Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem (5 page)

‘Are you comfortable here in my harem?’ Ramiz settled himself back against the cushions. The lamps with their coloured glass shades reflected the light in rainbow patterns onto the mirrors and the tiled white of the salon.

Celia thought she recognised that teasing note in his voice, but she could not be sure. ‘Extremely,’ she said cautiously. ‘Your servants have looked after me very well, but I was surprised to find myself the only occupant.’

‘I moved my brother’s wives and children to their own palace. Those who wished were returned to their families.’

‘And you haven’t had time to—to stock up on wives for yourself?’

Ramiz burst out laughing. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘You led me to believe you had many wives.’

‘No, you made that assumption yourself.’

Celia bit her lip. ‘I suppose you get tired of people like me making such assumptions. You wanted to teach me a lesson, didn’t you?’

Ramiz held up his hands. ‘I confess. Tell me, what did you expect when you came here? A scene from
One Thousand and One Nights
?’

She blushed. ‘Something like that.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I don’t know what to think,’ she said, opting for honesty. ‘In one way, there’s something almost liberating in being so cut off from the world and unable to do anything about it. I feel rested. Cured. Better. I’ve never had so much time to think. It’s like I’ve been able to sort out my mind, make sense of things.’

‘You had problems in your marriage, I think?’

After so many days of silence, so many hours spent scrutinising and questioning, it was a huge relief to speak her thoughts. ‘I wasn’t exactly unhappy, but I think I would have become so, and I know George already was.’ A tear trembled on her lashes. Celia brushed it away. ‘He was—he did not want—I think he wanted a companion rather than a wife. How did you guess?’ She had not meant to ask, but here in the tranquil security of the harem, with the soft light casting ghostly shadows onto the walls, such an intimate topic seemed natural.

He had been conversing with her like a man, admiring her intelligence and strong opinions. Now he saw in that look stripped of its poise, in the vulnerable trembling of her lip, that she was all woman. He remembered her body, glinting pale and alluring in the moonlight by the oasis—an image which had crept unbidden into his dreams these last five nights, so unwanted, so dishonourable that he had banished its memory in the daylight. Now here it was again, and here in the rooms of the palace set aside for sensual pleasure, rooms he had never himself used, his resistance was beginning to falter.

He wanted her. There was every reason for him to deny himself, but he had done so much denying since his brother died he was sick of it. He wanted her. He wanted to teach her. He wanted her to know pleasure. And he wanted her knowing to be his doing.

Ramiz got to his feet. ‘I guessed because you have the look of a woman starved of attention. Come with me,’ he said, reaching out a hand to pull her to her feet, placing a finger over her mouth to stop her speaking. He led her out of the salon to the courtyard, where the fountains made their sweet music in the jasmine-scented air. ‘Look up there.’ The deep sapphire of the night sky was framed high above their heads. ‘In my culture, we believe that love has wings—wings which can take you all the way up there to the stars, where the heavenly pleasures of the body are worshipped. It is a voluptuous journey. A journey which leaves its mark upon a woman in her eyes, in the way she walks, the way she learns to nourish and to relish her body, knowing that it is a temple of delights. I look at you and I see a woman who has not yet learned to fly. I look at you and I want to help you experience what it feels like to soar in the high clouds.’

His voice shivered seductively in her ear. They were standing by the fountain, his hands on her arms, stroking feathery light up and down her bare skin. She could feel the brush of velvet from his sleeves. He smelt of lemon-scented soap and night-scented man. She pictured herself flying. His presence, the scent of him, the feel of him, the husky sound of him, gave her a fleeting image of what that might be like. Of what he might do to her to make it happen.

She wanted it. Whatever it was, she wanted it, and she knew she would never find a more able tutor. His confidence was intoxicating. His aura of power equally so. His casual mastery, which could intimidate and anger, was here, under the secret stars fascinating, beguiling, and incredibly persuasive.

‘Don’t you want to know what it’s like to fly, Celia?’ Ramiz spoke into her ear. His lips whispered over her skin.

‘I don’t know if I can,’ she said, which was the truth.

