Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Hello?’ she called out tentatively, feeling horribly self-conscious as she listened to her voice echo up through the courtyard. There was no answer. This is ridiculous, she thought, deciding simply to select a doorway and walk through it.

  She was picking up her skirts and making for the nearest one when a voice halted her. Two men were approaching. Huge men with bellies so large they looked like cushions, dressed not in robes but in wide black pleated breeches and shiny black boots. Each had a vicious curved dagger held in the sash which marked where the waistband had once been. Under their black turbans each had a black beard and long black moustaches.

  Like two of Ali Baba’s forty thieves, Celia thought a little hysterically as the men stopped in front of her. Then they bowed, indicating that she follow them, and with her heart in her mouth she did, through a myriad of doors and cool dark passageways, until they came to another large wooden door set in another white-tiled wall. One of the men produced a large key and pulled the door wide. Celia stepped through into a courtyard almost a mirror image of the one she had left. She thought at first she was back where she had started. Then the door behind her closed, leaving the guards on the other side, and she realised where she was.

  Just as Ramiz had told her she would be, she was in his harem.

  It was everything she had expected, and yet nothing like it. For a start she was quite alone aside from the two maidservants who tended to her, bringing delicious foods, exotic fruits she had never seen before, fragrant meats cooked in delicious spices, cooling sherbets and tea served sweet and flavoured with mint.

  Adila and Fatima were shy at first, giggling over Celia’s clothes, astonished at the layers of undergarments she wore, and utterly confounded by her stays. In turn Celia, who allowed her dresser to look after her hair for grand occasions, but otherwise was used to managing for herself, found their care for her embarrassing—waving them away when they first attempted to bathe her, submitting only when she saw that she had offended them.

  By nature modest, Celia had never shared such intimacies as bathing, even with her sisters, but within the seclusion of the harem it seemed less shocking, and she very quickly began to enjoy the pampering of baths strewn with rose petals and orange blossom, having oils scented with musk and amber gently massaged into her skin and preparations for her hair and for her face, which left her whole body glowing and more relaxed than she had ever known.

  The harem itself covered three floors, its upper terraces reached by tiled staircases which zigzagged up through the towers, marking the four corners of the courtyards. These upper rooms were empty, echoing, as if they had not been used for some time. The lower rooms, which led one into another in a square around the terrace, were opulently decorated, with rich carpets on the floors and low divans draped with lace, velvet and silk, the jewel colours of blue and gold and emerald and crimson reflected in the long mirrors which hung on the walls. The only windows looked out onto the courtyard, and the only exit was the one through which she had entered, but once Celia had recovered from the shock of her incarceration and accepted there was nothing she could do save wait for Ramiz to return, she found it astonishingly easy to surrender to the magical world of the harem. She had nothing to do save surrender her body to the ministering of Adila and Fatima, and surrender her mind to the healing process.

  As the days melded one into another Celia quickly lost all track of time, so strangely did the tranquil seclusion of the harem play on her senses. She had never been so much alone, never had so much peace to simply be. As the eldest, and having lost her mother not long after her youngest sister Cressida was born, it was second nature to Celia to put others first, to be always thinking ahead and taking responsibility for what happened next. Indulgence and inactivity such as had now been forced on her were quite alien. Those who knew her as always busy, always planning, managing at least ten things at once, would say without hesitation that such a life as she was now experiencing would have her beside herself with boredom or screaming for release. Celia would have said so herself. But right now it was the antidote she required to recover not just from the trauma of losing her husband, but from the trauma of realising she wished she had never married him in the first place. If Ramiz had intended this as a punishment, he had been mistaken.

  Almost without her noticing a full month passed, marked by the changing of the moon, whose growth from flickering crescent to glowing whole reflected the healing process taking place in Celia herself.

  Then, just as she was beginning to wonder if she would be left forgotten here for ever, and her temper was beginning to recover enough to resent Ramiz’s extended and unexplained absence, the man himself appeared without warning.

