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When Lucinda awoke, Tariq had already dressed and broke fast, watching her. She got up and quickly put on her tunic set and rolled her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. Even if the silk curtains hanging from the posts had been pulled closed, he could see through them. His scorching eyes on her made her giddy. Breakfast lay on a low table on the corner. She picked a few dried-dates.
"I'm going to the market this morning" She said as she sat down to eat. Curiosity to wander a little around Tunis and experience such a foreign place filled her.
Tariq snapped his eyes to her. The idea of her leaving his domain too vexing, he couldn’t think clearly. What would she do if she stepped out of it? "No, I don't allow you to go." His velvety voice dry.
She glared at him, brows arched. Nothing wrong about going to the market, she reckoned. “I didn't ask for your permission, I informed you barely" She defied.
"And I say you won't" He made a show of drinking his tea calmly, her defiance biting him, though.
“And may I hear the reason for this, at least?” Her hands on her hips, her brows pleated.
“This is very different from London.” He said with finality and didn’t bother to elaborate.
She never thought he’d react this badly to a simple trip to the market. It wasn’t like she understood nothing about his country. She’d even learned several words of Arabic. "What?” She pushed. “You're keeping me here as a prisoner?"
His cognac-against-fire eyes darted annoyance. “If I say no, you’re to obey me!” He stood and left in callous strides.
The word prisoner unleashed conflicting reactions in him. As his woman, she should do his bidding as any woman in this country. On the other hand, she did not travel here by choice which made the situation too muddy. It should give him pause, but he did not wish to let go or bring it up. Topsy-turvy it would remain.
Tariq had a lot of work when his caravans reached Tunis. He mused, as he walked through the tortuous streets. He brought goods to organise and trade with the vendors in the markets. Deliveries, payments collecting and managing his helpers listed among his tasks. The morning’s exchange affected his mood greatly. Why couldn’t the damn woman just behave meekly and let him make the decisions? But then it wouldn’t be Lucinda, would it? His fears churned his guts. Fear that she’d try to run away, like she did during the crossing of his caravan. The danger she’d put herself in would be bottomless. And how would he live without her? The risk too high. Better to keep her home.
Lucinda watched from the latticed windows as Tariq’s men loaded carts of goods, probably to deliver somewhere, she assumed. They entered and left by the large, canopied door in the yard. White garbs, faces covered to protect from the sun and dust. Hard work, but they didn’t need to be confined, like her just now.
A golden cage.
Exactly like the one she dreaded in wedlock. Locks. Did he intend to keep her like this? As if she took part in his…harem? He had no other women. Not in this house at least. He was no green boy, she fathomed. He displayed…skill. She made an attempt not to remember his ‘skills’, or else she’d be daydreaming soon. No harem here, but her range of action got limited, to say the least.
And then what?
They had no future. Not one that’d be acceptable. Not one which would give her security. He wouldn’t be able to marry her here because she didn’t belong to his community. The same would occur in England. They could not legally marry. He didn’t seem inclined to the idea.
Neither was she.
There had been no talk about the issue anyway. The hypothesis came outplaced if she imagined the scenario. Linking herself with a man in his condition would surely be social suicide for her. She’d lose everything familiar and dear for her. Her countrymen, the peers of the realm would ostracise her. Not even the poorest soot-darkened factory worker would offer her friendship. It’d be an afflicting life. Too much sacrifice. What would she gain in its stead?
A life as a concubine. Kept by him, like a mistress. And what happened when he tired of her? Yes, because men tired of their mistresses. Invariably. She’d heard countless stories whispered behind fans. Even if she wasn’t supposed to know about it, being little more than a debutant. Albeit she did and now connected the dots. A concubine or a mistress, what’s the difference?
A fallen woman.
Degraded, disinherited from all she was due socially, personally and in her family.
Her family. Oh, dear. She’d certainly put herself in a tight situation, but she wouldn’t stain her bloodline or damage her siblings’ chance for an adequate marriage. They were younger than her. Under age. She’d be expected to open the way for them. This, Tariq, Tunis would have to remain a secret, whatever the outcome.
If only she had never set eyes on him! Not even the first time. For he’d affected her almost instantly, upon seeing him in the market in Syracuse. After everything which passed between them, she predicted what she’d lose when he left her. He had her coming for more. And she couldn’t get enough. Her body boiled for him. Ever eager for the next encounter. Encounters. Endlessly.
He’d eventually get married, no doubt. With a woman, or women, who suited his cultural background. That woman would not be her. He’d shun her aside then, with nothing left for her or her life. Lucinda envisioned a desert of bitterness ahead of her in this scenario.
For him to have abducted, had not been her choice; to be in Tariq’s bed was. There’d be no way
round it. Sooner or later, she’d have to make a decision. With this in mind she walked to the library. If nothing else, she’d enjoy his book collection.
She entered the bedroom and froze. Tariq stood there, probably just come from wherever he’d gone. She’d been to the bath and came back to keep her things. The evening well advanced. The sun already set, the lamps lit. He gazed at her with his magnificent eyes glowing under the reddish light. Her heart skipped off in her chest as she took in his tall broad-shouldered frame, his obsidian sleek hair. The memories of their bath flashed in her mind bringing an undisguisable blush to her cheeks. His eyes narrowed as if the same happened to him. She turned from him.
The lamps lent a crimson shade to her braided dried-dates hair. Diaphanous silk curtains surrounding the bed floated suave with the fresh breeze coming from the latticed windows.
“Our meal is ready.” His too hoarse voice provoked goose-bumps on her skin.
She simply acquiesced, unable to utter a word. A deluge of mixed emotions ran inside her. The reflections she had, her lack of a way out and his attitude this morning and how it’d hurt her piled in her head.
