Over the years, she had read so much into these few words. Too much? Was she choosing to interpret her promise selfishly now, twisting her vow into something that Mama had never intended in order to support her deep-seated reluctance to marry? For it was deep-seated, much more than she had realised until last night.
A soft whisper, a gentle hand on her shoulder told her that the masseuse had arrived. Warm oil trickled between her shoulder blades, and the woman started to gently knead Tahira’s muscles, which were stiff from the horse ride.
The woman’s touch was deft, impersonal, yet she could not relax. Why was she finding it so very difficult to do her duty? She had always, ever since she could remember, instinctively resisted doing Ghutrif’s bidding, but she wasn’t a child now. She was a grown woman, and she knew her own mind, yet no one save Christopher accepted that she had any right to an opinion, and that was the crux of the matter. As the masseuse began to work on the knots on her spine, Tahira could feel herself becoming ever more tense. She wasn’t a thoroughbred horse, to be bought for breeding in exchange for—what was it Christopher had said? A few camels, a small patch of land! It made no difference that it was more likely to be an vast herd of camels, and an entire kingdom. She was a person, not a—an object!
Tahira sat up abruptly, grabbing her linen towel. ‘‘Thank you, but I am not—excuse me, I think I will repair to the steam room.’
But seated on a marble bench, her skin damp, the only sound the hiss of the steam rising from the floor, the steady drip of condensation running down the walls, her ire rose even higher than the temperature in the room. Christopher was right, she did deserve better. She deserved to have a say in her destiny. She deserved a husband who valued her as a woman, not a—a dynastic brood mare. She deserved a husband who desired her, and only her. Who cared for her. A man she could honour and value in return.
Tahira rarely cursed, but she did now, under her breath. What was the point harbouring such impossible thoughts. All she was doing was upsetting herself—and frightening herself too, for the strength of her antipathy was growing with every passing day. She had to find a way to reconcile herself to her fate, or she would be utterly miserable.
Leaning back against the relative cool of the marble-clad wall, she closed her eyes, taking slow deep breaths in an effort to rid herself of her agitation, but to no avail. If only Christopher had disagreed with her. But Christopher—recalling his bleak expression, despite the heat she shivered.
I never met her. He’d used similar words before. I never knew her. She died giving birth to me. Could his mother be the powerless young girl who was to be forced into an arranged marriage? It would explain why he hated his father, wouldn’t it? And the demons he’d mentioned last night.
The amulet! If such a very valuable piece of jewellery was a gift from his father to his mother, and he hated his father, then she could understand why he was so determined to rid himself of it. But what on earth could his father have done to earn such enmity? Was Christopher’s quest some sort of mission of revenge then? Such a very valuable piece of jewellery! She had not the impression that his family were wealthy. Quite the opposite. Could the amulet be the proceeds of a crime?
Her head was spinning with questions and fuzzy with the heat, but at least her anger had dissipated, now she had something far more intriguing to ponder than her own unsolvable problems. If only she could resolve the mystery of Christopher’s quest, but that would require her to have the courage to ask her questions, and the tenacity to keep asking them until he answered, which was unlikely! And in the meantime...
A vision of last night floated into her head. Herself lying abandoned to passion, Christopher leaning over her. The solid weight of his body. The tantalising promise of his arousal. The thrill of her own, rising and rising and then exploding. His kisses. The way his eyes blazed fiercely when he looked at her, his own passion writ so clearly on his face. Finally, Tahira began to relax, her shoulders drooping, her limbs becoming heavy. She slid down on to the marble bench, letting the steam envelop her, and the sweet, delightful memory of Christopher’s touch wash over her.
Returning the stolen thoroughbreds had proved to be a somewhat hair-raising experience. Who could have predicted that one of the mares in the paddock would begin foaling just as he was making good his escape! Christopher had managed to slip away by the skin of his teeth just as what seemed like half the Bedouin encampment arrived on the scene.
Two days later, he was preparing for an even more risky escapade. Thinking back to the aftermath of their horse ride made his body heat. He hadn’t intended, hadn’t planned, hadn’t expected—how could he have, when he’d never before engaged in such a one-sided experience! Except that the pleasure had not been one-sided. Which made it quite unique. Because Tahira was quite unique.
Christopher paused in the act of adjusting his expensive new black cloak, specially purchased with today in mind. He couldn’t recall ever enjoying a woman’s company so much. When he was with her, the hours flew by. Was it the sense of sand moving too quickly through the hourglass which made their time together so intense? Or was he simply starved of company? Dammit, what the devil was wrong with admitting that he liked her?
‘Naught, if you are careful to make sure you don’t let your feelings run away with you,’ he told himself. ‘Nothing at all wrong with caring for her, provided you don’t care enough to do something bloody foolish.’
Such as spirit her away on a flying carpet? He rolled his eyes at this. About as likely as anything else. ‘In other words, not in the least likely, and you’d better make sure to remember that. You can take her mind off her situation, but you can’t alter it. You might think yourself a man of action, but rescuing a damsel in distress is well outwith the scope of your mission here, so you’re just going to have to put up with feeling helpless.’
Outside, dawn was breaking. Time to turn his mind to the matter in hand. Christopher pulled on the red keffiyeh, adjusting the black igal threaded with gold. Unable to furnish himself with the costume of a wealthy English aristocrat, he’d opted instead for the robes of a wealthy sheikh as the next best form of disguise.
Lord Armstrong had provided him with several sets of papers, giving him the option to switch between several identities. ‘Though only if there is no other option,’ the peer had stressed. ‘Strictly a last resort.’ Would the wily diplomat consider this such a case? The answer, Christopher thought blithely, was an unequivocal no. A life-and-death situation on the other hand—very possibly, if his subterfuge were discovered. How the real Sir Ferdinand St John Bremner would react should he find his name and his estate and his reputation had been sullied—happily, that was Lord Armstrong’s problem. By the time the local agent had informed London of his masquerade, Christopher would be back in Egypt. Hopefully, minus his amulet.
Outside, the morning light was harsh as he saddled his camel and made his way towards the city. He’d have preferred not to have to draw attention to his presence here in Nessarah until he had a sample from the turquoise mine, but he couldn’t sit about twiddling his thumbs until then. The only way to gain entry to the diamond market was through Prince Ghutrif. Fortunately his Highness was avaricious, and the local agent Christopher had deployed, with his hints at further lucrative English business, persuasive. The wealthy Sir Ferdinand St John Bremner’s request to establish whether Nessarah could provide him with a jewel fit for his new wife’s tiara had been granted.
The white walls of Nessarah’s huge bazaar shimmered in the sunlight. This time, Christopher strode confidently through the maze of corridors and stairwells to the closed screen which hid the entrance to the diamond market. He had, most reluctantly, left his trusty scimitar and dagger
