How To Seduce A Sheikh

‘You should be very glad, mademoiselle,’ he replied in perfect, softly accented French, ‘that it is I and not one of the other bidders who prevailed today. Be assured that having paid such an exorbitant amount, they would take great pleasure in breaking both your body and your spirit.’

He was clearly furious, yet his fists remained unclenched, and he made no effort to close the short distance between them. Did he mean that he would not try to break her, or that the breaking of her would give him no pleasure? ‘Why?’ Confused, Colette asked the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Why did you pay so much for me? I am sure a man such as yourself could have purchased any number of slaves more beautiful than I for such a sum.’

He surveyed her, not lasciviously but as her father was wont to survey the strategy board when planning a battle. ‘Why do you think, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

Confused, she could only stare. On one level she was afraid, but another part of her was inclined to doubt his intentions. A warrior he may be, but he was no violator. Her instincts told her she could trust him, but she knew better than to trust instincts when her mind was affected by the intense heat, her fierce thirst and, above all, the trauma of the past few weeks. ‘I think you paid such an exorbitant sum merely for the pleasure of winning, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I cannot imagine that you wish such a—a meagre example of womanhood as I in your harem.’

‘Meagre?’

‘Skinny,’ Colette replied warily. Horribly conscious that her meagreness was barely covered, she tightened her grip on the tattered remnants of her gown before recalling how pointless it was, for he had already seen for himself during the bidding the smallness of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist. Leon used to tease her about her slimness on the occasions when they shared a bed. ‘I had as well married a schoolboy,’ he had said once as she lay beneath him, eyeing her breasts in a disappointed way. It had hurt, though she had tried not to show it, for he had never pretended that he married her for love of her person.

En fait, she should be glad that her person was so unwomanly, for it may yet be her saving. Colette let go of her bodice, deliberately baring herself. ‘As you see, monsieur, I have none of the attributes that would make me fit for your harem.’

Cursing low under his breath in Arabic, he unfastened his cloak and threw it over her shoulders, pulling it close to cover her nakedness. ‘The first law of the harem, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘is that a concubine should be seen only by her master.’

His fury took her aback as much as his protectiveness confounded her. The silken folds of the bisht caressed her bare skin as it swathed her. She had never worn anything so luxurious. Colette pulled it closer around her, as if it could form a barrier between her and the crashing reality of the situation. She had little fight left in her, but there was still some. ‘You will be disappointed,’ she said. ‘I warn you, I am no virgin.’

Now his fists did clench. ‘The men who captured you?’

Hastily, Colette shook her head as she saw the direction of his gaze, towards the slave-driver. ‘Non! My husband.’

‘Your husband! He cannot be much of a man to have allowed his wife to be captured.’

‘He is dead, monsieur. But if he were alive, he would assure you that I am not—that I know nothing of the arts of love,’ she said desperately. ‘You will be disappointed in me. I am not fit for your harem, but I have other skills. If you will allow me to work, I can—’

‘You think I will set you to work?’

‘I am much stronger than I look,’ Colette said, defensive in the light of the stark disbelief in his tone. ‘I can clean and cook and sew, and I am an excellent organiser. Papa always said so. Also, I can nurse. In the field hospital, I was—’

‘Enough!’ He held his hand up as if to fend off her words. ‘I have no need of slaves, and my kingdom is not at war, mademoiselle—madame. I wonder what kind of man were you married to, that he made you so certain of your lack of womanly charms?’

The distance between them had not changed, but Colette shivered under his heated gaze as if he had touched her. Fear warred with a flicker of excitement low in her belly. It was wrong to feel this way. She licked her cracked lips. ‘My husband was a soldier,’ she said.

‘Your husband was a fool.’ He reached out to touch her, smoothing his hand over the fall of her hair. The flicker of excitement tightened into a knot. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘Beaumarchais. Colette Beaumarchais.’

‘Madame Beaumarchais, you should not be so quick to leap to conclusions.’

Cat’s eyes, like a tiger, she thought, mesmerised, trying to ignore the way her skin was heating as he brushed her hair away from her face, his fingers feathering over her cheek, down the column of her neck.

‘I don’t understand. If you do not want me for a slave or a concubine, then why did you buy me?’ Colette demanded, shrugging away his hand, which was resting on her shoulder.

He moved swiftly as she made to walk away, pulling her hard up against him, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Heat flooded her at the shocking nearness, at the overwhelming maleness of him, his solid muscle and sinewy strength. A warrior. And a very potent man. ‘Laissez-moi!’

He laughed. ‘Release you? Into the desert and no doubt into the hands of another set of slave traders? You do not wish that.’

‘No. I mean yes. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

‘As you have shown by your appearance today.’

Silenced, she ceased struggling. ‘Who are you? Why won’t you let me go if you don’t want me?’

‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of the Kharidja.’

Her heart began to hammer in her breast. He held her so closely that she could feel the slow, steady beat of his. One hand slid down her spine to her waist. The other slid up her arm. There could be no doubting the heat in his gaze. There could be no doubting his intent as he bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her. She braced herself and at the same time she tilted her face, parting her lips invitingly, only to find herself released as suddenly as she had been caught up against him. Mortified by her contrary behaviour, Colette staggered. ‘You have not answered my question, Prince Zafar,’ she said.

