Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye
implied it was some years. She hadn’t told him how, exactly, she escaped the confines of her home either. Through a window? A cellar? Did she sleep in a room of her own? He must assume so, for she was adamant that her sisters knew nothing of her escapades. Did her sand cat escape by the same means? And her camel—did she borrow it from the family stable?
Frowning as he went through his nightly security checks, he realised that despite her claim to have told him a great deal about her family, there were some very basic facts of which he was entirely ignorant. The names of her sisters, for example? And the brother and his wife—again, no names. He grimaced wryly. A case of the pot calling the kettle black.
Carefully stamping out the embers of the fire, he retired to his cottage, braced a length of wood under the latch to serve as a lock, and pulled his meagre bedding out of the cupboard. It would be an easy enough task to discreetly follow her home. Easy enough from there, with his skills as an undercover agent acquired over the last six months, to uncover her history, identify her family. But what purpose would it serve, save to satisfy his curiosity at the cost of his integrity? There were more than enough lies and subterfuges in his life without polluting this one, delightful and honest aspect of it. He should try to reconcile himself to the old adage that ignorance was bliss.
Quickly disrobing, he lay down on the rough mattress, pulled the sheet over him and closed his eyes. Desire had been absent for so long, it was not surprising that it had returned with such unexpected vigour. Tahira’s kisses, Tahira’s touch, Tahira’s soft sighs and sensuous body would go to any man’s head—and every other part of his body. He had been starved of female company, of any company since setting out on this self-imposed quest of his, it was no wonder that he found her so very, very alluring. To have met her at the turquoise mine too, the place which he hoped, dreamed, believed would prove to be the turning point in his long journey—it was natural that should add to her appeal. She was an omen of his imminent new beginning. She was his escape from reality.
But she could never be his lover in the true sense. Was he playing with fire? The answer was an unequivocal no. There were some components of his foul heritage which could not be denied. He had only to look in the mirror to prove that—something he avoided doing. Physical traits, yes, but to his dying day, he would deny any link of character. The very thought of proving himself in any way like that man—no, never. Never! The shame would cripple him for the rest of his life, and that was nothing compared to the costs to the innocent.
Damage limitation. Recalling the callous tone in which the words had been uttered made Christopher shudder with distaste. Two lives, dismissed in two words. There was no question of Christopher ever taking such a risk. No risk of him ever crossing that line. Absolutely none.
But that line was a long distance away. He shifted on the mattress, putting his hands behind his head, staring up at the stars through the holes in the cobwebbed roof. He could not make proper love to Tahira, but there were other pleasures they could share without risk. He would like to see her in the daylight. He’d like to see the sunlight rather than the moonlight dappling her skin, to see whether those big beguiling almond-shaped eyes were the darker brown or lighter, whether those luscious lips were truly cherry red, or dark pink. That was no more possible than a complete consummation of their passion, but there was no harm in imagining both.
Dressing for a formal dinner hosted by the Crown Princess was a long and laborious ritual which usually required at least two handmaidens to be in attendance, but today, once her selection of clothing had been laid out in order, Tahira dismissed her servants from her dressing closet, preferring to be alone with her thoughts. When her mother ruled the harem, she often used to allow Tahira to perform the handmaiden’s duties. Mama’s closet was always heady with the scent of attar of roses. She would recount the history of each article of formal attire in turn, Tahira recalled. They always paused to take tea when she had finished dressing, before she donned her jewellery. The whole process could take hours.
The gomlek was first. Tahira cast off her bathing robe and pulled the loose chemise with its wide sleeves over her head. Mama had favoured bright colours, red and yellow and blue, but she preferred plain white. In times gone by, the garment was left open to the waist, so Mama had said, but nowadays in the harem, women understood the art of concealment. She had laughed at Tahira’s confusion over that remark, pinching her cheek and telling her that it was one of the many things she would explain when she was older. One of the many things that she never had the chance to explain.
Tahira’s gomlek fastened chastely at the neck. Eyeing herself in the mirror, she could clearly see the outline of her breasts, the darker shadow of her nipples through the sheer fabric seeming to invite a caress. Last night, when Christopher touched her, took her nipple in his mouth, her response had been a revelation. Recalling it now, she felt an echo of that warm, sweet melting feeling deep inside her. And his response too, left her in no doubt that he found the curves she took for granted alluring. She was reputed to be beautiful, but so too was every princess in Arabia. Her sisters said she was beautiful, but her sisters viewed her through the eyes of affection. In any case, beauty, real or attributed, was a mixed blessing, as far as Tahira was concerned. Her body was an asset to be traded, one which would buy her a husband who took pleasure in doing his duty—until he tired of her—but not an asset which would provide her with any sort of pleasure.
But when Christopher looked at her, she did not feel as if she was being sized up like a brood mare. When he said she was beautiful, she believed him. When he said he desired her, he meant her, only her, not her royal title or her pedigree or the jewels and gold of her substantial dowry. Tracing her hands over her curves, she saw herself through Christopher’s eyes, and liked what she saw. Last night had given her a taste of what desire could be. She smiled to herself. Last night had left her in no doubt that Christopher was capable of giving her so much more.
She pulled on her dizlik, the short drawers which tied at the knee. Not always worn, but very necessary when the salvar pantaloons were as sheer as the pair she now donned. Struggling with the richly embroidered belt which held the multiple pleats in place at the waist, Tahira wished momentarily for her maidservant’s practised assistance. The cerulean-blue organza fell in folds to her ankles, where it was gathered in by two smaller and easier-to-fasten ties. The salvar, according to Mama, was in larger harems considered a symbol of status. She had favoured brocade threaded with gold and silver, as Juwan did, but Tahira found such fabrics far too heavy, and was quite content to leave her sister-in-law to reign fashionably supreme.
The next item in the ritual should be the yelek, which was laced tight, pulling the waist in and pushing the breasts high, but Tahira drew the line at this. Besides, her entari gown fitted neatly enough, the indigo-blue brocade fastened at her waist over her chemise with a row of pearl buttons, the sleeves fitting snugly over her undergarment to the elbow, where they opened up, falling almost to her feet, while the side panels of her robe formed a train behind her, forcing her to walk at what Mama used to call a princess pace.
She was already hot, but her toilette was not yet complete. The koosak shawl made of the same gossamer as her pantaloons was draped over her hair and fixed with pearl-headed pins. Her sipsip slippers were also blue, studded with pearls, their pointed toes a further impediment to easy motion. She eschewed the fotaza turban, which Juwan preferred, and instead placed a little takke cap on the back of her head over her shawl. Her Bedouin star carefully concealed, she fastened a pearl necklace in place, added a few thin gold bangles, and she was finally ready.
Her eyes were lined with kohl, her lashes darkened. Her lips were painted vermilion. What would Christopher think of her now? Tahira turned away from the mirror. She did not want reality ever to collide with her fantasy world which last night had been perfect in every way. Careering down the sand dune, her body pressed back against his, it had felt like flying. And afterwards, those kisses. A different kind of flying. Only when she returned to the palace did she plummet back down to earth.
The distant sound of a bell summoning her to dinner made her heart sink. She was worried about her sisters. Ishraq in particular was behaving oddly of late, spending much more time than usual with Juwan.