he was going. He guided her through a labyrinth of narrow streets, some built from the original mud bricks from which the earlier town had been constructed.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked him at one point, alarmed by the sudden transformation from West to East, as cloaked figures shuffled silently past them, and exotic, unrecognisable fragrances filled the air.
Raschid chuckled.
‘Not to the slave market, if that’s what you think. Oh yes, they still have them in the more remote oases, where captured tribes are sold as slaves. It is illegal, of course,’ he shrugged, ‘but by the time the crime is discovered it is often too late to prevent it. All that one can do is to make sure that the unfortunate victims are set free.’
Felicia shuddered, suddenly glad of his tall presence at her side. They were walking through an old-fashioned covered souk, where merchants called to passers-by from their open doorways. Above one hung jewelled Eastern rugs so beautiful that Felicia stopped to stare.
‘They are made by Badu from Iran,’ Raschid told her. ‘They use patterns passed down from generation to generation.’
The merchant called out a greeting, sensing a possible sale, but although Raschid acknowledged his presence, he did not stop.
Eventually he touched Felicia lightly on the arm, directing her footsteps towards an open doorway.
When her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness within the small shop Felicia saw that the shelves were stacked with bottles and boxes, the air redolent with cedarwood, ambergris, sandalwood, and other scents too unfamiliar for her to recognise. With dawning delight she realised that Raschid had brought her to the shop of a maker of perfumes.
While she stared round her surroundings in an absorbed trance the two men talked in low undertones. The owner of the shop was as wizened as a walnut, his face dried and seamed by time, but the dark eyes that glanced at Felicia were shrewdly assessing. He said something to Raschid and Felicia saw him shake his head, his expression cold.
‘Will he be able to mix something for Zahra without seeing her?’ Felicia whispered anxiously, wondering what they had been saying.
‘The perfume is for Sitt Zahra?’ the old man asked, betraying a knowledge of English Felicia would not have expected. Under her fascinated gaze the old man ran his eyes along the shelves, at last removing one small bottle. ‘I have here the perfume I made for her the last time she came. If the Sitt cares to purchase some?’
It was dark in the interior of the shop, but Felicia saw Raschid nod his head, as she glanced at him for guidance.
‘Yes, please,’ she murmured.
A wide grin split the merchant’s face.
‘May Allah curse me, I had almost forgotten that the Sitt is to be married shortly. We must add something for fertility, and something else to enhance the womanhood that will shortly be hers.’
While they waited he measured and poured, sniffing occasionally, and then he was transferring the mixture to a small crystal jar.
‘May I smell it?’ Felicia asked eagerly.
To her disappointment he shook his head.
‘This perfume is not harmonious to the Sitt’s beauty.’ He turned to Raschid and said something in Arabic, before saying to Felicia, ‘Your beauty is that of the rose before it opens fully; a bud which has not yet blossomed, and so it must be with your perfume.’
Felicia was glad of the darkness to hide her blushes, as he handed the small package to her. She dared not look at Raschid, fearful of what she might see in his face. And yet the old man had been uncannily correct; she was still a ‘bud’, the petals of innocence furled tightly about her, awaiting the warmth of a man’s lovemaking, before she could blossom into full flower.
In silence she followed Raschid from the shop, dazzled by the bright glare of the sun. It was the hour when the shops closed for the afternoon and everywhere shutters were being placed over windows, and doors closed against the heat. They were just emerging into the street when the perfume blender called something after them, and Raschid turned, glancing back into the scented darkness they had just left.
‘One moment,’ he said curtly, and disappeared back inside.
Felicia hesitated, unsure whether or not she ought to follow him. The two men were deep in a low-toned conversation, and unwilling to appear curious, she hovered in the doorway.
The old Arab was busily searching his shelves, moving jars and bottles. She caught the elusive scent of English lavender, instantly evocative of home, and then a more subtle, spicy scent. The old man pounded something in a wooden bowl with a small pestle and the fragrance of wild violets drenched the air. Fascinated, Felicia watched. Raschid was buying more perfume? For his sister? Then why the low-toned conversation? Some other woman, perhaps? A sophisticated creature with the chameleon ability to make the transition from East to West? A woman who would guard her beauty from curious eyes in public but who had the self-confidence to reveal it without shyness to the man she loved—in private?
‘Miss Gordon?’
How many more times would she have to endure hearing her name called in those bitingly imperious tones?
Her errant footsteps had taken her beyond the confines of the shop and cool exasperation laced Raschid’s voice as he strode towards her.
‘Has all that my sister and I have said to you been as so many grains of sand dispersed by the winds, or is it merely wilful caprice that prompts you into such constant disobedience?’
Disobedience! Felicia spun round, her eyes darkened to jade green with anger. Dear God, she did not want to quarrel with this man, but neither would she let him walk roughshod over her pride, trampling it beneath the fiery scorn of his contempt.
‘I walked away because I didn’t want to intrude,’ she flung at him. ‘Your business was plainly private.’ Anger made her reckless. ‘A gift for some woman who is permitted to share your bed, but forbidden any other part in your life….’
‘You have described the type of person for whom the perfume was intended to a nicety,’ Raschid gritted at her. ‘But the perfume maker does not share my view of you, Miss Gordon. Oh yes!’ He laughed scornfully at her shocked expression. ‘Did you not guess? The old man was making the perfume for you—his own idea, not mine, I hasten to add. Here, take it,’ he commanded, thrusting a small package into her hand. ‘He insists that it incorporates the innocence which he claims is an integral part of your nature. I did not want to tell him that his eyesight must be failing if that is what he thinks. I know my nephew, Miss Gordon,’ he concluded grimly, ‘and I know the type of women who share his life.’
Felicia turned, intent only on escaping from his cruel words, but his hands reached out and stayed her, his expression cautionary.
‘Do not be foolish,’ he advised her. ‘Even nowadays the souks are not entirely free from danger for the unwary. Your careless footsteps might have led you down any one of a hundred alleys and before too long you would have been hopelessly lost—an experience I am sure neither of us wishes to endure.’
She pictured herself, lost and frightened, dependent on this cold, autocratic man for succour, and her chin lifted proudly.
‘You
