The Sheik Retold Page 18

  I drew a long, sobbing breath. "Ahmed, mon bel Arabe." I now longed desperately for what I once despised and pined for the man I once loathed—the one who no longer even seemed to want me. I lay awake, listening wearily to the tiny chimes of the little clock with a bitter sense of irony crushing me.

  Hours later I could still hear their two voices continuously rising and falling. Both were deep and musical, but Raoul's was quicker and more emphatic. Suddenly, I knew it was me they discussed. I could not help myself. I rose to peer through the curtain.

  "Eh, bien! Raoul, just say it," Ahmed demanded.

  "You might have spared her," Raoul cried.

  "Spared her what?"

  "What? Good God, man! Me!" Raoul took a hasty turn up and down the tent and then stopped in front of Ahmed with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up about his ears. "This entire situation—it is abominable," he burst out. "You have gone too far, Ahmed."

  "What do you expect of a savage?" Ahmed laughed. "When an Arab sees a woman that he wants, he takes her. I only follow the customs of my people."

  Raoul clicked his tongue impatiently. "Your people—which people?"

  Ahmed sprang to his feet and dropped a hand on Saint Hubert's shoulder. "Stop, Raoul! Not even from you—" He then broke off abruptly and sat down again with a laugh. "Why this sudden access of morality, mon ami? You know me and the life I lead. You have seen women in my camp before."

  "There is no comparison." Raoul dismissed the remark with a contemptuous wave. "You know it as well as I." He moved over to the camp table, where his toilet things had been laid out, and began removing his cufflinks. "Where did you first see her?"

  "In Paris some time ago and then again in the streets of Biskra two months ago."

  The vicomte spun to him. "You love her?"

  Ahmed exhaled a long, thin cloud of blue smoke and watched it eddying toward the top of the tent. My pulse roared in my ears as I strained to hear his answer.

  "Have I ever loved a woman? And this one is English." His voice was hard as steel. "By Allah! You know her cursed race sticks in my throat. But for that…" He shrugged.

  "Then let her go," Raoul said. "I can take her back to Biskra, or Oran, or even back to Paris."

  Ahmed turned to him with a piercing look. "But you are bound for Morocco, are you not? Do you think to take her with you, Raoul? Do you want her for yourself?" His voice was as low as ever, but there was a dangerous ring in it.

  "Ahmed! Are you mad? Bon Dieu! What do you take me for?" Raoul flung his hands out in a gesture of despair. "It is for quite a different reason that I ask you, that I beg you to let this girl go."

  "Forgive me, Raoul. You know my devilish temper," muttered the sheik.

  "You have not answered me, Ahmed. Will you let her go?"

  "She is content here."

  "She has courage," the vicomte amended.

  "As you say, she has courage," he agreed without a particle of expression.

  "Bon sang—" quoted Saint Hubert softly.

  "How do you know she has good blood?"

  The vicomte shrugged. "I have eyes, Ahmed. It is very evident."

  "That is not what you mean. What do you know of her?"

  Raoul went to his suitcase and removed a newspaper that he handed to the sheik. Ahmed moved closer to the hanging lamp so that the light fell directly on the paper. I could not see it, but I was certain it must be the same one I had seen before. For a long time the sheik studied it in silence. "Where did you get this?" he demanded.

  "Shipboard, actually. The report of her disappearance is everywhere, even in Paris. While I admire your good taste, I marvel at your recklessness. You did not think this would go unnoticed, did you? There will be hell to pay when you are found out!"

  "Bah! The French authorities have too many affairs on hand and too high an appreciation of Ahmed Ben Hassan's horses to put forth any inquiries in my direction."

  "How long do you intend to keep her?"

  "For as long as it pleases me." With slow deliberation, Ahmed tore the page out of the paper and rolled it up. "With your permission," he said coolly and held it over the flame of the little lamp. He held it until the burning paper charred to nothing in his hand and then flicked the ashes from his long fingers. "Henri has seen this?"

  "Henri reads all my papers," replied Saint Hubert with a touch of impatience.

