by Sanja
'I have no parents,' she said starkly, after the manner of one jumping in at the deep end, her eyes closed, her breath held.
The Land-Rover swerved, so roughly that Ross's eyes flew wide open again. Armel's swift glance through his rear mirror confirmed her suspicions that if the others had not followed so closely he would have pulled in and stopped. 'Would you mind, repeating that, Miss Lindsay !'
Her breathing, in the face of such encouragement, became even more difficult. 'My parents are dead,' she muttered. Then, hoping to forestall further queries, 'I live with a sort of distant relative of my father's.'
The ensuing silence was fraught with a tension she could almost feel. Hypnotically she couldn't take her eyes from his whitening fingers on the wheel. He must be—he probably had a right to be, very angry. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered hopelessly, 'I only pretended I still had them because I thought they would be some kind of protection. I acted on impulse, but afterwards I found it impossible to tell you.'
'As if I were some sort of monster,' he exclaimed harshly. 'I wonder how many more damn lies there are yet to uncover?'
The angle of his jaw unnerved her as much as his cruel query hurt. 'The atmosphere was seldom very convivial, not for confessions, at least. You can't pretend you would have been interested in a detailed story of my life.'
'You're being deliberately evasive. A few straight facts would not have taken seconds.'
Her face went paler. 'You never told me anything of yourself. Your own life . ..'
'Mine is none of your business.'
Tears stung her eyes as pain stabbed harder. 'And it would be ridiculous to go on pretending that mine is any of / yours I'
He ignored this, but his breathing roughened, 'Where does this—er—distant relation come in, mademoiselle?'
'I've told you, I live with her, work for her.'
'I see,' he nodded mockingly. 'And naturally, as in all good stories, she is a tyrant?'
Ross stared stolidly ahead, the tears thickening in her aching throat, refusing to answer the sneering note in his voice. He spoke so rapidly in French that she had some difficulty in following, but his general attitude left nothing to the imagination. She wished, suddenly fiercely, that he could have met Cynthia and seen for himself. Cynthia could be very charming when she chose, but her face had always had a hardness which didn't easily deceive.
Armel concentrated on a bad stretch of road. When he spoke again his voice had softened slightly. 'We'll accept that you lost your parents, but whatever this other relative's faults or failings, you can't but admit you could be causing her great distress by simply disappearing?'
'I realise,' Ross's voice was more choked than she knew and she made no attempt to deny what he said. That Cynthia's distress would be for her personally she very much doubted, but Freddy was another matter. He had always been the apple of her eye. 'She's bound to be alarmed,' she added vaguely, thinking aloud in terms of Freddy.
'So,' Armel agreed, severely, 'we must get in touch immediately.'
'No, please!' The cry rose to Ross's anguished lips as she thought of Cynthia's anger, the whiplash of her contempt. Involuntarily her hand went out to clutch his arm and the vehicle swerved dangerously.
With a half smothered curse he dragged it back on course. 'I'd advise you to control yourself, mademoiselle. My cousin will wonder what's going on! I simply intend speaking to your relative and to let her know you are safe and where you are staying. My uncle's credentials could not be faulted, child.'
'I could be home in a few hours, I'm sure, if you would help me?' she protested, her shaking hands now firmly clasped in her lap.
'You are in too great a hurry to leave me,' he drawled. 'I think a week or two here will be necessary, unfortunately. You need rest and building up, especially if all you have to return to is hard work. These last few days have been more of a strain than you realise. You are in no fit condition to travel any further—not right away.'
Ross's fingers curled. She had more sense than to translate his words into sympathy. Whatever his reason for wanting to keep her here it was certainly not that. Perhaps, like a jungle cat widi a mouse, he liked someone to torment! Well, he would find such high-handed methods cut no ice with her. She would never be a willing victim. That she had no wish to have him speak to Cyndiia did not mean she didn't want to return to England. After all, it was the only place she could go to, but she had made up her mind—and goodness knows she had spent long enough thinking it over, all those long, silent hours on that camel. She would write to Cynthia and tell her she would not be back to work for her again. Once Cynthia had got over the shock of having to replace her with paid labour she doubted if she, Ross, would receive another thought.
