Forbidden in Regency Society. Marguerite Kaye

thank you so much, I won’t let you down, I promise.’

      ‘I will hold you to that. I do not take kindly to those who do. We start for Daar in fifteen minutes.’

      Jamil pulled back the curtains and strode out into the morning sunshine, calling for Halim. Cassie stood, gazing at the space he had occupied, her mind in a daze. She’d done it, she’d persuaded him. A smile spread over her face, and she gave a little skip of excitement. She was going to Daar. She was going to be Linah’s governess. She was going to show Papa that she could do something worthwhile. She was going to show the little princess what love was, and she was going to teach the little girl’s cold-hearted, autocratic, infuriating father how to love her back. Whether he wanted to or not.

      This gave Cassie pause. She did not doubt that somewhere, buried very deep, was Jamil’s love for his daughter, but uncovering it would take tact as well as patience. For some reason, he was very resistant to the idea. Yet cold as he was—as he liked to appear, perhaps?—he could not really be so. He cared enough about Linah to want to bring her up properly. And Cassie had her own reasons for knowing he wasn’t incapable of emotion. Last night.

      Stop! She wouldn’t think about last night. Her own behaviour had shocked her. She just couldn’t understand it. But Jamil—well, he was a man, after all. One to whom desire came easily. Cassie’s skin prickled. He had seen her in a state of undress and he had wanted to.

      It was her fault! He was hot-blooded. It must be the desert air, or the heat of the sun, or perhaps there was just something in the prince’s culture that encouraged such behaviour. Celia had hinted at something she called sensuality, though she wouldn’t explain, and to tell the truth, Cassie had been too embarrassed to ask. Whatever it was, it had to be said, there was something terribly romantic about desert princes. And Jamil was the epitome of a desert prince. A passionate sheikh with a strong sense of honour—look at the contemptuous way he had talked of Augustus! It made her feel just a bit better, to have him take her part. Sort of. Just a little.

      But that didn’t mean he would always be so understanding. She would do well indeed to forget all about last night, and all about Jamil as anything other than her exacting employer. She was done with romance. Done with giving her heart any say at all in matters. She was done, quite done, with men, whether traitorous poets or desert princes, romantic or otherwise.

      Cassie made the journey to the city of Daar mounted on a snowy white camel, a rare breed, though its exclusivity did not, unfortunately, make it any more of a comfortable ride than its more dowdy brethren. The high-backed saddle was more splendid than the one on which she had arrived at Jamil’s camp, but it was still basically a sparsely-padded wooden seat. As Jamil made a clicking noise at the back of his throat, and the beast knelt down to allow her to mount, Cassie’s muscles protested by cramping. However, she climbed on to what passed for a saddle, pleased to discover that she did so with some semblance of grace, even more pleased to see the very brief look of approval that flitted across Jamil’s face. He made the clicking noise again, and the camel got back to its feet. Cassie arranged her skirts and pulled the long veil, which she had attached to her little military hat, over her face. ‘I’ll take the reins, thank you,’ she said, holding out her gloved hand.

      Jamil hesitated. It was the custom for women to be lead and the white camel was not only extremely rare but extremely sensitive, with a mouth as soft as a thoroughbred horse. What if this woman was as impetuous a rider as she was in every other way? It would just take one jerk of the reins and she would end up thrown.

      ‘You need not worry, I won’t let him bolt and I won’t ruin his mouth,’ Cassie said, reading his thoughts a mite too easily for Jamil’s liking. He surrendered the reins reluctantly, and, mounting his own camel with practised ease, headed the caravan east.

      They had journeyed all day, save for a short break at the sun’s zenith, and on into the night, too, for Jamil was anxious to be home. By the time they made camp, the stars were already luminous, stitched like jewels into the blue velvet blanket of the sky. Cassie sat a little apart on a little outcrop of rocks, next to the small drinking pool, watching them set up the tents. Leaning back on her hands, she threw her head back to gaze up at the night sky, which looked so vast compared to England, the stars seeming to hover so much closer to earth than they did at home. The desert, too, in daylight, was vast, undulating and unrolling in front of them in shades of ochre and rust, of gold and tawny brown, a landscape of barren beauty, so exotic in its fierceness, and so very different from England that she felt as if she were on another planet. Celia said it had intimidated her when first she came here, but Cassie found it invigorating and beguiling. She liked its very otherness. She even liked the way it put her firmly in her place, reminding her she was one tiny scrap of insignificance in the face of nature’s magnificence.

      It struck her that Jamil seemed the very physical embodiment of the desert’s exotic charms. Perhaps that was why he integrated so seamlessly into the terrain. It certainly explained the ease with which he navigated the way across what looked to Cassie to be a vast expanse of nothingness. He was a product of the desert, yet not subjugated or intimidated by its harshness, seeming instead to dominate the sandy landscape.

      Above her, two shooting stars streaked across the sky, one after the other. Her aches and pains forgotten, Cassie cried out with delight. ‘Most glorious night! Though wert not sent for slumber!’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      Cassie jumped. Jamil was standing beside her. How did he move so silently?’ It’s Byron. An English poet, he—’

      ‘You admire such a man, who has behaved so scandalously?’

      ‘You know of him, then? I admire his poetry, regardless of his behaviour.’

      ‘I forget, you have a weakness for poets, do you not? Or more accurately, perhaps, for poets who treat women with a callous disregard for honour. But it is much too beautiful a night for harsh words,’ he added, noting her hurt expression, ‘and in any event, you must be very tired, Lady Cassandra.’

      ‘Cassie, please. My given name has too many unwarranted associations.’

      ‘You don’t see yourself as a prophetess, then?’

      ‘Hardly.’ When he smiled, as he was doing properly now, his expression softened, making him look much less austere. Cassie smiled back. ‘If only I had been able to see a bit further into the future, I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself over Augustus.’

      ‘But then you wouldn’t have come here.’

      ‘Very true.’ Cassie tried to smother a yawn.

      ‘You are tired, and no wonder, it has been a long day.’

      ‘I am a little weary, I must confess.’ Her head drooped. ‘I should retire.’ As she stumbled to her feet, a strong pair of hands circled her waist. ‘I can manage,’ she protested, but already she was falling asleep.

      With an exclamation that could have been impatience, and might have been something more tender, Jamil scooped her up and carried her to her tent, where he laid her down on the divan. She was already deeply asleep. He hesitated before loosening the double row of buttons on her ridiculous little jacket, easing her carefully out of it, resisting the urge to look at the soft curves revealed under the flimsy material of her undergarment. Settling her carefully, he unlaced her boots, but left her stockings on. This much she might reasonably thank him for; any more would be a liberty.

      He pulled a rug over her, tucking it securely in at the sides, for the coming dawn would be cold. She nestled her cheek into a cushion, her lips pouting into a little contented sigh. Long lashes, a darker gold than her hair, fanned on to the soft curve of her dusty cheek. Her hair was a tangle, tresses curling down her neck, little tendrils clinging to her forehead. No doubt she would be horrified by her state of dishevelment, but to Jamil the imperfections enhanced her appeal. She was no goddess now, but mortal, flesh and blood, and possibly the most disturbing flesh and blood he had ever encountered. There was something about her that made him want to cradle her and ravish her at the same time.

      ‘Governess, governess, governess,’