  "Then Henri can hold his tongue," said the sheik. He searched in the folds of his waistcloth for his case and carelessly lit another cigarette.

  "Will nothing change your mind?"

  "I am not given to changing my mind. You know that. And, besides, why should I? Mademoiselle Mayo was warned of the risks before she left Biskra. She took her chances, et voila! Besides, I just told you she is content."

  "Content?" Raoul retorted angrily. "Cowed is the better word, Ahmed."

  The sheik laughed softly. "You flatter me, Raoul. But do not let us speak any more about it. It is an unfortunate contretemps. I regret that it distresses you, but our friendship is too big a thing to break down over a difference of opinion." With a sudden change of manner, he laid his hands back on the vicomte's shoulders. "You are a French nobleman, and I," he gave a bitter laugh, "I am an uncivilized Arab. We cannot see this thing in the same way."

  "You could, but you will not," Raoul replied with an accent of regret. "It is not worthy of you."

  Ahmed only shrugged in reply. A few minutes later Raoul left him and went out into the night. Ahmed followed only as far as the doorway, where he paused to look up at the stars. The Persian hound that always slept across the entrance uncurled himself and got up, thrusting a nose into his hand. The sheik absently stroked the dog's shaggy head for a few minutes before returning to the divan where I had been sitting. It was still strewn with the magazines and papers I had abandoned. His forehead contracted in his signature scowl, and then with a sweep of his arm, he scattered them to the floor.

  I stifled a gasp and shrank back. He turned his burning gaze toward the curtains that divided our rooms. I was certain he had heard, but he made no move to come to me.

  ***

  The very next day Ahmed pronounced himself strong enough to sit in the saddle and called for his horse. Against Raoul's protests, he rode out early, determined to show himself whole and hale to his tribesmen. Each successive day he did the same. Accompanied by the vicomte, he rode farther and farther afield to visit the outlying camps and draw back into his own hands the affairs that had been relegated to the headmen during his convalescence.

  On one of these mornings I came into the living room expecting to find it empty, but as I parted the curtains, I found Raoul sitting at the little desk. He was surrounded by papers and writing quickly, with loose sheets of manuscript littering the floor. It was the first time in days that we had chanced to be alone.

  I hesitated with a sudden shyness, but he had heard the rustle of the curtain and sprang to his feet with a courteous bow. "Your pardon, madam. Do I disturb you? I am afraid I have been very untidy." He flushed as he looked down at the heap of sheets strewing the rug.

  "I thought you had gone with Monseigneur."

  "I had some work to do—some notes I wanted to transcribe before I forgot, so I begged a day off. I may stay? You are sure I do not disturb you?" His sympathetic eyes and the deference in manner brought an unexpected lump to my throat. It had been so long since anyone besides Gaston had shown me such kind consideration.

  "No, Raoul. It is I who disturbed you. Please, carry on."

  I curled up on the divan with Kopec's head on my lap. The vicomte turned back on his chair, twirling a fountain pen between his fingers. I studied him as he bent over his work. Raoul was so different from the man I had first imagined him to be. I had been prepared to hate him with a jealous antipathy, but he had forced my liking and compelled my confidence with his sympathetic charm. Moreover, he had carried off a difficult position with a delicacy and tact that had saved me a hundred humiliations. W
e also shared a bond through our mutual love for Ahmed.

  The vicomte wrote rapidly for some time and then flung down his pen with an exclamation of relief, gathered up the loose sheets from the floor, and stacked them in an orderly heap on the table.

  "You have done your work?" I asked.

  "All I can do at the moment. Henri must unravel the rest; he has a passion for hieroglyphics. He is invaluable; I could never get on without him. He bullied me when we were boys together—at least that is what I called it. He called it 'amusing Monsieur le Vicomte,’ and for the last fifteen years, he has tyrannized over me wholeheartedly." He laughed and snapped his fingers at Kopec, who whined and rolled his eyes in his direction, but did not lift his head from my knee.

