Her mind drifted then from one thing to another, reliving again the days in the desert. And it was with a certain satisfaction that she considered the fact that the attention she received now was given not because she was 'Sharif's favorite slave, but rather because of her own accomplishment. And with this thought smugly in her mind, Juliette turned over, snuggling deeper into a pillow and, feeling a growing lethargy, fell asleep.
Chapter 63
When Juliette opened her eyes again, she was surprised it was still dark. They had camped at an oasis, and above her the moon cast the shadow of a palm tree on the ceiling of her tent. The smell of dead ashes from the camp fire hung in the air, and the stamp of a restless horse combined in the distance with the haunting notes of a flute.
Throwing back the covers, Juliette sat up naked on the wide bed. She knew what had awakened her-a dream. Sharif surrounding her-engulfing her, his hard body close, his warm lips parting hers, his arms holding her so nothing else mattered and all else was forgotten.
There was the touch of a hand on her breast, a bold caress along her thighs. But satisfaction had not come. Instead she had awakened feeling feverishly hot, the silk sheet clinging damply to her body. Once he had warned her their times together would only awaken a new appetite, not satisfy it. She had not realized he meant this-that she would find herself wanting him. And, to her despair, the days spent near him on the hunt had sharpened her feelings until the warmth of his body curled round her back had brought a new aching desire that spread over her like an invasion, thawing away what remained of her icy fortress of reserve. So now, in her dreams, she welcomed those very caresses she would have fought against in a waking state.
This fact was humiliating enough, but worst of all, lately she had begun to wonder if he knew, if he could possibly read her thoughts now, as he had so often in the past. Since she had shot the mouflon, he had ignored her. And thank heaven he was spending the night away from camp, she thought. This foolishness of hers was only a physical reaction. She didn't really care for him. But then her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden uneasiness stemming from the sense of being watched-a feeling that made her skin quiver with gooseflesh.
Her eyes swept the tent. "Cassia?" she whispered into the black.
But there was no answer beyond the abrupt pause of a cricket that had been making solitary chirps.
Then, with a tremor in her voice, "Sharif?"
He did not answer, but stepped closer, his features a relief of light and shadow, his chin a slant of shadow in the play of darkness and light. But it was he.
The cricket had not begun again and the air was so silent she knew he heard the catch of her breath. Her pulse gathered momentum as she drew the sheet high above her breasts. A thrill dashed up her spine as, in two strides, he was beside her bed, hunching slightly to keep from brushing the top of the tent in a posture that made him seem like a hulking bear.
She thought to scramble from the bed-to run from him, but where? So she remained, her breasts alive, her abdomen quickening with a spreading liquid that warmed her skin and made it tingle.
Did he know? She asked herself again. Had some animal instinct of his sensed her desire? Had he changed his plans and come, knowing that she wanted him? No! Impossible! But the thought made her blush darker.
He couldn't know how I feel, she assured herself. And hoping the presence of light would bring some calm to her jumping heart, Juliette reached to the inlaid table beside the bed and lit the candle there.
Illumination flooded the space, turning his bronze features to a fiery gold.
"Get up!" he said finally, his husky voice deceptively soft.
"Get up?" Juliette echoed disbelieving.
"Yes. Had you been expecting something else?" His eyes brightened with a devilish gleam.
"No-no, of course not!"
"Then get up. I want to talk to you and it's damned distracting when you're on your back."
Juliette found herself somehow standing, wrapping herself in the sheet as she moved away until her back brushed the sides of the tent.
"It's never been my choice to be 'on my back' as you put it. It has only been because you have forced me there!"
"Still the sharp-tongued one, aren't you?"
The bed stood between them, and Sharif's eyes, half hooded, were watching her with the intensity of a cat watching a cornered bird. Juliette's heart hammered so loud it drowned out all reasonable thoughts except one .., she must not let him touch her-not now-not when excitement rushed over her in waves she couldn't quell.
Her fingers dug deeper into the sheet as she pulled it closer, unaware that it pressed her impudently high breasts even higher to spill over the top of the sheet in a swell of white.
She watched him laugh softly. "What a difficult woman you are. Any self-respecting Arab would have taken two others by now and traded you for something useful."
Juliette opened her mouth to speak . . . to protest. But then she could only murmur and turn away from the half mad light glowing in his eyes.
Sharif gritted his teeth against the strength of his desire. She was exasperating impossible. She had resisted him with all the power of her resilient mind and body and insulted him with her scathing tongue. But instead of hating her more, he found himself still wanting her, until now he wondered if he had not become her slave.
And he was not alone in being charmed by this girl. Now he could see admiration for her in the women's eyes and sometimes he wondered which one of his men he might have to kill as now they openly admired her too.
They had not forgotten how, during the hunt, she had never flagged, never bent the erect posture of her spine as they had gone mile after mile.
