The Fierce and Tender Sheikh (16 page)

L
ate in the night, bride and bridegroom wandered by the sea, alone.

“Who lives here?” she asked, lifting her face as a wave splashed against an outcrop of rock and the breeze carried droplets of water to her lips.

“It is Prince Rafi's holiday villa.”

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

They paused and turned to gaze at the golden glow above.

The house, encircled by rock, sat above the tiny private bay where they stood, their feet lapped by the cooling water. It enclosed on three sides a large courtyard set with pomegranate trees. In the centre a beautiful circular pool inlaid with intricate patterns of mosaic tile shimmered green with underwater lights, so that the trees cast faint shadows in the gloom. At one side a gold-domed pavilion was invitingly lit with soft golden light, and music played. Her grandmother's voice enticed the night.

“What a long journey it's been!” Shakira marvelled. Her head rested against his heart, and the strong, steady beat under her ear seemed to match the music.

“A thousand miles. And worth every step,” Sharif said.

She looked up into his face, her eyes brushed with moonlight, seeking reassurance for a heart that, even now, could not quite believe.

But he had the rest of his life to make it real for her, and that was a whole new journey, and he took the first step tonight. “Even though my heart had been assailed by all that I'd seen,” he said, “somehow Hani struck me a deeper blow than anything I'd experienced before.”

She smiled wisely. “Maybe because your resistance was so worn down already.”

He kissed the upturned face. “I thought I was so touched because you had suffered such deprivation, and maybe because you were an al Jawadi. You trusted no one, and I wanted you to trust me.”

She smiled, considering it. “That's love, I think. Wanting to be trusted.”

“That's a very small part of love, Beloved,” he assured her. “There is much more.”

They moved up the beach towards the courtyard, and her heart began to beat a hurried rhythm. He led her towards the little pavilion, its gold dome glittering in the moonlight, and in the doorway he stopped, and turned her to him, and at last, at long last, he drew his wife into his embrace, and set his mouth on hers. For the first time, now, he gave his need free rein.

After an endless time, he lifted his head. Shakira's senses
were reeling, her blood thick in her veins, like warm honey, as he led her into the pavilion.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, remembering. “Oh, this is just like my dream!”

 

The pavilion had been made for love. Its high arched openings gave out onto the drunken, perfumed night, over the courtyard, the playing fountains, the drooping blossom, the diamond-encrusted sky. Inside, a wide divan was strewn with pillows and cushions, and covered with lushly embroidered tapestries in a feast of the richest colours she had ever seen. Floor and walls decorated with intricate tiles from another age, and a domed ceiling where arches descended like angels, all a-glitter with mirror and gold, were lighted by the moon and stars, and by a dozen lamps, whose flames glowed inside lamps of filigree and damascene, crystal and jewel, and sculpted brass.

A low, delicately carved marble table, inlaid with leaves of ebony and chalcedony, and traced with gold, was spread with the feast that had been prepared for them. Plates of beaten gold and silver and intricately painted porcelain held a dozen different dishes, succulent and spiced, whose odours were ambrosia to their senses.

Sharif Azad al Dauleh led his wife to the divan and propped cushions under her as she sat smiling up into his eyes, her dress falling in a luxurious ripple all around her, trailing over cushions and down to the floor—a sparkling, glittering sea of green silk shot with rivulets of gold.

Leaning over her, on arms whose strength was not disguised by the fine silk of his own jacket, he bent his head to kiss and tease her lips with a taste more delicious than any food. Warmth rippled through her body, and desire flowed like honey under her skin.

He sank down onto the floor beside her, his knees folded as in the antique miniatures, the lamplight glinting on the tamed dark curls and the rich dark jewel on his hand, love shining in his eyes.

Princess Shakira lay against the cushions, also like those ancient miniature paintings, and opened her mouth to receive the succulent offerings from his fingers. Morsels of exquisitely spiced meat and vegetable, sumptuously prepared, luscious with fine oils, wrapped in delicate pastry, dipped in rich sauces, he fed her, and in between each taste his own tongue licked a last droplet from her trembling mouth.

Her heart leapt with each caress, and she knew that desire pulsed in him, too, with a need that was both pain and pleasure.

Wine he poured from a crystal decanter painted with gold, then lifted the gold-chased goblet in a strong, dark hand whose jewel flickered with molten green flame. In the lamplight the goblet, too, glowed so richly with claret and gold it hurt her.

Her senses became confused then, so that his kisses were delicious and the food a caress. A sugared strawberry kissed her lips and shivered in her blood; his tongue was spiced as it traced the curve of her lips, his mouth honey as it moved over her throat, in the curve of her arm, her palm.

Sharif's hands were music and fire as they stroked and held her through the richly embroidered silk of her dress, and she heard the music and felt the heat of the fire as if there were one sense that understood both. Sensation flicked and curled around her, as his tongue on her tongue, his fingers in her hair.

“My beloved, my wife,” he murmured low, and her blood sang at the grateful triumph in his voice. “How long I have waited for you!”

She smiled, and for the first time had the confidence to tease. “Was it really so long? A few months?”

His eyes burned deep into hers. “I have waited for you, my Princess, all my life, and longer.”

