Daughter of Hassan

by Penny Jordan

  Danielle sat back and closed her eyes, but the minute she did so the image of a mocking dark face imprinted itself behind her eyes and she had to open them again. She would not think of Jourdan, she told herself firmly, walking aimlessly down one of the paths which terminated at a heavy wooden door set into the wall.

  Memories of reading The Secret Garden enticed her to turn the iron handle.

  Beyond the door was another courtyard around which were arranged horseboxes, velvety muzzles stretched over half open doors. As Danielle stood wondering whether to go or stay, a familiar figure came towards her, and she forgot Zanaide's warn ing lessons and she hurried towards him, her face breaking into a pleased smile.

  'Saud!'

  He blushed a little but took her hands and held them firmly, his eyes alight with pleasure.

  'What are you doing here?' Danielle asked him. She had never met him before he escorted her to Qu'Har, but now he seemed like an old friend.

  'The Sheikh wishes to ride and I am come to instruct the men to saddle his stallion,' he replied, indicating the glossy black Arab stallion which was being led into the courtyard. The animal's coat gleamed like silk, the small ears twitching a little intimidatingly as he minced delicately over the stones.

  'He comes from a long line of stallions bred only for our Royal Family. Only they are allowed to mount such animals, and in days gone by it used to be considered a test of a young sheikh's manhood to see if he could mount and ride one of these animals. Although the test is no longer applied, there is still much honour to the man who can ride and control such an animal.'

  Danielle could well believe it. It was taking two grooms to hold the stallion, who was pawing the ground and snorting resentfully as they held grimly on to the reins.

  'You are enjoying your stay in our country?' Saud asked Danielle. 'I hear from my sister that you have this morning been shopping.'

  'Your sister?'

  'Zoe,' he explained with a smile, suddenly biting his lip and glancing cautiously over his shoulder. 'Forgive me, Miss Danielle, but you should. not be here, nor talking to me like this. I tell you for your own sake, not mine," he added earnestly, his eyes suddenly warm as they rested on Danielle's soft mouth. 'For myself there is nothing I would rather do than be here with you, unless it were perhaps to walk in the velvet dark­ness of the oasis with you, just the two of us be­neath a new moon . . .'

  'But, Saud, you are betrothed,' Danielle reminded him, suddenly feeing that the conversa­tion had got out of hand.

  Before he could reply a deeply authoritative voice called abruptly.

  'Saud, where is my mount?' and Danielle's heart dropped as she saw coming towards her, dressed in riding breeches, a falcon resting on one leather-gauntleted hand, the man whose image had pursued her in her nightmares, and whose presence now made the blood drain from her face, and a weak desire to turn and run engulfed her.

  Saud, for his part, looked as guilty as a small child caught out in some forbidden misdemeanour, the look he gave Danielle at once apologetic and full of fear.

  Jourdan, on the other hand, looked completely relaxed and in control. One hand held the reins of the prancing stallion, the other transferred the hooded falcon to a waiting servant before turning to coolly survey Danielle and Saud, for all the world as though they were a pair of miscreants caught out in some dreadful crime, Danielle thought wrathfully, deliberately closing her mind to the tiny voice telling her that Jourdan's expres­sion held undertones of an anger kept strictly in check, but still dangerously close to the surface.

  'Saud, I shall speak to you later,' Jourdan announced crisply, watching the younger man crimson at his tone, without a hint of compassion. There was something cruel about the way his lips curled faintly, Danielle thought, her heart beating hurriedly as he turned from Saud, suddenly crestfallen and very, very young, to study her flushed cheeks and defiant eyes.

  'It is my fault, not Saud's,' Danielle told him imperiously, her words ringing out across the yard, and causing a couple of the grooms to glance curiously in her direction.

  'I came here by mistake, and he was just telling me so.'

  'You seem to have a habit of doing things "by mistake", daughter of Hassan,' Jourdan said with heavy irony, 'You leap to my young cousin's de-fence like the lioness defending her cub . . . why?'

