Claiming His Desert Princess. Marguerite Kaye
Читать онлайн книгу.
agree?’
She would agree to almost anything when he looked at her like that, his smile teasing and wicked and reckless. ‘I do,’ Tahira said, handing him the amulet back and trying to prevent her own smile from betraying her pleasure. ‘That would be wonderful. Even more so if I can help you prove that this came originally from Nessarah. Though if you do mean to restore it to its owner, and if it is indeed fifteen hundred years old, then presumably you hope to track down a descendant?’
‘You’ve said yourself that it’s extremely valuable, which means it was almost certainly created for a member of the ruling family. In Nessarah’s case, that would be King Haydar.’
‘By the stars!’
‘It seems the obvious conclusion to reach,’ Christopher said. ‘I don’t know why you’re so surprised.’
‘I suppose so,’ Tahira said, trying desperately to contain her astonishment. ‘I am simply—it is all so strange, isn’t it? I came here tonight hoping to find a few shards of pottery or a crude flint. Instead I found you, a man who shares my passion for the past, seeking to resolve the provenance of a beautiful artefact which may have been fashioned right here, in the kingdom I call home. To think that I may even be able to play a part in proving this, that is the stuff of my dreams, Christopher. This encounter—surely it has been arranged by the fates?’
‘I would not go so far as to call it destiny, but I would agree it is serendipitous.’
His smile made her lose her train of thought. Her breathing quickened. He leaned towards her, and as if they were connected by some invisible force, she leaned towards him. He pushed a tendril of her hair back from her forehead, his fingers trailing down her cheek. ‘You smell delightful. What scent is it?’
Her heart was pounding. ‘Jasmine.’ Her voice had faded to a whisper.
‘I have the absurd conviction that your kisses would taste of peaches.’ His mouth hovered mere inches from hers. ‘It is absurd, isn’t it?’
Her mouth went dry. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been kissed.’
Christopher groaned. ‘The ultimate temptation and the ultimate deterrent. Do you have any idea how utterly delectable you are?’ He shook his head, sitting back. ‘No, of course you don’t, and I should not have said so.’
‘Because you don’t mean it?’
He laughed. ‘I never pay empty compliments. Utterly delectable does not do you justice. I have never met a woman like you.’
‘Now that is a compliment I can very easily return, for I have never met a man like you—though no doubt you will have deduced I have met very few men, and may think it’s not that high a compliment. But I have a feeling it would make no difference if I had.’
‘Tahira, you should not say such things, and you ought not to look at a man with those big eyes when you do, and smile that way, and—you can have no idea of the effect you have when you smile at me like that.’
She felt as if her veins were full of sherbet. She was sparkling, alight. And she felt quite wicked. ‘When I first saw you tonight, I thought to myself, there is a man one would never forget. A dangerous man. With a very dangerous smile.’
‘When I first saw you tonight, and you smiled at me...’ Shaking his head, Christopher looked up at the stars and frowned. ‘Speaking of danger, delightful as your company is, I don’t want you to risk returning in the daylight to wherever it is you’ve sprung from.’
Reluctantly, Tahira too looked up at the sky, and gave a startled exclamation. ‘I had no idea it was so late—or rather, early. I will do everything in my power to help you, but I must go now. Will we meet again here, tomorrow night?’
Christopher jumped up, helping her to her feet. ‘Is it safe for you to do so?’
She rarely risked two night-time excursions in a row, but time was of the essence in so many ways. ‘I’ll be here,’ Tahira said emphatically.
‘Then so too will I.’ He watched her as she pulled on her cloak and headdress, securing her leather satchel to the camel’s saddle. A click of the tongue, and the beast was on its knees waiting for her to mount. Christopher took her hand, pressing it lightly before she clambered into the saddle. ‘Until tomorrow.’
A quick wave, and she headed off, urging the languid beast into a trot. She didn’t look back, but she sensed him watching her fading into the desert landscape.
* * *
Later, as she lay exhausted on her divan, she wondered if he had been a mirage, a figment of her imagination conjured up by the desert sands, a beguiling vision who would melt away in the harsh light of day, never to return. Burying her head under the pillow to block out the light filtering through the high oriel window, Tahira smiled to herself. She would have her answer soon enough.
* * *
The next evening, Christopher closed his notebook, placing it first in a waxed cover before concealing it behind a loose stone in the wall of the abandoned house which had been his temporary home for the last few weeks. It was highly unlikely that anyone would happen across it and if they did, impossible to imagine that they could break his ingenious code, but its very existence, the fact that his work was encoded, would give rise to suspicion, even without the incriminating sketches and maps.
The contents of his notebook went well beyond the remit of the dossier he had offered to compile for Lord Henry Armstrong, payment for the official strings the diplomat had pulled to expedite Christopher’s journey, and the local contacts he had provided. Thankfully, their bargain could be concluded without another face-to-face meeting. Christopher was determined never to set eyes on that loathsome countenance again. When he was done here, the shameful personal tie which neither of them welcomed, the existence of which Christopher had been oblivious almost his whole life, would be severed for ever. That dark past would be obliterated, the slate wiped clean. He would be master of his own destiny, free to embrace the future on his own terms.
A very lucrative future it could be too, if he chose to remain here in Arabia. Ironically, during the last six months, while seeking the owner of the amulet and collating the contents of Lord Armstrong’s dossier, Christopher had also discovered a plethora of hitherto untapped natural resources. The so-called Midas Touch which made him highly sought after as a surveyor was proving every bit as effective here in the Arabian landscape as it had proved in Britain and in Egypt. There was a wealth of ores and minerals just waiting to be exploited. He could easily make his fortune, or facilitate the making of others’ fortunes, if he were so inclined.
He was most emphatically not so inclined, though his meticulous habits dictated that he record every potential location, regardless. In the wrong hands, his very comprehensive findings could prove to be politically explosive.
Reminded of the hands his dossier was due to be delivered into—white, long-fingered, aristocratic, atavistic hands that he never wished to lay eyes on again—he shuddered with revulsion. He would make damned sure he provided only what he had agreed and no more. Bad enough that his lordship would benefit even to the degree Christopher had promised. It would be some consolation to deprive that peer of untold and as yet undiscovered riches. He could think of no man less deserving than that particular man, who had stolen his family, laid waste to his history. A man who placed his ruthless ambition before all else, who cared naught when others bore the consequences of his vile actions, and who bought silence with blood money. Recalling their one and only meeting, Christopher’s hand curled into a tight, painful fist, his mouth set into a vicious snarl. The day he rid himself of the connection could not come a moment too soon.
And it would come. For the first time since he set out on this long journey, he believed the end might be in sight. Unfurling his fist, firmly confining Lord Armstrong to the dark recesses of his mind, Christopher rolled his shoulders, stiff from hours hunched over his makeshift desk. Heading for the outbuilding containing the well, he hauled up a fresh supply of water, stripped himself of his dusty tunic, and made his toilette. The underground spring which fed