‘Then you will fight for the privilege!’ Suliman leapt at him, his strong hand gripping Bethsheba’s arms and pulling her away from Chris, ignoring her angry cry as he thrust her aside and moved towards Chris. ‘You will fight like a man or go home with your cowardly tail between your legs!’
‘Cowardly!’ Chris stared at him. ‘Now just a minute, you bloody desert——’ He leapt at Suliman in a burst of rage and punched him in the jaw.
Suliman’s head jerked back. His eyes blazed, his fist shot out, and Chris sprawled back in the sand with a thud, blood on his mouth.
‘No!’ Bethsheba ran to stop them as Suliman leapt at him. ‘Don’t fight! I want to go back with Chris! I want to! I want to!’
‘Stay back!’ Suliman bit out, turning to stare at her.
Chris took advantage of the moment. He seized the hilt of the scimitar at Suliman’s hip and pulled it from the scabbard. Standing, he backed away, the sword flashing in his hand.
‘Chris…’ Bethsheba’s blood ran cold as she stared ‘…put the sword down! There’s no need for this…’
‘Stay out of this!’ Chris flung angrily, and the steel of the scimitar glittered wickedly in the sun. ‘She’s mine, Suliman!’ he shouted. ‘I made her what she is, and she made me! I won’t let you take her—even if I have to kill you to keep her!’
‘No…’ Bethsheba whispered, trembling. Chris knew how to use that sword, all right. He was an expert fencer. Every drama school in the world taught its students to fence, and Chris had trained at RADA. He had played Mercutio, Hamlet and every classical role that demanded a perfectly executed sword-fight. Even now he stood in the correct pose: his feet planted firmly on the sand, one turned out, one forward, ready to dance out of the way should Suliman attempt to get near him.
Suddenly Chris flicked the sword in one hand and cut Suliman’s black robes open at the shoulder. Suliman sucked in his breath, a hand clamping on his wound as blood ran between his fingers.
‘Stop it!’ Bethsheba screamed, running forward.
‘Get back from him!’ Chris moved forward, too, his sword pointing at Suliman’s throat. ‘Now—get in the helicopter, Beth!’
‘But I can’t just leave and let you——’
‘Get in the bloody chopper!’ Chris bit out.
She stared, sweat on her upper lip, her heart hammering in fear. ‘He’s unarmed, Chris.’
‘He wanted to fight, didn’t he?’ Chris said under his breath, and his sword slid across Suliman’s throat, grazing the skin. Suliman didn’t even flinch, but his eyes blazed with dark rage.
‘I demanded of you that you fight like a man,’ Suliman said contemptuously, staring arrogantly down that curved steel blade at Chris, ‘not like a bandit!’
‘But this is the desert, isn’t it?’ Chris sneered. ‘And there are no rules!’
Anger rose in Bethsheba. Suddenly she found herself unsheathing her own scimitar, and as the steel hissed and flashed in the sun both men turned to look at her.
‘No rules, Chris,’ she said under her breath, and flung the sword at Suliman. ‘No rules!’
Chris stared at her, his face draining of colour.
Suliman caught the sword with one hand, gripping the black handle. He gave a cry of dark triumph, turning on Chris, the blade flashing, and, as Chris danced out of the way, Suliman made an expert thrust, grazing his forearm and drawing blood.
Bethsheba watched in an agony of tension. The clash of steel rang out in the hot desert air. The sheikh was forcing him back, his face tense with primitive rage, and his sword moved faster and faster as Chris retreated, parrying desperately, his eyes wide with shock.
Suddenly, Chris’s sword flew out of his hand. With a cry, he stumbled backwards and fell on to the sand. Suliman stood over him, his sword pointing to his throat.
‘You are beaten, English!’ the sheikh said with dark mockery.
Chris shook with rage but could do nothing to alter his humiliation.
‘Don’t hurt him!’ Bethsheba ran forward. ‘Please! He lost his head! He didn’t know what he was——’
‘I will not hurt him,’ Suliman said tightly, ‘on one condition.’
‘Well?’ Chris breathed thickly, hating him, lying helplessly at his feet, the sword at his throat.
‘You get back in your helicopter and fly back to Tangier alone,’ Suliman said flatly. ‘Agree to this and you will go free—unharmed.’