  The word cut into her like a lash, but Danielle still stood her ground.

  'Primarily because I hate to see anyone bullied,' she retorted promptly, 'and secondly because I happen to be very fond of Saud.'

  An electric silence followed her uncompromis­ing statement. Saud's face lit up as though illumi­nated from within, and Danielle immediately regretted her words, seeing that Saud had read inno them a meaning she had never meant to convey—and Jourdan? She glanced sideways at the impassively handsome face. There was nothing to be read there, only a certain dangerous glint in the eyes which were studying her, faintly narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, the mouth pulled down at the corners.

  'Go back to the women's quarters, daughter of Hassan,' Jourdan ordered abruptly, 'and try to remember that my cousin is a betrothed man. Besides,' he added, casually turning to mount the stallion, and holding him in with iron control while he walked him to Danielle's side, to stare down into her upturned face with cool scrutiny. 'If you wish to experiment, mignonne, you would be wiser choosing a man if not older, then at least . . . wiser.'

  Without a backward glance he was gone, the stallion's hooves thudding in time to Danielle's swiftly beating heart.

  Quite why she remained where she was staring after the unyielding retreating back she could not have said, but at last she roused herself as though from a trance, and hurried back the way she had come to the tranquillity of the Sheikha's garden.

  It was later in the afternoon, when Danielle was resting in her room, and avoiding the full heat of the day, that she had a summons from the Sheikha to attend her to be measured for her new clothes.

  'The girl will measure you and then the caftans will be made up for you,' the Sheikha told Danielle.

  While the shy young girl was carefully sliding a tape round her slim hips Danielle heard the dressmaker say something to the Sheikha.

  'Naomi says that you are as slender as the young fig tree before it bears fruit,' the Sheikha said to Danielle. 'She is also to make Zoe's wedding gown. It is the tradition for the women of my husband's family to be married in crimson silk and the one hundred and one buttons closing the caftan to be of pearl. Zoe's robe will be em­broidered with the emblems of fertility and her husband-to-be will give her the silver girdle which after the ceremony only he will have the right to unfasten.'

  Bondage in more ways than one, Danielle told herself. But for some reason, it was not Zoe's pale face she saw rising from a mist of crimson silk, as lean, dark hands that reached arrogantly for the silver girdle, but her own, her eyes strained and nervous as she stared upwards at the man tower­ing above.

  'You have been standing for too long,' the Sheikha anounced, breaking Danielle's reverie. 'I have arranged that this afternoon you will be shown the coastline which stretches from the town east and west. The drive will do you good. Zanaide will accompany you.'

  Thus dismissed, Danielle thanked the dress­maker and her assistants and hurried back to her own room, where she found Zanaide waiting for her, one of the pretty silk suits she had brought with her already lying carefully on her bed.

  Danielle frowned a little when she saw it. The silk was pretty but creased easily, and she had planned to wear something a little more casual as they were simply going for a drive, but Zanaide was already hurrying into the bathroom, and rather than hurt the girl's feelings by ignoring the clothes she had so painstakingly laid out, Danielle slipped off her skirt and blouse and padded over to the dressing room to find clean briefs and bra.

  She hadn't intended to do more than have a quick wash, but once again Zanaide has other ideas, and as Danielle stepped out of the dressing room, the scent of sandalwood enve
loped her in its heavy sweetness.

  ‘I don't want a bath, Zanaide,' she protested? but the girl looked so perturbed and upset that Danielle was forced to relent and step into the warm perfumed water.

  Had someone told her three days ago that she would be lying full length in a marble bath almost deep enough to swim in, actually enjoying having someone gently massage perfumed oils into her skin, and bathing her, she would have laughed outright, but there was something so soporific about being thus shamelessly indulged that it was too much of an effort to resist, never mind pro­test.

