Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye

And then she kissed him, a soft, tentative kiss.

      ‘You don’t have to thank me in this way, Tahira. I don’t expect it.’

      ‘I know you don’t, Christopher. It’s one of the reasons why I want to.’

      He pulled her closer, his arm tight around her waist. ‘You have other reasons?’

      ‘One other.’ She kissed him again, this time shaping her mouth to his, running her tongue along his lower lip, relishing his responsive shudder.

      ‘What is it?’ Christopher asked, his fingers tangling in her hair, then stroking down the curve of her spine.

      ‘I just want to,’ she said.

      ‘Serendipity again,’ he said, catching her against him so tightly her feet left the ground. ‘Because I can’t think of anything I want more.’

      One kiss became another, and another, and yet another as they sank on to the grass apron surrounding the oasis pool, kneeling, then lying, still kissing. She slid her hands under his tunic, flattening her palms over his hot skin, up his back, over his shoulders, feeling the ripple of his muscles beneath, the way his ribs expanded as he breathed, his breath becoming faster, more shallow.

      He unbuttoned her tunic, revealing her thin chemise. A sharp intake of breath. ‘You are so lovely,’ Christopher said, ‘so very lovely.’

      She believed him. Kisses on her throat. On the mounds of her breasts, the valley between, and his hand, under her chemise, cupping her, his fingers teasing her nipples into tingling peaks that made her moan, that set up other tingles, tension, inside her. And then his mouth covering hers again, and she lost track of what he was doing, surrendering to the sensations he aroused, her skin on fire, pulsing points of sensation sparking all over her body, but when she tried blindly to pull him on top of her, to touch him in return, he shook his head.

      ‘Just you,’ he whispered huskily, nipping at her earlobe. ‘Trust me?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, though she had no notion what he meant. ‘Yes.

      Her kisses became urgent. Her body was embarked upon a journey it was desperate to complete, but Christopher seemed determined to slow her down, his kisses gentling, his touch like the fluttering of a feather on her bare skin, his mouth trailing kisses over her shoulders, her arms, the pulses racing at her wrists, then back up, sliding the narrow straps of her undergarment down, sliding her arms free, rolling the flimsy scrap down, to reveal her breasts. He looked at her for so long, she opened her eyes in trepidation, but his were dark, slumberous, his slow, sensuous smile leaving her in no doubt that he liked what he saw. When the journey resumed, he claimed every inch of her tender flesh with his hands and his lips, working her into a frenzy when finally she felt his mouth on her nipples, making her cry out, arch up, sending the sweet tension inside her up a notch and then another and another.

      The sash of her trousers was undone. He spoke her name again, another question implied, and her answer was more of a plea than a response. It should have been shocking, embarrassing, what he was doing, whatever he was doing, but she was oblivious to everything now save his touch, the mounting tension like a dragging, drugging ascent, the slick slide of his fingers making her moan, writhe, gasp, plead. And then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue stroking and sliding into her mouth, his fingers stroking and sliding in that most intimate place, slowly, too slowly, faster, then just when she thought she could stand it no more, she fell, shattered, exploded, into a thousand glittering pieces, and it was like flying across the desert on horseback, or careering down the sand dune, though nothing like either really, soaring, exhilarating, wave after wave, leaving her mindless and breathless and feeling utterly, completely alive.

      When she finally opened her eyes Christopher was smiling at her, his brows questioning. ‘I had no idea,’ Tahira said, dazed, ‘no idea at all. It is like nothing I have ever—Christopher, I want you to feel—will you tell me what to do, to...?’

      He pushed her tangle of hair back from her face and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘There is no need. Tonight was just for you, and it was more than enough for me. I promise.’

      * * *

      They were dressed again, seated side by side, watching the moon’s shadow on the water when Christopher took her hand between his. ‘‘Have you considered the possibility that you may be happier married, away from your brother and his wife, in your own home? In truth, I don’t like to think of you with any other man, but hate to see you so unhappy.’

      A lump rose in Tahira’s throat. She had been at such pains to hide her misery, yet it did hurt her that none, not even Durrah, her staunchest ally, realised how the situation tore at her loyalties. ‘It is my sisters’ happiness which I’m more concerned about. We have always been united in all matters, but of late the harmony in the ha—in our home has turned to almost constant discord, and it is all my fault.’

      His grip on her fingers tightened. ‘You must not blame yourself. It is your brother who is at the root of it.’

      ‘No Christopher, the fault is mine. I have been hiding behind my promise to Mama,’ Tahira said. ‘She would never have expected me to use it as an excuse to avoid marriage. Like everyone else, she would tell me it was my duty. My sister-in-law says I am unnatural. Perhaps I am. Marriage is the most natural—and I’m struggling to understand why I’m so much against it, now that it is so imminent. Am I being stubborn? Contrary? I don’t know. I’ve tried, I am trying, to accept—to look forward—but it’s the lack of any say in my choice of husband,’ she said wretchedly. ‘My sister-in-law assures me that love will blossom, but I fear only resentment can flourish in such a marriage. Am I so awful to think so?’

      ‘No,’ Christopher said, looking decidedly grim, ‘I can perfectly understand that sentiment. To be forced to do another’s bidding, and one who has a history of displaying malice towards you too—it is outrageous.’

      ‘Yet it is hardly uncommon, Marriages are arranged in this way across Arabia—no doubt across the world, even in England?’

      ‘Indeed,’ Christopher said stiffly, ‘for those with property, title, lands, it is the custom to make such alliances, to sacrifice daughters to the betterment of a family.’

      ‘Is that really so wrong?’

      ‘Are you asking me to help you to come to terms with this appalling situation, or asking for my true opinion?’

      ‘Is your true opinion based on experience?’

      He made to speak, then stopped himself. Plucking a long strand of wiry grass, he began to twist it into a complicated knot, clearly torn. When he looked up, his expression was bleak. ‘What would happen to you if you refused to accede to your brother wishes?’

      ‘I would be utterly disgraced.’

      ‘Yes, but what does that mean?’

      ‘I... I don’t know,’ Tahira said, for she had not actually contemplated the reality. ‘I would be ostracised, I suppose, shunned by all. Not even my sisters would be permitted to speak to me. My home would become my prison.’

      ‘You have no means of your own? There is no alternative to living in your father’s house?’

      She laughed bitterly. If he only knew what an absurd question that was. ‘The very clothes I am wearing are my father’s property. Only Sayeed is mine—and no one can own a wild animal. You see now, why I must do as I am bid? There really is no alternative.’

      Christopher muttered something under his breath. ‘Powerless,’ he repeated, when she looked at him enquiringly. ‘You have no choice. No will of your own. You are quite powerless.’

      ‘No one owns my thoughts.’

      ‘But as a woman your actions are dictated for you.’

      She swallowed. ‘That is a very cynical way of seeing things.’

      ‘It is. As I mentioned before, it was recently pointed out to me that I am