Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

by Marguerite Kaye

  But she was nervous. And if she hadn’t known him better she’d have said Ramiz was nervous too. Something was bothering him, though he denied it when she asked him.

  ‘I’ve made you a present,’ she said, pulling the caftan she had so carefully embroidered out from under a cushion and handing it to him.

  Ramiz shook it out and examined it. Dark blue silk, she had copied its pattern from one of his others. The long sleeves were embroidered in shades of blue in the traditional pattern which Yasmina had shown her. The same pattern was repeated around the hem and at the neckline, delicate but unobtrusive, designed to give weight to the garment rather than adornment. The most intricate work was on the motif she had sewn on the left breast. A crescent moon and a falcon—Ramiz’s own insignia—but the bird was in full flight, and in its beak it carried a rosebud.

  Ramiz gazed at it in silence, tracing the image with his finger.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  He laid the caftan down carefully on a divan. ‘It is a very evocative image.’

  ‘It’s how I think of you. Me. This.’

  ‘Us,’ Ramiz said softly, stroking her hair behind her ear so that he could lick into the little crease behind her lobe, inhale the scent of her that lingered there, feel the strength and the fragility of her that seemed to be encapsulated at that precise point, in that combination of soft flesh and delicate bone.

  ‘Us,’ she said breathlessly, allowing herself to feel the word, to think the word, to believe that it could be true just for tonight.

  Ramiz pushed back the heavy fall of her hair to flutter kisses onto the nape of her neck, his fingers kneading her shoulders, stroking the wings of her shoulderblades. He pulled her against him, slipping his hands down to her waist, wrapping his arms around her, folding her into him.

  She could feel his erection pressing against the base of her spine. She could feel the wall of his chest, his heart beating slow and sure against her back. Her head nestled into his shoulder. She closed her eyes and drank in the scent, the feel, the soft sound of his breath—drank it all in so that she would remember it for ever.

  Ramiz turned her round in his arms and kissed her. So tenderly. So softly. Holding her as if she were something precious, his hands on the side of her face, his thumbs caressing her jaw, his eyes warm and golden, with such a look that she felt as if she were melting. She closed her own eyes and surrendered to the moment, which was like no other moment that had passed between them. A long, languorous moment, as if they had all the time in the world just to kiss and kiss and kiss. Gentle kisses, gentle caresses, as if they would soothe rather than arouse, as if they would coax and cajole, a slow burn—so slow that they barely noticed the flames rising.

  Her clothes disappeared as if they had melted. His hands were on her breasts, touching her as if he had never touched her there before, his fingers marvelling at the roundness, the smoothness, the creaminess of her skin, the pink puckering of her nipple. His mouth landed like the whisper of a butterfly, sipping and sipping and sipping until she was nectar, trickling hot and sweet in a path downwards from her nipples to her belly to the darker, more sumptuous heat between her thighs.

  He was naked. She was naked. Liquid with desire, molten with it, she lay touching and being touched, kissing and being kissed, stroking and being stroked. His shaft throbbed under her caress, but he seemed in no hurry, intent on tending to every curve and dip and swell, every crease and pucker, rolling her onto her stomach to kiss down her spine, the curve of her bottom, the back of her knee, the hollow of her ankle bone, then on to her back, to work his way up again, reaching the softness of her thighs, the damp heat between them, jolting her from floating bliss to jagged desire in an instant.

  Celia moaned and clenched back on her climax, catching Ramiz unawares when she wriggled out from under him, rolled him onto his back, placing herself on top of him, leaning over him so that her breasts were crushed into his chest, her nipples taut and hard on his skin, his shaft taut and hard between her legs. She kissed him urgently. She saw the urgency reflected in his face, his eyes dark with it, his skin flushed with it, and then as she kissed him she felt herself lifted, his hands gripping her waist, and he thrust up and was inside her, deep inside her, as he let her fall on top of him at the same time.

