Czytaj książkę: «The Tale Of The Dancing Girl»
The Tale of the Dancing Girl
Grace D’Otare
MILLS & BOON
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“Two hands on the wheel, please.”
“How many years have I been driving, Maeve?”
“I’ve never seen it so bad out here. You realize we could hydroplane at any minute. How can I possibly enjoy your hand creeping under my skirt at a time—”
“Well, I can,” Devlin said. He gave her thigh a squeeze.
Maeve shoved his hand down. It got as far as her knee. “Single-minded, aren’t you?”
The wipers beat against the glass, fighting the whip of rain into the car’s steady acceleration.
“How much farther do we have to go?” Her question sounded perfectly calm. “Maybe we should pull over? Find a place to stop. It’s been pounding down for the entire drive. You must be exhausted.”
“We’re not stopping.” He was using the firm voice. One finger circled the tender inside skin of her knee. “You need to get your mind on something else.”
“How would you suggest I do that? This storm is practically drumming on my head. No other cars on the road. No lights for miles. If we crash…”
“Enough.” Warning—there ‘d be a full-blown fight if she continued.
Was he deliberately accelerating, with only one hand on the wheel, the other just waiting to slide up her leg? Maeve’s heart beat faster.
“Let’s have a story.”
“A story?” she repeated. “Now?”
“Yes.”
At least the man kept his eyes on the road. Maeve turned away, peering into the streaky darkness beyond her window. Why then did she feel as if he were watching her every move?
“Tell me a story,” he asked quietly, “about a woman who was afraid.”
Fear was not her aphrodisiac of choice. “Afraid of what?”
“Whatever you like.”
She tapped the car’s burlwood armrest with her nail. “And she meets a man…”
“Who helps her overcome all her fears.”
Maeve lifted an eyebrow at that, but the idea tickled her mind. “I’m not really in the mood, you know. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s my girl.”
The percussion of the drums throbbed in time with Delilah’s heartbeat. All the women crowded near the entrance began to sway.
“Bugger,” Delilah whispered. “I can’t do it.”
“You cannot change your mind now,” Nima, the eldest, whispered. “Don’t think of them as men. Think of them as…palms.”
“Palms?”
“Not hands, of course. Trees. Think of them as large potted trees one must dance around.”
Delilah tried to laugh, but the sound hurt her throat. One palm in particular had caught her eye. What was he doing here?
The other women began to pet her, and coo those same soothing words that had brought her to the dance floor that very first time in the women’s courtyard. Their hands were soft and sweet smelling from the jasmine oil smoothed over bare arms and ankles. Even in the dim light of the hall, they glistened with it.
“Listen to the music.”
“Think of the garden.”
“Let it live inside you.”
Eleven women, like sisters to Delilah after all these months, each beautiful in her own way. Each wise, or brave, or talented in her own way, because a Khanum must always be more than beautiful. After several months of lessons in English and deportment, they generously offered to teach their teacher something—how to move in the sensuous curves of their sacred native dance. Delilah loved learning from them.
But she had never planned to dance in public.
A servant folded back the drape over the doorway. A tambor joined the drum.
All around her, the women’s hands began to sing the music, weaving spirals in the air. Hips rolled and bumped against Delilah, teasing her to join their movement.
Vagwa, the girl who’d had the hardest time with the new language, fluttered her eyelashes and threw Delilah’s words back at her. “Mrs. Delilah, you must always try difficult things. You may not give up when it feels buggery.”
“Dance with us,” they whispered. “Come. Dance.”
Something right below Delilah’s belly button released and swirled—just once—in a small, delicious circle. Her body was coming alive, like it or not. She peered around the curtain again, closed her eyes and moaned. “But I know him.”
“‘Him’? Which him?” Nima asked, elbowing Delilah for a peek.
“The Khan’s guest. Colonel Weston—the infidel in the uniform.” Delilah nodded. A chilly droplet of anticipation drizzled down her core. “My ‘problem.’”
The man, dressed in an impeccably starched colonial uniform, was ridiculously at ease for someone surrounded by armed native guards. He lounged beside the Khan in a low-slung king chair, long legs extended, as if Turkish furnishings were in his blood. Teddy Lawrence, uncrowned king of Arabia himself, couldn’t look more at home. Delilah found the contrast of Western man and Eastern surroundings quite fascinating.
Academically, of course.
Nima clapped her hands together. “That is your ‘gentleman problem’?”
“Exactly.” Delilah trembled as she pulled the veil away from her face, unsure if it was cold or heat that bothered her. “And applause is hardly appropriate.”