  Dried and perfumed, Danielle stepped into brief silk underwear and the silk suit Zanaide had put out for her.

  It was a rich golden yellow, the shade of mellow buttercups and Danielle knew that the colour emphasised the dark, living russet of her hair, and the pure unclouded green of her eyes. A touch of soft beige and green eyeshadow, the merest sug­gestion of lipstick, and the reflection staring back at her from the mirror was all at once that of a woman and not an adolescent. Caught off guard, Danielle stared at herself, as though at a stranger, Had her mouth always had that tremulous full ness? Had her eyes always been so mysteriously shadowed and secret? It must surely be a trick of the light?

  The car was waiting for them—not the Rolls this time, but a discreetly opulent BMW. Zanaide slid quietly into the front next to the driver. A servant opened the rear door for Danielle to get into the back. She was in, the door closed, and the car gliding smoothly away before she realized that she wasn't alone in the back of the car.

  'You look pale, daughter of Hassan,' the smooth male voice mocked.

  'Jourdan!' Danielle whispered the name through shocked lips. 'What are you doing here?'

  She felt rather than saw the broad shoulders lift. 'Why should I not be? The Sheikha requested me to escort you, and here I am.'

  Despite the perfectly logical explanation Danielle felt curiously uneasy. Jourdan had not struck her as a man to tamely accept the orders of another, especially a woman, even though that woman was the wife of the ruler of Qu'Har.

  'Perhaps you would have preferred me to be Saud?' the smooth voice mocked unkindly. 'It seems you have quite a disastrous effect on im­pressionable young men, daughter of Hassan.'

  'All we were doing was talking,' Danielle pro-tested angrily. 'It was completely innocent.'

  'There is no such thing as innocence between a man and a woman,' Danielle was told arrogantly, 'and to imply that there can be shows how little you know of the world, mignonne, or how competent you are at deceiving yourself.'

  Rather than listen to his taunts any longer, Danielle stared deliberately through the window. She could just see the sweeping blue-green shim­mer of the gulf beyond gardens sheltered with clusters of palms, but as she watched the coastline seemed to recede rather than draw nearer, and she frowned as she looked ahead and saw that the dual carriageway they were travelling was taking them away from the coast rather than closer to it.

  They came to an intersection and she waited for them to turn towards the gulf, but instead the car moved swiftly in completely the opposite direction, through what were obviously the suburbs of the town, dotted with expensive villas, which grew sparser in inverse proportion to the empty acres of sand. Concerned, Danielle glanced over her shoulder. They had come several miles out of the town. Where were they going?

  She voiced the question sharply, and for her pains received only a taunting command to, 'wait and see.'

  Anxiety changed to fear. Danielle turned sharply in her seat, staring at the retreating city. Where was she being taken? She looked wildly towards the driver, intending to demand that he stopped the car instantly, then she remembered that Zanaide was seated in front with him and her fear dissolved a little. Jourdan was playing with her. He had deliberately fostered her alarm. She wished she hadn't let him see how well he had succeeded.

  She sat in silence as they travelled further and further into the desert. It was a battle of wills, Danielle told herself grimly, and one she had no intention of losing. They had been travelling for nearly an hour and the signs of human habitation they had passed had been a cluster of tents round a small oasis. They were probably travelling in a huge circle, Danielle reassured herself, trying not to feel overwhelmed by the vastness of the desert which now surrounded them. Sandhill succeeded sandhill; the sun was starting to dip down to the west, a crimson ball of fire, turning the sand the colour of blood. Danielle's head ached despite the car's luxurious upholstery and air-conditioning.

  At last, when she could bear it no longer, she drew a painful breath and said shakily.

  'You have had your fun, Jourdan, and I'm properly impressed, but surely we must be nearing the palace now? The Sheikha will be expecting us?'

  Right and wrong,' Jourdan replied laconically, 'We are nearing the palace, daughter of Hassan, but not that of my uncle the Sheikh.'