‘That’s my decision, not his!’ Bethsheba protested angrily.
‘I hold the sword at his throat, and we have fought for you,’ Suliman said harshly. ‘He will obey my demand, or pay the penalty!’
‘Demand it of me!’ Bethsheba said furiously.
‘Not here,’ Suliman said tightly. ‘Not now. You will obey the decision that is made here, bint, and come with me to the Great Palace of Suliman!’
‘I will not!’ she said fiercely, eyes blazing gold.
‘Well?’ Suliman pressed the sword harder against Chris’s open throat. ‘What is your decision, English?’
‘I want her to come with me!’
‘You have fought and lost!’ Suliman said bitingly. ‘Are you a man of your word—or a snake that crawls on its belly?’
‘You bastard!’ Chris’s mouth shook with fury. ‘You know very well I have no choice!’
Suliman’s hard mouth twisted in a smile. ‘Then go.’ He stepped back, the sword at his side.
Chris scrambled to his feet, brushing sand from his clothes, his eyes furious as he moved back to the helicopter.
‘Chris, no!’ Bethsheba stared to run, panic flaring in her.
‘Leave him!’ Suliman’s voice cracked like a whiplash as his hand shot out to take her arm, yanking her back angrily. ‘Do you want to humiliate him beyond endurance?’ he demanded, eyes fierce. ‘He has fought and lost. Let him go to lick his wounds in private—he will be back, of that you can be sure.’
Bethsheba stood speechless with despair and fear as Chris slammed the helicopter door, his face averted, and the blades were already whirring noisily, sand spinning up as they gathered speed. When the helicopter lifted from the ground and flew above them she hid her face from the sandstorm and thought, I had my chance to escape! I had my chance and let it go!
But he might have killed Suliman! And the sheikh had been unarmed—how could she have stood by and done nothing? She had had to throw that sword and stay with them rather than run to the helicopter and make good her escape.
When the helicopter had disappeared from sight, and the desert was silent again, Suliman drew back to look at her.
‘So, Sheba,’ his voice was as dark and seductive as his eyes, ‘you chose me, after all.’
‘I didn’t choose you!’ she denied hotly. ‘I chose justice! I couldn’t just stand by and let him wound you seriously—or worse!’
Suliman’s hard mouth moved in a smile. ‘How you lie to yourself, Sheba.’ Suddenly he frowned, and his hand moved to his shoulder, feeling the cut.
At once she looked at the cut, concern in her eyes. ‘He hurt you!’
‘A scratch,’ Suliman said coolly, watching her.
She ignored his male pride and studied the wound with concern. ‘It isn’t deep, but it must be cleansed.’ Quickly she moved to her horse, took the water-bottle, and tore a piece of cloth from her turban, dipping it in water and tenderly bathing Suliman’s wound.
‘My warrior queen excels as a nurse, also,’ Suliman drawled softly, watching her with a wry smile as she attended to his wound.
‘All women do,’ she said coolly. ‘That is their tragedy.’
Suliman laughed under his breath, and said, ‘Tonight, Sheba, in the Great Palace of Suliman, you will be taught how a woman really excels—in the arms of a man who desires her above all others!’
Her eyes flicked up in a heart-stopping moment of panic and excitement. ‘I should have let him kill you! I should have got on that helicopter and left you!’
‘But you did not, Sheba,’ he said under hi
s breath, ‘and tonight shall you be rewarded in my bed!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE Great Palace of Suliman rose out of the desert. Gold-domed turrets and spires pierced the blue sky; ancient bleached stone walls made a sprawl of towers and soaring archways and colonnades. There were thick clusters of Arabic script, gold-meshed windows, ancient drawings embedded in the yellow stone, and everywhere around—all around it, framing it like the golden masterpiece it was—there was sand.
It had about it the look of legend. And of kismet. Bethsheba rode towards it, red robes flying across the black muscled flanks of her horse, and felt moved by the sight of it. Awe-inspiring, it seemed to touch something deep inside her. Love flashed in her eyes and her blood answered the song of Suliman, of his palace and his land.
