Celebrate the legend that is bestselling author

PENNY JORDAN

Phenomenally successful author of more than two hundred books with sales of over a hundred million copies!

Penny Jordan's novels are loved by millions of readers all around the word in many different languages. Mills & Boon are proud to have published one hundred and eighty-seven novels and novellas written by Penny Jordan, who was a reader favourite right from her very first novel through to her last.

This beautiful digital collection offers a chance to recapture the pleasure of all of Penny Jordan's fabulous, glamorous and romantic novels for Mills & Boon.

Penny Jordan is one of Mills & Boon's most popular authors. Sadly, Penny died from cancer on 31st December 2011, aged sixty-five. She leaves an outstanding legacy, having sold over a hundred million books around the world. She wrote a total of one hundred and eighty-seven novels for Mills & Boon, including the phenomenally successful A Perfect Family, To Love, Honour & Betray, The Perfect Sinner and Power Play, which hit the Sunday Times and New York Times bestseller lists. Loved for her distinctive voice, her success was in part because she continually broke boundaries and evolved her writing to keep up with readers’ changing tastes. Publishers Weekly said about Jordan ‘Women everywhere will find pieces of themselves in Jordan's characters’ and this perhaps explains her enduring appeal.

Although Penny was born in Preston, Lancashire and spent her childhood there, she moved to Cheshire as a teenager and continued to live there for the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband, she moved to the small traditional Cheshire market town on which she based her much-loved Crighton books.

Penny was a member and supporter of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Romance Writers of America—two organisations dedicated to providing support for both published and yet-to-be-published authors. Her significant contribution to women's fiction was recognised in 2011, when the Romantic Novelists’ Association presented Penny with a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Falcon’s Prey

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Penny Jordan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CHAPTER ONE

THE restaurant was well known and expensive, and Felicia had to pretend to be unaware of the waiter’s contemptuous appraisal of her shabby coat as she hurriedly surveyed the occupants of the tables.

Her spirits lifted when she saw Faisal, and the waiter, plainly reviewing his opinion of her when he saw with whom she was to dine, cleared a path for her with an alacrity which she secretly found amusing. It spoke volumes for the power of money, she reflected, as Faisal pushed back his chair and stood up, an appreciative smile lighting his handsome features.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ she apologised as they sat down. ‘I was late leaving the office.’

‘The office! Zut! Have I not told you before to give up this worthless job?’ Faisal demanded with an arrogance that slightly dismayed her.

An attractive girl, with auburn hair that curled on to her shoulders and sombre green eyes that hinted at a natural reserve, Felicia was unaware of the assessing glances of some of the other diners. Although her neat ribbed sweater and toning tweed skirt instantly placed her apart from the elegant creatures in silks and furs who sat at the other tables, she had a lissom grace which automatically drew the male eye.

That Faisal was aware of this was obvious from the jealous looks he gave these other men who dared to look upon his Felicia; but Felicia herself was completely unaware of the slight stir caused by her entrance.

She had known the young Kuwaiti for just six breathless weeks. A mutual interest in photography had led to their initial meeting at night school classes and one or two casual dates had grown into regular thrice weekly meetings, and more latterly dates most nights of the week as Faisal grew increasingly possessive.

With Faisal’s insistence that he take her out to lunch most days of the week, and dates nearly every night as well, it had proved impossible to keep their romance a secret from the other girls in her office. At first they had teased her unmercifully, until they realised that the affair was becoming serious. Then their lighthearted teasing had turned to warnings of a more serious nature as they repeated direful tales of what could happen to European girls foolish enough to take the promises of rich males too seriously. Felicia kept her own counsel. She was sure that Faisal respected her too much to hurt her in the way that they were suggesting, but even so, she had been surprised and then flattered when he began to talk about marriage.

During these talks he had told her a good deal about his family, just as she had told him about her parents, dying so young and so tragically when she was little more than a baby, and leaving her to be brought up by Aunt Ellen and Uncle George in their bleak granite house on the Lancashire moors.

Her childhood had not been a happy one. Uncle George had been a strict and unbending guardian, whose constant rejection had built up in her a lack of self-confidence coupled with the feeling that in failing to gain his love she had somehow failed as a human being. Consequently, in the warmth of Faisal’s readily expressed adoration she had begun to bloom like a plant brought out of the frost into a tropical conservatory.

Faisal’s stories of his own childhood enchanted her, and she often reflected upon how fortunate he had been to be brought up surrounded by the love of his mother and sisters. If only she too might have been part of such a happy family!

She readily admitted that Faisal had swept her off her feet. They had not known one another nearly long enough, she protested when he talked beguilingly of marriage, but Faisal swept aside her protests. They were made for one another. How could she deny it? How could she, when he wrapped her in the protective warmth of his love? She had said nothing of this to the girls at work. Faisal merely wanted her as a playmate to while away his time in London before returning home to make a ‘good’ marriage, arranged by his family, they warned her, but Felicia knew that this was not so.

She and Faisal were not lovers. He had been at first reproachful, and then approving of her refusal to give in to his pleas that she spend her nights with him as well as her days.

Her refusal had nothing to do with being prudish, or a calculated holding out for something more permanent than an affair. The truth was that Felicia was half frightened of such as yet unknown intimacies. In her teenage years Uncle George had been far too strict to permit her to indulge in the usual sexual experimentation of her peers, and as she had grown older she had developed a fastidious hesitancy about committing herself to any purely physical relationship. The first time Faisal had kissed her, he had been gentle, and almost reverent. But more lately, as his desire for her increased, Felicia had to confess to a feeling of nervous, spiralling alarm. And yet what was there to be afraid of? she chided herself. Faisal loved her. He had said so on many, many occasions, and she had agreed to be his wife. At first she had been anxious in case her inexperience made him turn to another, more willing girl, but to her surprise he seemed to approve of her hesitancy, even while he railed against it.

‘It will be different once we are married,’ he had soothed one evening when his emotions had threatened to get out of control, and Felicia had moaned a small protest at the passion of his kiss, but she had been comforted by his words. Even now she could hardly believe that someone actually loved her. After all, she reflected humbly, there was nothing special about her; thousands of girls had creamy skin and red-gold hair; and thousands more had slender, elegant bodies; she was nothing out of the ordinary.

Faisal told her that she was far too modest. He told her that her eyes were as green as an oasis after rain, and her hair the colour of molten sand as the dying rays of the sun scorched it. He likened her body to the movement of a falcon in flight, and told her that with her milk-white skin and soft, vulnerable mouth she was his heart’s delight.

Already, despite her protests, he had bought her a ring—a flashing emerald to match her eyes, and so patently valuable that when she saw it Felicia had caught her breath in dismay.

Ten days ago Faisal had written to his family in Kuwait telling them of his intentions. Over the weeks Felicia had heard a good deal about Faisal’s family—his mother and two sisters, the life they led, but most of all Faisal had talked about his uncle, who, upon the death of Faisal’s father, had become the head of their household. Although it was never said directly, Felicia sensed that there existed a certain amount of constraint between Faisal and his uncle, and guessed that the older man did not always approve of the actions of the younger.

Felicia already knew that through his mother and uncle, Faisal was related to the ruling family of Kuwait and that this uncle had done much for the bereaved family, even to the extent of taking them into his own home and undertaking all the responsibility for the education of Faisal and his sisters.

The tribe to which Faisal belonged had come originally from the desert; fierce, proud warriors with a long history of tribal warfare and bloodshed. As recently as the lifetime of Faisal’s great-grandfather the tribes had waged war upon one another, and Faisal had confided to Felicia that his uncle’s grandmother had been an English girl, plucked from the desert by a hawk-eyed chieftain whose prompt action had probably saved her life. She was the daughter of an explorer, Faisal went on to explain, and as a reward for his timely rescue the desert chieftain had claimed the hand of his pale-skinned hostage in marriage.

Privately Felicia thought the story unbelievably romantic. She had longed to ask Faisal more about the couple, and found it vaguely comforting to know that there was already English blood running through the veins of the family into which she would be marrying.

Nowadays Faisal’s family no longer roamed the desert, for Faisal’s maternal grandfather had founded a merchant bank at the time that oil was first discovered in Kuwait, and now that bank had offices in New York and London, ruling a financial empire so vast and complex that Felicia’s head spun whenever Faisal tried to explain its workings to her. As he had also told her, and not without a hint of annoyance, this empire was directly controlled by his uncle, who was the majority shareholder, and who, therefore, had the power to manipulate Faisal, as an employee, very much like a pawn on a chessboard.

