Claiming His Desert Princess

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Beautiful,’ Tahira said.

  ‘Very beautiful.’ Christopher smoothed an errant strand of hair from her cheek, trailing his fingers over the line of her jaw, down her neck, to rest his hand on her shoulder. A feather-light touch, yet it was like a trail of stars on her skin. His fingers fluttered over the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, then smoothed down the fall of her hair, which was tied back with a silk scarf, to rest on the curve at the base of her spine.

  She turned towards him. She lifted her face for his kiss, bracing herself with a hand on his shoulder. His hand cupped her bottom, easing her closer. Her breasts brushed his chest. His breath fanned her cheek. Then his lips met hers in a velvet, night-dark kiss that managed to be both cool and hot, sweet and sinful. A kiss as dark as the sky, which set her alight like the stars. A kiss that drugged and befuddled, like the effect of the desert sun at midday, and which made her shiver, like the breeze at dusk fluttering over her skin. A kiss which blurred the boundaries between her lips and his, her tongue and his, her body and his. A kiss which felt like it could never end, and when it did, left her giddy, so that she would have tumbled down the dune, had Christopher not caught her.

  ‘Wait, not yet,’ he said, laughing. ‘It was my intention that we slide down together.’

  For the first time, Tahira looked straight down the steep slope of the sand dune. Her head spun. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  His smile was wicked. ‘Isn’t that half the attraction?’

  She laughed, the bliss of their kiss, the thrill of danger without fear, for she knew that despite what he said, he would keep her safe. ‘Then let us launch our metal dhow on the sandy wave,’ Tahira said. ‘I’m ready.’

  He set the large salver down carefully, flattening the sand on the ridge to prevent it sliding away, and sat down astride it. ‘It’s not a magic carpet, but it might just fly. Now you sit down, in front of me.’

  She sat between his braced legs. He pulled her tight up against him. Her bottom was tucked into his groin, her back against his chest, his arms clasped around her waist.

  ‘Tuck your feet up tight.’

  She managed, just, to do as he bid her.

  ‘Ready?’

  Her heart was pounding, excitement fluttering in her belly as she looked down at the sheer drop, and lower down, a different kind of excitement fluttered, as she pressed herself tight against the solid shape of him. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  He lifted his feet, curling his thighs around her flanks, leaning back, so that his long legs, stretched out in front of him, were clear of the sand. The sled moved only a fraction, suspended for a moment on the top of the ridge, and her heart stopped, and then they plummeted downhill at a speed with made her gasp, close her eyes, and scream with delight as they careered, bounced, slid down the sand dune so fast that she would have been thrown from their precarious chariot, had not Christopher held her so tightly. Somehow, she had no idea how, he kept them both secure, until the very end, when the salver hit a bump and they parted company with their mode of transport. They rolled together, landing in a tangled heap of limbs, covered in sand, breathless, laughing.

  ‘Are you in one piece?’

  Tahira had landed on top of Christopher. She had lost her scarf. Her hair was filled with sand. Her lungs were bereft of air. ‘Yes.’ She tried to push her hair from her eyes, wobbled, and caught herself, bracing a leg on either side of him. She felt the sharp exhale of his breath. Beneath her, between her legs, the part that was the essence of his manhood stirred. She knew this, from Juwan’s whispered explanations when first Tahira had been betrothed, but she had not anticipated the responding stirring inside her. When he made to lift her away, she resisted, placing her hands on the sand, either side of his shoulders, and seeking his mouth.

  He groaned as their lips met. This time their kiss was fierce. Passion, Tahira thought incoherently, as she surrendered to her instincts, moulding her body to his, relishing her shivering response to the hard length of him pressed insistently against her, to the hardening of her nipples, to the thrust of his tongue, and the sweep of his hands, over her back, her bottom, brushing the contours of her breasts.