She gasped, for so it felt to her, too. “Yes,” she whispered.

His hand moved to her throat, and she felt the tiny button at her neck submit to his fingers' firm authority. His mouth followed his hand, kissing each area of skin revealed by the parting folds of silk. The silk rustled as if it, too, trembled at
the touch, and fell back willingly to expose her shoulders to him. Gently he lifted her and drew the tunic down, so that the lamplight played on the soft, smoky skin of her shoulders and arms. Now his mouth bent to the soft curve of her breast above the ruched and beaded green silk of her bodice, and she shuddered with pleasure at each kiss, each warm breath.

At last he lay down beside her, and drew her up to bend over him in the tender lamplight that burnished her curls and his. His hands stroked the skin of her shoulders, slid down over silk to her waist and hips, holding her with a firmness that thrilled her.

His eyes burned her, and his mouth smiled a smile of too much feeling.

“Shakira,” he whispered. “
Allah,
how love tears the heart!” Then his hands cupped her small head, and drew her down to the hunger of his mouth.

His hands were warm on her skin, sending a potent melting into her bones, and she whimpered with need, like a small animal seeking comfort. His fingers found the hidden fastening of her bodice, and with a small noise of satisfaction he opened it.

“Oh,” she cried, for everything was new, so new to her.

“There is nothing to fear,” he urged softly. “You are my life, Shakira. I can never do anything to hurt you, so long as I live.”

Her lips trembled into a smile. “I'm not afraid.”

Now she was naked except for the silky green trousers, like a harem girl of old. Her breasts shivered alive as they pressed against the silk of his shirt, and the strong chest underneath.

His hand cupped one small, firm breast with possessive knowing, as if both hand and breast had been created only for this moment. His palm whispered back and forth, sending rumours of his intentions to her stomach and legs, down her back, along her arms, till even her fingertips understood.

Then, in sudden impatience, he leaned up to strip off his own pearl-embroidered jacket. Bare chested, wearing the white shalwar, he looked like a genie from a lamp for a moment, but then he stood to strip the shalwar down his legs, and her eyelids drooped, for he was a genie no longer, but a man.

“Oh!” she cried again.

He extinguished all lamps but one, bringing a protective blanket of dream and shadow to shroud them. He bent over her in the faint lamplight, his hand possessive under her neck and head, his mouth drinking pleasure from hers as if he were starved of it. Then he lifted his kiss and moved it to her neck, her throat, her body. Outside a night bird whistled a delicious, drunken melody in her ears like the music of his lips against her skin.

She wandered in a garden of longing as his mouth traced over her breasts, her stomach, and her hand found his head and her fingers ruffled the dark silk of his hair, twining themselves in curls. He turned his head and caught her hand, drawing it to his mouth, and sucked the palm. Pleasure shot through her with electric intensity, and she bent one knee up and hugged her thigh against his arm.

He let go her hand then, and slipped his palm down to cup the small firm mound under the green silk, watching her face for the pleasure of seeing the desire that whispered across it.

“Oh!” she cried again. “Oh, Sharif!”

She arched up into his hand, and he smiled with satisfaction, and with the strain of leashing his hungry need. As his hand caressed her, building the pleasure in her, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. In his dark gaze she read the glow of his determination, and the frown of his love. In that moment the promised pleasure erupted under his hand, and her head fell back against the pillows, and she cried her gratitude.

“Oh, I never knew!” she said.

He smiled a tender, possessive smile. “This is only the beginning, my beloved. There is much to learn, for both of us.”

For a moment she was nervous, sensing the loss of control that was to come. But this was Sharif, and in the next instant the anticipation of pleasure drowned all other feeling.

She felt his hands find the fastening in the silk that wrapped her, and he drew the whispering fabric down, his mouth kissing the skin that the departing silk revealed, stomach, abdo
men, and then down the length of her leg to ankle and instep. Then he lowered his kiss to her body again.

After endless time wandering in the garden of pleasure, she felt him lift his head, and his hands lifted her back onto the divan, and then his body was above her, powerful and demanding. His hand slipped under her neck, and his kiss seized her mouth, while his other hand moved to open her body to his.

The universe waited for the stroke that was the seal of their love, the great breath caught in the moment before the whirlwind is unleashed. Then he pressed into her, with a cry that was almost a plea against pain, and she understood that for him such deep need was almost torture.

Her own pain, the pain of newness, was lost in the sweep of wild joy she felt at the deep union of their bodies and souls, so that she welcomed his body in her with a singing cry. The night bird heard, and replied, and to them both it was as if all of nature joined them at the feast. He moved in her with an urgency now that could no longer be restrained, drunk on her pleasure-song.

He pushed and thrust himself into her, searching for that one place that was his and his alone, the place where there was no more hunger, no more need, only utter peace. His throat cried out his searching need, his song joining hers in a duet against the background of nature's symphony. For a long, unmeasured time the music played, and then at last they found the clear, fine note that was nature's own, and their music arced up, exploded, and cascaded back down to earth in a dome of light.

She clung to him, and felt tears of joy and gratitude drop from her lashes and take a curving path down her cheek, for she knew that her life had been healed, and her heart could hardly contain her happiness, nor her wonder at what was possible.