Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem Read Free

veil in order to obtain a better view.
    A startled hiss came from the people in her immediate vicinity. The children all turned their heads away, covering their eyes. Fumbling for her veil with shaky fingers, she managed to catch the gauzy material in a hat pin and grew flustered. Where was George?
    Anxious now for a glimpse of her husband, she cast a frantic look around the crowds. The docks were set into the shade of a low outcrop, and many of the storehouses and animal pens were built into the rock itself. Celia’s eyes were drawn to the top of the hill, where a lone figure sat astride a magnificent white horse. A man dressed in traditional robes, and if anything even more magnificent than the beast which bore him.
    Outlined against the blazing blue of the azure sky, dazzling in his white robes, he looked like a deity surveying his subjects from the heavens. There was something about him—an aura of authority, a touch-me-not glaze—which dazzled and at the same time made her want to reach out, just to see if he was real. He both compelled and intimidated, like the golden images of the pharaohs she had seen in Cairo. And, like the slaves in the murals she had seen on the walls of the temple the day she had finally persuaded George into taking a sightseeing trip, Celia had an absurd desire to throw herself to her knees at this stranger’s feet. He seemed to command adoration.
    Where on earth had that come from? Celia gave herself a little mental shake. He was just a man. An extremely striking man, but a mere mortal all the same.
    He was dressed entirely in white, save for the gold which edged his bisht , the lightweight cloak he wore over the long, loose tunic which all the men here favoured. There was gold too, in the igal which held his headdress in place. The pure white of his ghutra fluttered like a summons in the light breeze. It fell in soft folds, and must be made of silk rather than cotton, she noted abstractedly. Underneath it, the man’s face showed in stark relief. His skin seemed to gleam, as if the sun had burnished it. It was a strong face, the clean lines of his cheeks, his nose, his jaw, contrasting sharply with the soft, sensual curve of his mouth.
    His eyes were heavy-lidded—a little like hers. She could not see their colour, but Celia was suddenly acutely aware that his piercing gaze was trained directly on her. She was not properly veiled. He should not be looking at her thus. Yet he showed no sign of looking away. Heat began to seep through her, starting from somewhere in her stomach. It was the hot sun! It must be, for it was most unlike her to feel so unsettled.
    ‘My lady?’ Celia turned to find the man who had taken charge of their bags standing before her, his hands pressed respectfully together as if he was praying.
    Reminded by his averted eyes to pull her veil back into place, Celia dragged her gaze away from the god on the hilltop and returned the gesture with a slight bow.
    ‘I am Bakri. I have been sent by my master, His Highness the Prince of A’Qadiz, to escort you to his palace. I must apologise. We were not expecting a woman.’
    ‘My husband does not travel well. He needs me to take care of him.’
    Bakri raised a brow, but swallowed whatever words he was about to say. ‘You must come,’ he said instead. ‘We must leave soon—before night falls.’

    Sheikh Ramiz al-Muhana, Prince of A’Qadiz, watched her go, a frown drawing his dark brows together. The man with the weak face could only be the English diplomat, but what in the name of the gods did he think he was doing, bringing a woman companion? His wife? His mistress? Surely he would not dare?
    Ramiz watched as the woman followed Bakri to where the Englishman waited impatiently by the camels and mules which would form their small caravan. She was tall and willowy. In the East, where curves were seen as the apex of womanly beauty, she would be deemed unattractive, but Ramiz, who had spent much of his adult life in the