And upon their arrival in Alexandria it was Lady Sophia again who rose to the occasion, conjuring up the transportation which hurtled the travellers onwards so quickly that Lord Henry had no time at all to recover from the pitching of the ground beneath them before being besieged by the bone-jolting experience of an unsprung carriage travelling an unmetalled road with his daughter rather vulgarly urging the driver to ‘spring ’em’ every time they stopped for a change.
They had arrived at Lord Wincester’s residence in Cairo at some God-forsaken hour last night, and now here was Cassie, having made a remarkable recovery, demanding that they resume their journey not twenty-four hours later.
‘Absolutely not!’ Lord Henry exclaimed. ‘I cannot journey another inch without a day’s rest.’
‘But, Papa, you cannot have considered—’
Lord Henry looked at his daughter with an eye which was considerably jaundiced. He had the tic. He had a splitting headache. In fact there wasn’t a bit of him that didn’t ache in one way or another. ‘You worry too much. What is another day, after all this time?’
Cassie who, after seven hours’ rest and a bath had made a remarkable recovery, was back in full Cassandra mode. She wrung her hands. ‘Another day of suffering, Papa. Another day of Celia wondering when we will come to rescue her. Another day of gazing through the bars of her prison and praying for her release.’
‘For God’s sake, daughter, you should be on stage! You know, I can’t understand how someone who looks as if a puff of wind will blow her away can survive such a journey as we have made with so little visible effect. I congratulate you on your constitution but—but, I say—I do not share it. I need another day before I go traipsing off across the desert. Apart from anything else, I must consult with old Wincester. The negotiations that George Cleveden was sent to conclude are extremely important—far too important to make a mull of because I didn’t have time to receive a proper briefing. Damned inconvenient of George to get himself killed in the middle of it all, I must say.’
‘But, Papa, surely my sister is the more important issue at stake? Aunt Sophia!’ Cassandra turned large blue eyes, wide with appeal, upon her aunt. ‘I beg you, let us make haste today. Apparently it is only a very short trip to the Red Sea, where we can take a boat to this A’Qadiz. A gentle sail, Lord Wincester says it is.’
‘What the devil does old Wincester know about it? He’s never been,’ Lord Henry exclaimed exasperatedly. ‘Instead of treating me to histrionics, you’ll make far better use of your time talking to that fellow—whatshisname—Finchley-Burke. He saw Celia only a week or so ago. Now, go away and allow me the dignity of recovering my health in private.’
Recognising the note of finality in his voice, Cassandra was forced to retreat, stopping only to press upon her father some most efficacious powders, before returning to the drawing room with her aunt.
There, Peregrine awaited her nervously, torn between a desire to pay homage at the temple of her beauty and an equally strong desire to avoid her terrifying aunt, whose baleful eye reminded him rather too much of his mother.
‘You will accompany us, naturally. We need someone who knows the ropes,’ Cassie informed Peregrine, putting her new-found seaman’s slang into use. ‘You’ve done the journey before, and you know all about camels and such. In fact compared to everyone else here, including even Lord Wincester, you are quite the expert,’ she said, conferring upon the young man one of her most beguiling smiles.
Peregrine blushed. Now that Lord Henry Armstrong, with his reputation for honesty and integrity, was actually here in Cairo, the Consul General was regretting the liberties he had taken in suggesting that the Lady Celia’s incarceration in A’Qadiz could be of service to her country. In fact Lord Wincester had forbidden Peregrine from mentioning it, putting Peregrine in a very awkward position indeed. Not even Lady Cassandra’s charming countenance and nymph-like figure could tempt him into spending any more time in her presence than necessary, lest he betray himself.
‘Thing—thing is, Lady Cassandra,’ he stammered, appalled at the very notion of having to keep her, her esteemed papa and formidable aunt company on a trek across the desert, ‘thing is, I have to go to India.’
‘Mr Finchley-Burke!’ Cassandra exclaimed. ‘Surely you would not let us down?’