That Faisal should find this irksome, Felicia could well understand. She too had suffered from the dictatorial attitude of an unkind guardian. However, some of Faisal’s sulky observances concerning his uncle she was inclined to take with a pinch of salt. Faisal was an extremely wealthy young man, by anyone’s standards, kept short of nothing that would make his life more comfortable, and if his uncle was insisting that he learn the ropes of their business from the bottom upwards, so to speak, wasn’t this, in the long run, a sensible method of preparing him for the responsibility which would one day be his?

However, today Faisal seemed more inclined than usual to complain about his uncle, and sudden uneasy intuition made Felicia ask anxiously:

‘Have you heard something from Kuwait, Faisal?’

His dark eyes flashed angrily, reminding her for a moment how very young he was—barely twelve months older than her.

‘My uncle thinks we should wait before announcing our engagement,’ he admitted at last. ‘He is doing this deliberately. He does not want me to be happy.’

‘But we have only known one another a short time,’ Felicia soothed. ‘And it’s not as though your family know me at all. Naturally they must be anxious.’ She broke off to stare at Faisal, wondering what had changed his anger suddenly to excitement. ‘What have I said?’ she asked in bewilderment.

‘It is nothing—just that you voiced Uncle Raschid’s own doubts. You have never met my family and because of this he would have us delay our engagement, but I have thought of a way to outwit him, my Felicia, and force him to admit that he is wrong when he says that East and West cannot live in harmony. In his letter my uncle suggests that you might go to Kuwait to see for yourself how we live. Oh, I know what is behind his invitation,’ he added, before Felicia could speak. ‘He thinks that you will refuse—that you are as those other girls who flock around rich men like vultures to meat—but we shall prove him wrong, you and I. Once we are married there will be no need for us to spend much time in Kuwait, and Raschid knows this. Still he insists that you must accustom yourself to our ways. I know what is behind his thinking, but it will not work. Tell me you will go to Kuwait, Felicia, and prove him wrong in his assessment of you.’

Felicia was taken completely off guard. Whatever reaction she had expected from Faisal’s family it was not this! It was becoming increasingly plain that Faisal’s uncle did not want him to marry her. But why not? Didn’t he consider her as worthy of Faisal as a Kuwaiti girl? The thought sparked off instant anger and her chin lifted proudly. If Faisal wanted her to go to Kuwait with him to prove to this uncle just how wrong he was, then she would.

‘When are we to go?’ she asked determinedly, dismayed when Faisal flushed slightly.

‘I cannot go, Felicia,’ he muttered. ‘Uncle Raschid has given orders that I am to start work at the New York office in a week’s time.’

Felicia could barely take it in. ‘A week? But….’

‘Raschid is determined to part us,’ Faisal announced bitterly. ‘He knows I cannot ignore his command. Despite the fact that he is my uncle, I am only an employee until I get my shares—but that is not until I am twenty-five, another three years.’

‘I could come to New York with you,’ Felicia said eagerly, trying to find a way round Raschid’s edict. ‘I could get a job, I….’

Faisal shook his head regretfully.

‘It is not that simple, my lovely one. To get a job you would need a visa, which would not be easily forthcoming. Of course you could simply accompany me, but then Raschid will claim that you are my mistress, and my mother and sisters could then never acknowledge you. No…’ he said bleakly, ‘the only way is for you to convince Raschid that he is wrong, that you are not what he thinks you.’ He grasped her hands, his eyes pleading, and Felicia felt her anger melting. ‘Promise me you will go…for the sake of our future together. My mother will make you truly welcome, and Raschid will be forced to acknowledge his error.’

Unable to deny how pleasurable this prospect was, Felicia still frowned a little. Kuwait—a civilisation away. And yet if she refused… She would go! She would show Faisal’s uncle that English girls could be just as chaste as those of his own race. She would show him just how worthy of Faisal’s love she was! He was Uncle George all over again, she thought resentfully, rejecting her, casting her aside as though she were some sort of inferior being. Well, she would show him!

The rest of the meal passed in a daze for Felicia. A thousand questions clamoured for answers.

Not for one moment did she believe that Faisal’s uncle cared about her accustoming herself to their ways—no, he merely wanted to prove to her how unsuitable she was to be Faisal’s bride. Faisal himself had practically admitted as much. ‘Raschid will never expect you to accept his invitation,’ he said with a good deal of satisfaction, when Felicia conveyed her decision to him.

Invitation! Command, more like, Felicia thought wrathfully. A command to present herself for inspection and rejection. Well, for Faisal’s sake she would ‘present’ herself, but not for one moment was Faisal’s lordly uncle going to be allowed to think that he could pass judgement on her!

‘Come back with me to my apartment,’ Faisal begged her when they had finished eating. ‘There is much I must tell you about my family and our ways….’

Normally Felicia avoided being too much alone with Faisal, but tonight she did not demur, and in the taxi she plagued him with questions about his country.

‘Shall I have to wear a veil or go into purdah?’ she asked him anxiously.

Faisal shook his head.

‘Of course not. The older generation still adhere to those ways, but nowadays our girls are well educated, part of the equalization that has swept our country. Your will love Kuwait, Felicia, as I do myself. Although I must confess that I also love London, for different reasons….’

The sudden passion she saw flaring in his eyes made Felicia glad that the taxi had stopped. Faisal had an apartment in an expensive and exclusive Mayfair block, furnished with a modern décor of stark white walls and carpets, with plushy hide chesterfields in dark leather and a quantity of glass coffee tables and matching display shelves. She admired the apartment, but found it too palatial and immaculate; too impersonal in its stark elegance.

Faisal’s manservant greeted them, offering Felicia coffee which she refused, watching Faisal while he put on some music. The haunting and evocative sound of Felicia’s favorite song swept the room; Faisal pressed a button, instantly dimming the lights, the heavy off-white curtains shutting out their aerial view of London.

As he took her in his arms, Felicia felt herself stiffen slightly. Why couldn’t she relax? she chided herself. Faisal meant her no harm. He was, after all, the man she was going to marry. What was the matter with her? Why could she not abandon herself to the passion she had heard other girls discussing so frankly?

‘What is wrong?’ Faisal whispered, unconsciously reiterating her own thoughts. ‘You stiffen and tremble at my touch like a dove in the talons of a hawk,’ he told her indulgently. ‘When we are parted, I shall dream of the moment when I lift the gold necklace from your bridal caftan and unfasten the one hundred and one buttons, to discover the one thousand and one beauties of your body. Do not worry,’ he assured her confidently, ‘your reluctance is as it should be. You are as chaste as the milk-white doves my mother keeps in her courtyard, and soon my uncle shall know that for himself.’

There was a certain element of satisfaction in his words, but Felicia could not help trembling a little with fear. Faisal seemed so confident that once they were married she would respond with passion to his lovemaking, but what if this should not be so? What if she was incapable of passion? Although her heart thrilled to his words of love, her body felt only nervous fear. Faisal’s desire for her was increased by his knowledge that she had had no other lover, she knew that. But what if this had not been so? Did he love her, or her chastity? She banished the thought as unworthy. This was undoubtedly an after-effect of Faisal’s disclosure concerning his uncle. It was only natural that Faisal should place greater importance on purity in his bride than her own countrymen, it was part and parcel of his upbringing. And yet this admission served only to stir fresh doubts.

‘It is just as well that I am not rich enough to support more than one wife,’ Faisal murmured with a small smile in his voice, ‘for with you in my arms I could want no other, Felicia.’

It was this knowledge to which she must cling in the weeks ahead, Felicia reminded herself—not her own lack of reaction to Faisal’s lovemaking. It was only her inexperience that made her doubt her capacity for response. However, his remark about the four wives permitted to men of the Moslem faith had also disturbed her. It came as a shock to remember that he came from a vastly different culture from her own; a culture that permitted a man more than one wife as long as he was able to maintain them all in equal comfort; a culture that made no pretence of being anything other than male-orientated, and yet the Arab women she had seen were always so serene, Felicia acknowledged, so candidly appealing; so protected from all the unpleasantness of life by their male relatives. There was the other side to the coin, though; harsh punishments for those women who went against the rulings of the Koran, or so Felicia had read, and she could not in all honesty picture herself as merely a dutiful plaything, living only through her husband.

