LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Three

      As Kadar reined his horse in from a final breakneck gallop along the scimitar-like crescent of beach, the sun was well on the rise. The pure-bred Arabian stallion, flanks heaving and glistening with sweat, cooled his fetlocks in the shallow waters of the sea as Kadar watched the sky turn from pale grey, to pale pink, and then to gold, the colours reflected in the turquoise hue of the sea like a vast glittering mirror. He felt invigorated. His skin tingled with dried salt and sweat, his thigh muscles felt pleasantly tired, and his mind was as sharp as the air here on this, his favourite part of the coast.

      His early morning ride was one of the very few things Kadar had not sacrificed since Butrus’s death had led to him assume power. This precious hour was often the only one he was granted in the space of a whole day to be alone, to gather his thoughts and to brace himself for the challenges of the day to come. But today, as he stared out at the sea, watching a little line of fishing dhows in the distance emerging from the port like ducklings paddling upriver, he was not thinking about his duties, he was thinking about Lady Constance Montgomery.

      Almost from the moment she walked into the Royal Saloon, clad in that peasant tunic, with her wild hair, and those big hazelnut-brown eyes, he had been drawn to her. When he returned to the Royal Saloon last night he had found her asleep on the cushions, curled up like a little mouse, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her hair tumbled in waves over her shoulder. The softness of her flesh when he lifted her made his groin ache with desire. Her body was so pliant. The curve of her breast, the roundness of her rear, that sweetly female scent of her as he carried her to her quarters and laid her down on the bed. What man would not be aroused?

      He did desire her, there was no point in denying it. It had been a long time since he’d felt that immediate tug of attraction, that frisson of awareness that was entirely physical, a primitive recognition that this particular woman, her particular body, was exactly suited to his.

      Perhaps that was why he felt it so strongly? There had been women, over the years. His heart was closed and sealed, but his body was virile, his appetites healthy. He was careful in his choices. He had learned to recognise the women whose passions burned, like his, with a cool flame. But there had been no woman in his bed since he had departed the university at Athens en route to Murimon to attend Butrus’s wedding. And there had been no woman with the visceral allure of Lady Constance for a very long time.

      Kadar closed his eyes, permitting himself a rare moment of indulgence to imagine how it would be to make love to her. He remembered that wicked smile, imagined those lips on his, teasing kisses, her hair a cloud of curls on her bare shoulders, and those generous breasts he had glimpsed, heavy in his hand. Pale-pink nipples? Dark pink? Or that shade of pink that was tinged with brown? Hard nipples. When he ran his thumbs over them, she would shiver, arch her back, thrusting her breasts higher. The curls which covered her sex would be the same burnished chestnut colour as her hair, perhaps a shade darker. She would sit astride him. She would slide onto him, slick and hot. When she rode him, her breasts would quiver, bounce. When he came...

      Kadar swore long and viciously. He was fully aroused, painfully aroused, which was no state to be in while sitting on a hard leather saddle on a highly strung horse. He dismounted, leading the beast onto the dry sand. Now he was to be married, his desire must be reserved for his wife. He tried to conjure up her face, her body, but all he could recall were her eyes above the veil she wore, cool, distant, indifferent. He swore again as the blood ebbed from his manhood. It was to be hoped that this was not an ill omen.

      * * *

      Constance clambered back to consciousness, resisting the impulse to snuggle back under the thick blanket of drowsiness which enveloped her. Awareness came slowly. First of the bed she lay in, of the softness of the mattress, the pillows like clouds of feathers, the light, sensual flutter of the cool cotton sheets on her limbs. She was wearing something silky that caressed her skin, quite unlike the rough material of the tunic Bashir’s daughter had given her. She stretched luxuriously, from her toes all the way up to her fingertips, rolling her shoulders, arching her back. She felt as if she had been asleep for a very long time.

      Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the ceiling. It was domed, painted a dazzling pristine white. The room was suffused with sunlight. The window through which it streamed was set high in the wall opposite, covered by some sort of carved wooden grille. Beautiful colours adorned that wall and all the others. Tiles. Red and yellow and blue and green, in an unfamiliar pattern that repeated every fourth row. There was a small table set beside her bed. On it sat a silver pitcher frosted with condensation. She was very, very thirsty. She poured herself a glass from the jug and took a tentative sip. Sharp lemon, sweet sugar flavours burst onto her tongue. It was refreshing and delicious. She drained the glass and poured another.

      The nightgown she wore was cream, embroidered with tiny white flowers. She had never owned anything so pretty. How long had she been sleeping? Who had put her to bed? The whisper of women’s voices, the gentle hands massaging something soothing into her forehead, she had thought that a dream. The fog in her head began to slowly clear. She recalled the journey from Bashir’s village. The

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