Penny Jordan Tribute Collection. Penny Jordan
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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