  "I have read your books," I said, "all that Monseigneur has here. Your novel particularly interested me. As a rule, I do not read them, but this one gripped me, although I cannot imagine there really exists such a man as you have drawn—one who could be as tender, as unselfish, as faithful as your hero. I have met many men of many nationalities, and I have never known one who in any degree resembles the preux chevalier of your book. The men who have most intimately touched my life have never had a thought for anyone beyond themselves."

  A dull red crept into the vicomte's face as he twirled the pen between his fingers. "It is a most unfortunate fact that beautiful women often provoke in men all that is basest and vilest in their natures."

  "So the woman must pay for the beauty God curses her with—the beauty she may hate!" I blurted and then bit my lips. "Oh, forgive me! You don't deserve my anger. You have been nothing but kind. Forgive my peevishness. It must be the heat; it makes one very irritable. Please pardon me while I go out for some air."

  Without even giving him time to reply, I rose and went out under the awning where the usual camp hubbub filled the air. A group of men were once more watching one of the rough-riders schooling a young horse, noisily critical and offering advice freely, undeterred by the indifference with which it was received. Others passed by, engaged on the various duties connected with the camp. Nearby one of the older and more devout men prostrated himself, fulfilling his religious ritual with a sublime lack of self-consciousness.

  Outside his tent, Gaston and Henri were sitting in the sun, Gaston on an upturned bucket, cleaning a rifle, and his brother stretched full length on the ground, idly flapping at the flies with the duster with which he had been polishing the vicomte's riding-boots. Both men were talking rapidly with frequent little bursts of gay laughter.

  The old Arab had finished his prayers and rose leisurely from his knees, salaaming with deference. I faltered a few words in stumbling Arabic in reply to his long, flowery speech. All of the tribesmen recognized me as the sheik's favorite, as the woman he had waged war for and risked his life to retrieve. They all now went out of their way to win a nod of recognition from me.

  I looked out across the desert beyond the last palms of the oasis where a haze hung over the sand, shimmering in the heat and blurring the outline of the distant hills. A tiny breeze brought the acrid smell of camels closer, and the creaking whine of the tackling over the well sounded not very far away. I gave a little sigh. It had all become so strangely familiar now.

  The beauties and attractions of the desert had multiplied a hundred times. The wild tribesmen, with their primitive ways, had ceased to disgust me, and the free life with its constant exercise and simple routine was becoming indefinitely dear. I seemed to have lived no other life beside this nomad existence. The years that had gone before had faded into a kind of dim remembrance, and the time when I had traveled ceaselessly seemed so very remote.

  I had merely existed then, filling my life with sport and social activities, unaware of anything that was lacking in my nature. But now, I was alive at last. The heart that I once doubted existed, burned and throbbed with a consuming passion. It was only here in the desert, and in Ahmed Ben Hassan's arms, that I had come to know life and death, happiness and sorrow. As my gaze swept over his camp, I was suddenly awakened to the full force of nature that was Ahmed Ben Hassan. Everything I saw was connected with and bound up in the man who was lord of it all.

  He was a man above men, a man born to lead, born to rule these wild and turbulent people. I was proud of his magnificent physical abilities, in the dominant man ruling by force and fear, who stirred me with the pride of a primeval woman. I loved him with a passion as fierce and wild as the man himself.

  ***

  That night, I once more pled a headache only to discover that Raoul had also made his excuses, leaving Ahmed to dine alone. I doused the lamp early and lay listless in my bed, unable to sleep due to intense preoccupation with every noise that emanated from the next chamber. It was very late, and I had finally begun to drift off when the curtains parted. I froze, hardly daring to breathe, as he crossed the carpet toward the bed.

  Feigning sleep, I watched through cracked lids as he shed his thawb and sirwal. A curious look passed over him, and then a fierce expression grew in his eyes as they traveled over me, an unmistakable flare of the old desire. It was not dead though he had denied it in his actions for as long as he could. Now he could deny himself no longer.

  The knowledge did not make me happy. My joy was negated by the agony of knowing he came to me without love. His passion was nothing but a mockery to me now, a reminder of what I most desired but could never have.

