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“You know,” Ahmed said to Sarah, “It was not uncommon for the old Muslim princes to have a European or two at their courts.”
“Like the Count?” Sarah asked lazily. “But isn’t he Russian?” She was curled up in one of the Nawab’s large chairs, still in her uniform, her legs tucked under her and a book in her lap.
“Like the Count at Izzat Bagh,” Ahmed agreed. “Or like you, Miss Layton.”
She laughed and looked up at him over her book. “I’m hardly a member of the Nawab’s retinue, Ahmed,” she said.
“If you say so,” he answered. “But with Mr. and Mrs. Merrick away, why do you still stay? Do we not bore you?”
“Does the Nawab want to know?” she returned, flicking a speck off her shirt. “I must have outstayed my welcome.” He noticed how broad her shoulders were, how trim her waist and how round her breasts in comparison to those rather manly shoulders.
“Not the Nawab,” he answered, looking at her.
“Oh, Ahmed,” she said, almost mournfully. “You know I cannot go back to Pankot.”
That night Ahmed led Sarah to her bungalow as he had done every night since her sister and Merrick had left for Ranpur a week earlier. It was becoming an after-dinner ritual of theirs: a walk around the water gardens at dusk, followed by reading in one of the palace sitting rooms, and finally the walk to her quarters.
At the door to the bungalow, Ahmed reached and took her hand. She smelled like the roses she had gathered in the garden. “Miss Layton – Sarah—” he began. And then he kissed her mouth, softly, chastely, and drew back. “Sleep well,” he said. Her cheeks were flushed and she still held his hand.
“Ahmed,” she said. “Oh, dear, dear Ahmed,” and she turned from him, clasped her hand to her chest, and walked up the stairs and away.
“What are you reading?” he asked her the following evening.
“Oh, Somerset Maugham again, I must be in a mood,” she said, lifting the title to show him. The night was hot, the doors and windows open in the palace. She heard the chirp of frogs, the whisper of bats and all the other night animals beyond. The night smelled like jasmine and tuberoses and musk, and Sarah had been aware of Ahmed’s eyes on her all evening.
“The Painted Veil?” Ahmed reached for a cigarette. “Is it any good?”
“I’ve read it before,” she said. “So I suppose it must be.”
“You suppose?”
She sighed and put the book down. “It’s a love story of sorts. A doomed love story – you know the type.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, almost desultorily, inhaling on his cigarette. He loved to know what she was reading, what she was thinking. Sarah had rarely met another man who was so interested in her opinions. At first she had chalked up his interest to his desire to ingratiate himself with her and to learn more about the English, but over time she had grown to trust in his sincerity. Ahmed knew how to ask and how to listen, which was more than she could say of most of her acquaintance.
“An English couple move to China, Shanghai. He’s a doctor, a very serious type, she’s a socialite. They were in love once, and then they fall out of love. She has an affair in Shanghai, and he decides to bring them to the countryside to get away from it all. He practices village medicine and does his research, and she teaches orphan children in a nunnery. They fall in love again, just when a cholera epidemic hits.” Sarah spoke quickly, restlessly.
“And then what happens?” he asks.
“Oh, you can guess,” she says, biting her lip and looking away. “He dies, and she is left alone.”
“Are English love affairs always so tragic?” he asks, a bit ironically. “Romeo, Juliet…”
“Not necessarily,” she says. “But I wouldn’t know.”
“Have you ever had a love affair, Miss Layton?”
“What a question!” she exclaimed, thinking of his kiss, the taste of his lips on hers, the gentleness of his touch. She brushed the hair from her face and thought he might see that she was blushing.
Just then a servant entered, took the ashtray from Ahmed and replaced it with a fresh one. Sarah pretended to read her book while Ahmed rose and paced around the room. The servant left, and Ahmed returned to a chair next to hers.
He resumed his line of thought. “A love affair need not always be tragic, you know,” he said slowly, looking thoughtfully at her. She felt herself trembling, wondered if he would notice how her hands shook as she turned a page.
“I suppose you have had many love affairs,” she stated coolly, looking up from the book. “And to answer your question: yes, I have had love affairs.”
