by Marie Laval
His mouth was warm, smelled of coffee and cigar smoke. His lips brushed hers, teased them open. It was nothing like the deep, savage kiss he had given her before. It was slow and confident. It was the kiss of a man who had all the time in the world and knew he was going to get more. Much more.
At last, she struggled to free herself.
‘No, Saintclair, I don’t want you to…’
‘Don’t you want me to do this?’
His hands leisurely slid up and down her arms, from her wrists to her shoulders, awakening ripples of sensations all over her body.
‘And this?’
His lips claimed hers again. This time they were more demanding. He slid his hands behind her, clasped them around her waist and pulled her tightly against him. The buckle of his belt, the buttons of his leather waistcoat and the hard heat of his body imprinted on her.
She wanted this, his lips on hers, his hands on her skin. The shocking realisation made her gasp. His body moulded hers. His chest was broad and unyielding. She should move away now, she should… His hands stroked her hips in slow circles and she stopped thinking. She closed her eyes and slid into the darkness, the softness of his kiss.
He bent her waist backward, ran his lips along her throat and into the opening of her tunic, down to the spot where her pulse beat wildly. The rough stubble on his cheeks scraped her skin, light and insistent, adding to the myriad of sensations overwhelming her. Letting out a soft groan, he lifted her up and held her in his arms to kiss her mouth again. Her body felt mellow and warm in his arms, and yet so tight she ached inside. Every inch of her was aware of him and longing for his touch. She lifted a tentative hand to his shoulder. Her hips arched towards his. She never imagined kissing a man could feel like this, never knew that it could set her body ablaze and make her lose control.
‘I want you now,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Shall we go up to my room or shall we get comfortable out here?’
It was like a slap in the face.
She let out a cry, pressed the palms of her hands to his chest to push him away. He didn’t budge an inch.
‘Let go of me at once or—’
‘What will you do this time? Hit me, bite me again?’ His voice was low and deep, his smile mocking. ‘Listen, darling, I don’t believe in wasting opportunities to have a good time.’
‘Don’t call me darling. You are mistaking me for one of your cheap bayaderes.’ She wriggled against him.
He threw his head back and let out a soft laugh.
‘There’s nothing cheap about them, and from where I’m standing you’re not that different. At least they don’t make a fuss and pretend they’re not enjoying themselves.’
She bit her lower lip and thanked the darkness which hid the violent blush she felt spreading like wildfire all over her face and throat. She had enjoyed his kiss a little too much and he knew it.
When he bent down to kiss her again, she tried to break free, but his arms were like bands of steel around her. He wasn’t leaving her any choice. She slid her hand to her waist and pulled her dagger out. In a flash she brought it up and held the sharp tip to his chest.
‘A knife? I think I prefer these sharp teeth of yours.’ He stepped back, a smirk on his face. ‘Come on, give it to me. You’re going to hurt yourself.’
‘Move back right, now. If you don’t, I will…’
‘Kill me? I don’t think so.’
He caught her wrist and shook the dagger out. It felt to the ground with a metallic sound.
‘Can we start again where we left off? I’m getting a little impatient.’ Still holding her wrist, he pulled her to him and clasped his other hand firmly on her hip to pull her against his heat.
She said the first thing that came to her mind.
‘Archie will be very angry when he finds out.’
‘Then we won’t tell him. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.’ He sighed. ‘It’s not as if he is playing fair with you, is it?’
There was nothing she could say to that.
He put a finger on her mouth before she could talk, traced the outline of her lips. And when she turned away, he buried his face in her neck. His mouth lingered, nipped at her skin between her earlobe and her shoulder. She stiffened, clenched her fists. She didn’t want to respond. She didn’t want to feel weak and warm and shivery all at once. Her fingers went up to his shoulders, clinging for support.