  She gasped her pleasure, lying still over him. He pushed her gently upright, steadying her by the waist, and the action allowed his shaft to forge deeper. His thrust forged it deeper again, touching something, a spot high inside her, that triggered an instant clenching and pulsing climax, sending her over in a headlong rush so that she was barely conscious of him thrusting inside her still, of the tension of his control etched on his cheekbones, on the rigid muscles of his shoulders, the corded sinews of his arms as he gripped her and thrust, and she lifted and fell in the same rhythm, lifting and falling, feeling him building and thickening as with every thrust he hit that same spot again and she trembled and shuddered.

  She could determine the moment when he would push her from him by the way his eyes lost focus. She could see the resolution in him in the way his grip changed. She could feel his climax tightening in the base of his shaft. She could feel him swell, her own muscles gripping and holding, furling and unfurling against him. Ramiz groaned. She fell on top of him, pushing him down as he thrust up, pushing him hard down so that he couldn’t move, and with a harsh cry he came, pouring hot and endlessly, high and deep inside her, and it was more, more than she had ever imagined it would be—for it was as if their essences mingled, and for now, in this instant, they truly were one.

  They lay melded together for long moments, breathing fast, hearts thumping in wild unison, limbs entangled. Celia’s hair trailed over Ramiz’s shoulders, over his arms, which were wrapped tight around her waist in an iron grip, pressing her against him as if he would never let her go. She floated on a cloud of ecstasy, glided on a current of the sweetest, warmest air, heavy yet weightless, finally understanding the word sated.

  Gradually their breathing slowed. Ramiz’s hold on her relaxed. She waited, but the anticipated rejection did not come. He smoothed her hair back from her head. He kissed her gently on the mouth. He turned her onto her side and cradled her into him—two crescents fitting perfectly together. He ran his hand possessively down her flank and held her thus until she slept. And when she awoke in the dark of the night, when the lamps had burned out, he was still there. Still holding her.

  ‘Celia.’ Ramiz kissed her neck.

  She tensed. Now he would leave. Now he would say something. But he didn’t. Except her name. ‘Celia…’ in that husky voice, raw with passion, brushing over her skin like velvet, and he turned her to face him and then he kissed her, and it started over again—except this time Ramiz took control, Ramiz lay on top of her. It came harder and faster, their joint climax, as he thrust with her legs wrapped around him, and he poured himself into her with no need for her urging, his cry one of abandon she had never thought to hear and would never forget.

  In the morning when she awoke he was dressed, sitting on the edge of the divan, with his formidable look back in place. She stretched out her hand. ‘Don’t hate me.’

  Ramiz shook her away. ‘If I hate it must be myself. A man must take responsibility, since a woman must bear the consequences. It should not have happened.’ It should not, but he could not regret it. His own intransigence confused him.

  ‘It was my fault.’

  ‘No. The fault was mine. We must trust to the fates that you are not punished for it.’

  Celia bit her lip. Punished! He was talking about the possibility of a child, their child, as punishment. She sat up. ‘I should get dressed. You wanted to make an early start.’

  His mind seethed with words. His heart seethed with emotions. He couldn’t understand it—any of it. He couldn’t think straight. He wanted to shake her until she told him what she really felt. He wanted to make love to her again, to experience that sweet perfection of their union, a perfection he hadn’t known pos
sible until last night.

  Ramiz got to his feet, running his hand through his hair. ‘A messenger arrived yesterday. Your father is here in A’Qadiz. He arrived at the port two days ago. He will be at Balyrma shortly—perhaps even before us.’

  ‘You knew last night?’

  Ramiz nodded curtly. ‘This is the end.’

  ‘You knew last night?’ Celia repeated stupidly.

  Her eyes were like moss damp with dew. Her hair curled like fire over the creaminess of her skin, over the soft mounds of her breasts. She looked like Botticelli’s Venus. He had never seen anyone so beautiful or so irresistible. Having her, taking her so completely, possessing her, had made it worse, much worse. Knowing did not satisfy. It only made the wanting more painful, for he knew now what he would be missing.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, Ramiz?’

  He had no answer—none he could give which would not force him to confront—what he did not want to confront—so Ramiz shrugged. ‘You know now. There are two women with him also. One young, one old.’

  ‘My aunt? The other is probably a maid.’