'I could always appeal to the Caid,' she retorted.
Armel's broad shoulders shrugged indifferently. 'My uncle is a very busy man, Rosalind. He is also an important one. You might have some difficulty in presenting your case in a way guaranteed to gain his sympathy. And don't forget you are my business, not his. He wouldn't thank you for asking him to interfere.'
'There is always your aunt,' Ross said, on a note of desperation. 'She is a woman.'
'Naturally.'
'You don't have to be so sa-rcastic!' Ross turned in her seat to look at him furiously. Her cheeks flamed as he momentarily removed his gaze from the road to meet her eyes coolly, hating him vehemently for making her love him when his only desire was so obviously to torment her. 'She is a woman,' she repeated stubbornly. 'She would listen.'
'No doubt she would, being notoriously kind-hearted, and normally curious. But rest assured, whatever her personal opinion she would not go past me either.'
'How nice for you,' Ross retorted, blinking back some bitter tears, 'to be surrounded by such loyalty. I'll find someone, someone somewhere, who will help me !'
He simply shook his head dryly, as if both her threats and herself were without substance. 'No, Rosalind. You will rest for a while as I seek to uncover any further deception. Then, when I have you straightened out, we will decide sensibly what is to become of you.'
CHAPTER NINE
They reached the asbah of Rabouet late in the afternoon. After the flatness of the desert the stony approach to the mountains had confused Ross strangely, making her not altogether sure that she didn't prefer the burning yellow sands they had left behind them. Huddled in her seat she waited, the apprehension in her heart not soothed by Armel's unsympathetic silence, for what lay ahead.
The skyline lay long and straight, broken by the high, jutting peaks of-rocky pinnacles and lonely plateaus where Ross would not have been surprised to see an eagle soaring. The country was wild, the sky high, the deep crevasses to the valleys intimidating. They followed a dry river bed at the bottom of a canyon and the road was rough and difficult, the whole length of it being strewn in places by small boulders which had fallen from the sheer cliffs above. The sandstone flamed, yellow and red, in places black and cruel-looking which chilled her more than the weird bright colours, which, if curiously macabre, were not so frightening.
Miles they appeared to travel through the various gorges until they eventually arrived at Rabouet. It stood on a kind of tree-dotted plateau, the mountains behind it providing a backdrop of unquestionable beauty. In ordef to reach the Caid's residence they had to turn off the main track and, after the hills of arid-looking stone with no signs of vegetation, the vast oasis with its feathery palm trees was a welcome sight.
The Caid's residence lay at the end of a tree-lined avenue, a combination of massive, tower-like blocks to a height of several stories. It sprawled, as if the builder had almost forgotten to stop, its white, crenellated ramparts looking as if they could defy the strongest army. As they swept through the entrance gate Ross was surprised by the grandeur of it all. It was, at first glance, completely overwhelming with its large inner courtyards, its shady terraces and walled gardens starding to Ross's eyes, so used had she become to the barrenness of the country outside. It looked
more like a palace than the house of even a rich man, and the bemused glance she slid at Armel was oddly tinged with resentment. There was even a little anger that he had brought her to a place like this without even giving her any indication as to what to expect.
In one of the inner courtyards the small convoy came to a stop. Armel came around to her door immediately he eased his tall frame to the ground. He did not help her out but waited until she climbed stiffly down before taking her arm in a firm, don't-try-to-escape-me grip. She walked like this, between Armel and Moulay, into the asbah.
Inside was a huge complex of chambers and galleries and a coolness, which after the heat of the journey, Ross appreciated more than anything else. Yet it was all so opulent she found it difficult to restrain her wandering eyes. In the manner of a sleep-walker she took in the floors of fine mosaics, the walls covered with tiles of intricate patterns or carvings of arabesque. Silver lanterns were suspended from the ceiling of the reception room where she stood and velvet- covered sofas lined the walls. Rich silk-embroidered hassocks of many colours lay on the beautiful rugs which were scattered over the floors, contrasting yet blending so wonderfully as to be wholly pleasing to the eye.