All at once the task ahead loomed ominously. If only Faisal could accompany her to Kuwait, to ease those first uncomfortable and uncertain days when she was still a stranger to his family. How subtle his uncle had been, suggesting this visit; more subtle than she had at first realised. Although Faisal was a comparatively wealthy young man, as he had told her, the bulk of his inheritance was tied up in the family merchant banking empire, held in trust for Faisal by his uncle until his twenty-fifth birthday. Until that time Faisal was virtually dependent upon his uncle both for employment and finance. Discarding the disloyal thought that Faisal could have got round his uncle’s edict simply by finding a job in England as totally impractical, Felicia acknowledged uneasily that at present it appeared that Faisal’s uncle had the upper hand.

Here she was, virtually committed to journeying alone to a strange country, forced to court the approval of a man who, she was sure, was deliberately trying to force her to show herself in a bad light, and would probably never approve of their marriage.

‘Are you sure your mother will like me, Faisal?’ she asked in a small uncertain voice.

‘She will love you as I do,’ he promised. ‘It will not be so bad, you will see. I am to spend two months in New York, and then we shall be together again. Then we shall make plans for our wedding. Perhaps it is as well that you will be with my family. That way no other man can cast covetous eyes upon you. You are mine, Felicia,’ he told her arrogantly, unobservant of the faint shadows lingering in her eyes.

Faisal drove her back to her flat himself in the car he kept parked in the underground car-park provided for the use of the apartment tenants. It was an opulent Mercedes with cream leather upholstery and every refinement known to technological man, from a hidden cocktail cabinet to a GPS system.

Privately Felicia considered that Faisal drove too fast, but on the one occasion she had mentioned this to him he had looked so angry that she had not done so again.

‘As you are a guest of my family, it is only right that we should pay all your expenses,’ he told her when he stopped the car outside the small and rather shabby bedsit that had been her home since she first came to London.

Felicia protested, unwilling for Faisal’s family to think of her as being financially grasping and reminding him that the knowledge that she had not paid for her own ticket would surely influence his uncle against her.

‘He will not know,’ he assured her carelessly, ‘and besides, you will need some new clothes, more suitable for our climate.’

It struck Felicia that perhaps he feared that she would shame him with her small wardrobe, for she was aware of the importance his family placed upon outward show, and so, unwillingly, she allowed him to persuade her to accept the gift of her ticket and save her money for what he termed ‘necessary expenditure’.

The days flew past, with her seeing Faisal every evening. She wanted to learn as much about the country she was going to as she could, and often by the time Faisal took her home her brain was a confused jumble of facts and figures.

Even so, she could not help but admire the tireless energy of the Kuwait Government when she learned just how much had been achieved in such a very short span of time.

Even allowing for the fact that the country’s vast oil revenues had made many types of technological advancement possible, the swift rebuilding after the war left her breathless.

Naturally Faisal was proud of his country’s progress, the more so because his own family had had a large part in it. It was with great sincerity that he told Felicia of their democratic form of government, with the Head of State chosen from amongst the descendants of Sheikh Mubarak al Sabah, who had ruled the country from 1896 to 1915, and was, even now, referred to simply as ‘Al Kebir’—The Great.

Although Faisal deliberately played the relationship down, Felicia was a little dismayed to learn that his family were distantly connected to the ruling house. Faisal assured her that she must not let this overwhelm her, but she was beginning to see why his uncle Raschid might not approve of Faisal’s choice of bride.

Naturally, she was fascinated by this glimpse into another world—albeit a very rich and exotic one; however, whenever she tried to voice her doubts as to her ability to cope with so many changes, Faisal merely laughed, telling her that his family would adore her.

‘Even Raschid will be impressed by your beauty. You have the colouring of his grandmother,’ he told her, eyeing her speculatively. ‘You will surprise him with your innocence and modesty.’

Felicia could only pray that this was indeed so, pressing Faisal to tell her a little more about his own background.

Nothing loath, he described to her the modern town of Kuwait, which had now taken the place of the old mud-brick port. His family had extensive financial interests in the city—their bank had helped finance the erection of a modern hotel in which they held a controlling interest, and there were other buildings, office blocks, apartments, shipping interests; all of which made Felicia uneasily aware of the vast gap that lay between them.

Kuwait had one of the best social service systems in the world, Faisal boasted proudly, with excellent schooling, a hospital system that would have made a Harley Street surgeon pea-green with envy and very much more. Felicia was properly impressed, but Faisal shrugged it all aside. ‘Much is made possible by money,’ he told her. ‘But there is still the huge vastness of the desert, which Uncle Raschid claims will never be tamed. For myself I prefer London or New York, and it is in one of these cities that we shall make our home.’

Felicia was surprised that this should make her faintly sorry.

She noticed also that Faisal was at pains to assure her that although most Kuwaitis were adherents to the Moslem faith, there was no bias against people of other faiths; nor would she be expected to change her own religion when they married.

‘That at least is something Uncle Raschid cannot hold against you,’ he surprised her by saying, ‘for although all of us are of the Moslem faith, because of the great love Raschid’s grandfather bore his English wife, her descendants are of your faith, thus Uncle Raschid himself is a Christian.’

Christian or not, Felicia was not looking forward to making his acquaintance—especially without Faisal’s comforting support. The eventual confrontation loomed unpleasantly on the horizon, but not wanting to burden Faisal with her own worries, she kept her fears to herself, trying to ensure that their last few days together were as carefree as possible.

For Faisal’s sake she would do all she could to make a good impression on his uncle, but her pride would not let her adopt a fawning attitude to an older male relative—no matter how he might disapprove of her independence!

With her seat booked, she handed in her notice at work, and carefully scoured the shops for suitable clothes. Fortunately the early summer fashions were already on display and she had no trouble at all in buying half a dozen pretty cotton dresses and pastel-toned separates.

She hesitated over the purchase of beach clothes, but as Faisal had told her that the beaches off Failaka Island and the surrounding coast were particularly beautiful, she succumbed to the lure of the matching apple-green set of shorts, bikini and jacket. Egged on by the assistant, she added another bikini in swirling blues and greens which complemented her eyes, and a plain black swimsuit for good measure, unaware that its skilful cut emphasised the slender length of her legs and the unexpectedly full curve of her breasts. One evening dress in palest Nile green silk completed her new wardrobe, and although she could barely afford it, Felicia could not deny that the slender slip of fabric was infinitely becoming, tiny diamanté straps supporting the swathed bodice, the skirt falling in folds to whisper seductively round slender legs. Her purchases complete, she allowed herself the luxury of a taxi back to her small bedsit. Faisal was taking her out to dinner and as it would be their last evening together, she wanted to look her best.

As she put away her new clothes, her eyes alighted on the jewellers’ box which contained the emerald he had bought her. Only the previous evening they had quarrelled because she refused to wear it until their engagement had the sanction of his family. He had teased her about being old-fashioned, but she sensed that to flaunt the opulent stone before his uncle would immediately set his back up. She suspected that the older man would hold rigid and old-fashioned views on such subjects, and while she intended in no way to kow-tow to him, she had no wish to deliberately offend against his opinions.

Even so, it was hard not to feel bitter about his obvious contempt of her—contempt he had expressed overtly in his letter to Faisal, and this without knowing the first thing about her! Perhaps it was this bitterness that made her more reckless than usual, choosing to wear a dress which had hung unworn in her wardrobe ever since she had bought it, deeming it too sophisticated and eye-catching.

She had purchased it at the insistence of the colleague with whom she had gone shopping, and afterwards had regretted the impulsive buy, deeming it more suitable for the baby blue eyes and blonde curls of her friend than herself. Not that she had anything against the colour as such. The dress was black, which she knew suited her creamy skin, but it was low-cut, with a pencil-slim skirt, slit up one side to reveal slim thighs, its design emphasising her curves to a degree which made her feel acutely self-conscious. It was just the sort of dress Faisal’s uncle would expect a gold-digging girl to choose, she acknowledged wryly as she zipped it up, and she was in two minds whether or not to change it when she heard Faisal’s knock on the door.

