Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘George?’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  Ramiz shook his head. ‘It is best you don’t look.’

  ‘The guards?’

  ‘Traitors.’

  ‘And Bakri?’

  Ramiz shook his head again. Bakri, who had been his servant since he was a boy, was dead. He swallowed hard.

  ‘You saved my life. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. But I heard George, you see. My husband. I thought— I thought…’ Celia began to shake. Her knees seemed to be turning to jelly. The ground was moving. ‘I’m a widow,’ she said, a touch of hysteria in her voice. ‘I’m a widow, and I’ve never really been a wife.’ As she began to fall, Ramiz caught her in his arms. The feel of them, securing her to the solid, reassuring bulk of his body, was the last thing Celia remembered.

  She was climbing through a tunnel. Slowly up through the thick darkness she went, fighting the urge to curl up and stay where she was, safe, unnoticed. A slit of light lay ahead. She was afraid to reach it. Something horrible waited for her there.

  ‘George!’ She sat up with a start. ‘George!’ Celia struggled to her feet, clutching her head as the ground rolled and tipped like the deck of a ship in a storm. She was in the tent. How had she got there? It didn’t matter. She staggered out into the open air.

  The blaze of the sun dazzled her eyes, temporarily blinding her. When her vision cleared, she clutched at the tent rope for support. The blood had dried dark on the ground, and she remembered, in a rush, what had happened. The men arriving in a cloud of dust like something from the Bible. The man from yesterday. Who was he? And what was he doing here? Then the fighting. The cries. And George running. Running away. Even though he had a gun. Even though he used to practice shooting at Manson’s every week. He had been running away. He hadn’t even looked for her.

  No! She mustn’t think that way. He had just panicked, he would have come back for her.

  A clunking sound coming from the back of the tent distracted her. Celia made her way cautiously, already knowing in her heart what she would find. Sure enough, the stranger was there, his gold-edged cloak discarded on a rock. His headdress was tied back from his face, which glistened with sweat from his exertions. He was smoothing sand over a distinctive mound of desert earth. He must have found a shovel with the supplies their traitorous guards had left when they’d fled.

  He was facing away from her. The thin white of his tunic clung to his back with sweat, outlining the breadth of his shoulders. He looked strong. A capable man. Capable of saving her life. A man who knew how to take care of things. Who didn’t run away. Stop!

  He put down the shovel and wiped the sweat from his brow. She must have moved, or made a noise, or maybe he just sensed her, for he turned around. ‘You should stay in the tent, out of the sun.’

  He spoke English with an accent, his voice curling round the words like a husky caress. His eyes were a strange colour, like bronze tinged with gold, the irises dark. He walked with a fluid grace. Celia could not imagine that such a man was regularly employed in manual labour. It struck her then that she was quite alone with him, and she shivered. Fear? Yes, but not as much as there should be. She was too shocked, too numb to feel anything much at the moment.

  He stopped just in front of her, was watching her with concern. She didn’t like the way he looked at her. It made her feel weak. She didn’t like feeling weak. She was normally the one who took care of things. Celia straightened her back, tilting her head up to meet the stranger’s eyes, forgetting all about protocol and hats and veils.

  ‘Who are you?’ Her voice came out with only the tiniest of wobbles.

  ‘Sheikh Ramiz al-Muhana,’ he said, bowing before her with a hint of a smile, lending a fleeting softness to the hard, rocky planes of his face. It lightened his eyes to amber, as if the sun shone from them. Everything about him gleamed. She remembered thinking yesterday of the ancient pharaohs. He had that air about him. Of command.

  ‘Sheikh Ramiz…’ Celia repeated stupidly, then realisation dawned. ‘You mean Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz?’

  He nodded.

  ‘We were on our way to visit you in Balyrma. George is—was…’ She drew a shaky breath, determined not to lose control. ‘I don’t understand. What are you doing here? What happened this morning? Who were those men? Why did they attack us?’

