This kiss could only have lasted seconds, but it seemed an eternity before she was released, feeling mangled like some poor creature set free from the talons of the falcons that sheikhs flew from their wrists.
She beat at his chest with ineffectual hands, but he grasped her wrists, smiling down tauntingly.
‘Well, do you still say that you can defy me?’
‘I’ll tell Faisal what you’ve done!’ Felicia all but wept, trembling with humiliation, but Raschid only laughed.
‘You would never dare,’ he told her softly. ‘We have a saying in our country, that it takes two to commit adultery. Mud sticks, Miss Gordon. By all means tell Faisal. I wish you would…!’
Leaving her to digest that remark, he released her so suddenly that she almost fell. Her fingers went instinctively to her throbbing lips, tears blurring her vision.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Raschid added casually, slipping a hand into his jacket and withdrawing the blue leather box that held the paperweight, ‘I suggest you give this to the person for whom it was originally intended.’ And he threw the box towards her. ‘I think we both of us know that you would never have bought such a gift for me, and you insult my intelligence by expecting me to believe that you did. Keep it for Faisal. I am sure he will be far more appreciative—and show it in a more acceptable way!’
He had gone before Felicia could admit that the paperweight had been purchased for Nadia, his anger leaving an almost tangible atmosphere in the cool garden.
He had shamed and humiliated her; mocked her love for Faisal and his for her, and treated her in a way that no man should ever treat a female member of his family, and yet try as she might she could not conjure up the comforting memory of how it felt to be in Faisal’s arms, and it came to her, with shock, that although he had driven her to fury and bitter despair she had not shrunk under Raschid’s embrace as she did when with Faisal. Because she had been too angry, she assured herself, staring down at the box in her hand.
Suddenly she hated the paperweight more than she had ever hated anything in her life. Before she could change her mind she hurled the box as far as she could, barely aware of the small, distant thud as it fell amongst some roses, then she turned her back on the courtyard and sought the sanctuary of her bedroom.
Under the electric light she saw the faint beginnings of what would eventually be bruises from Raschid’s tight grip.
Removing her clothes, she showered, soaping her flesh until it glowed, as though by doing so she could remove for all time the memory of Raschid’s kiss. She hated him! Hated him, she told her flushed reflection defiantly. So why was she crying, silly, weak tears, that would only afford her self-confessed enemy the greatest satisfaction?
She touched a tear-damp cheek with shaking fingers. In the space of a few earth-shaking minutes Raschid had destroyed her illusions and ripped away the veils of innocence which had hitherto protected her, and all because she had dared to flout his authority and walk unattended in the streets of Kuwait.
But as she waited for sleep to claim her, Felicia admitted that it went deeper than that. For the first time in her life she had experienced true fear, and as her eyes closed she fought desperately to remember what it had felt like to be held in Faisal’s arms, investing her memories with a passion they had never possessed in an endeavour to obliterate every last trace of Raschid’s touch.
CHAPTER FIVE
FEMALE voices rose and fell, punctuated with laughter and the rattle of coffee cups. Umm Faisal had invited her friends round to meet Felicia, and judging by the number of women crowded into the room, Felicia suspected that her hostess numbered the entire town amongst her acquaintances.
Most of the visitors were of Umm Faisal’s generation, and from an upstairs window Felicia had seen them hurrying from opulent cars, their bodies draped in heavy black cloaks, glancing neither to the left nor the right. Once inside, though, the cloaks were discarded like so many unwanted chrysalises to reveal Paris couture fashions and jewellery to rival the contents of the Tower of London.
From her cross-legged position on a damask cushion Felicia listened to her neighbour describing a recent visit to America. All the women spoke English, although sometimes with accents which made it almost impossible for her to recognise her native tongue.
This was the first time she had observed the formal ritual of receiving guests, Arab fashion; the gracious welcome and lavish hospitality; and above all the enthusiasm with which the visitors greeted her. Most of them had visited London at one time or another, and they all displayed an almost childlike curiosity about her life there.
The maid, Selina, came round with fresh coffee, and Felicia sighed. Her stomach was awash with the bitter liquid, but since no one else seemed to be refusing, she felt she could hardly do so herself. Umm Faisal caught her eye, smiling understandingly. She whispered something to Selina and to Felicia’s relief the dusky serving girl passed by without filling her delicate porcelain cup.
Marble floors, and damask cushions; they were a far cry from her small bedsit with its second-hand furniture. Felicia found that she no longer thought of the austerity of plain white walls as a strange contrast to the luxurious silks and satins the Arabs used for furnishings. She had grown used to seeing Umm Faisal sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, although most of the rooms were furnished in a more Western style, but she doubted if she could ever come to terms with the segregation of male and female; the absolute and all-embracing dominance of the male. However, Zahra told her that even this was less strictly adhered to than had once been the case, and she was forced to admit that where his family were concerned, Raschid was a very forward-thinking man indeed. A pity that his enlightened views did not extend to include her!
Someone knocked on the door, and instantly women were reaching for their veils, without haste or pretension, slipping them into place, as Selina opened the door. Servants, Zahra had told Felicia, did not need to veil.
‘It is the Master, sitti,’ the girl told Umm Faisal.
‘Ah, yes, he has come to collect you, Felicia. Raschid is going to show Felicia Kuwait,’ she explained for the benefit of her guests, adding something in Arabic that brought a twinkle to more than one pair of dark eyes.
‘She says that it is as well that Raschid is a man of impeccable honour,’ Felicia’s companion whispered. ‘In our day such a thing would not have been allowed, but times change.’ She shrugged as though to say who was to tell whether or not such changes were for the better, laughing when Felicia got unsteadily to her feet. No wonder these women were so graceful and fluid; their limbs would be trained from childhood to accept such a pose, while hers protested agonisingly, pins and needles stabbing painfully through both feet.
After their confrontation in the garden, Felicia had never expected that Raschid would pursue his promise to take her sightseeing—if indeed a ‘promise’ it had been—but pride would not let her back down and refuse to go with him.
She had dressed for Umm Faisal’s guests with special care, but as she opened the door, the horrible thought struck her that Raschid might think that she had donned her attractive outfit for his benefit.
She was wearing a peach linen suit, perfect with her warm colouring, a simple cream silk blouse underneath the neatly fitting jacket. Cream shoes and a slim clutch bag toned perfectly with subtle peach linen, and thin gold bangles chimed musically as she moved. They had been a gift from Faisal, and one which she had tried to refuse until he told her that unless she accepted them the bracelets would be thrown away. She thought of the emerald ring he had bought her—now with him in New York—and his anger when she had refused to wear it until his family accepted their engagement. Now, when it was too late, she wished she had brought the ring with her. Perhaps the sight of it might help to restore some of the high hopes with which she had come to Kuwait.
In Eastern garments she knew that she could never hope to rival the grace of girls who had been wearing them from babyhood,