Desert Nights: Falcon's Prey / The Sheikh's Virgin Bride / One Night With the Sheikh

‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ she said eventually, ‘but you won’t succeed. You’re a cruel, hard man, Sheikh, and I know you for my enemy!’

In the darkness she saw the white flash of his smile.

‘Enemies?’ His voice was like velvet. ‘Is that what you think? In our country there is no enmity between man and woman.’

‘There is between the hawk and the dove, though,’ Felicia retorted, ‘and that’s what you are—a cruel predator, determined to destroy our love.’

‘And you are the dove?’

He was sneering openly, his eyes contemptuous as they rested on her slender form beneath its linen covering. ‘Vulture would be a more appropriate description, don’t you agree?’

There was nothing to be gained by arguing with him, Felicia thought, blinking away weak tears. The uncle of her imaginings had been bad enough, but the reality was far worse. She, who had never hated anyone in her life, disliked him so acutely that the emotion was almost tangible, filling the silence between them with crackling hostility as the car swept past the oil tank farm, the glare from the oilfields illuminating the distant horizon, a sombre reminder that she changed her world for Faisal’s.

They were travelling parallel to the coast, the sky like a dark blue velvet cloak sewn with diamonds. If only Faisal was with her, Felicia thought unhappily. At this moment she needed the warm protection of his love as she had never needed it before.

‘Don’t bother to assume an air of mock modesty for my benefit, Miss Gordon,’ Raschid advised her coldly. ‘I have already learned how you comport yourself, from a friend who observed your antics on the dance floor with my nephew.’

The words were icy with a disdain that drove the colour from Felicia’s face. Her hands gripped together in her lap to stop them from trembling.

‘Apparently Faisal all but stripped you where you stood,’ the bored voice continued sardonically, ‘and you apparently made no protest at all. Do you honestly believe that is the sort of behaviour I would tolerate in a niece, or is it that having already granted Faisal the privileges of a husband, you feel confident enough to behave exactly as you wish?’

Felicia all but choked in her fury. Hot colour stained her cheeks. How dared he imply…. ‘Your friend!’ she managed to grit at him. ‘I suppose you mean that horrid man who looked at me as though I were a piece of merchandise he was contemplating buying?’

‘Perhaps he was,’ came the uncaring retort. ‘It is a long time since I was last in London, but my friends are amused by the low price your women put upon themselves. The British were once greatly respected, but who can respect a race that allows its women to sell themselves for so little?’

She was going to be sick, Felicia thought wretchedly. She could not listen to any more of this.

‘Faisal and I were dancing—nothing more.’

‘Do you always dance so close to your partner that you could be making love?’ was the biting response.

Felicia suppressed an urge to demand him to stop the car so that she could get out. He was deliberately and relentlessly destroying the fabric of her dreams, but she could not let him see it.

‘It was nothing like that,’ she told Raschid coolly. ‘Faisal respects me.’

Just for a second she thought she saw shock mingled with anger, in his eyes, and then he had himself under control.

‘Does he indeed?’ he drawled speculatively. ‘Then he is even more of a fool that I had imagined.’

The dulcet words held a subtle threat. She had handed him a weapon, Felicia acknowledged unhappily, and one that he would not hesitate to use against her if he ever got the opportunity.

‘If you were so convinced of my moral laxness, why did you invite me here?’ she challenged. ‘Aren’t you afraid that I might contaminate Faisal’s sister with my wanton behaviour?’

Raschid ignored her wild outburst, studying one elegant gold cufflink with apparent absorption for so long that she almost wanted to scream.

‘I have sufficient faith in my niece to know she would not be influenced by you,’ he announced at last. ‘And as to my reasons for asking you here…. You are an intelligent woman, Miss Gordon, what do you think?’

‘I don’t think you wanted me here at all,’ Felicia accused slowly. ‘You never really wanted to get to know me, did you?’

