Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

by Marguerite Kaye

  Peregrine swallowed hard. ‘Righty-ho.’

  Akil rolled his eyes, nodded to the guard, who threw open the double doors to the chamber, and stood back to watch as the Englishman made his scuttling way across the vast tiled expanse of floor towards the throne, with all the enthusiasm of a thief approaching an executioner.

  Ramiz stood to receive his visitor. Though his manner was brusque, it was regally so, showing no sign of ill-temper nor any discourtesy. He took the letter, breaking the seal immediately, and quickly skimmed the contents, relaxing visibly as he did so. To Akil’s surprise Ramiz then signalled for tea to be brought, and when it came, accompanied by cushions to sit on, he sat beside Peregrine—an honour of which the young man, awkwardly crouching, seemed unaware.

  ‘So, you are not here to escort the Lady Celia back to Cairo?’

  Peregrine eyed the sweet tea in its delicate glass with caution. ‘No, Your Highness. That is—no. The Consul General extends his most profuse apologies, but he felt it better, in the circumstances, to summon Lady Celia’s father to fetch her.’

  ‘It is to my great sorrow that Mr Cleveden died so tragically while on the soil of A’Qadiz. Do you wish to take his body back with you?’

  Peregrine looked appalled. ‘Good Lord, no. That is—like a soldier, you know—buried where he fell kind of thing.’ He took a cautious sip of tea. It was surprisingly refreshing. He took another, and allowed his ample derrière, aching from the wooden camel saddle, to sink a little more comfortably down onto the cushion. ‘Didn’t know the chap, of course, but gather he was destined for great things.’

  A picture of George Cleveden fleeing the attack flashed into Ramiz’s mind. ‘Indeed,’ he said noncommittally.

  ‘Despatch to Lord Armstrong went off in the old urgent bag just as soon as your own letter arrived,’ Peregrine said, relaxing further. This prince was turning out to be a very nice chap—not at all the dragon he’d been led to expect. ‘Frigate waiting off Alexandria, as a matter of fact. With a fair wind and a bit of luck her family will know she’s all right and tight very soon.’

  ‘You are acquainted with Lord Armstrong?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. A bit above my touch. As is Lady Celia, if I’m honest. One of these frightfully clever females—type who has all the inside gen on who’s doing what to whom—in a political way, if you know what I mean.’ Peregrine tittered, caught Ramiz’s stern glare, and lowered his eyes. ‘Highness. Your Highness. Beg pardon. Didn’t mean to—bit new to all this. Awfully sorry.’

  Ramiz got swiftly to his feet. ‘You will wish to see her?’

  Peregrine, who had been hoping for the offer of some more substantial refreshment than tea before facing the Lady Celia, blinked, tried to get to his feet, slipped, and decided that remaining in obeisance on his knees, while lacking in dignity, was preferable to losing his head.

  ‘Well?’ Ramiz demanded impatiently.

  ‘Yes—yes, of course. Highness. Your Highness.’

  ‘Tomorrow, I think,’ Ramiz said, much to Peregrine’s relief. ‘You must be tired after your journey. Akil will show you to the men’s quarters now. There is a hammam there you can use.’

  ‘Hammam?’ Peregrine’s eyes boggled. He could not decide whether to be honoured or revolted, for in his mind the word conjured up a fat exotic odalisque, rather like his nanny but in scantier clothing. Younger, of course, and he hoped not really too much like old Lalla Hughes who, now he came to think of it, had a bit of a moustache going.

  ‘Steam bath,’ Ramiz explained, trying not to smile, for Peregrine’s thoughts were written plainly on his blistered countenance.

  ‘Oh. Quite. Excellent…I suppose.’

  ‘We dine late here, when the sun goes down. You will join me, I hope?’

  ‘It will be an honour,’ Peregrine said with a brave smile.

  ‘If there’s anything else you require, Akil will attend to your needs.’ With a dismissive nod, Ramiz made for the doors, leaving Peregrine stranded on his knees on the floor of the vault-like chamber.