Dogs scattered as Sheba and Suliman rode through the great stone archway. The horses’ hoofs clattered on the cobbled courtyard. Men rushed towards them, men in desert robes, men with deeply tanned faces who called out in Arabic at the sight of them.
Suliman was every inch a prince as he spoke to them in Arabic, the authority in his voice and face quite striking as he dismounted in one dynamic movement.
He strode to Bethsheba, his strong hands encircling her waist, and lifted her down from the horse. The men stared at her, a woman in dark red robes, a scimitar at her hip.
‘Well, Sheba,’ Suliman said coolly as he looked down his arrogant nose at her, ‘do you like the palace of my ancestor?’
‘How could anyone fail to be moved by its beauty?’ she answered honestly, and lifted her head to meet his gaze with a challenge. ‘But I feel sure your ancestor Suliman would not approve of its being turned into a prison.’
‘A gilded cage, my fierce dove,’ he drawled, dark eyes mocking. ‘And, when you are ready to accept the freedom I alone can give, you will be free.’
He turned on his black-leather-booted heel, spurs jangling. His hand took her arm, and he led her beside him across the courtyard and up the ancient stone steps.
The Eastern grandeur of the magnificent hallway they entered took her breath away. Gold-carved walls of marble led up to a ceiling so high that it was almost mist-shrouded, a chandelier of gold oil-lamps hanging mystically from its centre on long gold chains. The floor was marble, spattered black, white and gold, and words were inscribed at the edges.
They walked down a long, echoingly vast corridor. The palace was vast, she realised; how vast, she could not even guess, but as she walked beside her prince she saw fountains and statues in distant walled gardens, arched colonnades and rooms; endless, endless rooms.
As they reached a central square of pillared marble, Suliman clapped his hands twice, sharply.
Doors opened all around them. Women came out to greet him; his women, all ravishing Arab girls with long black hair and eyes of dark fire. Dusky- skinned, nostrils pierced with diamond studs, they were dressed in harem silks of such vivid colour and beauty that Bethsheba felt admiration flood over her at the same time as jealousy.
‘Your harem?’ she asked through tight lips, turning to look at Suliman, the jealousy laid bare in her fierce eyes.
‘They are my women,’ Suliman met her gaze, amused, ‘but they are not my wives.’
‘What’s the difference?’ Her voice was harsh with jealousy, and she hated herself for being so blatant but she was in the grip of a powerful emotion she had never truly experienced before.
‘A great deal, bint,’ Suliman said coolly, ‘but nothing I care to discuss with you in front of them!’
‘How very convenient.’
He clapped his hands, gave an order in Arabic, and the women moved towards her.
‘Wait!’ Bethsheba backed from them instinctively. ‘What’s going on? Suliman—what did you say to them?’
‘I ordered them to take you to a place where you may rest and eat,’ he said flatly, face arrogant. ‘At sunset you will be brought to me. Until then—recover from your arduous journey and prepare yourself for the night of your awakening.’
‘Brought to you!’ Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Am I a pomegranate? Or a sweetmeat?’
‘Neither has ever been so pampered as you will be tonight, bint!’ Suliman said, dark eyes intense. ‘For at sunset the women will take you to the Great Bath of Sheba,’ he said coolly. ‘There you will be scented and clothed as befits a queen, in order to meet your true destiny in my arms.’
‘In your bed!’ she flared hotly, hating him.
‘I command it,’ he said, lifting his head with absolute self-assurance. ‘It shall be so.’
Turning, he strode away in his black robes, leaving her surrounded by the women. Trembling, angry, excited, confused—Bethsheba turned to look at them, meeting their stares with a proud lift to her head.
They took her to a luxurious bedroom scattered with silk cushions and with an air of such slumbrous privacy about it that she felt quite at home. The scent of cassia oil burning in lamps reminded her of Suliman, of the douar, of the desert and of seduction.
Exhausted, she collapsed on to the silken cushions. A woman knelt at her feet and pulled off her oxblood riding boots. She flexed her toes and closed her eyes, leaning back among the cushions.
The women moved about her. Someone unravelled her turban.
Suddenly, a gasp and a cry of Arabic made her open her eyes. The women were staring at her, and as she looked at them they dropped, en masse, to their knees.