  He rolled her on to her back. Their kisses became urgent. She was dizzy with them, aflame with them, craving more and yet more, urging him on with strange little cries, pressing herself against him. When his hand enveloped her breast she cried out. Such sweet, shocking pleasure. When he broke the kiss she moaned in protest, but then his mouth claimed her nipple through the silk of her clothing, and heat flooded her.

  Exquisite. The word was made for what he was doing to her with his mouth and his hands, sparking stars behind her closed lids, sending a trail of sensation from her breasts to her belly to the tension building in that most intimate of places. She had the oddest sensation, of soaring and falling at the same time.

  And then it stopped. Christopher sat up. ‘I can say in all honesty I have never ended a sled ride in that manner before.’ He got to his feet, helping her up, brushing the sand from her hair and her clothes. ‘But I think we have had more than enough excitement for one night, don’t you think?’

  She was still lost in their kiss, staring blankly at him. Enough? She wanted more.

  But Christopher was looking anxiously up at the sky. ‘It’s later than I thought, time you were on your way home. May I accompany you, at least as far as the mine?’

  Jolted out of her passionate haze, Tahira looked up. ‘It is late. Early. No, I can find my way easily enough, thank you. And thank you again for tonight.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘I don’t think a magic carpet ride would have been nearly as wonderful.’

  ‘Probably a lot safer,’ he said drily. ‘Tahira...’

  ‘There is no need to reassure me every time we kiss. I trust you, and you’ve just proved once more that I can do so,’ she said, blushing. ‘Whatever dreadful thing your friend did...’

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘Or acquaintance. The man who you said took unacceptable liberties. I assumed...’

  ‘The man I referred to was neither friend nor acquaintance,’ Christopher said curtly.

  ‘Then who...?’

  ‘His name will mean nothing to you. The lesson he taught me means everything to me. I know, Tahira, better than most, how painful the consequences are, how fatal. It is not only my sense of honour which ensures I will never, ever take such vile advantage,’ Christopher said fervently, ‘it is my sense of myself. I will never be such a man.’

  And you will certainly never reveal who this other man is, or what he is to you, she thought, intimidated by his vehemence, her shock at the implications tempered by annoyance, for she had inadvertently spoilt the moment. ‘You’re right,’ Tahira said, ‘it’s long past time for me to head back.’

  * * *

  Christopher watched until Tahira’s camel was out of sight before turning back to his dwelling. He did not like to leave her to ride across the desert at night, despite the fact that she had been doing so unharmed for—how long? She had not said, though she had implied it was some years. She hadn’t told him how, exactly, she escaped the confines of her home either. Through a window? A cellar? Did she sleep in a room of her own? He must assume so, for she was adamant that her sisters knew nothing of her escapades. Did her sand cat escape by the same means? And her camel—did she borrow it from the family stable?

  Frowning as he went through his nightly security checks, he realised that despite her claim to have told him a great deal about her family, there were some very basic facts of which he was entirely ignorant. The names of her sisters, for example? And the brother and his wife—again, no names. He grimaced wryly. A case of the pot calling the kettle black.

  Carefully stamping out the embers of the fire, he retired to his cottage, braced a length of wood under the latch to serve as a lock, and pulled his meagre
bedding out of the cupboard. It would be an easy enough task to discreetly follow her home. Easy enough from there, with his skills as an undercover agent acquired over the last six months, to uncover her history, identify her family. But what purpose would it serve, save to satisfy his curiosity at the cost of his integrity? There were more than enough lies and subterfuges in his life without polluting this one, delightful and honest aspect of it. He should try to reconcile himself to the old adage that ignorance was bliss.

  Quickly disrobing, he lay down on the rough mattress, pulled the sheet over him and closed his eyes. Desire had been absent for so long, it was not surprising that it had returned with such unexpected vigour. Tahira’s kisses, Tahira’s touch, Tahira’s soft sighs and sensuous body would go to any man’s head—and every other part of his body. He had been starved of female company, of any company since setting out on this self-imposed quest of his, it was no wonder that he found her so very, very alluring. To have met her at the turquoise mine too, the place which he hoped, dreamed, believed would prove to be the turning point in his long journey—it was natural that should add to her appeal. She was an omen of his imminent new beginning. She was his escape from reality.