He tugged at the collar of her tunic to loosen it, pulled her chemise down, and his mouth was on the swelling of her breasts. She threw her head back, heard a soft moan and realized it came from deep within her. He wrapped her hair around his fist and pulled back to expose more of her throat for him to devour. He whispered something against her skin, his breath warm and fast. Then his hands closed onto the softness of her hips and dug in.
If only she could lose herself in the whirlwind and stop thinking, just exist and feel. If only she could shut out the nagging voice that whispered from a corner of her mind that if she had the slightest crumb of dignity she would stop him now.
Saintclair was right. She was no better than a tavern girl. No, she was worse… she didn’t do this for subsistence or money. She was actually enjoying it.
Gathering the last of her self-control, she stiffened in his arms.
‘Listen to me, please, Saintclair. I told you before. I don’t want this.’
He pulled away, his gaze heavy, his eyes dark.
‘I didn’t think you were the type to force a woman,’ she added.
This time he let go of her and stepped back.
Her words hurt, like a stab to the heart.
Of course he wouldn’t force a woman, not ever.
How beautiful she looked, drenched in moonlight, her lips swollen from his kisses, her eyes, at the same time wild and inviting, her hair threads of silver on her shoulders. Her body was soft and pliable, his for the taking. Her chest heaved, pale and white in the moonlight. The golden pendant rested in the groove between her breasts. His fingers ached to follow the tempting line, pull her chemise down all the way this time. He wanted to touch her, taste her. He swallowed hard, balled his fists at his sides.
What was he thinking? His desire for the woman was taking over, hot and throbbing. It was one thing to tease her and make her uncomfortable so that continuing the journey with both her fiancé and him would be impossible. Give her no option but to return to Algiers. It was another altogether to ignore her protests, her pleas for him to stop. He hadn’t even backed down when she drew her dagger and pointed it at his chest.
Damn, she was right. He had been about to force himself on her and take her there and then. He lowered his head, disgusted.
‘Go back to your room.’
She breathed in and darted across the terrace as if she was afraid he would change his mind and go after her.
‘Miss Montague,’ he called just before she pushed the door. She turned around, eyes wide, lips parted.
‘For what it’s worth, I am sorry. It won’t happen again.’ Without waiting for her reply, he leaned over the parapet and stared at the moonlit plains below.
She didn’t want to see him or talk to him, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him, but she couldn’t hide in her bedroom all day. She jumped out of bed as soon as the muezzin calls to prayer hovered in the stillness of dawn. Splashing cold water on her face had done little to cool her eyes, red and swollen with tears and lack of sleep. She got dressed, plaited her hair and packed her bag. She even started a few sketches in a bid to forget about her moonlit encounter with Saintclair but couldn’t concentrate long enough to complete a single one. Nothing could make her forget the searing sensations he had awakened. Nothing could alleviate her shame or her guilt.
Feeling trapped, miserable and angry, she paced the room, studied every crack in the whitewashed wall, every detail of the mosaics on the floor.
What gave her the right to judge Archie when a few kisses from Lucas Saintclair had turned her into this weak, pathetic creatu
re? She didn’t even like the man. He was arrogant, selfish, and ruthless. So why had she responded to his touch and his kisses the night before? She couldn’t even blame him for taking advantage of her. She had been willing, pliable, like wet clay in his hands.
But however much she loathed him, and herself, she had to go down for breakfast. She wrapped an indigo scarf around her head the way Aicha had shown her. She needed to conceal her face this morning. No doubt the mere sight of Saintclair, the sound of his voice even, would be enough to set her cheeks on fire.
The tavern was empty. Neither Saintclair nor Archie were anywhere to be seen.
Weak with relief, she sat alone at a table and pulled her veil aside. A servant brought her some tea, a bowl of yoghurt sprinkled with raisins, and a piece of warm bread. Where were the men? For a few seconds, she had the crazy idea Saintclair had convinced them all to leave without her. Then she remembered her horse at the blacksmith. He must have gone to fetch it. She would meet him there. The sooner she faced him, the better. She rushed her breakfast, put her veil back on and wandered into the streets.
