Girl in the Bedouin Tent. Annie WestЧитать онлайн книгу.
hanging of a courtyard garden with fountains and ornamental trees and beautiful ladies. One played a stringed instrument, one brushed the long, dark hair of another who lifted a cup daintily to her lips. Yet another picked a blossom with delicate fingers.
‘It’s a garden of pleasures,’ the voice, low and rich, murmured. His breath was a puff of warmth on her bare arm and her skin contracted as if brushed by soft suede.
Cassie cleared her throat. ‘Really?’ She tried not to notice the way his body heat seemed to inflame her bare skin when he stood so close. Whenever his fingers brushed her bare torso she felt a curious trembling.
‘Absolutely. In countries like this a garden is a paradise, a place of bountiful water, of green growing things and beauty.’
Cassie knew he only spoke to keep her mind off the fact that he was having trouble unlocking the long lead to the chain around her waist. Yet she found herself lulled by the tantalising burr of his low voice.
Half an hour of kindness, of reassurance, and her terror had abated. Enough for the rigid tension to seep away and anxiety to drop to a barely there undercurrent.
Now she registered other things. A growing awareness of the man beside her, and of her own body.
Perhaps it was the aftermath of stress that made her so sensitive to his nearness. And to his touch.
‘And the women in the picture?’ She searched for a way to keep him talking. She told herself it was to keep her mind off the worry that the ancient padlock on the chain would never open. Not because she needed distraction from the feel of his large hands brushing her skin with a delicacy that sent whorls of sensation through her.
‘Steady, now. This lock is very stiff. You need to be still.’
Cassie sucked in her breath as he insinuated his fingers beneath the chain at her waist and tried to ease the lock free.
‘The women represent the pleasures of the senses. Soothing music, the scent of blossom, the taste of sweet nectar, the pleasure of touch and the sight of beauty.’
He tugged, then moved, adjusting his hold, and she hurried into speech. ‘That’s fascinating. I just thought it was a nice design.’
‘It’s far more than that. It can be read on several levels.’ She felt the soft brush of his hair on her bare skin as he bent close over the old lock. ‘Really? What other meanings does it have?’
One hard shoulder shrugged against Cassie’s hip. There was a sound of grating, then at last a click. A moment later he straightened, holding up one end of the long lead chain and its ancient padlock.
He grinned, a three-cornered smile that creased his face in unfamiliar lines and made this autocratic lord of the desert suddenly look younger, more approachable and devastatingly attractive.
Cassie’s heart thudded to a quickening pace.
Because the loathsome chain was off. That was all.
‘The picture is also a metaphor for the pleasures to be found in a lover.’ His eyes held hers and Cassie’s breathing shallowed. ‘The feel of her soft skin, the sound of her sighs, the feminine scent of her, the pleasure to be found in the sight and the taste of her.’
His gaze dropped to her lips and a tingle of effervescence shot through her blood.
An instant later he’d stepped away, his attention on the chain in his hands. Cassie drew a deep breath, telling herself she was glad he’d moved. Her gaze dropped to the chain and she wrapped her arms around her torso. To be tethered like an animal had been degrading.
‘You’ll be more comfortable without this.’ Anger coloured his voice and his knuckles tightened on the ancient links before he let it fall with a dull thud. ‘I will have it removed in the morning.’
Her stomach clenched hard and hope flared at the sense this man really did take her part. Always she’d fought her battles alone. This time she was grateful for help.
‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ Was that her voice, so breathless?
His head jerked up and their gazes collided. ‘In the circumstances we can drop the formalities. You may call me Amir.’
Cassie swallowed. After all she’d been through why did this simple, sensible offer touch her to the core? Was she so desperate for a friendly face? A gentle tone?
She still felt so … vulnerable.
‘Thank you, Amir.’ She paused, listening to the sound of his name on her tongue.
‘What about this?’ She hooked a hand through the finer chain encircling her waist. He followed her gesture, his gaze dropping to her almost bare body. Heat coursed through her. ‘Can you get this off?’
He shook his head and slowly lifted his eyes. ‘I’d need tools to remove it. Tools I don’t have with me.’
Dismay filled her. She’d have to keep wearing it? Unlike the other one, this wasn’t heavy but it was a potent reminder of her untenable situation. A slave chain.
Her heady sense of freedom disintegrated as harsh reality returned.
‘When we return to Tarakhar it will be a quick matter to remove it.’
Silently Cassie nodded, telling herself she was grateful for what he’d achieved. Suddenly exhaustion crept into her limbs and she felt the last of her energy seep away.
Amir gestured to the massive old-fashioned hip bath the servants had filled with hot water. Curls of steam rose languidly from the surface.
‘I’ll leave you now to wash.’ He turned and was almost out through the door before pausing. ‘Call if you need anything.’
By his watch not much time elapsed before she emerged from the bathing room. But it seemed like hours. Hours in which Amir had soothed his fury by planning suitable punishment for Mustafa and those involved in the kidnapping. Yet Amir’s thoughts strayed continually to Cassie Denison’s vibrant face, her courage and determination. Her lush body.
Those long minutes working the ancient padlock free of the chain at her waist had been torment. He guessed she’d steeled herself against his touch. He hadn’t questioned her yet on how badly she’d been abused by her kidnappers, and bile rose in his throat at the thought of any of Mustafa’s rabble laying hands on her.
That was what had made his hands unsteady: anger.
He’d been eager to get the job done, to give her the privacy she needed. Yet he’d been curiously fumble-fingered. It hadn’t just been the old lock that had been the problem. His unsteady hands had been as much to blame.
Her innocent questions about the old wall hanging, no doubt scavenged by Mustafa in some raid on an ancient stronghold, had channelled Amir’s thoughts in directions that were too intimate for comfort.
He knew the look, scent, sound and feel of her. In one moment of heady madness he’d wondered how she’d taste on his tongue, till he’d pulled himself up short and focused on the lock.
His celibacy these past months told against him, letting his thoughts easily stray to sexual pleasure. It had been too long since he’d taken a woman into his bed.
He breathed deep. His advisors were right. The sooner he married the better.
Mistresses were well and good, but he grew tired of their demands and their grasping eagerness. How long since the pleasure of having beautiful women vie for his attention had begun to pall?
A wife wouldn’t cling. A wife would be busy with the royal household, with raising their children. But she’d be there for his comfort too.
He smiled, enjoying the notion.
Till he realised the woman in his imaginings had eyes of deep violet and hair like tumbled corn silk.
The bedroom was still, almost dark but for the dimmed light of a single lamp. Yet Cassie paused on the threshold,