His eyes smouldered with desire when she went to let him in, and she was glad of the long-sleeved jacket which went with the dress, although she could not help noticing how the matt black fabric made her auburn hair seem much more vivid than usual, darkening her eyes to a slumbrous, mysterious jade.

Faisal himself looked extremely smart, dressed in a plum velvet dinner suit—affected on anyone else, but somehow on him exactly right—his complexion somehow more olive and Eastern so that she was immediately reminded of the vast gulf in their cultures.

‘I wish we were eating in my apartment—alone—and not in a restaurant where I must share your beauty with others,’ Faisal murmured huskily, capturing her hands.

She tensed as he kissed her, telling herself that with their parting so very imminent it was no wonder that she felt so nervous. Even so, she was glad when he released her, bending to help her into her fake fur jacket.

‘Why will you not let me buy you a proper fur?’ he grumbled as he led the way to his car. ‘You are very stubborn and foolish. Remember that once you are my wife I shall have the power to compel you to accept whatever gifts I choose to bestow upon you.’

‘Then you may buy me as many fur coats as you please,’ Felicia retorted lightly, wishing she could throw off the childhood training which prevented her from responding to him as lovingly as she would have wished.

Faisal, however, seemed to notice nothing amiss in her response. Felicia knew that he would have bought her the sun, the moon and all the stars if she let him, but she had no intention of accepting expensive gifts from him before their marriage. She knew from listening to his friends’ conversation what they thought of girls who gave their favours so freely in return for a diamond bracelet or a fur, and she wondered if those same girls had the slightest idea of the contempt in which they were held by their erstwhile escorts. Soberly she admitted that Faisal’s uncle might have grounds for doubting her suitability as a wife; but surely Faisal was capable of using his own judgment in these matters? He was not, after all, a child, and her anger at his uncle’s casual dismissal of her burned afresh, bringing a sparkle to her eyes and a faint flush of colour to her cheeks.

Faisal had booked a table at one of the newer Mayfair clubs. The club had a gaming room, which was full of expensively jewelled women and their wealthy companions, but when they had eaten, it was to the dim privacy of the dance floor that Faisal led Felicia, taking her in his arms and holding her closely against him as they swayed to the strains of the latest poignant ballad.

It was stuffy on the dance floor, cigar smoke mingling with the rich perfumes of the women, and Felicia had left her jacket behind at their table. She wished Faisal would not hold her so tightly, nor so closely, but every time she tried to move slightly away, his grip tightened, a look in his eyes that warned her of the effect she was having upon him.

As they danced, she became uncomfortably aware of speculative eyes upon them as an Arab who had been at the gaming tables wandered across to watch the dancers.

She was just about to ask Faisal if he knew the onlooker, when he swore suddenly, releasing her, frowning, as he acknowledged the other man’s presence.

‘What’s the matter?’ Felicia protested, as he attempted to usher her off the floor.

‘Do you know that man? He seems to be trying to attract your attention.’

‘He is an acquaintance of my uncle’s,’ Faisal replied tersely. ‘And he is bound to tell him that he saw us here together.’

‘Does it matter?’ Felicia protested in some bewilderment, unable to understand the reason for Faisal’s annoyance.

‘He is not a man of honourable reputation,’ Faisal explained. ‘I do not wish to introduce you to him, but if I do not, and he tells Raschid, Raschid will think I have not done so because I am ashamed of you. He will also think it not fitting that I bring you to such a place.’

‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Felicia started to protest, falling silent as the Arab suddenly stepped out of the crowd in front of them.

‘By the Prophet! Faisal al-Najar!’ he exclaimed genially, but Felicia was aware of the speculation in his eyes, and flushed with embarrassment at the way they roved her body.

That Faisal was furious she could tell, and despite all the other man’s attempts to draw him into conversation, Faisal stubbornly insisted that they were on the point of leaving and could not delay.

At first amused by his refusal to acknowledge her presence, Felicia’s amusement gave way to annoyance when he persisted in engaging Faisal in further conversation. Listening rather half-heartedly to his description of events which in no way included her, she learned that he had been at the gaming tables when he saw them dancing and that he had lost several thousand pounds. Even without Faisal’s remarks to colour her judgment Felicia knew that she would not have liked him. He was shorter than Faisal and rather squat, with small, narrow eyes which flicked lasciviously over her person to return knowingly to Faisal’s angry face.

‘What’s all this I hear about you going to New York?’ he exclaimed as they were on the point of leaving. ‘Plenty of obliging women there, my friend!’

He gave Faisal a look that made Felicia freeze with resentment, longing to tell him that she was not Faisal’s mistress, but Faisal himself cut him short, exclaiming angrily,

‘I have no interest in the charms of other women. My uncle may have told you that I hope to be married shortly.’

LATER, WHEN they were on their way home, Felicia asked Faisal if he thought it was wise to mention marriage, especially when his uncle had not yet approved it, but Faisal seemed to have lapsed into a brooding silence.

‘That he should dare to look at you so!’ he exclaimed violently, as he swung the car into the road where she lived. His hands were clenched over the steering wheel, and Felicia wondered if he was perhaps thinking that had she been an Arab girl the confrontation would never have been allowed to occur.

‘Our last evening together, and it is quite spoiled!’ In that moment, with his handsome face marred by a scowl, Felicia was hard put not to laugh. He reminded her so much of a small boy, thwarted in some desire.

‘There will be other evenings,’ she consoled him. ‘And I’m coming to Heathrow with you tomorrow. I suppose you’re travelling first-class?’

‘Is there any other way?’ he asked with a touch of hauteur that reminded her once again of the wide gulf that lay between them. He stopped the car, taking her in his arms, and kissing her with a fierce passion that previously he had always held in control. The violence of his emotions unnerved Felicia. She tried not to shrink under the pressure of his kiss, but he sensed her withdrawal, releasing her with a murmured apology.

‘I forget how truly innocent you are. But soon we shall be man and wife, and then I shall teach you to respond to me, my cool white dove. I shall write to you, and you must write to me. You will soon be able to persuade my uncle to relent.’

He sounded so sure, so confident; but Felicia could not share his confidence. She was full of misgivings. Faisal’s uncle would never accept her, and yet somehow she had to find a way of proving to him that she would make Faisal as good a wife as any Moslem girl.

Pride sparkled in her eyes. She would do it. She would find a way. She would show Faisal’s uncle the stuff of which English girls were made!

CHAPTER TWO

BRAVE words! But she was feeling far from brave now, Felicia acknowledged as she stared out of the plane window and down on to the banked clouds below. Unbelievably, she had never flown before, Continental holidays being disapproved of by Uncle George, and outside her slender budget in any case.

The other passengers were obviously well seasoned travellers; businessmen with tired faces and bulging briefcases; Arabs in traditional white robes wearing headdresses held in place by cords she had learned from Faisal were called igals.

Some of the male passengers were displaying a keen interest in the stewardesses, and watching the neatly uniformed girls going about their business. Felicia lost any envy she had ever had of their supposedly glamorous lives; the girls seemed to be little more than glorified waitresses! One of them had made a special point of putting her at her ease, showing her how to use the earphones that tuned into eight different channels of music, or permitted one to listen to the in-flight film.

It was a long flight—six hours, although with the time difference Felicia knew that she would lose another three hours as Kuwait was three hours in front of Greenwich Mean Time, and many of the more seasoned travellers were apparently asleep. Felicia had started to watch the film, but the tight knot of tension that had been steadily taking possession of her insides from the moment the plane took off refused to let her relax, and after a very short time she abandoned the film, devoting her attention instead to her fellow travellers. Faisal had insisted that she travel first-class, and she was grateful for his insistence when she saw the cramped quarters of the economy cabin, full of what looked like entire Arab families, complete with crying babies and restless toddlers.

In the plane’s hold was her shiny new luggage, all neatly labelled, and the small gifts she had purchased for Faisal’s mother and sisters.

She had not bought anything for Faisal’s uncle, quite deliberately so. They would not meet as friends and she was not going to give him the opportunity to hand her gift back to her with sneered accusations of bribery, or of trying to flatter him into acceptance of her.