  Back in the harem, Celia was unaware of the presence of her country’s emissary. She lay on her stomach while Fatima rubbed scented oil into her skin. The girl’s touch was gentle, but firm, easing the tension from her back and shoulders. Celia allowed her mind to drift, wholly accustomed now to the intimacy of her own nakedness, and to Fatima’s capable fingers kneading her muscles. Strange how this could feel so pleasant, yet so impersonal. Strange how her body could react so differently to touch. Not just because of how it was done, but because of who was doing it. If Ramiz and not Fatima was delivering the massage, she would not be feeling so relaxed as to be upon the verge of falling asleep.

  And of course as soon as his name popped into her mind, so too did his face, and his scent, and the feel of him, and she was wide awake. What was it about him that so obsessed her? Why Ramiz? Why now, at the age of four-and-twenty, was she being assaulted by these feelings? Such acute awareness of everything? Not just of Ramiz, but of colours and textures and taste. It was such a sensuous world, A’Qadiz, and Ramiz was at its epicentre, the very epitome of sensuality.

  She was attracted to him—of that there was no doubt. She liked the way he looked. And the way he walked. And the way he talked. And the way he could be so arrogant one minute and so understanding the next. And the way he looked at her as if he saw something no one else saw. He made her feel beautiful. He said she was beautiful, and she believed him.

  She was attracted to him, and he was attracted to her—a little. Probably because she was different. Infatuation, that was what it was. She was in thrall to him simply because he had been the first to kiss her. The first to touch her. The first to make her feel—that! The thing she couldn’t put into words. Ecstasy. Carnal pleasure. That! She was beguiled.

  But it felt like more than that. Ramiz made her laugh. They liked the same things. He knew things about her that she hadn’t even known herself. And she knew him too, in a way others didn’t. He’d let her see, even if briefly, how lonely, how isolated he felt.

  Unreal. It was all unreal and meant nothing. Could never mean anything. She knew that. She did.

  She was not an Arabian princess. In the eyes of his people her breeding meant nothing, for the blood which ran in her veins was English. No matter how many things she and Ramiz shared, no matter how similar their outlook on life might be, no matter even that they wanted the same things, she was not of his world and never could be.

  Celia allowed herself to be helped from the divan into a warm bath. Sinking down into the fragrant water, she closed her eyes. Enchanted, beguiled, in thrall, under his spell. Whatever she was, it would not last.

  In fact, according to Ramiz it was already over. Whatever it was. She wished it was not. She wished he would come to her again. Take her to the secret places he could conjure one more time. Continue with the fantasy for just a little longer, while she was here in his harem, locked away from the real world and the reality of the rather tedious life which awaited her as George’s widow back in England.

  She wished, though she mocked herself for doing so, that for one night she could live out her Arabian fantasy. Lying alone in the bath, she knew it was a dream. She thought of Ramiz—his kisses, his touch. She thought of him and the wanting came, and in the dark of the night she allowed herself to dream.

  When Adila opened the harem door to one of the guards the next morning, Celia assumed Ramiz wished to see her, but the man who awaited her in a formal salon in the main body of the palace was a complete stranger. Dressed in a bottle-green cutaway coat, teamed with a rather alarming waistcoat embroidered with pink roses, he was about her own height, but considerably wider of girth. When he bowed, which he did with surprising grace given his apple shape, his fawn knit pantaloons stretched in a rather distressing manner, so that Celia dropped her own curtsy very rapidly, anxious to have him return to the upright in the hope of preventing what seemed to her an inevitable unravelling.

  ‘Peregrine Finchley-Burke
,’ the young man said. ‘At your service on behalf of His Majesty’s government, Lady Celia.’

  Realisation dawned. ‘You have been sent to escort me home?’

  Peregrine frowned. For a moment he could have sworn the lady was disappointed. ‘No doubt you’re eager to return to the bosom of your family,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Indeed—though I have been very well treated here, I assure you. The palace is most luxurious.’

  ‘Just so…just so.’ Peregrine rubbed his hands together. ‘Pleased to hear that, because the thing is I’m not actually here to take you back,’ he said, flinching away instinctively as he delivered his ill tidings. To his relief, however, the tall, elegant woman in front of him did not break down into immediate hysterics, grab his hand, plea for mercy or even cry out in dismay. Instead her sleepy eyes widened and a smile trembled on her rather full mouth before she lowered her lids again and looked away into the distance, clasping her hands together.

