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How To Seduce A Sheikh
Marguerite Kaye
Arabia, 1801When Prince Zafar al-Zuhr buys a frightened but proud French woman at a slave market, it is not to add her to his harem. Zafar intends to secure safe passage home for the delicate beauty. Haunted by the past, he has vowed never to take advantage of a woman under his protection—no matter how difficult it is to resist the passion she ignites within him…A refugee from the Napoleonic wars in Egypt, Colette Beaumarchais is intrigued by the man who purchased her only to set her free. But it is desire, not gratitude, that compels her into his arms. She is eager to learn the art of love—and the handsome, sensual desert prince would make the perfect teacher
Arabia, 1801
When Prince Zafar al-Zuhr buys a frightened but proud French woman at a slave market, it is not to add her to his harem. Zafar intends to secure safe passage home for the delicate beauty. Haunted by the past, he has vowed never to take advantage of a woman under his protection—no matter how difficult it is to resist the passion she ignites within him...
A refugee from the Napoleonic wars in Egypt, Colette Beaumarchais is intrigued by the man who purchased her only to set her free. But it is desire, not gratitude, that compels her into his arms. She is eager to learn the art of love—and the handsome, sensual desert prince would make the perfect teacher...
How to Seduce a Sheikh
Marguerite Kaye
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter One (#ubeb76fb4-522e-5d42-90b5-d3a0f90a3f5f)
Chapter Two (#ub20176ff-dda7-51ef-831b-ace1b4d0ebd5)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Arabia, September 1801
‘Who will bid five hundred? Yes! Six hundred. Now seven.’
It was the suppressed excitement in the man’s voice as much as the sums of money involved that roused Prince Zafar al-Zuhr’s curiosity and distracted him from his careful inspection of a magnificent snowy-white camel. His interest in the animal had been half-hearted, founded in a desire to be seen to spend generously and thus spread goodwill in his neighbour’s kingdom rather than a desire to purchase yet another beast to add to his already impressive herd. Having no wish to risk causing offence, however, Prince Zafar al-Zuhr summoned Firas, his man of business, to commence the bartering process without which the camel seller would be insulted, and headed off in the direction of the excited bidding that had floated over the marketplace and piqued his curiosity.
The market was a busy one, situated as it was on the Red Sea. Merchants from as far away as India traded here, selling silks and exotic spices. There were carpets and camels for sale, expensive oils and rich unguents, even some ancient artefacts from the tombs of pharaohs, though the trade in such things had largely migrated north as first the French and then the British had moved into Egypt. If such trade existed in Prince Zafar’s kingdom of Kharidja, it was kept very much under cover, for his people knew how much he frowned upon the loss of their cultural heritage to foreigners.
Zafar came to a halt at the edge of the crowd that filled the palm-tree-shaded square. The air was redolent with the smell of unwashed bodies, acrid with the palpable stench of fear emanating from the small group of African men who were huddled together for protection. Manacled and half-naked, their ebony skin glistening with perspiration, they awaited their turn on the rostrum, terrified and bewildered. Zafar’s fists clenched automatically. Common as these markets were all the way along the Red Sea coast, accepted practice as it was, he could not help his natural repugnance at the sight of human bondage. He had banned such slave markets from Kharidja. Zafar turned, anxious to be gone.
‘One thousand!’
The exorbitant sum stopped him in his tracks. The throng melted before him as he pushed his way roughly to the front, intimidated by the fury on his face as much as the trappings of power that were apparent in the pristine white of his robes, the glinting gold of his sabre and dagger hilts. In the centre of the dusty space stood the slave trader, a Turk, and long-travelled if the condition of his clothes was an indication. Beside him, striving to keep herself upright, her arms crossed over her bared breasts, her eyes glistening with a mixture of terror and defiance, was a woman. A foreign woman. European by the look of her, her pale skin raw with sunburn, her hair, the colour of chocolate, streaming down her back.
The urge to yank his sabre from its sheath and to set about clearing the crowd was almost irresistible. Zafar’s hand was already on the hilt, his other on the dagger he wore strapped across his chest.