  Quietly, he peeled back the covers and kissed me for the first time in weeks. Though I welcomed his kisses, there was no tenderness in either his lips or his touch, only a raw passion, as his tongue invaded my mouth and his hands squeezed my breasts. I understood at once that he didn't act to excite me, but only himself. Nevertheless, my body awakened and responded to him as it always had. I was almost instantly aroused and aching for gratification. I parted my legs and reached for him, but he stayed my hand and lifted my face to his.

  "You and Raoul were alone all day today. One wonders how you managed to entertain him." His tone was innocently insinuating, but his present mood told me his indifference had been nothing but a pretense. I remembered his conversation with Raoul from the night before and suspected that jealousy had spurred him to come to me tonight, but jealousy and pride of possession were not love.

  I met his accusing gaze bravely. "The vicomte occupied himself all day with his writing. Need I remind you that I am often in his company, because you force it upon me? You wanted me to play your hostess. I only do as you commanded."

  "What I command?" He sneered. "That would be a novelty, would it not? I am astounded at your sudden devotion to duty, ma belle, given how vociferously you protested against it."

  His gaze dipped to my mouth and lingered there. He raised his hand and stroked the pad of his thumb over my lips. His soft touch excited me, eliciting tiny ripples in my belly.

  "You have bewitched Raoul. My oldest friend has become a besotted fool! Was this part of your desire to please me? Alors! Perhaps I will test this new penchant for obedience."

  I licked my lips in nervous anticipation of the kisses I craved, but none were forthcoming. Instead, he thrust me away to disappear into the salle de bain, returning a moment later with a glass bottle I recognized as almond oil. He set it on the table and then drew me from the bed.

  "Kneel," he commanded.

  "Kneel?" I echoed blankly.

  "Yes. On your knees." His hands shot out to my shoulders, pressing me downward until my legs buckled. I wasn't trying to fight him, I just didn't understand what he wanted— at least not until I found myself eye-level with his semi-erect verge. It was a position I had been in only once before, and the remembrance of it sent bile surging into my throat, but I shook the vision away. This was not Ibraheim Omair. This was Ahmed, my sheik, my lover.

  He reached for the bottle. "Hold out your hands."

  I extended them palms up and watched him pour a small pool of oil into them.

  "Stroke me," he commanded.

  His attitude was authoritat
ive and dominating. His mouth was compressed and his gaze hard. There was nothing soft or tender in his demeanor, no sign of the lover I had known. In this moment, he was the master, and I was merely a slave, and as a slave I was expected to give everything and ask for nothing. All of my instincts recoiled from playing this role, but he had come to me for satisfaction—and I was avowed to give him more than he bargained for.

  I reached for him, tentatively at first, closing my hand around him, and caressing slowly up and down. His verge grew and stiffened immediately beneath my touch. In a moment the imperious-looking purple head reared almost to his belly.

  "Faster. Harder. Use both hands."

  I gripped him tighter, sliding my hands up and down his thick and rigid length, relishing the hot pulsing sensation. I already wished it was buried deep inside me, but it seemed he would deny me that pleasure. Nevertheless, in our weeks as lovers, I had come to appreciate Ahmed's instrument as a source of profound delight. The impressive size and intricate shape, perfectly shaped to fit my body, the satiny skin, and even the bulbous purple head of it all, combined to fascinate and excite me.

  The oil was slick and coated him quickly, making him more slippery with the upward and downward strokes of my hands. I watched his expression as he gazed down at me from beneath hooded lids. He palmed my nape, urging me closer to his jutting phallus. "Use your mouth."

  "My mouth?" My hands froze as I digested this request.

  He regarded my hesitation with a scowl that said he expected obedience.

  I wasn't completely ignorant of fellatio, having been exposed to a good deal of erotic art while in India. Only two months ago, I would have been utterly repulsed, but now I found the idea of giving him oral gratification both curious and surprisingly arousing. His verge was already a sensual delight to me even before I had experienced the smell and taste of him.