The Sheikh’s Impetuous Love-Slave

Princes of the Desert

Marguerite Kaye

Arabia, 1816

For Sheikh Khalid al-Raqam, choosing a bride comes second to the responsibility of ruling his kingdom and protecting its treasures. When he is given a shipwrecked foreign beauty as a tribute gift, he foresees a diplomatic nightmare—until he lays eyes on Juliette de Montignac’s lush curves. His passion is only roused further by her bold and defiant spirit. His inner conqueror awakened, Khalid is determined to tame Juliette…by awakening her own desire for him!

Book one of the Princes of the Desert series.

Princes of the Desert

Princes of the Desert

Where Regency Roses meet Desert Sheikhs

Three innocent Regency Roses prove to be the undoing of these ruthless sheikhs. In the heat of the sand dunes, the desert princes’ inner conqueror is awakened. The elemental desire to possess is outrageous but irresistible!

And in the beguiling opulence of the harem, together they discover a passion beyond their wildest expectations…

The Sheikh’s Impetuous Love-Slave – Undone!
June 2011

Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem
July 2011

The Governess and the Sheikh
August 2011

These titles are available as ebooks at www.harlequin.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

Lash’aal, Arabia, 1816

‘The tribal delegation has arrived, Highness.’

Sheikh Khalid al-Raqam, Prince of Lash’aal, continued to study the sketch of the shrine recently discovered on the site of the lost city of Persimmanion. The ruined temple fascinated him, for it predated the rest of the city by many centuries. Perhaps it was the reason for the city’s existence in the first place? Khalid picked up the latest artefact to be uncovered, a little gold idol in the shape of a female goddess, most unusual for this region of Arabia. He smiled to himself. The more superstitious of his subjects, including Farid, his man of business, now waiting deferentially for instructions, would think it some sort of portent, but Khalid was above such childish notions. He was fascinated by the past, not haunted by it.

He rolled the tiny antiquity in the palm of his hand. Persimmanion was proving rich in such finds. It was vital that they keep its existence quiet, lest the European vultures get wind of it and attempt to loot Lash’aal’s precious heritage, as they’d already done in Egypt. Khalid’s hand tightened on the golden goddess. He would not permit such desecration on his sovereign territory.

‘What do they want, this delegation?’ he asked Farid irritably.

‘An audience, Highness. They have travelled five days across the desert to pay the debt of honour owed for your assistance in settling the border dispute. You would not wish to cause offence by keeping them waiting too long.’

Khalid sighed and carefully rolled up the drawing. ‘Very well, I’ll see them now.’

Farid bowed. ‘You will receive them in state, Highness?’

It was phrased as a question, but Khalid knew better. He sighed again. ‘If I must. As always, Farid, I rely on your counsel when it comes to matters of protocol.’ Three years into his reign, Khalid still found many of Lash’aal’s customs, the pomp and ceremony in particular, irksome. But the peace which he had fought hard to bring about within his kingdom was still fragile, and with so many different tribes ready to rise against each other at the slightest provocation, it was vital that his status as the ultimate source of power, justice and, if need be, retribution, was publicly reinforced.

It was a heavy responsibility and it exacted its own price, isolating Khalid as it did, from other mere mortals. His duty was to be infallible, invincible, all-powerful. Though he was now thirty-two years old, more than past the age for thinking about siring an heir, choosing a bride for him from one of the many factions which made up his kingdom without offending the others had so far defeated even Farid’s legendary powers of diplomacy. Since Khalid himself was largely indifferent to the choice, based as it must be on the needs of Lash’aal rather than any more personal desires, he had been content to remain unwed. The burdens of state were better borne alone—or so he told himself as he donned his heavy formal robes in his private chambers.

The midnight-blue silk tunic with its heavy edging, designed to weight down the long, full sleeves, had a high neck braided with the same passementerie, made from thread twined with silver and pearls. The belt which he fastened around his waist was embossed silver, decorated with turquoise and sapphire. Into it was thrust the ceremonial state scimitar, also made of silver, and onto his finger went the ring of state, the legendary Lash’aal sapphire set in white gold. The cloak which was draped around Khalid’s tall muscular frame was also midnight-blue, also weighted with precious and semiprecious jewels, as was his headdress with more silver thread in the igal which held it securely in place. By the time he had finished dressing, Khalid felt as if he were literally bearing the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders.

The magnificent throne room of the royal palace of Lash’aal was eighty paces long, the bright light flooding in the oriole windows reflecting endlessly off the walls, which were tiled with mirrored glass. Khalid took his place on the throne, which was positioned on a dais at the head of the room, as Farid barked an order and the double doors were flung open. A motley crew of tribesmen shuffled nervously in, bearing a large bundle between them. It looked like a carpet, and judging from the ragged ties at each end and the dusty condition of it, not a particularly fine example, either. Khalid raised one eyebrow questioningly.

One of the tribesmen stepped forward, bowing repeatedly. ‘Highness, we come to pay homage and bid you accept this most unworthy gift from your eternally grateful subjects.’

‘I am delighted to accept,’ Khalid said with a nod, ‘but I cannot disagree with your description of the quality of your offering.’

The tribesman looked momentarily baffled before breaking into a broad grin, revealing a set of yellow, mismatched teeth which a camel would be proud to own. ‘The carpet? No, Highness, that is but the wrapping. The real treasure lies within.’ He clapped his hands loudly and the other tribesmen unrolled the carpet onto the floor with a flourish.

‘Oof!’

The voice was indignant, foreign and most definitely female. The owner, her dirty, tattered clothes revealing a surprisingly shapely form, with long hair black as night and eyes as stormy as a winter sea, struggled with her bonds and raised herself to her knees to glare at him insolently.

Juliette de Montignac’s eyes stung as they adjusted to the blaze of reflected sunlight after the oppressive darkness of the carpet in which she had been confined. She was in some sort of enormous, formal room. Her eyes focused on the man standing before her. A tall man. His feet were clad in jewelled slippers. A very rich man, judging by the fine clothes he wore, and a very well-formed one, too. Beneath the thin silk of his tunic, she could see that his body was toned. Muscled, even. The ornate belt with its vicious-looking scimitar was fastened to a slim waist, unusual in a land where girth was perceived to be evidence of wealth. She raised her eyes farther, past the solid wall of his chest, his broad shoulders, to meet his eyes. Startlingly blue eyes, deep set, with fine lines fanning out at the corners. A face more striking than classically handsome, with sharply defined cheekbones. A tiny cleft in his chin. A thin scar slicing through one eyebrow. A memorable face.

Formidable was the word which leaped into her mind. A shiver of something akin to fear shook Juliette, taking her by surprise. A lifetime spent with her father on archaeological digs, living rough in tents and mixing with every sort of scoundrel had, she thought, inured her to such girlish emotions, but this man was somehow different. Not a man to make an enemy of.

Looking covertly around at her ornate surroundings, the gold throne upon the dais, and back to the autocratic man before her, Juliette realized she was being offered by her captors as some sort of gift. Garnering all her courage, determined that he should not see even a glimmer of her trepidation, she met, full-on, the gaze of the man scrutinizing her. ‘Je m’appelle Juliette de Montignac,’ she said, her voice emerging with reassuring authority from her parched throat.

French! Watching the head tribesman rubbing his hands together, Khalid wondered if the fool had any idea of the predicament this unwanted gift of theirs had placed him in. He bowed. ‘Prince Khalid al-Raqam of Lash’aal.’

A prince! She should have guessed from that haughty stance. Well, prince or no, he had not the right to hold her against her will. Juliette tilted her chin. ‘These men have kidnapped me. I demand that you set me free.’

Definitely French, and judging by the sound of her voice, and that superior air of hers, a well-born mademoiselle to boot. The diplomatic implications could be severe. ‘Where did you find her? How long ago?’ Khalid demanded curtly.

‘By the sea, Highness,’ the head tribesman replied, keeping his eyes cast firmly at his prince’s feet. ‘A month ago, thrown ashore by a storm.’

A whole month! Could it get any worse? Khalid swore silently. ‘What happened to the others?’ he asked, addressing Juliette in her own language.

His French was flawless, softly accented. The question brought a brief, horrible memory of the storm, the screeching of the wind as it ripped through the sail of the dhow, the screams of the crew, her own urgent entreaties to Papa to leave his precious artefacts, to save himself. He hadn’t of course. The rogue wave which had tossed her to shore had also sent Papa and the trunk full of carefully garnered relics to the bottom of the Red Sea. In death, as in life, Papa had put his lost civilizations first. ‘Lost, all of them, including my father,’ Juliette said, biting her cheek.

‘I am sorry,’ Khalid said, touched by the effort she was making not to cry. ‘What of the rest of your family, where are they?’

‘Family?’ Juliette shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat caused by his too-obvious sympathy. Though Papa had been well-born, when he made archaeology his career rather than a mere gentlemanly interest, his family had disowned him. Juliette had never met any of her relatives, nor had Papa encouraged her to show any interest in them. So used was she to considering herself alone in the world—for Papa, by his own admission, was more her mentor than her parent—that she had come to think it quite normal, unless it was brought to her attention. She did not like to have it brought to her attention, and so she shrugged. ‘I have no other family. My mother died when I was a baby. It has always been just Papa and me.’