‘One thousand and fifty. And one hundred. One thousand two hundred.’
There were three competing bidders. He knew without a doubt the horrors that awaited this woman whose eyes darted between each of the men who held her fate in their hands. In their purses.
She was trembling. He could see, from the way she clenched her jaw, from the tightening of the muscles on her neck, the effort it took her to stay upright. The dress she wore had been ripped from her upper body, the bodice with its empty sleeves hanging in tatters at her waist. Though she seemed to have escaped the whip or any obvious molestation, her bare feet were filthy and bloody. French or English, most likely, left behind when their respective armies left Egypt. He could not imagine what travails she had already suffered. He had witnessed the indignities she would have been put through as potential buyers examined her.
Zafar’s hand tightened on his sabre, but it had been a long road, this bloody battle towards a lasting peace, too long and too hard-fought for him to risk such a provocative action now, despite the still-raw horrors the situation invoked. Yet there was something about the woman that drew him. She was perhaps twenty-four or—five, slim in the way some Western women were, her waist narrow, her breasts small. Her face had a remote beauty about it in the sculpted cheekbones and finely drawn brows. In contrast, her lips were full. Despite her terror, it was her determined aloofness, the way she refused to cower or to shrink, that earned his admiration. There was defiance in those surprisingly blue eyes of hers, and courage, too.
‘Three thousand.’
A ripple of excitement greeted Zafar’s bid.
Two of the three contenders shook their heads, but the third remained in the game. ‘Four thousand,’ he growled.
Zafar did not recognise the man, but he recognised his intentions. ‘Five.’
‘Six thousand.’
‘Highness, this is madness. What use can you possibly have for such a scrawny specimen?’
Zafar, now grimly determined, ignored Firas, who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘Ten thousand for the girl and the men,’ he said.
An audible gasp greeted this bid. Behind him, his man of business groaned. His opponent hesitated for a painful moment, then he muttered something vicious under his breath and turned away. The slave trader nodded jubilantly. No doubt he would now retire on his profits, but Zafar did not care. He allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. A victory, and bloodless to boot. It was worth every gold coin in his considerable purse to spare this woman. He turned to Firas. ‘Have the men freed from their manacles. Give them food and water, and get the caravan ready.’
‘Highness, why?’ Firas expostulated. ‘You could have purchased a herd of prize camels for such a sum.’
Zafar, who was just beginning to ask himself the same question, eyed his man haughtily. ‘You dare question my judgement?’
Firas did not flinch. ‘No, Highness. I have no need, for I understand very well why you acted as you did,’ he said quietly.
‘Then you should also understand that I will not have that matter discussed.’
The menace in his voice was unmistakable. Though he allowed Firas much latitude, this was one topic upon which he would not be questioned. His man bowed low and scuttled off to do his master’s bidding.
* * *
Colette Beaumarchais pulled the ruins of her bodice around her to cover her nakedness and struggled desperately to hold her shattered nerves together. Nearly two weeks in captivity, snatching sleep in short bursts, acutely aware that at any moment her captors might turn on her, had taken a severe toll. When she realised the brigands had decided not to molest her for fear of reducing her value, her relief had been extremely short-lived. No one who had lived as she had, travelling with the French army across Egypt and Syria, could be ignorant of the fate that awaited a female sold into slavery.
Leon had been forever warning her of the dangers of straying far from the camp, as had her dear papa. Both her husband and her father were dead now, and for the first time she discovered she was glad of that. They would never know the fate that befell her. Which was not, at least, going to be determined by the evil-looking man who had been defeated at the last minute.
It made no difference, she told herself. The outcome would still be the same. But surreptitiously eyeing the man who had bought her, she could not suppress the tiniest little surge of relief. That he was rich, she had no doubt, for her basic grasp of Arabic had allowed her to follow the bidding. That he was powerful was also indisputable, for there was an indefinable air of authority about him—not arrogance but confidence. A man used to complete and unquestioning obedience.