“And were they tragic?” he asked gently. She noticed how clean and white his teeth were, how the hair in his beard must have been recently trimmed. He wore a dun-colored suit and tie, which he pulled at to loosen slightly. He stared back at her and smiled only with his eyes.
She exhaled sharply. “No, not exactly,” she admitted. “But they left much to be desired. I’m not sure I’m made for mad passions, after all.” Ahmed leaned over and reached for her hand, caressing her fingers.
“Were you hurt?” he asked softly.
She nodded, blinking. “Not in the way you might imagine,” she answered. “I didn’t love them. But yes, I suppose you could say that I was hurt.” She was remembering Jimmy Clark, the rough feel of his fingers on her skin, the ridiculousness of his nude, male body over hers, and the shame of what came later: the clinic, the abortion, the secrets kept. Then she remembered Guy Perron in the Moghul's room, and his unanswered letters. Could either of them be said to be love affairs, truly? They were too short to count, she thought.
“Then they were tragic stories,” he said decisively, “and it’s no wonder you don’t want another one.” He released her hand, and she felt bereft.
“What makes you so sure –” she dared, “—that this one won’t be? Tragic, that is.” Now it was her turn to look at him, to examine the wrinkles around his eyes and the outline of his beard.
“You English are always so serious,” Ahmed began. “That is your problem.” He patted his cigarette on the ashtray and smiled at her. “Une affaire de coeur est simple, mademoiselle.”
“Even in India? Haven’t you heard of what happened at the Bibighar Gardens, Ahmed?” She loved saying his name, Ahmed, pronouncing it as he did, with that slight rise in tone she so easily copied, and he noticed her attention to it.
“Oh Sarah – Sarah!” he returned. “We are in Mirat.”
“And Mirat is surrounded by India. You cannot forget that. Nor can you forget who my brother-in-law is.” She folded her hands in her lap, pulling away from him.
“Merrick is away for another month. And even he would not touch the secretary to the Nawab’s political advisor.” He smiled at her winningly. “You forget, Sarah, that there have always been Europeans in the courts of the nawabs. Some were political advisors, like Bronowsky. Others were….”
“Courtesans? That’s hardly my place, and you know it!” She was enraged now, furious at him for his willful ignorance of their situation. Yet still she had met with him this evening, had apparently encouraged his attentions tonight as she had all these past weeks, even before Merrick and Susan had left.
“All I am saying, Sarah, is that it need not be so complicated as you make out. And I am hardly another Kumar.” He rose from his chair, offering her his hand. She took it and stood, leaving her book in the chair. He touched her cheek and she leaned into his palm, letting his thumb run along her jawbone and over her lips. “Sarah,” he whispered. “Dearest Sarah – I will not hurt you. I do not imagine you love me. What I am suggesting is something simpler.” She looked at his eyes, dark and deep and serious, and she thought she might love him, after all.
“Ahmed—” she began. “Will you walk me to my bungalow?”
Ahmed moved so deliberately, Sarah had always observed; compact, controlled, as if he owed nobody anything, as if he were the prince and heir, and not the Nawab. When they closed the door to the bungalow behind them and he entered her room, he was sure in his movements as he kissed her, stroking her hair, murmuring her name between caresses. He was gentle and considerate, where Clark had been all show and power; all intimacy and warmth, where Perron had been distractedly impersonal in his love-making.
Why had she ever denied herself this? She wondered, as Ahmed slowly removed the pins from her hair and unbuttoned her blouse. His fingers were trembling too, she noticed, and made a note to tease him about it afterwards. They were not in love, but it was with a lover’s gentleness that he removed her clothes and led her towards to bed, kissing her again and again until she began to kiss him back, now fiercely, feverishly, as the back of her knees hit the mattress and she pulled him down on top of her.
“Sarah,” he murmured, “Saara,” with that golden voice of his, that affectionate inflection on the first syllable. “You are so beautiful, Sarah. I must not harm you.” She smiled at him and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him again to feel the tickle of his beard against her upper lip. His mouth was warm and wet, his tongue startling in its simplicity. He kissed her gently, running his tongue around her lips, slipping it between them to tangle with her own. Sarah was panting now and quite flushed, intoxicated it seemed by his musky smell and his sweet mouth. She had never known such kisses! Ahmed seemed interested merely in her mouth, her cheeks, her face, ignoring her breasts and her hips though she spread her legs wider and tried to bring him closer to her. “Just one thing, Saara,” he said cautiously. “You will not be offended if I have brought a rubber.”