His laugh, like a throaty purr, so filled with assurance, made her stomach clench in anticipation. ‘Trust me—you can.’

His tongue traced the shell of her ear. His fingers trailed up her arms to the nape of her neck, circling delightful spirals which whirled little pulses into life. Her heart was beating fast. Faster. She was hot and cold all at the same time. His mouth traced the line of her jaw, and she ached, ached for him to kiss her lips, but instead he moved down her throat. His velvet-soft mouth gave kisses that made her arch back in his arms like a bow, so that she could see the sky now, the stars glinting and beckoning and calling to her as his mouth reached the hollow of her neck, and her skin seemed to reach out to greet him, wanting more than the flickering kisses he gave her.

‘Ramiz,’ Celia whispered, ‘Ramiz, please…I want to.’

He scooped her up into his arms, heading for the nearest salon, which happened to be the one in which she slept. The low divan, with its scattering of pillows and silk covers, took up centre place in the room. It was the strangest bed she had ever encountered, for it was round, with neither head nor footboard. Ramiz set her to her feet before it, gazing deep into her eyes, his own glowing amber in the shadowed light with something fierce she didn’t recognise and wasn’t sure she liked.

She lowered her lids, but he tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him again. ‘You must not be ashamed of your body; you must learn to enjoy it. That is the first lesson you must learn or you will never leave the ground.’

Then his lips covered hers, fitting so perfectly that she stopped breathing. How could mouths fit like that? But they did. Warmth flooded through her. She stood pliant, unsure what to do, confused by the urgent need to kiss him back, so at odds with what she had been told. Ramiz snaked his arms around her back to pull her close. She could feel the solid hardness of his body pressed into her own softness. She had not thought of herself as soft before. Or curved. She had never encountered such blatant masculinity so close at hand. She was melting, and in the melting she succumbed to temptation and kissed him back.

Her lips were petal-soft against his, beguilingly untutored. Ramiz pressed his mouth against hers, tasting her delicately. He felt rather than heard her sigh. If he had not known better he would have said she had never been kissed. Certainly she had not been taught to kiss back. Her inexperience inflamed him. A primal instinct which surprised him to possess, to own, sent the blood surging to his shaft. His kiss hardened too, his mouth easing hers open, his tongue finding hers, coaxing at first, then forgetting to coax and instead demanding. She tasted of heat and promised ecstasy. An ecstasy he could not wholly indulge.

To give is to receive.
Tonight he would give, and the giving would have to suffice. Ramiz tore his mouth away. ‘Wait,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘Tonight you must allow me to wait upon you.’ Then slowly, tantalisingly slowly, he began his controlled onslaught on Celia’s senses.

His hands tangled in her hair, pulling out the constraining pins, his fingers combing through the rich copper mass of curls until it was spread over her shoulders, trailing down her back, curling over the pearly white of her bosom. He turned her around to unfasten her dress, his fingers trailing over her skin as he slipped it down over her shoulders to pool at her feet. She could feel his mouth on her neck again, on the knot of her spine. His breath was warm on her skin, but she shivered all the same. He unlaced her stays, pulling her close against him, her back to his chest, her skin against the velvet of his robe. She could feel the hard length of him nestling into the curve of her bottom. So other. So male.

She shivered again, but now she was hot, with fingers of heat creeping surreptitiously over her skin like the fingers of dawn through the mists of morning. Ramiz wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him, nudging his erection into the soft mound of her buttocks. His hands stroked up from her waist to the curves of her breasts, through the soft fabric of her chemise, stroking so that her skin prickled. Her nipples hardened. He weighed her breasts in his hands, his thumbs scraping the tips, making them pucker, making her stomach clench, and between her legs something that felt like another unfurling bud seemed to clench too.

He turned her round, kissing her swiftly on the lips before he pulled her chemise over her head, leaving her clad only in her lace-trimmed pantaloons, for she had given up on wearing stockings. Instinctively Celia tried to cover herself, but Ramiz pulled her hands away from her breasts. ‘How can you expect others to enjoy what you cannot admire yourself?’ he said. ‘You are beautiful.’

