The Desert Bride

‘Did I not? A liberal endowment to your university ensured your eventual arrival—’

‘I b-beg your pardon?’ Bethany stammered, a painful throb of tension beginning to pulse behind her brow-bone.

‘Why do you think your superiors insisted that you base your research on Datar?’

‘The nomadic tribes here have not suffered the same level of exposure to the modern world as in other countries,’ she informed him harshly, her hands clenching in on themselves.

‘True...but who suggested the subject of your research?’

Bethany went rigid. The idea had come down from on high. It had not emerged from the anthropology department itself. Indeed there had been resentful mutters to the effect that she must have admirers in high places because such research opportunities abroad were, due to a shortage of finance, currently at an all-time low.

‘I’m building your university a brand-new library,’ Razul shared with her gently. ‘And my carefully chosen British representative, who stressed his special interest in Datar and also mentioned how very impressed he was by a series of lectures you gave last year, insisted on absolute and complete anonymity in return for the endowment.’

Bethany was starting to tremble. Without a flicker of remorse he was telling her that she had been lured out to Datar on false pretences. ‘No...I don’t believe you...I refuse to believe you!’

‘I have known the date of your arrival since you applied for your visa. I was not, however, prepared for you to arrive alone at the airport,’ Razul conceded wryly. ‘Or for the subsequent furore over your visa, but your solitary state has worked to my advantage. You now have no companion to raise the alarm...and I have you in my possession that much sooner.’

‘You have not got me in your possession, you maniac!’ Bethany snatched up her duffel bag and stalked to the exit doors. ‘I’ve listened to this nonsense long enough as well!’

‘You are prepared to endure bodily restraint?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Without my permission you are not allowed to leave the palace.’

‘Nobody allows me to do anything...I do what I want to do!’ Bethany spat back at him, and jerked at the ornate handles with furious fingers. ‘And I am returning to the airport!’

‘If you force my men to put their hands upon you they will be severely embarrassed that you should invite such an indignity...but they will not flinch from their duty,’ Razul warned.

The doors sprang open. Instantly the two guards outside spun round and faced her, yet they did not look directly at her and she remembered how at the airport, after she had mentioned Razul, the male eyes had swiftly averted from her as she’d passed. It was an insult for an Arab man to stare openly at an Arab woman who was not of his family...but she was not one of their women. Such pronounced respect ironically sent a shudder down her backbone, and the mere concept of instigating a pointless struggle with those fierce-looking men made her cringe. In one violent movement of frustration Bethany thrust the doors shut again.

‘If you don’t let me out of here I’ll scream!’ she hurled down the length of the room at Razul.

‘It will only make your migraine worse.’

How did he know that she got migraine headaches? How did he know that she could already feel the first dismaying signs of an attack?

‘You think I won’t scream, don’t you? You think I’m so damned impressed by your utterly ridiculous threats and your blasted throne room, I haven’t got the bottle!’ Bethany fired off at him, shaking all over with rage.

‘“The bottle”?’ A frown-line divided his winged ebony brows as he rose fluidly upright and began to move towards her.

‘Stay away from me...I’m warning you!’ On the edge of hysteria for the very first time in her life, Bethany threw back her shoulders and screamed. It hurt her ears, it hurt her throat, it hurt her head. But what shook her even more was the reality that nobody came running to see what was amiss.

‘Ask yourself what happiness your life in the West has brought you,’ Razul urged her softly as he moved towards her. ‘You work relentless hours. You drive yourself like a mouse on a treadmill and deny yourself every feminine pleasure.’

‘I am extremely happy!’ Bethany launched back rawly, her back pinned to the doors. ‘I’m totally fulfilled by my work.’

‘Being totally fulfilled by me will be infinitely more satisfying. It will release all that pent-up tension—’

‘The only way I am likely to release my pent-up tension at this moment is by physically attacking you...if you don’t keep your distance!’ Bethany swore, fighting against the increasing pounding of the building migraine, feeling her skin dampen, her stomach lurch. ‘Now maybe you think this little power game of yours is amusing but it has gone far enough...do you hear me? I want transport back to the airport right now!’

‘If I gave you what you say you want you would regret it for the rest of your life,’ Razul asserted wryly. ‘I will not permit you to make so foolish a decision.’

‘Back off, Razul!’ As he got too close Bethany took a defensive leap along the wall and saw swimming spots in front of her aching eyes, but she fought her own weakness to the last ditch. ‘The joke has gone stale. You cannot possibly intend to keep me here against my will. I couldn’t possibly be your type—’

‘I have catholic taste—’

‘Intellectually I find you—’

‘A challenge? When you have rested for a while you will feel more adjusted to the wonderful change in your circumstances. No longer are you alone—’

‘I like being alone!’ Bethany screeched.

‘You are afraid to share yourself—’

‘I am not sharing anything with you!’ It was a cry of despair. Suddenly, without warning, she snapped, the rigidity going out of her, hot tears burning her eyes, making her cover her rapidly working face with shaking hands.

A pair of strong hands inexorably peeled her off the wall which was supporting her. ‘No!’ she gasped in horror.

An even stronger set of arms relentlessly swept her off her feet. Her head was spinning in a cartwheel of fire. Her gaze clashed with glittering gold eyes set between lush ebony lashes longer than her own, and a stifled moan of mingled pain and defeat was dredged from her.

‘Stop fighting me.’

‘Put me down,’ she sobbed weakly.

‘Shush...’ he whispered softly, soothingly. ‘Surrender can be the sweetest pleasure of all for a woman. You were born to yield, not to fight.’

She closed her water-clogged eyes, feeling too ill to try and struggle against overwhelming odds. Overwhelming odds...Razul in a nutshell, she reflected wretchedly. Two years ago she had blown every penny she’d possessed on a trip to Canada to stay with her aunt to escape him. Like a drug addict 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.