His tunic and the cloak he wore over it, which she had learned to call a bisht, were an immaculate white. His headdress, too, white and what looked like silk. The igal, the band that held it in place, was threaded with gold, and the curved sheath of the sabre he wore at his waist was studded with what looked to be emeralds and rubies. Rich and noble, if the way the people were bowing and scraping around him was anything to go by. Yes, there was something extremely attractive about him, in the fluid way he moved, like a prowling predator, both graceful and lethal. A warrior? There was that, too, in his face, which had not Leon’s classical good looks but had that hewn, hard-planed look of the battle-hardened soldier. His skin was tawny, the colour of the sands at dusk, and his eyes were dark, hooded. A man who gave nothing away. He wore no beard. His mouth was strikingly sensual. Her captor. Her owner. The man who now held her life in his hands.
He turned away from the slave trader just then and met her gaze for the first time. Colette inhaled sharply. Under other circumstances, it was true she would find him most attractive, intriguing even, but these were not other circumstances. Sacré bleu, what was she thinking! This man had just purchased her like some chattel. He could—and without doubt would—do with her what he wished. Bien, she was not a general’s daughter for nothing. Garnering all her courage, Colette straightened her shoulders and stood proud, meeting the man’s gaze defiantly, knowing full well how offensive such a gesture could be perceived from a mere woman. ‘Monsieur,’ she said unwaveringly, ‘you may have purchased my body, but I must warn you, you will never break my spirit.’
She spoke in her native language, not expecting him to understand, the words uttered as a boost to her flagging courage rather than from any desire to antagonise. Her purchaser’s eyes, however, a curious colour, amber or gold, flashed fire. His brows were drawn together in a fierce frown.
‘You should be very glad, mademoiselle,’ he replied in perfect, softly accented French, ‘that it is I and not one of the other bidders who prevailed today. Be assured that having paid such an exorbitant amount, they would take great pleasure in breaking both your body and your spirit.’
He was clearly furious, yet his fists remained unclenched, and he made no effort to close the short distance between them. Did he mean that he would not try to break her, or that the breaking of her would give him no pleasure? ‘Why?’ Confused, Colette asked the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Why did you pay so much for me? I am sure a man such as yourself could have purchased any number of slaves more beautiful than I for such a sum.’
He surveyed her, not lasciviously but as her father was wont to survey the strategy board when planning a battle. ‘Why do you think, mademoiselle?’ he asked.
Confused, she could only stare. On one level she was afraid, but another part of her was inclined to doubt his intentions. A warrior he may be, but he was no violator. Her instincts told her she could trust him, but she knew better than to trust instincts when her mind was affected by the intense heat, her fierce thirst and, above all, the trauma of the past few weeks. ‘I think you paid such an exorbitant sum merely for the pleasure of winning, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I cannot imagine that you wish such a—a meagre example of womanhood as I in your harem.’
‘Meagre?’
‘Skinny,’ Colette replied warily. Horribly conscious that her meagreness was barely covered, she tightened her grip on the tattered remnants of her gown before recalling how pointless it was, for he had already seen for himself during the bidding the smallness of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist. Leon used to tease her about her slimness on the occasions when they shared a bed. ‘I had as well married a schoolboy,’ he had said once as she lay beneath him, eyeing her breasts in a disappointed way. It had hurt, though she had tried not to show it, for he had never pretended that he married her for love of her person.
En fait, she should be glad that her person was so unwomanly, for it may yet be her saving. Colette let go of her bodice, deliberately baring herself. ‘As you see, monsieur, I have none of the attributes that would make me fit for your harem.’
Cursing low under his breath in Arabic, he unfastened his cloak and threw it over her shoulders, pulling it close to cover her nakedness. ‘The first law of the harem, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘is that a concubine should be seen only by her master.’
His fury took her aback as much as his protectiveness confounded her. The silken folds of the bisht caressed her bare skin as it swathed her. She had never worn anything so luxurious. Colette pulled it closer around her, as if it could form a barrier between her and the crashing reality of the situation. She had little fight left in her, but there was still some. ‘You will be disappointed,’ she said. ‘I warn you, I am no virgin.’