‘Most astute,’ Raschid acknowledged dryly. ‘But now that you are here, let me make one thing quite clear. You are here strictly on sufferance. My sister knows only that you are a friend of Faisal’s—nothing more, and that is all she will know…’

‘Until I can prove that I’m fit to marry her son,’ Felicia interrupted angrily. ‘Well, I don’t care what you think of me, but if it makes Faisal happy I’m quite willing to go through this farce of trying to get your approval. After all, in three years’ time he’ll be free to marry without it in any case.’

His expression warned her that she had angered him deeply. His voice harsh, he said coldly, ‘You are more determined than I realised, but then with good cause. After all, you do not have much to look forward to in England, do you? A very run-of-the-mill job; an aunt in the North of England who may or may not leave her home to you, and very little else….’

‘Must you reduce everything to terms of money?’ Felicia protested bitterly. ‘If I’d merely wanted financial security I could have married before now.’

‘But instead you chose to wait until a more attractive proposition presented itself to you,’ the hateful voice drawled smoothly. ‘How wise of you!’

Wearily Felicia sank back into the leather seat. What was the use of trying to convince him? She was wasting her time. He was determined to believe the worst of her. For a moment she contemplated demanding that he turn the car round and take her back to the airport, but to do so would be to acknowledge him the victor, and that was something she would never do. After all, she knew that she was none of the things he believed, and surely, in time, by just being herself, she would prove to him beyond any shadow of a doubt just how lacking his judgment had been.

This thought was enough to quell her desire to return home. Faisal loved her, and this was the raft to which she would cling throughout the stormy seas of Raschid’s displeasure.

Some hidden well of courage she had not hitherto plumbed enabled her to face Raschid with a composure to match his own, her voice controlled as she said calmly:

‘If you have so little faith in Faisal’s ability to choose a wife for himself, I’m surprised that you didn’t do it for him—an arranged marriage with the bride carefully selected to match up to his uncle’s very exacting standards.’

She had meant the words as a taunt, but something in Raschid’s face warned her that unsuspectingly she had stumbled upon the truth. Pressing a hand to her aching temple, she whispered,

‘Was there a girl? No, I don’t believe it. Faisal would never….’

‘You’d be surprised what folly young men will perpetrate in the name of love, Miss Gordon.’ Raschid’s hard voice cut through her protests. ‘But in this case there was no actual betrothal. I did not consider Faisal mature enough to take on the responsibilities of a wife. You are not the first young woman with whom he has considered himself “in love”, but you are certainly the first with whom he has actually contemplated marriage. The others were content with a more tenuous relationship.’

Felicia refused to believe it. And yet hadn’t she already guessed that Faisal was nowhere near as inexperienced as she was herself? At the time she had smothered the thought, but now it was resurrected, and she was forced to acknowledge that there were parts of Faisal’s life of which he had told her nothing. But what really hurt was that Raschid should so casually condemn her to the ranks of those girls with whom Faisal had enjoyed a brief affair. Surely his own knowledge of his nephew told him that Faisal would never have contemplated marriage unless he was sure of his feelings?

‘Faisal is young, and impetuous,’ Raschid drawled, as though he had read her mind, ‘and the two do not make for good judgment. You have known one another a matter of weeks only, what basis is that for a lifetime together!’

A moment was all it took to fall in love, Felicia wanted to protest, but dismay kept her silent. She was seeing a side to Faisal that she had not known existed. In her eyes he was a protective, although sometimes, admittedly, impatient man. In Raschid’s he was an impulsive boy, falling in and out of love on the whim of the moment. Which of them was right? She gave herself a mental shake. She was, of course. How could she doubt it?

The car swerved off the main road and at her side she felt Raschid move slightly to adjust to the slight sway of the car.

‘Not much farther now,’ he told her coolly. ‘Faisal’s mother and sister have delayed the evening meal to coincide with your arrival. I hope you like traditional Kuwaiti food, Miss Gordon?’

