Desert Destiny

by Sarah Holland

  ‘No one can ever be sure of the contents of another’s heart and mind,’ Suliman said coolly, draining his coffee and setting the cup back on the brass tray.

  ‘You say that,’ Bethsheba’s eyes were angry and frightened, ‘yet you insist you saw silent approval in my eyes last night!’

  He laughed softly. ‘I saw more than silent approval when I kissed you just now, bint!’

  Hot colour stung her cheeks and rage made her tremble as she stared at him, unable to reply for fear she would scream at him like a banshee and fly at him, hitting him for speaking such a humiliating truth.

  Suliman laughed again, and turned, walking to the tent flap, saying, ‘I will send a girl to you with water and fresh clothing. When it is time to eat you will be sent for.’

  Fury overwhelmed her. Her shaking hands closed over a silk cushion and she found herself hurling it at his arrogant head as he swept the tent flap aside. ‘Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!’ she shouted hoarsely, but the cushion hit the side of the tent with a dull thud, and the sheikh’s mocking laughter echoed in her ears to increase her rage and sense of helplessness.

  In the dusky corners of the tent, cassia oil burnt in lamps that hung from tent-poles, and the rich drapes of royal blue seemed to mock her, saying, ‘I am master here and you shall do my bidding.’

  The hell I will! she thought furiously, almost gnashing her teeth; then she realised that her hands still shook, and she struggled for self-control, for the dignity that was left her. Closing her eyes, she drew long, deep breaths, momentary calm flooding her.

  Suliman believed she had given her consent to this barbaric fantasy, and, even though her pride rose up in furious denial, she knew deep inside that the excitement had flashed from her eyes and communicated itself to him. However much she hated herself for having got herself in this position, she knew she had been at fault—partially.

  But she hadn’t meant this to happen! Panic flooded her, and she reached for her coffee with trembling hands, drinking deep, suddenly realising that she was struck by a raging thirst. She poured another cup and drank deep of the spicy coffee, and her hands reached for sweet, sticky halva and Turkish delight and biscuits as she remembered she had not eaten since this morning’s meagre breakfast of fruit.

  The tent flap was swept aside. Bethsheba’s eyes flashed to the entrance, and stared at the shadowy figure there.

  ‘I am Khalisha.’ The girl was ravishing, her voice as beautifully Arabian as her face. ‘My lord sent me to wash and clothe you.’

  ‘How kind of him,’ Bethsheba said through tight lips.

  ‘Is the sitt ready?’ Khalisha moved into the dim gold light of the tent, and Bethsheba stared in admiration. She was as slender as a gazelle, dusky-skinned, with long black hair and deep, lustrous eyes of brown above high cheekbones and a small dark red mouth. The purple silk of her harem trousers was edged with gold, as was her bodice, and little purple slippers on her feet were embroidered with gold.

  “I’m sorry, Khalisha,’ Bethsheba said angrily, unable to swallow her rage, ‘I don’t wish to offend you—but nor do I wish to be washed and clothed like a sacrifice for your master!’

  ‘A sacrifice?’ The girl’s dark brows met over her lustrous eyes in a frown.

  ‘I was brought here against my will and——’

  ‘I know nothing of this,’ said Khalisha at once, cool and serene as she moved further into the tent. ‘I know only the orders that my lord gave me.’

  ‘Your lord!’ Her nose wrinkled the pent-up anger. ‘He’s not your lord, he’s just——’

  ‘He is my lord, sitt. And without him my people would be scattered in the desert as the wind scatters dead men’s bones.’ Pride of her race and heritage made the girl even more beautiful.

  Getting to her feet, Bethsheba said, ‘Is there a bathroom I am to use?’

  ‘No. The sitt may wash behind the shiraz.’

  Bethsheba looked at once to the back of the tent where a selection of gorgeously patterned shiraz rugs hung from poles to form a protective covering where she might bathe. Memories of Bahrain flooded through her at the sight of the rugs, and she moved slowly towards them.

  Khalisha held one up to let her pass, and gold bangles jangled softly on her dusky-skinned arm as she watched Bethsheba. Behind the rugs was a little makeshift room, with a bowl, soaps, scents, a dark blue towel and a small mirror.

  Khalisha emptied her own jug of water into the bowl. Steam rose from it, scented steam, which made the room feel even more Eastern. Khalisha turned to Bethsheba to unbutton her blouse.