‘Eh! No, no, didn’t quite—that is—you don’t need me. You’ll need a guide for the desert, but you’ll be able pick one up at the port—don’t want me along, keeping you back.’ But Peregrine knew he was clutching at straws.
‘India will wait, Mr Finchley-Burke. My sister cannot. You, I am sure, will not wish to think of her incarcerated in that place a moment longer than necessary.’
Peregrine’s memory of Lady Celia was of a female perfectly content to stay where she was, but he did not quite know how to put that to her sister.
‘How did you find my niece, Mr Finchley-Burke?’
Peregrine jumped, for he had quite forgotten Lady Sophia’s presence. Now, faced with her gimlet gaze, he quailed. ‘Well, it was quite simple, really, once I got to the palace.’
Lady Sophia rolled her eyes. ‘No, you nincompoop, I’m referring to her health, her mental state.’
‘Oh! Yes! Quite! She actually seemed remarkably well. Very composed young woman, Lady Celia. Seemed to be handling it with real aplomb,’ Peregrine said bracingly.
‘Ah, that does sound like Celia,’ Lady Sophia said placidly.
‘Of course it does, Aunt Sophia. Celia is not the type to have hysterics, you know that, but just because she does not show her feelings it does not mean she has none.’ Cassandra clasped her hands to her bosom, unwittingly drawing Peregrine’s attention to her curves. ‘Remember, this man—this Sheikh al-Muhana—has her in his harem. I picture him rather old, with a black beard and a sort of grasping look.’
‘As to that,’ Sophia said with pursed lips, ‘I have been making enquiries, and believe harems are not all decadent places. It may be that he has placed Celia in his harem simply to keep her safe. Do not let your imagination run away with you, Cassandra. I have every confidence in Celia’s sense of propriety and her good sense. You must rid yourself of the notion of her as some sort of concubine.’
‘But, Aunt, what if Celia’s choice is to submit or surrender her life?’ Cassandra asked tragically, once more allowing One Thousand and One Nights the upper hand.
‘There is no point in wasting our time on idle speculation,’ Lady Sophia said acerbically. Realising her niece was genuinely upset, and upon the brink of tears, she softened her expression marginally. ‘Really, Cassie, you know your sister well enough. Celia is hardly the type to appeal to a sheikh, for she is not in the least exotic—and even if she did, which I strongly doubt, she is not the type to simply submit. Celia,’ Lady Sophia said with authority, ‘is not a tactile woman.’ She got to her feet. ‘We will leave you to your arrangements now,’ she said to Peregrine. ‘Come, Cassandra, what you need is some rest. Fortunately I have some laudanum in my reticule.’
‘Sheikh Farid has requested an audience with you.’
The servants were packing up the camp in preparation for the journey back to Balyrma. ‘With me?’ Celia closed the lid of her dressing case, and turned towards Ramiz, who was standing in the doorway. ‘What can Sheikh Farid wish to say to me?’
‘I’ve been telling him about your idea for a Bedouin school. In amongst that gaggle of little admirers who follow you about wide-eyed, begging for stories, are three of Sheikh Farid’s youngest children, and their mothers have been singing your praises.’ Ramiz grinned. ‘You’ve made quite an impression on them.’
‘But what can I say? You said yourself the problem is finding teachers.’
‘“To him that will, ways are not wanting.” If Sheikh Farid wants a school for his people, teachers can be found. He has not until now believed it is what his people want. It looks as if you may have changed his mind.’
‘You will be coming with me, won’t you, Ramiz?’
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, but you don’t need me to tell you how to behave any more than I need to remind you of the honour Sheikh Farid is conferring upon you. You have a very charming way of making whoever you speak to feel as if they are the most important person in the world. Even me.’
‘In your case it is because it is true.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
Ramiz stilled.
‘I mean,’ Celia said lightly, ‘in the eyes of your people, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Ramiz said thoughtfully.
‘Does Sheikh Farid wish to see me now?’
‘Yes, now. Akil can go ahead with the caravan. Tonight will be our last night in the desert. Tomorrow we will be back in Balyrma.’
‘It will be strange, being back in the harem.’