Though much of the time, Juliette admitted sadly to herself, especially when she was little, Papa had barely noticed her. It was only as she grew old enough to be of use that he took control of her education, though his purposes were self-serving rather than altruistic, his teaching confined to his own field. In his daughter’s views on anything outside the world of archaeology, he had no interest. Juliette doubted he even knew whether she preferred tea or coffee, Rousseau or Voltaire. Certainly, he would have considered both questions irrelevant.

Prince Khalid was looking at her strangely. ‘No husband?’ he asked with a raised brow. ‘That is surely rather…unusual?’

Juliette bristled. She was aware that her life had been unconventional, but it was all she knew. Though she herself had begun to question it, she did not relish a complete stranger doing so. ‘All my life, I have helped Papa with his work. Important work, far more important than a mere husband. I have no time for such things. I earned the right to be treated as an equal by Papa and his assistants.’

Eyeing the extremely shapely female body beneath the tattered remnants of her clothing, Khalid found this rather difficult to believe. Catching the lascivious look of the tribesmen as they ogled her, he felt a stab of anger at his subjects’ lack of manners, but also at this odd female’s naïveté.

‘She is very pretty, no?’ the tribesman said with a wink in Juliette’s direction.

‘Son of a camel,’ Juliette spat at him, ‘how dare you look at me like that!’

The tribesman moved quickly to the side as Juliette aimed a kick at him, hampered by her bonds. ‘As you can see, Majesty, she has a fine, fiery spirit.’

‘I hope,’ Khalid said coldly, ‘that you have treated her with the respect due to a foreign visitor to my kingdom.’

The tribesman gave a nervous laugh. ‘Such a temper she has, my men would not dare go near her. Truth be told, Majesty, we are glad to be rid of the little wildcat. Only a prince such as you, Mighty One, can tame her, bring her to heel,’ he said with an unconvincing smile and a sideways glance at Juliette.

‘Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?’ Juliette demanded of Khalid. ‘What is he saying about me, that man who has a goat for a father?’ Though her hands were still bound, she looked so fierce that the tribesman shrank away. ‘For a month, they have kept me tied up like an animal. I demand that you tell me….’

‘Enough!’ Khalid clapped his hands together so loudly that Juliette fell abruptly silent. ‘You are in no position to make demands, mademoiselle. I did not ask for you, and by the gods, I wish you had not been given to me, but you are now, by the laws of Lash’aal, my property. Payment for a debt of honour, ‘ he explained grimly. ‘Despite their ramshackle appearances, these men represent a powerful tribe. It would be unwise of me to offend them by refusing their gift.’

It would indeed be most unwise. In fact, the situation was extremely tricky, and Khalid could not help blaming the female gazing belligerently up at him for causing it. Why did she have to wash up on his coastline? By accepting her, there was a risk her government might think him complicit in her imprisonment. He would have to think very carefully indeed about the best way to return her to the French Consulate in Cairo.

Turning back to the tribesmen, Khalid decided to dispense with at least one part of the problem. ‘I consider the debt now paid in full. You may go with my thanks. Take my honoured guests away, Farid, and see that they are well fed and watered before their return journey.’

‘Yes, Highness. And the—the female?’ Farid replied, casting Juliette a pointed glance.

‘I will deal with Mademoiselle Montignac,’ Khalid replied grimly. ‘Just get them out of here.’

The room emptied quickly. Alone with Prince Khalid in the vast, strange space, the light refracting and reflecting off the multitude of mirrors, Juliette tried desperately to think of her next move. Her insides might well be churning with dread, her knees unaccountably like jelly and worryingly unwilling to support her, but support her they must. All she had were her wits, and she must at all costs keep them about her. A frisson of awareness, like the wind rippling over the soft sand of a dune, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as Prince Khalid turned the full blaze of his piercing blue eyes on her.

At four and twenty, Juliette’s experience of men other than those involved in her father’s excavations was extremely limited. It occurred to her now as she tried to rally her flagging spirits, that the man eyeing her with what looked horribly like contempt might not share her enthusiasm for Papa’s profession. The unofficial war being waged between the British Consul General Henry Salt and the one-time French Consul General Bernardino Drovetti had forced Papa to break all his own rules, excavating and smuggling artefacts without permission. It was extremely likely that this Prince Khalid would see this as nothing more than looting. Papa, who was usually so adamant about things remaining in the place where they had been found, had compromised almost every principle of his in the past year or so. When he had drowned, he had been a bitter, disillusioned man.

‘Montignac,’ Khalid said musingly. ‘That is what you said your name was?’

Juliette nodded warily.

Khalid frowned. ‘What were you doing in my country?’

Juliette hesitated. They had not had official permission for their latest foray, had been coerced by the French Consulate into taking advantage of the confusion caused by the sudden death of the kingdom’s prince, Asad al-Muhanna, and the unexpected succession of his brother Ramiz. ‘We were in A’Qadiz, not Lash’aal, which I think is the kingdom adjoining yours. Papa is…was—he worked for the French government,’ she said cautiously.

‘A diplomat? Sent to pay his respects to the new ruler, perhaps? I believe Prince Ramiz has spent much time in the West as his brother’s emissary.’

The words formed, but Juliette hesitated to speak them. She was a very poor liar. ‘Not exactly,’ she said uncomfortably.

‘You said you helped him, your father? In what role, precisely?’ Khalid tapped one long finger on the hilt of his scimitar. ‘Montignac. Montignac. Montignac! Of course. Jean-Louis Montignac. The archaeologist. That was your father?’

‘Oui.’

‘Your father was one of those tomb raiders who rape our country of its history, and you, by your own admission, his companion in crime. Does Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz even know you were within his kingdom’s boundaries?’

Though her inclination was to leap to Papa’s defence, the knowledge that he had, in fact, been operating illegally made Juliette hesitate. This prince did not look like a man to tolerate lies, and she knew, in any case, how transparent she was when she told them. She bit her lip.

‘I assume from your silence that the answer to that is no,’ Khalid snapped, appalled at this further complication. ‘I presume also, that you thought to take advantage of the fact that Prince Ramiz is too distracted by the conflicts which have arisen as a result of his brother’s death, to worry about being invaded by looters. What is it about you Westerners that you think you have the right to pillage any part of the world in which you set foot? You may rest assured, mademoiselle, that I will inform Prince Ramiz myself of your intrusion. He will want to know what was illegally and forcibly taken.’

‘What my father took from A’Qadiz is at the bottom of the sea along with my Papa.’ Tears started in her eyes, but Juliette brushed them away angrily with the back of her bound hands. ‘It’s true. He did take things without asking permission, but only because he was forced to, and he only selected the least valuable,’ she said fiercely. ‘What he cared about more than anything—what he taught me to care about—was knowledge. Who were these people, he asked. How did they live, what gods did they worship, what did they believe in, how were these things passed from one civilization to another? Whether an amulet was bone or gold, whether an idol was studded with jewels or formed from clay, it was what it represented, not what it would fetch in a market which mattered. I don’t care if you believe me or not, but it is the truth. Now he is dead, and there will be others with far fewer principles sent to replace him.’

Her passionate plea surprised him, for she articulated exactly what he felt himself about Persimmanion and all the other sites here in Lash’aal, but the fact remained, she and her father had been stealing. ‘I can guarantee that our borders will not be so easily breached as those of A’Qadiz,’ Khalid replied. ‘We are quite capable of looking after our own treasures without the help of your Western experts.’

‘Sans doute you will treat them all as well as me,’ Juliette threw at him. ‘Perhaps when they hear that their fate is to be held prisoner by savages and given away like a slave they will not come.’

Her refusal to back down infuriated him. There was something about this feisty, altogether wholly unusual female, with the mind of a man, the manners of an infidel and the body of an odalisque, that set his blood aflame. He was wholly unused to being challenged, and entirely unprepared for the source of the challenge to be a mere woman. ‘Perhaps,’ Khalid retorted furiously, driven beyond logical thought in his sudden burning need to bring her to heel, ‘we would treat them more hospitably if they waited upon an invitation.’

Without really thinking what he was doing, wanting only to cow her, Khalid pulled the little dagger, which nestled in the hilt behind his scimitar, from his belt.

Chapter 2

He intended only to free her, and was irked with himself for not having done so immediately, but as he advanced on her, Khalid found he was even more annoyed with Juliette than he’d realized. The defiance in those clear grey eyes of hers could not be ignored. Her face was gamine rather than beautiful, but the way she held herself, just exactly as he would himself under such circumstances, bold and proud, and the surprisingly lush curves of that taut body, roused in him more than just admiration. Desire, like a sharp flash of desert lightning, jolted through him. It didn’t occur to him that he might frighten her. He would have been appalled if it had, would have ceased immediately, but it simply did not. It was the sheer challenge of her, crying out to the innate conqueror in him, which made him raise the dagger higher.

The blade winked cruelly, its edge gleaming in the reflection from the tiles. Spellbound, Juliette watched as he closed in on her, her heart beating wildly in her breast. Was he going to slay her? Was she going to die, bleed to death here on the carpet which had been her gift wrapping?

