Surrender to the Sheikh

by Sharon Kendrick

  She hesitated. ‘Because he’s sick, you mean?’

  Khalim frowned. ‘You are very persistent, Rose! No, not simply because he is sick—it is our royal custom. Princes of Maraban do not sleep with their women, not even their wives.’

  Rose looked at him in disbelief. ‘You mean that they just go and have sex with them, and then go back to their own apartments?’

  ‘Sometimes they remain there for the night,’ he informed her benignly, though he could not imagine leaving her alone for one precious second of the night.

  ‘Lucky old them!’ said Rose sarcastically.

  ‘Actually,’ he iced back, ‘they would show gratitude, yes!’

  ‘For being downtrodden, you mean?’

  ‘I think you forget yourself, Rose!’ he snapped.

  ‘I think not! I am not your royal subject, Khalim! And if I have an opinion which happens to differ from yours—well, that’s just tough!’

  He had never felt so turned on by a woman in his life and the desire to kiss her was overwhelming. But by then the car was driving slowly into the inner courtyard where trees provided a welcome shade—the sunlight dappling through broad, verdant leaves. Khalim clicked his tongue with irritation as the chauffeur opened the door for her.

  But when Rose alighted from the car, she was hit with the most unforgettable and heady fragrance, so powerful that it halted her in her tracks.

  ‘What is that amazing scent?’ she whispered, their disagreement forgotten.

  A sense of destiny whispered disturbing fingers over his flesh. ‘It is the fragrance of the roses which bloom in the palace gardens,’ he murmured, watching as the sun turned her hair into a gold just a shade lighter than the palace itself. ‘The sweetest scent in the world—but you must wait until the evening time, when the perfume is increased by a hundredfold.’

  But as they walked side by side towards a pair of vast, ornate doors, he thought that no scent could be sweeter than the subtle perfume which drifted from her skin, more beguiling than any siren.

  Robed figures awaited them, and Rose was introduced, certain that she would never be able to remember all these new and unusual names. The men all bowed courteously but she could detect flashes of curiosity on their hard, dark faces. I wonder if they approve of me, she thought, but then found Khalim’s gaze on her face, more encouraging than she could have believed it would be, and she felt the warmth of his protection.

  And all the while she felt that they were surrounded by other watchers, by unseen eyes. She caught a brief glimpse of a young woman, spectacularly clad in crimson silk, but when she turned her head to get a better look the woman had disappeared again.

  Khalim followed the direction of her gaze. ‘Fatima!’ he called, and the young woman reappeared, only her eyes visible above a scarlet yashmak.

  She performed an elaborate sort of bow, and Khalim said, ‘This is Rose Thomas. I have brought her here to do a job for me. I want you to make sure that she has everything she needs. Say hello now, Fatima.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Fatima, in a soft, halting English accent. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’

  Khalim laughed. ‘Fatima is learning English!’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Rose gravely. ‘And rather ashamed that my Marabanese only amounts to about five words.’

  Khalim glimmered her an onyx gaze. ‘I will teach you,’ he promised softly. Oh, yes. He would teach her the many words of love. She would learn to please him in his own language. ‘Now Fatima will show you to your rooms—and you shall bathe and change—then later I will come for you.’

  She wanted to ask him exactly what he meant by such a masterful and yet ambiguous expression as that—I will come for you—but it didn’t really seem appropriate, not with Fatima hanging onto every word. He probably meant that he would come to take her down for dinner. So why did that make her heart crash against her ribcage in disappointment?

  ‘Come, please,’ said Fatima, with a shy smile.

  Rose followed her through a maze of silent marble corridors, thinking that unless she had a guide she would get hopelessly lost.

  At last Fatima opened a set of double-doors leading into a large, cool room and Rose looked around her, her eyes feasting themselves on the richly embroidered cushions which were scattered over a wide, low bed covered in a throw of embroidered gold. A carved wooden chest stood in one corner, and the room smelt faintly of incense—though a bronze vase which was crammed full of crimson roses only added to the perfumed atmosphere.