  ‘Not here to take me back?’ Celia repeated faintly. ‘You mean I am to stay here?’

  ‘For the present. Thing is—dashed awkward all this. Forgot—should have said straight away have to pass on condolences. Terrible thing to happen. Consul General seemed to think very highly of your husband.’

  ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ Celia rummaged for her handkerchief in her reticule and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘And you, Lady Celia, it must have been a bit of an ordeal.’

  ‘I was very fortunate that Sheikh al-Muhana was there,’ Celia said with a watery smile. ‘He saved my life, you know. Forgive my rudeness, Mr Finchley-Burke, please do sit down. Have you spoken with the Sheikh? How did he react when you informed him that I was to stay here?’

  Peregrine waited for Celia to take a seat before he eased himself onto a divan opposite her. Having spent the previous evening balancing his bulk on a cushion, feeling like a seal stranded by the tide on a rock which was too small, he was relieved to find that he was not expected to conduct this particular interview on the floor. ‘The Prince left this morning—visiting some outlying tribes or something. Won’t be back for quite a few days, apparently. Said to pass on his adieu and hoped you would be comfortable until his return.’

  What was that supposed to mean? Celia thought indignantly.

  ‘Seems a decent enough chap,’ Peregrine continued with a touch of condescension. ‘Bit on his high horse at first, but suppose that was to be expected.’

  Celia raised her brows delicately. ‘He is Prince of A’Qadiz, and it is likely that he holds the balance of power in at least four of the neighbouring six principalities. He is also extremely intelligent, and wealthy beyond anything you can imagine. You underestimate him at your peril.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t, I assure you—not now I’ve seen the place for myself.’

  ‘Why exactly are you here, Mr Finchley-Burke, if you are not to take me back? It seems very strange that you have come all this way simply to pass on a message.’ And, now she thought about it, if Ramiz was as indifferent to her presence as he wished her to believe, why had he not insisted that she leave with this rotund young man?

  ‘Thing is, Lord Wincester sent an urgent despatch back to Blighty—to your father. Thought Lord Armstrong should be the one to come and get you—best person to make the arrangements and what not, and also best person to complete the negotiations with the Prince, you know? Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’

  ‘So I am to wait here until my father arrives?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too long,’ Peregrine said bracingly. ‘Matter of a few weeks at most. Said yourself you’re very comfortable here.’ Peregrine opened his watch, wound it up, then closed it again. ‘London time,’ he said, à propos of nothing.

  Celia raised her brows. ‘Is there something else you wish to say to me, Mr Finchley-Burke?’

  ‘Well.’ Peregrine plucked a large kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Well… You said it yourself, Lady Celia, this Sheikh al-Muhana could turn out to be quite an important man. A’Qadiz has the only decent port on the Red Sea. If we can do an exclusive deal with him and Mehmet Ali in Egypt it opens up a whole new trade route to India. Takes the journey time down from two years to only three months. Imagine that!’ Peregrine eased forward confidentially. ‘Thing is, don’t want anyone else to steal our thunder, so to speak. Would be nice to know Sheikh al-Muhana isn’t talking to the competition. That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me? But Sheikh al-Muhana won’t do business with a woman. And besides, I have not been briefed.’

  ‘No, no. Of course not. Already said—your father coming out here provides a perfect opportunity. Obviously an opportunity borne out of tragedy, I hasten to add. Lord Armstrong is a skilled negotiator. If anyone can strike a deal with the Sheikh then he can.’

  ‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘Ah. The Consul General said you’d understand because you’re Lord Armstrong’s daughter and you know what’s what.’

  Celia shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Understand what is what?’

  Peregrine swallowed nervously. ‘He expects you to—to use your position to England’s advantage.’

