Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

  As expected, her request was met with a chorus of dissent ‘I want to stay here!’ Bibi wailed.

  ‘No!’ Salim defied her, then in case she had not heard stressed each following syllable with a thump upon his drum. ‘No, no, no-o-o-o!’

  Drastic measures were called for. Dove could quite easily have demanded obedience in a no-nonsense manner which would probably have reduced the pair of them to tears, but her sympathies were definitely with them, so she searched her mind for some source of physical pleasure that could be enjoyed out of door yet in comparative silence.

  Her flash of inspiration came coloured bright blue— a blue-tiled swimming pool, shallow at one end and deep at the other, positioned far enough away from their mother’s quarters to render their activities noiseless.

  Brightly she turned to the children. ‘How would you like a swim?’ she asked, then waited for their joyful reaction.

  Bibi looked doubtful. ‘Are we allowed?’ she quizzed. Salim was blankly staring as if the suggestion held no meaning for him.

  ‘Why ever not? ’ Dove replied with assurance. ‘The pool seems never to be occupied—each time I’ve passed it’s been deserted. Come, Alya shall hunt out your bathing suits while I look for mine.’

  Eager to participate in this new adventure, the children scattered up to the nursery with Alya tagging slowly behind. Dove went straight to her own room to forage for one of the swimsuits she had included in her luggage. In mere seconds she had undressed and donned a crisp apple green two-piece, comprising minute bikini pants and matching strapless top that clung to her curves like strategically-placed fig leaves. A full-length towelling robe, zipped from neck to hem, completed the outfit which, as she hurried into the nursery, brought a look of admiration to Alya’s face.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why aren’t the children ready?’

  Alya’s puzzled frown returned ‘I’m sorry, Miss Grey, but the children do not usually wear clothes when they bathe.’

  Dove looked doubtful. ‘Don’t they? I suppose, considering their tender years, a bathing suit is hardly necessary, but,’ she frowned, ‘as Monsieur Blais keeps reminding me that Arabs are rather straight-laced, I think they’d better wear something, just to be on the safe side.’ She could not understand, as they made their way back to the swimming pool, why the fact that Bibi was wearing only cotton briefs under her sunsuit should send her into paroxysms of giggles or why Salim should keep attempting to tug his skimpy tee-shirt down past a few inches of bright red underpants. However, once they were frolicking in the shallows with the enjoyment of baby seals, Dove’s mind cleared of all but the pleasurable anticipation of her first swim beneath a warm desert sun. Eagerly she unzipped her robe and let it slip to the ground before plunging in, blissfully unaware as she swam, dived and floated on the surface of water soft and cool as cream against her skin, that Alya, after one horrified gasp, had covered her eyes with her hands and run panic-stricken in the direction of the palace.

  She was floating dreamily on the surface of the water, slim as a willow stripped of all but three essential leaves, when she heard a great splash, then seconds later a shadow loomed, blotting out the sun. When a vice closed around her waist, lifting her clear from the water, she was too startled to scream, and the roughness with which she was bundled into her robe, thrown across a hard shoulder, then whisked towards the palace, made it difficult even to fight for breath.

  In an incredibly short space of time she was deposited, dripping wet, inside her room. She winced as a violent kick crashed shut the door and extended a trembling hand behind her back, searching for help to support her trembling limbs. She made contact with a chair and sank into it, then forced herself to meet the eyes of the man standing glowering down at her, arms tightly folded across his chest.

  ‘Idiote!’ he spat. ‘Stupide!’

  Her shaking became uncontrollable. This time he was not

  merely angry, he was in a towering rage! Common sense bade her remain silent until he had regained control, but a surge of resentment was her undoing. Rising to her feet, she stormed:

  ‘I’d like an explanation of your extraordinary behaviour, monsieur. Never in my life—’

  ‘The life you came very near to losing!’ he interrupted grimly. If he had yelled she would not have listened, but the terse warning would not be ignored. ‘What do you mean?’ she gasped.

  ‘I mean that women have been beheaded for displaying less of their bodies than you were a few moments ago. Modesty is a much prized virtue in this country—an Arab won’t even remove his headdress until he is in the privacy of his own quarters, so, understandably, mixed bathing is strictly forbidden.’