‘What’s the matter?’ Bethsheba quickly looked behind her to see if Suliman had come in, but there was no one there. ‘Why are you kneeling?’ she asked, then suddenly realised that they were staring at her hair.
Sheba, she thought, touching her hair, and smiled.
So it was true. Everything Suliman had told her about the legendary Sheba was true. The women were treating her as a queen, and she couldn’t help comparing their awed worship with the teenage girls who bought her records and copied her hairstyles in the West.
Bethsheba was treated by people in the West as someone very different; very unusual and special. She didn’t like it much. It set her apart, quite literally, and made her lonely.
It felt normal, of course, after four years of widespread fame. And the way the women now treated her was no different, she realised, studying their bent heads and the awe in their eyes.
Was this how it was for Suliman, too? she wondered. He was their king. Everywhere he went his people treated him with reverence and respect. He too was set apart; marked out as different.
The women brought her quail eggs, smoked salmon, spiced meat and chunks of bread, a large pot of spicy coffee and a brass tray of sweetmeats. Bethsheba ate hungrily, alone in the beautiful room, closing her eyes as each delicious mouthful filled her.
Sprawling on the cushions, barefoot in her dark red robes, her hair spilling in gold profusion around her head, Bethsheba managed to sleep, quite without design.
She slept deeply, and when she awoke it was because a gentle hand shook her. Looking up into a dusky face with diamond-studded nose, Bethsheba remembered where she was.
It was sunset.
Her body came alive with a sudden leap. Heat and excitement flooded her. She was to be bathed and scented for Suliman. She was trembling as she allowed the woman to help her to her feet. Following her to a small door, she went through it and caught her breath.
Here at last was Sheba.
The bathroom was vast. A circular temple of feminine beauty, it had mosaic floors of blue, gold and white. The walls shimmered a summer gold; vast stone pillars gleamed beside the waters. Long gold-flecked filigree lace hangings covered a colonnade at the back, a garden with lush plants and three fountains.
And there, in the midst of that secret garden, stood Sheba. The gold statue gleamed, half-cat, half-woman, and Sheba’s legendary eyes seemed to smile at Bethsheba in the sunset.
The women crowded round her then, and undressed her. At once, Bethsheba lifted her head in pride, and as the soft-skinned hands stripped her clothes a
way, layer after layer of desert nomad’s robes, Bethsheba quivered, reminded forcibly of her womanhood as she stood naked before them.
The woman knelt to her.
Nude, Bethsheba moved regally past them, walking to the steps and down into the warm water. It felt delicious. She slid into it and began to swim, breathing in the scent of it, rising in soft steam to the tendrils of her wet hair.
Suliman would be bathing too now, she thought nervously. Preparing for tonight, when he takes me in that bed, and her heart hammered violently at the thought of it.
He will make love to me, she thought; of that there is no doubt. Her body throbbed with heat and she floated, golden-skinned and beautiful, in the warm water, thinking of it, torturing herself with it, knowing she would eventually cry out with ecstasy and join him in a greedy, wanton, mindless purge of all the pent-up desire she had fought since she first saw him. She hated him for making her feel this way. Hated him and hated herself. One lazy hand touched her full breast, felt the nipple hard beneath her fingers and her heart thudding harshly beside it. I want him, she thought; I want him and he knows it.
They brought her gown, of transparent gold silk threaded with scarlet. It was exquisitely diaphanous, floating like the wings of a dragonfly. The women dried her with soft towels, scented her with oils, combed her hair with a long golden-toothed comb inlaid with pearls.
When she was dressed a ruby was inserted into her navel and fixed there with paste. They painted her feet with harmel and henna, proclaiming her queen in curling script. Her mouth was painted red; her eyes inlaid with kohl of deepest black.
Finally, a black cloak edged in gold was placed around her shoulders, a black veil placed over her head, and a black silk yashmak drawn over her face. A dazzling gold head-piece was fastened to her hair, making her shimmer in a thousand refractions of light.
Bethsheba was led to the sheikh. Pulses throbbed through her body, making her tremble in anticipation as she walked along corridors, only her kohl-lined eyes visible to those who watched her pass.
The room she entered was not, as she had expected, a bedroom. Frowning, she turned to ask why she was brought here, but the door had already closed behind her.
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