Celia blushed. ‘I’m not. I know I’m not. My sister Cassie is beautiful. I’m too thin. I don’t—men don’t— I’m just not.’

‘Look at me.’

She obeyed reluctantly.

Ramiz wound a thick tress of hair around his hands. ‘The colour of desire. A reflection of the flames which can burn inside you if only you’ll let them.’ He cupped her head to look deep into her eyes. ‘You have a mouth made to frame kisses. The way your lids hide your eyes, they speak of secrets if only a man knows where to look.’ His palms grazed down her shoulders, shaping her breasts. ‘Your skin is like alabaster, like cream, to be touched and tasted.’ He bent his head and took her nipple between his lips, his tongue flicking over the tip, his mouth sucking slowly, then hard, tugging until she moaned, for it felt as if he had set up a path of flames, like a fuse, burning its way from the painful ache of it down through the pooling heat in her belly towards the curling, tensing heat between her legs.

She fell back onto the divan. Ramiz knelt between her legs, his hands spanning her waist as he kissed her breasts, tugging sensations she had never imagined from her, so that she writhed with them, clutching at the silk of the sheets, then at the velvet of his robe, then at the satin of his hair, wanting more and more of what he gave, at the same time vaguely conscious that this must be wrong—for surely she should not be feeling these things? Surely she should not be wanting in this way, even if she didn’t know what it was she wanted? Except to fly, as Ramiz had promised.

He was licking his way down her stomach now, tugging her pantaloons over her legs, gently removing her hands when she would have covered herself, whispering to her in a mixture of his own language and hers that she was beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, until almost she believed him. ‘Legs made to wrap themselves around a man,’ he said to her as he kissed the crook of her knees, carefully pushing them apart to taste the skin on the inside of her thigh.

She was shocked. She was unbearably tense. She shouldn’t be letting him do what he was doing, whatever it was he was doing, but she couldn’t bear to stop him because she wanted him to do more of it. And when he did, his mouth just feather-touching the place between her legs where the aching was becoming a pulse, she jerked with both shock and pleasure, relieved that he held her down, released from fighting it when his hands stroked her thighs into position and his tongue eased its way onto her, into her, licking, causing such a fluttering sensation within her that she cried out, because it wasn’t too much, it wasn’t enough.

She felt them then, her wings budding, like the rippling on a pond when a feather lands. She stilled and shut her eyes tight and then she saw them too, pink-tipped wings, pushing their way out as Ramiz circled his tongue to help them on their way, circling so they could push up more, licking to encourage them, soft so as not to frighten, then harder as her wings grew, and pushed, and trembled with their unfurling, lifting her up so that she gasped with the sudden swoop of them, lifting her up again as they bunched tight, readying themselves. And then with one final burst she toppled, thinking to fall, and her wings opened and she flew, soaring and bucking and diving and swooping and soaring again, crying out with the sheer unexpected delight of it, crying out again until she glided and floated slowly, slowly, sleepily back down to earth, exhausted and sated and filled with the glitter of the stars she had touched.

Past experience had taught him the satisfaction of giving pleasure, but always it had been a prelude to receiving. Now, Ramiz gazed at Celia spread out on the divan before him, her perfect skin flushed with satisfaction, her lips, her nipples, her sex all swollen with his attentions, and felt a new kind of satisfaction. He had done this. He had given her this. Blood surged into his groin, swelling his already hard shaft, though he knew he would do nothing about it. He wanted to, but he did not need to. This was enough—this knowing that he had made his mark, that he had been the first if not to have her, then to pleasure her. He had given her something no one else had. She would not forget him.

As he would not forget this picture she made. Un willing to tempt his self-control, Ramiz got to his feet and pulled the silk sheet over her. ‘Sleep now,’ he whispered.

Celia’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Ramiz, I…’

‘Tomorrow we must talk of the future. For the moment, rest,’ he said.

Then he was gone. Were it not for the cushions scattered across the floor, the rumpled state of the sheets, the faint tingling she felt all over her body, she could almost have persuaded herself it was a dream.

