The Governess and the Sheikh (20 page)

A spinster.

A virgin.

She would never experience true love-making with him. And could not, with anyone else.

 

When dawn broke, Cassie rose wearily from her divan, dressed in one of her English muslin gowns, and dejectedly began to pack. If she could be ready to leave as soon as arrangements were made, it would all be for the best. A clean break from Linah. From Jamil. From her heart. It was for the best.

But the day passed, with Linah subdued, sensing something was wrong and obviously afraid to ask, and still no word came from Jamil or any of his officials.
The Council were in session, one of Linah's handmaidens informed her, and Cassie assumed that state business had taken precedence—as it always would. Nevertheless, she resented being ignored. Obviously she was being taught a lesson as to her irrelevance in the grand scheme of things. So it was, when the summons came for her to join his Highness in his private courtyard, Cassie was inclined to reject it.

But of course she did not. Instead, she donned one of her most elegant of evening gowns, a cream crepe slip worn under an overdress of gold spider-gauze. It had a low décolleté, too low for her to have worn it in public here in Arabia for it showed rather a generous amount of Cassie's creamy bosom, but if this was the last time she was going to see Jamil she wanted to look her best. Between the tiny puff sleeves and the long, elegant cream kid gloves was just a hint of dimpled flesh. She wore her locks up, braided into an elaborate coronet on top of her head, and affixed her diamond earrings, a coming-of-age gift from Aunt Sophia, to her ears. Her neck she left unadorned. Cream silk stockings with gold clocks, which she'd never before worn, cream kid slippers and a matching shawl of gold spider-gauze, completed the ensemble. A quick glance in the mirrored tiles of her bathing chamber satisfied her. Despite the sleepless night, she looked passable.

The servant attending her hurried her along the corridors. She was late. Belatedly, Cassie realised that while she considered the time well spent, there was a chance Jamil might not agree with her. Still, at least he intended to communicate the arrangements for her
departure in person, rather than have some lackey do it. That, at least, was something.

Heart pounding, head held high, determinedly ignoring the fluttering in her stomach and the trembling in her knees and the flush that she just knew stained her cheeks, Cassie stepped into Jamil's private courtyard. He was standing by the fountain, dressed in a plain caftan in emerald silk. His feet were bare, his head uncovered, an endearing lick of auburn hair standing up over his brow. Without his robes of state, he was not the Corsair, but simply the most handsome man she had ever seen. Or would ever see.

Cassie could not help it, her eyes positively ravished him, the fierce little frown between his brows, the sharp cheekbones, the almost-tilt of his lips, the burnish of his autumn eyes. He was watching her impassively, but she could feel the hunger in his gaze. Her nipples tightened in response. She thanked heaven that she had her corsets and her chemise and her underdress on to disguise this blatant physical response. He must not see. She must not falter.

But already she was faltering. Imagining the touch of his fingers on her skin. Her own on his. The soft folds of his caftan showed off his perfect physique. She wondered if he wore anything beneath it. She wished she hadn't wondered. Then she couldn't help but wonder. Then she remembered how angry he had been yesterday, and though there was no trace of it now, she would do well to be cautious. ‘Your Highness,' she said stiffly.

‘Jamil.'

‘You wanted to see me?' Her voice sounded all wrong. She compensated for its breathiness by glaring.

Jamil spread his hands. He smiled at her, partly to reassure her, for she looked like she was walking on broken glass, and partly because he was simply glad to see her. More than glad. ‘You are looking quite ravishing tonight, Cassie,' he said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss on her palm. ‘Do you know, you are quite the most beautiful woman I've ever known? And the most desirable.'

Why was he speaking to her like this? He never spoke to her like this!
Why was he making it so difficult for her?
‘Please don't say such things.'

Jamil caught her in his arms. ‘Why not, when they are true?'

‘Because I—because we—just because. Let me go, Jamil.' But her body was already yielding, melting into the hard planes of his.

He pulled her closer, effortlessly stilling her attempt to free herself, and tilted her chin up. ‘I don't intend to let you go, Cassie.'

