Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem Read Free Page A

great cities of the West, completing his education and later acting as his father’s emissary, was not so biased. She moved with the grace of a dancer. In her pale green dress, with her veil covering her face, she made him think of Guinevere, the queen from Arthurian legend. Regal, ethereal, temptingly untouchable. Definitely not a mistress, he decided, yet she had not the demeanour of a wife either.
    Ramiz watched in disgust as her husband chastised her. The Englishman was a fool—the type of man who blamed everyone but himself for his faults. He should not have let her out of his sight. The woman was not responding, but Ramiz could see the tension in her from the way she stood a little straighter. Her cool exterior was belied by that flame of hair which he had glimpsed when she had thrown back her veil. She would be magnificent when angry. Or roused. Despite her married state, Ramiz was certain her passions slumbered still. He wondered what it would take to awaken them.
    Her husband was not just a fool, but obviously inept. It was one of the things which Ramiz found incomprehensible—this reticence the English had regarding the arts of love. No wonder so many of their women looked uptight. Like buds frozen into permanent furls by frost, or simply withered through lack of the sun, he thought, as he watched the Englishman struggle to mount one of the camels. The woman was organising the loading of their baggage onto the mules. She made short work of seating herself on the high platform which formed the camel’s saddle, arranging her full skirts with elegant modesty, for all the world as if she rode one every day. Unlike her husband, who was clutching nervously at the pommel, making the animal dance playfully, the woman sat with her back straight, holding the reins at precisely the correct angle, swaying in tune to the undulating movement of the beast.
    Ramiz cursed under his breath. What did he think he was doing, looking upon another man’s woman in such a way? Even if the man appeared to be an incompetent fool, honour forbade it. The Englishman was his guest, after all, and here at his invitation.
    Ramiz was under no illusions. The English, like the French, were waiting in Cairo like vultures, ready to prey upon any sign of weakness as the Sultan of the once-great Ottoman empire struggled to retain his control over the trade routes. Already the ruthless Mehmet Ali had taken Egypt. A’Qadiz, with its port on the Red Sea, could prove a valuable link to the riches of India. Ramiz was in no doubt about the benefits to his country that playing such a role might bring, but nor was he blind to the disadvantages. Westerners were desperate to plunder the artefacts of the old world, and A’Qadiz was a treasure trove of antiquities. Ramiz had no intention of allowing them to be hauled off and displayed in private museums by greedy aristocrats with no understanding of their provenance or their cultural value, any more than he intended handing control of his country over to some conquering imperialist. As Prince al-Muhana he could trace his lineage back far beyond anything English or French dukes and lords could dream of.
    Examine what is said, not he who speaks. His father’s words, and wise as ever. The Englishman deserved a fair hearing. Ramiz smiled to himself as he turned his horse away from the harbour. Three days it took to travel across the desert to his palace in the ancient capital city of Balyrma. Three days—in which time he could observe, study and plan.

    Six camels and four mules formed their caravan as they wound their way up the hill from the port of A’Qadiz into the desert, for Prince Ramiz had assigned them three guards in addition to Bakri, their guide. The guards were surly men, armed with alarming curved swords at their waists and long slim daggers strapped to their chests, who eyed Celia with something akin to disgust and muttered darkly amongst themselves. Their presence was alarming, rather than