Sheikh's Woman. ALEXANDRA SELLERS

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t I have a pair of pyjamas on the plane?” she asked.

      “Perhaps you never wear them.”

      He spoke softly, but the words zinged to her heart. She shivered at the thought that she slept naked next to Ishaq Ahmadi. She wondered what past delights were lurking, waiting to be remembered.

      “And you do?”

      “I often fly alone,” he said.

      It suddenly occurred to her that he had told her absolutely nothing all night. Every single question had somehow been parried. But when she tried to formulate words to point this out, her brain refused.

      Even at its tightest the drawstring was too big for her slim waist, and the bunched fabric rested precariously on the slight swell of her hips. Ishaq turned away and lifted the feathery covers of the bed to invite her to slip into the white, fluffy nest.

      She moved obediently, groaning as her muscles protested at even this minimal effort. Once flat on her back, however, she sighed with relief. “Oh, that feels good!”

      Ishaq bent to flick out the bedside lamp, but her hand stopped him. “Bring me the baby,” she said.

      “You are tired and the baby is asleep.”

      “But she was crying. She may be hungry.”

      “I am sure the nurse has seen to that.”

      “But I want to breast-feed her!” Anna said in alarm.

      He blinked as if she had surprised him, but before she could be sure of what she saw in his face his eyelids hooded his expression.

      “Tomorrow will not be too late for that, Anna. Sleep now. You need sleep more than anything.”

      On the last word he put out the light, and it was impossible to resist the drag of her eyelids in the semi-darkness. “Kiss her for me,” she murmured, as Lethe beckoned.

      “Yes,” he said, straightening.

      She frowned. “Don’t we kiss good-night?”

      A heartbeat, two, and then she felt the touch of his lips against her own. Her arms reached to embrace him, but he avoided them and was standing upright again. She felt deprived, her heart yearning towards him. She tried once more.

      “I wish you’d stay with me.”

      “Good night, Anna.” Then the last light went out, a door opened and closed, and she was alone with the dark and the deep drone of the engines.

      Five

      “Hurry, hurry!”

      The voices and laughter of the women mirrored the bubble of excitement in her heart, and she felt the corners of her mouth twitch up in anticipation.

      “I’m coming!” she cried.

      But they were impatient. Already they were spilling out onto the balcony, whose arching canopy shaded it from the harsh midday sun. Babble arose from the courtyard below: the slamming of doors, the dance of hooves, the shouts of men. Somewhere indoors, musicians tuned their instruments.

      “He is here! He arrives!” the women cried, and she heard the telltale scraping of the locks and bars and the rumble of massive hinges in the distance as the gates opened wide. A cry went up and the faint sound of horses’ hooves thudded on the hot, still air.

      “They are here already! Hurry, hurry!” cried the women.

      She rose to her feet at last, all in white except for the tinkling, delicate gold at her forehead, wrists, and ankles, a white rose in her hand. Out on the balcony the women were clustered against the carved wooden arabesques of the screen that hid them from the admiring, longing male eyes below.

      She approached the screen. Through it the women had a view of the entire courtyard running down to the great gates. These were now open in welcome, with magnificently uniformed sentinels on each side, and the mounted escort approached and cantered between them, flags fluttering, armour sending blinding flashes of intense sunlight into unwary eyes.

      They rode in pairs, rank upon rank, leading the long entourage, their horses’ caparisons increasing in splendour with the riders’ rank. Then at last came riders in the handsomest array, mounted on spirited, prancing horses.

      “There he is!” a voice cried, and a cheer began in several throats and swelled.

      Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to him. He was sternly handsome, his flowing hair a mass of black curls, his beard neat and pointed, his face grave but his eyes alight with humour. His jacket was rich blue, the sleeves ruched with silver thread; his silver breastplate glowed almost white. Across it, from shoulder to hip, a deep blue sash lay against the polished metal.

      The sword at his hip was thickly encrusted with jewels. His fingers also sparkled, but no stone was brighter than his dark eyes as he glanced up towards the balcony as if he knew she was there. His eyes met hers, challenged and conquered in one piercingly sweet moment.

      Her heart sprang in one leap from her breast and into his keeping.

      As he rode past below, the white rose fell from her helpless hand. A strong dark hand plucked it from the air and drew it to his lips, and she cried softly, as though the rose were her own white throat.

      He did not glance up again, but thrust the rose carefully inside the sash, knowing she watched. She clung to the carved wooden arabesques, her strength deserting her.

      “So fierce, so handsome!” she murmured. “As strong and powerful as his own black destrier, I dare swear!”

      The laughter of the women chimed around her ears. “Ah, truly, and love is blind and sees white as black!” they cried in teasing voices. “Black? But the prince’s horse is white! Look again, mistress!”

      She looked in the direction of their gesturing, as the entourage still came on. In the centre of the men on black horses rode one more richly garbed than all. His armour glowed with beaten gold, his richly jewelled turban was cloth of gold, ropes of pearls draped his chest, rubies and emeralds adorned his fingers and ears. His eyebrows were strong and black, his jaw square, his beard thick and curling. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement as those riders nearest him tossed gold and silver coins to the cheering crowd.

      Her women were right. Her bridegroom was mounted on a prancing stallion as white as the snows of Shir.

      “Saba’ul khair, madame.”

      Anna rolled over drowsily and blinked while intense sunlight poured into the cabin from the little portholes as, whick whick whick whick, the air hostess pulled aside the curtains.

      Her eyes frowned a protest. “Is it morning already?”

      The woman turned from her completed task and smiled. “We here, madame.”

      Anna leapt out of the bed, wincing with the protest from her bruised muscles, and craned to peer out the porthole. They were flying over water, deep sparkling blue water dotted with one or two little boats, and were headed towards land. She saw a long line of creamy beach, СКАЧАТЬ