Arabian Nights with a Rake Page 2
The sheikh would need a gift substantially more English than that to impress his visitors. He needed her. She was the most English gift the sheikh possessed. The sheikh needed to be made to see that returning her out of bondage, and restoring her to her people would be a sign of his ‘western thinking,’ a chance to convince the English the Bedouin were not nomadic barbarians, but people of a certain civility who should be left to their own devices.
Susannah reached for a thin cotton shift and pulled it over her head. It was the only truly English garment left to her. Her other clothes had been taken from her that first humiliating day. She wore only what the sheikh provided and at his behest. Putting on her shift had become something of a nightly ritual, a homecoming of sorts, a chance to be an Englishwoman for a few hours instead of this man’s fantasy slave.
Making herself a gift was a good idea. It would play to the sheikh’s view of himself as a generous lord of the sands. She was astute enough to know the suggestion could not come from her. It would have to come from Grayfield. He had not bothered to hide his interest in her. Such boldness would make his request believable, but it could also be used as leverage against him. He’d best tread carefully lest Bassam and the sheikh see an opportunity to exploit that desire before she could. If she could bind him to her, he would be more likely to take her away regardless of the risk or the permission.
She needed to move quickly. Susannah covered her shift with a dark robe and belted it. She reached for a veil to hide the sheen of her hair. The camp would be busy. With luck she would pass unnoticed, but if questioned, she could say she was on her way to the sheikh’s tent. Her decision was made and she did not want to delay. It would be harder to arrange an opportunity to encounter the Englishmen tomorrow.
Susannah took a deep breath and slipped out into the night. She was off to make her ‘suggestion’ to Grayfield, and as with any suggestion, the idea would need to be planted in order for it to take root.
Chapter III
Alex was dreaming of houris, or rather of one houri in particular. Even in sleep he did not quite forget that he was an Englishman who favored monogamy. In his dream, he reclined on a couch, pillows behind his head, a goblet of wine at his arm and the woman of his evening fantasies dancing before him. Her hips swayed in a provocative prelude. She came closer, the rose and sandalwood scent of her wreathing him in sensuality.
She bent over him, her long curtain of hair sweeping his chest, her naked breasts brushing his bare skin with dusky-hued nipples. She whispered a throaty promise he couldn’t quite hear. If he raised his head just an inch he could kiss those tantalizing lips, and then move on to those delectable breasts.
He levered himself on one arm to cover the small distance, his mouth taking the invitation of her lips. She tasted of honey and surprise, a gasp escaping her in a short exhalation of breath. Instinctively, he reached out an arm to steady her, meaning to draw her firmly to him. He met with unexpected resistance. In Islamic mysticism the houris didn’t resist. This was an odd dream indeed.
Or no dream at all. Alex’s eyes flew open. Oh the woman was very real, that part was in no doubt. He woke to find himself holding the sheikh’s favorite about the slender curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts illumined through the thin cotton of her chemise by the flickering light of the tent’s lantern. The deep rose of her nipples had been no figment of imagination either. The chemise offered her very little protection against the proximity of his gaze and the lantern-cast shadows.
The resistance hadn’t been feigned either. Her body was tense within his embrace, her eyes questioning and wary. Her plans for him had plainly gone awry. The very thought raised Alex’s well-honed sense of suspicion. He hadn’t survived this long on luck alone. In his world, nothing was freely given.
Whatever she’d planned, it hadn’t been seduction, more was the pity. Alex slackened his grip and she backed away. For a moment, he feared she would bolt. He moved his grip to her wrist, shackling it easily with his hand.
“What are you doing in my quarters?” His voice was harsh, demanding an answer. In the dim light he searched her for evidence of a weapon, to no avail. She was too scantily dressed to conceal anything on her person and her other hand was clenched into an empty fist.
Her gaze shifted infinitesimally to the dark heap on the floor—a cloak most likely, a covering that had been discarded on purpose, leaving her virtually naked to his gaze. Another man might rethink the possibility of seduction, but Alex had been schooled in the Persian world where not all was what it seemed on the surface. His first inclination had been correct. She’d not come to seduce. If she had, she would not have resisted his overture. She would have entered the game boldly with his awakening.
“Release me.” She ordered, matching his demand with an admirable hauteur of her own. Definitely an Englishwoman, Alex decided. He could hear it in her voice and in her defiance. He’d known many women from many backgrounds in his time and had yet to meet any except perhaps the Americans who matched an Englishwoman in boldness when cornered.
“I want answers.” He replied. “What have you come here for? Is it the custom of the sheikh to send uninvited women to his guests’ tents?” If she said yes, he’d know she was lying. It might indeed be the sheikh’s custom; he’d met tribes where the practice was not uncommon as an act of hospitality. But the sheikh would not send his favorite, not after what Alex had witnessed in Bassam’s response earlier that night.
She tossed her magnificent length of hair in a haughty maneuver. “I came to talk.” She shot her eyes at his hand gripping her wrist.
“Naked? I was unaware of that particular desert custom.” She might have been better off with the sent-by-the-sheikh-defense after all.