  One wall contained bookshelves and closer inspection showed a variety of novels and textbooks, some in Marabanese, but mostly in English. Well, at least she would not be bored!

  The shutters were closed but Fatima went over to the win dow and opened them, and outside Rose could see a profusion of blooms of every hue and their scent drifted in to bewitch her.

  The rose garden!

  Had Khalim deliberately put her in here, to enchant her with their fragrance? To remind her of the flower she had been named after?

  She shivered as a sense of the irrevocable washed cool temptation over her skin.

  ‘You will bathe?’ asked Fatima, and gestured towards a door leading off the enormous room.

  ‘Yes, yes, please—I will.’

  ‘And you wish me to assist you?’

  Rose shook her head, and smiled, thinking how different Maraban hospitality was! ‘No, thanks, Fatima—I’m used to managing on my own,’ she answered gravely.

  Fatima nodded and gave another shy smile. ‘I will bring mint tea in an hour.’

  ‘That will be wonderful. Thank you.’

  After the girl had left, Rose went into the bathroom to find a deep circular bath, inlaid with exquisite mosaics in every conceivable shade of blue. There were fragrances and essences from Paris, and fluffy towels as big as sheets. East meets West, she thought with approval, and turned the taps on.

  It was the best bath she had ever had. Lying submerged in scented bubbles in the high, cool splendour of the vaulted bathroom, she felt that the real Rose Thomas was a very long way away indeed. So why did she suddenly feel more alive than she had ever felt before?

  By the time she had dried her hair, it was getting on for seven o’clock. When would Khalim come, and what should she wear for dinner? Would her gorgeous new evening gown make her look like some kind of houri?

  In the end, she decided on a simple silk dress which brushed the floor when she walked. The sleeves were long and loose and it was the soft, intense colour of bluebells. Her hair she left loose and shining, and as she stared at herself in the long mirror she thought that she could not possibly offend anyone’s sensibilities in such a modest gown.

  Fatima came, bearing a bronze tray of mint tea. In true Eastern style, Rose settled herself on an embroidered cushion on the floor, and had just poured herself a cup when there was an authoritative rap on the door. Her heart began to thunder.

  ‘Come in,’ she called.

  The door opened and there stood Khalim. He, too, had changed, and he must also have bathed, for his black hair was still damp and glittered with a halo of stray drops of water. His robes were coloured deepest claret—like rich, old wine—but his face looked hard, his expression forbidding as he quietly shut the door behind him.

  ‘Do you always invite men so freely into your bedroom, Rose?’ he questioned softly.

  She put the cup down and looked up at him, knowing that she was not prepared to tolerate his insulting implication. Nor prepared to admit that she had known it was him, simply from the assertive way he had knocked on the door! She shrugged her shoulders in a devil-may-care gesture. ‘Oh, they usually come in two at a time! At least!’

  ‘Please do not be flippant with me, Rose!’ he exploded.

  ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she demanded. ‘I presumed that no one would come here, except for you! And I presumed that while I was here I would be under your protection, but maybe I was wrong!’

  ‘No.’ His voice was heavy. He
was used to obedience, not passionate logic from his women. ‘No, you were not wrong.’

  ‘Well, then—don’t imply that I am loose with my favours—’

  ‘Rose—’

  ‘And don’t you dare make a value judgement about me, when you barely know me, Khalim!’

  Barely know her? Why, his conversations with Rose Thomas had been more intimate than those he’d had with any other woman before! He felt he knew her very well, and he had certainly told her more about himself than was probably wise. His voice gentled as he slid onto a cushion opposite her. ‘Do you want me to know you better, Rose?’

  Shockingly, she did—she wanted him to know her as intimately as any man could. She wanted to see the contrast of his long-limbed dark body entwined with the milky curves of her own. She wanted to feel the primitive thrust of his passion, the honeyed wonder of his kiss. She stared down at the clear chartreuse colour of her mint tea, afraid that he would see the hunger in her eyes.

  ‘Rose?’