Chapter Five

C
elia awoke the next morning restless and confused, and rather appalled by herself. What she had felt last night had been shocking in many more ways than one. She’d had no idea that women such as herself could experience such raw emotion. Surely it was rather base to have done so? Was not such stuff the domain of courtesans? So she had always believed. Aunt Sophia had said so herself—women endured while men enjoyed. But last night—last night… Celia’s face burned at the memory of her own abandonment. Then the heat focused lower as she remembered more.

Stop!
She sat up in bed, burying her face in her hands, screwing her eyes tight shut in an effort to obliterate the image of Ramiz like some erotic god in his scarlet robe. It would be scarlet, of course. The colour of sin and shame. What he had done—no!
She had encouraged him. She had to admit it.
Her toes curled into the soft silk of her sheets. She had wanted him. And when he had gone she had wanted him again.

It must be the influence of this place. This harem, these rooms, built as a monument to the pleasures of the flesh. All that bathing and oiling of her body which went on—how could she help it if her mind was filled with indecent thoughts? This was a profane place. What she had experienced was temporal, bounded by the locked door to the rest of the palace, swathed in this secret sanctum by the velvets and silks and lace which screened the doorways, fuelled by her own fevered imaginings from that dratted book,
One Thousand and One Nights
. She was inhabiting a fantasy, that was all. A fantasy in which she might have acted as shamefully as a concubine, but that didn’t mean she
was
one. She was still Celia.

Except, she thought, gazing distractedly at herself in the mirror once she had dressed in a white muslin gown trimmed with primrose yellow ribbons, she didn’t actually know who Celia was any more. She tried to see herself with fresh eyes. She tried to see the Celia Ramiz saw. Did she look different? She wasn’t sure. She felt different—more conscious of her body under the layers of her clothes, of the way the different textures felt against her newly sensitised skin when she walked, sat, stretched. Did she believe herself beautiful? Celia stared. No. Cassie was beautiful.

What, then, did Ramiz see? The beautifying effect of the harem? Perhaps some of its sensuality had rubbed off on her last night, but she could detect no trace of it now. ‘What he saw last night, Celia Armstrong, was an available woman,’ she said, sticking her tongue out at her reflection, failing to notice that she had reverted to her maiden name, because something else had just occurred to her. If last night had just been about her being available, why had Ramiz not simply taken his own pleasure?

At that precise moment Ramiz was busily engaged in sensitive matters of state, not pleasure. He sighed as he read over the terms of the draft treaty his trusted man of business, Akil, had prepared. Though A’Qadiz was the largest of the principalities involved, and the most powerful, it was a complex and delicate matter, with the disparate customs and rights of so many tribes to take into account.

‘Sometimes I can understand my brother’s preference for war,’ he said, rubbing his tired eyes with the back of his hand. ‘At least it is simple.’

Akil, who had known Ramiz since they were childhood friends, smiled thinly. Even in those days Ramiz had been a peacemaker, intervening with their father when his elder brother Asad went too far for their tutor or the families of his bullied victims to turn a blind eye, even if Asad was the royal heir. ‘Simple, yes, but not necessarily effective. Don’t give up, Ramiz. Your pact with Prince Malik has brought us a huge step forward.’

‘If it holds,’ Ramiz said wearily. ‘What updates do you have regarding the new mines?’

Gold was the main source of A’Qadiz’s riches, second only to the plentiful supplies of water which al lowed the population not only to live well, but to trade key crops such as dates, figs and lemons. ‘Good news,’ Akil replied brightly. ‘The richest seam yet, and it looks as if your hunch to test for silver to the south has paid off too.’

‘Excellent. Let us hope that word of the find does not spread too quickly. For the moment the British and the French are content to bide their time in Egypt, scavenging whatever precious remnants of the past they can lay their hands on. They think us a paltry little country to whom they will throw a few stray crumbs by agreeing to use our port to open up a trade route to the riches of India, but if they find out the extent of the gold and silver we have buried in our land, especially in the mines so near to the coast, they will not be able to resist trying to get their hands on it.’

‘The Englishman who was killed—did you find his papers?’

‘His name was Cleveden. Yes, I did, but there was nothing in them I didn’t already know.’

