The Sheikh and the Servant (2 page)

The sheikh removed his hands from the belt, letting Noori take over. He rubbed his eyes, and dust and grime came away from his face. Noori unfastened the belt and pulled it free from the slim waist. He was then bold enough to put his hands on narrow hips and slide them upward, gathering fabric in his wake.

Raising his arms, the sheikh ducked his head to pull free of the overshirt, leaving him in his leather trousers and a thin linen undershirt that he pulled off as well, tossing it to the floor. He bent over to test the water’s temperature, grunting in approval. Stretching again and tilting his neck, bones popped audibly, gaining a soft sigh from the tall man. With another yawn he unfastened his trousers and pushed them down, stepping out of them and slowly into the tub, settling down in the hot water with a quiet hiss.

Noori provided a thick, soft cloth for cleansing as well as a patty of soap. “I will wash Master’s hair, if Master wishes,” he murmured.

Nodding tiredly, the sheikh leaned forward, using the cloth to wipe at his face, clearing away dirt and dust to reveal sun-bronzed rather than swarthy skin and dark rather than gray-dusted whiskers.

Lifting a nearby pitcher, Noori filled it with water, which he poured carefully over the sheikh’s head. He took the soap into his hands and lathered the silky hair, his fingertips massaging and cleansing the other man’s scalp. Slopping a bit of water over the side, the sheikh laid the cloth over the edge of the tub and relaxed back into Noori’s hands.

Noori normally hated this part of his duties, feeling lower than the dirt that was left in the bottom of the tub, but for this man, who had so far been kind, he put forth a greater effort. He wanted the sheikh to enjoy this service and remember him in a positive light. The sheikh groaned his pleasure, clearly enjoying the impromptu massage. Without opening his eyes, he took up the cloth and held it up for the servant to take.

Noori took the cloth, not knowing exactly what the sheikh had intended, but hazarding a guess that he wished to be washed. He lowered the soft fabric into the water before sliding it along the trail of bubbles that led from sopping hair down over a muscular chest. Noori’s hand slid around the sheikh’s sides, gliding cloth over smooth skin. He closed his eyes and imagined doing this by choice, doing it out of love instead of duty. Such daydreams kept him hopeful for the future. “If Master would lean forward, I can better reach Master’s back in that manner.”

After a pause, the sheikh shifted and leaned forward, settling his cheek on his knee, hooded eyes peering out into the candlelit room.

Noori washed every bit of skin within reach before wringing the cloth dry and draping it over the tub. He then ran fresh water and poured it over the sheikh, rinsing the bubbles from his skin and hair. Not quite hiding a soft chuckle over Noori’s careful maneuverings, the sheikh stood to let the water cascade off of him before he stepped out of the tub onto the thick carpet. Noori scurried to wrap the sheikh in a large white bath sheet. The sheikh rubbed off the worst of the water, dropped the bath sheet to the floor, and wandered back over to the table, unconcerned about his nudity.

Considering his position in Amir
Qutaibah
’s household, the nudity should not have affected Noori at all, but in a rare occurrence, he found himself desiring one of his masters, and his thin trousers did little to hide the fact. He moved to the other side of the low table, dropping to his knees once more. It had happened before, only twice; they were men such as this sheikh, men who took advantage of his services but without abuse.

Taking a last swallow of wine, the tall man left the goblet at the table. “Extinguish all but the candles at the door,” he said, walking over to the bed and pulling back the layers of silk and linen.

Noori rose nervously, uncertain as to whether his services would be required. He cast a longing glance at the sheikh as he snuffed the candles around the perimeter of the room before returning to kneel at the foot of the bed. Noori knew that though already sprawled under the linen, mostly on his belly, the sheikh still watched Noori move about the room through barely open eyes.

After a long pause, the sheikh folded down the sheet next to him.

At the unspoken invitation, pale blue silk pooled around slim ankles as Noori slid into the sheikh’s bed. As the situation grew familiar once more, he could feel some of his previous confidence returning to him despite the growing disappointment. This was his element: a plaything for the powerful. He laid a hand on the base of the sheikh’s spine, fingers teasing lightly up the indention in the center of the muscular back until he reached the sheikh’s neck. “How may I please you, Master?” he whispered into the dark.

Reaching up to one shoulder, the sheikh pulled Noori down to lie next to him. He curled his arm over Noori’s trim waist and rested his chin upon Noori’s shoulder, settling quietly as if to sleep, just holding him.

Noori was stunned. Was the sheikh refusing his body after ordering him into his bed? The action was unlike that of any man he had ever known. As he lay quietly in the sheikh’s arms, he began to relax. And deep inside him, a new appreciation for the other man began to grow. After some minutes, the sheikh pulled Noori closer, but he immediately stilled, mostly asleep, just drawn by the heat of the other body.

As the sheikh’s breathing evened out, Noori finally relaxed completely, realizing he would not be used for base pleasure. He felt strangely disappointed, because this had been one man he desired. But simply being held endeared the sheikh to Noori’s ravaged heart. He fell asleep for the first time in years with a smile on his face.

#

From
the shadows of the doorway, Noori watched as the sheikh gathered papers and shoved them into his satchel after having returned from the negotiations.

Two weeks of mindless bickering and self-important lambasting as the lords of several desert kingdoms came together to hammer out trade negotiations for another five years’ time. Two weeks of being plied with fancy, rich food and sweet, syrupy wines that turned all men’s stomachs. Two weeks of soft pillows and silken sheets, gilded walls and golden platters, bejeweled concubines and perfumed slaves.

Two weeks that would have been much longer had it not been for the sheikh who took advantage of Noori’s sharp eyes and mind, having him read out numbers and figures as well as clean his room and clothing without perfuming or adorning them and serve as a warm, quiet pillow throughout his time here.