  Another shrug. ‘Get dressed. You will find out soon enough.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Ramiz?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You were saying goodbye, weren’t you? I understand. It was perfect while it lasted—our fairytale. I want you to know that.’

  He blanched. The words were almost his undoing. A fairytale. That was all it was. Ramiz left the room.

  In the main part of the tent he saw the caftan she had embroidered for him. He picked it up. The motif dug like thorns into his heart. He could never wear it. Never. But he folded it carefully and took it with him all the same.

  It came to him then, as he strode across the sand to his own tent. He loved her. That was what it was—this craving, this need to be with her. It was because she was part of him.

  She was his. He felt it more fiercely than the burning heat of the sun. She was his. He loved her. And soon she would be gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Contrary to Ramiz’s expectations, when they arrived at Balyrma there was no sigh of Celia’s relatives. In fact dusk was falling and Celia was beginning to think they would not arrive at all that day when the doors of the harem were flung open and, to her astonishment, not just Aunt Sophia but Cassie stood before her, looking extremely dusty, exhausted and bewildered.

  ‘Celia? Is that you?’ Cassie was the first to speak, standing transfixed before the exotic-looking creature who bore a distant resemblance to the sister she had come so far to rescue. She hesitated, unaccountably nervous.

  ‘Cassie!’ Celia flew across the courtyard to embrace her sister. ‘Cassie, I can’t believe it’s really you. Are you well? I can’t tell for all the dust. Cassie, it really is me, I promise.’ Celia kissed her sister’s cheek. ‘And Aunt Sophia. You’ve come all this way, and so quickly. You must be exhausted. Please come in. Fatima, Adila—here are my aunt and my sister. They will want food.’ Celia broke off to issue instructions in Arabic, before ushering Cassie ahead of her to her favourite salon.

  ‘You have learned the language?’ Cassie said in amazement.

  Celia laughed. ‘A little only.’

  Cassandra paused at the fountain, trailing her fingers in the water and looking around her at the lemon trees, the tiled pillars, the symmetry of the salons running round the square, one leading into another. So strange, yet Celia looked so at home here. Even the way she walked in her jewelled slippers was different. She seemed to float and ripple.

  ‘You look like Scheherazade in these clothes,’ she said, regarding her sister with a mixture of envy and awe. ‘So very glamorous. I hardly recognise you.’

  Celia made a little twirl. ‘Do you like them? They are so much more suited to the heat here, and such lovely colours.’

  ‘Celia, are you—can it be that you have abandoned your corsets?’ demanded Lady Sophia, looking at her niece’s all too obvious curves, revealed by the clinging fabrics. ‘I do trust you do not leave your rooms in such a toilette?’

  Celia laughed. ‘No one wears corsets here, Aunt, it is far too hot.’

  ‘And your hair—is it the custom to wear it down like that?’

  ‘Not outside. Then it is covered by a veil.’

  ‘And you have no stockings. What are these things under your robe? They look remarkably like pantaloons. Do you tell me it is also common to have one’s undergarments on display?’

  ‘Dearest Aunt, they are called sarwal pantaloons, and, yes, I am afraid it is quite acceptable. Oh, Cassie, Aunt Sophia—I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you. Please do sit down. Adila will bring you some sherbet. You will like it; it is most refreshing.’

  ‘Where do we sit?’

  ‘On the cushions. Like so.’

  Celia floated gracefully onto the carpeted floor. Cassie followed suit, but Lady Sophia took a seat with extreme reluctance. ‘Only heathens sit on the floor.’

  ‘Where is Papa, Aunt?’

  ‘He has an audience with the Sheikh.’

  ‘How are the girls? Are they well? Did you get my letters?’

  ‘Yes, they are all very well and send their love. But, Celia—’ Cassie looked anxiously at her sister ‘—are you well?’

  ‘Do I not look it?’

  ‘Yes. Very. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look better. You look—older, but more beautiful,’ Cassie said, sounding as confused as she felt. ‘Not in the least like our Celia. I have to confess I am a little intimidated by you.’ Her laugh tinkled like the cold water of the fountain. ‘What do you think, Aunt?’