  ‘I can do that!’ Bethsheba jumped back from the girl’s fingers, shocked.

  “The sitt will find it more pleasant if she is bathed by another.’

  Flushing, Bethsheba said, ‘It is not my way, Khalisha! In England, we bathe alone!’

  ‘I have heard it is so.’ Khalisha nodded. ‘But I am glad to be of a more hot-blooded and sensual race. Here, we are taught to give our bodies the pleasure they crave.’

  ‘We consider ourselves to be a sensual race,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Yet you bathe alone?’ Khalisha smiled, eyes gently mocking. ‘Come! The sitt is weary and I am fresh. Close your eyes and let me wash the scent of the horse and the desert from your body!’

  Feeling she now had something to prove, Bethsheba allowed Khalisha to undress her. The white blouse fell to the floor, followed by her lacy white bra, and she kept her eyes closed, burning with embarrassment, but refusing to show it. No doubt they would gossip about the cold-blooded English girl around the camp-fires tonight if she refused to let Khalisha wash her! Yet, after the girl had tugged Bethsheba’s jodhpurs off, she couldn’t help feeling a leap of shame as her lace panties followed them a moment later and she stood naked at last.

  There was a splash of scented water, then Khalisha’s hand guiding a soft sponge over Bethsheba’s slim thighs. Gradually, she began to relax. The warm water slid softly over her aching shoulders, her back, and her joints began to unbend until at last her eyes flickered open and her shame receded in the trappings of the sensual Orient all around her.

  ‘Truly,’ Khalisha said suddenly, ‘the sitt is as beautiful as I had heard.’

  ‘You had heard?’ Bethsheba stared down at the girl who knelt at her feet.

  ‘It was whispered this morning that you would arrive. They said my lord the sheikh had found his Sheba, and that she was as beautiful as it was written she would be.’

  Bethsheba stared, incredulous. ‘Written!’

  ‘Now that I see you,’ said Khalisha, ‘I see they did not lie. The sitt is the Sheba with hair of gold and skin the colour of the sand-cat. Truly, you are the she-cat.’

  ‘The she-cat?’ Bethsheba was frowning, completely bewildered and suddenly even more uneasy about her situation. ‘But what does that mean? And why do you call me Sheba, as Sheikh Suliman does?’

  ‘It is written,’ Khalisha said simply, and picked up the royal blue towel to dry her body.

  ‘Can’t you tell me what is written?’ Bethsheba studied her. ‘I must know what you——’

  ‘I have said enough.’ Khalisha’s mouth tightened.

  Bethsheba sighed, then changed tack, asking, ‘Where are we?’

  ‘In the Sahara.’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘but where exactly in the Sahara?’

  ‘I will not help you saddle a horse and escape, sitt.’

  ‘Khalisha, can’t you see how I feel?’ Bethsheba said at once. ‘I’m a prisoner here!’

  Suddenly Khalisha got to her feet, small mouth tightening as she said, ‘I know nothing of this, and my lord will be angry with me if I say more. Come! Stand, please. I will dress you and go.’

  Bewildered, she got to her feet, staring at the girl, who bent to get her clothes. Bethsheba’s body was partially reflected in the mirror; she looked leonine, gold and scented and beautiful.

  ‘You will wear these.’ Khalisha presented her with a luxurious pile of gold silk clothes, je
wellery, slippers and make-up of kohl, henna and red-staining cream in small earthenware pots.

  Bethsheba’s mouth tightened, but she obediently slipped into the gold silk briefs, the tiny scrap so fragile, so luxurious that she felt almost nude in them. She searched for a bra and found only a gold silk caftan remained.

  ‘Am I not to wear a bra?’

  Khalisha shook her head. ‘My lord does not wish it.’

  Bethsheba’s eyes flared angrily. ‘Your lord is a selfish, arrogant——’

  ‘He is a prince of royal blood, sitt!’ Khalisha’s eyes flared back, just as angry suddenly. ‘And you are honoured to be chosen by one such as him!’

  Shocked by the girl’s outburst, Bethsheba realised now that she was jealous. Jealousy! she thought, staring as Khalisha flushed betrayingly and bent her head, mouth angry.