  ‘My position!’ Celia jumped up from her divan, forcing Peregrine to rise precipitately to his feet—an act which left him breathless and sweating. ‘And precisely what position do you and the Consul General assume I occupy?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean to imply—’ Peregrine broke off, blushing to the roots of his hair. ‘I’m just supposed to tell you that your father would expect you to keep your eyes and ears open. You know—find out as much as you can of the situation here. Anything—no matter how trivial. We know so little of the man and his country, and you are in a unique position to…’ he faltered under Celia’s basilisk stare ‘…to—you know—glean what you can. Lord Wincester said to tell you that at least this way the whole damned mission won’t have been a complete waste of time and money. Except,’ Peregrine added contritely, ‘wasn’t supposed to say it in quite that way. Beg pardon.’

  Celia dropped back onto the divan. The idea of trying to extract information by subterfuge from Ramiz was repugnant, and she was pretty certain it would also be completely unsuccessful. She doubted very much that he would give away anything he did not want her to know.

  On the other hand, he did trust her. He had trusted her with the secret of Katra. He had confided in her some of his troubles with regard to his neighbours too—had seemed glad of the opportunity to talk, in fact, within the cloistered confines of the harem.

  No, she should not even be giving the idea thought. Even to pass on the little she already knew would be seen by Ramiz as a betrayal.

  But if she refused, what would everyone think of her? What harm would it do poor George’s memory that his widow had no loyalty to her country? Bad enough that his widow was relieved she was no longer his wife—surely she owed him this much in reparation? And, after all, Ramiz might never know. By the time he found out, if he ever did, she would be safe back in Cairo. In England, even.

  ‘And if I do not agree with Lord Wincester’s proposal, what then?’ Celia enquired.

  Judging by the startled look on Peregrine’s face, this was not a possibility which had been considered. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t you? England, you know—empire and all that,’ he said vaguely. He scratched his head. ‘I suppose you could come back with me, but I’m not sure Sheikh al-Muhana would be too keen on the idea of you leaving without his say-so. Then there’s the guards. You’d be kicking your heels in Cairo until your father arrived, and there’s the issue of the treaty—because if you left against the Sheikh’s wishes I don’t doubt he’d be insulted, and your father would have come all this way for nothing and—well, you see how it is.’ Peregrine spread his hands in a fatalistic way.

  If she left it would ruin things, in other words, Celia thought. And, actually, the one thing she was sure of was that she didn’t want to leave. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to A’Qadiz—not yet. N
or to Ramiz.

  If she stayed she could agree to what Mr Finchley-Burke asked of her without actually acting upon it. In fact, Celia thought brightly, there was no need to make any decision right now, except to agree in principle to try and do as she was bid.

  ‘Very well. I will stay until Papa arrives,’ Celia said.

  Peregrine executed as dignified a bow as he could manage. ‘Excellent. That is excellent news,’ he said with a relieved smile. ‘Have to say didn’t at all fancy having to run the gauntlet of those guards.’

  Celia held out her hand. ‘Goodbye Mr Finchley-Burke. And good luck with your posting in India.’

  ‘What shall I tell Lord Wincester?’

  ‘You may tell him that he can rely on me to do the right thing,’ Celia replied. Which she would—whatever that meant.

  Ramiz sent no word to Celia for the duration of his absence, though she learned from Yasmina that he was in regular contact with Akil. She spent another enjoyable day at Yasmina’s house, eager to discover for herself what ‘ordinary’ life in Balyrma was like. Surprisingly like life at home was what she found, with much of the day given over to caring for the children—readying the bigger ones for school, teaching the smaller ones their letters, managing their meals, sewing their clothes, wiping their tears and telling them stories.

  ‘Before Ramiz came to power, only my oldest son went to school,’ Yasmina told Celia as the two women sat companionably embroidering a section each of a large forest scene stretched on a frame, while the younger children took their afternoon nap in a separate salon. ‘There were no schools for girls. Most of them could not even read, for their mothers couldn’t read so there was no one to teach them.’

  ‘Because of course none of the men would,’ Celia said sarcastically.

  ‘Of course not,’ Yasmina agreed. ‘It is the way of things here, Celia. Things are changing, some things are changing very fast, but we must not let the wind carry us to places we do not want to go. Ramiz knows that.’