Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

by Marguerite Kaye

  Left alone, Celia cooled her wrists and temples in the fountain. What had possessed her to ask such a thing? To have such an intimate conversation with a woman who was a complete stranger? It was this place—the heat, the exotic strangeness of it all. The way the walls of the harem seemed to tempt curiosity about such sensuous matters out into the open. It was because she wanted to know. Not to experience, just to know. And if she didn’t find out here, then she never would.

  Yasmina returned with a small parcel wrapped in silk. ‘Take these. They are charm pamphlets. You won’t be able to read the spells of course, but the pictures explain themselves.’

  Celia took the package with some trepidation. She should not even be contemplating looking at such material, but it would be rude to refuse. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Shukran.’

  ‘It is nothing. You must come and say goodbye to the children now. Akil is waiting to escort you back to the palace. I hope you will come again before you go back to England.’

  ‘I would love to. I’ve had a lovely time here; you are blessed in your family.’

  Yasmina smiled. ‘I hope you too will be blessed one day.’ She pressed her visitor’s hand. ‘You must not grow too fond of Ramiz, Lady Celia. He is a very attractive man, and he has an air about him, no? Potent, I think that is the word. But he is not for you—and you, I think, are a type who loves only once. Forgive me for speaking so, but I have the gift. I don’t think you loved your husband, but I think you could easily love Ramiz if you let yourself. He is well named. Ramiz means honoured and respected. He may indulge himself with you—he is a man and you are a woman—but he would never do anything which goes against the traditions of A’Qadiz. You will be hurt if you expect too much of him. Don’t let that happen.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Yasmina, I promise you.’

  Yasmina shook her head. ‘I have the gift. I am never wrong in these matters.’

  Celia returned to the palace in a thoughtful mood, having thoroughly enjoyed the time spent with Yasmina and her family. She had been surprised to discover that Yasmina’s eldest daughter attended school every day. A different school from her brother, but she was, contrary to what Celia had been told by the Consul in Cairo, receiving an education.

  Seeing a harem as a family enclosure rather than a bordello had been a revelation which made her look at Ramiz and his kingdom in a completely new light. Not that she agreed with everything Yasmina had said, mind you. Offering a home to her mother and her sister-in-law was one thing—indeed, it was in many ways exactly as things were done in larger families at home, right down to the disgraced, divorced aunt Celia had discovered lived in seclusion on the second floor of the harem. Every family had its skeletons. But as to Yasmina’s acceptance of the possibility of sharing her husband with another woman simply because Akil had grown tired of her—no! Absolutely not. All Celia’s instincts rebelled at the very thought. She knew, as everyone did, that the Prince Regent had married twice, though poor Maria Fitzherbert’s wedding was not legal. She knew that many couples, Prinny included, tacitly consented to each other’s affaires once an heir had been secured. She did not approve, though she knew she would be deemed prudish to say so. But the idea of living in apparent harmony with what must surely be one’s rivals—no!

  ‘That,’ Celia said decisively, ‘I could never do. As well put a notice in the Morning Post that my husband finds me lacking.’

  ‘Afwan, Lady Celia?’

  ‘Nothing, Adila,’ Celia said, smiling at the maidservant and shaking her head, realising she had spoken out loud. ‘It’s nothing.’

  They had run her a bath. Wishing to be alone with her thoughts, Celia dismissed Adila and Fatima, insisting that she could undress herself. She had come to enjoy their gentle ministrations, the daily oiling, massage and bathing ritual, and would miss it when she went home.

  Home. The word sat like a stone on her chest. She didn’t want to go home yet. ‘So much more to learn,’ she told herself as she stripped off her stockings and unlaced her stays. ‘I’ve hardly seen any of the city.’

  She’d never used to talk to herself. It was a habit she’d acquired here from being so much alone, and now it felt quite natural. Draped in a loose silk robe, she padded barefoot through to the bathing room. White-tiled, it was decorated as all the salons, with a blue and gold mosaic frieze, the bath sunk into the floor, surrounded by four pillars, with a small fountain bubbling icy cold water at one end. The walls above the waist-height frieze were covered in tiles like mirrors, and above the bath the ceiling arched dark blue, painted with a galaxy of silver stars.