His voice was husky. His eyes glowed fiercely as they rested on her face, on her heaving breast. Her heart was pounding, slow and heavy, thump, thump, thump. She was afraid to ask what he meant. Afraid she would be wrong. Men like Jamil did not change overnight. But she so much wanted to be right.
Oh God, she was weak.
‘Jamil…'

‘Cassie, about yesterday. When I asked you to marry me, I did not make the nature of my feelings clear.'

She felt faint. Were it not for his embrace she would surely slip to the floor. ‘Feelings?'

Jamil smiled wryly. ‘Don't look so surprised. You were right, I do have some.'

Hope began to tap its way out of the shell in which she had encased it, like the frantic pecking of a baby bird. ‘What—what feelings?'

‘I have never desired anyone more than you.' He would not make her pretty speeches, but he could speak the truth of what he felt; she had taught him the value of that. Though he had never before made any such admission, curiously it felt liberating rather than destructive. The truth of how he felt. Surely not something she could resist? ‘I have cancelled my betrothal to the Princess Adira. I cannot marry her. I cannot marry anyone but you.'

The egg shell cracked. The fledgling that was hope peeped through.

‘Yesterday,' Jamil continued, ‘I spoke of practical reasons, advantages. Those remain valid, but they are not the most important thing. The most important thing is what we have together, the special emotion we feel for each other.'

Cassie waited, scarce able to breathe.

‘Passion,' Jamil said firmly.

The fledgling paused in the act of spreading its wings. ‘Passion?' Cassie repeated.

‘What you call love, Cassie, does not exist, save on the pages of a book or in a poem. Pretty words and sentimental nonsense, they mean nothing. Hearts do not speak, but bodies do,' Jamil said, too caught up in the unexpected relief of finally speaking his mind aloud to notice that he was making what, to all intents and purposes, was a pretty speech. ‘What we feel for each other is real. More than most can aspire to. More
than I have ever experienced, or ever hoped to have. We can share that, surely that is enough?'

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to be persuaded. If he could speak as he just had, if he could admit to so much that he had never before admitted to, and speak of it, too—she wanted so much to hope that
this
would lead to
that
. She knew she should resist, but that was the one thing she did not want to do. She was in danger of being swept away. Oh, lord, how much she wanted to surrender to the surging tide of her love for him. ‘I—Jamil, I…'

‘Cassie. Cassie, Cassie, Cassie. I want you so much. Let me show you how much,' he said urgently, pulling her close, moulding her body into his, smoothing his hands over her back, down her spine to the delightful little curve where it ended at her bottom. ‘Let me prove to you that passion is enough, more than enough, to base a marriage on. Let me show you that
this
is what really matters.' He nuzzled the tender skin behind her ear lobe, licking into the crease there.

She wanted to be persuaded. She wanted to give him every chance. She wanted, wanted, wanted. His hands were trailing heat. His mouth was plucking desire from deep within her, raising it to the surface so that her skin burned with it. How could she resist?

‘Cassie?'

She could not deny him. She could not deny herself. He was sure he was right? But how could she prove to him that she was right? ‘Make love to me, Jamil.' She kissed his neck, the hollow of his throat, relishing the tangy, masculine scent of him. ‘Make love to me.'
Please, please, let me be right. Let it be love.

She tilted her head back so that he could kiss her throat. His lips trailed heat down to where her breasts rose and fell from her décolleté.

‘I have waited so long for this moment,' Jamil murmured huskily.

He placed little fluttering kisses on the pulse at her collar bone, up to her ear, round to her mouth, making her thirsty for his, making her moan and clutch at him, until finally, finally, he kissed her, and she was lost. She had never tasted such kisses, could not ever imagined having enough of such kisses, thought she would die if she did not have more.

He kissed her and, somehow, she did not know how, he had loosened her dress, and now he was kissing her breasts, sucking hungrily at her nipples, tugging kisses, first one, then the other, and then the first one again, so that she could not think, could not think of anything save the aching pull that connected Jamil's mouth, his hands, her breasts, the throbbing, swelling pulse between her legs.

She was lying on a divan now, though she had no memory of getting there. Her dress was loose. Her slippers were gone. Her skirts were rucked up. Jamil's kisses were hard, demanding, his fingers stroking at the heat between her legs, making her buck under him, making her body clamour for satisfaction, for gratification, for him. ‘Please,' she said, ‘please.'
Please love me. Please don't ever leave me. Please.
She clung to him and her climax neared, neared, neared, came, making her cry out.

