Arabian Nights with a Rake

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Epilogue

Northern Desert of Algeria, May, 1833

Alex Grayfield unwrapped the long lengths of his turban and breathed a deep lungful of night air, expelling it with a long “Ahhh.” On the nearing horizon, the flickering of torch lights illuminated a massive array of tents, a Bedouin village rising from the sands. The faint sounds of music and laughter beckoned welcomingly across the distance. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes in satisfaction. Beside him, Crispin Ramsden's horse shifted on the sands.

“Do you smell what I smell?” Alex exhaled almost reverently. God, he loved the desert. Out here, he was free.

“Trouble?” Crispin gave a low chuckle.

“Women.”

“Is there a difference?”

They laughed together in the rising darkness, spurring their horses forward, both of them eager to arrive at the encampment now that the journey was nearly done. Algiers, with its narrow streets and smells of fish and coffee, was two days behind them, the edge of the desert before them.

“You can't really smell them at this distance.” Crispin challenged good-naturedly, pulling his horse alongside.

“Can't you?” Alex couldn't resist the gibe. He smiled. “I can smell incense and wine, meat roasting in its own juices on a spit. Only women can conjure such delicious smells.”

“Where there's a woman, there's danger.” Crispin warned and not without reason. Europe was littered with his bedroom intrigues.

“Well, you would know best on that score.” Alex shrugged. “There's bound to be danger anyway, women notwithstanding.” Their journey into the desert was no pleasure trip. He and Crispin had been sent to this gathering of Bedouins to take the political temperature of the nomads.

Algiers had capitulated to the French, and Britain wanted to know if there was anything to be gained by supporting the desert rebels rallying against the French occupation. Guerrilla forces under the Emir of Mascara, Abd al Qadir, were already amassed and established after their victory. In November, the emir's army had stopped a French advance into the desert. Buoyed by the emir's success, would others join the fight to liberate Algiers? If so, perhaps Britain might covertly assist in an attempt to offset the growing power of French colonialism. Alex knew as well as Crispin the import of their mission. He who controlled the desert controlled North Africa.

“Do we have a connection or are we just showing up and hoping we aren't killed on the spot?” Crispin turned the conversation towards more serious issues now that their appearance at the camp was imminent. They weren't the first team to attempt to arrive here, although they might be the first team to arrive intact. Six months ago, Lord Sutcliffe's entourage, including his daughter, had set out from Algiers. But they'd never arrived at their destination. The entire group was presumed most tragically dead.

“Your Arabic is fluent enough to pass,” Crispin mused, “but no one would believe I was anything other than an Englishman once I opened my mouth.”

“They might think you're French and that would be far worse.” Alex joked.

Crispin's French was impeccable and had been immensely useful in the circles they had penetrated in Algiers. But it was Alex's Arabic—compliments of growing up as a British diplomat's son in Cairo—that they'd rely on out here in the desert.

“We have an introduction to Sheikh Muhsin ibn Bitar through my father's connections in Algiers,” Alex offered. Beyond that, it was too complicated to explain the circuitous network of friendships so common to the way of life in the Arab world.

Crispin nodded, not expecting more detail. Like Alex, Crispin had had enough experience in this part of the world to know how things worked. An introduction would be all they needed. This gathering was a happy occasion. A
moussem
like this one brought the wandering tribes together for a celebration and the exchange of news. It would be a prime opportunity to hear from many tribes at once.

Truth be told, Alex was looking forward to the
moussem.
There would be food and dancing, competitions and music. They approached the outer circle of tents and Alex smiled. If he was charming and careful, there'd be women too. Ah, life was good.

 

She would get one chance to escape. If she was over-careful, she'd miss her opportunity. If she was over-hasty…well those consequences were too horrific to contemplate.

Susannah Sutcliffe eased back into the tent, letting the flap fall discreetly. For six months, since her father's death in a desert skirmish, she'd lived in the awkward limbo of the captive-slave. Muhsin ibn Bitar desired her greatly, which meant she'd not been sorely used in labor. But it also meant she owed him her gratitude. So far, she'd been able to satisfy him with entertainments and sitting at his feet during his meals.

They both knew those acts were nothing more than an extended prelude to his final seduction. He would not be put off any longer. He'd told her as much when they'd set out for the gathering. If she did not please him by the end of the
moussem
she would be given to another. That other was likely his brother-in-law, Bassam.

Susannah shuddered at the thought. Bassam was a man known for his love of diverse pleasures in the bedchamber. But neither did she prefer the company of the sheikh himself, who desired her as an earthly houri. That left only one option; taking her chances in the desert, a most dangerous option in itself. A wrong direction could lead her away from the settlements and caravan routes. It was easy to die in the desert and she would only be able to carry a few days worth of water at best.

Her plan was simple. She would steal a hardy desert horse or, if necessary, a camel and set out at night while everyone slept. With all the people here for the
moussem
, it would be hours before anyone noticed she or the beast were gone. There would be no margin for error.

She would stake it all on a single action. Camel or horse thievery was a grave crime among the Bedouin. She doubted if the sheikh's desire for her would be great enough to protect her from Bedouin justice. She would live or die on the success of her plan.