  ‘Khalisha…’ Bethsheba reached out to comfort her ‘…I’m sorry if I trod on your feelings. But you must understand—I’ve been brought here against my will, and I don’t want to stay. Certainly not to be “chosen” by an arrogant sheikh to——’

  ‘The sheikh is arrogant, yes!’ Khalisha’s head lifted angrily. ‘But he is magnificent in his arrogance! He would make a woman cry with pleasure if she was lucky enough to be chosen to lie in his arms! Yet all you can do, English sitt, is to——’

  ‘Enough!’ Sheikh Suliman El Khazir’s voice cracked like a whip from the main entrance to the tent, making Bethsheba jump out of her skin, her heart suddenly banging like a drum.

  Khalisha gasped and turned. The sheikh’s approaching footsteps were accompanied by bitten- out words in Arabic, and then the shiraz rug was swept angrily aside.

  ‘No!’ Bethsheba cried instinctively, whirling to stare at his hard face, her hands up to protect herself from his searing gaze as he stopped dead, staring down at her almost nude body clothed only in transparent gold silk briefs.

  There was an electric silence. She couldn’t look him in the face, her mouth open with shock, her hands shaking as she realised there was nowhere to hide herself from his burningly intense gaze.

  Khalisha threw herself at his feet. He stood watching her, unmoved, and when she whispered her apologies to his dark leather boots he said something harsh in Arabic and lifted her to her feet with a strong hand. She gave a muffled sob, bowed to him, then ran from the tent, ankle bracelets jingling with tiny gold bells as she moved.

  ‘Please!’ Bethsheba said hoarsely as the sheikh continued to stand directly in front of her, eyes fixed intently on her body. ‘Get out! Leave me to dress!’

  He watched her in an electrifying silence, breathing thickly. Then his nostrils flared, his hands shot out, and he dragged her arms from her breasts as she cried out and struggled, laying her bare to his piercing gaze.

  ‘Don’t…’ she whispered thickly, heart banging as she squirmed desperately to hide her nudity from him. ‘Please…’

  He breathed harshly, every muscle taut as he stared at her erect nipples. Then he was dragging her towards him, his dark head swooping, and as that hard hot mouth fastened on her breast she gave a low shuddering cry of fierce pleasure, her head flung back as her legs turned to molten lava and desire flashed between them like a forest fire.

  Suddenly she was released. She swayed, dazed, flushed and fevered, almost stumbling aside in a tide of shaking passion. The sheikh stood a few inches from her, his back to her, and to her intense fury she felt sharp disappointment flood her. She fought that disappointment, hating herself bitterly for wanting him to go further.

  ‘You can’t do this,’ she heard her voice say in hoarse protest as she snatched up the gold silk caftan and held it protectively against herself. ‘You can’t keep me here as though I had no life of my own, no will of my own and no rights of my own!’

  ‘You will stay,’ he said thickly without turning, and he breathed harshly as though the fierce desire flooded him with as much violence as it did her. ‘It is my will!’

  ‘At least tell me why!’ she demanded fiercely. ‘At least tell me that!’

  ‘It is written,’ he said under his breath, and the light of the cassia-oil lamps flickered softly as a desert breeze ruffled the sides of the tent.

  ‘I’m sick to death of hearing that phrase as though I didn’t exist and the only important thing was something written somewhere I don’t even know about!’

  He turned, dark eyes formidable. ‘You will stay, Sheba!’ he said tightly. ‘It is my will!’

  Her mouth trembled as she met that commanding gaze. ‘Chris will come for me! He’s not going to believe that phoney note for a second! He’ll know perfectly well that something’s wrong, and he’ll move heaven and earth to find me!’

  ‘And when he does he will fight me for the right to possess you,’ Suliman bit out. ‘For now I have you, Sheba, I will not let you go!’ His lips curled with angry disdain. ‘Certainly not to your English master!’

  ‘He’s not my master!’ she denied furiously, indignation burning in her voice.

  ‘Is he not, bint?’ Suliman said tightly. ‘Does he not tell you when to work and when to sleep? Does he not pick out your clothes and send you to bathe? Does he not run your life and——’

  ‘He’s my producer!’

  ‘He is your master,’ he bit out.

  There was a tense silence. She stared at him, fury in her eyes and in every line of her body as she held the caftan up to cover her nudity and her eyes warred with his.