  Even as he spoke a building appeared on the horizon, a wall, crenellated and set with huge wooden doors such as Danielle had seen in films. As they approached these swung open, swallowing them like a giant maw, she thought ap­prehensively, wondering why Zanaide made no protest.

  Beyond the outer wall was a courtyard, shady with palm trees and clumps of flowers, two lions couchant in pale marble guarding the steps to the main doorway to the palace. The car came to rest exactly between the lions and Danielle reached for the door.

  'You must wait until I precede you,' Jourdan told her calmly, his fingers gripping hers hard, and warm. 'Otherwise my people will think I do not have the respect of my wife . . .'

  'Your wife?' Danielle gasped disbelievingly. A combination of heat and shock was making her feel dizzy, so dizzy that she could not protest as Zanaide helped her from the car out into the blood red rays of the dying sun, and from there to the cool shadows of a hallway tiled with mosaics and filled with the sound of the water which rose from a fountain and fell back into a bowl of rose quartz banded with gold. 'But I'm not your wife, Jourdan,' Danielle managed to stammer.

  He stopped and turned, surveying her arro­gantly from the advantage of his extra height, and Danielle shivered with a feeling which had nothing to do with the sudden change of temper­ature.

  'Not yet, daughter of Hassan,' Jourdan agreed blandly. 'But before dawn you will be.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Where was she? Danielle wondered muzzily, lifting her head from a pillow whose scent reminded her poignantly of her childhood. It was several seconds before she identified the scent as lavender, and during that time she realised that she was not in her bedroom at the palace of Qu'Har , but in a room which seemed to enbody all her imaginings of Eastern splendour.

  Rich silks hung from the walls and curtained the windows; soft Persian rugs covered the cool marble floor, a bed which seemed to dwarf her. tiny frame dominating the room, the draperies enclosing it all the myriad colours and shades of mother of pearl, and suspended from a gold circlet in the ceiling.

  Even her clothes were different. Surely she had not come here wearing these flimsy silk under-things and nothing else? And then she re­membered.

  The door, which she now dimly remembered closing behind her with a decisive click, was locked. Her room—her prison, Danielle told herself bitterly—was round. Off it she discovered a luxurious bathroom, but nothing else.

  She would not give way to tears, she told her­self, biting her lip and curling her fingers into angry fists. Jourdan had no right to bring her here, no right to intimate that he meant to marry her. She would complain to the Sheikha and demand to be allowed to return home straight away. What would her stepfather think of his pre-cious nephew when he learned of this outrage? Not much.

  Danielle was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't see the door open and wasn't aware that she was no longer alone until she caught sight of Zanaide's apologetic expression in the mirror.

  'Zanaide, what's going on?' she demanded, relieved to see at least one friendly face. 'We must leave here and return to Qu'Har!'

  The
little maid shook her head.

  'It is not possible. The Sheikh has commanded me to prepare the Sitt for her wedding. All is arranged, even the priest of your religion is here.'

  'Zanaide—you don't understand. I don't want to marry the Sheikh. He only wants to marry me for . . . for spite! Somehow you must find a way of telling the Sheikha what has happened, she will . . .'

  Danielle broke off as Zaiade shook her head firmly.

  'No, Sitt. The Sheikha she tells me that you are to be married. I have your wedding gown here with me. It is fitting and right that you should be nervous,' she added kindly. 'Marriage is a big step for a woman, but with the Sheikh you will find much pleasure,' she added slyly.

  Danielle could only stare at her. The Sheikha had told Zanaide that she was to marry Jourdan? Her mouth compressed.

  'I am not going to make a single move from this bed until I've spoken to the Sheikh,' Daniellel announced determinedly.

  'Intrepid, if somewhat foolish of you, mignonne,' a new voice drawled from the open door­way. 'I wish to speak with your mistress,' Jourdan told Zanaide. 'You will leave us for a few minutes, and then return to prepare her for the ceremony.'