Prince Khalid’s eyes, glittering like the blade, watched her from under hooded lids. They watched her like a hunter watches his prey. Mesmerizing. The blade was raised. Her blood ran cold, but she did not shrink away from it. She would not be mesmerized. Despite appearances, despite the steely blade and his remorseless eyes, she did not really believe he would kill her in cold blood. It was a test. She would not fail it. She would not!

‘Do it,’ she said, her voice trembling but her gaze unwavering. ‘Do it, I dare you.’

She trembled. He saw the instinctive flinch, the plea for mercy being bitten back and his admiration for her grew, completely subsuming his anger. With a movement so swift that it was over before she could even cry out, the dagger in Khalid’s hand arced through the air, slicing cleanly through the bonds around Juliette’s wrists, before continuing down, in a swooping hiss, to those at her ankles.

With a startled cry she fell back, the blood rushing to her feet making her stumble. Her wrists were throbbing, the welts left by the bonds angry-looking. Juliette rubbed her aching wrists, eyeing him warily.

He could not blame her. Forced upon him as she had been, she was nevertheless his guest. Honour decreed that he treat her with respect. A lesser man would have had no compunction in teaching her, in the age-old way of things, just how little control she had over her destiny. Khalid had no harem, nor any desire for one. Nor did he feel any need whatsoever to prove his power in such a way. At least….

The more he looked at her, the more his body liked what he saw. He wanted to tame her. Knowing she would not be easily tamed made his desire increase, but stronger still was the knowledge, which came to him of a sudden, that he wanted her to submit of her own accord—not through fear, nor in order to barter for her freedom, but because she desired him. Confused by such atavistic emotions, realizing that his own physical desire was manifesting itself in a most uncomfortable and obvious way under his tunic, Khalid eyed his prisoner uncertainly.

‘What do you intend to do with me?’ Juliette asked, backing away from him. He was so tall. Too tall. And really, the way he was looking at her—as if he would devour her. The very idea of it made her go first hot then cold. Fierce as he was, Prince Khalid was doing something to her insides that was making her want, quite contrarily, to ignore the impulse to flee. She was not accustomed to being looked at in such a way, with such interest, such intent. It threw her off balance. For some reason, it made her blush. ‘I warn you, if you lay a hand on me…’ She faltered, first because she had no idea what she would do, and second because the idea of his laying a hand on her was, just for the tiniest fraction of a second, alluring.

‘You will what?’ Khalid asked, doing just exactly that. One hand reached out for her hand, pulling her towards him. The other arm snaked round her back, effectively preventing her from moving. The length of his body was hard against her own. The hilt of his scimitar dug into her belly. ‘What will you do, Juliette de Montignac?’ he asked. ‘Scream?’

Grey eyes clashed with blue. Khalid smiled. There was no humour in that smile, only victory. Juliette opened her mouth wide to scream, not because she was afraid, but because that was the last thing he expected her to do. She took a deep breath, but just as she began to release it, his mouth descended on hers, and his kiss knocked the breath from her.

Warm and hard, his lips were on her. Warm and hard, his hands were, too. No one had ever dared. No one had ever tried. Try as she might, in the dark of night, fired by the erotic pictures glimpsed in some ancient and forbidden book, or painted on a temple wall, she had never been able to imagine what a kiss would be like. Pleasant, she had conjured, but not much more. This was not pleasant. It was passionate and masterful. His mouth commanded hers; his hands ordered a response from her body. She should fight, but she wanted to submit, just as she had yearned to, deep in her darkest dreams. Shock gave way to an astounding surge of pure, unadulterated pleasure. For one delightful moment, Juliette surrendered, her mouth blossoming under his caress, her blood coursing rapidly through her veins, her heart pounding. For one delightful moment she had a glimpse of the pleasures of the senses, then Khalid wrenched himself free of her and the colours, the textures, the heady delights she had almost tasted melted away like shadows.

Juliette staggered back, only just managing not to collapse onto her knees. Totally taken aback by her own response, horrified by the extremely unwelcome suspicion that, had he not stopped she would not have stopped him, she wanted at all costs to prevent Khalid from seeing the effect his kiss had had on her. With her defences breached, she had no option but to attack. Quite deliberately wiping her hand over her mouth, she cast Khalid a contemptuous look. ‘Merci du compliment, but I have no wish to become your concubine, Highness,’ she said, dropping a shaky curtsy.

Khalid, as astonished by his actions as Juliette appeared, had been on the verge of apologizing, but he had been taught to counter attack with attack. ‘You have much to learn before you could even aspire to such a position, mademoiselle. Concubines are rather more skilled in the arts of pleasing men than you.’ In truth, her innocent response to his kiss had been more rousing to him than the experienced touch of an odalisque.

‘I demand that you release me,’ Juliette said, more for lack of anything else to say than a desire to go.

It was what he had intended, but once again her refusal to back down made him behave contrarily. ‘No one makes demands of me!’ Khalid exclaimed. ‘You forget that you were given to me as a gift. In the eyes of my people, in the eyes of the law, you are now my property to do with as I wish.’

‘I am a citizen of France, you cannot….’

‘You are in my kingdom, under my jurisdiction. There is nothing I cannot do,’ Khalid interrupted ruthlessly, so thoroughly enjoying his unwonted release from self-control that he conveniently forgot he believed no such thing. ‘What is more, you should consider yourself fortunate to be here with me. You should ponder, mademoiselle, the eventual fate which would have awaited you at the hands of my tribesmen. Eventually, those flashing eyes and that vicious tongue you have would have been insufficient to protect your virtue. If, that is, you have any virtue to protect.’

‘How dare you! How dare you imply that I, Juliette de Montignac, would—’

‘You are quite right. No man in his right mind would wish to breach such a forbidding citadel,’ Khalid cut in again, too intent on besting this infuriating female, too carried away with having finally perceived a crack in her armour to consider the outrageousness of his words. ‘No man that is, until now. Now, my fair prisoner, I can think of no better lesson to teach you. It is time you learned that you are a woman, capable of passion. And the place to learn that lesson is the harem.’

In the heat of the moment, she had forgotten that first impression of him. Formidable. Too late, she realized that appeasement would have been a far better tactic. ‘Please! Prince Khalid, I did not—that is, I am sure you cannot mean….’

‘I never say what I do not mean.’

The determination in his voice told her she had overstepped some invisible mark by some distance. Prince Khalid swooped down on her before Juliette could protest any further, never mind make any attempt to escape him. He picked her up bodily, throwing her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing, striding up to the double doors at the end of the throne room, kicking them open to the utter astonishment of the guards who stood on the other side.

With the tingle of his kiss still there on her lips, thoroughly panicked by the shockingly appealing image of the sultry harem and all it implied, knowing that the only way to escape what she suspected must be her inevitable, willing submission was to free herself from his inexorable hold, Juliette beat Khalid’s back with her clenched fists. She tried to kick with her bare toes, she tugged his headdress from his head, she let forth a stream of idiomatic curses garnered from years of mixing with soldiers and adventurers alike, and nothing made one whit of difference. On he strode with her, through miles of spotless tiled corridors, past what seemed to her hundreds of guards, until he arrived at a large oak door with an iron grille set in it. The key was in the lock. He turned it, holding her steady with one hand clamped over her bottom, and entered the courtyard, kicking the door shut behind him.

Expecting to see hundreds of scantily clad houris lying about on divans and eating sweetmeats, Juliette let her protests die on her lips as she gazed about her. The courtyard was empty. The fountain, an ornate affair with some rather buxom nymphs at the centre, was dry. The rooms, which ran, one opening out onto the other, around the perimeter of the courtyard, were empty. The silence was eerie.

As Prince Khalid released his hold on her, allowing her to slither to her feet, Juliette backed away from him, willing the tears pricking at the back of her lids to stay where they were. There was a gate fixed in the wall on the opposite side of the courtyard. Peering through it, she saw a garden, a tangled wilderness of bright, blowsy flowers and overgrown trees, lemon and orange, pomegranate and fig, and caught the overpowering scent of jasmine. ‘Where have you brought me?’ To her relief, her voice sounded calmer than she felt.

‘I’ve told you. It is the harem. My harem.’

‘But it’s empty.’

‘Not now. You, mademoiselle, have the honour of being the first occupant.’

‘But….’

‘And I,’ Khalid said, advancing on her with an intent that made Juliette’s heart begin to pound unevenly, ‘in the absence of any other concubines, will be the one to teach you.’

‘Teach me what?’

‘What no one has taught you before. How to be a woman. How to enjoy being a woman. How to take pleasure from your body, to ignore that clever little brain of yours, Mademoiselle de Montignac, and remember that you are Juliette. A woman. And, for the present, my woman.’

His finger trailed down her cheekbone, her throat, her collarbone, the outside of her breast. His touch made her shiver. Her nipples hardened into tight peaks. ‘I won’t,’ Juliette said automatically. She did not like what he was doing to her. She did not like the way her body was responding. Except she did like it, in the same contrary way she liked the way he looked at her, really looked at her, as if he saw what no one else did. Juliette. A Juliette even she did not know. She liked that. No, she didn’t. At least, she ought not to. Shouldn’t she?