  Her voice rose with each question. Her face was pale. Her eyes, with their heavy lids which gave her that sensual, sleepy look, were dark with a fear she was determined not to show. She had courage, this Englishwoman, unlike her coward of a husband. ‘Later. First you must say your farewells, then we will leave this place.’

  ‘Farewells?’

  Her lip was beginning to tremble, but she clenched it firmly between her teeth. Big eyes—the green of moss or unpolished jade, he thought—turned pleadingly towards him. Ramiz took Celia’s arm and gently led her towards the graves.

  Two graves, Celia noticed. And another two at a distance. Prince Ramiz had obviously laboured long and hard as she lay unconscious. Such labour had spared her much. She could not but be grateful.

  They stood together, she and the Prince of A’Qadiz, in silent contemplation. Sadness welled up inside Celia. Poor George. A tear splashed down her cheek, then another. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  They should never have married. George hadn’t really wanted a wife, and she—she’d wanted more from her husband than he’d been prepared to give. It was as well he had not, for were she standing here a real wife, with three months of real marriage behind her, the pain would be unendurable.

  Overcome with remorse, Celia clenched her eyes tight shut and prayed hard for the husband she knew now she could never have loved, no matter how hard she’d tried. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered again.

  ‘He is at peace now. He walks with his god.’ Ramiz broke the silence. ‘As does Bakri, who was my servant, and my brother’s, and my father’s before that.’

  Celia roused herself from the stupor which threatened to envelop her. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t realise. It must be a great blow for you to lose him.’

  ‘He died an honourable death.’ Ramiz closed his eyes and spoke a prayer in his native language. His voice was low, and the strange words had a simple beauty in their cadence that soothed. ‘Now, go back to the tent. I will finish here.’

  An honourable death. The unspoken criticism hung like a weight from Celia’s heart as she made her way slowly back to the tent. Though common sense told her she could not have saved George, that to have disobeyed Ramiz when he’d told her to hide would almost certainly have resulted in her own death, it did not prevent her from being racked with guilt for having survived.

  George was dead. She was a widow. George was dead—and in such a horrible way that it was as if she had dreamt it, or imagined it as a tale from One Thousand and One Nights. If only it had been. If only she could wake up.

  But she could not. All she could do was behave with what dignity she could muster. With the dignity her father and Aunt Sophia would expect of her. With the dignity which others would expect of George’s wife, a representative of His Majesty’s government, she re minded herself strictly.

  Thus, when Ramiz joined her half an hour later, though she longed to sink onto the carpeted floor, to curl up under the comfort of a blanket and cry, Celia forced herself to her feet. ‘I must beg your pardon, Your Highness, if I have offended you by appearing rude,’ she said, turning towards Ramiz, remembering belatedly to avert her eyes from his face. ‘I must thank you for saving my life, and for the trouble you took with—with my husband.’ She swept him a deep curtsy. ‘I realise I haven’t even introduced myself. I am Lady Celia Cleveden.’

  ‘I think we are long past the need for such formalities,’ Ramiz replied. ‘Come, we must leave this place if we are to find another shelter before dark. I don’t want to risk spending the night here.’

  ‘But what about—? We can’t just…’

  ‘There is nothi
ng more we can do. I have already formed the animals into a caravan,’ Ramiz said impatiently.

  She had not the will to argue. Questions tussled for prominence in her mind, but she had not the strength to form them. And she had absolutely no desire at all to remain here, in the presence of the dead, at the scene of such horror, so she followed the Prince obediently to where her camel was tethered, and when it dropped to its knees at Ramiz’s barked command Celia climbed wearily onto the high wooden platform which served as a saddle. Vaguely she noticed that the beast Prince Ramiz mounted was as white as his horse yesterday had been. That its saddle cloth was silk, intricately embroidered with gold, and that the tack was similarly intricately tasselled and trimmed with threads of gold.

  He mounted with the ease of long practice, and took up the halters of the leading camel in the caravan, as well as a halter attached to Celia’s own camel. Under any other circumstances she would have been furious to have her mount’s control taken from her. Now she was simply relieved. It was one less thing to worry about.