It occurred to him then that the sheikh had not asked his name.

Noori moved through the curtains with a rustle, holding in his hands a bottle the sheikh would surely recognize. It bore unscented oils, oils of which the sheikh had become fond and requested for his baths.

“Come,” the sheikh said absently, shoving the last of his papers into the saddlebag. It was the last of his packing; Noori had kept his wardrobe clean and in the bags as instructed.

Noori advanced across the floor, kneeling as he held the bottle forth. “Amir
Qutaibah
bid me give this gift to you.”

The sheikh chuckled softly, took the gift from Noori’s hands, and stuffed the bottle into the saddlebag, cushioning it in his clothes. Then he glanced back to the slave. “Have you packed?” he asked gruffly.

Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, Noori echoed his words. “Packed, Master?”

The sheikh raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Packed. You. We ride out within the hour.”

“I do not understand, Master. All Master’s belongings are packed already.” Noori’s hands picked nervously at the embroidered band of his leggings.

The sheikh blinked, surprised to be questioned. “I bought you,” he said shortly, turning back to his packing.

Noori’s heart stopped in his chest, but he managed to draw a needed breath. “I have no belongings, Master,” he said. “I am ready to travel at Master’s behest.”

The sheikh looked back at him, true surprise clear. “No belongings? No clothes or trinkets?”

“I am a slave, Master,” Noori said. “Not a servant. We receive no pay. What gifts we are given are collected for our upkeep.” He kept his eyes lowered, centered on the sheikh’s riding boots.

The sheikh frowned and then grunted in acknowledgment and held out one of his saddlebags. “Can you ride?” he asked as he pulled a heavy robe out of his other set of bags.

“My father raised horses, Master,” Noori said as he stood and took the bag, settling it over his shoulder in preparation for departure, “to finance his wagers. I learned at a young age.”

“Good,” the sheikh answered, holding out the robe and a head wrap similar to his own. “You will need these. Dress and we will depart.” He walked over to the table to finish packing his satchel, not even watching to see if the slave obeyed. There was no question. And when he finished, the sheikh shouldered his satchel, looked Noori over, nodded in approval, and led the way out to the courtyard where his guards waited with the horses.

It was only when his horse galloped out of the canyon along with the others that Noori finally comprehended what had happened.

Chapter 2

After
a week’s hard riding, the group rode into friendly territory, and the sheikh called for a full camp. It would be the first time they had slept under cover since leaving
Qutaibah
’s domain. The guards quickly erected several tents, and the sheikh pointed Noori into one, telling him to get out of the sun, what had quickly become a sort of joke to the bronze-skinned Arab.

Noori followed the order dutifully, silently grateful to be out of the burning sun. He took his outer robe off and removed the head wrap, rubbing dry hands over his face and hair. He whimpered slightly at the calluses that had formed from holding the reins of the horse and wished vainly for some oil to rub into his dry skin.

He knelt swiftly as the sheikh entered the tent and silently handed him a waterskin before pulling off his outer robe and head wrap, shaking the worst of the dust from his clothes. Noori offered the sheikh the first drink, his hands nearly shaking with the need for the liquid, but he knew his place; his manners and training were ingrained in him.

Watching the servant silently as he had all week, the sheikh took a short first drink and handed back the waterskin. “Drink your fill,” he ordered gruffly before turning back to the saddlebags and pulling out a change of clothes.

Noori turned the skin back, guzzling long gulps of it as it refreshed his parched throat. “My thanks to you, Master,” he whispered hoarsely, tightening the skin once more and placing it gently on the table that had been set up. “May I assist you, Master?”

Raising his arms, the sheikh allowed him to pull off his outer robe, and he sighed as its weight was lifted away. In a rare show of laziness, he collapsed onto the carpeted ground, leaning against his saddle. He started digging in one of the saddlebags, mumbling to himself softly.

Dropping to his knees again, this time beside the sheikh, Noori dared to place a hand over that of the other man. “For what do you seek, Master?”

The sheikh frowned and kept digging, and then he made a soft sound of triumph as he came up with a small round tin. He set it on his knee and took the slave’s arm, pulling him to kneel closer.

Noori moved as he was bid. He was so close that he could feel the heat radiating off of the other man, and he was once again struck by the sheikh’s kindness. He also sighed inwardly at the rush of heat that flooded his groin. He was doomed in this life, it seemed… taken by men he felt no desire for, not desired by the man he was taken with.

The week would have proven unendurable had it not been for the sheikh’s thoughtfulness; Noori still could not figure a reason for his purchase. While they traveled he had served even less than at the castle, but the sheikh seemed not at all concerned. While Noori still feared a change of heart, he had almost accepted that he had lucked into a compassionate owner.

The sheikh captured his attention again as he pried at the tin to finally get it open, revealing a soft-scented salve. He took up one of Noori’s hands, noting the cracks and dry skin with a deeper frown, and he started rubbing the salve into his hand liberally, though gently.

The touch both soothed and frightened Noori. Before, when he’d been cared for like this, it was always in preparation of a night of entertainment. He unconsciously pulled his hand back slightly. “Will we be entertaining guests tonight, Master?”

The sheikh looked up, confusion clear in his expression. “Guests? In the middle of the desert?” he asked, voice rough with disuse but reflecting his surprise.

Noori found himself blushing under the sheikh’s scrutiny. “Master prepares my skin. I assumed….”

A dusty eyebrow rose sharply, and the sheikh blinked. “No. No guests,” he clarified, frowning down at the slave’s hand and adding more salve to one crack that had bled.

Noori fell silent once more, eyes riveted to the place at which a dark hand smoothed healing salve into his skin. “Then why, Master?” he dared to ask. His pulse raced as he took the liberty.