Barely had she floated back to earth than she became conscious of him naked beside her, his erection proud
and curved and frighteningly large. He was arranging her on the divan, placing pillows under her, murmuring soothing phrases, promising her it would not hurt.
What would not hurt?

He looked at her, barely able to believe it was finally about to happen. He ached with need, was heavy with the seed he was desperate to spend inside her. And she was so ready for him, so wet and pink, still pulsing from her climax. He angled himself carefully over her. Not his favourite position, but the one least likely to hurt her. And he wanted to see her face. His manhood nudged at her entrance. By the gods, let him be able to control himself. He kissed her deeply, slowly, and slowly began to nudge inside her, almost crying out aloud at the delight of it.

He pushed gently, deeper, testing for the point where her maidenhood would end, meeting it, readying himself to thrust, so taut with the strain of controlling his own urge to pound into her that he could barely breathe. ‘I will try my best not to hurt you, trust me,' he said, and thrust.

A sharp pain, like the tearing of cloth. Cassie tensed, but it was gone almost as quickly as it happened, submerged in the waves of something much more piercing. He was inside her. She could feel him, shaped into her, the most wonderful, unbelievable, indescribable feeling, as if he were made for her. Who would have thought? She opened her eyes, a hazy smile on her bruised lips, to tell him, and saw the strain of his control etched on his beautiful face. Instinct took over.

Cassie arched her back the tiniest bit to encourage him. ‘Please,' she whispered, this time in no doubt
of what she wanted. Jamil tilted her towards him. He kissed her, tongue pushing into the heat of her mouth, and his manhood pushing into the heat of her sex. Like petals unfolding, like leaves unfurling, she felt herself give and give as he moved ever deeper into her, so slowly she felt every tiny fraction of him easing his way until he was sheathed. Ripples of sensation made her cling to him. She felt him pulsing as she clung, and clung all the more fiercely to him.

Ecstasy. She was ecstatic with sensation. Jamil withdrew and then pushed back inside her, like an ebb and a flow, more decisive now, as if the tide were turning as she tightened around him. She arched her back and he plunged ever deeper. She could hear his little grunts of effort, heard her own strange mewling response, felt his shaft swell and thicken, felt herself tensing again, and, as he cried out his gratification as he surrendered suddenly to the intensity of his own climax, she felt her own surge and swirl around her again and again, catching her up and casting her adrift, lost in a world that was only she and he and the one that they had become. Who would have believed it? Cassie thought, clinging and clinging to him, holding him to her, inside her, feeling the last ripples of his orgasm send responding echoes of her own shivering through her, until she thought she would die of pleasure.

Jamil rolled over on to his back, pulling her with him, reluctant to disconnect from her, already wanting more. It was all he had dreamed. All he had fantasised. More. He had never felt so—satisfied? Not just that. Sated? Not yet. Whatever it was, he wanted more. And he could have it now. Any time. Every day. Cassie was
his. With a lazy smile of satisfaction, he twisted a long golden curl of her hair, which had escaped its elaborate braid, around his finger. Jamil was not a possessive man, but there was something primal about his feelings for this wilful, beautiful Englishwoman that made him want to mark her as his own. His woman. His wife.

Cassie opened her eyes to find Jamil gazing down at her, his eyes glowing with satisfaction and intent. ‘A penny for them,' she said, smiling up at him.

He looked quizzically at her. ‘An English saying,' she explained. ‘It means tell me what you are thinking.'

Jamil's laugh was a low growl of intent. ‘I'm thinking that, having made my point so eloquently, I would like to make it again. Right now.'

She could feel his stiffening manhood nudging against the small of her back. He was indeed more than ready to take his pleasure. To give her pleasure. To make love? A crushing weight of disappointment hovered like a cloud, waiting to envelop her in its gloom. He had not said it. The words, which she was having to almost physically swallow, were never going to touch his tongue. She had poured her love over him, on to him, into him, in the hope that it would rouse the same feelings in him, but it had not. It had not.
Had it?