Struggling to retain her composure, Juliette met Prince Khalid’s gaze. ‘You can’t make me.’

Khalid laughed softly. ‘You may be naïve, but you are not that innocent,’ he said. ‘I won’t have to, and you know it.’

She did know it. And when he kissed her for the second time, a hard, possessive kiss, over all too quickly, he confirmed it. A flicker of heat, a sizzle of anticipation, the temptation of the leap into the unknown. As if, holding up a candle to a newly discovered tomb, she hesitated upon the brink, and in her hesitation knew that she surrendered.

Khalid picked her up in his arms once more and carried her through the doorway of the first of the interconnecting rooms which ran around the perimeter of the courtyard. He meant only to teach her a lesson in humility. Though the laws of Lash’aal made her his, body and mind, though Khalid himself was the symbolic upholder of those laws, he did not really believe that one person should own another. Slavery had been abolished in Lash’aal two hundred years before. He did not own her, but she did not know that, and while Khalid was above all else a man of honour, there was something about Juliette de Montignac that stripped away the centuries of sophistication and revealed the inner conqueror, the hunter, the man. It confused him. At some point, it would perhaps shame him, but right now, what it did more than anything was overwhelm him. Juliette must be tamed. He would not force her. She would give, and once she gave, he would demonstrate the full extent of his power over her by refusing to take.

The harem had not been occupied since his father’s time, but aside from the garden, it had been well maintained. The bathing chamber was huge, white-tiled, with one wall consisting entirely of mirrors. The ceiling was painted dark blue, with the constellations of the Arabic sky picked out in silver. At the centre of the room stood an enormous sunken bath, filled from a golden spout in the shape of a sea serpent. Khalid placed Juliette back on to her feet and turned the tap to allow the water to flow. ‘The first duty of a concubine is to prepare herself,’ he said.

Wide-eyed, gazing longingly at the bath, Juliette was conscious of how grubby and dirty she was. She felt as if she were in a dream. The shipwreck she had so miraculously survived had cast her free from the anchor which had been her life. Only now, in this exotic palace, with this exotic man, did she realize just how empty that life had been. In the brief time here as Prince Khalid’s prisoner, she had experienced more extremes of emotion than she had felt in her entire life. This interlude had no place in reality, she knew that, but right now she didn’t care.

She felt alive. She felt liberated. She felt…she felt distracted. By the perfume wafting up from the petals and oils which Prince Khalid had strewn into the bathwater. By the tingling sensation his kiss had left on her lips. By the way her body heated, her skin too hot, all her senses accentuated. By the man himself, once more turning his attention towards her. He had discarded his cloak, his weapons, his headdress. His hair was black, midnight-black, just like hers. Without the formal clothes, he looked much younger. Much more attractive. Much more dangerous. Much, much more dangerous. He was no longer an aloof prince, but a man.

She had never really thought of herself as a woman, but now, because he so obviously did, so too did she. Compared to his lithe body, the compact power in his muscles, the very potency of him, she felt vulnerable, soft, exposed. Her will seemed to have fled. She was oddly inclined to do as he bid her, oddly excited by the prospect.

‘Take off your clothes.’

One thing to imagine, quite another thing to actually do. Juliette clutched at her tattered robe. A blush stained her cheeks. ‘Non!’

But it was no use. His hands were already dealing competently with the few remaining fastenings of her practical cotton gown. The shoulder seams gave way as he eased it over her body. The skirt crumpled to the floor. Her corsets followed. Clad only in her chemise and pantaloons, Juliette panicked. She had never looked at herself naked in a mirror before. She wasn’t sure she relished the thought of her body, reflected endlessly in those mirrors. ‘No, please, I….’

If he gave himself time to think, he would stop, so he refused to think, because for one of the few times in his life, Khalid was giving rein to his own desires. He took the worn linen between his hands and ripped the chemise from neckline to hem. The shift fell to the floor of the bathing chamber. Juliette clutched her hands over her breasts. Shocked at his own actions, Khalid simply stared at her. She was beautiful. Voluptuous, with a slim waist and perfect breasts, the nipples dark against her creamy flesh. Her hips were pleasingly rounded, her legs, in the strange-looking undergarment, delightfully shaped. He pictured them wrapped around him, and blood rushed to his groin.

It was only when he made to cut the ties of her last remaining piece of clothing that he realized how forceful—unnecessarily forceful—his actions might seem, and halted abruptly. He did not want her to be afraid of him. That was the last thing he wanted.

Wrapping his arms around her, he stroked her hair back from her brow. ‘You know I will not harm you.’ She was trembling. Of course she was trembling. How foolish he had been, thinking to break her by force of will. How foolish he had been to forget that behind that defiant demeanour lay an innocent. There were other ways, much more pleasant ways, to tame her. Khalid stroked the knotted line of her spine, holding her firmly to him. Her skin was icy cold. He stroked her back, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, the flaring curve of her bottom, nestling her closer so that the heat from his body warmed her, until she stopped shaking. Then he tugged her pantaloons free and picked her up, placing her gently into the warm, soothing waters of the sunken bath.

Chapter 3

Juliette closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the blissfully soothing water, the delightfully heady scents. After a month spent bound and filthy in cramped conditions, the bath should have been a luxurious pleasure, but it was no use—she couldn’t relax. She couldn’t help being aware of Khalid’s presence, his almost tangible potency. The abrupt change in him, from prince to man, from commanding to gentling, had broken down the last of her resistance. His plain blue tunic was damp from the bath waters. It clung to him like a second skin as he rolled up his sleeves, lavishly soaped an enormous sponge and simply dropped into the bath beside her, pulled her to her feet, and began to put the sponge to use.

He started at her shoulders, her neck, her back. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend it was happening to someone else, some other Juliette, but the gentle sweep of the soap-filled sponge over her skin, the brush of his fingers, the swish of his soaking tunic, the soft fall of his breath, conspired to make her aware, incredibly aware, of his proximity. His scent was delicious, clean and spicy and warm. Male, distinctively male.

‘What are you doing?’ To her chagrin, her voice sounded every bit as breathless as she felt.

Khalid laughed, a throaty chuckle which made her toes curl. ‘I told you. Preparing you. You have beautiful curves, Juliette. You should not be ashamed of them.’

He turned her round, prising her hands from her breasts, tracing the contours of them, running the sponge down the valley between them. The gentle abrasion made her nipples tingle. She felt them pucker and harden.

‘Belle,’ Khalid whispered.

No one had ever called her beautiful before. But then no man had ever seen her naked before.

‘Très belle,’ Khalid said, as if he had read her mind. ‘See what you do to me.’ He pulled her against him, allowing the hard length of his erection to nestle against the gentle curve of her bottom.

It was ridiculous to be so gratified, so excited by his response, but she was. He thought her beautiful, and for now, she chose to believe him. Inside her, warmth spread, as if she were a rock heated by some internal sun. The sponge stroked and soaped. Down into the dip of her waist. Round to the base of her spine, the slope of her bottom. His breath was sharper, faster. Her own, too, became more rapid.

Down, over her bottom, before sliding round between her legs, the shockingly intimate touch making her gasp, causing a frisson of pleasure. Juliette bit her lip, but a small moan escaped her. She blushed deeply, feeling foolish. Risking a glance, she saw fierce concentration on Khalid’s face, his eyes dark and smouldering. His chest, under the clinging silk of his tunic, rose and fell sharply. The soapy sponge dipped between her legs. Another frisson, and a resultant tightening inside her, like a winepress being slowly, inexorably turned, releasing the heady juice of her passion.

‘Stop thinking, just feel,’ Khalid whispered to her urgently. He nudged her against the side of the bath, encouraging her to use it for support. ‘See how beautiful you are,’ he said, nodding at the mirrored tiles now blurred by condensation.

She looked, and saw a sensual creature who must be her, skin streaked with suds and bubbles, hair clinging in damp curls to her arms, her breasts. She, who had always been encouraged to think and talk and act like a man, was being forced to take on the role of a woman. A woman whose body looked more voluptuous than Juliette had thought possible. Her curves, in the steamy light of the bathing chamber, looked lush and ripe, blooming like the flowers in the overgrown garden. It all added to her sense of unreality. This wasn’t, couldn’t be happening.

Instinctively, she arched her hips towards the sponge, where Khalid soaped between her thighs with long, languorous strokes. The tightening feeling inside her increased. Her nipples began to throb, a steady aching thrum that yearned for the same touch, too. The throbbing was taken up inside her. Another tiny moan escaped her as she braced herself against the tiles, eyes tight shut, wanting this exciting, excruciating feeling to go on and on forever, and at the same time wanting it to come to some sort of juddering conclusion, some aching crescendo. The water lapped tantalizingly at her thighs. She arched her back more, unwittingly thrusting her rosy-peaked breasts upwards, in the classic pose of abandonment.