"If the `little one,'" they had said, "can go on, how can we give up?"
And then, when many murmured that they had been forsaken by Allah, it was she who had shot the first mouflon, she-a woman, and already the story had been recounted scores of times and was taking on the character of a legend and she had become a mar'a muharibah, a warrior woman.
Thus she had gained the respect of his people, holding power over their hearts as well as his own. How neatly she had accomplished it-she who had deceived and rejected him and still would not bend to his will. And now he gave her a sudden shake that snapped- her head on her neck, causing her hair to fly about in a tangle of golden threads until Juliette wondered if indeed he had gone mad as the fierce light in his enigmatic eyes glimmered brilliantly.
He jerked his chin to indicate beyond the walls of the tent. "Do you know what they think?" he asked as if she should know what he was talking about.
Juliette stared wide-eyed before managing to shake her head.
"They think you are favored by Allah-that you performed formed a miracle, or at least have the services of the desert genies. And do you know why?"
Again Juliette shook her head. If only he would stop looking at her so . . . so. ...
Sharif touched his temple. "Because they don't believe a woman could accomplish such a thing without the help of spirits or Allah." He leaned closer. "Ha!-they don't know you as well as I do!"
Juliette's mind struggled to reconcile his words. Contrary, as always. What the others treated as a triumph, he considered a crime. "I tried to tell them it was an accident. And I don't know why all of them should think ..."
Sharif waved a hand that cut her short. "No. Don't be so modest Cherie. It doesn't suit you."
He pushed her away, withdrawing his hand with effort. She was infuriating. He hadn't intended tonight to come here but instead to visit the chief of a tribe camped half a night's ride to the east. Then he had spent an indecisive hour.
Twice he was going to call for his horse but the weather delayed him. He felt a storm brewing, and a storm could pin him down for days and waste more time. His spies had informed him that Hussar's main force was still somewhere to the south. And of course there was the matter of Juliette. Maybe he should take her with him.
If he left her behind Rashid
could keep an 'eye on her, of course, but she was unpredictable and even Rashid's eyes had begun to rest on her as he had never seen that stoic Arab's eyes rest on any woman.
Perturbed he had waved away a second plate of mouflon. Had he gone mad? He asked himself. He was beginning not to trust anyone. Was it jealousy that made it so? And pondering the question, he made the rounds, speaking to the camp guards before finally finding himself at his own tent, lifting the flap to see her there-in bed, and naked. Had she been waiting? Tonight he sensed something more in her than hate. There was a certain spark joining the rebelliousness in her eyes-something unmistakable yes, and in the part of her lips.
A warm laughter suddenly filled his insides with that returning sense of pleasurable wonder he had experienced only with this woman. So . . . he thought, and said aloud,
"Wasn't it your English Shakespeare who wrote, `Me thinks the lady doth protest too much'?"
Catching his meaning, Juliette stepped backward, tossing her blond mane defiantly as she said, "You're being ridiculous with all this talk of genies and mouflon and Shakespeare and the rest. I don't know what you mean!"
"I think you do, Juliette. But all this talk is wasted. Sometimes words are superfluous."
Juliette could feel him closing in, even if he hadn't stepped closer. Again she backed away. If only she could somehow keep him away. If only she weren't so confused.
"What right have you to' accuse me of anything," she cried. "What of your lies . . . and your killing and the rest?"
His voice was calm, factual. "I never lied to you," he said. "I never made promises I didn't keep. It was you who promised to be my wife-you who broke faith with me."
"Why must you always bring that up and throw it in my face? Yes-your wife in the company of how many other wives and how many mistresses? Wife! You make a mockery of the word. Any woman would be a fool to become your wife."
His lips curved sarcastically. "But now it no longer matters what you think. Now you are mine-wife or mistress. And by Allah, you are going to act the part!"
He came closer and Juliette stumbled over a wave in the carpet as she stepped backward, losing her balance as his arms encircled her. A sparkle of tears silvered her eyes like mirrors as his fingers, rough from the handling of leather reins, reached round her throat, his thumb passing down the front until it pressed threateningly against the hollow.
"Do you know there is no one else who would dare insult me as you do? No one!" His thumb pressed harder. "Damn you!" he said at last. "Does nothing frighten you? Are you really so impervious?"
With an abrupt sweep of her arm; she tried to dash his hand away but found her wrist caught, and held in his other hand. "What do you care whether I'm afraid as long as you can throw me on my back and use me as you please?"
"But a woman doesn't need to be always on her back. Haven’t I shown you before?"
One hand slid lower, while her arms remained in the iron hold of the other, and with splayed fingers he moved across her belly and down to stroke, enter, and test the secrets of her softer recesses, shamefully open and welcoming.
She tried to wrench free, but he was already laughing triumphantly. "What do you English say about the spirit being strong but the flesh weak?" He grinned wickedly as two fingers took the place of one.