  It was evening. Dinner had arrived—a much more elaborate meal than usual, which required an additional servant to bring it. Out of habit Celia was dressed in an evening gown after the daily ritual of her bath and massage. She stared in consternation at the plethora of little dishes in their gold salvers, wondrously appetising but far too much for just one, set out on a low table in the largest of the salons, around which banks of tasselled and embroidered cushions were strewn.

  ‘I can’t eat all this,’ she said helplessly to Adila, miming that they should take some of it back, but the maid only smiled behind her hand and backed out, shaking her head.

  The door to the outside world opened. Not just the usual tiny crack, barely enough to allow the staff to slip in and out, it was flung wide open. Ramiz strode in, resplendent in a robe of opulent red.

  She had forgotten how incredibly handsome he was. She had forgotten how tall he was too. He looked a little tired, though, with a tiny fan of lines crinkling around his eyes. He wore no headdress, no belt, and his full robe was more like a caftan with wide sleeves, flowing loosely down to his feet which were clad in slippers of soft leather studded with jewels. The robe was open at the neck, but for all his dress was obviously informal he looked even more regal, more intimidating than she remembered.

  She was nervous. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was bumping a fraction too hard against her breast. Celia dropped a curtsy. ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘Ramiz,’ he said. ‘While we are alone, I am Ramiz.’

  Alone. She decided not to think about that. Having imagined this moment many times over the last few days, she decided to act as if it were any other social occasion, and to treat Ramiz as if he were an honoured guest and she the hostess. And not, definitely not, worry about being alone with him in his harem.

  ‘Are you hungry? Dinner is here. I wondered why there was so much of it. Now I see you were expected.’

  ‘You would have preferred some warning?’ Ramiz asked, picking up immediately on her unspoken criticism.

  ‘It is your palace. It is not for me to dictate where you are, and when,’ Celia said tactfully, preceding him into the salon in which the food was laid out, waiting until he had disposed himself gracefully on a large cushion before she sat down opposite him.

  ‘I’ve been away. I’ve only just got back,’ Ramiz explained unexpectedly. ‘I told you I had urgent business to attend to.’ He lifted the cover from a dish of partridges stuffed with dates and pine nuts and sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘You mean only just got back as in today?’

  ‘An hour ago.’

  Celia was flattered, and then alarmed, and then nervous again. She poured Ramiz a glass of pale green sherbet and pushed a selection of dishes towards him. ‘May I ask if your business was successful?’ she said. ‘I presume it was to do with the other prince—Malik, I think his name was?’

  Ramiz looked surprised. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you—were you—did you have to fight with him?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  Celia nodded. ‘I really do.’

  It was not the custom to discuss such matters with a woman. It was not in his nature to discuss such matters with anyone. But it had been a diffic
ult few days, and there was something about this woman which encouraged the sharing of confidences. ‘My council all urged swift and brutal retribution—as usual, since I inherited most of them from my brother.’

  ‘But you ignored them?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t want to follow that path until there are no other options left.’

  ‘So tell me—what did you do? How do you go about negotiating a deal with a man who wields power through fear? Come to that, how do you set about persuading your own people to accept such an alien approach?’

  Ramiz smiled. ‘You forget I am a prince too. I don’t have to persuade my people of anything. They do as I bid.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what you say, but I’ll wager that you try all the same,’ Celia said, with a perception which surprised him. ‘You don’t really want to rule in splendid isolation, do you?’

  ‘Splendid isolation? That is exactly how it feels sometimes. You can have no idea how wearing it is, trying to break the ingrained prejudice of years,’ Ramiz said wearily. ‘Sometimes I think— But that is another matter. With Prince Malik…’

  He went on to tell her about the events of the last few days, spurred on by her intelligent interest into revealing far more of his innermost thoughts than he had ever done. It was a relief to unburden himself, and refreshing too, for this woman who talked and thought like a man had a knack for encouraging without toadying, and her shocking lack of deference lent her opinions a credibility he would not otherwise have conceded.