Part of her argued against taking such risk. She could stay. Surely there was no shame in pleasing the sheikh. Surely, she could bear it if it meant she could live. If she lived, there might be a better opportunity later. What was it her father used to say?
Live to fight another day?
But he'd also been fond of saying
Never surrender
. She would face the desert and complete her father's mission. When she returned to the consulate in Algiers, she'd have the information her father had been sent to seek.

A girl slipped into the tent, holding a collection of filmy fabrics in her arms. She held them out to Susannah. “The sheikh bids you attend him. I am to wait and help you with your hair.”

Susannah nodded. Her knowledge of Arabic had grown enough over the months that she understood the commands.
So the game begins,
she thought as she dressed. By English standards, the garments were scandalous, far more revealing than any good Englishwoman's nightgown. By Bedouin standards, the outfit was sumptuous. The sheikh had spared no expense. Of course, she understood it was important to put on a display of his wealth. She just didn't like being part of that display.

The girl combed out her hair, letting it hang long and loose behind her. A woman entered with a soft bag containing jewelry and placed a small gold circlet on top of her head and bracelets on her wrists. She should be used to the routine by now. This would not be the first night she had danced for the sheikh and his friends. The women who tended her had told her it was a great honor to dance for the sheikh, but she could not dismiss the feeling of being a slave led to market or a cow to slaughter. She'd not been raised to this life. She'd been a diplomat's daughter raised in a proper British household. Never in her darkest dreams had she'd thought she'd end up in a Bedouin encampment, enslaved for the personal enjoyment of a desert chieftain.

The woman held aside the flap. It was time to go, time to set aside any self-pity over her plight. It was time to survive, and to do that, she needed to dance with all the abandon she possessed, to tease and withdraw, to conjure forth every male fantasy in the tent while allowing the sheikh to believe she danced only for him.

Alex reclined on the pillows, propped up by an elbow. He reached for another date from the platters laid before them. A relaxed atmosphere permeated the sheikh's tent. The festival had put everyone in a generous mood. Well, almost everyone. Alex amended. One dark-eyed man with a scar on his left cheek sat brooding next to the sheikh. Bassam, Alex thought his name was. The enormous tent was filled to capacity with guests, it had been hard to keep all the names straight. He'd remembered the important ones.

There was a movement at the back of the tent and the sheikh clapped his hands for attention.

“There's to be dancing,” Alex translated with a grin for Crispin.

“Did you save me a waltz on your dance card?” Crispin replied drily.

Alex laughed. “It's to be the sheikh's favorite. I do think I prefer this kind of dancing. I just get to sit here and watch. No dance cards, no introductions, no expectations.”

“No matchmaking mamas, either.” Crispin put in.

“There's a reason I eschew England.” Alex had been about to say more but the drums began, drowning out his voice. He doubted he could have spoken anyway. The dancer had carefully navigated her way through the crowd to the open spot in front of the sheikh and even now spun before him in a whirl of turquoise silk, her pale-gold hair as much a seductive curtain as the transparent veiling she teased with.

Gold hair
.

The sheikh's favorite was not a dark-eyed woman of the desert. She looked English, but looks could be misleading. She might be any number of European nationalities. Alex shot a quick glance in Crispin's direction. Only a slight movement of his eyes gave any indication he'd also noticed. It wouldn't do for them to show any outward sign of curiosity.

The dancer's movements slowed, her hands moving to draw attention to the undulation of her hips, the exposed, sculpted flatness of her stomach; her hands drifted upwards, drawing Alex's eyes to the fullness of her breasts encased in a jeweled top. The woman was exquisite, there was little wonder she was the favorite. But with her pale hair and skin, she was decidedly not one of the Bedouin, nor was she Arab.

Whatever and whoever she was, she was positively intoxicating; her subtle scents of sandalwood and roses teasing his nostrils. His body hardened in visceral response to the promise of her sensuality. Her lips parted, a secret smile playing across them, eyes as blue as the Mediterranean met his over the transparent rim of her veils, promising all nature of erotic fulfillment as if she danced solely for him.

Yet there was a provocative innocence in those eyes, creating the impression that this was no jaded concubine expertly tantalizing men but a passionate woman in waiting, perhaps begging to be awakened to love's pleasures. Alex's arousal grew in damning proportions at the prospect, at the fantasy, of taking such a woman to his bed, to teach her, to share with her the exotic mysteries of sex.

Then she was gone, her attentions returning to the sheikh, but the fantasy remained, a potent loiterer in his mind. Later in the evening when the torches burned low and only a few men remained in the tent to discuss news, Alex asked with a feigned nonchalance, “Where did the woman come from?”

“Still in her thrall?” The sheikh gave a commiserating laugh. “She enchants every man, does she not?”

“She is lovely, indeed.” Alex agreed, schooling his own features in the dimness of the tent to hide any sign of his own desire. But the sheikh had not answered his question and Alex wanted his answer. “How did you come by her?”

The grim man with the scar leaned forward to speak. “My brother-in-law does not share his concubines. She is not available to you if that's what you're asking.”

Alex felt Crispin's languid repose transform into alertness. Alex took the man's measure easily. Bassam was jealous. Bassam wanted the lovely concubine for himself.

“She 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.