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As they entered the village, composed of one dusty lane, Tariq held her camel too close, as if to signalise his claim on her.
This new view absorbed Lucinda. The whitewashed flat squarish buildings built close to one another. At the end of the only lane she noticed a well. So, that’s why people lived here, she reflected, due to access to water. Men and women in their typical garb came out to see the long line of camels’ arrival.
Tariq made the animals sit as they dismounted. A veiled woman neared them and spoke to him in Arabic. He turned to her. “Go with her, she’ll take you to the lodgings.”
She looked sharp in his cognac gaze, her annoyance at being ordered around plain. He met her pepper-mint torches head on and didn’t back away. At last, she moved and followed the woman.
The lodging proved small but clean and neat. Not so different form the tent she slept in, it had a decorated rug on the floor. And a mattress on a low wooden platform, full of colourful cushions on it. A lattice worked window opened on one side. A chill coursed through her at the sight of the bed. Would Tariq share the room with her here?
The woman motioned for her to wait. A quarter of hour later lads brought an improvised tub and prepared a bath. The woman had a colourful bundle in her hands. She gave it to Lucinda and said Tariq’s name. Which meant he sent her clothes made by the villagers. The woman poured scented jasmine oil in the water and everyone left.
Lucinda enjoyed the bath with utter pleasure. A privilege to be able to get rid of all the soot.
She finished the bath and walked to the bed to see the clothes Tariq had sent her. On the pile rested a few sets of tunic, pantaloons and veils made in quite simple fashion with a little embroidery around the neck. One of them, though, revealed its sumptuousness, pure silk of a bright red shade, richly embroidered over the front in golden thread, beads and golden jewellery. A magnificent handcraft carrying centuries of tradition.
She’d just dressed one of the simpler tunics when Tariq came in the room. A jolt made her heart skip a beat. He had also bathed, his wet hair fell on his brow, looking even blacker. He had shaved and a sandalwood scent emanated from him. Perdition incarnated, his long-lashed cognac eyes on her as he closed the door.
Those clothes fit her to perfection, Tariq thought, as he appreciated her, so beautiful in that simple blue tunic. Her wet hair falling along her back and shoulders, down to her waist. “No one will be watching you, but everyone saw us enter the village together.” He propped his shoulder on the wall and crossed his arms. “If you try anything, we’ll catch you at once.”
She glanced at him, shuttered eyes, knowing she couldn’t try anything now. Her exact location undisclosed to draw a route. “Is it so strange that I want to go back?”
He shrugged. “What’s the hurry?” His mocking grin distorting his sinful lips. “It’s not like you’re being ill-treated.” His velvety voice would always affect her, she wondered, as waves of awareness crossed her insides.
She had to admit, at least to herself, the truth of his statement. Nevertheless, her chaperone and Adriana must be worried. And if Mrs Croft sent word to her parents, even worse. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing her apprehensive, of course. “I’ve made plans upon my returning.” She threw instead.
He frowned, his cognac eyes piercing her. “Plans?” Why should it be so outlandish for women to think ahead? “What plans?”
She glared him directly in the eye. “I’m getting married.” Of course, she was in no hurry to choose a husband or to be leg-shackled. With eyes revelling in his tall powerful frame, the idea came as positively unattractive. Her body reacted to him shamefully, her cheeks flushing.
An invisible deadly paw clawed sharp inside Tariq. “Who are you marrying?” In a brusque movement, he pushed from the wall and stalked to her.
She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m choosing from one of the offers when I get back.”
The knowledge she had more than one offer to choose from ate at his guts. No surprise there, beautiful as she was. There would be no shortage of suitors. At her marriageable age. And a blue-blood. And he couldn’t fathom why this fuming rage in him.
“Oh, one of those milk-sops.” He struggled to give a sardonic clink to his comment. He stepped forward.
Her hands flew to her waist, and she kept her ground. “They are gentlemen, a concept you cannot grab!” And she hoped he didn’t. The epithet milk-sop not so far from the truth after all.
He came closer, she raised her head to his cognac-against-fire eyes darting shards of anger. His broad shoulders domineering. The sandalwood scent alluring. Impossible for her not to step back, as her full breasts, pebbled, almost touched his kaftan.
“Oh, yes, sorry. Gentlemen.” The word dripped disdain. “And, prey, what’s so special about them?” He prowled predatorily once more.
His drawling silky deep voice drew like a caress on her skin. But danger underlined it. Her breath caught, her mind blurred as she struggled for coherent thought to prevail. She paced back again. “T-they are considerate, respectful and—” The remaining died in her throat as he moved again.
He came closer, as though he was about to pounce. “And?” He pressed.
She tried to step back once more, but her heels found the bed. “A-and polite.” Her eyes widened on him. He stood so close, she could see the golden rim in his eyes. Her mouth dried causing her to moisten her tingling lips. His eyes lowered to her parted lips and darkened.
“Tell me then,” He lifted one hand to cup her breast, his thumb caressing the hard tip, unleashing a fiery shot of sensation in her. A smug smile danced on his sensuous lips. “if your so highly praised gentlemen make you feel like this.”
The decadent thumb did not stop. But her breath did, arrested in her throat as her heated gaze locked on his. Waves and more waves of melting sensation zinged through her, weakening, wicked. Tempting defeat lay a second ahead. A
nd she could not care less.
Molten cognac surveillance watched the play of delicious surrender in her pepper-mint depths with not an ounce of victory. For he sank under the same wretched spell, unable to avoid his own fall.
Did she really need to answer his question? Because her mushy brain could solely conjure how she never wanted his finger to halt.
