Banished to the Harem Read online

  ‘Now,’ Rakhal said, ‘you must trust me.’

  He laid her down and she stared at the wall, at the outline of his body and the full state of his arousal. Of course he was aroused, Natasha told herself. She was too—not that she would let him know it. It was just two bodies confined—two bodies primed with food and scents and brews for this moment—two bodies that last night had been so deliciously intimate. It would be impossible for him not to be aroused.

  He lifted her knees and lowered his head between her legs—but his mouth did not touch her. She could feel only his breath when she wanted his tongue. It was a relief when he told her to make some sounds of approval, to let it be known that the Crown Prince Sheikh was arousing her.

  She moaned not because she was told to, but because she had to. And as his hair met her thigh, as his head danced between her legs, it was torture that his mouth did not caress her. He pulled her hand to his head, told her to moan louder, told her to raise her hips. As she did so she misjudged, felt for a second the soothing of his mouth, and then he moved back, and she bit down on a plea for him to continue as the music urged him. She was acting, she told herself as his head rose.

  She was acting, Natasha insisted as he lay over her.

  ‘Soon,’ Rakhal said, ‘you can rest.’

  His voice was hoarse. His weight was on his elbows, but their groins still met and his erection was pressed between them. She didn’t want to be resting—she wanted him inside her.

  ‘Say my name,’ he said. ‘You would call my name.’

  And she did. She called his name as if he were inside her.

  ‘And again,’ Rakhal said as he moved over her.

  She sobbed it out, saw their shadows moving in unison, and the music hastened and urged them on to a place she must not go.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said.

  And she wished she didn’t—wished he were a liar and would take her now.

  The music and the potions must have confused her senses, must have muddled her brain, for as she lay trapped beneath him, as she watched their images move on the tent wall, she wanted to stay there, wanted to be having his baby, wanted for ever with Rakhal. But it would not always be like this, she reminded herself. The wife of Rakhal would be kept far removed from him—if she were having his child, after the wedding she would not see him. So she tore her eyes from the wall and looked up to the sky. Only that did not dilute her arousal. Tonight, quite literally, she saw stars.

  ‘Rakhal!’ She said his name for she wanted this over. She could not play this dangerous game. ‘Rakhal,’ she begged, and he moved faster as the music reached a crescendo.

  ‘Now,’ he said in her ear and he lifted his body and shuddered a moan and faked his first orgasm. Without his bidding she called out, as she had last night. Should he kiss her? Rakhal wondered. If she were his bride, would he kiss her now?

  Perhaps he forgot for a moment that they were acting, and for Natasha it was a relief that he did.

  His tongue was a cool balm, and while their rocking was slowing, the music fading, it was contrary to the fire in their groins. It should be over—and yet his erection was still pressing, his breathing was ragged, and her fingers were on his back and digging in. Her hips rose higher against him and his tongue darted in a decadent tryst. Natasha tried to quiet the jerks of her body, tried to tell herself she was playing only the necessary game. But as he lifted his head and watched the colour rise from her chest to her cheeks, as he felt tense beneath him, there was a glimmer of triumph in his eyes as she denied her orgasm.

  He rolled off her and onto his side, pulled the silk over his groin, and Natasha closed her eyes, guilty at having enjoyed it.

  ‘Well done,’ Rakhal whispered. ‘Now you can rest, and tomorrow you will be taken to your own room. We don’t have to be together after this night …’

  His voice trailed off as a maiden entered, and she was reminded of her role as Rakhal translated the maiden’s words.

  ‘She is asking that you lift your hips.’

  And she burnt with shame as she did so and a cushion was placed under her, to tilt her hips so that the supposed royal seed might get its best chance.

  A vessel—that was all she was, Natasha reminded herself.

  All she would ever be to him.

  And she closed her eyes to the stars and tried to hold onto her tears as she waited for morning to come.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HER time with the master was over, Amira informed her.