Now his fists did clench. ‘The men who captured you?’
Hastily, Colette shook her head as she saw the direction of his gaze, towards the slave-driver. ‘Non! My husband.’
‘Your husband! He cannot be much of a man to have allowed his wife to be captured.’
‘He is dead, monsieur. But if he were alive, he would assure you that I am not—that I know nothing of the arts of love,’ she said desperately. ‘You will be disappointed in me. I am not fit for your harem, but I have other skills. If you will allow me to work, I can—’
‘You think I will set you to work?’
‘I am much stronger than I look,’ Colette said, defensive in the light of the stark disbelief in his tone. ‘I can clean and cook and sew, and I am an excellent organiser. Papa always said so. Also, I can nurse. In the field hospital, I was—’
‘Enough!’ He held his hand up as if to fend off her words. ‘I have no need of slaves, and my kingdom is not at war, mademoiselle—madame. I wonder what kind of man were you married to, that he made you so certain of your lack of womanly charms?’
The distance between them had not changed, but Colette shivered under his heated gaze as if he had touched her. Fear warred with a flicker of excitement low in her belly. It was wrong to feel this way. She licked her cracked lips. ‘My husband was a soldier,’ she said.
‘Your husband was a fool.’ He reached out to touch her, smoothing his hand over the fall of her hair. The flicker of excitement tightened into a knot. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Beaumarchais. Colette Beaumarchais.’
‘Madame Beaumarchais, you should not be so quick to leap to conclusions.’
Cat’s eyes, like a tiger, she thought, mesmerised, trying to ignore the way her skin was heating as he brushed her hair away from her face, his fingers feathering over her cheek, down the column of her neck.
‘I don’t understand. If you do not want me for a slave or a concubine, then why did you buy me?’ Colette demanded, shrugging away his hand, which was resting on her shoulder.
He moved swiftly as she made to walk away, pulling her hard up against him, breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Heat flooded her at the shocking nearness, at the overwhelming maleness of him, his solid muscle and sinewy strength. A warrior. And a very potent man. ‘Laissez-moi!’
He laughed. ‘Release you? Into the desert and no doubt into the hands of another set of slave traders? You do not wish that.’
‘No. I mean yes. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
‘As you have shown by your appearance today.’
Silenced, she ceased struggling. ‘Who are you? Why won’t you let me go if you don’t want me?’
‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of the Kharidja.’
Her heart began to hammer in her breast. He held her so closely that she could feel the slow, steady beat of his. One hand slid down her spine to her waist. The other slid up her arm. There could be no doubting the heat in his gaze. There could be no doubting his intent as he bent his head towards her. He was going to kiss her. She braced herself and at the same time she tilted her face, parting her lips invitingly, only to find herself released as suddenly as she had been caught up against him. Mortified by her contrary behaviour, Colette staggered. ‘You have not answered my question, Prince Zafar,’ she said.
His eyes flashed. Drawing himself up to his full height, he eyed her disdainfully. ‘I am Prince Zafar al-Zuhr of Kharidja. I answer to no one. You would do well to remember that.’
Chapter Two
Zafar strode off towards his caravan, forcing the Frenchwoman to break into a trot to keep up with him. He was appalled at how close he had come to surrendering to the desire to kiss her. No matter that she seemed to think him a savage, Colette Beaumarchais was under his protection, and he would never violate that trust.
Rattling out a stream of orders to Firas in the vain hope that the man would be too taken up with obeying him to comment further on his prince’s aberrant behaviour, Zafar was all the time conscious of the woman at his side wrapped in his bisht who was now, legally if not morally, his property. His responsibility. His, under the ancient custom of the land, to do with as he liked. It was a custom he wished he could outlaw, but so far progress in Kharidja had been slow, and resistance by his people—or the men, at any rate—strong.