What had started out as an act of mercy was quickly turning into an act of madness.
Lillit, the youngest dancer from the women’s palace, was ill. She was Sarcassian and the only one among them with blue eyes. All of the Sultan’s Khanum had been commanded to dance tonight. Some feared Lillit would be returned in disgrace to her family if she did not appear.
Delilah was blue-eyed, and similar in size. Would she please, please take the woman’s place?
This was more than a favor, more than an evening’s entertainment. The question itself showed how far Delilah had come in gaining trust. There were some in the palace who would kill anyone—man or woman—who even hinted at deceiving the Khan.
Beyond the doorway, a ney and lute joined the tambour and the drum. The melody threaded high and sweet through the heartbeat of the drums, luring the women out from behind the curtain. One by one they slipped past Delilah, petting her hair, kissing her cheek, offering the little touches of encouragement that melted her. After so many, many months she was welcome.
“Nima, he’ll recognize me. I can’t—”
“You must. Think of Lillit. Remember, you are veiled. When we dance, we are all women, none alone. We are free.” Her wide mouth slanted in a wicked smile. She raised her arms and rolled her belly forward, jingling the tiny chains on her hips. “Stand very close to his face and do this.” The jingle softened to a restless shiver. “Men do not have the stamina for recalling faces when the goddess dances.”
Delilah winced. Any consideration of Colonel Weston’s stamina would provide no comfort at all.
She stepped back from the curtain. Brass bells dangled from the anklets Delilah wore, announcing her every step. The bracelets above her elbows prodded tender skin, encouraging her to hold her arms open and away from her body, instead of primly tucked at her sides. Above the gauzy fluff of her skirting, a heavy belt embroidered with shells encircled her hips. Her breasts were bound into a short chemise of raw silk, leaving her abdomen covered by a sheer scarf. She wore no stockings at all. And that wasn’t the least of it.
No bloomers.
It was fascinating how easily one could become accustomed to shocking things.
She closed her eyes. Nima’s arms slipped around her waist. Delilah relaxed against her friend’s shoulder and let their gentle embrace become the sway of the dance.
“Yes,” Nima encouraged her, always something of a mind reader. “Tonight you are not Mrs. Delilah Smith-Jones. You are Khanum. You are music. You are the promise of…time?”
“Forever,” Delilah supplied.
“The forever dance between woman and man, earth and water. Come, sister. Dance with us.” Nima pulled the veil across Delilah’s face and pinned it to the crown that held back her long dark hair.
“I must stay at the back.”
“The dance will show you where to go. Do not fear. The dance will not betray you.” She twirled around, holding Delilah’s hand, led her gracefully through the doorway into the courtyard full of music, dancers and dangerous men.
Immediately warm air enveloped them. Delilah felt as if she’d stepped into a bath. Torches burned at the edge of the open floor. Smaller braziers kept pipes and samovars bubbling. Musicians, guards and Khan’s many advisers filled the space with the heat of men’s bodies. They leaned with backs against the walls, crouched on haunches and sat lazily around the edges of the terrace. Delilah felt as though she’d entered the lion’s den.
Eyes. Everywhere she turned there were men watching, watching as the women began to open, like flowers, spinning their skirts wide and flinging their arms out.
Colonel Weston was pouring himself a glass of tea.
Delilah tried not to look at him. The last thing she wanted was to catch his eye.
No worry there.
Weston lolled in his chair, fiddling with the spout on the samovar, glancing around the table—oh, he wanted a spoon. There, he found it. Delilah counted three spoonfuls of sugar, and a long, slow stir before, finally, he shifted his attention back to the dancers with a—Good lord, Delilah could only call it a blasé expression on his sunburned face.
The man was bored in a room full of exotic dancers?
The drums began to pulse. Nima let out the first cry, and her sisters answered.
The dancer’s cry was a powerful sound. It had frightened Delilah the first time she heard it. The women seemed to open their throats to the bottom of their spines. Their tongues fluttered and the result was part song, part roar, part call to arms.
Delilah answered.
How could Colonel Weston resist these women? She could not.
Her body forgot the men, forgot the newness of the clothes she wore, forgot everything but the music, and the need to join with her sisters, flowing into motions as effortless as breathing.
Dancing, Delilah finally felt her body take up every inch of space it deserved. Her arms opened and rose above her head. Feet planted wide, she arched her spine, pressing her breasts forward and her bottom back. She was the shame of every simple, dropped-waist, fashionable sack dress she’d ever worn. She rippled with curves in every direction. It felt delicious. It felt extravagant. It felt exactly right.
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