Khalid caught his breath at the sight. So devastatingly, innocently, wantonly beautiful. He had not meant things to go this far. He had not meant things to get so out of hand. Beneath the soaking wet tunic, his erection thrust itself upwards, engorged and insistent. He should stop. He would stop, but not yet. Not until she cried out for him. Not until she begged him. From the flush suffusing her breasts, from the hard darkening peaks of her nipples, he could tell it would not be long. He wanted to abandon the sponge. He wanted it to be his hands, his mouth, which brought her to the edge and over the precipice, but that would be to break his own self-imposed rules. He cupped her, squashing the sponge flat between her sex and his palm, and felt the hard nub of her. Juliette moaned, a throaty, harsh sound that made his erection swell. He rubbed just a little harder, just enough for the exquisite combination of friction and lubrication from the soap, from her own arousal, to make her shudder. She was close. By the gods, she was close, and so too was he.

Khalid squeezed the sponge again, and saw the rippling and tightening in her stomach. He rubbed harder, and at the same time took one of her delightfully hard nipples into his mouth, sucking greedily. Juliette gasped. Khalid sucked again; he slid the sponge over her sex and before he could stop her, before he could stop himself, she came, with a harsh, sharp cry, pulsing onto him.

She felt as if she was being twisted and spun in a maelstrom before being flung out to float to the surface. Crimson lights flashed behind her lids, sparks seemed to heat her blood. Another twisting tightening sensation, and it happened again, more powerfully this time. Helpless, she cried out, slumping back against the side of the bath, panting, shaking, clutching, squirming as it happened yet again, and she couldn’t stop it.

She shuddered. Flesh, hard flesh, held her. She clung tight, afraid that if she did not she would drown. The shuddering died away, rippling and eddying, leaving her feel light-headed. She opened her eyes, momentarily forgetting where she was and what had happened. When she finally did, she pushed herself free of Khalid’s embrace and retreated to the opposite corner of the bath, crossing her arms over her breasts.

What had happened to her?

Something irrevocable, she knew that instinctively.

What must he think of her?

She wasn’t sure. Something had changed between them; he was looking at her quite differently. He might as well have been naked, for a start, the way his tunic hugged his body. He was staring at her through hooded lids, his eyes dark with suppressed passion. His face was fierce, but not with anger. His hair stood up in rumpled spikes. There was a sprinkling of black hair on his chest, at the opening of his tunic. He was aroused. Juliette’s eyes widened as she took in the bulge. Very aroused.

‘No.’ She said it instinctively, without any expectation of being heeded, meaning it more for herself than for him, knowing that at this moment she would not be able to deny him. He had prepared her, just as he had promised, and though it shamed her to admit it, Juliette could not ignore the fact that he had prepared her very thoroughly indeed. Whatever he wanted from her, her body was ready to grant him.

She waited, anticipation mingling with shocking excitement. She waited for him to pull his robe over his head, for him to lay her down on the tiles and to take her. She was not the only one who was prepared. His manhood arced up under the damp of his tunic, hard and thick and proud. She waited, her breath coming hard and fast, but he made no move towards her. Instead, he turned away and slowly ascended the short flight of steps out of the bath. Disappointment, absurdly acute, welled up inside her. She stared at his retreating back, telling herself it was a welcome reprieve, quite unable, for the moment, to believe it was happening. As Khalid turned to look at her, she bit her lip, desperately trying to wipe her face clean of emotion.

It had taken all his resolve not to plunge his shaft into the sweet depths he had so delightfully prepared. Even now that he had put some distance between them, the vision of her there, damp and hot and sweetly ripe, was almost too much for his self-control. ‘I could have taken you but chose not to. Remember that,’ Khalid said.

Mortified now, Juliette glared up at him, wishing he would just go, go and leave her to her shame. As he picked up his cloak, throwing it carelessly around his shoulders, obviously in as much of a rush to be away from her as she was now to have him gone, a small object clattered to the floor and rolled across the tiles towards the bath.

She caught it just before it fell into the water. It was gold, lying heavily in the palm of her hand. ‘Shal’aal,’ Juliette exclaimed, forgetting her embarrassment as she looked at the little idol in astonishment.

Khalid looked surprised. ‘You know her name?’

Juliette smiled down at the little goddess, tracing the idol’s voluptuous curves with her finger. ‘She’s one of my favourites.’ A fertility symbol. The connection jolted in her mind and she blushed violently, thrusting the artefact back at Khalid, avoiding his gaze as she scrambled in an ungainly way out of the bath, hurriedly covering herself with a large drying sheet. ‘She’s usually found much farther north and west of here,’ she babbled, still avoiding his eye, gratefully grasping at the familiar topic in an effort to recover a little of her composure. ‘Usually she’s made of clay. Girls were often given one when they reached puberty, and childless women quite often wore them around their necks.’

‘A fertility symbol,’ Khalid said, torn between the vision of the damp, inadequately draped female before him and the little goddess he held in his hand.

‘Obviously,’ Juliette replied, striving for a business-like tone, irked by the breathiness in her voice.

He had not really believed her to be the expert she claimed to be, but obviously he was wrong, as he had been wrong from the start about almost everything to do with Juliette de Montignac. She was an enigma, a myriad of contradictions, all of them intriguing. He desired her, and admired her, and he wanted to soothe her and reassure her, and at the same time he wanted to make passionate love to her, and to pick her clever little mind and kiss her mindless.

She was edging nervously away from him now, and he couldn’t blame her—he couldn’t predict himself what he was going to do next. Taking a deep breath, Khalid tried to focus his mind. Get out of the bathing chamber. Eliminate one distraction, at least. Motioning Juliette into an adjoining room, he sat down at a careful distance from her on a divan. ‘Tell me what else you know about Shal’aal,’ he said, handing her the idol again.

Tugging the towel closer, Juliette tried very hard to concentrate. It should be a relief to turn her mind to such safe territory, but discussing goddesses with a damp prince while she was wrapped only in a towel, and he had just—they had just….

Think! ‘As I said, she’s never been found this far east.’ His thigh was too close to hers. She could feel the heat from it through the linen of the towel. Juliette shuffled a little farther over on the velvet divan. ‘I found a reference to her in a papyrus document once,’ she said, addressing the floor. ‘At least, I thought it was a reference to her, but Papa disagreed. He thought my theory nonsense. The scroll dated from about the fifth or sixth century, and mentioned a city which was then already more than two thousand years old.’ Realizing she was babbling, she came to an abrupt halt.

‘Do you remember the name of the city?’ He asked more from a desire to keep the conversation going, a reluctance to leave, though he knew leave was what he should do.

‘Persimmanion.’

‘Are you sure?’

His startled tone made Juliette lift her eyes from her study of the mosaic floor. His whole body seemed to have tensed. ‘Persimmanion. I am certain of it,’ Juliette replied, unnerved by his piercing gaze, ‘but I have never come across any reference to it again.’

‘What did the scroll say about the goddess?’ Khalid asked cautiously, trying desperately not to betray his excitement.

‘Only that the city was founded for her, that its riches were a gift from her. Where was she found?’

‘That need not concern you. What else do you know?’

‘Nothing. Except—it has just struck me, the similarity between her name, Shal’aal, and the name of your kingdom.’

‘Lash’aal.’ She was right; there must be some connection. He must think. There were books he must consult. ‘I am indebted to you for shedding some light on her origins. I will take her back from you now, if I may.’

Bewildered by the sudden change in him, feeling unaccountably bereft at this sudden switch from sensual male to imperious prince, Juliette held out the goddess. As he took it from her, his fingers brushed hers, and a frisson of awareness shivered between them. Instead of letting her go, Khalid pulled Juliette to her feet. Her body bumped against his. The towel which clad her began to slip, revealing one rosy nipple.

Khalid touched the goddess to it, rolling the idol’s round belly over the hard peak. The gold was warm. Khalid’s fingers were warmer. Looking into his eyes, she knew, a fraction before he did, that he was going to kiss her again. When his lips covered hers, she had no thought of resisting. He kissed her softly, his tongue touching hers, tantalizingly brief.

‘I am an honourable man,’ Khalid muttered to himself. She may well be in his harem, but Juliette was no concubine. Desirable as she was, tough as she believed herself to be, she was also an innocent who knew nothing of the world. He would not compromise her. Though he wanted to make love to her, more passionately than he had ever wanted to make love to any woman, he admired her too much, respected her too much, to consider it. There was also the simple fact of her virginity. An inviolable rule here in Lash’aal, where a woman’s purity was perceived to be the ultimate gift to her husband. Any man who took without intending marriage was shamed. Sometimes honour came at a very high price. ‘Bonne nuit, ma belle Juliette,’ Khalid whispered regretfully.

By the time she had registered his absence, the door of the harem courtyard had already clanged shut behind him.

Chapter 4

Pushing back the veil which protected her face from the relentless sun and the sand being kicked up by the camels, Juliette took a careful sip of water from the goatskin flask she carried. It was amazing how much freedom these Arabian clothes gave her, and how much cooler they were. The tangerine sarwal pants, nothing more than ornately decorated pantaloons, along with a long caftan of the same silk, which was slit to the thigh, made riding a camel a much more comfortable experience than wearing her own riding habit. The simple cloak which covered her was of the lightest cotton. When she had checked herself in the mirror before they left the palace, she’d been taken aback by the exotic creature she’d evolved into in the space of five days.