As he stretched lithely, she wondered at the glint of humour in his eyes. Was his amusement at her expense? If so he would be disappointed. Faisal had already assured her that while his mother preferred to stick to the old ways, his sisters had insisted that they eat in the European fashion instead of seated cross-legged on the floor, and that she need have no fears about being offered some choice morsel such as sheep’s eyes, or something equally unpalatable. In fact he had once taken her to a small restaurant in London where they had eaten delicious saffron rice and kebabs, followed by almond pastry and small cups of coffee, and she had thoroughly enjoyed it.

She was well and truly caught between the devil and the deep, Felicia acknowledged as the powerful car purred along. On the one hand, if she flouted Raschid and informed Faisal’s mother of their engagement, she would incur his immediate displeasure, and yet if she said nothing he would take her acquiescence as a sign that she was deliberately trying to court his approval. If only Faisal were not dependent upon his goodwill—but she knew it was useless to dwell on this. Naturally Faisal would want to take his rightful place in the family business, which meant that they would probably not be able to marry until he was twenty-five—aeons away to someone with such a volatile nature as Raschid claimed Faisal possessed. There was no doubt at all in her own mind that Raschid hoped that during their enforced separation Faisal would find himself someone else, and helpless with impotent anger, she stared bleakly out into the darkness, wishing she had never been foolish enough to accept Raschid’s invitation.

They were travelling through empty countryside, with the sea on one side of them, and what Felicia took to be the open desert on the other. Even though Faisal had prepared her for Kuwait’s modern outlook, her first glimpse of the family villa still caught her off guard. She did not know quite what she had expected, but it was not this large, two-storey building, with its painted shutters and white walls, vaguely reminiscent of the Moorish houses of Andalucia; not at least until she remembered the origins of those same Moors.

Without checking, the Mercedes slid through an arched gateway and across a flagged courtyard, decorated with urns of tumbling flowers. Lights shone from several windows illuminating the courtyard and others beyond it, where she could just see the outline of trees, and hear the musical tinkle of fountains.

Raschid opened the car door for her, and she drew in a shaky breath of fresh air spiced with unfamiliar scents.

‘This way, Miss Gordon.’

It was a command, and she responded unthinkingly, wondering at his ability to cloak his dislike of her in such formal politeness.

Her earlier attack of nerves was nothing to what she was experiencing now. What was she going to do if the rest of Faisal’s family were as hostile towards her as his uncle? She tried not to dwell on the thought as the wooden door was flung open and she stood in a rectangle of light.

‘Fatima, this is Miss Gordon,’ Raschid said to the small, plump woman who stood there. ‘Miss Gordon—my sister, Faisal’s mother.’

Felicia’s sharp ears caught the warning beneath the coolly drawled words, as she extended her hand slowly to the woman watching her.

It was taken between two soft, beringed hands, while Faisal’s mother beamed at her, chattering incomprehensibly to the tall man at her side.

‘In English, Fatima,’ Raschid told her. ‘Miss Gordon does not have any Arabic.’

Another black mark against her, Felicia reflected bitterly, but Raschid was wrong. She did know how to say ‘good evening’, thanks to Faisal, although it was difficult to get her tongue round the unfamiliar Arabic words.

‘Massa’a al-Khayr,’ Faisal’s mother responded delightedly, darting a mischievous look at her brother.

‘There you are, Raschid!’ she exclaimed in heavily accented English. ‘She does speak Arabic.’

‘Only a few phrases,’ Felicia protested apologetically. ‘And Faisal laughs at my pronunciation.’

‘Poor Miss Gordon!’ another female voice chimed in prettily. ‘Let her get into the house before you start cross-questioning her about Faisal, Mother.’

‘Zahra, what will Miss Gordon think of you?’ her mother chided. ‘Young people today have no manners.’ She turned to Felicia. ‘Please ignore this foolish child. She teases me because I am anxious about Faisal, but when she has a son of her own, then she will feel differently…’

So this was Faisal’s younger sister, Zahra. Felicia studied her covertly. She was small, plump like her mother, with sparkling dark eyes, and a warm smile that held none of Raschid’s cold reserve. Faisal had neglected to tell her how pretty his sister was, Felicia reflected, relieved to see that Zahra at least seemed to harbour no dislike for her.