Juliette nearly swooned, absurdly clinging harder to the sheet. He couldn't ... he wouldn't . . . the tent seemed to spin crazily in a carousel and a dry sob caught in her throat.
It was a relief when she was suddenly lifted, his arms circling her hips, and she would have fallen backward had her legs not automatically opened to girth his waist. And then she was in . . . oh! such a position!
His breath scorched her cheeks. "How strong is that English stubbornness?" he asked, "I wonder . . . Perhaps you can resist my desires, but what about your own?"
Then suddenly everything was a swirl of searching lips and burning, demanding caresses as his mouth found the ripe nipples already flushed red with passion even before his lips and -tongue sucked them hard to swollen fullness and tingling anticipation.
She was lifted higher then so his throbbing need pressed hot against her own opening desire. Burning sensations licked through her abdomen, destroying all resistance so the sheet slipped from between them and fell unnoticed to the floor as she curled long arms around his neck and drew him closer, pressing her hungry, parted lips to his.
She felt the large swollen head enter her first. Then grasping the globes of her buttocks tighter and tipping her further backward to allow him free access, he slowly filled her.
He was so enormous she wondered if she could contain all of him. Then, still holding her by her slender hips, he slowly, skillfully drew himself out nearly all the way before sliding inward again so that her tightness relaxed to become exquisite pleasure.
He repeated the delicious movement, effortlessly guiding her along the shaft; first slowly out, then in again, more joyfully deep each time. He pushed higher to touch at her womb, then lower, then side to side, opening her to the fullest.
On fire, she moaned as his tongue thrilled her mouth in rhythm with his plunging manhood as now he drove faster, sending her to peak after peak of unbearable pleasure so that each time she wondered if it was possible to go on, even as each jeweled wave swept her higher, then higher, until at last it crested, whirling downward with such explosive force and fathomless joy that she didn't know her cries held his name as she buried her face in the dark fur of his powerful chest.
Chapter 64
The next Juliette knew, she was awakening to the sound of the wind howling like a jackal as it pelted sand against the outside of the tent. It was day. The air was warm against her flesh and, opening her eyes, she found herself just as she had fallen asleep, naked, face down on the divan.
Stretching slender arms, she brushed the tangled hair out of her face, aware then of the feral smell of their lovemaking still clinging to the air and the subtle glow of warmth still radiating from her loins.
Last night they had mated, there was no other word for it, not once, but again and again, their passions gathering momentum as he swept her along in that timeless union of male and female. It was an oneness without words or shyness-a wanting that brought their bodies together, forming and reforming patterns on the leopard pelts. Silently, feverishly, they battled before soaring together beyond themselves and back again, panting and perspiring, their longing only satisfied for a short time before at last there was one final moment, a rising and falling-a coiling and uncoiling in her belly that took her to oblivion.
A relaxing followed a melting. Then she must have slept, since that was the last she recalled. And now here she was-but where was Sharif? / Rising on one elbow, she looked through blurred eyes around the tent. He was sitting comfortably on a cushion at the foot of the bed reading a large chart and writing something with thoughtful concentration. As if aware of her eyes then, he looked up, their gazes becoming one, and there was amusement in his.
"So, you've decided to wake up. Good! Cassia wanted to come and tidy up. But you were hardly able to receive even a maid." He toasted her then with his cup of coffee, nodding to where, Juliette abruptly realized, her legs were still positioned to offer him a direct look at all that had once been her most private. "Though don't mistake me," he was continuing. "I find the view charming."
As he downed the full cup with a flick of his wrist, Juliette immediately drew her legs closed with a slap of knees. How could he! Then she heard him laugh.
"So-you still blush. I thought last night might have rid you of self-consciousness. But it doesn't matter. Soon enough we will. Today there's no reason for you to dress anyway. We won't be traveling."
The barb of mockery in his voice was no different than before, but this morning Juliette felt more stung than ever. After last night how could he be so flip, so coarse, so utterly casual about everything? But then, what had she expected? Over and over his lust had been followed by his hostility, or, at best, indifference.
Still her pride squirmed knowing that last night she had been like a puppet whose strings he knew how to manipulate with such accomplished mastery. Again he had proven he could make her feel as she never knew feeling could be. They had seemed almost like lovers then, and now. . . . Oh, why was she so weak?
She asked herself, glancing again at his indifferent profile. Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing the torment he inflicted. Crawling off the divan with as much dignity as her nakedness allowed, she retrieved her black burnoose and wrapped it around herself, puffing the waist tie closed. Then, walking to the tent flap, she unlashed a corner of it and peered out.
The wind was blowing in fierce gusts so that the sand flew by in rivers that rippled in waves three feet above the surface of the dunes and covered everything in a thick layer of sand. Even the horses were brought inside the tents and, though the flying grit blocked out the sun, the heat and brightness were still intense.
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