  Celia climbed up the shallow step and sank down into the soothing water. Tonight it was scented with cinnamon and orange blossom. The bath was deep, unlike the copper tub they used at home, and she did not need to hunch up, but lay stretched full-length, her head resting on the tiles, gazing up at the stars twinkling in the ceiling, her mind floating, randomly sifting through images of A’Qadiz like a colourful collage. The sunrise over the mountains of the desert. The way the sand changed colour during the day, from toffee to the creamy yellow of fresh-churned butter, to white-gold. Her first glimpse of Balyrma, the astonishing green of the fields, the jumble of fortress-like houses, the tiled walls with their keyhole-shaped doors, the minarets and the sparkling fountains, like a child’s drawing of a fairytale land.

  And Ramiz. She could not think of A’Qadiz with out Ramiz. Her first glimpse of him at his most god-like, watching her from the hilltop above the port. Ramiz the warrior, his scimitar glinting like a vicious halo above his head. Ramiz the man, naked in the moonlit water of the oasis.

  She had never met anyone like him, and was not likely to again. Every time she saw him she learned something new. He was intelligent. Amusing. Sophisticated. Intimidating. Arrogant. Above all fascinating. Last night when he had confided in her she had glimpsed a vulnerability in him, though it had been quickly cloaked. There were layers to him that no one was allowed to see. He kept himself apart, wearing his princely personality like a costume. No doubt about it—he was the very epitome of a magnificent and omnipotent ruler, but she liked the man beneath even more.

  Celia smiled softly. His eyes—the way they changed colour with his moods as the desert sand did with the heat. The way that little lick of hair stood up like a question mark when he’d been running his hands through it. His lids were heavy, the same shape as her own, and, like her, he used them when he didn’t want anyone to know what he was thinking. She liked that she knew he was doing it because she did it too.

  And his mouth. Celia touched her fingers to her own mouth, remembering. Kisses like honey. Darker kisses—exotic, crimsoning kisses, filled with promise. She closed her eyes. The way his mouth fitted so exactly to hers. The way his tongue and his lips spoke to her without words, telling her what to do now, and next, and next. Her fingers fluttered down her throat to the soft flesh of her breasts. She traced their shape, made liquid by the lapping water of the bath, trying to recapture the magic of Ramiz’s touch as he’d cupped them, grazing her nipples as he had with his palm, his thumb—like this. Like this…

  Her breath came shallow and quick. Her heart fluttered like a bird against the bars of a cage. Warmth seeped through her, as if her blood was heating, trickling to the place just below her belly, where it built so slowly she barely noticed it. Last night Ramiz had said she was beautiful. He’d made her feel beautiful. The way he’d traced the lines of her body, as if he would sculpt her, or draw her a picture of herself. Below the water line her nipples puckered and hardened, needles of feeling, bursts of intensity, feeding the pooling beat of arousal lower down, as tributaries would feed a river.

  Celia moaned softly. She traced the path of feeling down, cupping the point where it gathered like a delta. Beneath her palm she could feel herself—a tiny flutter like a whispered cry of need. Tentatively she touched it with her fingertip. Her stomach clenched. The thing inside her, like last night, bunched. The river was dammed, readying itself for the w
all to burst. She touched herself again and moaned, imagining it was Ramiz, wishing it was Ramiz, aching for it to be Ramiz.

  She moaned again, turning her head restlessly on the hard-tiled edge of the bath. Something moved on the periphery of her vision. She snapped her eyes open, and it was as if she had conjured him. He was standing in the doorway of the bathing chamber, frozen to the spot, dressed in a robe of pale blue, his face set into rigid planes.

  ‘I came to find you to talk about tomorrow. I thought you would be having dinner.’

  His voice was harsh, as if he were angry. Celia swallowed. She shook her head, licked her lips. Her mouth was dry. She tried to sit up, remembered her nakedness, and slumped back under the water.

  She looked like Venus rising from the waves, her glorious hair tumbling down the side of the bath, damp curls clinging lovingly to her face. The flush of arousal coloured her cheeks and darkened her eyes. He had never seen anything so lovely. Never witnessed anything so intimate as the way she touched herself. Never been so aroused.