And yet wasn’t that exactly what Faisal wanted her to do? she asked herself uneasily; use her charm to try and sway his judgment? Her thoughts gave her no peace, jostling this way and that until her head ached with the effort of trying to reconcile her heart with her head. In the end she abandoned her efforts to put herself in the right frame of mind to meet Faisal’s ‘wicked uncle’ and concentrated her thoughts instead on the other members of Faisal’s family.

For his mother, who quite obviously worshipped him, she had bought perfume, and for his younger sister, soon to be married, a luxurious make-up kit with all the latest eye-shadows and lipsticks. His elder sister had been a little more difficult. Felicia knew that Nadia was married with a small child and that her husband was in charge of the Saudi Arabian branch of the family bank, so she had bought her an exquisite glass paperweight which had caught her eye in an expensive London store.

Indeed the paperweight was so beautiful that for an instant Felicia had been tempted to keep it for herself, but her present-buying had already stretched her slender budget to its limits and regretfully she admitted that she could not afford two such luxurious items; not when she had bought herself what amounted to a complete new wardrobe for this trip. Even now the extent of her spending spree dismayed her, but she wanted Faisal to be proud of her, so she had dipped quite deeply into the small nest egg she had been saving ever since she had started work.

When the skies opened out beneath them, and the businessmen began to ruffle their papers, Felicia guessed that they were nearing journey’s end.

In the small washroom she inspected her make-up, hoping anxiously that the heat would not make her nose shine. Her skin was very fair and burned easily. She had deliberately used even less make-up than usual, not wanting to offend against Moslem tradition, and inspected her reflection anxiously in the mirror, hoping that she would not look too pale and washed out in comparison to the dusky Arabian beauties of Kuwait. Faisal had told her that in the Arab world, Kuwaiti women had the reputation of being the most beautiful, and she was dreading letting him down by comparing unfavourably with his countrywomen.

Strained green eyes stared nervously back at her, the length and thickness of her eyelashes startling against her pale skin. A faint flush of natural colour highlighted her high cheekbones, her mouth curving vulnerably beneath its covering of lip-gloss. She was wearing her hair loose, and it curled luxuriantly on to her shoulders, shimmering like raw silk whenever she moved. Should she wear it up in a discreet knot? she agonised, lifting it off her shoulders. It would look much tidier. Outside she heard the metallic request for seat belts to be fastened and realising that there was no time, she let it drop back on to her shoulders, running cold water over her wrists and dabbing on her favourite perfume, before hurrying back to her seat.

‘Chanel Number Five—my favourite,’ the stewardess commented with a smile, as Felicia sat down. ‘Soon be down now.’

Felicia’s stomach clenched as the big jet descended on to the runway. The engines screamed protestingly as the captain applied reverse thrust, then they were taxiing gently down the runway.

AS SHE EMERGED from the aircraft, the heat and noisy bustle of the airport almost threatened to overwhelm her, and then she was anxiously following the other disembarking passengers to have her visa and passport inspected.

The official who took her passport flashed her a warm, appreciative smile, as he glanced from her photograph to her face. There was a tiny scar high on her arm from the mandatory typhoid injection and tucked away in her handbag were the salt tablets Faisal had warned her that she would need as the temperature started to climb into the eighties and nineties.

Everyone apart from herself seemed to know exactly where they were going and what to do. An incomprehensible flood of Arabic washed all round her, punctuated here and there by heavily accented English from the taxi drivers and porters.

Felicia looked round in despair. Faisal had told her that she would be met at the airport, but by whom? Could one of these immaculately uniformed chauffeurs be waiting for her?

She was just debating the wisdom of making enquiries at the Tourist Information Desk, when a tall figure strode towards her, effortlessly parting the milling crowds.

‘Miss Gordon?’

He was tall; taller than Faisal by several inches, and his voice held the certainty of a man who makes a statement rather than asks a question. She probably did stand out like a sore thumb, Felicia acknowledged wryly, but need he make her feel like an unwanted package he had come to collect?

She gave him a faltering smile, instantly quenched as she felt his cool scrutiny. Now, when it was too late, she wished that she had found time to put her hair up. It would have given her some badly needed sophistication. She darted her companion a surreptitious glance. Was he a relative of Faisal’s, or just an employee sent to collect her?

‘My luggage,’ she murmured hesitantly, noticing the impatient manner in which he shot back the cuff of an immaculate pale grey silk suit to glance at the heavy gold Rolex watch strapped to his wrist. The gesture, so completely and arrogantly male, disturbed her, although she could not have said why.

‘Ali is collecting your luggage,’ she was told. ‘Come.’

He took her arm, propelling her through the crowd. Even Felicia, inexperienced in these matters, was aware of his aura of command. His clothes looked expensive, his manner cool and decisive, and she decided that whoever he was, he was obviously a man of some importance, used to giving orders rather than taking them.

Dazzled by the colour and light, she hurried wearily after him to a waiting Mercedes, humiliatingly forced to drop behind him when his pace increased.

There was nothing welcoming in his manner. In fact he seemed to derive considerable mocking amusement from her hot and bothered state.

In the sunshine his hair had the blue-black gleam of a raven’s wing, thick, and long enough to cover the collar of his suit. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses, and Felicia was surprised to see that his eyes were grey and not brown, a cold, hard grey like the North Sea in winter. She shivered suddenly, and a chill ran over her despite the heat.

When she hesitated by the car he raised his eyebrows in silent mockery.

‘A plane leaves for England in three hours, if you have changed your mind,’ he told her.

Changed her mind? Felicia shot him a suspicious glance. Was that what he had been expecting? Was that why he had been so offhand with her? Obviously Faisal’s uncle had confided in him, and her soft lips tightened at the thought of the two of them discussing her disparagingly. No doubt for all his outward Westernised appearance this man was as much a traditionalist as Faisal’s uncle. He had looked her over and found her wanting. She tilted her chin and looked up at him bravely, quelling her fear. Already the sun was dropping over the horizon with a speed that surprised her, used as she was to the more leisurely sunsets of more northerly climes.

‘I am not going back,’ she told him firmly.

In the silence that prickled between them she could almost feel his antagonism and then he was holding open the car door, his expression unfathomable.

‘Please get in, Miss Gordon,’ he requested curtly. ‘It is an hour’s drive to the villa.’

Did he have to make her feel like a stupid child? she asked herself crossly, as she got into the Mercedes. After all, despite his air of authority he could scarcely be much more than thirty-two or -three—a little more than ten years older than she was herself.

The chauffeur—who she guessed must be ‘Ali’—appeared with her luggage, which was stowed away in the trunk, and then they were driving out of the airport and down a wide tarmac road in the direction of Kuwait itself.

Felicia stole a glance at her companion’s impassive face. He must know how strange and nervous she felt, and yet he made no attempt to put her at her ease—very well, she decided mutinously, she was not going to be the one to end the smothering silence. He moved slightly, thick black lashes veiling his eyes as he turned his head suddenly to look at her. Colour flooded her cheeks. Now he would think she had been staring at him! Hateful man!

‘No doubt Faisal has prepared you for the kind of life we live here in Kuwait,’ he drawled coolly in perfect accentless English, which Felicia suspected was the product of an exclusive public school.

‘He has spoken to me of his family, yes,’ she replied equally disdainfully. She paused deliberately, then added, as though it were an afterthought, ‘And of his uncle, of course. You know him?’

‘To judge from the exceedingly challenging note in your voice, you have already come to your own conclusions,’ her companion replied very dryly. ‘But I shall answer your question anyway. Yes, I know him.’

‘And you know that he does not approve of our engagement as well, I suppose?’ Felicia said bitterly.

‘Engagement?’

Did she imagine the faint hardening of those cruel lips as they looked down at her ringless hand?

‘Faisal wanted us to be engaged,’ she flashed back, thoroughly enraged, ‘but I prefer to wait until we can have the sanction of his family.’

‘How very wise!’ he mocked sardonically. ‘But then of course any marriage without Raschid’s approval would result in a discontinuation of Faisal’s extremely generous allowance, as I am sure you already know.’

His words shocked Felicia into momentary silence, and then colour stormed her pale face as she contemplated their significance. Her fingers clenched into small, impotent fists. How dared he insinuate that she had deliberately and calculatedly persuaded Faisal to wait because she was motivated by greed? If Faisal’s uncle thought like this man she would have no hope of persuading him to accept her. The thought made her reckless.