  But she could never be his lover in the true sense. Was he playing with fire? The answer was an unequivocal no. There were some components of his foul heritage which could not be denied. He had only to look in the mirror to prove that—something he avoided doing. Physical traits, yes, but to his dying day, he would deny any link of character. The very thought of proving himself in any way like that man—no, never. Never! The shame would cripple him for the rest of his life, and that was nothing compared to the costs to the innocent.

  Damage limitation. Recalling the callous tone in which the words had been uttered made Christopher shudder with distaste. Two lives, dismissed in two words. There was no question of Christopher ever taking such a risk. No risk of him ever crossing that line. Absolutely none.

  But that line was a long distance away. He shifted on the mattress, putting his hands behind his head, staring up at the stars through the holes in the cobwebbed roof. He could not make proper love to Tahira, but there were other pleasures they could share without risk. He would like to see her in the daylight. He’d like to see the sunlight rather than the moonlight dappling her skin, to see whether those big beguiling almond-shaped eyes were the darker brown or lighter, whether those luscious lips were truly cherry red, or dark pink. That was no more possible than a complete consummation of their passion, but there was no harm in imagining both.

  Chapter Five

  Dressing for a formal dinner hosted by the Crown Princess was a long and laborious ritual which usually required at least two handmaidens to be in attendance, but today, once her selection of clothing had been laid out in order, Tahira dismissed her servants from her dressing closet, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. When her mother ruled the harem, she often used to allow Tahira to perform the handmaiden’s duties. Mama’s closet was always heady with the scent of attar of roses. She would recount the history of each article of formal attire in turn, Tahira recalled. They always paused to take tea when she had finished dressing, before she donned her jewellery. The whole process could take hours.

  The gomlek was first. Tahira cast off her bathing robe and pulled the loose chemise with its wide sleeves over her head. Mama had favoured bright colours, red and yellow and blue, but she preferred plain white. In times gone by, the garment was left open to the waist, so Mama had said, but nowadays in the harem, women understood the art of concealment. She had laughed at Tahira’s confusion over that remark, pinching her cheek and telling her that it was one of the many things she would explain when she was older. One of the many things that she never had the chance to explain.

  Tahira’s gomlek fastened chastely at the neck. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she could clearly see the outline of her breasts, the darker shadow of her nipples through the sheer fabric seeming to invite a caress. Last night, when Christopher touched her, took her nipple in his mouth, her response had been a revelation. Recalling it now, she felt an echo of that warm, sweet melting feeling deep inside her. And his response too, left her in no doubt that he found the curves she took for granted alluring. She was reputed to be beautiful, but so too was every princess in Arabia. Her sisters said she was beautiful, but her sisters viewed her through the eyes of affection. In any case, beauty, real or attributed, was a mixed blessing, as far as Tahira was concerned. Her body was an asset to be traded, one which would buy her a husband who took pleasure in doing his duty—until he tired of her—but not an asset which would provide her with any sort of pleasure.

  But when Christopher looked at her, she did not feel as if she was being sized up like a brood mare. When he said she was beautiful, she believed him. When he said he desired her, he meant her, only her, not her royal title or her pedigree or the jewels and gold of her substantial dowry. Tracing her hands over her curves, she saw herself through Christopher’s eyes, and liked what she saw. Last night had given her a taste of what desire could be. She smiled to herself. Last night had left her in no doubt that Christopher was capable of giving her so much more.