  Natasha had not slept; instead she had lain pretending to. When Rakhal had risen at sunlight to pray she had opened her eyes to see the maidens quietly waiting. She’d been led through the tent to eat flat bread and dates. She’d drunk infused tea and now they bathed her.

  She would never relax, Natasha was sure. But the water smelt of lavender, and the fingers that massaged her scalp were firm and yet tender, and as she breathed in the fragrant steam Natasha felt the tension seep from her. She understood that she was being taken care of, that the maidens meant her no harm.

  She was taken to lie on low cushions and her breath was in her throat as Amira explained that she would be decorated. Her skin was damp and warm as tiny leaves and flowers were painted around her areola and just above her pubic bone. The tiny flowers dipped above and into her intimate curls, and Amira did her best to put Natasha at ease as she explained their ways. An old lady drew a circle and then darkened one sliver. When she pointed to the sky Natasha understood it was last night’s moon that had been drawn—the time recorded.

  ‘For nine of these moons we shall paint you and pray that the flowers will grow to here.’ Amira pressed into the middle of Natasha’s ribcage and the old lady said something. Amira laughed. ‘Sometimes ten moons,’ Amira translated, and then the old lady said something else—only this time the maidens bowed their heads.

  ‘What is she saying?’

  ‘She speaks of Queen Layla,’ Amira explained. ‘The flowers only climbed to here.’ She pointed to just above Natasha’s umbilicus. ‘There were only six moons for our Prince. It was too soon,’ Amira explained, then tried to reassure her. ‘But it will not happen to you. Queen Layla was not safe in Alzirz at her fertile time. She was not painted and fed the potions. She did not have us to take care of her …’

  ‘Where was she?’

  Amira looked uncomfortable and did not answer immediately; instead she carried on with her artwork. After a moment she spoke on. ‘She was from the desert, and when she was in the palace she pined for it. She was so thin and so ill, and she was growing weaker … She joined the King in London—he wanted to try the doctors there.’ Amira pulled a face. ‘She would have been safer here. Instead she came back to us already carrying a babe. They nursed her at the palace; they did everything that could be done. But she was too weak …’

  Natasha was starting to understand their terror of breaking any traditions. When the decorating had been completed, she was oiled again till she was drowsy, then dressed in sheer organza and led to her bed. She was given a thick milk and honey drink, but it was sickly and sweet and she could not finish it.

  ‘You must drink it all,’ Amira said. ‘It will help you to sleep.’ She gave a smile. ‘You will sleep now till tomorrow morning.’

  When she was left alone Natasha put down the goblet, unsure what they were giving her, and unsure if it was okay if she were pregnant. She knew there was no way she would sleep for twenty-four hours, but the room was dark and cool and finally she did fall asleep—only to awake disorientated. The room was still dark, and she could hear music filtering through from the lounge. Without thinking she wandered out.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Immediately Rakhal stood from the cushion he was lying on. ‘You do not come out when the music plays!’

  He was harsher than he’d intended, but she must not come out when there was music, for it masked other sounds. To his credit, he had just been sitting pondering—but Natasha was not to know that. More than that, the sight of her unse
ttled him—this side of a woman he was not supposed to see. Her hair was oiled and her skin was too; the organza robe was flimsy and clung to her. She was lush and ripe and he was wanting. But she had been bathed and painted.

  ‘Go to your room!’ he snapped, and promptly led her back. ‘You do not come out when the music is on.’

  ‘Then turn it off,’ Natasha said, and looked at him, this man who would send her back to her room. ‘Actually, don’t bother.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t even want to talk to you anyway.’

  ‘Sleep,’ Rakhal ordered.

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Pull the rope.’

  He turned away, for he must rise above his feelings. She was completely forbidden now, and he was stronger than his urges, so he led her to her room. He saw the goblet still full on the tray on the floor.

  ‘You need to drink that.’ He crossed the room and picked it up.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and he held it to her lips. She loathed it. It was sickly and thick like custard, and it ran down her chin, but his fingers caught it.

