her hair streaming down her back, utterly unaware of her beauty. Her body was silky smooth all over, the tradition here in Arabia, he knew, though until today had not seen in the flesh. He wanted to kiss her, to taste every inch of that olive-toned, sweetly scented skin, to lick into the hot, wet core of her. The possessiveness he felt was both misguided and inappropriate, he told himself, a natural consequence of what they had just shared, nothing more. And what they had just shared—was that wrong? He simply couldn’t bring himself to think so.
Tahira held out her hand invitingly. He stepped into the cascade, relishing the sharp sting of the water on his skin, cooling his ardour, which had been returning with astonishing quickness as he watched her. It had been too long, that was all. And they had so little time.
He turned away to rinse the sand from his body, and to keep his eyes from the temptation personified showering beside him. Not that he was tempted to test his control any further. Tonight had not been a close call, he had not at any point considered acting on his body’s most insistent urges, but it had surprised him how strongly they persisted, how much he had wanted that ultimate possession.
That word again. Tahira could never be his. What he wanted for her was freedom to be herself, and that was something she could never have. He could not ignore the direct comparison to that other woman whose wishes had been similarly ignored, whose fate had been decided by the selfish passion of one particular vile man. Tonight Christopher had proved once again that he was different, that his blood, tainted as it was, did not define him. He should be proud of that fact. He should also be thankful that Tahira’s life would at least be comfortable, if not necessarily happy.
But he could not be thankful. The days, which at times these last nine months had passed with excruciating slowness, now seemed to be galloping by with the speed of an Arabian thoroughbred. Something else he should welcome, for it was hurtling him toward the future he yearned for, the moment when he could finally bury his hateful past, but perversely, he wanted events to slow down. Though he was more than ready to wave goodbye to his amulet, he was not yet prepared to say goodbye to Tahira.
‘You look so serious. What are you thinking?’
The tiny frown between her perfectly arched brows warned him he was in danger of breaking the spell they had woven around themselves. He could not resist pulling her into his arms again. ‘I was thinking that it would be a crime not to make the most of the little time we have.’
Tahira smiled up at him. Her nipples were hard against his chest. His manhood, nestled between her legs, began to stir. She tilted herself against him, twining her arms around his neck. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
* * *
Tahira could not escape the harem the next night, for Juwan had organised a dinner to mark the first birthday of her daughter. There were five long narrow tables set out in the formal dining room reserved for the Crown Princess. Juwan sat at the head of the top table, not on cushions as would be the case for everyday dining, but on a low chair with a very high, intricately carved back. Flanking her were Tahira and Ishraq. Alimah and Durrah, as befitted the youngest of the princesses, were seated on the outside. The same pecking order was reflected at the other tables, set at right angles to the top table, which accommodated first Juwan’s ladies, then Tahira’s, Ishraq’s, Alimah’s and Durrah’s respectively. Tahira shifted impatiently on her seat. They had been at the table for two hours already, and the meal was not even halfway through. Though her little niece had been toasted with pomegranate and lime juice at the start of the meal, the talk had been all of the forthcoming new arrival, whom no one dared suggest would be another mere female.
She was dressed formally as the occasion demanded. A dark-blue silk underdress with long sleeves, plain save for the beaded cuffs, hem and neckline, which weighted it down. The cerulean-blue overdress was sleeveless, fastened by a row of gold buttons studded with pearls, trimmed with gold braid and pearl beading, and lined with the same dark-blue silk as her underdress. A wide sash in many shades of blue, also trimmed with gold braid, was tied tightly around her waist to emphasise the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Thick white stockings and leather, beaded slippers curling up to points added to the heat and discomfort. Her long hair had been oiled and worked into a complex series of plaits which made her head ache, and the turban with its jaunty feather from which hung a filmy mantle of blue chiffon made it feel as if she was balancing a sack of sand on her head.
Her maidservant had assured her that she looked magnificent and even Juwan had smiled approvingly, but Tahira felt as if the entire ensemble was designed to constrain her, to remind her that all too soon her nights of freedom would be over for ever.
As the talk turned from Juwan’s son to Tahira’s forthcoming betrothal, boredom gave way to misery, and a black mood enveloped her. No one seemed to notice how little she ate, how strained was her smile, how few were the words she contributed to the excited chatter of the outfits to be worn to the camel race and speculation as to the wedding gifts Tahira would be showered with. Everyone assumed she was happy, and indeed who would not be happy, to be betrothed to such a paragon, to be looking forward to a life of such luxury. She was very fortunate, she told herself for what seemed like the thousandth time. Most women would kill to be in her place. And as for her husband—Ghutrif could have done a very, very great deal worse in his choice. Yes, she should consider herself very fortunate indeed.
Then why didn’t she? Why was reconciling herself to the inevitable proving almost impossible? Guilt added to the black cloud which hung over her. The reasons for marriage were compelling. She had always prided herself on protecting her sisters’ interests. She would be fatally harming their future prospects if she failed to make a match. Looking around as her siblings ate and chattered and laughed, she thought rather sourly that she had succeeded rather too well in concealing her warring emotions.
The air in the dining room was stifling. Not even Farah understood Tahira’s plight, though to be fair, she hadn’t confided her true feelings to Farah either. Only Christopher knew the extent of her impotent anger. Only Christopher sympathised with her. His outrage and frustration on her behalf could change nothing, but they were a great consolation to her none the less.
‘Perhaps a year from now, we will be celebrating the birth of your own son.’
Juwan was smiling at her. Not maliciously, not condescendingly, but a genuine smile. Tahira’s guilt increased. She tried to smile back, but the very thought of what she’d have to do with the unknown suitor in order to produce an heir repulsed her.
‘And perhaps a year from now, we’ll be celebrating my betrothal,’ Ishraq said excitedly, to Tahira’s relief turning the focus of the conversation away from her.
Yes, it was better for all concerned if her sisters followed Juwan’s example, embraced the inevitable, looked forward in happy expectation to their marriages. If Ghutrif did as well by them as he had done by her, she need have no fear for their future. Juwan had been right when she said that the time had come for Tahira to move away, leave her sisters behind. It was the natural order of things. This melancholy thought brought a lump to her throat.
‘Don’t be sad,’ Durrah said, leaning past Ishraq to speak. ‘You heard Juwan, we will be permitted to visit you at least twice a year.’
‘I’m not sad.’ Tahira forced a smile. She was becoming very adept at it. ‘I’m simply overwhelmed. It’s all happening so fast.’
‘A sign of how much your brother cares for you,’ Juwan said. ‘He is doing everything in his power to hasten your marriage. When your hand is given, the stain of shame which currently clings to you will be forgotten, your character quite redeemed. That day surely cannot come fast enough?’
So much for Juwan having softened her stance. ‘No, indeed,’ Tahira replied. The stain of shame would be so deep as to be ineradicable if Ghutrif knew about Christopher. Recalling the events at the oasis made Tahira’s toes curl with pleasure inside her slippers. Shame was the very last thing she felt. The memory heated her from the inside. Lying beside him behind the cascade, she had forgotten everything, everyone else, save him. His touch. His smile. His voice. Laughter and desire. He knew her in a way that no man ever would, in a way that only her husband