The Sheik Retold(17)

He read my thoughts, or maybe just my expression. "No, cherie," His voice was almost gentle, as if he chastised a disobedient child. "I have told you that approach is not my preference. Nevertheless, you must be taught."

I suppose I had been prepared for anything but this nonchalance. My body stiffened, my hands clenched. "Wh-what are you going to do?" I demanded.

Ignoring the question, he crossed the room and rang a bell sitting upon a console table. He then retrieved a cigarette from a silver case and stood there, watching me. He lit it, his gaze narrowing at the first pull. I thought I would scream as he slowly drew the aromatic tobacco into his lungs.

Finally his summons was answered by a neat little man whose appearance strongly bespoke European origins. His legs were slightly bowed, and he stooped a little. His appearance was that of a jockey, but he had the manners of a valet. He bowed curtly to the sheik, never looking in my direction as he received his orders in rapid Arabic. The servant bowed again and swiftly disappeared. I noted the almost awe-filled respect manifested in all of his servants, proof of his claims that he reigned supreme over his lawless tribe.

The sheik flung himself onto a low divan, where he smoked in silence. He studied me with a boldness no other man had ever dared to adopt. His long limbs stretched out indolently, and one hand was clasped behind his head. His gaze alone unsettled me, and I cursed myself for a coward. Only yesterday I had not known the meaning of fear, but in the past several hours I felt I had lived through years of such emotions.

The servant returned with something in his hands that I could not see. He gave it to the sheik and then swiftly departed. When the curtain closed behind him, the sheik rose, moving toward me with a deliberate and catlike grace that I found equally fascinating and frightening.

"You will undress for me now."

I shut my eyes in rebellion, refusing to move or even look upon his face. He drew closer. His strong hands slid down my arms, pulling them behind my back, a position that thrust my breasts against his chest.

"Cherie," he said softly, "I have tired of this ridiculous rebellion. The time for defiance is at an end."

He held both of my wrists in the iron grip of one hand and removed his dagger from the folds of his waistcloth with the other. I recognized the ivory-handled blade as a jambiya, a small, curved, double-bladed, and extremely lethal weapon.

I squeezed my eyes shut, driving my teeth into my lower lip to keep back the hysterical sob that rose in my throat. I only hoped he would do it quickly. But instead of the slash of his knife across my throat, I heard the sudden and steady pop of the buttons from my blouse. Bewildered, I opened my eyes to look into his.

He lifted a brow over his mocking gaze. "You thought I would kill you?" He chuckled. "No. I would not waste such beauty as yours—unless you forced my hand. You comprehend me?"

I nodded dumbly. I knew I had already lost. I told myself I didn't care. I never intended to wed. My virginity held no great value to me. Of itself, it meant nothing—only that it was mine, to give up or to keep as I saw fit. But he would take this choice from me. Like a thief, he would steal from me this thing that young women were taught from the earliest age to safeguard. He was one of the vile breed of men who would claim a maidenhead as the greatest of prizes, only to later discard the woman as no further use—in the same manner one might pluck a ripe piece of fruit, only to cut down the tree.

I jutted my chin and asked point blank. "Will you let me go when you are finished with this business?"

"I will let you go when I have tired of you," he answered in a bored drawl.

His gaze then slid from my eyes to my mouth and then to my breasts, bound by the Symington Side Lacer that I wore to achieve a fashionably girlish bosom. "What is this?" he asked with a look of disgust, followed by a clean slice of the jambiya through the laces. "Do you abhor your womanhood so very much?"

His question rang a peal in my brain. It was true. I despised being a woman to the depths of my being. "Yes!" I cried. "And never more than in this very moment!"

With my arms pinned behind my back, I could do nothing but endure his lazy inspection of my nakedness. He replaced the dagger and jerked my blouse from my shoulders, releasing my wrists long enough to remove it completely. Although my hands were free, I tamped down the instinct to cover myself. Instead, I met him stare for stare.

He raised a hand to my face, brushing the strong fingers down my cheek, but I still refused to look away. His caress continued, a lazy finger down my throat, his thumb circling the indentation between my collarbones, the backs of his fingers descending to the valley between my breasts. He grazed his long, strong fingers underneath and then along the outsides of my breasts, inciting from me an involuntary shiver. His gentle touch was a new torture—invoking equal parts revulsion…and pleasure. A smug smile pulled at the corners of his mouth at the hardening of my nipples.

I knew that escape was no option and resolved to endure his touch with stony stoicism. He might take his pleasure from me, but I would offer nothing in return. I rationalized that if I would be as cold and lifeless as a corpse, he would quickly become tired of me and either kill me or let me go. I would rather the latter, but in that moment, even death seemed preferable to my enslavement as his mistress.

"Take off the boots and breeches," he commanded.

Only hours ago I would have balked, but now I woodenly obeyed him. He watched with a half-smile as I sat on the edge of the bed struggling with the boots.