ! Pleased or dissatisfied, she would have served her purpose and he would be gone. How many tents did he plunder in this way? How many women had he held in those strong, hurting arms—because hold them he would! His mouth was hard but far from celibate.
From a distance, alone in the soft tangle of her thoughts, she heard Jamila laugh gendy as she prepared the bath, sprinkling the fragrant herbs which not only refreshed the body but left a seductive, lingering perfume still clinging to it.
'I know Mademoiselle has yet to learn of the pleasures I speak of, but in time, maybe very soon—for such things are written on our stars—she will come to understand more of that of which I talk.'
'Jamila, you can't know !' Ross, determined to shake herself from her daydreams, scarcely knew what she was saying. 'I'm sorry,' she apologised for her abruptness, 'but so far as I'm concerned, I think your predictions are a little crazy ! Don't people believe the worst of a girl who travels as I am doing in your desert?'
'Not one as innocent as you, mademoiselle ! We of the East do know of these things. When a girl is chaste there are certain signs, and all those lost days we looked after you.'
In an effort to hide her mounting colour, Ross relinquished her clothes and slid into the silky water. If she hadn't had the last word, she could at least be grateful that someone believed she was still without the kind of experience Armel seemed convinced of. Not that she cared, one way or another, what Sidi Armel ben Yussef thought of her. Soon she would be home, and she felt glad to the very end of her bones for the sensible English upbringing that could afford to laugh at a man like him.
'I'll wear the rose serwal . ..' she told Jamila a little while later, at the same time wondering at how easily she had dropped into the habit of giving orders. One she would have to get used to doing without when she left this place. At Springfield they would laugh at the very absurd
ity of her having a personal maid, someone to dress her, to brush and comb her long hair until it gleamed. Once home she would be able to laugh herself, but here it was all too easy to become compliant instead of fighting a losing battle with every perverse streak. She could only hope she didn't become too addicted to a way of life she must soon leave behind.
Jamila passed the rose trousers, then slid the matching fragile blouse over Ross's creamy shoulders before covering the whole with a linen caftan which reached to her bare, arched feet. Then she arranged her hair again, brushing it until it fell shining and fair down Ross's slender back, glinting with what seemed almost a special life of its own.
For a few moments Ross even felt a little thrill of pleasure at her reflection, until Jamila exclaimed, 'Sidi Armel will be pleased!'
As this seemed Jamila's stock phrase, Ross supposed she should have been able to ignore it, but as always it never ceased to rankle. Sharply ungracious, she turned away, with a haughty glance at the girl's bewildered face, and hurried into the other room. Behind her the silken curtain swished crossly and a few minutes later when Jamila crept out she was left quite alone.
She was alone for fully ten minutes before Armel arrived. He could move silently when he chose, with the feet of the night-prowling panther, so that for several seconds she was unaware of his presence. When she did realise he was there she wondered resentfully why he appeared to enjoy startling her like this. Surely she wasn't such an object of curiosity that he must regard her with such studied concentration?
Suddenly unnerved, she heard herself exclaiming huskily, without any form of proper greetings, 'You don't have to have dinner with me, monsieur 1 I merely wished to have a word with you.'
His glance, resting on her flushed young face, hardened perceptibly at the cool disdain in her voice, and his address was no less abrupt than her own. 'Didn't I tell you once before not to send a certain type of message with Jamila? I do not appreciate insolence in anyone, let alone a mere slip of a girl!'
Confusingly, for all her surging dislike, Ross found herself wistfully recalling how gende he had been as he had carried her to bed, that first night. Now—and it was maybe her own fault—he watched her as sourly as she supposed she watched him, and the softer note was gone. His voice was still velvet, dark and deep, but without the dreamy undertones of that rare material, only the alienating rasp of silk.
Rather helplessly she shrugged. 'It was important to see you as soon as possible. Surely you don't expect me to beg before a—a person like you 1'
His darkly angled face was suddenly formidable, the grey of his eyes moving to steel as he spoke. 'You'll -be doing more than that, Miss Lindsay, before I'm through with you ! By that time, I can assure you, the begging will come so naturally you might even enjoy it.'
With careless fingers he flung off his all-enveloping burnous. Tall and vital in his spotless serwal, his shirt pristine white against the tanned column of his throat, he moved towards her, apparently finding her small, shocked withdrawal in no way surprising. 'I trust you are now fully recovered,' he drawled politely, as if they had never exchanged a wrong word.
Trying to control her still smouldering temper, Ross refused to look at him, or answer his impersonal query.
He studied her profile, then picked up her wrist, turning it over to examine the fading marks against the white skin. 'Your ankles?' he murmured, apparently satisfied with the condition of one part of her anatomy, at least!
'Almost healed,' she replied stiffly, doing her best to reject the almost relentless magnetism that was emanating from him. A remembered sensation, like excitement, threatened her every breath, causing the very limbs he inquired about to tremble. 'Please, monsieur J she gulped, trying to divert her thoughts, 'my brother?'
'Whom we are going to forget until we have eaten,' he said firmly, not releasing her hand but grasping it tighter as he led her to the same low couch where they had shared a meal once before. 'I haven't eaten since breakfast, girl, and you won't get much information from a hungry man. That you should know.'