‘Celia, you don’t regret what has happened? Between us, I mean?’
He looked troubled. Was it he who had regrets? She could not bear that. Though she rarely took the initiative, even in the most commonplace of touches, Celia took Ramiz’s hand and pressed a kiss onto his palm. His skin was warm, his taste tantalisingly familiar. ‘I will remember it always,’ she said, rubbing his hand against her cheek. ‘This last week has been magical. I will never regret it. Never.’
‘Celia…’
She had a horrible suspicion he was going to apologise. Or, worse, offer her some sort of reparation. ‘Please, Ramiz, don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t spoil it. As an interlude from reality it has been perfect.’
He pulled his hand away. ‘That is still how you see it?’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Do not you?’
Ramiz shrugged. ‘We will take the camels to Sheikh Farid’s camp. That way we will waste less time.’
‘Ramiz…’
But he was gone. She stared at the spot in the tent where he had stood. In the last week she’d thought she had come to understand him completely, but today she had no idea what he was thinking—what it was she had said to him to make him look so…what? Angry? A little, but not just that. She pulled an abeyah the colour of cinnamon, embroidered with russet and gold, over her caftan, and checked her appearance in the mirror. He had seemed almost disappointed. But why?
Tonight would be their last night in the desert. Their last night together in her tent. When they returned to the palace would it all be at an end? Was that what he meant? That he would not visit her in the harem? Had he had enough of her? Was he letting her down gently?
A horrible sick feeling made her slump down onto the divan. When he’d said it was their last night in the desert, he’d meant it was to be their last night. Ever. There could be no other meaning. Celia blinked rapidly to prevent the hot tears which welled up in her eyes from spilling. She’d known it would end, but she’d hoped it would last until she had to leave. Now she saw he was right. To drag it out, waking each morning wondering if it would be this day or the next when her papa would arrive, would be unendurable.
Her papa would take her home. But home was here, with Ramiz. Without him she might as well be condemned to a nomadic life, just like the Bedouins. Celia sniffed and blew her nose, and chastised herself for the fanciful turn her imagination had taken. She had to night. She had the memories. Things could be worse, she told herself bracingly, though she wasn’t exactly sure how.
The meeting with Sheikh Farid went well. Celia was nervous beforehand, worried she would let Ramiz down. ‘It’s not possible,’ Ramiz had said reassuringly, surprised to find that he meant it. ‘I trust you.’
He had meant that too, which was more of a surprise, for the truth was he didn’t normally trust anyone completely to act on his behalf, to act without his explicit instructions, to think for themselves—not even Akil. Yet he trusted Celia. He trusted her judgement and he trusted her ability. Sitting by her side, translating only when consulted, he watched with admiration as she set about charming Sheikh Farid as she seemed to charm everyone she spoke to, from the market traders in the souk, to Yasmina, his servants, every child who came within a hundred yards of her, and now this wily old Bedouin, who was already smiling and making jokes after just fifteen minutes in her company—something it had taken him many visits to achieve.
Sheikh Farid summoned his wives and younger children. Ramiz recognised the little girl who made a beeline for Celia’s lap as the one he’d seen her with the day before. They had been counting out numbers using pieces of straw. Now Celia encouraged the child to show her father what she had learned.
The meeting concluded with a promise on Sheikh Farid’s part to give thought to the problem of finding teachers—a giant leap forward as far as Ramiz was concerned.
‘You are blessed in your visitor from the West,’ Sheikh Farid told Ramiz. ‘She has the brains of a man in the body of a beautiful woman. If only you could be persuaded to stay,’ he continued, turning towards Celia, ‘I would be happy to take you as my next wife. Though I fear that Prince Ramiz here would have something to say to that.’ Sheikh Farid smiled sadly. ‘I should not grudge him, for I already have six fine wives and this poor man has none, but you must understand I speak as a father. I had hoped my Juman would please the Prince, but I can see she is not to his taste.’ The Bedouin touched his hands together and bowed. ‘Safe journey, my friends. Peace be with you.’