The town bore the scars of the French raid the day before. The market still lay in tatters on the main square. Soldiers patrolled the streets, adding to the atmosphere of fear and desolation.
The forge was closed. A tall, dark-haired man in blue and red uniform walked out of the house next to it. Lieutenant Mortemer. What was he doing there?
‘Lieutenant!’ she called, walking towards him.
She heard French soldiers shout a warning. They lifted their rifles towards her. She froze and slowly uncovered her face, remembering just in time the market boy.
Mortemer raised his eyebrows, gestured for the soldiers to lower their weapons and walked to her.
‘Morbleu, woman, you could have got yourself killed!’ He bowed stiffly in front of her. ‘What is Saintclair thinking of, letting you out of his sight in this place after what happened yesterday?’
‘Monsieur Saintclair isn’t my keeper, Lieutenant,’ she replied. ‘What happened to the blacksmith? I have come to collect my horse, it needed re-shoeing.’
Mortemer arched his eyebrows.
‘Is that so?’ He tightened his lips, slapped his gloves in the palm of his hand.
‘The blacksmith is a friend of Saintclair’s,’ she explained.
‘We closed the forge and cleared the house,’ Mortemer answered. ‘We had a tip that the blacksmith was one of Abd-el-Kader’s men and that he helped El-Berkani escape from prison.’
‘A tip? Who from?’ Her throat felt too constricted to talk. She remembered the good-natured giant who had talked to Saintclair the day before and had beamed his sunny smile at her.
Mortemer’s lips stretched into a thin smile. ‘It was anonymous, of course. Nobody in their right mind would ever give us their name. They know full well the rebels would make sure they didn’t live to see the sunset otherwise.’
‘You said you cleared out the house…?’
He nodded, tightened his lips. ‘The stupid man wouldn’t tell us where El-Berkani was hiding.’ He shrugged.
‘And?’
He turned his dark, soulless eyes to her. ‘You really don’t need to know the rest, mademoiselle. Let’s say that El-Berkani, his associates, or anyone else for that matter, won’t use his forge anymore.’
She let out a cry, turned to face him.
‘You mean he is dead?’
‘Whoever sides with Abd-el-Kader’s rebels knows and accepts the risks.’ He paused, looked down at her. ‘Whoever they are. Natives, French, or English.’
It felt like a personal warning. Harriet swallowed hard, feeling sick.
The Lieutenant looked up and his face stiffened. Saintclair was coming towards them, leading her horse by the reins.
‘Saintclair, I found mademoiselle wandering in the street. You should be more careful with your clients. She almost got herself shot.’
‘Mademoiselle Montague has the annoying habit of doing the opposite of what she’s told. You were told to wait for me at the inn.’ Saintclair stared hard at Harriet.
‘Isn’t it odd how trouble seems to follow you, Saintclair?’ Mortemer asked. ‘First Blida and the ammunition depot, then the jail break at Berrouaghia. And now this very forge where you take Mademoiselle’s horse happens to be a rebel hideout. I should assign a couple of men to keep an eye on you, just in case…’
‘Please feel free, but I doubt they could keep up.’ A smile curled the side of Saintclair’s mouth.
‘By the way, I thought you would be interested to know we Missed the Mouzaias the other day,’ Mortemer said. ‘When my men got to their village, it was empty.’
Saintclair shrugged. ‘Probably moved on to their summer pastures higher up in the mountains.’
‘Hmm… It was rather good timing, don’t you think?’
He narrowed his eyes and looked at the French scout with suspicion.
‘And another coincidence,’ he added, ‘all the rebel hide-outs on Rachid’s map we visited so far have been empty—cleared out.’
Saintclair patted Harriet’s horse, stroked its chestnut mane. He turned to Mortemer.
‘Didn’t I tell you it was a fake? You should have listened to me.’
Mortemer ignored him. He took hold of Harriet’s hand.
