discreet tapping at the royal bedchamber’s heavy wooden door almost went unnoticed, so engrossed was she in her preparations. When it continued, now a little louder, she glanced at the antique French clock on the mantelpiece. Who would dare disturb the sheik in his chambers at this hour? With a mildly vexed sigh, Alima went to answer it.
“Salma!” Her heart gave a leap of alarm when she saw her oldest and most trusted attendant standing there, almost bouncing on her tiptoes with ill-concealed emotion. “What’s wrong? Is Leila all right? Is something—”
“Oh, no, Sitt,” Salma interrupted breathlessly, “Princess Leila is fine. That is why—Oh, Sitt, please forgive me for disturbing you, but I must speak with you.”
Casting a hurried glance toward the bathroom where, judging from the sounds coming from within, her husband—perhaps in anticipation of what was to come after?—seemed to be enjoying his bath more than he’d expected, Alima stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her.
Flat on his belly with his eyes closed, Sheik Ahmed drifted on waves of pleasure. Ah yes…there…Alima’s strong fingers never failed to find the spot that needed them most.
She wanted something from him, of course. She only resorted to the oils and herbs when she was hoping to cajole him into giving her her way. He knew this, but it did nothing to lessen his pleasure. He trusted his wife implicitly. He knew she would never use the considerable influence she had on him lightly. If she was attempting to manipulate him now, it would only be for something she considered to be of utmost importance. Ah well…she would get to it in her own good time. And meanwhile, as far as Sheik Ahmed was concerned, getting there was the most enjoyable part.
“Ahmed, my beloved…”
“Yes, jewel of my heart? Speak to me.”
They had been speaking Arabic, as they often did on intimate occasions, but Alima switched now to English. “Ahmed, Salma was here, while you were in the bath. She brought news of Leila—”
“Leila!” A snort lifted his head and shoulders from the pillows.
Gently but firmly, Alima pushed them down again. “Hush, my husband—please, hear me.” After a pause, which she decided to take for acquiescence, she continued in a musing tone, “What she had to say was interesting. I think you will want to hear it.”
Ahmed gave a resigned grunt. “Very well…if you must.”
Bracing herself for the expected upheaval, Alima bore down with all her strength on one of her husband’s most troublesome spots, took a deep breath, and said lightly, “It is possible we have misjudged Elena’s friend from Texas.” A growl resonated beneath her fingers. She hurried on. “It seems this American may not be entirely without honor, after all. I say this—” she spoke calmly, but her fingers were kneading her husband’s tensed muscles as hard and fast as they possibly could “—because of what your daughter has confessed to Salma. In tears.” There was that growl again. “Yes, tears,” she said firmly. “But not because this man had dishonored her. Quite the opposite. Your daughter was in tears because he had sent her away.”
Like a small mountain shifted by an earthquake, Sheik Ahmed rolled himself onto his back. Raising himself up on his elbows, glowering fiercely, he bellowed, “Away? What do you mean, he sent her away? Explain yourself!”
Alima sat with her legs tucked under her, head high and eyes downcast. Her heart was beating rapidly and her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap, were cold. She was desperately afraid, though not of her husband—she could never be afraid of Ahmed! This was another kind of fear entirely—the fear of a mother for her beloved child. Her youngest daughter’s future happiness was at stake.
“Yes,” she said on a soft exhalation, “I fear it was not the American who behaved badly this evening, but our daughter. And I—” Her voice broke—she had not planned it. “I must say that I am not surprised. I have been afraid something like this might happen. Oh, Ahmed—” She rose and turned quickly from him to hide the tears that had sprung unexpectedly to her eyes. “Leila is so impatient and impulsive—she has always been so.”
“Yes.” Ahmed actually chuckled.
Whirling back to him, Alima was just in time to see him rearrange his face in its customary glower. “Ahmed, she is a woman. She has the feelings, the needs, the impulses of a woman. Every day I have watched her grow more impatient, waiting her turn, waiting for her sisters to choose husbands…”
Yes, and impatient for other things, for other reasons, too, about which Alima knew she could never tell her husband. Ahmed was a good man and a progressive leader in many ways, but he would never understand how bright, intelligent women like his daughters might feel frustrated at being patronized, overlooked, discounted and ignored. Particularly Leila, whom everyone considered silly and shallow, and whom possibly only her mother knew was anything but.
And there was another thing Leila’s mother knew. She had noticed the way her youngest child looked at the tall oilman from Texas. Tonight she had seen the soft shine in her eyes, the pink flush in her cheeks….
“Humph,” said Ahmed. “I have been more than patient with Nadia, it is true…” He scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Butrus wishes to marry her, and she seems willing enough.” He shrugged and gave a regal wave of his hand. “Pah—I see no real value in this tradition of marrying off daughters in order of their birth. So—if you are certain that Leila is eager to marry, and impetuous enough to do something foolish, then the answer is simple enough. I must find her a suitable husband. And now, my beloved, if that is all that is troubling you—” He smiled, and his eyes gleamed wickedly.
Alima hesitated. This was the tricky part. She must be extremely careful not to give herself away. Breathing a relieved sigh, she bowed her head and said, “Yes, my husband. You are wise, as always. Only—”
Still smiling, he caught her hand and drew her closer to him. “Only? What is it now, my love?”
Bracing her hands firmly on her husband’s shoulders, Alima looked gravely into his eyes. “Only, I fear that it may prove difficult to find a man willing to overlook tonight’s escapade. Perhaps we should consider—”
“Not the American!” bellowed Ahmed, rearing back in outrage. “A nonbeliever? Never.” “Of course not,” said Alima, laughing. “What an idea! No, I was going to say, perhaps we should consider someone older, someone who will give Leila the firm guidance she needs.” She paused, then continued demurely, “I hear the Emir of Batar is looking for a fourth wife.”
“The Emir of Batar! The man is older than I am,” fumed Ahmed, looking horrified. “And I have it on good authority that he treats his wives shamefully. No, no—we must do better for Leila.” He gave his wife an absentminded squeeze and turned away from her. “Let me think about it.”
“Of course, my husband,” murmured Alima, beginning to knead his shoulder muscles. “Perhaps this will help.”
After several minutes, Ahmed spoke, slurring his words slightly. “I have ordered the American to leave tomorrow, as early as possible.” Alima said nothing, but continued massaging his neck and shoulders. “Perhaps,” muttered Ahmed, “that was a bit…hasty. And somewhat unfair, under the circumstances. What do you think, dearest one?” He turned to encircle her with his arms. She saw that his eyes were twinkling.
She