  They rode for about two hours. When the sun began its spectacularly fast slide down towards the horizon, striping the sky with gold and crimson, they stopped and made camp. Unbelievably, Celia had dozed for part of the way. Distance and rest had already started the healing process. As she fulfilled each of Ramiz’s curt instructions her mind sorted and sieved through the events, forming questions which she was determined he would answer.

  They sat by a small fire, eating a simple meal which Celia prepared from their supplies. A new moon was rising. Hilal. The crescent moon. The sign of new beginnings.

  ‘Do you know what happened this morning? Why it happened, Your Highness?’ Celia asked when they had finished their food. ‘How did you come to be there?’

  ‘Ramiz. You may call me Ramiz while we are in private. I was following you. I wanted to see what kind of man your government had sent to talk to me. I wanted to run the rule over him before our official meeting. I had not anticipated him bringing his wife. If I had known you were coming I would certainly have made alternative arrangements for your journey to my citadel.’

  ‘Just because I am a woman it does not mean I need to be wrapped in cotton wool. I am perfectly capable of dealing with the hardships of a trip across the desert.’

  ‘From what I saw, you are far more capable than your husband was,’ Ramiz said dryly, ‘but that is beside the point. In my country we take care of our women. We cherish them, and we put their comfort before our own. Their lives before our own. Unlike your husband.’

  Celia shifted uncomfortably on the carpet. The narrow skirts of her robe made kneeling difficult. ‘George was just—George was not—he was…’

  ‘Running away,’ Ramiz said contemptuously. ‘Was he armed?’

  ‘He had a gun,’ Celia admitted reluctantly.

  ‘He could have saved himself and the life of my honoured servant.’

  ‘Your Highness—Ramiz—my husband was a good man. It is just that this was all—and the attack—it was terrifying. He acted on—on instinct.’

  ‘A man whose instincts are to abandon his wife in order to save his own skin is not worth saving. Nature has bestowed upon women their beauty for man to appreciate. To man has been granted the strength to provide and protect them. To break such rules is to go against the natural way of things, the formula civilisations such as mine have been following very successfully for many thousands of years. Your husband was a coward and therefore not, in my eyes, worthy to be called a man. I am sorry to be so harsh, but I speak only the truth.’

  Though all her instincts told her to defend George, Celia found she could not. To a man like Ramiz, what George had done was indefensible. And in a small corner of her own mind she agreed. She turned her attention to obtaining answers to the rest of the questions she knew would be asked of her when she returned to Cairo. Nothing could bring George back, but she could brief the Consul General, provide at least some information about this principality of which they knew next to nothing. In a tiny way it would mean that George had not died in vain. ‘You knew the men who attacked us today, didn’t you?’ she asked. ‘Who were they?’

  Ramiz threw his head back to look up at the stars, suspended like lanterns so close above them. ‘Until two years ago my elder brother Asad was the ruler of A’Qadiz. This kingdom and those surrounding it are lands of many tribes, many factions, and my brother embroiled us in many battles. He believed that the sword was mightier than the tongue. It was to cost him his life.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Ramiz shook his head slowly. ‘He was killed in a pointless, ultimately futile skirmish. I don’t share his philosophy. I believe most men are reasonable, and reasonable men want peace. Peace is what I have been working tirelessly to achieve, but not all my neighbours agree with me. Nor do all accept my strategy of negotiating with foreign powers such as the British. Today was a warning, and I must act swiftly or everything I have begun to achieve will crumble into dust. It is unfortunate that you have been caught up in this, but there is nothing I can do about it for now. It is another two days’ journey to Balyrma. We must start at first light.’

  ‘Balyrma!’ Celia exclaimed. ‘But surely—I mean, I had assumed you would take me back to Cairo.’

  ‘There can be no question of that. I must return home urgently.’

  ‘Can you not provide me with another escort?’