  ‘Mixed bathing? You mean the children ... ?’

  ‘The children, yes. Also, in the eyes of his people Salim’s importance is second only to his father’s. By cavorting almost nude in front of him you left yourself open to a charge of attempted corruption.’

  ‘Cavorting? Corruption?’ Her voice soared high with incredulity. ‘Oh, please, monsieur, don’t insult my intelligence!’

  With one stride he closed the gap between them. Savagely he grabbed her by the shoulders, flicking scorn like a whip. ‘If you will not listen to words of reason, mademoiselle, then you leave me no choice but to demonstrate. This is a sample of what you must expect if you insist upon inviting rape!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Numbly, Dove picked up the scraps of green from the floor, dropped them into a drawer and closed it tight, hoping to forget their very existence. What, back home in England, would have been considered an innocuous bathing suit had become, owing to the actions of one man, representative of lust, savagery, and utter debasement. She had been the innocent that had thought no evil; she had suffered the consequence of such naivety.

  She shuddered, took a step towards the bathroom, then paused. She had to be sensible. Three times she had showered, had stood for what seemed hours, tears mingled with spray, trying to scrub away the imprint of cruel hands from a body of which, it seemed, no part had been left untouched. He had set out to punish, and the punishment had been characteristically severe. One thing he had taught her—how to hate, an emotion she had never before experienced. She now knew it well. It had sprung to life the moment his lips had savaged her mouth and had had time to grow and strengthen while, without tenderness or compassion, he had debased her to the level of an Arabian houriyeh. Then he had left her, a quivering nerveless wreck, thrashed yet physically unmarked, incapable of answering his derisive farewell with anything but a gasping sob.

  Her hand closed around an ornamental dagger, one of a display laid out upon a shelf. If only it had been within reach when she had most needed it—the moment a scarred mouth had smiled with a negligence that in itself had been insulting, and commented: ‘You have much to learn, grey dove. Zaid was prepared to barter, but he would have felt immeasurably cheated had he received a snowdrop in exchange for his gold.’

  A rap sounded upon the door and the dagger she was holding fell with a clatter to the floor. She fought for composure, but her voice sounded highly strung when she called out: ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It is Alya!’

  ‘Come in if you must!’ She walked across to the window, keeping her back turned in case the maid should read shame emblazoned across her expressive face. ‘What do you want, Alya?’ she enquired in a flat, expressionless voice.

  ‘Mistress Mariam wishes to speak with you.’

  Dove leant her hot forehead against the cool bars striping the window. ‘All right,’ she sighed, ‘I’ll be along presently.’

  ‘But, Miss Grey!’ Alya sounded scandalised, ‘my mistress awaits you now.’

  Dove drew in a deep breath. Nerves were thudding through her body, her eyes felt hot, her pulses were leaping, her skin crawled. Painfully, she swallowed, then with deceiving calmness assured the maid, ‘In five minutes, then, just time enough for me to slip out of this dressing-gown and into a dress.’

  Mariam was in her customary positi
on, stretched out with languid ease upon a divan. Dove shrank from the curiosity in eyes that roved her face and figure as she slowly advanced into the room. Colour flamed her cheeks. It was as if Mariam was aware of her humiliation and, in the hope of enlivening a dull hour, was prepared to probe and gloat.

  Yet puzzlement was the overriding nuance in her voice when, after a thorough examination of Dove’s pale, haunted face she commented, ‘It amazes me the way your English timidity charms the men of my race. Zaid’s interest is perhaps not so unusual, for he is always in search of novelty, but Marc’s passions run fathoms deep and are consequently far more difficult to arouse. I had imagined he would choose a woman possessed of fire equal to his own.’

  When angry colour stained Dove’s cheeks Mariam’s interest quickened. Could it be that she had misjudged the deceptively mild English miss? Marc was noted for his shrewd assessment of character; it was just possible that he had been clever enough to recognise depths which remained hidden to all but the most perceptive.