  ‘All of it,’ Rakhal said. ‘There are herbs that help you to rest, that are good for your womb.’

  He pressed the thick goo to her lips and she took it from his finger. He was hard and trying to ignore it.

  He pulled back the silk and she slid into bed. Her body was on fire. It must be the herbs or the oils, for there was heat between her legs and her breasts felt taut as he stared down at her.

  ‘Sleep,’ he ordered, and left the room.

  So tempted was she to call him. And it was the strangest place, the most dizzying place, for the music was louder from the lounge and it lulled her. The herbs from the drink made her dreams giddy, and then the music was quiet, and there was just the sound of laughter drifting across the desert night. A splash from the pool and then another one. She opened her eyes and a tear escaped—for it was not, as she had thought when she’d first arrived, the servants partying while the master was away.

  She had only just realized. The bright colours the women had been dressed in, the dancing, the laughter that had come from the pool …

  That was his harem.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘YOU can continue to sulk,’ Rakhal said a few days later, when she was still so furious she would hardly speak with him, ‘or you can enjoy the reprieve.’

  ‘I’ll sulk, thank you.’

  Natasha lay on the cushions. She was allowed out, apparently, because the music wasn’t playing. She was still dressed in the flimsy organza, and would be bathed at sunset tonight. Rakhal had dismissed the maidens who usually hovered around her, and satisfied that the coupling had taken place Abdul left them alone now, but although they now had the opportunity, Natasha refused to talk.

  ‘You wanted a holiday …’

  ‘I wanted to lie on the beach and spend time with my friends.’

  ‘But you weren’t able to,’ Rakhal reminded her, ‘for your brother stole from you. Now you can rest and be pampered. I do not see what your issue is.’

  ‘Issues,’ Natasha corrected. She was angry at him on so many levels—so many and especially one—but she could not bring herself to speak about it, could not swallow down her jealousy enough for it not to appear in her voice. So she spoke of other things that bothered her—and there were plenty! ‘You brought me here against my will.’

  ‘You gave me no choice,’ Rakhal said. ‘When you spoke of this pill that you could take.’

  Natasha looked away. Really she was not sure that she would have taken the pill—wasn’t sure of anything any more—but Rakhal did not leave things there.

  ‘Did you think I would leave you to deal with your brother?’

  He had a point, but she would not give in. ‘You could have discussed things with me.’

  ‘There was no time.’ Rakhal had no choice but to admit it. ‘I explained to you that one day I would marry. I had already been told to return to choose my bride. I was to fly out on the Monday.’

  And he watched the anger grow in her, watched the fire on her cheeks, and there was rare guilt as she challenged him.

  ‘So I was your last fling?’

  ‘I hoped,’ Rakhal said, ‘to see you again …’

  ‘Were you going to ask me to join your harem?’ she spat.

  ‘I knew that would not go well. I thought I might see you in London.’ She tried to rise from the cushions but he stood over her. ‘Do you understand that I could not leave you in London knowing that you might be carrying my child? That I could not marry another without first being sure you were not? If you are pregnant,’ Rakhal said, ‘it might be my country’s only chance to continue. My father was once arrogant, assuming he would produce many heirs.’

  She sat there swallowing her fury as he continued.

  ‘If you are pregnant,’ Rakhal explained, ‘I know it will be a difficult transition for you—that much I do understand. However, you will never live in fear again, and you will never know anxiety—that is my duty to you … I take care of your family. I take care of your problems. You live in luxury; you raise your children.’

  ‘Without you?’

  ‘You would see me through your fertile times,’ Rakhal explained, ‘and for feasts and celebrations, and of course I would come regularly and visit the children, teach them our history—especially the eldest.’

  He did not understand the tears in her eyes—had never had to try to explain this before. He snapped his fingers. He was uncomfortable with this conversation and he did not like to discuss the pointless—for these were things that could never change.

