What could she do? Even so, she had not expected his arm to curve round her, pulling her against the warmth of his body, and in response to her unvoiced question he said curtly:
‘I am perfectly able to drive with one hand—this is not a busy road, and I am not a young fool intent on showing off. Try to relax, I do not intend to harm you.’
But he was, whether he intended it or not. Merely the pressure of his body as he changed gear, the warm male smell of his flesh, harmed her irreparably as her heart wept for the unattainability of its one desire. She drew a steady breath and instantly her nostrils were full of the masculine odour of his body. She closed her eyes, but with his hard shoulder beneath her cheek, it was impossible to banish the tormenting image of his mouth, its well cut lines as well known to her as the softer shape of her own.
She fought against sleep as long as she could, not wanting it to steal from her these precious moments when Raschid gave his strength unstintingly, but the warmth of his body made her drowsy and her tormented senses were not proof against the smothering waves of sleep. Her body relaxed, her head falling against his shoulder. His arm tightened, holding her steady, as they drove into the endless night of the desert.
Felicia had no clear recollection of their arrival. Sleepy and bemused, she stumbled from the car, and Raschid’s strong arm caught her as she fell.
She thanked him, returning awareness making her desperate to avoid the sharpness of his eyes.
Sleepily Umm Faisal offered a cup of coffee, but Felicia refused. Like a greedy miser, she wanted to gloat over her precious hoard of happiness to fall asleep, dreaming of those sacred moments when Raschid’s arms had held her without anger or punishment.
It was quiet in the courtyard. Zahra was with Umm Faisal. With the month of Ramadan fast approaching, the arrangements for the wedding had to be finalised. Only that morning Umm Faisal had shown Felicia the soft rose silk from which Zahra’s bridal caftan would be fashioned. Shimmering threads of beaten silver flashed in the sunlight, and Felicia fingered the fabric in awe.
Later Zahra had shown her the gifts Saud had sent her—the silver and turquoise hand jewellery handed down through seven generations of his family, necklaces of beaten gold studded with rubies, rings and ankle bracelets, a whole treasure trove of precious and semi-precious stones guaranteed to excite the most prosaic female imagination.
Lastly Zahra produced an intricately worked girdle of beaten silver. This was the symbolic girdle used to fasten the bride’s shift, she explained, and once it was fastened in place, none but her bridegroom had the right to remove it.
‘Raschid still has the girdle made for his grandmother,’ Zahra told her, ‘and although he is Christian, he will marry according to the laws of our faith as well, for that was his grandfather’s wish, thus the two religions will live side by side in harmony with one another.’
Every mention of Raschid brought nervous tension to Felicia’s body. Every day she expected to be summoned to his study and told that he had heard from Faisal. Why did she torture herself like this? Why did she not go to him and ask to be sent home before he discovered the truth about why she had been content to linger long after she knew of Faisal’s change of heart? Her own heart gave her the answer. She was sitting by the fishpond, staring lazily into space. A tortoiseshell carp jumped in the water, showering her with tiny droplets; in the distance doves cooed; even the perfect symmetry of the house echoed the same pervasive sense of peace. Her red-gold head bent over the pool, unaware that she was being observed by the man who stood in the shade of the lime trees, the fragile vulnerability of her lightly tanned skin exposed to his searching gaze. His expression unfathomable, he continued to watch, and then turned abruptly, his progress across the courtyard fluttering the doves into noisy protest. Felicia glanced up, her expression unguarded, unable to quench the fierce joy running through her veins.
‘Sheikh Raschid!’ There was even pleasure in saying his name.
He inclined his head in the manner which had become so familiar that it was engraved on her heart. A small pang shot through her, and a hesitant smile quivered on her lips, as she suppressed her alarm.
‘Have you heard from Faisal?’
Now what had made her ask that? His brows drew together in blank disapproval.
‘No,’ he replied curtly. ‘Are you missing him so much that you are willing to beg me for news of him? Perhaps I did you an injustice. Perhaps you do care for him after all.’
Now was her chance to tell him the truth. The words trembled on her lips, only to be silenced as he added cynically, ‘However, as we both know, appearances can be deceptive. Our strong sun darkens the colour of your skin to the colour of ours, but it cannot change what lies underneath. There can be no happiness in a marriage between yourself and Faisal.’
‘East and West can live in harmony,’ Felicia protested. ‘Your own grandparents….’
‘They were an exception,’ Raschid interrupted curtly. ‘My grandmother willingly gave up everything to be with my grandfather. Can you honestly tell me that your love for Faisal possesses that strength? Would you willingly wander the desert with him, an outcast to your own people?’
Her eyes gave him the answer. Not for Faisal, but for him…. She would willingly walk barefoot to hell and back for him. She longed to reach out and touch him, to slide her fingers through the dark crispness of his hair, to kiss those firmly chiselled lips and to urge that lean body to take her and make her a part of him, her flesh yielding and melting into his as his hard hands possessed her. She closed her eyes and prayed as she had never prayed before, that she might banish these tormenting images.
When she opened them again Raschid was watching her dispassionately. ‘It is not safe for you to walk alone out here, Miss Gordon,’ he warned her.
‘In case I might be carried off by some desert barbarian, do you mean? Surely they would scorn me as you do, as being worthless and of little account. An unwanted intruder in their lives; a female of no virtue whose life means no more than a few grains of sand.’
‘Faisal did not scorn you,’ Raschid pointed out. ‘And it is after all, he who holds your heart, is it not?’
She watched him disappear into the shadows, her body aching as though she had been beaten; which metaphorically she felt as though it had. She herself had lashed it unmercifully with the reminder that Raschid cared nothing for her.
All her pleasure in the garden was gone. She went to her room, drawn to the drawer where she had concealed the small phial of perfume. Almost against her will she unstoppered it, and the fragrant, fresh smell of the English countryside stole through the room, coupled with a scent almost bitter-sweet, but faintly haunting, so in tune with her emotions that she could only marvel at the perfume blender’s ability to correctly judge her mood and transform it into this perfume which would always bring home to her the senselessness of unwanted love.
CHAPTER NINE
PROMPTED by Achmed, Raschid had made arrangements to entertain his guest by taking him hawking, a trip which could take two or three days dependent on the game to be had.
Nadia had begged Achmed to intercede with Raschid on behalf of the female half of the household, declaring that it was unfair that they should be left behind while the men enjoyed themselves.
The plan was that the men would take Raschid’s falcons, a couple of servants and two Land Rovers to hold all their gear and spend a couple of days relaxing in the desert.
Nadia explained to Felicia that in their younger days she and Zahra had often accompanied Raschid on these trips, revelling in the freedom from routine these outings provided.
‘In the old days the men used tents, like the Badu, cooking over an open fire, but nowadays things are a bit more civilised. We use sleeping bags and camping Gaz,’ Nadia laughed. ‘Raschid does not really