‘You will sleep in the room next to mine,’ Zahra explained as she led her upstairs. ‘Mother would stick to the old ways of keeping to the women’s quarters, if she could, but although we use our own sitting room whenever Faisal or Uncle Raschid entertain business colleagues, Raschid does not believe in women being strictly segregated.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘Mother is dreadfully old-fashioned. She hated it when I first started at university, but Uncle Raschid was insistent, thank goodness. I hope you are hungry? Mother has had a feast prepared for you, although I warned her that you might not be hungry, having travelled so far.’

Mentally blessing Zahra for her tactful warning of what to expect, Felicia shook her head. In point of fact she felt exhausted and longed only for a hot bath and a comfortable bed, but it would be bad manners to show anything less than immense pleasure in her hostess’s preparations—she knew enough about Arab protocol to be aware of that!

‘Faisal has written to me about you,’ Zahra confided, eyeing Felicia speculatively. ‘You are to become betrothed…’

‘Perhaps,’ Felicia tempered, remembering Raschid’s warning. ‘Provided your uncle approves of me.’

Her room overlooked the gardens and was quite Western in concept, with a comfortable single bed and modern fitted bedroom furniture along one wall, with hanging space for far more clothes than Felicia had brought. There was a bathroom off it, tiled in deep pink to match the sanitary fittings which all boasted gold taps and wastes, and were quite obviously all of the very most luxurious quality.

‘I hope you weren’t expecting sunken baths with marble pillars,’ Zahra giggled. ‘Uncle Raschid swore you would expect us to live like something out of the Thousand and One Nights.’

‘Well, I did wonder how you managed those flimsy trousers and curly-toed shoes,’ Felicia agreed lightly, earning an approving grin from Zahra.

‘I knew that you would have a sense of humour, despite what Uncle Raschid said!’

And what exactly had that been? Felicia wondered grimly. Plainly Zahra knew about their plans, although she suspected that Raschid had also warned the younger girl not to mention them to her mother.

‘If you do have a hankering to see the old Kuwait, you must ask Uncle Raschid to take you to his villa at the oasis,’ Zahra surprised her by saying. ‘It was built by his grandfather, although he rarely used it. He preferred to travel with his people and live in their black tents. He built it for his English wife. Leave your unpacking,’ she instructed, changing the subject. ‘One of the maids will do that for you. Are you ready to eat?’

Guessing that she had already delayed the family meal long beyond its normal hour, Felicia assured her that she was quite ready.

As they went downstairs, Zahra explained to her that the house was built around the enclosed gardens she had noticed on her arrival, and that it comprised the traditional women’s quarters, with two separate wings; one of which was used by Raschid and the other being set aside for Faisal’s use when he was at home.

‘Not that Raschid sticks rigidly to his quarters,’ Zahra explained. ‘He normally eats with us unless business prevents him. In my father’s time the women never ate with the men, but things are different now, and Uncle Raschid encouraged both Nadia and myself to take advantage of a modern education.’

‘How kind of him,’ Felicia murmured sarcastically. She was surprised to discover that Zahra evidently held her uncle in great affection, but wished she had not given vent to her own feelings for him when Zahra paused to eye her enquiringly.

‘Don’t you like Raschid?’

‘I haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion,’ Felicia countered diplomatically, but Zahra was not deceived, and chuckled, explaining,

‘When we heard you were coming, I think Mother was frightened that you would fall in love with him. All my friends think he’s wonderful, and when he was at university in England he had many girl-friends.’

I’ll bet he did, Felicia thought sourly, and she could just imagine his lordly reaction to them.

‘He is very good-looking, isn’t he?’ Zahra murmured judiciously. ‘Much more so than Faisal.’

‘But not as gentle or kind,’ Felicia responded before she could stop herself.

Zahra’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement.

‘Zut! Kindness! Is that what you look for in a man? I think Uncle Raschid is wrong when he says you are experienced in the ways of men, otherwise you would know that kindness is not necessary between a man and a woman, where there is love.’