  ‘I am going to bathe and then I will walk in the desert,’ Rakhal said. ‘You should rest.’ And he ordered music which meant she must return to her room.

  She lay there for almost an hour seething, hearing the sound of laughter that came from the bathing area. No, she would not meekly lie back and accept his ways—at least in certain things!

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Rakhal snapped as she walked into his bathing area and the laughing and chatter abruptly ceased. ‘I am bathing.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes flashed their warning and her voice chilled the room. ‘Tell your maidens they are dismissed.’

  Rakhal’s eyes were just as angry, but with a few short words and a flick of his wrist they were left alone. As he had stood over her before, Natasha now stood over him.

  ‘I’m here because you think I may be pregnant. You are considering taking me as your bride.’ She spoke very slowly, her face coming close to his. ‘And you have the gall to have three women wash you while I am sent to my room …’

  ‘I was having a bath.’ Rakhal was far from repentant. ‘There is nothing sensual in it.’

  She slipped her hand in the water and found his thick, warm tumescence. ‘Oh, I beg to differ.’

  He moved her hand away. She was decorated, he remembered. But he saw her pale fingers linger on the surface of the water and wanted to push her hand back down.

  ‘You are to rest …’

  ‘I’m bored with resting.’ Her eyes were dangerous. ‘And I tell you this now, Rakhal—you have your rules, well, here are mine. There are to be no other women—and that means no maidens bathing you.’ She saw his jaw tighten and she glimpsed a possible future and did not like it. ‘If I am pregnant that will go for our marriage too.’

  ‘You are being ridiculous.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head.

  ‘You will be in the palace,’ he told her. ‘You will not even know …’

  ‘I’ll know,’ Natasha said.

  Rakhal did not like the rules being rewritten—especially this one—and simply dismissed her.

  ‘Fine,’ Natasha said. ‘I’m going for a walk.’

  ‘A walk!’ He was aghast. ‘You do not walk. You are to rest.’

  ‘I have rested.’ She was having great trouble keeping her voice reasonable. ‘And now I would like some fresh air. I want to see the desert.’

  ‘It is not a
place for a stroll,’ Rakhal said, but she would not give in.

  ‘If you want to swim I have a private pool, and there is a garden around it …’

  ‘I want to get out.’

  ‘You do not just wander out to the desert alone. I thought the other night had taught you that much at least …’

  ‘Then walk with me.’

  If she stayed inside, even within the compound, for another minute she would surely go crazy. Perhaps he sensed that, for he gave a nod, and as he began to call the maidens to come and dry him and dress him he had the good sense to change his mind.

  ‘Go and put on a robe,’ Rakhal said. ‘And you must have a drink before we leave.’ Still she stood there. ‘I’m assuming you’re not here to dry me?’

  Her blush chased her out of the bathroom. It was not what he had said, more the thoughts his words had triggered. She refused to think of him drying and dressing, took the small victory that he was alone, and slipped on a robe over her sheer gown. The maids came and tied on thin leather sandals, ensured she took a long drink, clearly worried that she was leaving the safety of the tent.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured Amira, but she could see the dart of fear in the young girl’s eyes.

  As soon as she was outside she understood why, for the air was not soothing. It was hot and dry. Even the light wind cast sand in her eyes, and she realised then the haven of the compound.

  ‘It is not a place for walking,’ Rakhal said.

  ‘I thought you said you went out in the desert a lot? That the desert is where you do your thinking …?’

  ‘I am from the desert, though.’

  ‘You mean your mother was from the desert.’

  He looked down to where she walked beside him. ‘It is not that simple—even if I never met her, her history is within me. I know how to survive here. You do not.’

  ‘What was she like?’ Natasha asked. ‘You must have found out …’

  Rakhal had never discussed this sort of thing—not even with his father. His childish questions had been dismissed. Yet he had found out things on his visits to the desert, and had overheard conversations with the maidens—yes, his mother had been a wise and beautiful soul, but she had been other things too, and he chose now to share them.