‘What of the woman?’ Akil asked diffidently. All of Balyrma had heard of the woman’s arrival, but like everyone else he was in the dark as to Ramiz’s intentions. Despite their long-standing friendship, Ramiz did not confide in him, nor did he take kindly to having his decisions questioned.

‘What of her?’ Ramiz asked tersely.

‘She is still here, I presume?’

‘Of course she is.’

‘What do you intend to do with her, may I ask?’

A vision of Celia spread naked on the divan last night flashed into Ramiz’s head. He had been unable to sleep for thinking of her, unable to prevent himself from imagining what it would have been like if he had taken her as he had wanted to—plunged his shaft into the soft, sweet depths he had prepared with such delightful relish. What he wanted to do with her was just that.

But, as so often, what he wanted and what he could have were very divergent paths. This time the honourable path was the least palatable. Fortunately he had committed to it before the events of last night. If he had not— But he would not think of that. It was decided.

‘I wrote to the British Consul General in Cairo, informing him of what happened,’ Ramiz explained. ‘I did it as soon as we got here, for I couldn’t risk the likes of Malik using it against me by trying to implicate me. I expect they’ll send someone to collect her—in fact I’m surprised they haven’t done so already. Until then she is safe enough here.’

‘In your harem?’

‘Of course.’

‘Your—until now—empty harem, Ramiz?’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Akil shook his head. ‘You know very well what it means. The Council of Elders have asked me to urge you again to consider their list of suitable wives. It is a year since you came out of mourning for Asad, and they are anxious for your rule to be cemented. Also, the people would welcome a royal wedding. It has been a difficult and unsettling time.’

‘Thanks largely to my brother,’ Ramiz said sharply. ‘It was Asad, not I, who embroiled us in shedding blood. If it were not for me—’

Akil held up his hand. ‘Ramiz, no one knows better than I the pain and hardship of the journey which has brought us to peace, but you must understand the people, the council, they do not have your vision. To them, to fight is to prosper. They have not yet seen the benefits your hard-won peace will bring them.’

Ramiz got to his feet and began to prowl restlessly around the room. Aside from the large mahogany desk at which he had been seated opposite Akil, it was lined with bookcases, all of them full, an eclectic selection of works, from the ancient scriptures of his country to Greek and Latin classics and a wide range of modern French and English literature. Much as he respected his heritage, his travels had taught him to respect the culture of all the great civilisations. If only his people were so open-minded.

‘So my taking a wife would make everyone happy, would it, Akil?’ Ramiz said, resuming his seat.

‘If you were to marry one of the princesses the council have suggested, maybe Prince Malik’s daughter, it would cement the peace, make us stronger, and make our people more secure. Even if you chose a princess from one of our own tribes—Sheikh Farid’s daughter, for example—it would buy you much support. A royal wedding would go a long way to making your people feel—feel…’

‘Spit it out, for the love of the gods,’ Ramiz said impatiently.

‘It would make them feel more secure, Highness. When you have sons, the dynasty will be settled. Without them there is only your cousin, and he is…’

‘Weak.’

‘Yes,’ Akil agreed with relief.

Ramiz frowned. ‘Why just one wife, then? If my marriage would cement the pact with Malik, why not do the same with our other neighbours? Why not two wives, or four, or ten?’

‘You jest, I think, Highness.’ Akil eyed his friend nervously. He looked calm, but Akil was not fooled. Ramiz drummed his fingers on the blotting pad, his mouth held in much too firm a line. Ramiz preferred to wield words rather than a sword, but when roused he had a temper which put his brother’s into the shade as a lion’s roar would drown out a kitten.

‘You can leave off this “Highness” nonsense, old friend. I know you only use it when you want something.’

Akil smiled. ‘Ramiz, listen, the council has com piled a list of ten princesses. I have verified it myself. Each one would make an excellent match. You must marry—you know that—for the sake of A’Qadiz.’

‘Everything I do is for the sake of A’Qadiz, it has been so all my life, Akil,
you
know that. I never fail to do my duty.’

