The Sheik and the Slave

"Yes. I am, Mother. Jamie is a good man."

"Of course he is," Anne replied. She took the cloth away and stepped away from her daughter's bed.

"Rest, darling. Most of the people have gone, so you needn't go back down. Tomorrow we'll talk about an idea I have. You might like to go abroad before the wedding."

"Before the wedding?" she repeated.

"Yes, to France, Paris. To visit your Aunt Louisa."

Katharine jumped at the chance.

"I would like that very much," she said. Here’s a chance to leave England and get away from Mohammed, she thought. He can’t follow me forever.

"Rest now," Anne said, and she closed the door quietly and went downstairs. She still had to perform her duties as hostess and bid those leaving goodbye and good journey.

Katharine settled back into the bed. She could still remember the brother-like peck that Jamie had bestowed upon her lips. It had all the warmth and passion of a walnut. But then, he had never lied to her; Jamie had been honest and forthright. He had told her that they would marry for friendship and family duties.

She tried to imagine a life with him. Could she be a good wife to him? How could she lie with him and make love to him as she had with Mohammed? There were things she had let Mohammed do so easily. Could she take Jamie into her body? Why had Mohammed come back? Just when she was trying to forget him and move on, he had come to her. She wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. She had fallen in love.

She wanted to remove the heavy ruby silk dress. Once she undressed, she could put this evening behind her and move forward. Mohammed’s presence meant nothing. She would marry Jamie. It was the right thing to do. She planned to ring for her Irish maid.

She moved to the edge of her bed and flicked up her skirts, revealing her legs up to the thighs. Silk stockings encased her legs and two garters kept each stocking from falling down. She sighed, leaning back. She wanted to undress and have this night be done. Everything had been moving smoothly forward until he had shown up. She had been willing to marry and forget him, but now that he was here she wanted him all the more.

She flung herself backward onto the bed.

“Damn him,” she said.

“Damn who?” Mohammed asked.

Katharine whipped up, her hair spilling all around her as she peered into the darkness of her room. He was leaning insolently against her armoire, hidden and silent until now.

"You are mad to be here! Why are you here?" Katharine's dress billowed out she stood up to face him. He moved toward her.

"My little princess, so perfect and unspoilt," he spoke lowly and then cursed in Arabic.

Kat blanched at the word he called her. She knew it. He had called her a whore.

"You have no right to call me that!" she spoke to him, her breasts heaving in anger. His dark eyes watched her creamy globes as they slipped over the bodice.

"Perhaps no right. But don't pretend to be something you are not, Katharine,"

he said.

"I don't understand," she said, shaking her head.

Mohammed watched her throat and longed to bury his mouth in it.

"Don't act the lady, when all you really are is a cheap whore," he continued. Katharine slapped him hard, and the sound echoed in the room.

In a second, Mohammed pinned her arms behind her back, picked her up and threw her onto the bed. Before she could fight back, his weight settled on top of her as he pinned her down wrists above her head.

"Little slut," he purred into her ear, holding her hands in one hand as his other delved underneath her silk skirts. Her silk-encased legs were mouth-watering, with small blue garters adorned with rosettes.

"You know I've dreamt about you day and night," he said huskily in her ear. “You haunt me.”

Katharine shook her head.

"No. I don't want anything from you." Her heart raced as his weight settled on top of her. She could feel her body coming to life.