  Lady Sophia pursed her lips. ‘Hmm.’ She took a cautious sip of the sherbet which Adila had handed to her on a silver tray. ‘Do they speak English?’ she asked, nodding at the maidservants.

  Celia shook her head.

  ‘And this place we are in—is this what is known as the harem?’

  Again Celia nodded.

  ‘Where are the other women?’ Cassie asked, looking around her as if she expected a flock of scantily clad females to suddenly appear.

  ‘Sheikh al-Muhana is not married. He has no wives,’ Celia said with a smile.

  Lady Sophia cleared her throat. ‘Celia, I must ask you. Has that man committed any—any improprieties with you? You must know that your sister has been most concerned for your—your… I told her not to worry, of course. I told her you would not—but you must put her mind at rest. Tell us plainly, child, have you—have you been forced to—? In short, Celia, this man has not laid a hand upon you, has he?’

  Though she tried desperately to stop it, when she was faced with the frank blue eyes of her sister and the worried grey of her aunt, Celia felt a blush steal over her cheeks. ‘Sheikh al-Muhana has treated me with the utmost respect,’ she replied falteringly. ‘He was conscious from the first that I—that my family—that Papa… He has done nothing to compromise the relationship between our two countries,’ she finished with a tilt of her chin. ‘In fact it was Ramiz—Sheikh al-Muhana—who saved my life when we were attacked by the brigands who killed George.’

  Needless to say this statement produced a welter of questions from Cassie. Though Celia tried to gloss over George’s role in events, Aunt Sophia’s sharp nose scented scandal. ‘George Cleveden was reputed to be an excellent shot,’ she said. ‘I cannot understand how he came not to defend himself.’

  ‘He did not have the opportunity to fire his gun. It was all so sudden.’

  ‘And it was early morning, you say? How came it that you were not in the tent with him?’

  ‘I found the tent claustrophobic and chose to sleep outside.’

  ‘Had you and George quarrelled?’

  ‘No, Aunt Sophia, nothing of that nature. We had not long been married. We were still…well, getting used to each other.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Lady Sophia treated Celia to her Sphinx look. ‘You should know that your sister and I came all this way in anticipation of having to support you t
hrough the trial of your husband’s death and your subsequent incarceration here. Cassie in particular has been most upset by the idea of your suffering inopportune advances from this Sheikh al-Muhana.’

  Celia pressed her sister’s hand. ‘Have you been worried about me, Cassie? Poor thing. There was no need as I have been very well looked after, I promise. I am so sorry to have caused you to fret.’

  Cassandra examined the intricate silver passementerie braiding on the sleeve of Celia’s caftan. ‘What is it you’re not telling us?’ She lifted her eyes, meeting her sister’s with a puzzled look. ‘It’s true I’ve been worried sick about you, and I can’t tell you what a relief it is to see you in one piece, looking so well, but—but that’s just it, Celia, I don’t understand it. What has happened to you?’

  Celia pulled her sister into a tight hug. ‘Cassie, nothing bad, I promise.’

  Cassandra sniffed. ‘You’ve always told me everything.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Lady Sophia once more. ‘Celia, I believe Cassandra would be the better for a wash and change of clothes.’

  ‘Of course she would.’ Celia clapped her hands to summon the maids. ‘Cassie, go with Fatima and Adila. You will be amazed by the bathing chamber, and they will give you some of my clothes to try if you wish. Then you will see that they are just clothes, and I really am your sister. Go on—you will feel much better.’

  Cassandra left. ‘Well,’ Lady Sophia said when they were alone, ‘since it is obviously not George Cleveden who is responsible for that glow you have about you, young woman, I presume it is this sheikh. You will tell me, please, now that your sister’s blushes have been spared, what exactly is going on here.’

  Lord Henry Armstrong’s meeting with Ramiz was conducted on much more formal terms, in the splendid surroundings of the throne room. Ramiz, clad in his royal robes of state, sat on the dais, with Akil standing in attendance. To Peregrine’s relief two low stools had been placed in front of the throne, and to these Ramiz graciously waved his visitors.