‘I look forward to meeting you again, mademoiselle.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Until then, please be careful. As you can see, the country isn’t safe.’
‘I will, Lieutenant.’ She resisted the urge to snatch her hand away, but couldn’t repress an involuntary shudder when his lips brushed her skin, and heaved a sigh of relief when he walked away.
‘Now you’ve finished being nice to the Lieutenant,’ Saintclair scorned once they were alone, ‘tell me what exactly happened.’
She took a step towards him. ‘I’m so sorry. Your friend, the blacksmith…they killed him, they said he was a rebel. There is so much death…death everywhere.’
Blood drained from her face, black butterflies fluttered closer and closer until they filled the very air around her and she couldn’t breathe anymore, and she collapsed.
Chapter Ten
They rode hard and fast under the blazing sun all day, stopping only a couple of times to rest the horses and eat. Early in the evening, Saintclair gave the signal to set up camp on the sheltered bank of an oued, a shallow river meandering between low, rocky hills and thickets of trees and prickly bushes. Shadows lengthened on the ground and the sky took that peculiar transparent blue shade announcing the end of a hot day as the sun threw its last golden rays on the tawny steppe.
‘The colour of lion.’ Ahmoud, close to her, gazed intently at the steppe. ‘Sahara.’
She glanced at him, surprised. Ahmoud rarely talked to her. He usually stared straight through her as if she was invisible.
‘Is that what Sahara means?’
Ahmoud nodded.
‘You mean there are lions around here?’ She held her breath and looked around. The thought was both scary and thrilling.
He gestured towards the south. ‘This is lion country, all the way to Bou Saada. They have lairs in the caves.’
Harriet narrowed her eyes to scrutinize the landscape.
Ahmoud pointed to a clump of trees to the east, to the rocky face of a hill to the west. ‘Caves, there and there… the steppe is full of them, you just need to know where to look.’
‘They are more dangerous at this time of year. The females are protecting their young,’ he added. ‘You must never leave the camp alone.’
While they were talking, Saintclair’s men were starting a fire and pitching tents in a circle on the riverbank. The horses were unsaddled and left to roam free in the thin, rough pasture close to the river.
Saintclair walked past, a rifle in his hand. He said something in Arabic to Ahmoud but didn’t even glance at her. In fact, he hadn’t taken any notice of her since that morning at Ksar-el-Boukhari when, despite her protests, he had carried her back t
o the inn after she fainted in the street. It was as if she had imagined their encounter on the terrace the night before, his kisses, and the heat of his caresses.
She watched him climb effortlessly the rocky hill face and disappear in a crag near the top.
‘He’s going to kill something for us to eat tonight. Fresh meat, no lions,’ Ahmoud said, a rare smile on his lips.
‘Does he hunt lions?’
Ahmoud shook his head. ‘Not anymore. Our fathers were great lion hunters. Lucas’ father was called ‘Ahar’—mountain lion—by our people. He passed the name on to his son.’
‘Ahar,’ she repeated, dreamily.
‘I need to set up camp,’ he said before leaving her.
Thoughtful, she turned to watch as the last of the daylight became engulfed in shadows.
‘Wild country, isn’t it?’ Archie said next to her. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, my dear, but I’ve been told there are lions and leopards around. However, both Saintclair and Ahmoud are seasoned lion hunters, so we should be reasonably safe.’
He smiled, slid his arm around her shoulders. She forgot her recent doubts about him, nestled in his arms and rested her head against his shoulder, glad for his reassuring presence. He was really the only man she could trust, the only one whose friendship and strength she could rely on. In the grand scheme of things, his escapade with a dancing girl—or two—was nothing more than a slight disappointment she had to forget.
Shots echoed in the hills. A flock of birds took off from nearby trees, swirled in a dark ribbon in the sky before settling on the plain again.
‘It must be Saintclair shooting our supper,’ Archie commented.
‘How much do you know about him and his family?’ she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper.
