The Desert Bride. Lynne GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
she had suffered withdrawal symptoms of sleepless nights, lost appetite, mood-swings and, worse, the frightening conviction that she had a streak of masochism more than equal to anything that her martyred mother had ever displayed in her dealings with her wandering husband.
Razul was carrying her and without any apparent effort. The scent of him so close washed over her...clean, warm, intensely male. They had never been this close before. But she had wondered—oh, yes, she had wondered what it would feel like to be in his arms. Now it had been thrust on her when she was defenceless and, worst of all, she liked it, she registered in horror—liked the fact that he had taken charge, liked the soft, rich feel of his robes against her cheek, the raw male strength of him, the steady thump of his heartbeat. A sob that had nothing at all to do with her migraine escaped her.
A clamour of anxious female voices chattered in Arabic as she was laid down on a bed. A cool hand rested on her forehead. Razul. A part of her wanted to retain that contact and that made her feel worse than ever. He lifted her up. ‘Drink this...’
Her medication was in her bag but she drank the herbal concoction, lay back, weak as a kitten, and momentarily lifted her heavy eyelids. Two young women were kneeling on the carpet several feet from the bed and they both wore fixed and matching expressions of frantic concern and unholy fascination. Melodrama was born in Arabia, she thought helplessly.
‘The doctor is coming.’ Razul smoothed the fiery tangle of curls off her damp brow. His hand wasn’t quite steady. ‘Close your eyes; relax,’ he instructed in that dark, deep voice of his. ‘Tension must increase the pain.’
Relax? A spasm of anguish snaked through her. He had brought her to the harem. Those had to be his women watching her. Wives, concubines—Oh, dear heaven, what did it matter what they were? she asked herself bitterly. He was still one man with two hundred young and beautiful women at his disposal—gifts from his father’s adoring subjects.
Datar had made an official complaint to the British government when a certain notorious tabloid had spilt what the Dataris considered to be very private beans to an agog British public. Diplomatic relations had been cut off for six months. Contracts which should have gone to British firms had suddenly been awarded elsewhere. Since then the media had been tactfully silent about the Crown Prince of Datar’s exotic sex life. Not a murmur had appeared in print since those revelations two years earlier.
Razul had been shattered when she’d dared to fling those same facts in his teeth—so outraged, so furious, so nakedly incredulous that any woman should dare even to mention such an unmentionable subject, never mind berate him with a personal opinion of his morals, that he had forgotten every word of English that he did have, slamming back at her in his own language before he’d stormed out, leaving her sobbing and empty and bitter as gall.
In a haze of surprising drowsiness and broken shards of memory Bethany drifted at first, like a boat on a storm-tossed sea, but the boat slowly came into the calm of harbour, drawn there by the cool, strong fingers reassuringly linked with hers. Feeling inexpressibly relaxed, she slid into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Bethany wakened to the sound of chattering birds and stretched languorously. Her dark lashes lifted and she saw not a ceiling but a dome of incredibly beautiful stained glass far above her. She sat up with a stifled gasp. There was another shock awaiting her. She was not alone. Three brightly smiling young girls were kneeling in total silence on the carpet.
‘You are awake, sitt.’ One of them rose gracefully and shyly lifted gorgeous almond-shaped eyes to hers. Her slender body was garbed in a colourful, tight bodice and swirling skirt, her feet shod in embroidered slippers, gold jewellery tinkling with her every movement. ‘I am Zulema. We have been chosen to serve you. Many wished for this honour but only I speak English. Prince Razul say I speak English very good...is good enough?’ she checked in sudden dismay, the query undoubtedly prompted by the fact that Bethany was gaping at her.
Bethany snatched in a gulping breath, striving to get a grip on herself as she took in the fabulous room and its alarming unfamiliarity, then glanced down and fingered the equally unfamiliar filmy white silk gown she was mysteriously clad in. ‘You speak wonderful English, Zulema,’ she mumbled weakly.
‘I will run a bath for you, sitt. You must long to be fresh. You had a very long journey, but it is so thrilling, I think, to fly on a plane. Once I travelled to London with Princess Fatima—’ Zulema’s animated little face abruptly clouded and she dropped her shining dark head as if she had dropped a clanger.
Fatima...who was Princess Fatima? Razul’s sister, mother, aunt...wife? Bethany knew nothing about his family.
As Zulema hurriedly pressed the other girls into activity Bethany absorbed their unhidden high spirits and the rather discomfiting way they kept on stealing fascinated glances at her. Were they maids or was their connection with Razul of a more intimate nature? After all, every one of them was wearing enough gold jewellery to sink the Titanic. Dear God, Razul had put her in his harem just as he had promised. And he had drugged her to keep her here last night!
What had been in that seemingly innocuous drink that she had trustingly taken from his hand? She had never managed to sleep through a migraine before. Whatever he had given her had knocked her out cold. She had slept through what remained of yesterday late into a new day. And right now she was in shock—so much shock that her brain was traumatised. The sound of running water came noisily through a door now flung wide. In a sudden motion Bethany slid from the bed. Zulema gasped and surged to proffer slippers as if the wonderful, silk-soft rug were insufficient to protect her feet.
‘Please...’ Please leave me alone, she wanted to plead, but when Zulema looked up at her with a horribly embarrassing look of near-worship, as if she were some sort of goddess instead of a perfectly ordinary woman the same as herself, Bethany was struck dumb.
‘We will bathe you, sitt.’
Bethany, who found even communal changing rooms a mortification, was appalled by the suggestion. Fighting to hide the fact, she murmured tightly, ‘You don’t need to serve me, Zulema.’
‘But you are the one...you must be served,’ Zulema protested anxiously.
The one what? Bethany almost screamed, recalling that same phrase from the airport but restraining herself. ‘Where I come from,’ she said stiltedly, ‘we do not share bathrooms.’
Zulema giggled and delightedly shared this barbaric desire for privacy with her companions. Bethany took advantage of the huddle to slide past them into the bathroom and close the door. The ultra-modern appointments were reassuring. The bedroom, furnished with antique cedarwood inlaid with silver, had given her the disorientating impression that she had been snatched back to the time of Sheherazade. Peeling off the gown, she climbed into the bath which had been run for her, but she sat rigid in the richly scented water like a puritan invited to an orgy, furiously washed herself and clambered back out again as fast as she possibly could.
By the time she had finished with Razul he wouldn’t be able to get her back to the airport quickly enough! Was he crazy? Did he really imagine that he could make a prisoner of her? Of course, he could not seriously mean to try and keep her here by force. But everything he had told her the previous night flooded back to her—the endowment to the university... the strict anonymity demanded ...her own surprise, as a junior member of the department, when she had been offered the research trip.
She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in towels. ‘Where are my clothes?’
With pride Zulema indicated the fabulous heap of jewel-coloured silks now strewn over the bed.
‘My clothes...my suitcase,’ Bethany extended tautly.
Neither was forthcoming. Ignoring her audience, Bethany flicked open chests and closet doors. Nothing, not a stitch of her own clothing in sight! She wanted to stamp her feet and scream with temper, and it must have showed because Zulema and her helpers looked worried sick, as if any sign of dissatisfaction on her part was likely to bring punishment down on their unprotected heads.
‘OK... I’ll wear this stuff. Choose something for me,’ Bethany invited grudgingly.