  His voice was beguiling, but she resisted it. ‘What?’

  ‘Look at me.’

  Compelled to obey by the command in his voice, she slowly lifted her head to find herself dazzled by a gaze of deepest ebony.

  The pink flush which had gilded her pale skin pleased him, as did the darkened widening of those beautiful blue eyes. ‘Do you want me to know you better?’ he repeated on a sultry whisper.

  The question was laced with erotic expectation, and a passive side she never knew existed wanted to gasp out, Oh, yes. Yes, please! But such capitulation must be par for the course for a man like Khalim. She would never win his respect if she fell like a ripe plum into those tempting arms. And his respect, she realised with a start, was what she wanted more than anything.

  His body he would give her freely; his deference would be a far more elusive prize.

  ‘Obviously—’ she forced a breezy smile ‘—we will get to know each other better during my stay here. I have no objection to that, Khalim.’

  It was such a deliberate misunderstanding that, instead of feeling indignant, he began to laugh softly. ‘You wilfully misunderstand me, Rose,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite outrageous.’

  How rare the sound of his laughter, thought Rose with a sudden pang of compassion. How often could a man like this really let himself go?

  She smiled and lifted up one of the china cups. ‘Tea, Khalim?’ she enquired.

  He was still laughing when they went down to dinner.

  As he guided her through the maze of marble corridors towards the dining hall, Rose wondered how he had spent his afternoon. Would it seem prying if she asked? ‘Have you seen your father yet?’ she asked softly.

  His face tightened with pain and if she could have wished the words unsaid, she would have done so.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘No.’ He shook his dark head. ‘We cannot ignore reality, however painful it is. Yes, I saw him.’ He paused. He could not talk freely to his mother or his sisters about his father’s failing health, for they would begin to weep inconsolably. Nor Philip either. Philip was a man, and men discussed feelings only with discomfort. But Khalim had a sudden need to express himself—to articulate his fears. This was death which he was soon to encounter and he had known no close deaths other than his grandparents’ when he had been away at school in England.

  ‘He is fading.’ He forced himself to say the brutal words, as if saying them would give life to them. Or death to them, he thought bleakly.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ For one brief moment he looked so vulnerable that she longed to take him in her arms and lay his proud, beautiful face down on her shoulder and to hug him and comfort him. But surely such a gesture would be misinterpreted—even if it was her place to offer him solace, which it certainly wasn’t.

  But then the moment was gone anyway, for the face had resumed its proud and haughty demeanour as he inclined his head in wordless thanks for her commiseration.

  ‘Let us go and eat,’ he said.

  Dinner was a curious affair, made even more so by the fact that Rose felt as though she was on show—which she guessed she was. But even more curious was Khalim’s mother’s initial reaction to her.

  Khalim ushered Rose into the room where a very elegant woman aged about sixty sat with her two daughters at the long, rectangular table.

  The three women wore lavishly embroidered robes, and Rose noticed that Khalim’s mother’s sloe-shaped black eyes narrowed and her shoulders stiffened with a kind of disbelief as Rose walked rather nervously into the ornate salon. She said something very quickly to her son in Marabanese, and Khalim nodded, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

  But once Khalim had introduced them, she relaxed with a graciousness which disarmed her and shook Rose’s hand and bid her welcome.

  ‘What should I call you?’ asked Rose nervously.

  ‘You should call me Princess Arksoltan.’ His mother gave her a surprisingly warm smile. ‘My son must respect your work very much if he has accompanied you to Maraban.’

  Khalim scanned his mother’s face, but it bore no trace of disapproval. And why should it? She knew him well, and, yes, he did respect Rose’s professional skills. His mother also read voraciously and that had, in its way, made her outlook unusually unfettered by tradition.

  Perhaps she suspected that he would consummate his relationship with Rose while she was here. But that would not worry her either—she was as aware as he was that he must marry a woman of Maraban blood. She would turn a blind eye to any dalliances which occurred before that marriage would take place. As soon it must, he reminded himself, re membering the prospective brides who had been paraded before him just before he had flown out for Guy’s wedding.