Not a repeat of Clark or the Bibighar, then. “Oh, Ahmed,” she cried, her cheek next to his, pausing to hold him close. “Oh, Ahmed!”
Then his hands went to her breasts, peeled back the brassiere and stroked at her nipples. She felt a welling up between her legs and in her breasts, a deep pulsing desire for him to be naked and next to her, on top of her, inside of her. His body was not ridiculous, his body was not the intruder that Clark’s had been, nor the foreign angularity of Guy Perron. She loved how lithe and trim Ahmed was, how his every movement seemed intentionally wrought. Sarah was aware of how much she wanted Ahmed and his body, so much so that she feared that she might want all of him, even after tonight, might want him again in the morning and the following night. Was it really as simple as he claimed? She reached for his shirt and pawed at the soft cotton. He was dressed like a European tonight but she had seen him in a cotton tunic and loose trousers and had wanted him like that, as well.
Ahmed stopped kissing her to loosen his tie and unfasten his buttons and then she saw his chest, the black hair spreading from his nipples to his navel, and she wondered that she had never wanted to touch a man’s torso before. When he lay on top of her and she felt his smooth back and sides under her fingers, she cried out and shifted under him, raising her hips to his, feeling his erection under his trousers. He unbuckled his belt in a swift movement and shed the rest of his clothing, and then Sarah saw, in the dim light, how long and firm his thighs were, how high his penis was against his body. They began to rut together and he whispered for her to turn over, so he could unzip her skirt, and she helped him to remove her garters and her stockings. Then they were both naked and it was just Ahmed and Sarah, this man and this woman, warm skin on skin. He broke away to rummage through his trousers on the floor and she saw that he had a rubber in his hands, but he put in on the bedside table and instead eased himself back on top of her. She was panting, she was desirous, and still he was only gentle and kind, still his words were only endearments and praise, not demands. He told her she was beautiful, he told her he loved her hips and her soft belly, the curve of her breasts, and he kissed her all over and allowed her to hold his penis a while before he spread her legs wide and kissed her there, too.
She felt strange, exposed by his gaze and his mouth unexpectedly upon her there. Looking down at him between her legs, her eyes met his and she wanted to tell him that she had not bathed, began to speak of it but he lifted a finger to hush her and kept kissing her with his lips and his tongue. Now he was making steady circles with his tongue on her clit, now sucking on her until she demanded more, now working one finger inside her wet walls while his mouth continued to lick and suck her so steadily and purposefully that she began to feel warm circles of pleasure gather within her – her hips joined with her navel, her breasts abandoned to her own hands, her mouth empty, crying out for him –
Sarah came with a sob and a deep feeling of sorrow and regret, regret that this should only ever be an affair, regret that she should not stand beside this man by the light of day and call him her own. She was coming, coming, and suddenly his mouth was on hers, chasing away her sobs, and he was slipping the rubber over himself while she continued to moan and writhe and clasp him to her. He held her open with one hand and took himself in the other, then entered her slowly, deliberate in this as in all things, as she continued to shake and grasp at him, begging him to enter her further, to finally consume her.
She thought she was done, she thought this next joining was for him alone, but he moved slowly and surely within her, and despite herself she felt herself rising to meet him again: her arms around his waist, her mouth at his shoulder, her eyes closed until she felt him thrusting quickly, effortlessly within her. So she had it in her to feel pleasure in the joining, she realized with surprise, as she urged him on with her hips and her kisses and her hands on his buttocks.
“Patience, my dear,” he said, pulling his face back from her and looking in her eyes. “There need be no hurry in this part.” She was reassured, and let him release her suddenly, let him roll them around so that she was on top of him, riding him while he stroked her nipples with one hand and her mouth with another. She took his fingers between her lips and sucked on his index finger until he pulled away and grasped her hips, showing her how he wanted her to move over him, the exact rhythm of his desire. Sarah raised her hips and fell down upon him again and again, her still-tender breasts further aroused by the bouncing movement. She watched him closely, brought her face close to his while shifting her hips again to just that angle where she felt the return of the tension between her legs, until she could tell by the taut expanse of his forehead that he too was ready to come. Then Sarah watched while Ahmed reached his climax under her, making desperate noises and continuing to thrust up into her while he kept his hands on her hips and her buttocks. He kept moving inside her until she too joined him, a final effort towards pleasure and then a second glorious release.
