After that, she had trouble swallowing. Never had she experienced so public or so determined a seduction. When the song was over, Prince Rafi himself poured wine into a silver goblet for the singer, who drained it to find a large pearl at the bottom as his reward. He bowed and retired, and there was a pause in the entertainments and the buzz of conversation arose.
The song was followed by stories from one or two Companions, then by gymnastic young performers, then by a very artful belly dancer in the most bewitching costume Zara had ever seen, then by another song. All the artists seemed to be paid with jewels or gold, in scenes straight from the Arabian Nights.
Meanwhile, the food came in a never-ending supply. And so did the approving looks from Prince Rafi’s dark eyes. Zara’s heart seemed to kick into a new, higher, faster rhythm with each look.
He was staggeringly charismatic—handsome, virile, with a smile women probably jumped off cliffs for. But he was also a desert chieftain, however rich, and her own inner response to his admiration frightened her. A girl should have some resistance if she was going to be propositioned, and Zara felt she had no more resistance than a kitten.
When the last empty tray had been carried away, small silver salvers laden with soft Turkish delight in powdered sugar began to make the rounds, and there seemed to be general movement among the guests, led by the Companions. But when Zara tried to get up, Prince Rafi’s firm hand was on her arm. And she was too much of a coward to resist the implied command.
After a few moments, Prince Rafi made a signal to the Companion named Ayman, who had changed his seat and was now lounging on the cushions beside Lena, to the obvious displeasure of Arif. With a nod to his prince and then to Lena, the Companion got to his feet and left the room.
“It was a tradition among my forebears to give robes of honour to those who had performed some signal service,” Prince Rafi began. “Since each of you contributes to the overall achievement of proving not only that the great Iskandar, whom you call Alexander, visited this land, but also uncovering the city that he himself founded, it is my pleasure to reward each of you with the traditional robe of honour. Even so would Alexander have been presented with a robe by my own predecessor.”
At that moment, Ayman returned, leading a train of the boys and girls who had been the water bearers at the start of the evening. Each youth was the bearer this time of a neat cube of folded cloth, all of different colours, in stripes or swirls or solids, glittering with gold and silver threads. Each knelt at the side of one member of the team and offered the robe.
There were loud squeals of surprised and appreciative delight from all the women, but the men, too, were clearly very pleased. People began jumping to their feet to unfold the robes and try them on.
A pretty girl, gazing in deep admiration at Zara, knelt beside her, her arms full of glittering cloth. Zara thanked her. The child flicked a glance at Prince Rafi, who nodded approvingly. To Zara’s surprise, the girl smiled affectionately at the prince, who winked at her, before bowing and departing.
“Who are these servant children?” Zara asked.
Prince Rafi laughed. “They are not servants! They are young courtiers. They are the younger sisters and brothers of my Companions, or my own cousins... all are educated at the palace. As well as academic subjects and languages, they learn the rules of hospitality.”
All around, people were on their feet, trying on and admiring their robes. “Oh, my!” Zara exclaimed breathlessly, as she began to examine her own gift. It seemed to be made of spun gold, and embroidered with fabulous designs in red and green. She had never seen anything so rich and lustrous outside of a medieval painting. “But it’s beautiful!” she whispered helplessly. “I can’t possibly...”
Not far away, Gordon was standing up to model his own very rich robe. Hearing her cry, he glanced down and gave her an admonitory look, which she interpreted as meaning that it would be a grave insult to refuse a robe of honour. If she insulted the prince, the dig might be history. She knew they were hoping to convince the prince to contribute the funding they would need to keep it going beyond this season.
“It’s very beautiful,” she murmured, drawing her feet under her haunches and struggling to stand gracefully amid the cushions. But her foot was on the hem of her dress and before she knew what was happening she had fallen straight onto Prince Rafi.
His arms quickly caught her, and his eyes closed as her long black hair spilled over him. The robe of honour tumbled from Zara’s hands and was splayed out around them, glittering in the lamp flame like something magical, a thing of inestimable value.
Prince Rafi inhaled, his eyes closing, and murmured in her ear, “The perfume of your hair would drive a man mad. I have dreamed of you, waking and sleeping.”
As a tableau it ranked with the most beautiful miniature paintings in the prince’s own extensive collection. Even the Companions were not proof against it. Everyone in the room was frozen in some posture, half with their arms in their robes. All eyes were on them. If she were not so covered with embarrassment, she could have laughed at the picture of so many startled, curious, gawking faces.
But it was her own reaction that was the danger. Zara felt molten, like the golden robe, electrified by the man’s touch, his whispered words.
“I—I’m so sorry,” she stammered, struggling from his grasp to her feet. “I don’t know what made me so clumsy.”
“Do you not?” he smiled. He solicitously helped her to gain her feet.
“Ah... well...” She hardly knew what she was saying. Trying for calm, for the ordinary—so far as anything in this remarkable evening could be called ordinary—Zara lifted the robe and put it on.
It was breathtakingly beautiful, utterly rich and luxurious. It fanned out at the back in a broad curving sweep to the floor, while in front it was cut shorter, the hem just skimming her toes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Trying to give her breathing room, Gordon sat down and said to Prince Rafi, “I think I should tell you that one of our team saw a group of mounted bandits the other morning. There seemed to be quite a number of them, and I’m afraid our security may not be sufficient.”
Prince Rafi’s head straightened with surprise. “Bandits!” he exclaimed. “So near! We do not often see Jalal on our side of the river. His headquarters is in my brother’s land. Where, exactly, were they seen?”
“At the wadi. Members of the team go there to relax away from the heat whenever they get a chance. Everyone has been warned not to go off the site alone, but I’m afraid the waterfall there is very tempting.”
“At the waterfall?” Rafi repeated, in a different voice. He turned his head towards Zara, who had sat down to listen. “When, and how many?”
Zara smiled. “It was three days ago. I didn’t stop to count their numbers. I just took one look and ran! But I think there were ten or twelve, anyway. All on the most magnificent horses.”
He was watching her intently. “Were you frightened?”
“Terrified,” she agreed without emphasis.
“Their captain—did you see him?”
“I think so,” Zara told him, repressing a shiver at the memory of the bandit chief’s gaze and her own reaction to it. Not much different from the response Prince Rafi raised in her. Maybe she had a weakness. “There certainly was one man with an air of command.”
“And he—did he see you?”
That passionate black gaze rose up in her mind’s eye, and, pressing her lips together, Zara only nodded.
“But you were not taken? Twelve men and you escaped?”
“I don’t think he—they