Celia returned the gesture. ‘Wa-alaykum as-salam, Sheikh Farid. May our paths cross again one day.’
‘I will pray for it.’
Celia’s farewells to the many Bedouin children who crowded round her, tugging at her abeyah for attention, were less formal and more protracted. Ramiz watched almost unnoticed, content to remain in the background, a strange emotion tugging at his heart. It was pride, he thought. He was proud of her, and proud to be in her company. It felt good, this sharing. A taste of what it could be like to have a consort. A partnership.
‘She has the brains of a man in the body of a beautiful woman.’ Sheikh Farid’s words were a high compliment indeed, and Celia deserved it. She was exceptional. She deserved to be recognised in such a way—as herself, on her own terms. It was only in seeing someone else do so that he realised he had long since stopped trying to slot her into any preconceived role himself. She was Celia. Unique. He would never meet anyone like her again.
She finally escaped the clambering embraces of the children and allowed Ramiz to help her up onto the high saddle of her camel. Smiling and waving, the children followed them for about a hundred yards, Sheikh Farid’s little daughter being among the last to give up the chase. Celia, touched immeasurably by the affection she had been shown, was dabbing at her eyes with a scrap of lace. Beside her, Ramiz kept his camel to a slow trot to allow her to regain her composure. The reality of her leaving was beginning to dawn on him with cold clarity.
This ‘interlude’, as she called it, he had intended as his cure. The only way to eliminate temptation is to yield to it. Asad’s words, which only a few days ago had seemed to be the answer to his prayers. Now they mocked him. He had yielded to temptation, he had abandoned his principles to do so, but far from being sated, he was now addicted. Addicted to Celia’s body. Addicted to her company. Addicted to her mind.
He needed her. He craved her. He could not imagine how it would be without her. Loneliness loomed like the vast desert plain stretched out before them in the rising heat of late morning, scorched of life, bleached of colour, dusty and arid.
A messenger had come in the night. The English had arrived at the port. The escort Ramiz had organised to attend them was even now leading the caravan across the desert to Balyrma. By the time they returned to the city tomorrow Celia’s father could be waiting to take her home. They had only tonight. Just one more night.
Ramiz could hardly bear to look at the bleakness which was his future. Almost he resented Celia for doing this to him. Until she’d arrived he hadn’t even known he was lonely. Until she’d arrived he hadn’t needed anyone or anything. Only A’Qadiz mattered. A’Qadiz was his life and his rea
son for being. Now A’Qadiz without Celia seemed as drained of colour as an English morning in November.
Tonight would be their last together. Tomorrow he would cut her from his life. Why did it feel as if he would be severing a part of himself? He didn’t even know what she felt about it all, not really. He hated the way she looked so cool and collected, when he ached with something horribly akin to love. But he could not love her and he would not—any more than she could or would love him.
Tonight was all they had left to them. Tonight must be enough, for there was no more to be had.
When Ramiz joined her in the tent he seemed different. Celia couldn’t say how, just that he was. He had been in a strange mood since the morning’s visit to Sheikh Farid. Distant, but watchful. Every time she looked at him he was looking at her, his eyes slits of amber, the tiny lines at their edges more pronounced than usual, as if he were frowning, but he did not seem angry. He seemed tense. And now, prowling around her tent in a dark blue caftan, restless as a caged tiger.
Neither of them had eaten much over dinner. They had not spoken much either. Celia was aware—too aware—of the fact that this was the last time. She could feel her heart beating, marking time like a pendulum, swinging inexorably back and forth, back and forth, counting out the seconds and the minutes and the hours.
She was apprehensive, waiting for him to make the first move as he always did when they came together. Excitement lay like a sub-strata beneath the layer of tension. Tonight she wanted it all. She did not care about the risk. She did not care about the possible consequences. She did not care about anything other than knowing, experiencing the completion of their union inside her—something Ramiz had been extremely careful never to allow. She loved him for it, and knew she should be grateful for his self-control. She was, but it left her feeling as if something was missing, something lacking. It left her feeling empty. She wanted him to make complete love to her. Just once.
Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem Page 18