  He should have left, he knew that, but he hadn’t been able to tear himself away, and now he was here he could think of nothing, nothing, nothing but finishing her journey, of travelling with her, just this once. His hands stroking her flesh. Her hands, with their long delicate fingers, touching his skin. His mouth on hers. Her breathy moans of pleasure saying his name, wanting his caress.

  Ramiz was beyond resistance. Beyond anything save the need to hold her, to taste her, to take her to the heights of pleasure and this time soar with her. He strode over to the bath, kneeling down on the top step, careless of his silk robe trailing in the puddles of scented water. For a long moment he simply gazed at her, damp and pink and creamy white, the fire of her hair reflected in the fire of her eyes, the sweetness of her breath like a whisper on his cheek.

  ‘Celia.’ He pulled her towards him, his hands slipping on her shoulders, feeling the delicate blades sharp beneath her flesh as he wrapped his arm more firmly around her, the long sleeve of his caftan trailing in the water.

  ‘Ramiz.’ Sleepy with arousal, the word wrapped itself around him as Celia’s arms twined around his neck, and he was lost.

  Water slopped wildly over the sides of the bath onto the shallow step, forming pools on the tiled floor as he pulled her up, kissing her wildly. No slow build, no delicate preliminaries, passion burst like a ripe fig as they kissed, hands slipping and gripping and sliding, the silk of his robe clinging to their skin, their lips, their tongues, kissing as if they would meld.

  She had no thought of resisting, was too far gone in her own imagined lovemaking to refuse her dream made flesh and blood in the magnificent form of Ramiz. They were standing together on the tiled floor by the bath, wet skin, fevered lips, kissing and licking, licking and kissing.

  ‘Celia, Celia, Celia.’ Ramiz said her name like an incantation, punctuating it with kisses to her lids, her ears, her throat, his hands urgent upon her, raising torrents of feeling where before there had been only feeble tributaries. His mouth found her breast, his lips fastening greedily round her nipple. The delicious tugging produced such a rush of heat that she moaned, slumping in his embrace, arching her back so that her breasts implored him for more. His attentions moved to the other nipple. She moaned again, saying his name now, over and over, a plea for completion, of wanting and desperate need.

  Her hands plucked at the silk of his robe, wanting to touch flesh. She struggled ineffectually with the buttons at his neck, eager now, desperate for the feel of his flesh upon hers for the first time. She wanted to touch him. To see him. To savour him. She wanted to give him what he was giving her. She wrenched at a button and it flew through the air to land with a click on the tiles.

  Ramiz laughed—a low, husky noise which gave her goosebumps. She watched, fascinated, as he yanked the other buttons free and then, taking the neck of his caftan between his hands, simply tore it apart, casting it aside onto the floor to stand naked before her for the first time.

  The word magnificent did not do his body justice. Celia gazed at him in awe—the golden skin stretched taut over the muscles of his shoulders and chest, the rippling ridges of his abdomen, like the contours of the desert sands of which he was prince. The sheen of water like a glaze cast each dip and rise into relief. Where she was curved he was sharper lines. Where she was soft he was…

  She reached out her hand tentatively. Ramiz took her by the wrist, encouraging her. Where her skin was soft, like cashmere, his was smoother, like silk stretched on a tambour frame. She could feel the hardness of his muscles underneath. Ramiz pulled her closer. He guided her wrist lower. The concave stomach. Down. Her eyes followed the same path. Down. To the curving length of him, solid, intimidatingly large. She could not imagine how—where—surely it would hurt?

  ‘Ramiz, I…’

  ‘Touch me. There is nothing to be frightened of.’

  ‘I’m not frightened.’ But she was, just a bit, and her voice gave her away. She was afraid of her ignorance. Afraid of failing. Afraid that Ramiz would find her lacking.

  He scooped her up, holding her high against his chest, pushing his way impatiently out of the bathing chamber to the next salon, where he kicked a heap of cushions together onto the carpet and sank down onto them. Satin and silk and velvet—she could feel them all on her back, her bottom, her thighs. Satin and silk and velvet on her mouth as Ramiz kissed her.