Her blue eyes flashed. “It’s the truth.” She tugged against his grip in her irritation. “I have no reason to lie to you.”
“I have no reason to believe you. Perhaps the sheikh has sent you to ferret out my secrets, my reasons for being here. It is convenient for you to come while I’m alone.” Alex raised a querying brow. “All the better for conquering and dividing, eh?”
“That’s ridiculous logic.” She spat. “Why would the sheikh send an Englishwoman to a compatriot? It would be tantamount to asking us to conspire against him.”
“Would it?” Alex shrugged with feigned nonchalance, his mind rapidly sorting and discarding scenarios. What did she want that she would steal into a sleeping man’s quarters and stand before him virtually unclothed? “Perhaps the sheikh has offered you something of value in exchange for whatever services he’s sent you to perform.” He raked her body deliberately with his eyes. There was no mistaking what ‘services’ he suspected she offered.
“I’m not here to seduce you.” She stammered, her nerve failing her for a moment. Alex watched her realize how exposed she was to his gaze, how little the fabric hid and how much the candle showed. “I’m here to talk.”
“Then let’s talk.” Alex smiled wickedly, rising from the bed of blankets, the coverlet slipping from his body to reveal the unabashed glory of a naked man, aroused and not the least bit self-conscious over it. Indeed, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. His body was tanned from the tawny streaks in his blond hair to the muscled curves of his calves, implying that he engaged in nakedness quite often to have acquired so even a tan. Not even his buttocks had hidden from the sun’s kiss. The thought brought a blush to her cheeks.
He stalked her, circling on purpose, with a wicked smile. “Nakedness can be a bit distracting….”
Stopping his pacing, he eyed her critically. “Is that why you dressed thus for our ‘talk,’ my dear? Did you mean to distract me with your charms while you did whatever it was you meant to do? That part of your plan is working admirably, as you can see.” He cast an obvious glance downwards to his engorged member.
She blushed furiously, desperately. He could see the flush of her skin even in the dim light. The act was entirely winsome and convincingly pure. It kept hi
m unusually off balance. It seemed he’d discomfited the little temptress. Well, good. She needed to know there were consequences for her actions, for her as well as for him. Two could play this enticing game of ‘naked interrogation.’
“Distract you? To what end?” She challenged, finding her wits. “I carry no weapon with which to do you harm.” She protested, holding her arms wide from her side. “As you have noted, I have no place to conceal a weapon.”
Alex knew the gesture cost her greatly. She knew by now how visibly exposed she was to him, that her modesty had been surrendered from the beginning and he’d made her acutely aware of it. She played the voluptuous, pure houri of the Koran so exquisitely, Alex nearly believed her. He’d seen the same innocence before as she’d danced. But no innocent came so wantonly displayed.
He began circling her again. “No weapon? I beg to differ, my lady. You, in and of yourself, are the most perfect of weapons for driving a man to distraction and much else.”
In a swift move, he fettered her wrists in his grasp, lifting them immobile over her head. She gasped, her eyes wide with startled wonder and perhaps a little fear. Had someone threatened her in the past? Alex met her gaze with a knowing smile, recognizing the first signs of her passionate cravings. He was not the only one affected by their game. Desire enlarged the dark pupils of her eyes. Even now he caught the essence of her arousal mingled with the scent of her roses, her wonder winning out over whatever she feared.
“Shall I show you all the ways you distract a man?” His voice was a husky whisper, meant to compel. Dexterously, Alex slid the buttons of the chemise free of their loops, giving his hand access to the warm skin beneath. His hand skimmed the length of her torso, feeling her tremble beneath the stroking caress before returning to cup each full breast, taking them by turn completely in the palm of his hand. He ran the pad of his thumb ever so lightly over the peaks of her breasts, calling them to life beneath his caress.
“What are you doing to me?” she managed, her voice nothing more than a sob of pleasure.
He whispered close to her ear, his attentions turned now to her throat. “Making love to you.” His mouth dropped to her breasts, suckling, delighting in her untutored response, part shock at the intimacy of the act and part honest woman enjoying the passion. “A man would do anything to claim this body,” God knew he would, was in fact about to do just that no matter the risk. He was blind to all else in these moments but the bounty before him. He was nearly driven to the brink of his control by the firm fruits of her breasts, the scent of her, the innocent responses of her body. Houri, spy, sheikh’s tool, increasingly, he cared not.
“Let go off my hands.” She begged with a whimper, her desire mounting to the point of insensibility.
He nipped at her neck. “No, I like you entirely at my disposal. You like it too, your body admits it, your body trusts me, let your mind do the same.” He reached around her, drawing her against him with one arm so that she could feel his erection against her bare skin. He kissed her full on the mouth, stifling her pro forma protests as his hand dropped to between her legs. Her mouth opened under his with a silent gasp of pleasure. Christ, she was beautiful.
“‘Thus it shall be, that we shall pair, in these gardens will be mates of modest gaze whom neither man nor invisible being will have touched ere then.’” He quoted between kisses, his breathing heavy. There was a reason the Koran equated the houris of Muslim lore with an ecstatic awareness of Allah.