She rested her head on his shoulder, continued to cry out soft sighs and mews while he stroked her hair and told her how good she had been, how brave, how beautiful she was with her soft skin and her wide hips and her wide mouth. She kissed him in gratitude, a thousand kisses for this beautiful dark man, for this unexpected savior, for the best friend she had ever had, for her newfound lover.
Afterwards, he smoked another cigarette and stroked her thighs, and told her again how lovely he found her. He admitted that he had wanted her almost from the beginning, told her that he had refrained from any other women these last few years, confessed that she had driven him mad with longing for her. She fought back the urge to thank him, for she did not want to humiliate herself in front of him, but she longed to tell him of how poorly she had been used before and how satisfying she had found him as a lover. She wanted to kiss him all over, wanted to kiss even his shriveling penis, wanted to lick his low-hung balls and the pointed hip-bone that now dug into her thigh. She wanted to caress his nipples and examine his navel with her tongue, she wanted—
“Sarah,” he said, in that lazy tone he so often employed. “Mon trésor, mon amour, meri jaan.” Then: “Forgive me.”
“Ahmed,” she said. “Don’t speak any more – don’t! You’ll ruin it!”
“It’s done,” he whispered to her. “This is not a spell to be broken.” He moved to lie beside her, clasping her hand in his, his mouth at her shoulder, kissing her there too. She did not want to let him go and she turned towards him, kissing him back in satisfaction. “This is how it is done,” he reminded her.
“This is how it is done,” she repeated, laughing. “So now we are lovers?”
“So now we are lovers,” he pronounced, “And you see how easy it is.”
“Just so,” she said, taking one hand and kissing his knuckles. “I might fall in love with you, Ahmed, if you aren’t careful.”
“Ah, but I am very careful, Miss Layton,” he joked. “Surely you must see that.” He tugged surreptitiously at the rubber, released it and held it at his side. He kissed her full on the mouth. “And still this is a very good thing, is it not? The way we are together?” She felt the sudden urge to admit her inexperience to him, to confess her gratitude and surprise, but she held back. She was not frigid, as she had always imagined herself to be; this he had shown her, and for this she would always be grateful to him.
“What will happen,” she mused, “if you are discovered here in the morning, in my bungalow?” She felt giddy, rebellious: rue the poor person who discovered them! Rue Ronald Merrick and the scum he employed; rue her reputation, her innocence!
“Nothing would happen,” he told her, “for there is no one now in Mirat who would be surprised.”
“Can that be true?” she asked. “Is Mirat so free of strictures?” He kissed her and she twined her hands in his.
“I will be here when you wake,” he promised her mischievously, “unless you wish me to go. And then I shall sneak out, unperceived by any but the servants, who will not talk. Shall I stay?” His tone now sounded uncertain, distant. She kissed him back.
“I can hardly throw you out now, Ahmed,” she replied. “When you have had your way with me.”
“Some would say now is the moment to depart,” he countered, “Before you see me for whom I truly am and regret what we did.” She ran her hands over his ribs, and he shuddered against her.
“And what are you, Ahmed?” Sarah asked in a soft voice.
“A profligate, a usurper, a libertine –”
She interrupted him. “A man. You are a man, Ahmed.” He sighed and moved so that as much of him as possible was against her body.
“You will be the end of me, Miss Layton,” he said. “And yet I must stay, and see it through to its conclusion.” He kissed her hair, caressed her breasts, and she pushed away his hand, still too sensitive for further arousal. “But promise me one thing, Saara.”
“Yes,” she said, eager to promise anything.
“You will not fall in love with me,” he ordered softly, ironically.
“I will not fall in love with you,” she laughed, her mouth on his, her hips on his pelvis and his hands at her waist.
They spent the next few weeks in bitter ecstasy, their nights at her bungalow their only world, until Merrick came back to meet his death, and Guy Perron arrived at Izzat Bagh.