Armel interrupted her rather dazed staring by jerking her none too gently towards a man who came walking quickly to them. It seemed he had been waiting. She was introduced to his uncle, who looked not unlike an older edition of Moulay, but had a kind of presence which reminded her more of the man whose fingers still curved steel-like around her arm. For a moment she felt an uncertain compulsion to bow. The Caid's own expression was kind but guarded as he greeted what was an obviously unexpected visitor, as he listened politely to Armel's brief explanation of how Ross had been lost in the desert. He looked as if he was about to offer some advice, but Armel gave him no chance.
'If Miss Lindsay could be given a room,' he suggested smoothly, 'I am sure she would be very grateful. We have been travelling a long time and I think she is weary. And I would like to see my aunt.. .' He frowned, not attempting to disguise a certain anxiousness, 'I hope she is no worse?'
'No, indeed!' the Caid smiled. 'She is, in fact, much better, a surprising recovery. Perhaps we have been too hasty in summoning you so impetuously from your desert, but you will understand we were alarmed. As for a room for Miss Lindsay, nothing could be simpler.'
The Caid, looking incredibly Westernised in his elegant suit, seemed only too happy to oblige his arrogant nephew, although Ross doubted if the allocation of a room for one such as herself came anywhere near his sphere. He was courteous and charming, and his air of efficient command was no myth. Within minutes she found herself whisked away by what she supposed was the Moroccan equivalent of the English maid, up the sweeping staircase to the vast portals beyond.
Armel made no attempt to follow. He only said not to leave her room before he saw her again, which should be very shortly. His tone was impersonal, his eyes so cool, there was nothing to betray that they had ever been anything more than strangers. Perhaps, because she must look such a positive tramp in her now soiled ragged clothing, it was the only impression he wished to give.
Once in her room, Ross found she was so tired she didn't greatly care. There must obviously be a set of rooms set permanently aside for visitors as the maid stopped at the first door along the wide, arched corridor and ushered Ross politely through it. She thanked her and the girl smiled her appreciation, the warm friendly smile of the East.
She ran a bath, a deep one, that made Ross feel immediately guilty, even while she stared at it longingly. Water was in such short supply in the desert. While this was obviously not the case here, she felt she could never use it casually again. The girl could speak no English and her French was not as good as Ross's had been before Armel's careful tuition. In the end Ross gave up and decided recklessly to take what the gods seemed very generously to offer. She immersed herself almost lasciviously in the warm scented water and waved the girl away.
It was heavenly, after the deprivations of the past weeks, just to soak. She scrubbed every part of her -with the scented soap, then washed her hair, which felt full of sand and dust. There were huge white towels to dry on, and, afterwards, she wrapped herself in one of these and lay on her bed. After sitting in the Land-Rover all day she might have been wiser to have tried a little exercise, but her body felt so bruised and tired after the punishment of the rough terrain over which they had travelled that she could manage no further than the large, silk-draped bed.
Here she slept deeply, scarcely being able to remember, when she awoke several hours later, ever reaching it. The maid was sitting by her bed when she opened her heavy eyes, but as soon as she saw Ross was awake she disappeared, so swiftly as to leave Ross thinking she must have imagined it. Gasping a little when she glanced at her watch, she struggled to her feet. She felt refreshed from her bath and sleep, but her hair, which she had only managed to rub half dry, was still damp, and a towel seemed all she possessed in the way of clothing.
Outside it was dark, she could see through the light drapes about the window. There was no moon, but the stars looked familiar, their brightness stirring memories she would rather be without. How had she ever managed to get herself into such a fix? On top of everything else it- seemed a kind of ironic grand finale to have fallen asleep. Hadn't she planned to do such a lot before nightfall! Yet here she was, several wasted hours behind her and unable to do a thing about it. She could scarcely go careering around an Arabian Nights palace like this in a bath towel and, search as she might, her few scraps of clothing seemed to have gone.