‘I would have married Faisal without his uncle’s sanction,’ she stormed, ‘but he didn’t want to cause a rift in his family. His money means nothing to me. It’s him that I love!’

‘And that is why he has sent you to persuade Raschid? You with your red-gold hair and sea-green eyes? Did he tell you that you bear an unmistakable resemblance to Raschid’s grandmother?’

Felicia’s colour betrayed her, and he surveyed her in silent contempt, his eyes cold.

‘You have come on a fool’s errand, Miss Gordon. Faisal knows that Raschid will not give his consent to any betrothal. Indeed I suspect this is merely another of his attempts to persuade Raschid to release to him the control of his inheritance. How much is he paying you to come here and….’

‘It’s not like that!’ Felicia stormed. ‘I love Faisal and he loves me….’

‘How very touching!’ he mocked, ignoring her distress. ‘But Raschid will never give his consent.’

His arrogance infuriated her.

‘How do you know?’ she demanded incautiously. ‘Who are you to speak for him?’

‘Who am I?’ he repeated softly, his eyes narrowed and watching. ‘Why, Miss Gordon, I thought you must have guessed. I am Faisal’s uncle, Sheikh Raschid al Hamid Al Sabah.’ Mocking irony informed the words, and Felicia was glad of the encroaching dusk to mask her confusion. She supposed she ought to have guessed, she thought tiredly, but somehow she had it firmly fixed in her mind that Raschid would be a much older man. He had deliberately deceived her, she thought angrily, aware of the merciless scrutiny of cold grey eyes that told her how much he was enjoying her embarrassment.

You can’t be Raschid, she wanted to protest. She had expected a man of middle age, with a greying beard and the traditional flowing white robes; this man with his expensive European clothes and elegantly groomed appearance bore no resemblance at all to the Raschid of her imaginings.

He had tricked her into a trap, and she had foolishly helped him, but there was one point at least that she could make clear.

‘I do love Faisal,’ she told him shakily. ‘And I loved him before I knew he was your nephew.’

Green eyes clashed with grey, but it was Felicia’s that dropped first.

‘And what, I wonder, is that supposed to mean?’

At his side Felicia fumed silently. He had already trapped her into enough indiscretion; she was not going to compound her folly by admitting that she suspected he believed her interest in Faisal stemmed from avarice.

They were driving through the heart of the city and she roused herself sufficiently to stare interestedly out of the car window, ignoring the silent disparagement of the man at her side. Faisal had told her that his family lived on the coast between Kuwait and the town of Al Jahrah, although apparently his uncle had a villa at the oasis which had been the original home of their tribe.

‘This is Arabian Gulf Street,’ Raschid informed her dryly. ‘It runs along the coast. If you look carefully you will see the Sief Palace.’

Mutinously Felicia ignored him, staring resolutely through the window. As the car swept down the road a shattering wail broke the silence, jerking her upright to stare wide-eyed out of the car.

‘The muezzin,’ her companion said sardonically. ‘This is the hour of sunset when the faithful must face Mecca and pray, but if you expect to see them do so in the streets as they once did, you will be disappointed, Miss Gordon. Nowadays our lives are ruled by more mundane needs than prayer.’

‘But you’re a Christian,’ Felicia began impulsively, remembering what Faisal had told her, and falling silent when she saw the anger tightening his face.

‘By baptism, yes,’ he agreed curtly. ‘But make no mistake, I live my life according to the laws of my family, laws which Faisal’s wife will have to obey as implicitly as he does himself. Make no mistake, Miss Gordon, my English blood will not incline me to look favourably upon you, no matter what Faisal might have told you.’

Felicia snatched a look at the forbidding line of his mouth, and knew that he meant what he said. Despair filled her. She had promised Faisal that she would do her best to impress his uncle, and yet already she had aroused his anger and, worse, his contempt. Crossly she bit her lip, fuming in silence until they were clear of the town, the powerful car carrying them swiftly through the suburbs, where houses of all shapes and designs jostled one another, the scent of lime trees heavy on the evening air, when Raschid pressed the button to wind down his window and throw out the stub of the thin cigar he had been smoking.

‘Still sulking?’ he drawled when Felicia remained silent. ‘And yet I am sure Faisal impressed upon you the importance of gaining my goodwill.’

‘Which we both know will never be forthcoming,’ Felicia shot back unwisely. ‘I know why you suggested this visit. You wanted to part us, to prove to Faisal that I will not make him a good wife, to make him have second thoughts….’ To her horror her voice wavered and weak tears blurred her vision. ‘Well, you won’t succeed!’ she stormed at him. ‘We love each other, and I would still love him even if he were a beggar!’

Her companion’s mouth twisted sardonically.

‘Woman’s eternal cry when she knows there is little chance of it coming to pass. Faisal could no more live in poverty than you could yourself.’ He looked at the expensive linen suit she had bought for travelling, his eyes mocking. ‘Look at yourself, Miss Gordon. From the top of your undeniably lovely head to the tips of your feet, you evidence expensive grooming. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you would live in poverty with my nephew—a boy who has never wanted for anything in his life?’

But I have wanted, Felicia wanted to throw at him. And I’ve wanted the most important thing of all—love! But she knew better than to expect the man seated opposite her to understand her deep-seated need for that. Money was all he understood, she thought bitterly. Money and power.

‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ she said eventually, ‘but you won’t succeed. You’re a cruel, hard man, Sheikh, and I know you for my enemy!’

In the darkness she saw the white flash of his smile.

‘Enemies?’ His voice was like velvet. ‘Is that what you think? In our country there is no enmity between man and woman.’

‘There is between the hawk and the dove, though,’ Felicia retorted, ‘and that’s what you are—a cruel predator, determined to destroy our love.’

‘And you are the dove?’

He was sneering openly, his eyes contemptuous as they rested on her slender form beneath its linen covering. ‘Vulture would be a more appropriate description, don’t you agree?’

There was nothing to be gained by arguing with him, Felicia thought, blinking away weak tears. The uncle of her imaginings had been bad enough, but the reality was far worse. She, who had never hated anyone in her life, disliked him so acutely that the emotion was almost tangible, filling the silence between them with crackling hostility as the car swept past the oil tank farm, the glare from the oilfields illuminating the distant horizon, a sombre reminder that she changed her world for Faisal’s.

They were travelling parallel to the coast, the sky like a dark blue velvet cloak sewn with diamonds. If only Faisal was with her, Felicia thought unhappily. At this moment she needed the warm protection of his love as she had never needed it before.

‘Don’t bother to assume an air of mock modesty for my benefit, Miss Gordon,’ Raschid advised her coldly. ‘I have already learned how you comport yourself, from a friend who observed your antics on the dance floor with my nephew.’

The words were icy with a disdain that drove the colour from Felicia’s face. Her hands gripped together in her lap to stop them from trembling.

‘Apparently Faisal all but stripped you where you stood,’ the bored voice continued sardonically, ‘and you apparently made no protest at all. Do you honestly believe that is the sort of behaviour I would tolerate in a niece, or is it that having already granted Faisal the privileges of a husband, you feel confident enough to behave exactly as you wish?’

Felicia all but choked in her fury. Hot colour stained her cheeks. How dared he imply…. ‘Your friend!’ she managed to grit at him. ‘I suppose you mean that horrid man who looked at me as though I were a piece of merchandise he was contemplating buying?’

‘Perhaps he was,’ came the uncaring retort. ‘It is a long time since I was last in London, but my friends are amused by the low price your women put upon themselves. The British were once greatly respected, but who can respect a race that allows its women to sell themselves for so little?’

She was going to be sick, Felicia thought wretchedly. She could not listen to any more of this.

‘Faisal and I were dancing—nothing more.’

‘Do you always dance so close to your partner that you could be making love?’ was the biting response.

Felicia suppressed an urge to demand him to stop the car so that she could get out. He was deliberately and relentlessly destroying the fabric of her dreams, but she could not let him see it.

‘It was nothing like that,’ she told Raschid coolly. ‘Faisal respects me.’

Just for a second she thought she saw shock mingled with anger, in his eyes, and then he had himself under control.

‘Does he indeed?’ he drawled speculatively. ‘Then he is even more of a fool that I had imagined.’

The dulcet words held a subtle threat. She had handed him a weapon, Felicia acknowledged unhappily, and one that he would not hesitate to use against her if he ever got the opportunity.