  By the time the meal was over the weight of responsibility which was beginning to feel like a sack upon his back had eased a little for the first time since he had so unexpectedly come to power. This woman understood the cares of governing. She would have made an excellent diplomatic wife. George Cleveden had chosen well. But George Cleveden was dead, and Ramiz could not regret it, for the woman who was now his widow deserved better. Much better. Not that it was any of his business.

  ‘Are you comfortable here in my harem?’ Ramiz settled himself back against the cushions. The lamps with their coloured glass shades reflected the light in rainbow patterns onto the mirrors and the tiled white of the salon.

  Celia thought she recognised that teasing note in his voice, but she could not be sure. ‘Extremely,’ she said cautiously. ‘Your servants have looked after me very well, but I was surprised to find myself the only occupant.’

  ‘I moved my brother’s wives and children to their own palace. Those who wished were returned to their families.’

  ‘And you haven’t had time to—to stock up on wives for yourself?’

  Ramiz burst out laughing. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘You led me to believe you had many wives.’

  ‘No, you made that assumption yourself.’

  Celia bit her lip. ‘I suppose you get tired of people like me making such assumptions. You wanted to teach me a lesson, didn’t you?’

  Ramiz held up his hands. ‘I confess. Tell me, what did you expect when you came here? A scene from One Thousand and One Nights?’

  She blushed. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I don’t know what to think,’ she said, opting for honesty. ‘In one way, there’s something almost liberating in being so cut off from the world and unable to do anything about it. I feel rested. Cured. Better. I’ve never had so much time to think. It’s like I’ve been able to sort out my mind, make sense of things.’

  ‘You had problems in your marriage, I think?’

  After so many days of silence, so many hours spent scrutinising and questioning, it was a huge relief to speak her thoughts. ‘I wasn’t exactly unhappy, but I think I would have become so, and I know George already was.’ A tear trembled on her lashes. Celia brushed it away. ‘He was—he did not want—I think he wanted a companion rather than a wife. How did you guess?’ She had not meant to ask, but here in the tranquil security of the harem, with the soft light casting ghostly shadows onto the walls, such an intimate topic seemed natural.

  He had been conversing with her like a man, admiring her intelligence and strong opinions. Now he saw in that look stripped of its poise, in the vulnerable trembling of her lip, that she was all woman. He remembered her body, glinting pale and alluring in the moonlight by the oasis—an image which had crept unbidden into his dreams these last five nights, so unwanted, so dishonourable that he had banished its memory in the daylight. Now here it was again, and here in the rooms of the palace set aside for sensual pleasure, rooms he had never himself used, his resistance was beginning to falter.

  He wanted her. There was every reason for him to deny himself, but he had done so much denying since his brother died he was sick of it. He wanted her. He wanted to teach her. He wanted her to know pleasure. And he wanted her knowing to be his doing.

  Ramiz got to his feet. ‘I guessed because you have the look of a woman starved of attention. Come with me,’ he said, reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet, placing a finger over her mouth to stop her speaking. He led her out of the salon to the courtyard, where the fountains made their sweet music in the jasmine-scented air. ‘Look up there.’ The deep sapphire of the night sky was framed high above their heads. ‘In my culture, we believe that love has wings—wings which can take you all the way up there to the stars, where the heavenly pleasures of the body are worshipped. It is a voluptuous journey. A journey which leaves its mark upon a woman in her eyes, in the way she walks, the way she learns to nourish and to relish her body, knowing that it is a temple of delights. I look at you and I see a woman who has not yet learned to fly. I look at you and I want to help you experience what it feels like to soar in the high clouds.’