His eyes flashed. Drawing himself up to his full height, he eyed her disdainfully. ‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of Kharidja. I answer to no one. You would do well to remember that.’

Chapter Two

Zafar strode off towards his caravan, forcing the Frenchwoman to break into a trot to keep up with him. He was appalled at how close he had come to surrendering to the desire to kiss her. No matter that she seemed to think him a savage, Colette Beaumarchais was under his protection, and he would never violate that trust.

Rattling out a stream of orders to Firas in the vain hope that the man would be too taken up with obeying him to comment further on his prince’s aberrant behaviour, Zafar was all the time conscious of the woman at his side wrapped in his bisht who was now, legally if not morally, his property. His responsibility. His, under the ancient custom of the land, to do with as he liked. It was a custom he wished he could outlaw, but so far progress in Kharidja had been slow, and resistance by his people—or the men, at any rate—strong.

He cursed himself inwardly. What in the name of the gods was he going to do with the woman! He had bid on impulse, intent only on saving her, without actually considering how he would do so. He had not expected gratitude, yet her attack on his honour, though completely natural under the circumstances, had hurt. It angered him that she had so misjudged him, that she had had the nerve to question his intentions. It pleased him to think how abject her apologies would be when he obtained a safe passage home to France for her. It would be no simple matter to do so, for there were few he could trust to escort her to Egypt, and he had no idea what the diplomatic situation was in Cairo. No, the best thing would be to take her to Kharidja and to make proper arrangements from there. This too would allow Madame Beaumarchais plenty of time to reassess her opinion of him, something that he was strangely set upon her doing. Later, when they set up camp, he would inform her of his plans and she would thank him. For now, though, he would allow her the time to repent of her attitude. Satisfied, Zafar nodded to himself and turned his attention to Colette. ‘Have you ever ridden a camel?’

She stared at him blankly. Her eyes were smoky blue, the colour of the midnight sky over the endless desert. Dark shadows spoke eloquently of long, sleepless nights. The full, sensual lips he had been so intent on kissing were dry. He remembered the angry sunburn on the delicate skin of her body and cursed himself for being a thoughtless fool. How long had she been captive? Such a tender specimen as this with such pale European skin must find the heat of his beloved desert almost unbearable. ‘Come,’ he said gently, holding out his hand to her. ‘There is shade and water aplenty where my caravan is being readied for the journey home to Kharidja. My kingdom is three days’ ride away, over the desert.’

‘Kharidja. I have never heard of that place. Why are you taking me there?’

She was clasping her hands tightly together, holding the folds of his cloak closed. Despite the burnish of the sun, her face had an ashen pallor. Even as he noticed this, Zafar saw her legs buckle and leapt forward to catch her, but she struggled to right herself. As her legs buckled again, he swept her into his arms, ignoring her flailing arms and protests. ‘Stop struggling. You must save your strength.’

‘For your bed, you mean.’

She was as stubborn as a mule! Zafar tightened his grip. ‘For the camel,’ he said curtly.

* * *

Colette clung to the high sides of the strange saddle, which swayed alarmingly. The ground was a lot farther away than it was from horseback. The animal smelled so different, too, and the constant bleating noises it made, as if in protest at being forced to carry an extra load, were most disconcerting. She fixed her eyes firmly on the horizon for fear of being sick. The dusty, stony track was giving way to sand. The sun was past its peak, and the headdress, one of Prince Zafar’s own, was really most effective in keeping her cool, though she had protested at first, thinking it would make her much hotter.

A strong arm snaked around her waist and held her firmly. ‘Do not resist it,’ Prince Zafar said. ‘If you let yourself be taken by the movement, you will find it easier.’

Nervously she eyed the reins, which were threaded with gold and decorated with little tinkling bells. ‘I am perfectly well.’

‘Forgive me, but you look far from well. Now, let go of the saddle. Feel the movement of the camel as you would the movement of the sea on the deck of a ship.’

Tentatively, she did as she was bid, letting her body move with the motion of the saddle. ‘You are right,’ she said in surprise some moments later.

‘You will find that I almost always am.’

‘I doubt that,’ Colette replied. ‘More likely it is that no one dares tell you that you are wrong.’

She knew as soon as the words were out that she had been not only rude but disrespectful, but he surprised her. ‘That is very true, Madame Beaumarchais, none dare. I wonder why you do?’

It was beyond foolish of her, but there was something about this man that made her want to challenge him. His unconscious assumption of power that was no doubt well deserved, that was part of it, but there was, too, his determination not to explain himself, an aloofness that she wanted to break down. And then there was her own challenge to him. She would not allow him to break her spirit. Attack was the best form of defence. Papa’s favourite maxim; it would serve her as well as any other. ‘When one has nothing to lose,’ she replied, ‘one dares anything.’

‘I wonder, would you have been more conciliatory were I one of the other bidders?’ Prince Zafar asked, his voice suddenly cold.