Five days, spent almost exclusively with Khalid. Five days in which they had discussed, endlessly, ancient treasures and lost civilizations. He had been guarded at first, but before long his own passion for the subject, which more than matched her own, broke down the barriers. They had peered into ancient books and pored over ancient scrolls together. As Khalid’s reticence faded, Juliette’s admiration for the fascinating man beneath the princely façade had grown. They had eaten together, and walked together in the palace gardens, and talked as if they would never have enough words, as if they were making up for a lifetime of silence. The hours spent apart seemed empty in comparison.

Alive, alive, alive! Her blood seemed to course through her veins with a new fervour. She woke up eager to begin the new day, anxious for her first sight of him. When he smiled, she felt lit from the inside. No one had ever smiled at her just so like that. No one had ever looked at her just so, either, as if he were truly interested in her, in her opinions, her thoughts, her feelings. She felt new. She felt as if she were emerging from a cocoon. She felt happy. She was Juliette. Not Monsieur de Montignac’s daughter. Not Papa’s Jules, but Juliette. And she liked it!

They talked, she and Khalid, covering every subject save one. The incident in the bath. Khalid made no mention of it, nor had he made any further attempt at such intimacy. If he touched her accidentally, he drew away quickly, as if she would burn him. She caught him looking at her sometimes, a dark, fierce look, which made her belly heat, but then his lids would hood his eyes, and she could never be quite sure.

Taking her cue from Khalid, Juliette too had tried to ignore what had happened between them in the harem, but it was impossible. He had awakened something in her, and it would not easily be put back to sleep. He had shown her what it could be like to experience passion, and she was aching with desire to know more. To know, specifically, what it would be like to be Khalid’s woman, share his bed.

In his harem, in the cool of the night, she would wake, hot and damp, her hand pressed between her thighs. Such dreams she had. Seeing him again in the light of the day, she wondered her desire was not etched upon her face for him to see. She could not look at him at first, without blushing.

It was near the end of the second day that he told her of Persimmanion’s existence, the morning of the third that he announced he intended to take her there. Alone, he said. He was having the site cleared. Taking a Westerner there—and a woman at that—would attract the disapproval of his people. So here they were, alone together in his desert, travelling towards a fabled lost city, his lost city. Juliette could hardly contain her excitement.

The ease with which he navigated fascinated her. The fluid, effortless way he held his seat on the thoroughbred camel with its silver-tasselled reins and velvet-padded box seat, made her feel gauche in comparison. They had left before dawn, heading east, away from the verdant surroundings of the royal palace, riding out into the desert over the softly undulating sands, passing a series of small oases, some no more than holes in the ground, and on, as the sun blazed down, more white than gold, bleaching the sky, making the sand glitter like a carpet of tiny jewels.

Juliette took another sip of water, and looked up to find Khalid watching her. Immediately, heat which had nothing to do with the scorching sun enveloped her. ‘How much longer?’ she asked, for something to say.

‘Two more hours.’

‘It will be dark.’

He nodded. ‘We will camp there, then explore the site in the morning.’ Khalid watched, fascinated, as Juliette licked a tiny droplet of water from her lips. The image of that tongue on his manhood had him hard in an instant. He ached with need for her. He desired her as he had never before desired any woman. It had been that mixture of defiance and innocence, her determination to retain some hold over her integrity despite all, which had first appealed to him. But as he came to know her, to admire her sharp mind, to experience the simple pleasure of sharing—thoughts, ideas, history—it was the person underneath the gamine face and the voluptuous figure who entranced him. She was dismissive of her difficult upbringing, and he admired her for that, too, especially when he recognized the loneliness there in those stormy grey eyes of hers. In many ways, Juliette had been as isolated as he.

All thoughts of taming her had fled after that first night. He would not change anything about her. A twin soul, a kindred spirit, Khalid did not believe in either. At least, he hadn’t until now. He honoured her, but that honour warred with an increasingly irresistible need to have her, to claim her for his own. So complementary were their minds, what would the joining of their bodies be like? To know and be known. To possess, and to be possessed in return. Such a strange, elemental need.

The pictures this conjured up obsessed him for the remainder of the journey. As he led the way carefully through the fissure in the rocks that had so effectively concealed the city from prying eyes for centuries, and Persimmanion appeared in the fading light, Khalid realized just how impulsive, and perhaps foolish, he had been in bringing her here.

Alone. They were quite alone, in the middle of his desert, in the middle of a lost city which, it seemed, was built to celebrate the essence of womanhood as embodied by the goddess he carried with him. Khalid pulled his camel to a halt beside Juliette. ‘See how the temple where Shal’aal was found stands apart from the rest of the site.’

Looking in amazement at the city, which seemed to be hewn into the red rock on at least three levels, Juliette was bereft of words. The drawings had not prepared her for the perfection of it, the beauty of it, the sultry sensuality of the ochre rock, the keyhole-shaped doors and windows. ‘It feels as if the people could return at any moment,’ she said with an awed smile. ‘It’s stunning.’

‘We will camp behind the main buildings.’ Khalid leaped down from his camel, clicking his tongue to bring Juliette’s mount to its knees.

She descended from the high box seat awkwardly, wincing at the stiffness in her legs. ‘That saddle looks a lot more comfortable than it is,’ she said with a grimace.

‘Would you like to bathe?’

‘You’re teasing me. There’s no water here.’

Khalid only smiled, leading her soundlessly through another passageway hewn into the rock. They emerged on the other side into something that resembled paradise. A secret oasis, not just one pool but three, each a step above the other, each step a waterfall. The water from the highest pool gurgled up from an underground spring. From the lowest pool, it went into an irrigation trough which had once fed the city. The pools looked dark blue in the silvering hue of the full moon. The water was unbearably tempting.

Khalid had already discarded his cloak and boots. Juliette did the same, unfastening the dusty cloak, bending down to pull off her shoes. Standing up, she saw that look on his face again. Eyes fiercely focused on her. His mouth set. His face etched into hard planes and striking lines in the ghostly light. Juliette caught her breath. Her heart skipped a beat, then began a slow, rhythmic pounding. ‘Khalid?’

‘Juliette.’ Her name felt so right on his lips. He forgot, seeing her in the moonlight by the pools, that she was his guest, that she did not belong in this world, that he had a duty to honour her. In that moment, he revered her, and wanted only to worship her in the most timeless of ways. To possess and to be possessed. To know and to be known.

‘Juliette.’ He reached for her, and she fell, unresisting, into his arms. ‘Juliette,’ he said again, for the simple pleasure of saying it, as he ran his hands down her arms, as he traced the line of her cheekbone with his finger, the delicate skin of her throat. ‘Parfait, ma belle,’ he said, tugging the clip which held her veil in place free from her black-as-night hair. ‘You are absolutely perfect.’

No words were necessary. He saw his desire reflected in her storm-grey eyes, and it was enough. He kissed her, and she opened like a flower thirsty for rain. Her kisses were innocent and yet urgent and passionate, coaxing him and entreating him. Her body, pressed against his, was like an inverse of his own, she all curves and pliancy against his hard planes. Two halves of something that should be joined.

He kissed her as if he had been thirsting for her, as if he would feast on her. Juliette felt as if she would dissolve under the onslaught of those kisses. The dark heat of his mouth, his lips, his tongue, a prelude to a darker, more sensual heat. He coaxed her mouth open farther, deepening the kiss, and she thought she would surely melt. Her body burned, as if she had been naked under the midday sun. Desire crimsoned behind her lids, in her blood, between her legs, stoked by his mouth, his hands, the hard length of him pressed into her stomach. Above them, the stars seemed diminished in comparison.

Her tunic dropped to the sand. Khalid dropped his mouth to her breasts, sucking on her nipples through the fine silk of her skimpy top, his hands on the bare flesh of her waist. His mouth drew such exquisite pleasure that she gasped. She too needed to touch. His back, the knotted line of his spine, the hard curve of his buttocks, his arms, his shoulders, the fascinating concave dip of his stomach.

He loosed her top and freed her breasts. She fumbled with the fastenings of his tunic, desperate now to feel skin on skin. Releasing her briefly, Khalid yanked it over his head to stand before her naked. Juliette’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. She had never seen a naked man in the flesh, but she could not imagine that any could be more perfect than Khalid. His manhood stood up proudly, thick and hard. Blushing but unable to look away, she stared at its curved length, trying to imagine how it would feel inside her.

He took her hand and placed it there, encouraging her to hold him, to cup him, to caress him. Satin skin, pulsing slightly under her fingers. The pulsing was reflected inside her as she touched him. He untied the laces which held her sarwal pants in place. They slithered to the sand. He cupped her, too, and she felt the pulse quicken, deepen, into a throb as heavy and insistent as her heartbeat.

‘You are aflame for me,’ Khalid said, awed by the heat and damp, the vanilla scent of her sex. ‘Feel how my senses are aflame for you, too.’