  His voice shivered seductively in her ear. They were standing by the fountain, his hands on her arms, stroking feathery light up and down her bare skin. She could feel the brush of velvet from his sleeves. He smelt of lemon-scented soap and night-scented man. She pictured herself flying. His presence, the scent of him, the feel of him, the husky sound of him, gave her a fleeting image of what that might be like. Of what he might do to her to make it happen.

  She wanted it. Whatever it was, she wanted it, and she knew she would never find a more able tutor. His confidence was intoxicating. His aura of power equally so. His casual mastery, which could intimidate and anger, was here, under the secret stars fascinating, beguiling, and incredibly persuasive.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what it’s like to fly, Celia?’ Ramiz spoke into her ear. His lips whispered over her skin.

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ she said, which was the truth.

  His laugh, like a throaty purr, so filled with assurance, made her stomach clench in anticipation. ‘Trust me—you can.’

  His tongue traced the shell of her ear. His fingers trailed up her arms to the nape of her neck, circling delightful spirals which whirled little pulses into life. Her heart was beating fast. Faster. She was hot and cold all at the same time. His mouth traced the line of her jaw, and she ached, ached for him to kiss her lips, but instead he moved down her throat. His velvet-soft mouth gave kisses that made her arch back in his arms like a bow, so that she could see the sky now, the stars glinting and beckoning and calling to her as his mouth reached the hollow of her neck, and her skin seemed to reach out to greet him, wanting more than the flickering kisses he gave her.

  ‘Ramiz,’ Celia whispered, ‘Ramiz, please…I want to.’

  He scooped her up into his arms, heading for the nearest salon, which happened to be the one in which she slept. The low divan, with its scattering of pillows and silk covers, took up centre place in the room. It was the strangest bed she had ever encountered, for it was round, with neither head nor footboard. Ramiz set her to her feet before it, gazing deep into her eyes, his own glowing amber in the shadowed light with something fierce she didn’t recognise and wasn’t sure she liked.

  She lowered her lids, but he tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him again. ‘You must not be ashamed of your body
; you must learn to enjoy it. That is the first lesson you must learn or you will never leave the ground.’

  Then his lips covered hers, fitting so perfectly that she stopped breathing. How could mouths fit like that? But they did. Warmth flooded through her. She stood pliant, unsure what to do, confused by the urgent need to kiss him back, so at odds with what she had been told. Ramiz snaked his arms around her back to pull her close. She could feel the solid hardness of his body pressed into her own softness. She had not thought of herself as soft before. Or curved. She had never encountered such blatant masculinity so close at hand. She was melting, and in the melting she succumbed to temptation and kissed him back.

  Her lips were petal-soft against his, beguilingly untutored. Ramiz pressed his mouth against hers, tasting her delicately. He felt rather than heard her sigh. If he had not known better he would have said she had never been kissed. Certainly she had not been taught to kiss back. Her inexperience inflamed him. A primal instinct which surprised him to possess, to own, sent the blood surging to his shaft. His kiss hardened too, his mouth easing hers open, his tongue finding hers, coaxing at first, then forgetting to coax and instead demanding. She tasted of heat and promised ecstasy. An ecstasy he could not wholly indulge.

  To give is to receive. Tonight he would give, and the giving would have to suffice. Ramiz tore his mouth away. ‘Wait,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘Tonight you must allow me to wait upon you.’ Then slowly, tantalisingly slowly, he began his controlled onslaught on Celia’s senses.

  His hands tangled in her hair, pulling out the constraining pins, his fingers combing through the rich copper mass of curls until it was spread over her shoulders, trailing down her back, curling over the pearly white of her bosom. He turned her around to unfasten her dress, his fingers trailing over her skin as he slipped it down over her shoulders to pool at her feet. She could feel his mouth on her neck again, on the knot of her spine. His breath was warm on her skin, but she shivered all the same. He unlaced her stays, pulling her close against him, her back to his chest, her skin against the velvet of his robe. She could feel the hard length of him nestling into the curve of her bottom. So other. So male.