  Ramiz indicated with two spread arms the vast empty expanse of the desert night. ‘You think I have magic powers? You think I can summon an escort for you by sheer force of will?’

  ‘I’m afraid I was not briefed, and my husband chose not to share the details of this mission with me. I can be of little use to you in that regard.’

  ‘It is of no matter. It would not be appropriate to hold such discussions with a woman in any event,’ Ramiz said dismissively.

  She already knew that. George had said as much, and it wasn’t really so very different from the way things were back home in England. ‘If that is the case, surely it would make more sense for me to go back to Egypt. It is but a day’s travel to the port and…’

  ‘I have spoken. You would do well to remember that in this country my word is law.’

  Celia was taken aback by the abrupt change of tone. Ramiz had removed his headdress. His hair was black, surprisingly close cut, emphasising the shape of his head, the strength in his neck and shoulders. Now he ran his fingers through it, making a small lick stand up endearingly on his forehead, and Celia realised he was younger than she had thought, perhaps only two or three and thirty. But his looks belied his maturity. He spoke with the voice of authority, the voice of a man used to being obeyed without question. A man, she reminded herself, who held the power of life and death over her.

  Celia, however, was not a woman to whom unquestioning obedience came naturally. ‘Is it because of the attack this morning?’ she asked carefully. ‘Are you worried they may return?’ She had not thought of this until now—how vulnerable they were, only the two of them. Nervously, she peered out into the inky black of the desert, but she could see nothing beyond the vague contours of the hills.

  She was immensely relieved when Ramiz shook his head decidedly. ‘They would not dare return now they know of my presence here.’ His mouth thinned. ‘It is a stain on my honour, and on that of A’Qadiz, that they came at all.’

  ‘You saved my life.’ Without thinking, Celia laid her hand over his. ‘You could not have known that your own men would turn traitor.’

  Her hand was cool. Her fingers were long, that same lovely creamy colour as her face. Women with such colouring so often turned an ugly red in the sun, or freckled, yet she looked to be flawless. Ramiz wondered how flawless. Then he reminded himself that he should not be wondering. He removed her hand deliberately. ‘You will come to Balyrma with me, and that is an end to it.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Ramiz shrugged. ‘Until I decide what is to be done with you.’

&nbs
p; Celia frowned. It seemed she had no option. Would it not be best to accept her fate rather than estrange her host by arguing? Though she did not know the details of George’s mission, she knew much depended upon it. In any case, even if she was granted her wish to return to Cairo immediately, as George’s widow she would not be permitted to stay. She would be sent home. Was that what she really wanted? The answer to that question was obvious.

  ‘Where will I stay in Balyrma?’

  ‘In the palace, as my guest.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be good idea,’ Celia said uncertainly. ‘As an unaccompanied woman it would not be appropriate for me to stay in your palace, especially as you are clearly going to be occupied by urgent matters of state.’

  Ramiz laughed harshly. ‘You may talk like a man, but you are a woman, are you not, Lady Celia? You need not worry about your virtue. You will be housed in the women’s quarters, to which no man but me is permitted entry.’ He turned towards her. In the firelight, his eyes seemed to glow like amber.

  ‘Do you mean I am to stay in a harem?’ Celia’s eyes widened in shock. Images from One Thousand and One Nights, of scantily clad concubines oiling themselves and lolling about on velvet cushions sprang to her mind. ‘You expect me to form part of your harem? You’re not serious. You can’t be serious.’ Her voice had a panicky edge to it. ‘I am not—you expect me to…’

  It was that word—harem. Ramiz saw immediately what she was thinking. He had encountered the same misunderstanding time and again during his travels as his father’s emissary. Europeans imagined a harem to be some sort of exclusive bordello. It angered him to have such inaccurate assumptions made, so he no longer tried to explain. If their fevered imaginations wanted to conjure up scores of nubile women in a perpetual state of arousal waiting for their lord and master to take them to his bed, let them!

  ‘The harem is the place for women in the palace, so that is where you will stay.’