‘If you were so convinced of my moral laxness, why did you invite me here?’ she challenged. ‘Aren’t you afraid that I might contaminate Faisal’s sister with my wanton behaviour?’

Raschid ignored her wild outburst, studying one elegant gold cufflink with apparent absorption for so long that she almost wanted to scream.

‘I have sufficient faith in my niece to know she would not be influenced by you,’ he announced at last. ‘And as to my reasons for asking you here…. You are an intelligent woman, Miss Gordon, what do you think?’

‘I don’t think you wanted me here at all,’ Felicia accused slowly. ‘You never really wanted to get to know me, did you?’

‘Most astute,’ Raschid acknowledged dryly. ‘But now that you are here, let me make one thing quite clear. You are here strictly on sufferance. My sister knows only that you are a friend of Faisal’s—nothing more, and that is all she will know…’

‘Until I can prove that I’m fit to marry her son,’ Felicia interrupted angrily. ‘Well, I don’t care what you think of me, but if it makes Faisal happy I’m quite willing to go through this farce of trying to get your approval. After all, in three years’ time he’ll be free to marry without it in any case.’

His expression warned her that she had angered him deeply. His voice harsh, he said coldly, ‘You are more determined than I realised, but then with good cause. After all, you do not have much to look forward to in England, do you? A very run-of-the-mill job; an aunt in the North of England who may or may not leave her home to you, and very little else….’

‘Must you reduce everything to terms of money?’ Felicia protested bitterly. ‘If I’d merely wanted financial security I could have married before now.’

‘But instead you chose to wait until a more attractive proposition presented itself to you,’ the hateful voice drawled smoothly. ‘How wise of you!’

Wearily Felicia sank back into the leather seat. What was the use of trying to convince him? She was wasting her time. He was determined to believe the worst of her. For a moment she contemplated demanding that he turn the car round and take her back to the airport, but to do so would be to acknowledge him the victor, and that was something she would never do. After all, she knew that she was none of the things he believed, and surely, in time, by just being herself, she would prove to him beyond any shadow of a doubt just how lacking his judgment had been.

This thought was enough to quell her desire to return home. Faisal loved her, and this was the raft to which she would cling throughout the stormy seas of Raschid’s displeasure.

Some hidden well of courage she had not hitherto plumbed enabled her to face Raschid with a composure to match his own, her voice controlled as she said calmly:

‘If you have so little faith in Faisal’s ability to choose a wife for himself, I’m surprised that you didn’t do it for him—an arranged marriage with the bride carefully selected to match up to his uncle’s very exacting standards.’

She had meant the words as a taunt, but something in Raschid’s face warned her that unsuspectingly she had stumbled upon the truth. Pressing a hand to her aching temple, she whispered,

‘Was there a girl? No, I don’t believe it. Faisal would never….’

‘You’d be surprised what folly young men will perpetrate in the name of love, Miss Gordon.’ Raschid’s hard voice cut through her protests. ‘But in this case there was no actual betrothal. I did not consider Faisal mature enough to take on the responsibilities of a wife. You are not the first young woman with whom he has considered himself “in love”, but you are certainly the first with whom he has actually contemplated marriage. The others were content with a more tenuous relationship.’

Felicia refused to believe it. And yet hadn’t she already guessed that Faisal was nowhere near as inexperienced as she was herself? At the time she had smothered the thought, but now it was resurrected, and she was forced to acknowledge that there were parts of Faisal’s life of which he had told her nothing. But what really hurt was that Raschid should so casually condemn her to the ranks of those girls with whom Faisal had enjoyed a brief affair. Surely his own knowledge of his nephew told him that Faisal would never have contemplated marriage unless he was sure of his feelings?

‘Faisal is young, and impetuous,’ Raschid drawled, as though he had read her mind, ‘and the two do not make for good judgment. You have known one another a matter of weeks only, what basis is that for a lifetime together!’

A moment was all it took to fall in love, Felicia wanted to protest, but dismay kept her silent. She was seeing a side to Faisal that she had not known existed. In her eyes he was a protective, although sometimes, admittedly, impatient man. In Raschid’s he was an impulsive boy, falling in and out of love on the whim of the moment. Which of them was right? She gave herself a mental shake. She was, of course. How could she doubt it?

The car swerved off the main road and at her side she felt Raschid move slightly to adjust to the slight sway of the car.

‘Not much farther now,’ he told her coolly. ‘Faisal’s mother and sister have delayed the evening meal to coincide with your arrival. I hope you like traditional Kuwaiti food, Miss Gordon?’

As he stretched lithely, she wondered at the glint of humour in his eyes. Was his amusement at her expense? If so he would be disappointed. Faisal had already assured her that while his mother preferred to stick to the old ways, his sisters had insisted that they eat in the European fashion instead of seated cross-legged on the floor, and that she need have no fears about being offered some choice morsel such as sheep’s eyes, or something equally unpalatable. In fact he had once taken her to a small restaurant in London where they had eaten delicious saffron rice and kebabs, followed by almond pastry and small cups of coffee, and she had thoroughly enjoyed it.

She was well and truly caught between the devil and the deep, Felicia acknowledged as the powerful car purred along. On the one hand, if she flouted Raschid and informed Faisal’s mother of their engagement, she would incur his immediate displeasure, and yet if she said nothing he would take her acquiescence as a sign that she was deliberately trying to court his approval. If only Faisal were not dependent upon his goodwill—but she knew it was useless to dwell on this. Naturally Faisal would want to take his rightful place in the family business, which meant that they would probably not be able to marry until he was twenty-five—aeons away to someone with such a volatile nature as Raschid claimed Faisal possessed. There was no doubt at all in her own mind that Raschid hoped that during their enforced separation Faisal would find himself someone else, and helpless with impotent anger, she stared bleakly out into the darkness, wishing she had never been foolish enough to accept Raschid’s invitation.

They were travelling through empty countryside, with the sea on one side of them, and what Felicia took to be the open desert on the other. Even though Faisal had prepared her for Kuwait’s modern outlook, her first glimpse of the family villa still caught her off guard. She did not know quite what she had expected, but it was not this large, two-storey building, with its painted shutters and white walls, vaguely reminiscent of the Moorish houses of Andalucia; not at least until she remembered the origins of those same Moors.

Without checking, the Mercedes slid through an arched gateway and across a flagged courtyard, decorated with urns of tumbling flowers. Lights shone from several windows illuminating the courtyard and others beyond it, where she could just see the outline of trees, and hear the musical tinkle of fountains.

Raschid opened the car door for her, and she drew in a shaky breath of fresh air spiced with unfamiliar scents.

‘This way, Miss Gordon.’

It was a command, and she responded unthinkingly, wondering at his ability to cloak his dislike of her in such formal politeness.

Her earlier attack of nerves was nothing to what she was experiencing now. What was she going to do if the rest of Faisal’s family were as hostile towards her as his uncle? She tried not to dwell on the thought as the wooden door was flung open and she stood in a rectangle of light.

‘Fatima, this is Miss Gordon,’ Raschid said to the small, plump woman who stood there. ‘Miss Gordon—my sister, Faisal’s mother.’

Felicia’s sharp ears caught the warning beneath the coolly drawled words, as she extended her hand slowly to the woman watching her.

It was taken between two soft, beringed hands, while Faisal’s mother beamed at her, chattering incomprehensibly to the tall man at her side.

‘In English, Fatima,’ Raschid told her. ‘Miss Gordon does not have any Arabic.’

Another black mark against her, Felicia reflected bitterly, but Raschid was wrong. She did know how to say ‘good evening’, thanks to Faisal, although it was difficult to get her tongue round the unfamiliar Arabic words.

‘Massa’a al-Khayr,’ Faisal’s mother responded delightedly, darting a mischievous look at her brother.

‘There you are, Raschid!’ she exclaimed in heavily accented English. ‘She does speak Arabic.’

‘Only a few phrases,’ Felicia protested apologetically. ‘And Faisal laughs at my pronunciation.’

‘Poor Miss Gordon!’ another female voice chimed in prettily. ‘Let her get into the house before you start cross-questioning her about Faisal, Mother.’

