Later she was to regret this foolish pride, but as she struggled to swallow another mouthful of almond pastry and drink a cup of coffee she was concentrating all her energy on merely quelling her growing nausea, from one moment to the next.
At long last the ordeal was over. Shakily Felicia got to her feet, swaying slightly as faintness swept her, and from a distance she heard Zahra cry anxiously,
‘Quick, she’s falling!’
And then there was nothing but the blessed peace of enveloping darkness and the strength of arms that gripped her, halting the upward rush of the beautiful crimson Persian carpet she had previously been admiring.
CHAPTER THREE
‘WILL she be all right?’
The anxious question hovered somewhere on the outer periphery of her subconscious, registering in a dim and distant fashion even while its import eluded her. The voice was familiar, though, and Felicia struggled to recognise it. Mercifully, someone else took on the responsibility of replying, a male voice, deep, crisp, with faintly indolent overtones; a voice that sent small feather tendrils of fear curling insidiously down her spine, so that she was tempted to curl up into a small ball and hide away from it.
‘Don’t worry, Zahra. It’s a combination of exhaustion and temperature change, I suspect, coupled with too much rich food on an empty stomach. Now you know why your mother forbids you to go on these ridiculous slimming diets.’
‘Felicia doesn’t need to slim,’ Zahra objected. ‘She looks so pale, Raschid. Don’t you think we ought to send for a doctor?’
Raschid! Now she remembered! Felicia opened her eyes, wincing in the electric light, forcing away the darkness that reached out for her and struggling to sit up. She was in her bedroom—she recognised that much at least—and Umm Faisal was hovering anxiously in the doorway, while Zahra and Raschid stood by her bed.
‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she croaked, disconcerted when all three pairs of eyes focused at once upon her.
‘You’ve come round!’ Zahra exclaimed thankfully. ‘We were so worried about you. What could we have told Faisal if you had fallen ill?’
‘I’m sure Faisal would have agreed with me that Miss Gordon should have told us she was feeling unwell,’ Raschid interrupted unsympathetically. ‘Zahra, find one of the maids and get some fresh fruit juice for our patient. After her long flight she is probably somewhat dehydrated, and perhaps a sleeping pill will help Miss Gordon to get a good night’s sleep, Fatima?’
‘Didn’t anyone warn you that jet travel can be extremely dehydrating?’ Raschid asked her severely as his sister and niece hurried to do his bidding. Felicia closed her eyes, turning her face to the wall, dismayed to hear him drawl mockingly,
‘Still hating me, Miss Gordon? How wise of you not to try to deny it. Your eyes smoulder in a most disconcerting fashion when you are angry, but you had best not let my sister see them. She comes from a generation that believes implicitly in the absolute supremacy of the male.’
‘Then you must be a throwback!’ Felicia muttered unwisely under her breath, shocked when, without warning, Raschid’s fingers grasped her chin, forcing her face round so that she was obliged to endure his cool scrutiny.
‘What can have happened to all your good intentions?’ he mocked unkindly. ‘Were we not agreed that for Faisal’s sake you must seek my approval or are you perhaps foolish enough to believe that this is the way to do so? Allow me to disillusion you. Do not continue this foolish and pointless defiance. I am not renowned for my patience, Miss Gordon, but neither am I the monster of your imaginings. Faisal is an extremely wealthy and spoilt young man. I am his guardian—for my sins—and although I cannot stop him marrying where he chooses, I do have the means to delay that marriage if I am not convinced that it is right for him. If you really seek his happiness you must see the sense of what I am saying.’
‘Is it so difficult for you to accept that his happiness lies with me?’ Felicia countered shakily, determined to withstand the fierce onslaught of his gaze. ‘You talk to me of sense and reason, and yet you condemned me without knowing the first thing about me. Whether you admit it or not you don’t want Faisal to marry me. And yet why? By what right do you take it upon yourself to choose for him? You know nothing about me. How can you say that we won’t be happy?’
‘Zut! Either you are an imbecile or a stubborn fool, Miss Gordon. Faisal is a Moslem—an Arab, with all that the word encompasses. You are British. Even today the two worlds lie far apart. Marriage to Faisal would make you his possession, every bit as much as his car or his home.’
‘Perhaps I want to be,’ Felicia retorted, refusing to be quelled.
Raschid’s expression was sardonic. ‘You may want him to possess your body, Miss Gordon,’ he stated baldly, ‘but, as you will discover if you do marry Faisal, he will own you body and soul.’
‘I thought women weren’t supposed to have souls,’ Felicia commented rather unwisely. ‘I thought they were just men’s playthings; bearers of children. You won’t frighten me by telling me these things. If you honestly believe a woman to be an inferior being, why do you let Zahra attend university?’
‘We are not talking of my beliefs, Miss Gordon,’ he reminded her coolly, ‘but those of my nephew. Do not deceive yourself. For all his outward Westernised views, Faisal is every bit as conservative as his father, and his father before him. He may not expect you to go into purdah or veil yourself, but he will not countenance a loss of face because you, his wife—his possession—refuse to acknowledge his superiority.’
His ears, sharper than hers, caught the sound of feet on the stairs, and he frowned warningly. A hectic flush stained Felicia’s previously pale face. She was so angry that she trembled beneath his suave gaze.
‘This is neither the time nor the place to discuss these matters,’ Raschid told her. ‘We shall talk again when you are rested, but I warn you now that nothing you have said so far has done anything to convince me that you could make Faisal happy. Marriage is a serious business, Miss Gordon, not to be undertaken on a mere whim.’
‘How would you know?’ Felicia muttered bitterly, as Zahra bustled in. ‘You’ve never been married, have you?’
He turned on his heel, ignoring her taunt, and when he had gone Zahra cast a nervous glance at the closed door.
‘Felicia, you have been quarrelling with Raschid, haven’t you?’ she whispered.
‘I think you can guess why. He doesn’t want me to marry Faisal,’ Felicia told her bleakly, driven by the need to confide in someone.
‘I know,’ Zahra admitted. ‘He has spoken of this to me. You must not get upset, Felicia, it is just that Faisal….’ she coloured, patently embarrassed. ‘Well, you are not the first girl he has believed himself in love with, and Uncle Raschid is merely anxious to protect my mother. She does not understand these things. To her a betrothal is as sacred as a marriage, and that is why Uncle Raschid will not allow you to become engaged until he is sure that your marriage will be a happy one.’
In other circumstances Felicia might have seen the wisdom behind these words, but Raschid’s implied criticism of Faisal fuelled her anger, causing Zahra to eye her with growing concern as indignant colour burned her cheeks.
‘You must have patience,’ Zahra soothed. ‘Raschid will come round in time, I am sure of it. You must have siyasa.’
‘Siyasa? What is that?’ Felicia enquired, intrigued in spite of herself.
Zahra laughed. ‘It is what in England you would call tact, but more! It is the art of getting what you want without forcing the other man to lose face.’
‘It