The old Arab was busily searching his shelves, moving jars and bottles. She caught the elusive scent of English lavender, instantly evocative of home, and then a more subtle, spicy scent. The old man pounded something in a wooden bowl with a small pestle and the fragrance of wild violets drenched the air. Fascinated, Felicia watched. Raschid was buying more perfume? For his sister? Then why the low-toned conversation? Some other woman, perhaps? A sophisticated creature with the chameleon ability to make the transition from East to West? A woman who would guard her beauty from curious eyes in public but who had the self-confidence to reveal it without shyness to the man she loved—in private?
‘Miss Gordon?’
How many more times would she have to endure hearing her name called in those bitingly imperious tones?
Her errant footsteps had taken her beyond the confines of the shop and cool exasperation laced Raschid’s voice as he strode towards her.
‘Has all that my sister and I have said to you been as so many grains of sand dispersed by the winds, or is it merely wilful caprice that prompts you into such constant disobedience?’
Disobedience! Felicia spun round, her eyes darkened to jade green with anger. Dear God, she did not want to quarrel with this man, but neither would she let him walk roughshod over her pride, trampling it beneath the fiery scorn of his contempt.
‘I walked away because I didn’t want to intrude,’ she flung at him. ‘Your business was plainly private.’ Anger made her reckless. ‘A gift for some woman who is permitted to share your bed, but forbidden any other part in your life….’
‘You have described the type of person for whom the perfume was intended to a nicety,’ Raschid gritted at her. ‘But the perfume maker does not share my view of you, Miss Gordon. Oh yes!’ He laughed scornfully at her shocked expression. ‘Did you not guess? The old man was making the perfume for you—his own idea, not mine, I hasten to add. Here, take it,’ he commanded, thrusting a small package into her hand. ‘He insists that it incorporates the innocence which he claims is an integral part of your nature. I did not want to tell him that his eyesight must be failing if that is what he thinks. I know my nephew, Miss Gordon,’ he concluded grimly, ‘and I know the type of women who share his life.’
Felicia turned, intent only on escaping from his cruel words, but his hands reached out and stayed her, his expression cautionary.
‘Do not be foolish,’ he advised her. ‘Even nowadays the souks are not entirely free from danger for the unwary. Your careless footsteps might have led you down any one of a hundred alleys and before too long you would have been hopelessly lost—an experience I am sure neither of us wishes to endure.’
She pictured herself, lost and frightened, dependent on this cold, autocratic man for succour, and her chin lifted proudly.
‘You need not worry, Sheikh Raschid,’ she told him. ‘If I were lost, you would be the last man I would want to rescue me.’
She pulled away from him as she spoke and a piece of flint half buried in the sun-baked earth caught her unprotected ankle, lacerating the soft skin. She winced as pain shot through her and blood welled from the cut.
Raschid tensed, frowning as he heard her involuntary protest, then dropped on to his haunches, a muttered curse falling softly into the golden silence of the afternoon when he saw what had happened.
‘It’s nothing,’ Felicia protested unsteadily as lean fingers probed the wound with surprising gentleness.
‘It’s bleeding. It must be washed and cleaned,’ Raschid replied curtly.
There were some moistened tissues in her bag which she used to keep her hands and face fresh and she opened it, removing them.
‘I’ll do that.’
The authoritative tone could not be ignored, and in silence she handed Raschid the moistened pad, flinching a little at its coolness against her throbbing flesh.
‘How one admires the British in adversity,’ Raschid mocked as he straightened up. ‘So cool, so controlled…so prepared for every contingency.’
The light in his eyes reminded her that a few nights ago there had been a contingency for which she had not been prepared, but Felicia ignored it, murmuring lightly, ‘One tries….’
‘Indeed one does. But sometimes we must fail, for the good of our souls.’
Was he warning her that she would fail to convince him to allow her marriage to Faisal? She moved away, wincing afresh as she put her full weight on her ankle. Raschid’s hand on her wrist steadied her; a momentary contact—no more—but in that moment the air between them seemed fraught with some intangible emotion and then she was free, the clean male scent of him fading from her nostrils as quickly as the imprint of his fingers was fading from her wrist.
‘What’s the matter?’
Her eyelashes flicked down, but not in time to prevent him from reading the expression in her eyes. He laughed softly.
‘Ah yes, I see! You thought perhaps I might repeat our romantic scene of the other night. I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Gordon.’
‘Romantic? Is that what you call it?’ Felicia retorted bitterly. ‘Then you have very strange ideas of romance, Sheikh.’ She turned away, anger and resentment flaring simultaneously to heated life, possessed by an urge to escape from this man and his tormenting mockery; a desire to put as much distance between them as possible, heedless of the dangers.
In the empty souk her heartbeat thundered in her ears, steadily increasing as she hurried past shuttered shop fronts, like so many unseeing eyes, disdainful of the folly of the pale foreigner who ran unveiled along the shadowed alley. Pain throbbed through her ankle, but she disregarded it. The thudding of her heart drowned out every other sound bar one—the relentless footsteps behind her, firm and tireless, driving her like a terrified gazelle before the beaters.
He caught her, as she had known he must, his fingers biting into her waist as he swung her back against him, shaking her until she thought her neck must break.
‘You little fool! Don’t you know any better than to run in this heat? Do you really want me to give you a reason to run from me?’
Felicia looked up at the thin line of his mouth, harshly forbidding, and a tremor of something so alien and unwanted shot through her that at first she did not recognise it. When she did the shock was so great that she could barely comprehend that she, a girl who had never deliberately set out to arouse any man, and indeed shrank from physical contact, had felt a thrill of surging satisfaction at the blazing anger in Raschid’s eyes, and a desire to push him over the limits of his control, her own fury fuelled by his.
Common sense warned her that the ensuing conflagration could destroy her totally, but she no longer cared. She wanted Raschid to experience anger as consuming as her own; to endure the lash of her contempt against his pride, as she had been forced to endure his.
‘Well, Miss Gordon?’
‘You have already given me sufficient reason, but in your arrogance you will not admit it.’
His fingers curled round the soft flesh of her upper arms, frightening in their intensity. He smiled without pity when she winced at their crushing pressure.
‘This is the East,’ he reminded her. ‘I could punish you here and now for what you have just said and no man would raise his hand against me, not even if I beat you publicly in the streets. Beware! In every man there lurks the falcon; a streak of ruthlessness and thirst for power.’
His fingers lifted to her throat, trapping the wildly beating pulse she could no longer control. All at once the fight had gone out of her, and where there had been momentary elation there now was dread. He laughed mirthlessly when she shivered under his touch, nervous as the silky-maned Arab mares of the Badu.
‘You