  She pulled on her dizlik, the short drawers which tied at the knee. Not always worn, but very necessary when the salvar pantaloons were as sheer as the pair she now donned. Struggling with the richly embroidered belt which held the multiple pleats in place at the waist, Tahira wished momentarily for her maidservant’s practised assistance. The cerulean-blue organza fell in folds to her ankles, where it was gathered in by two smaller and easier-to-fasten ties. The salvar, according to Mama, was in larger harems considered a symbol of status. She had favoured brocade threaded with gold and silver, as Juwan did, but Tahira found such fabrics far too heavy, and was quite content to leave her sister-in-law to reign fashionably supreme.

  The next item in the ritual should be the yelek, which was laced tight, pulling the waist in and pushing the breasts high, but Tahira drew the line at this. Besides, her entari gown fitted neatly enough, the indigo-blue brocade fastened at her waist over her chemise with a row of pearl buttons, the sleeves fitting snugly over her undergarment to the elbow, where they opened up, falling almost to her feet, while the side panels of her robe formed a train behind her, forcing her to walk at what Mama used to call a princess pace.

  She was already hot, but her toilette was not yet complete. The koosak shawl made of the same gossamer as her pantaloons was draped over her hair and fixed with pearl-headed pins. Her sipsip slippers were also blue, studded with pearls, their pointed toes a further impediment to easy motion. She eschewed the fotaza turban, which Juwan preferred, and instead placed a little takke cap on the back of her head over her shawl. Her Bedouin star carefully concealed, she fastened a pearl necklace in place, added a few thin gold bangles, and she was finally ready.

  Her eyes were lined with kohl, her lashes darkened. Her lips were painted vermilion. What would Christopher think of her now? Tahira turned away from the mirror. She did not want reality ever to collide with her fantasy world which last night had been perfect in every way. Careering down the sand dune, her body pressed back against his, it had felt like flying. And afterwards, those kisses. A different kind of flying. Only when she returned to the palace did she plummet back down to earth.

  The distant sound of a bell summoning her to dinner made her heart sink. She was worried about her sisters. Ishraq in particular was behaving oddly of late, spending much more time than usual with Juwan. She was horribly aware of the sand slipping through the glass in the inevitable count down to her leaving them. There was nothing she could do to stop her brother arranging another betrothal, but though she told herself she was inured to the event, inside she was screaming denial.

  So she wouldn’t dwell on it. Instead she would think about the silver pot she and Christopher had found at the mine. What else would they find there? And much, much more importa
ntly, would it connect them with Christopher’s amulet? She rather desperately hoped so. It meant so much to him to resolve the mystery, and if the resolution in some way established a connection between them, through her ancestors...

  ‘Now that,’ Tahira said to Sayeed, who was finally stirring on his velvet cushion from a long day’s rest, ‘would be wonderful.’

  The sand cat yawned. Tahira tickled him under the chin. ‘No adventures in the desert for us tonight, I’m afraid.’

  The dinner bell rang again. Tahira adjusted the draping of her shawl, and with a sigh, left the room in preparation for a long and tedious repast.

  * * *

  One night later, Tahira was crouched down on the sand taking a closer look at Christopher’s sketches of the site around the mine, made in the full light of day. He had lit a lantern, the moon being on the wane, and the night hazy. ‘You are sure that you were not spotted?’

  ‘I chose my time carefully. Mid-afternoon, when the sun is at its hottest, there was no one about.’

  ‘What about the guards? They would not have dared take shelter from the sun,’ Tahira said, knowing her brother’s reputation for what he called maintaining discipline.

  Christopher shrugged. ‘There are only two on duty at present, and both were happy to be distracted.’

  ‘How...?’

  ‘Suffice for you to know that they were suitably diverted long enough for me to carry out the inspections I needed.’

  He was smiling at her, but there was something in his eyes that warned her not to press him. A dangerous man, who positively thrived on courting danger, she thought, and not for the first time. It was a large part of his allure. He drew her to him in the way that a beautiful, highly polished, lethal blade tempted you to run your finger along its edge, to see for yourself whether it really was as sharp as it looked, unable to resist doing so, despite the fact that your head told you that no proof was needed. Irresistible. Not that she had any inclination to resist.