  ‘I resent being classed as anyone’s woman!’ Dove’s tone was as heated as her cheeks. ‘No man can lay claim upon me—not Zaid, and certainly not Monsieur Blais.’ Mariam shrugged. The ways of Western women were beyond her. Waving Dove towards a chair, she countered dryly, ‘It is pointless to shelter behind a smokescreen of secrecy when everyone is aware that you have found favour in Marc’s eyes. From the lips, of Rahma, my husband, I heard of the feud that has sprung to life between Zaid and Marc. Those two have balanced on the knife-edge of dislike for years, now rivalry has toppled them into a state of bitter enmity. Zaid’s appeal to my husband that his desire for you should take precedence over Marc’s was turned down. Though he is my husband’s brother and holds a senior post in his administration Marc is nearer to my husband’s heart.’

  She yawned delicately, then snuggled into a more comfortable position. Long hours could be shortened by gossip, especially when one’s listener was staring wideeyed with astonishment. ‘Naturally, Zaid was furious when my husband insisted that if Marc wanted you then you were to be his. There is a bond between them,’ she mused, ‘that transcends even family loyalty. It was forged when, as young men, they joined the Foreign Legion in search of adventure. During their years together they suffered much hardship, fought many battles, the details of which are known only to them. The one secret they could not keep was the fact that my husband would not be alive today were it not for Marc. The scar on his face serves as a constant reminder to my husband that he owes his life to his friend!’

  When Dove made a small gurgling sound in her throat Mariam paused, but when the question she was expecting did not come, she continued, ‘I know that it has troubled my husband greatly that he had been unable to find a way of rewarding Marc. Owing to a family inheritance, he has no need of money, and the fact that he has undertaken the task of protecting our children places us even deeper in his debt You must therefore be able to understand, Miss Grey, how happy my husband is to grant this one small favour to his friend. At this very moment the palace kitchens are in a frenzy of preparation for the betrothal feast which has been planned for tonight.’

  ‘Betrothal feast?’ Dove repeated stupidly, wondering if she had misheard.

  ‘Yes,’ Mariam nodded, ‘isn’t it exciting! As a rule, only men are present at such feasts, but as you are not of our race my husband has decided to adopt the British custom of allowing women guests.’

  Feeling trapped in some hideous nightmare, Dove jumped to her feet and exclaimed in a passion of resentment, ‘You must all be mad! Every one of you must be clear off your heads if you imagine you can force me, a British subject, to fall in with your archaic customs! I hate Marc Blais! He’s the last man in the world I’d consider marrying—even if he were to wish it, which I’m sure he does not, for the only emotion we share is one of mutual dislike! ’

  ‘Come now, Miss Grey,’ Mariam trilled, ‘you need not pretend to me!’

  ‘Pretend?’ Dove almost choked. ‘Who’s pretending?’ Mariam smiled as she glimpsed for a second a hint of the fiery passion she had decided was essential to Marc’s happiness. ‘You will discover, Miss Grey, that your wishes are of no consequence to the sons of Adam who rule this kingdom. The day you became part of his household you became one of my husband’s possessions. If he wishes you to marry Marc you will do so. But don’t worry,’ she soothed, ‘before my own marriage I had not even seen Rahma’s face, yet love came to me—as it will to you.’

  Dove felt the fatalism of the East pressing down upon her. Mariam spoke as if her betrothal to Marc Blais were almost a fait accompli. She experienced the panic of a bird trapped behind bars and had to press a hand to a heart reacting with the frenzy of fluttering wings. She drew a deep breath, willing the panic to subside, and after a few seconds was able with comparative calmness to enunciate slowly:

  ‘I don’t think you understood what I said. I want no part of your planned charade—not even to please Sheikh Rahma will I become betrothed to that beast!’

  Mariam’s eyebrows rose. ‘Marc, a beast ...?’

  Emphatically, Dove nodded. ‘A savage, unfeeling

  monster!’

  Mariam, who was a couple of years younger than Dove, shot a glance from eyes holding the wisdom of age, then gave an understanding nod. ‘It is clear that you are a virgin who feels her modesty has been violated.’ When Dove winced, Mariam’s lips curled into a halfsmile. Sympathetically she urged, ‘Virile men are the greatest lovers of virtue. As a maiden you would be wise to preserve yours, but you must cast it aside once you are wed, for virtue can become an ice-cold barrier in a warm bed.’