Just as she was scuffing her bare toes uncertainly on the polished sheen of a priceless rug, the girl returned carrying a tray, followed closely by Armel. In startled surprise Ross stared, forgetting for a moment even her embarrassing state of undress. He had discarded his rough desert attire in favour of a white dinner jacket. In it he looked so disturb- ingly handsome it did things to her pulse.
'You've slept,' he said, after sweeping Ross coolly with his eyes and exchanging a few words in Arabic with the maid, who immediately put down the tray and left.
Ross nodded, her eyes still fixed tensely on his. 'I don't recall intending to,' she answered automatically, 'I only remember sitting on the edge of the bed. I can't really remember having a good look at my room. The bath was lovely, I enjoyed it. I washed my hair, but it hasn't properly dried. I think ...'
'Rosalind,' he interposed rudely, 'will you kindly shut up ! You're like a record player gone out of control.'
'Oh .. .' Ross wished for the thousandth time he couldn't so easily reduce her to about five years old. He probably thought of her as that age too, although a second later she changed her mind as he drew nearer and his gaze lingered on the bare curves of her body which the towel left exposed. 'I'm sorry,' she gulped, sitting abruptly down again and dragging the towel closer around her, 'I think I still feel a little dazed, and I can't seem to find anything else to wear.'
'I can't think of anything that might suit you better,' he offered smoothly, gallantly polite while his eyes still probed, arousing a most peculiar response inside her which she was thankful he could not know about.
'How is your aunt?' she asked hastily. 'I hope, as your uncle said, she really is better?'
'Much better, thank you.' Ross fancied he sounded a bit grim as he went to a small toilet table she hadn't yet noticed and picked up a comb which he silently passed her.
Her hair must have been responsible for the dry note of disapproval in his voice. Defensively she drew the small curved comb through her tangled, tumbled locks. 'I couldn't see one before,' she said righteously, 'and I've only just woke up. Besides, I'm not sure you should be here 1'
'Don't worry. They know of your exhaustion.'
'You mean they know what you told them?'
'Yes.' The bed slumped as he sat down by her side.
'And they believed you 1' She wished he hadn't chosen to sit just there. It was very difficult, well nigh impossible to
comb one's hair satisfactorily while holding on to a towel!
'But of course. In a thing like this they would.' Calmly he took the towel from her clutching hand and held it himsfelf. 'You can't do two jobs at once,' he observed, as if attuned to her thoughts, if not the degree of her agitation.
She could have been quicker if her hands hadn't trembled so much. Ruthlessly she tugged the comb, unaware of pain as his fingers grasped firmly but spread widely and were not still on the high, firm curves of her figure, she knew he must feel the frantic throb of her heart and was glad that the fluffy disorder of her newly washed hair hid the rather tortured expression on her face.
Her hair was done and she flung aside the comb as though it burnt her. He simply laughed, surrendering the towel again but grasping her bare shoulders, turning her to him slowly as he lowered his mouth to hers, playing with her lips gently but tantalisingly until she relaxed and responded, feeling her senses whirl as he pressed her closer.
Another minute and she was free. 'As I was saying,' he began conversationally, as if such an interlude had never happened, 'my aunt and uncle very rarely question my opinions.'
Ross started blindly to eat her supper, not really seeing it. 'You appear to be an acknowledged authority on many things, but I have yet to discover the exact nature of your— er—work!'
Again he laughed coolly. T shouldn't despair. I have little doubt before you are many days older you will have learnt much of what you so wish to know. Only I can not guarantee that any of it will please you.'
'But it has never been your intention that I should be pleased, has it, monsieur?' she gritted, trying desperately to subdue her body's unconscious dissatisfaction. 'You have always been intent only to punish.'