She said it so seriously that Felicia could not contradict her, although her own love-starved childhood had taught her that kindness was a precious virtue. Perhaps the harshness of their desert climate bred the need for it out of these people, she reflected. To her amusement Zahra was dressed in jeans and a thin T-shirt, her long hair caught back off her face with a ribbon, and as they entered what was obviously the family dining room, Felicia noticed the younger girl’s mother frowning rather despairingly as her eyes alighted on her daughter.

‘Raschid, you must speak to this child,’ she protested. ‘Look at her!’

‘Mother, everyone at the university wears jeans,’ Zahra laughed, ‘and Uncle Raschid will not forbid me, because he wears them himself,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I have seen him.’

Faisal’s mother looked at her brother, as though seeking confirmation, and although his mouth twitched a little he betrayed no embarrassment.

‘Maybe so,’ he allowed, ‘but not at the dinner table. Tonight we shall excuse you, but in future, unless you come to dinner properly dressed you will eat alone in the women’s quarters.’

Zahra pulled a face, but subsided a little, obviously accepting that Raschid would put his threat into practice if she defied him.

‘Come, we must eat. Miss Gordon….’

‘Oh, call her Felicia, Mother,’ Zahra cried impetuously. ‘And she must call you Umm Faisal.’

Felicia was about to demur, conscious of Raschid’s cool scrutiny, and her own tenuous position in the family, when Faisal’s mother looked anxiously at her, and said something in Arabic to her brother.

‘My sister begs you not to take offence at Zahra’s impetuosity, Miss Gordon,’ he said sardonically. ‘She had intended to ask you herself to do her the favour of calling her “Umm Faisal”, but Zahra has forestalled her. She also reminds me that as I am head of our family it is my duty to welcome you to our home, and beg you to treat our humble dwelling as your own for as long as it pleases you to remain with us.’

While there was no doubting the sincerity of Faisal’s mother’s welcome, Felicia stiffened, knowing that Raschid did not mean a word of what he was saying. His expression told her that much. However, before she could say anything, Zahra caused a minor disturbance by remarking teasingly,

‘Miss Gordon! You cannot call her that, Uncle Raschid, not when she is to… not when she is such a close friend of Faisal’s,’ she amended hurriedly. ‘You must call her Felicia—mustn’t he?’

She turned to Felicia for corroboration, unaware of the cold antipathy in her uncle’s eyes as they skimmed the slender figure of the girl standing in the shadows. Personally she did not care what Raschid called her, although she was sure he had adopted the formal ‘Miss Gordon’ to remind her that he wanted to keep her at a distance. Fortunately no one else seemed to be aware of the antagonism pulsating between them, and Felicia was invited to sit down and help herself to the food set before them. Despite the variety of dishes pressed upon her, she could barely touch a morsel. She did her best, glad of Zahra’s distracting chatter, and answering her many questions as best she could. A curious dreamlike state seemed to have engulfed her, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Her heart felt weighted with despair, and nausea churned her stomach—a legacy of her long flight, and the confrontation with Raschid, she acknowledged wearily.

Once or twice during the long meal she suffered the disturbing sensation of the room blurring and fading, although on each occasion she managed to jerk herself back to awareness.

‘Are you feeling all right, Felicia?’ Zahra asked in some concern, observing the other girl’s increasing pallor, but Felicia shook her head, not wishing to draw the attention of cold grey eyes to her predicament.

Later she was to regret this foolish pride, but as she struggled to swallow another mouthful of almond pastry and drink a cup of coffee she was concentrating all her energy on merely quelling her growing nausea, from one moment to the next.

At long last the ordeal was over. Shakily Felicia got to her feet, swaying slightly as faintness swept her, and from a distance she heard Zahra cry anxiously,

‘Quick, she’s falling!’

And then there was nothing but the blessed peace of enveloping darkness and the strength of arms that gripped her, halting the upward rush of the beautiful crimson Persian carpet she had previously been admiring.