is a spoil of war, nothing more.” The sheikh offered benevolently. “Please, have some more wine.”
Englishmen! Englishmen were here, and not just any Englishman, but Alex Grayfield, the Blond Bedouin. She’d only seen him once when she’d traveled to Cairo with her father, but those green eyes could belong to no other. Susannah’s heart beat rapidly with excitement, in part over the prospect of rescue and in large part over the presence of a man whose very presence exuded power and sexuality. In the dark privacy of her tent, Susannah gave herself over to the memory.
He’d looked upon her boldly tonight, living up to his reputation. His eyes had answered hers as she’d danced with a message of passion every bit as sensual as the one she was meant to convey.
Her body tingled in remembrance. The sheer male physicality of him had been overpowering even in a tent full other men. Beneath his flowing robes, there’d been no mistaking the breadth of his shoulders or the strength of his body even in repose. Power resided in that body as surely as intelligence lit his mind. There’d been no doubt that his gaze had studied her, his sharp green eyes seducing her. She’d never been more aware of herself as a woman than she’d been in those few moments when she danced before him, their eyes meeting over her veil.
I want you, those eyes had said. But for all the ways in which he’d riveted her, she had entranced him as well. A woman did not need to be a whore to know when a man desired her, and now she sought to turn his desire to her advantage.
Alex Grayfield’s arrival changed everything. She could avoid the dangers of traveling the desert alone if she could persuade him to take her with him. Providing, of course, she could persuade the sheikh to let her go.
No. The sheikh would never simply let her go. Susannah sank down on the low cot that served as her bed. She had to think. Asking to be set free was far too direct. If asking were a viable alternative, she would have asked months ago. She had to be subtle. She’d learned the value of subtlety during her time among the Bedouin. In the beginning, she’d taken what she’d hoped to be the quickest route to freedom—being so troublesome to the sheikh that he’d let her go out of sheer frustration. But those rash acts had only served to prick his pride and make her situation worse. The sheikh had to be maneuvered carefully.
Susannah absently peeled off her veils, her mind perusing her options. What was it her father had always said about diplomacy? The successful diplomat knew how to play to a man’s strengths, how to praise a man’s assets. She’d learned too that assets weren’t always material items but sometimes characteristics.
The sheikh viewed himself as a man generous with his hospitality. And he was, when it came to political generosity. She’d danced at enough of his entertainments to know there was truth in that. He lavished his best food and drink on merchants and their caravans when their paths crossed. In return, she was certain he received the most accurate news and insights the merchants brought with them.
Politics were heating up the desert. This moussem was a festival, but it would also be a chance for the remaining tribes to decide if they’d throw in their lots with the Emir of Mascara. There was danger here too for the English whether they knew it or not. The sheikh did not support the emir and, by extension, he did not support the English. He would want to determine what the English meant by this visit. To do that, he would court them. But he could not court the English with his traditional largesse of figs and wineskins or the occasional camel. The English had no use for the standard luxuries of the desert.
The sheikh would need a gift substantially more English than that to impress his visitors. He needed her. She was the most English gift the sheikh possessed. The sheikh needed to be made to see that returning her out of bondage, and restoring her to her people would be a sign of his ‘western thinking,’ a chance to convince the English the Bedouin were not nomadic barbarians, but people of a certain civility who should be left to their own devices.
Susannah reached for a thin cotton shift and pulled it over her head. It was the only truly English garment left to her. Her other clothes had been taken from her that first humiliating day. She wore only what the sheikh provided and at his behest. Putting on her shift had become something of a nightly ritual, a homecoming of sorts, a chance to be an Englishwoman for a few hours instead of this man’s fantasy slave.
Making herself a gift was a good idea. It would play to the sheikh’s view of himself as a generous lord of the sands. She was astute enough to know the suggestion could not come from her. It would have to come from Grayfield. He had not bothered to hide his interest in her. Such boldness would make his request believable, but it could also be used as leverage against him. He’d best tread carefully lest Bassam and the sheikh see an opportunity to exploit that desire before she could. If she could bind him to her, he would be more likely to take her away regardless of the risk or the permission.
She needed to move quickly. Susannah covered her shift with a dark robe and belted it. She reached for a veil to hide the sheen of her hair. The camp would be busy. With luck she would pass unnoticed, but if questioned, she could say she was on her way to the sheikh’s tent. Her decision was made and she did not want to delay. It would be harder to arrange an opportunity to encounter the Englishmen tomorrow.
Susannah took a deep breath and slipped out into the night. She was off to make her ‘suggestion’ to Grayfield, and as with any suggestion, the idea would need to be planted in order for it to take root.
Chapter III
Alex was dreaming of houris, or rather of one houri in particular. Even in sleep he did not quite forget that he was an Englishman who favored monogamy. In his dream, he reclined on a couch, pillows behind his head, a goblet of wine at his arm and the woman of his evening fantasies dancing before him. Her hips swayed in a provocative prelude. She came closer, the rose and sandalwood scent of her wreathing him in sensuality.
She bent over him, her long curtain of hair sweeping his chest, her naked breasts brushing his bare skin with dusky-hued nipples. She whispered a throaty promise he couldn’t quite hear. If he raised his head just an inch he could kiss those tantalizing lips, and then move on to those delectable breasts.
He levered himself on one arm to cover the small distance, his mouth taking the invitation of her lips. She tasted of honey and surprise, a gasp escaping her in a short exhalation of breath. Instinctively, he reached out an arm to steady her, meaning to draw her firmly to him. He met with unexpected resistance. In Islamic mysticism the houris didn’t resist. This was an odd dream indeed.
Or no dream at all. Alex’s eyes flew open. Oh the woman was very real, that part was in no doubt. He woke to find himself holding the sheikh’s favorite about the slender curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts illumined through the thin cotton of her chemise by the flickering light of the tent’s lantern. The deep rose of her nipples had been no figment of imagination either. The chemise offered her very little protection against the proximity of his gaze and the lantern-cast shadows.
The resistance hadn’t been feigned either. Her body was tense within his embrace, her eyes questioning and wary. Her plans for him had plainly gone awry. The very thought raised Alex’s well-honed sense of suspicion. He hadn’t survived this long on luck alone. In his world, nothing was freely given.
Whatever she’d planned, it hadn’t been seduction, more was the pity. Alex slackened his grip and she backed away. For a moment, he feared she would bolt. He moved his grip to her wrist, shackling it easily with his hand.
“What are you doing in my quarters?” His voice was harsh, demanding an answer. In the dim light he searched her for evidence of a weapon, to no avail. She was too scantily dressed to conceal anything on her person