  A host of dark-eyed virgins, their faces concealed by their yashmaks. Young and exquisitely beautiful, not one had dared meet his eye. He had asked himself whether he found any of them attractive, and the answer had been yes, of course he did. A man would have to have been made of stone not to. But their inexperience and respect for his position would make them merely hostages to his desires. By definition, it would be a submissive and unequal marriage.

  He looked at Rose, at the proud way she bore herself and the confidence with which she returned his stare. He felt the muffled acceleration of his heart and cursed it.

  ‘And these are my two sisters,’ he said huskily. ‘Caiusine and Enegul.’

  His two sisters were impossibly beautiful with black eyes and the thickest falls of ebony hair imaginable. And none of the women wore yashmaks, Rose noted in surprise as she took her place at the table, with Khalim on one side, his mother on the other.

  Soundless servants brought platter upon platter of food, while candles guttered on the table, blown by the scented breeze which drifted in through the open windows.

  ‘Will you drink wine, Rose?’ Khalim asked her softly, watching the rise and fall of her breathing and the way it elevated her magnificent breasts.

  She shook her head. ‘I won’t, thank you. I’ll have what everyone else is having.’

  Khalim poured her juice, silently applauding her for her diplomacy, while Rose chatted about the purpose of her trip in answer to his sisters’ interested questions.

  ‘Tomorrow we’re going to the oil refinery,’ she told them.

  ‘And Khalim is letting you choose Murad’s successor?’ asked Enegul in astonishment.

  Black eyes glittered at her through the candlelight and his sister’s question only crystallised what Rose had suspected all along.

  ‘I think that Khalim has already decided who he wants to replace Murad,’ said Rose slowly as the absurdity of the situation dawned on her. As if a man of Khalim’s power would rely solely on her judgement! ‘And I’m just here to confirm his decision.’

  He felt the dry beat of desire. Obviously, she was nothing but a witch—well schooled in the art of sorcery! ‘How very perceptive of you, Rose.’

  ‘That’s my job,’ she answered sweetly. />
  ‘And what if you and Khalim disagree?’ asked Arksoltan.

  Black clashed with blue in visual duel.

  ‘Then it’s whoever argues the case for their choice best, I guess,’ said Rose.

  ‘Khalim, then!’ put in the younger sister loyally.

  ‘Do not underestimate the power of Rose’s debating skills,’ came his dry response.

  He accompanied her back to her room, and the corridors were echoing and silent, empty save for the ever-constant presence of his bodyguard who followed at a discreet distance behind them.

  Her senses were full of him as they walked side by side. The whisper of the silk as it clung and fluttered around the hard, lean body and the faint drift of sandalwood from the warmth of his skin. But there was an unmistakable tension about him, and it had transmitted itself to her so that her breathing had become unsteady, her heart rate erratic as she thought of what could lie ahead.

  Would he try to kiss her tonight? And didn’t she, if she was being honest—and she spent her life trying to be honest—didn’t she want that more than anything else?

  ‘You have enjoyed your evening with my family, Rose?’

  She nodded. ‘I thought it very good of your mother to entertain me when she must be so worried about your father.’

  ‘To be royal means to learn to hide your feelings.’ He shrugged. ‘And it would be unforgivable not to show hospitality.’

  She nodded, and thought of his mother’s initial reaction to her. ‘When I walked into the dining room, your mother looked…’

  He stilled. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know—shocked—surprised.’ She shrugged. ‘Something, anyway.’

  ‘Is there anything which escapes those perceptive eyes of yours?’ he demanded.

  ‘And she said something to you, too—something in Marabanese which I couldn’t understand.’

  He nodded.

  ‘What was it, Khalim?’

  He gave a painful sigh, knowing that he could not be evasive with her, could not resist the sapphire appeal in her eyes. Was this destiny he was about to recount, or simply history? Coincidence, even? ‘You bear a strong resemblance to a woman my great-great-grandfather knew.’