A Son of the Sahara Part 58

The word cut deep into his proud spirit; all the deeper for coming from her lips. Although he whitened under the insult, the knowledge of his own complete supremacy held his fiery temper in check.

"The marrying is just as you like," he replied. "Forms and ceremonies are nothing to me, but I'd an idea you preferred them."

There was a brief silence.

With her face turned away Pansy sat ignoring him entirely, leaving him only a slender white neck, a small ear and part of a rose-tinted cheek to study.

And the Sultan studied them, amused that anything so helpless should dare to defy him.

"You've not only yourself to consider when you set me at defiance in this manner," he remarked presently. "There's your father, and your English friends."

His words brought Pansy's eyes to him, fear in their velvety depths.

At her look he laughed.

"Your kind heart has given me some hostages, Pansy," he said. "But nothing will happen to them for another week. I'll give you that much time to make up your mind. Not longer. For my patience is wearing very thin. And I've had a lot where you're concerned. More than I ever dreamt I was capable of. In the meantime, my little girl, try and remember I'm not quite the hopeless villain you think me, or you wouldn't have liked me, even for a day."

But just then it seemed to Pansy there was no greater villain on earth than the Sultan Casim Ammeh.

CHAPTER XXII

Early the next morning when Pansy was splas.h.i.+ng about in the great underground tank, a voice made her look up in a startled fas.h.i.+on. So far no one had intruded on her ablutions.

It was a soft, purring, malicious little voice that said in lisping French:

"Now I see why you always come here early. Why you don't bathe with me and the other girls."

On the broad marble steps Rayma stood, looking down at her rival spitefully.

"I come early because I'm not used to bathing before people," Pansy replied, hoping the other would take the hint and go.

But Rayma did not go. She seated herself on the steps and stayed there, her black eyes fixed on the graceful girl in the water.

"Has the Sultan seen those scars?" she asked, pointing a slim disparaging finger at the network of red marks and ridges on Pansy's thigh and side.

Pansy flushed at the question.

"Of course not," she cried indignantly.

"When he bought me I stood before him with only my hair for a covering.

And I stood gladly, for I knew I was perfect." Rayma finished, as if the fact gave her pleasure.

Pansy had no desire to discuss the Sultan's likes and dislikes. To avoid further conversation, she swam out to the far end of the great bath and stayed there until Rayma had gone.

All that day, whenever the Arab girl's eyes met hers, there was a look of malicious triumph in them. And when the two girls came within speaking distance that purring, little voice whispered spitefully:

"Only wait until the Sultan comes. I shall find a way of taking his love from you."

Despondently Pansy wished this would come to pa.s.s. She was between the upper and nether millstones, her father on one side, her captor on the other.

Several days pa.s.sed without anything being seen of the Sultan. Then, one night, he came, when the girls were gathered in the harem, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes after dinner. Pansy, was in the group, and the sight of his big, white-clad figure brought her to her feet sharply, with a feeling of choking alarm. Then she stayed where she was, fully aware that escape was impossible.

He seated himself at her side.

She would have edged away, but his voice stopped her.

"No, Pansy, stay where you are," he said quickly. "And since I don't smoke 'bubble bubbles' like the men in 'Eastern pictures and on cigar-box lids' you once mentioned, you can give me a cigarette, and light it, if you like," he added, with a touch of teasing.

Pansy did not like. She stood slim and straight and defiant, ignoring his request, conscious that all eyes were upon them, all ears listening to what was said.

Since she refused to do the Sultan's bidding, and since he made no attempt to force obedience, there were half a dozen pairs of hands ready and eager to do the task Pansy scorned.

Rayma's gaze rested jealously on the English girl,

"Is it always what she likes, Casim, my Lord, and never what you wish?"

"She has been ill, and I humour her," he replied shortly.

"Ill or not she should be only too pleased to do your bidding. Are you not her Sultan and her master? _I_ have no will except your wishes.

_I_ have no secrets hidden from you."

There was a world of insinuation in Rayma's voice. And it made the Sultan glance at Pansy in a quick, suspicious manner.

The only thing he suspected her of doing was trying to escape. He failed to see how she could get out of her present quarters, but the mere idea of losing her sent a chill through him.

"What are you hiding from me, Pansy?" he asked presently.

His close scrutiny brought a flush to her face, not through any sense of guilt, but because of her unaccustomed and scanty attire.

He saw the flush and his suspicions deepened. She was capable of doing herself some injury in order to get away from him.

"What do you mean, Rayma?" he asked, as Pansy refused to answer.

The Arab girl sidled up to Pansy, malice and triumph in her eyes.

"Do you really want to know, my Lord?" she asked, smiling at him softly.

He nodded.

Before Pansy realised what was happening, there was a feeling of cold steel at her breast. Totally unprepared, it seemed that Rayma was going to stab her. She moved back quickly. As she moved there was the sharp snip of scissors, a rending sound, a quick jerk, and her one garment was dragged from her. The Arab girl retreated quickly, holding the silk slip behind her, leaving Pansy nothing but her curls to cover her; a covering that reached no further than the nape of her neck.

With a heart-broken cry she sank on the floor, and crouched there, her face hidden in her hands, flushed with shame from head to foot.

Laughing triumphantly Rayma pointed a scornful finger at her rival.