She did, stroking him tentatively, moaning as he stroked her in return, as he slipped a finger into the damp of her curls, touching her intimately, so that the blood seemed to surge from everywhere else to that one spot. He stroked her again, and it was like the sponge only more shockingly intimate. His flesh. His fingers on her, inside her. Her hand on his engorged manhood, relishing the way it throbbed to her touch.

He touched and she echoed him. They were on their knees in the sand now, touching, kissing, pressing closer and closer. Hands and lips feverish, breath shallow and harsh, murmuring inarticulately, his name, her name, please, please, oh please.

She could not tell if it was Khalid or she who spoke. He slipped his fingers farther inside her, into the space which was surely made for him, and she arched with delight, flinging her head back with a wild cry, thrusting towards him, yearning for that ultimate coupling. ‘Please,’ she cried, and this time it was her, her voice husky with need, her hands clutching at his buttocks in an instinctive urging. ‘Please.’

Khalid hesitated, and in that fraction of hesitation, honour once more won the day. The primal urge to take her, to claim her for his own, was almost overwhelming, but instead he lay her down on the sand. It was his mouth, his tongue, his lips he buried in the hot pink of her sex, and not his aching shaft. She tasted so sweet. The little panting cries she was making, the way she was digging her heels into the sand, arching her back to thrust herself towards him, the dark areolas of her nipples contrasting against the creamy white of her skin in the moonlight, the stain of passion striping across her face—it was almost too much.

He kissed her intimately, his tongue circling over the hard nub of her, forcing himself to lick into her slowly, languorously, though she clutched at his back and his shoulders and his hair and urged him to hurry, hurry, please.

Her whole body was rigid with anticipation, every muscle clenched, tensed, waiting. There was nothing and no one in the world, save this place, this man, this feeling. She was like a bird about to take flight for the first time, clinging to the precipice, prolonging that agonizingly beautiful moment of anticipation, knowing that however hard she clung, she would be forced to jump soon, soon, soon. His mouth on her sex was almost too much. It happened suddenly, his tongue, her cry, the explosion of her climax, as she was flung into the air to soar, wildly soar, clutching handfuls of sand in her fists as he took her higher, and higher again, until she thought she couldn’t go any higher, then his mouth was on her again and she did.

She cried out. She cried his name. Blindly, as she began to float back down, she sat up, reaching for him, pressing herself to him, when the hard curve of his erection reminded her that it was not yet over. ‘Khalid?’

She pushed herself invitingly towards him. The tip of his shaft touched the wet folds of her sex, and a shiver of anticipation wracked him.

‘Khalid?’

He was an honourable man. He was! Though never before had honour had less value. ‘Not—I cannot—we cannot…’ Khalid said through gritted teeth, for she was already touching him, nestling herself closer.

‘Please.’

By the gods, was there a sterner test? He did not think so. With a moan, he edged away, took her hands, placed them on his shaft, shaking his head at the question in her eyes, encouraging her instead to stroke him. She did, gently, then with growing assurance as she read the pleasure in his face. He held her gaze as she tended to him, and it was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced, the feeling of her hands, the swelling of his erection, the deep, sensual connection of their eyes.

Knowing and being known. He did not need to possess her for it to be so. The thought flashed into his mind as he came, spilling and pulsing onto her, and he pulled her to him, kissing her passionately, endlessly, wanting, for the moment, nothing more than this.

Wordless with bliss, stepping naked together into the highest of the oasis pools, they learned how to speak with their bodies. The moon rose in the sky, the stars seemed to reach down to spread their silver light just for them. Behind them, the ancient city of Persimmanion was a seductive presence. The cool of the water lapped at their heated skin as they sank down into its depths, kissing. They kissed until they fell over, laughing. They stopped laughing as they kissed, and passion reared again. Tumbling from one pool to the next, they stood in the waterfall, still kissing, then licking, rousing each other to new heights as they discovered what this touch did, and what this, and this. Her second climax was more sudden than the first. She clung to him in the spray of the waterfall, pulsing around his hand, slithering down in the aftermath to bring him to his own orgasm with her mouth.

Afterwards, heavy with satisfaction, they sat wrapped in their cloaks by the light of a campfire and ate hungrily, feeding each other titbits before tumbling, exhausted into each other’s arms.

When Juliette awoke early the next morning Khalid was kissing her, feathering little kisses onto her brow. She wondered what it would be like, to have him wake up beside her like this every morning, and realized then, just like that, that she was in love. For the first time. For the last time. For the only time.

Chapter 5

She was in love. The knowledge thrilled her, for she had not thought it possible, nor herself capable. It seemed obvious to her then, that she had been waiting for him all her life. That everything she had ever done, everywhere she had ever been, every scrap of learning she had acquired, all the hardship her nomadic life with Papa had forced her to endure, his ill-fated decision to loot A’Qadiz and even its tragic consequences, all of it was designed to lead her to Khalid. She was destined for him.

Pouring her feelings into her kiss, Juliette nestled into Khalid’s embrace. If he knew how she felt then surely….

Surely what? Her mouth stilled. In the breathtaking journey of discovery that constituted the past few days, she had not thought beyond the next hour with him and the next. Now, reality came crashing down on her. He was a sheikh, an Arabian prince. She was a French orphan with neither dowry nor expectations.

Last night, when Khalid had refrained again from making love to her, he had recognized, as she had not, that they could have no future together. He had cared enough for her to keep her virtue intact. He was indeed an honourable man.

An unfamiliar burning sensation prickled behind her lids. Tears. She was crying. Blinking rapidly, terrified lest he see, Juliette sat up, turning her back to Khalid, struggling to contain the urge to throw herself back into his arms and beg that he keep her with him always. He would not, and her begging would merely embarrass him. Worse, may even hurt him, and she would not for the world have that. She loved him. She loved him far too much to allow that.

‘Juliette, what is wrong?’

His voice, unbearably tender, caused a tear to trickle down her hot cheek. ‘Nothing,’ she said dismissively.

He tried to pull her back in his arms. In the night, as she lay sleeping, utterly trusting, in his arms, he had recognized this feeling for what it was. Love. He, Khalid al-Raqam, Prince of Lash’aal, was in love. In love with a female so unsuitable that Farid, and his Council, and probably his entire kingdom would be horrified. The number of senior tribesmen, each with eligible daughters, he would offend, did not bear counting. Gone would be Farid’s grand plan for an alliance with one of their powerful neighbours. Khalid did not care. He was in love. Irrevocably in love. Deeply, truly, unbelievably in love. Only Juliette would ever live in his heart. Only Juliette would fill the void in his life he had not even thought was there. Two halves of one. He and Juliette. What better place than here in the lost city to tell her that he wanted her to be his wife.

But Juliette resisted his embrace. She struggled, and wriggled, and got to her feet. Her face was set with some emotion he did not recognize. Her beautiful grey eyes failed to meet his. ‘What ails you?’ Khalid asked anxiously.

‘Nothing.’

She shrugged him away. She could never hope to share his life but she would not have his pity. That would be too much to bear. She must end this false idyll, this unsustainable fantasy, for both their sakes. ‘The sun is up. Soon it will be too hot to explore properly,’ she said, scrabbling into her clothes. ‘If we are to find any other evidence of Shal’aal we should start now. It’s what we came for, after all, isn’t it?’ Picking up her cloak Juliette made her way determinedly towards the rock passageway which took them back into Persimmanion. She knew Khalid was following her, but she daren’t look back. Across the central square, towards the temple she marched, biting her lip, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand.

The temple, unlike the rest of Persimmanion, was constructed of white marble. A simple building, the roof was long gone though most of the walls were still more or less intact. The huge doorway was supported by two ornately carved pillars representing a garden, in which several images of the goddess Shal’aal could be detected, hidden amongst the foliage. Juliette came to a halt in front of the altar, a long low marble slab. Behind her, Khalid’s footsteps stopped. ‘She belongs here, I’m sure of it,’ she said, forcing herself to turn around, unable to meet his eyes. ‘There must be a niche, a slot or something in which to place her.’

Only five days ago she had first stared up at him like that. Defiant, challenging, determined not to let him see what she really felt. Only five days ago, but it seemed like an eternity. It seemed like his whole life had been waiting for this point, this woman. He would not lose her now.

‘Khalid? The goddess, do you have her?’

‘There is only one goddess I’m interested in at the moment. Look at me, Juliette.’

When she did, she saw a light in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Despite her attempts to suppress it, hope flared like a torch flame fanned by a gust of air. ‘What is it?’

‘We were meant to be together. You and I, ma belle Juliette. I laughed at the idea Shal’aal might be a portent, but she is. She has brought us together. You were meant for me, as I was meant for you. I love you, Juliette.’

‘Khalid! If this is about last night, you did not—you do not have to—’

‘Oh but, Juliette, I do! Not because I feel obliged to, but because I cannot help myself. Juliette, my Juliette, surely you feel, as I do, that you have been sent to me. That we were made for each other, destined to be with each other.’

‘But it’s impossible, Khalid. You must know that.’

‘Nothing is impossible if you want it enough. Nothing will stop me taking you as my wife, placing you by my side as you were meant to be, save one thing—that you do not love me.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘Do you love me, Juliette, as I love you?’

‘Oh Khalid, I love you so much, but….’