He cursed himself inwardly. What in the name of the gods was he going to do with the woman! He had bid on impulse, intent only on saving her, without actually considering how he would do so. He had not expected gratitude, yet her attack on his honour, though completely natural under the circumstances, had hurt. It angered him that she had so misjudged him, that she had had the nerve to question his intentions. It pleased him to think how abject her apologies would be when he obtained a safe passage home to France for her. It would be no simple matter to do so, for there were few he could trust to escort her to Egypt, and he had no idea what the diplomatic situation was in Cairo. No, the best thing would be to take her to Kharidja and to make proper arrangements from there. This too would allow Madame Beaumarchais plenty of time to reassess her opinion of him, something that he was strangely set upon her doing. Later, when they set up camp, he would inform her of his plans and she would thank him. For now, though, he would allow her the time to repent of her attitude. Satisfied, Zafar nodded to himself and turned his attention to Colette. ‘Have you ever ridden a camel?’
She stared at him blankly. Her eyes were smoky blue, the colour of the midnight sky over the endless desert. Dark shadows spoke eloquently of long, sleepless nights. The full, sensual lips he had been so intent on kissing were dry. He remembered the angry sunburn on the delicate skin of her body and cursed himself for being a thoughtless fool. How long had she been captive? Such a tender specimen as this with such pale European skin must find the heat of his beloved desert almost unbearable. ‘Come,’ he said gently, holding out his hand to her. ‘There is shade and water aplenty where my caravan is being readied for the journey home to Kharidja. My kingdom is three days’ ride away, over the desert.’
‘Kharidja. I have never heard of that place. Why are you taking me there?’
She was clasping her hands tightly together, holding the folds of his cloak closed. Despite the burnish of the sun, her face had an ashen pallor. Even as he noticed this, Zafar saw her legs buckle and leapt forward to catch her, but she struggled to right herself. As her legs buckled again, he swept her into his arms, ignoring her flailing arms and protests. ‘Stop struggling. You must save your strength.’
‘For your bed, you mean.’
She was as stubborn as a mule! Zafar tightened his grip. ‘For the camel,’ he said curtly.
* * *
Colette clung to the high sides of the strange saddle, which swayed alarmingly. The ground was a lot farther away than it was from horseback. The animal smelled so different, too, and the constant bleating noises it made, as if in protest at being forced to carry an extra load, were most disconcerting. She fixed her eyes firmly on the horizon for fear of being sick. The dusty, stony track was giving way to sand. The sun was past its peak, and the headdress, one of Prince Zafar’s own, was really most effective in keeping her cool, though she had protested at first, thinking it would make her much hotter.
A strong arm snaked around her waist and held her firmly. ‘Do not resist it,’ Prince Zafar said. ‘If you let yourself be taken by the movement, you will find it easier.’
Nervously she eyed the reins, which were threaded with gold and decorated with little tinkling bells. ‘I am perfectly well.’
‘Forgive me, but you look far from well. Now, let go of the saddle. Feel the movement of the camel as you would the movement of the sea on the deck of a ship.’
Tentatively, she did as she was bid, letting her body move with the motion of the saddle. ‘You are right,’ she said in surprise some moments later.
‘You will find that I almost always am.’
‘I doubt that,’ Colette replied. ‘More likely it is that no one dares tell you that you are wrong.’
She knew as soon as the words were out that she had been not only rude but disrespectful, but he surprised her. ‘That is very true, Madame Beaumarchais, none dare. I wonder why you do?’
It was beyond foolish of her, but there was something about this man that made her want to challenge him. His unconscious assumption of power that was no doubt well deserved, that was part of it, but there was, too, his determination not to explain himself, an aloofness that she wanted to break down. And then there was her own challenge to him. She would not allow him to break her spirit. Attack was the best form of defence. Papa’s favourite maxim; it would serve her as well as any other. ‘When one has nothing to lose,’ she replied, ‘one dares anything.’
‘I wonder, would you have been more conciliatory were I one of the other bidders?’ Prince Zafar asked, his voice suddenly cold.