‘Zahra, what will Miss Gordon think of you?’ her mother chided. ‘Young people today have no manners.’ She turned to Felicia. ‘Please ignore this foolish child. She teases me because I am anxious about Faisal, but when she has a son of her own, then she will feel differently…’

So this was Faisal’s younger sister, Zahra. Felicia studied her covertly. She was small, plump like her mother, with sparkling dark eyes, and a warm smile that held none of Raschid’s cold reserve. Faisal had neglected to tell her how pretty his sister was, Felicia reflected, relieved to see that Zahra at least seemed to harbour no dislike for her.

‘You will sleep in the room next to mine,’ Zahra explained as she led her upstairs. ‘Mother would stick to the old ways of keeping to the women’s quarters, if she could, but although we use our own sitting room whenever Faisal or Uncle Raschid entertain business colleagues, Raschid does not believe in women being strictly segregated.’ She pulled a wry face. ‘Mother is dreadfully old-fashioned. She hated it when I first started at university, but Uncle Raschid was insistent, thank goodness. I hope you are hungry? Mother has had a feast prepared for you, although I warned her that you might not be hungry, having travelled so far.’

Mentally blessing Zahra for her tactful warning of what to expect, Felicia shook her head. In point of fact she felt exhausted and longed only for a hot bath and a comfortable bed, but it would be bad manners to show anything less than immense pleasure in her hostess’s preparations—she knew enough about Arab protocol to be aware of that!

‘Faisal has written to me about you,’ Zahra confided, eyeing Felicia speculatively. ‘You are to become betrothed…’

‘Perhaps,’ Felicia tempered, remembering Raschid’s warning. ‘Provided your uncle approves of me.’

Her room overlooked the gardens and was quite Western in concept, with a comfortable single bed and modern fitted bedroom furniture along one wall, with hanging space for far more clothes than Felicia had brought. There was a bathroom off it, tiled in deep pink to match the sanitary fittings which all boasted gold taps and wastes, and were quite obviously all of the very most luxurious quality.

‘I hope you weren’t expecting sunken baths with marble pillars,’ Zahra giggled. ‘Uncle Raschid swore you would expect us to live like something out of the Thousand and One Nights.’

‘Well, I did wonder how you managed those flimsy trousers and curly-toed shoes,’ Felicia agreed lightly, earning an approving grin from Zahra.

‘I knew that you would have a sense of humour, despite what Uncle Raschid said!’

And what exactly had that been? Felicia wondered grimly. Plainly Zahra knew about their plans, although she suspected that Raschid had also warned the younger girl not to mention them to her mother.

‘If you do have a hankering to see the old Kuwait, you must ask Uncle Raschid to take you to his villa at the oasis,’ Zahra surprised her by saying. ‘It was built by his grandfather, although he rarely used it. He preferred to travel with his people and live in their black tents. He built it for his English wife. Leave your unpacking,’ she instructed, changing the subject. ‘One of the maids will do that for you. Are you ready to eat?’

Guessing that she had already delayed the family meal long beyond its normal hour, Felicia assured her that she was quite ready.

As they went downstairs, Zahra explained to her that the house was built around the enclosed gardens she had noticed on her arrival, and that it comprised the traditional women’s quarters, with two separate wings; one of which was used by Raschid and the other being set aside for Faisal’s use when he was at home.

‘Not that Raschid sticks rigidly to his quarters,’ Zahra explained. ‘He normally eats with us unless business prevents him. In my father’s time the women never ate with the men, but things are different now, and Uncle Raschid encouraged both Nadia and myself to take advantage of a modern education.’

‘How kind of him,’ Felicia murmured sarcastically. She was surprised to discover that Zahra evidently held her uncle in great affection, but wished she had not given vent to her own feelings for him when Zahra paused to eye her enquiringly.

‘Don’t you like Raschid?’

‘I haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion,’ Felicia countered diplomatically, but Zahra was not deceived, and chuckled, explaining,

‘When we heard you were coming, I think Mother was frightened that you would fall in love with him. All my friends think he’s wonderful, and when he was at university in England he had many girl-friends.’

I’ll bet he did, Felicia thought sourly, and she could just imagine his lordly reaction to them.

‘He is very good-looking, isn’t he?’ Zahra murmured judiciously. ‘Much more so than Faisal.’

‘But not as gentle or kind,’ Felicia responded before she could stop herself.

Zahra’s brown eyes twinkled with amusement.

‘Zut! Kindness! Is that what you look for in a man? I think Uncle Raschid is wrong when he says you are experienced in the ways of men, otherwise you would know that kindness is not necessary between a man and a woman, where there is love.’

She said it so seriously that Felicia could not contradict her, although her own love-starved childhood had taught her that kindness was a precious virtue. Perhaps the harshness of their desert climate bred the need for it out of these people, she reflected. To her amusement Zahra was dressed in jeans and a thin T-shirt, her long hair caught back off her face with a ribbon, and as they entered what was obviously the family dining room, Felicia noticed the younger girl’s mother frowning rather despairingly as her eyes alighted on her daughter.

‘Raschid, you must speak to this child,’ she protested. ‘Look at her!’

‘Mother, everyone at the university wears jeans,’ Zahra laughed, ‘and Uncle Raschid will not forbid me, because he wears them himself,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I have seen him.’

Faisal’s mother looked at her brother, as though seeking confirmation, and although his mouth twitched a little he betrayed no embarrassment.

‘Maybe so,’ he allowed, ‘but not at the dinner table. Tonight we shall excuse you, but in future, unless you come to dinner properly dressed you will eat alone in the women’s quarters.’

Zahra pulled a face, but subsided a little, obviously accepting that Raschid would put his threat into practice if she defied him.

‘Come, we must eat. Miss Gordon….’

‘Oh, call her Felicia, Mother,’ Zahra cried impetuously. ‘And she must call you Umm Faisal.’

Felicia was about to demur, conscious of Raschid’s cool scrutiny, and her own tenuous position in the family, when Faisal’s mother looked anxiously at her, and said something in Arabic to her brother.

‘My sister begs you not to take offence at Zahra’s impetuosity, Miss Gordon,’ he said sardonically. ‘She had intended to ask you herself to do her the favour of calling her “Umm Faisal”, but Zahra has forestalled her. She also reminds me that as I am head of our family it is my duty to welcome you to our home, and beg you to treat our humble dwelling as your own for as long as it pleases you to remain with us.’

While there was no doubting the sincerity of Faisal’s mother’s welcome, Felicia stiffened, knowing that Raschid did not mean a word of what he was saying. His expression told her that much. However, before she could say anything, Zahra caused a minor disturbance by remarking teasingly,

‘Miss Gordon! You cannot call her that, Uncle Raschid, not when she is to…not when she is such a close friend of Faisal’s,’ she amended hurriedly. ‘You must call her Felicia—mustn’t he?’

She turned to Felicia for corroboration, unaware of the cold antipathy in her uncle’s eyes as they skimmed the slender figure of the girl standing in the shadows. Personally she did not care what Raschid called her, although she was sure he had adopted the formal ‘Miss Gordon’ to remind her that he wanted to keep her at a distance. Fortunately no one else seemed to be aware of the antagonism pulsating between them, and Felicia was invited to sit down and help herself to the food set before them. Despite the variety of dishes pressed upon her, she could barely touch a morsel. She did her best, glad of Zahra’s distracting chatter, and answering her many questions as best she could. A curious dreamlike state seemed to have engulfed her, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Her heart felt weighted with despair, and nausea churned her stomach—a legacy of her long flight, and the confrontation with Raschid, she acknowledged wearily.

Once or twice during the long meal she suffered the disturbing sensation of the room blurring and fading, although on each occasion she managed to jerk herself back to awareness.

‘Are you feeling all right, Felicia?’ Zahra asked in some concern, observing the other girl’s increasing pallor, but Felicia shook her head, not wishing to draw the attention of cold grey eyes to her predicament.

Later she was to regret this foolish pride, but as she struggled to swallow another mouthful of almond pastry and drink a cup of coffee she was concentrating all her energy on merely quelling her growing nausea, from one moment to the next.

At long last the ordeal was over. Shakily Felicia got to her feet, swaying slightly as faintness swept her, and from a distance she heard Zahra cry anxiously,

‘Quick, she’s falling!’

And then there was nothing but the blessed peace of enveloping darkness and the strength of arms that gripped her, halting the upward rush of the beautiful crimson Persian carpet she had previously been admiring.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.