‘What then? Are you worried about your family, never returning to France?’

‘I have no family now, nor any allegiance to a country that used and abused my poor father. But you are a royal prince, Khalid. I am a commoner and a foreigner to boot. Your subjects….’

‘My subjects should rejoice at my great fortune to have you as my wife. With you by my side, I will be a far better ruler. Be my princess, Juliette. Say you love me.’

He loved her. He really loved her. She could not quite believe it, yet it seemed the most natural thing in the whole world. ‘I love you, Khalid.’ Juliette laughed with sheer joy. ‘I love you,’ she cried, the words echoing round the temple. ‘Je t’aime, Khalid. Je t’adore.’

He pulled her ruthlessly into his arms, holding her tight, so tight it would have hurt were it not so wonderful. ‘Ma belle, now I will show you what it is like to be loved. Truly loved. Now we will give our thanks to Shal’aal, our own goddess of love, together.’

He laid her down on the cool marble of the altar. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I want you for my wife. Say you will be mine. Say you will give me that most precious gift, my darling, your innocence.’

‘It is yours. It was always yours. Make love to me, Khalid. Please. I’ve been waiting all my life for you.’

It was the promise he needed. She was all he would ever want. Reverently, he removed each piece of her clothing, trailing kisses over her skin as he did so, each one landing as delicately as a butterfly, each one adding to the slow build of anticipation. Her neck. Her arms. Her breasts. The indent of her waist. The slight curve of her belly. Her knees. Her ankles. Her feet. The tender skin on the inside of her thighs. The marble was cool on her back. Goose bumps prickled where Khalid’s lips brushed her skin. She felt revered, worshipped, adored and utterly alive.

Khalid removed his tunic, allowing it to pool at his feet on the floor of the temple. A shaft of sunlight slanted down through the ruined roof, bathing them in its glow, suffusing Juliette’s skin with a golden glow, rendering her like the goddess she reminded him of. Her hair, like an obsidian river, streamed down onto the floor. Her eyes were wide, focused entirely on him as he stood proudly erect before her. She arched her back, lifting the hard peaks of her breasts invitingly. He knelt between her legs to take one breast, then the other into his mouth, sucking hard, relishing the surge of pleasure etched on her face as he did so, feeling the same surge echoing, tightening his manhood.

‘Juliette. My princess. My goddess,’ he murmured as he tilted her towards him, caressing the already moist pink folds of her sex, his tongue, echoing the touch of his fingers, licking her full lower lip.

‘Khalid. My prince,’ she murmured, pulling him towards her, yearning for the ultimate coupling, for the two of them to become one. He kissed her hard, deeply, and thrust slowly, carefully. She felt as if she were unfolding. There was no pain, only a tightness which intensified the shivering, shimmering ecstasy of his entry. His shaft forged its way deeper, higher, a combination of velvet and steel, and she enveloped him, tilted up to open farther for him, gasping with pleasure at the way he filled her, and continued to fill her.

She wrapped her legs around his waist. He kissed her again, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth, as his shaft thrust inside her. She felt tense and hot. He thrust again, and she felt as if she were climbing, climbing with him, urged higher, to some magical peak. Again he thrust, encouraging her to move with him, quickly finding a rhythm together, climbing steeper, higher with each thrust until she could go no more, until she was there, on that mountaintop, dizzyingly high, achingly full, unable to stop herself from tumbling headlong, crying out his name as she climaxed, clutching him closer, closer as he too came, spending himself deep within her, melding them together, inextricably bound by silken ties of passion and love.

They lay thus, on the altar for some time, the sunlight making of them one burnished golden image. Finally, Juliette opened her eyes. She smiled, a sated, blissful smile which was entirely charming, which stirred Khalid to his depths. ‘You don’t think Shal’aal will be offended by our actions, do you?’

‘On the contrary,’ Khalid said, kissing her mouth, revelling in the way her lips were already swollen from his kisses, his shaft stirring responsively. ‘I think this altar was designed specifically for this purpose.’ He kissed her again. His erection hardened. ‘We should pay homage to Shal’aal again, I think.’ Gently, he began to do just that.

It was only later, when she opened her eyes, looking idly round at the walls of the temple behind her, that she spotted the tiny niche. Hidden in the shadow of a pillar, it could only be seen from the altar, at this precise angle. At first she thought it was a sunbeam which coloured it gold, but then she realized that the sun had moved. The alcove itself was lined with gold, like a tiny keyhole, only a strange shape. A womanly shape.

‘Shal’aal!’ Juliette exclaimed. ‘Khalid, look. It has to be. Look!’

And it was. Carefully, Juliette placed the little idol in the niche. She fitted perfectly. Standing back, not a trace could be seen of her behind the pillar, yet the atmosphere in the temple seemed to have changed. ‘She has come home,’ Juliette said, smiling shyly up at Khalid.

Khalid smiled lovingly in return. ‘Like you and I, she has found her true destiny.’

‘You will think it foolish, but I feel as if, by returning her, I have made some reparation for the wrongs Papa was compelled to commit. Can we leave her here, where she belongs? It would mean a lot to me.’

‘I don’t think it foolish at all,’ Khalid said, kissing the palm of her hand. ‘Shal’aal has returned to her rightful home. It is time for you and me to do the same. I cannot wait to claim you as my wife.’

‘And I cannot wait, either, my love. Who knows, maybe Shal’aal will bless our union with the gift of children?’

‘Then the sooner we start the better,’ Khalid said, taking her in his arms once more.

Epilogue

Six weeks later

Ramiz al-Muhanna, the newly crowned Prince of A’Qadiz following the untimely death of his brother in battle, watched the wedding parade with more than a hint of disapproval. It was plain that his neighbour, Prince Khalid, was besotted with the beautiful Frenchwoman but Westerners had no understanding of the traditions of Arabia, no respect for their culture, in Ramiz’s opinion. Despite Prince Khalid’s assurance that his bride’s father had been forced by his own government to raid A’Qadiz’s precious sites, as far as Ramiz was concerned, this Westerner was not to be trusted any more than any other.

Nor were such women suitable wife material, with their foolish expectations of true love, and their outrageous demands for attention. A wife was for the production of heirs, nothing more. Prince Khalid, Ramiz thought wryly, was in for a shock if he expected this Juliette de Montignac to observe the long-established borders which delineated a woman’s sphere of influence from a man’s. She did not look like a woman who would willingly confine herself to the harem.

As the wedding procession passed by the podium on which Ramiz sat, along with the other most honoured guests, the glow of happiness which emanated from the bridal pair was almost palpable. Dressed from head to toe in scarlet and gold, her inky black hair flowing down her back, her ankles and wrists jangling with golden bells, the bride, Ramiz was forced to concede, looked enticing. Beside her, Prince Khalid in the royal blue, had eyes only for her.

Ramiz, alone in the enormous crowd of guests, was untouched by the spectacle. The violent death of his brother Asad having brought to an end Ramiz’s role as A’Qadiz’s foreign emissary, threw him, unexpectedly, into a much more testing role as A’Qadiz’s ruler, one which occupied his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else. Were it not for the need to cultivate every neighbour as an ally, he would have spurned the invitation to attend this wedding, but Prince Khalid was too important a man to offend.

As the Bedouin priest said the final blessing and Prince Khalid lifted the veil to reveal his bride, her face alight with love, the courtyard of the royal palace in which the ceremony had taken place erupted with applause. Though the betrothal, when it was first announced, had caused a great deal of offence amongst the various factions with eligible daughters, Ramiz had to admire the sheer brilliance of Prince Khalid’s robust defence of his choice. Juliette de Montignac had been selected for him by the goddess Shal’aal. By pure coincidence, Ramiz was sure, a rare yellow diamond, the biggest anyone had ever seen, had been discovered in the excavations of the temple in the ruined city of Persimmanion. It was a sign, Prince Khalid told his people, and his people believed him. A diplomatic triumph, Ramiz conceded with reluctant admiration as he watched the prince kiss his bride lingeringly on the lips before presenting her to his people, glowing with pride.

Rose petals showered down on the couple. Applause rang out. Ramiz, Prince of A’Qadiz, watched the spectacle without seeing it, waited impatiently for the throng to move forward to the banqueting rooms, for the bridal pair to distribute the golden coins to the waiting children, for the whole affair to be over. His handsome face concealed beneath the gold-edged white silk headdress, Ramiz was already planning the journey back across the desert in his mind. His desert, his kingdom awaited him. There was much to attend to. There were disputes to settle, enemies to slay, allies to appease. The affairs of state lay heavily upon his broad, muscular shoulders.

As Prince Khalid and the new Princess Juliette sat down together to partake of the wedding feast, Ramiz made his excuses and called for his caravan to be readied. He did not know what the Fates had in store for him but he was ready to meet any challenge thrown at him, supremely confident in his ability to prevail. Duty had called him. He was ready.

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Born and educated in Scotland, Marguerite Kaye originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practice, a decision which was a relief, both to her and the Scottish legal Establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living, a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

ISBN: 978-1-4592-0643-4

The Sheikh’s Impetuous Love-Slave

Copyright © 2011 by Marguerite Kaye

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