Ross, some small flicker of courage returning, tossed her fair head with spirit, 'You don't imagine it will be easier for me to eat anything at all, in such a state of uncertainty?'
His face changed subtly, 'Lesson one must begin somewhere, mademoiselle. You can be grateful it is to be no more rigorous than the learning of a little self-discipline.'
'Discipline?'
'Which adequately describes what very few women possess when consumed by curiosity.'
Angrily, Ross choked, 'Do you really regard it as curiosity to be concerned about one's own family?'
'It very much depends,' he quirked a considering eyebrow. 'You could be in danger of wasting a lot of very good emotion. One would perhaps be wiser to decide just how worthy a particular member is.'
'You must let me be the judge of that.'
His hand closed reprovingly over the tender slope of her shoulder. 'As you wish, mademoiselle, but I still insist on patience. Now, will you kindly be seated ?'
Despairingly she glanced at him. The evening was still warm, and feeling suddenly stifled she groped numbly with the top fastenings of her long, heavy linen caftan, perspira^- tion breaking damply on her brow as she wished fervently she had worn something thinner.
'One moment,' he drawled, just as she was about to collapse on to the couch, his eyes too observant on her hot face. 'Let me relieve you of your cloak. Many garments of the East are thin, but so enveloping as to stifle one occasionally.'
'No, no, thank you.' Nerves replacing her former animosity, Ross clutched her cloak closer around her. 'There are too many buttons, I mean.'
'I think I know exactly what you mean,' he rejoined dryly. 'But do not worry—I am not about to seduce you, not yet. I am simply thinking of your immediate comfort. When I begin to think of my own then you might have cause to tremble!'
Far from reassured, even by his slightly teasing note, Ross still huddled. Until, at last, on a long-suffering sigh, he drew nearer and began to undo the many buttons with his lean, supple fingers, taking no notice of her involuntary shrinking.
'The buttons of the caftan are legion,' he mused. 'One by one a man unfastens them, so that the beauty within is never revealed swiftly. By the time a man has completed his task he is already half way to paradise.'
A tell-tale pulse beat in Ross's throat as she felt the punishing movement of his hand against her bare skin, as he deliberately completed the first buttons. Defeated by the clamour of too responsive senses, she jerked wildly away from him. 'I'll manage myself, if you don't mind!' she exclaimed, rejecting his help along with the inexplicable longing deep within her to let him finish what he had begun, to hear the murmur of his voice purring deeply in her ear.
Completely at loss by the force of her own feelings, she shook herself free of him, angered by her confusing response, her breathing ragged as she put a little distance between them.
Surprisingly he let her go, making no protest even as her fingers fumbled where his had been sure. He watched until she finished before asserting himself again, easing the long garment from her without further comment.
'I feel rather naked without it,' she confessed, with hard won composure.
His eyes narrowed over her suavely, and for a moment Ross almost imagined a return of his lost humour. 'Oh, there is always a surfeit of embroidery on these garments,' he drawled obliquely. 'I expect you have worn a bikini, mademoiselle, without undue embarrassment?'
She did—sometimes, but she refused to go into an argument with him about that! He must be very well aware that a bikini was usually worn under very different conditions. Even so, Ross wondered if it was half as revealing as what she wore now.
The fragile front of her blouse was embroidered in silk, a fine tinsel webbing, variegated with gold and silver flowers on gauzy lustre. Bejewelled among the gilded leaves was a handsome, pagan god, his arms encircling the clearly outlined body of a beautiful young girl, adorned in golden damassin.
In dismayed fascination Ross tore her glance away, her cheeks colouring as she wondered why she hadn't noticed when she had put it on. The designs on the clothes she was forced to wear were so many and varied that she often failed to study them closely. And, more often than not, they were covered by her long caftans.
'Did Jamila choose that particular outfit this evening?' Armel inquired idly, as, to escape his searching eyes, Ross sat down quickly. 'I must remember,' he added sardonically, 'to congratulate her on her taste.'
Still confused, she answered falteringly, 'No, monsieur, the choice was mine. But only because the colour appealed to me. I'm afraid I didn't notice the design.'
'I see.'
It was quite plain he did see ! His eyes having lingered too long and too closely, and she didn't think it was merely the pattern which had interested him so much. He had supplied the clothes, though, so he shouldn't complain. Unable to stop herself, she asked with pronounced if unconscious indignation, 'I expect you are thinking of another woman who has worn this?'
His eyes glinted wickedly. 'No one has worn it, girl. That is not to say it was not intended . . .'
Such brazen honesty ! 'For whom?' Ross voiced what was a righteous extension of her whirling thoughts.
To her deep chagrin he merely smiled, whatever he might have replied being lost when Saida entered with their meal. This evening there was again the spicy soup Ross was beginning to like, but instead of the usual chicken they had bouljaf, which Armel explained was pieces of veal or liver skewered and grilled over charcoal, then strewn with cumin. A bowl of hot sauce went with it and she found herself enjoying it. Like Armel, she realised she must be hungry. It was a dish, he went on, that was often found on street stalls, and one, in his opinion, which was better cooked in the open than in restaurants. The kebab, he told her, was a grander version of this.