Akil nodded. ‘But this is a pleasant duty, Ramiz. You are a man. All men need a wife to tend to their needs. The women on the council’s list, they are not just princesses, daughters of our neighbouring princes and most influential tribes, they are beautiful virgins. Not such an onerous duty as duties go, is it now?’

Ramiz opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. What was the point in trying to explain what he didn’t really understand himself? Akil spoke good sense, he always did, and he spoke it without all the shilly-shallying and obeisance that the council used. He knew he should marry. He knew his marriage would be first and foremost for the good of his country and his dynasty. It was the way of things, had been the way of things for centuries, but the very idea of entering into such a cold bargain repelled him.

Perhaps Akil was right. Perhaps he had spent too long in the West. But he didn’t like the idea of himself as some sort of stud stallion, any more than he liked the idea of his wives as brood mares, vying in his harem for his attentions. He didn’t want that. He didn’t know what he wanted, but it wasn’t that.

Ramiz got to his feet again. ‘Put these amendments to the treaty before the council. Tell them I’ll consider their list of princesses when it is all signed, and the agreement with the British is settled too.’

Akil smiled and bowed. ‘A very wise decision, Highness. Your wisdom is only matched by the magnificence of your…’

‘Enough,’ Ramiz said wryly. ‘Go now, before I change my mind. And have the Englishwoman brought to me.’

Celia followed the servant through a maze of corridors guarded by countless sentries, each wearing a white robe with the new moon and falcon crest. She wore no veil, but kept her eyes on the ground, wondering what on earth Ramiz was going to say to her, wondering how on earth she was going to face him after last night without turning the same colour as the guards’ checked
keffiyey
headdresses.

The room she was shown into was a library—the first salon she had seen furnished in a Western manner. Ramiz was sitting behind a large desk made of mahogany inlaid with pearl and teak. He was wearing a robe of dark blue, but no headdress, and rose to greet her when she entered the room.

‘Sabah el kheer,’
Celia pronounced carefully, using one of the phrases she had managed to learn from Fatima.

‘Good morning, Lady Celia,’ Ramiz said, ‘I trust you are well?’

What did he mean by that?
‘Yes,’ she managed faintly. ‘And you, Your Highness?’
Your Highness! After last night!
Celia bit her lip and stared fixedly at the carpet. Silk, it was woven with an intricate pattern of vibrant and beautiful colours. It must have cost a fortune.

‘It is Ramiz, and I am very well.’

Celia jumped at the proximity of his voice. He took her hand. How had he moved so quietly? Slippers, she saw, for her eyes were still fixed firmly on the floor.

‘I wanted to talk to you. Perhaps you should sit down?’

‘Yes.’ She allowed herself to be ushered into a chair facing the desk. To her relief Ramiz resumed his seat opposite, putting a solid expanse of inlaid wood between them. ‘You have a lot of books,’ she said, raising her eyes to cast them around the room.

‘I do. You may read any that you wish. I have regular packages sent from London and Paris.’

‘Thank you. Although I don’t expect I will be here long enough to read many of them.’

Silence ensued. Ramiz drummed his fingers on the blotting pad. Celia risked a glance at him from under her lashes. He was leaning back in his chair, looking quite relaxed, as if last night had not happened. Or perhaps it was because it meant nothing to him. She wondered what the etiquette was for such occasions, but, having no experience of them whatsoever, found herself at a complete loss. She thought of some of the women of the
ton
who were reputed to have
affaires
. She’d always been surprised, for the couples betrayed no sign of affection—except poor Caro Lamb over Lord Byron, of course, but one didn’t want to take any leaves out of
her
book!

Perhaps the best thing to do was pretend it hadn’t happened after all. Celia sneaked another look at Ramiz, caught his eye unexpectedly and blushed furiously.

‘You will be wondering what I intend to do with you,’ Ramiz said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Now Celia did look up, her eyes flashing outrage.

‘I’ve written to your Consul General,’ Ramiz continued blandly, ‘to let him know that you’re safe.’

‘Lord Wincester. Papa was at school with him,’ Celia said irrelevently.

Ramiz raised an eyebrow. ‘You are well connected indeed.’