  Dove’s aggravation was so great she stamped her foot. ‘The lecture is hardly applicable. I have no intention of sharing a bed, warm or otherwise, with Monsieur Blais.’

  Suddenly Mariam lost patience. ‘You are an ungrateful girl,’ she scolded. ‘Many women have yearned over the man you scorn. You do not deserve him, and I shall tell my husband so. Meanwhile, I advise you to go to your room and think carefully before giving your final decision. If you continue with your ungrateful attitude my husband might, in his anger, turn you over to his brother Zaid, and if this should be your fate then I shall shudder for you, for all of thirty nights and thirty days. You condemn Marc as a beast, yet after one night of Zaid’s company he will appear to you to compare favourably with one of your angelic saints.’

  The thread of certainty running through Mariam’s words sent a chill of fear chasing up Dove’s spine. Hot

  words cooled upon her tongue, fire drained from her cheeks, leaving them colourless as snow. Mariam nodded, well pleased. ‘Go now, Miss Grey, dwell long and deeply on what I have said, remembering always that though the hawk’s talons hold fast the claws of a fox know only how to rend ...”

  Back in her own suite Dove discovered to her disgust that she was unable to stop shivering. She prowled the room, berating herself for allowing the mutterings of an ignorant Arab girl to cloud her judgment. Subconsciously imitating the superstitions of the East, she rummaged in a drawer, searching for her passport, and when she had found it, clutched it like a talisman against evil.

  ‘They dare not carry out such threats against one of Her Majesty’s subjects,’ she decided, staring down at the small leather booklet with its impressive gold seal. Then her spirits plummeted. The nearest British Embassy was miles away, but even if it were not she knew she would receive very little sympathy from diplomats grown cynical in attitude towards girls who ignored warnings and flew East in search of wealth. ‘Western nations,’ Jennifer had pointed out, ‘are heavily dependent upon Arab oil and are therefore most reluctant to offend powerful rulers of oil-producing States.’ Too late, Dove wished she had heeded her advice.

  After an hour of ceaseless prowling courage came to her aid. She sat down and forced herself to reason calmly. It seemed she was destined to become the spoils of a war between two men whose mutual antipathy had for years been held in check, only to erupt upon her arrival. She
therefore had the choice of siding with a man she hated or with one she feared. At least she had no illusions about Marc Blais’s feelings; the emotions she aroused in him ran the gamut from impatience to contempt. This betrothal had been forced upon him by Zaid’s attempt to pull rank and he must now be feeling as frustrated and angry about the situation as she was herself. That, at least, was some small consolation.

  Zaid, on the other hand, had demonstrated by both looks and insinuation that he coveted her body. Satiated by a surfeit of dusky beauties, his appetite had been whetted by what he had described as her pale, distant delicacy. The mere idea of his dark, sensuous hands upon her body so revolted her that she cringed.

  Some time later, when Mariam sent a servant to discover whether or not she had come to her senses, she replied with a quivering Yes, and was thereupon instructed to begin dressing for the feast which was scheduled to begin in a couple of hours’ time. This instruction she ignored. Marc Blais must take her as she was or leave her, mercifully, alone. A quick shower and change into her plainest dress was all the effort she intended.

  The dress she chose was simple to the point of severity—white, with a small sleeve, a scooped-out neckline, and tailored to fit an incredibly slim waistline. Its freezing whiteness was reflected in her small pointed features, and as she stepped out of her bedroom into the passageway, straight into the path of Marc Blais, he was reminded of the flower to which he had likened her—the delicate snowdrop that fought its way to life against great odds then strove with head bowed to combat stormy elements.

  ‘Mariam tells me she has put you in the picture?’ His voice was clamped with irritation, yet as his eyes roved her face a glint appeared which told her he was remembering their last encounter.

  Embarrassment goaded her into a jibe. ‘She has. As I understand the situation, the Sheikh is eager to reward you for services rendered, so I’m being coerced into a betrothal to a man who is incapable of finding a woman for himself!’