  ‘But now I am your master,’ Suliman said under his breath, eyes flicking over her with possessive determination. ‘And you will do my bidding!’

  ‘I’d rather die!’ she said fiercely, her voice shaking, struggling to deny the shivers of arousal at his words, at his look, at his remembered touch. ‘I’d rather die than do anything you asked of me!’

  He laughed softly, and mockery entered the dark eyes. ‘A shame, bint. For, if you do not appear at my supper-table within the half-hour, I will come to you and make you recognise your new master as I take possession of that…’ his eyes flashed slowly, insolently, possessively over her trembling body ‘…which is mine!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE SHEIKH strode from the tent, and Bethsheba stood trembling as she watched the tent flap fall back into place behind him. The seriousness of her position here was beginning to sink in. She sank weakly to the floor of the tent and leant against the shiraz rugs behind her.

  There was only one way to end this disaster: she must escape.

  With renewed confidence, she stood up and began to dress. The gold silk caftan flowed over her body. The soft gold slippers fitted her perfectly. She fastened the gold-belled bracelets on her ankles, threaded the gold-meshed earrings in her lobes, and slid the gold chain around her neck.

  She moved to the mirror, sank, crosslegged, before it, and picked up the make-up pots Khalisha had brought. She enjoyed them, lining her eyes with black kohl, staining her lips red, darkening her eyelids with henna.

  When she was ready she went outside.

  Flickering camp-fires lit the darkness. Robed figures moved in the gold firelight. The scent of rich food assailed her nostrils and she realised she was starving.

  Suliman was waiting for her, framed against the firelight. He had washed and changed too. The dark blue caftan he wore made him look deeply attractive, the tanned throat and dark chest-hairs clearly visible where the caftan parted in a deep V. His bare feet were thrust into gold sandals, and Bethsheba knew instinctively that he was naked beneath that caftan; knew it, and felt her body leap with arousal.

  ‘You are more beautiful than Scheherazade,’ Suliman said deeply, and extended a strong brown hand. ‘Come. Dine with me.’

  His people fell silent, watching them walk to the table and sit down.

  ‘They’re staring again,’ Bethsheba said under her breath as she sank on to the chair beside Suliman. Then she asked suddenly, ‘Who is the Sheba, Suliman? The one you speak of when——’

  ‘It is not the time, bint, to
reveal all secrets to you.’ His strong hand closed over hers, making her pulses leap. ‘Accept those I have already bestowed on you and be patient.’

  ‘What secrets have you bestowed?’

  ‘The secrets of my desires,’ he said, a smile on his hard mouth.

  ‘You want to rape me!’ she said angrily. ‘You’ve made yourself more than clear on that score!’

  ‘If I wanted to rape you, bint, you would now be sprawled naked across the cushions of my tent!’

  ‘Oh…!’ Her heart stopped beating.

  ‘But,’ Suliman said deeply, turning her wrist and lifting it to press his hard mouth against it, ‘as you can see, I am not so barbaric as to destroy your innocence with brutal indifference to your dignity!’

  ‘But you do want me. And you will force me if I refuse!’

  ‘You will not refuse, and there will be no force.’ His strong fingers slid to the pulse that throbbed at her wrist. ‘Your heart flutters like the wings of a captive bird just at my touch. Can you deny you tremble not only with fear but with excitement too?’

  ‘I deny it absolutely!’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Then you deny yourself!’ he said deeply, ‘and also deny the growing demands of your womanhood.’

  That’s not true!’ Her face ran with angry colour. ‘I’m refusing to be treated as the plaything of a bored sheikh!’

  ‘Yet fantasy is the plaything of both men and women, is it not?’ he asked coolly. ‘And your record producer would agree, I believe, or he would not have shot such a deeply arousing film in the desert with you.’

  ‘Chris has a commercial mind and the money to produce any of his visions as he chooses to——’

  ‘Visions!’ drawled the sheikh, ‘Another word for fantasy. And every art-form since the dawn of time has been composed of fantasy, bint, as you well know.’

  ‘Your interest in me is hardly artistic,’ she said thickly, ‘as you well know!’

  The dark eyes flicked slowly, indolently, to her mouth. ‘Ah,’ he said softly and his eyes grew intent, ‘but it could be, my Sheba. It could be…’