  ‘To touch is to learn,’ Ramiz whispered, trailing his fingers over her hip.

  He leaned over her, his mouth following where his fingers had led, feathering kisses like whispers, speaking softly of the pleasure to come. She felt her skin tighten as her flesh seemed to swell under his caress. He kissed the crease at the top of her thigh, pulling her onto her side, positioning himself opposite her so that they lay like two crescents curved into each other.

  Ramiz dipped his hand between her legs, lightly stroking his way through the moist folds of her flesh. ‘Touch me, Celia. Do as I do. Make me feel as you do. Like this.’ With his other hand he placed hers onto his shaft, wrapping her fingers round its length and gently guiding her. Satin and silk and velvet.

  Her touch was entirely inexperienced and entirely delightful. He thought fleetingly of the man who had been her husband, a man who had obviously taken no interest at all in his wife’s pleasure, and then he banished the thought, for he did not want to think of Celia as a wife, or having belonged to anyone else. He did not want to think at all, for to do so would be to stop, and he could not stop. Not now.

  He slipped his fingers gently inside her, easing into the swelling heat of her, enjoying the way she clenched around him, the little gasp of pleasure emanating from her. ‘This is what you are doing to me,’ he said. ‘When I do this, and you touch me like that, this is what it feels like.’ Slowly he pulled out of her clinging moistness, only to ease back in again.

  What he was doing was a prelude. Finally she understood. Her own fingers clasped around the part of him which was designed to meld them together. She stroked him, wondering at the slight curve on the satiny skin, at the astonishing hardness of him, tracing a line up to the tip of him, softer, rounded, velvety. He was watching her. She gasped as he pushed his fingers inside her again, closing her eyes at the peculiar smarting of this pleasure, more insistent, the edges rougher than last night. Then he did it again, and she stroked him in the same rhythm, and saw the pleasure she was giving him etched on his face, in the way his eyes darkened, the way he bit his lip to stop himself from crying out.

  It was the same for him. It was really the same. What she was feeling—this mounting tension, this jagged excitement, this feeling of wanting it done, over, of wanting it to last for ever, this wanting to soar and wanting to cling—he was feeling it too as she stroked him and he stroked her. Then he slid upwards, touching her where he had touched her yesterday, and she felt herself began to slip, but forced herself to cling on. Her thumb caressed the tip of his shaft, and Ramiz gasped. Inside her, he worked magic of his
own. It was like being pushed inexorably towards something deep and dark, and as she stroked him and circled him she could see he felt the same. His eyes were closed. A dark flush stained his cheeks. He gripped his lower lip with his teeth. His breathing was fast, uneven. Like her own. Her heart was thumping. Her body was cold, cold—freezing except for where Ramiz touched her and she touched Ramiz. She felt him thicken in her hand, felt herself swelling under his hand, heard him say her name, like a plea, for the first time asking something of her, but before she had time to wonder what he wanted the jagged swelling pressure in her burst through, like water coursing through a dam, and she cried out. Ramiz cried out too, spilling his pleasure over her hand as she melted into his.

  He was right. To give was to receive. More than last night. More than she had thought possible. Enough to make her wonder what more would feel like. Enough to make her realise that she should heed Yasmina’s warning. This was a fantasy formed in a harem and being played out free from the disapproval of the outside world. Nothing more. It could never—must never—be anything more.

  Celia sat up, pulling a tasselled cushion onto her lap to cover herself.

  Ramiz opened his eyes, reluctantly pulling himself back down from the heights to which her touch had sent him. He had not meant this to happen. It should not have happened! What was he thinking? He got quickly to his feet, pulling his torn robe around him. ‘This was a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake?’ she repeated stupidly.

  ‘It was wrong,’ Ramiz said tersely. At least he had not risked any consequences! At least his sense of honour had not wholly deserted him.

  His robe was soaking wet from the bathwater, but he didn’t seem to notice. It clung to him, making him look like one of those naked statues, strategically draped for modesty’s sake. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, Celia hugged her cushion defensively. With his clothing, Ramiz had donned his mask. She hardly recognised the man who had moaned his pleasure at her touch only moments before.