She cried out, taken by early waves of pleasure and Alex knew all resistance had been swept aside in the wake of her passions. He would take her, and they would know mutual fulfillment together this night, whatever other less-pleasant agendas lay between them.
Susannah was oblivious to all else but the feel of Alex’s hands on her body, coaxing it to extraordinary levels of pleasure. He covered her entirely, all thoughts of her plans and escapes fleeing her mind in the wake of this new world of ecstasy.
Alex rose above her, golden and strong, his knee parting her thighs with little opposition, the desire in his gaze mesmerizing. Then he shifted, his body lowering, entering her, surging hard into her until she cried out. She was full of him and yet, arching her body wantonly into his, it still wasn’t enough. Suddenly there was pain, a shocking realization amid all the pleasure.
She cried out against it, but he was already pressing forward and when the recognition hit him, it was too late. A look of surprise crossed his features, his body stilled momentarily inside her, but passions were too high for them to stop. Even now the pain was subsiding and her body reached for the promise of awaiting pleasure. Her legs wrapped about his waist, trapping him to her, “Please,” Susannah whispered.
It was all the invitation Alex needed. His body answered the call to passion, full-sheathed within her, until climax took her and she cried her release into his shoulder, feeling him shudder deep inside her.
Chapter IV
A pessimist would say she had been carried away. An optimist would argue her plan had succeeded, Susannah mused. Rational thought made a slow return to the dim confines of the tent. Now that she had Alex’s attention she scarcely knew what to do with it. Her plan had been based on solid assumptions; he wanted her. But she’d had no idea how far his wanting would take things. Or for that matter, how far her wanting would leave her vulnerable to him. Her own responses had been utterly surprising. Alex dozed lightly beside her. Soon, she’d have to wake him. She did not yet have what she’d come to the tent for.
But for now, she wanted to enjoy watching her lover sleep. Lover. The term implied that the encounter was more than a physical mating. In addition to his prowess, she recognized in retrospect there’d been an underlying care present in his lovemaking. He’d been sensitive to her needs, wanting her to find her own pleasure, wanting to alleviate her brush with pain. She had not expected that to be the case. Her encounters with the sheikh and with Bassam had suggested the act of sex was solely a male exercise in physical fulfillment at the female’s expense. Perhaps that explained why she’d managed to thwart physical consummation for months, and yet had capitulated within moments to Alex.
Alex stirred and woke, taking her in with his eyes, a slow smile on his lips. He traced a lazy line over the curve of her hip and kissed her on the forehead before giving a sigh. “It seems we’ve done everything but what you came here to do,” He sounded regretful to be pulling them back into reality. “Perhaps now would be a good time to talk.”
Talk. The word struck a chord of trepidation within her.
It occurred to her that she had not told her story to anyone before. The tragedy in the desert had been a grief she’d borne silently these past months. How to unearth all that now and share it with this man who, in spite of their intimacy, was a virtual stranger?
Alex offered a gentle prompt. “Why don’t we start with your name. You know mine, but I feel woefully disadvantaged.”
Her name would change everything. Clearly, he hadn’t known beforehand. He had not come here to save her or to look for her, confirming her suspicion that the British Consul believed her entire party to be dead. It was too much to hope for that anyone had come looking for her. She’d given up on that particular fantasy months ago. It was expensive and risky to send search parties into the desert. Besides, the chances of anyone knowing she was alive were minimal; the sands left no clues, no trails.
There was no escaping recognition. He would know her father’s name. On one hand, it would help her cause. The Blond Bedouin would not leave Sutcliffe’s daughter in the desert. But it would potentially alter their passion. Would he feel obligated to her? She understood what she’d become in the desert. This interlude, although not of her making, had put her outside English Society. She wanted no man’s pity. That was what her logical mind feared. Her heart feared something else: Would he decline to make love to her again out of a retroactive display of old-fashioned honor? Already, her body wanted him again. Once with Alex Grayfield simply wasn’t enough.
“Ah,” came the reply. A small word to carry such import. In that ah was the recognition she’d predicted and the dawning realization of what they’d done, of what he’d done. He might have been raised in the desert lands, but she could see the English wheels of his mind working in reaction to this latest revelation.
“I know a little of your circumstance,” he began. “Sutcliffe’s entourage set out from Algiers shortly after the battle in November but no correspondence ever came verifying Sutcliffe’s arrival in Mascara. The plan had been to journey from Algiers to Mascara, calling on the tribes that lay between the two cities.”
“Is that your mission as well?” Susannah’s gaze shot upwards to meet Alex’s eyes.
Alex shrugged noncommittally. Even now, he did not entirely confide in her. “You will need to trust me before this is over,” she said abruptly, picking up the story where Alex had left it. “Perhaps this part of the story will help with that. My father’s entourage was ambushed by the sheikh’s raiders. You will be killed too if he learns you’re here to see if the tribes will join with the emir.”
Alex gave no outward acknowledgment of her warning.
“And you? What happens to you in all this drama?” He traced slow, tantalizing circles on her skin. This was her chance. She would never get a more perfect opening.
She leaned forward boldly and kissed him on the mouth. “Take me with you when you go. I am a slave to the sheikh. Ask for me as a gift.” she whispered.