The Punishment of a Vixen Read online

  She had not forgotten – and even to think of it made her cheeks burn with anger – how he had taken her revolver from her when she had thought she had him in her power.

  There had been silence after Tyrone Strome had told her they had passed Agadir. Then because she could not suppress her curiosity Nevada enquired,

  “Where are we going?”

  “I was just going to speak to you about that.”

  He leaned on the railings as he spoke looking out towards the coastline and, glancing at him without turning her head, Nevada thought that he not only looked infuriatingly handsome, but also that he had something unpleasant to tell her.

  “In a short time we are leaving the yacht,” he said, “and because we will be travelling in a part of the world that sees few if any Europeans, you will dress as a Berber woman and wear a litham.”

  This was the Arabic word, Nevada knew from her reading, for what most Europeans and Americans called a ‘yashmak’. “I refuse!” she said promptly.

  She was actually intrigued by the idea of exploring new territory, but she had no intention of admitting any interest in Tyrone Strome’s nefarious schemes and she was determined to oppose him in every way in her power.

  “I have already explained,” he said quietly as if speaking to a child, “that it would be unwise and perhaps dangerous for us to go where I am taking you unless we follow the customs of the country.”

  “As I have no wish to go anywhere with you, Mr. Strome,” Nevada replied, “I shall wear what I wish to wear. If you don’t like it, the obvious remedy is to return me to Europe and stop behaving like a barbarian.”

  “If I was a barbarian,” Tyrone Strome replied, “you might have a very different complaint about the treatment you have received during the time you have been alone with me aboard my yacht.”

  For a moment she looked at him wide-eyed. Then, when she saw the expression on his face and the mocking twist to his lips, she looked away quickly, aware that her heart had given a start that was unmistakably one of fear.

  “Go and dress yourself in the clothes you will find in your cabin,” he said, “and that is an order!”

  Because she felt she would not let herself be downtrodden, because she would assert herself even though it was difficult to do so, Nevada replied, lifting her chin,

  “And if I refuse?”

  “You will find I am a very competent lady’s maid!” Tyrone Strome answered slowly almost drawling the words, “and I have in fact had quite a lot of experience.”

  There was no doubt now of the innuendo behind the words and Nevada’s cheeks flared crimson as she turned and went below, her whole body shaking as she did so with anger.

  She went into her cabin to stare about her in astonishment, for all her trunks had disappeared.

  Everything had gone except a small native-style wicker basket in which she saw there was one of her nightgowns and a plain brush and comb that did not belong to her.

  On the dressing table the gold fittings of her dressing case had vanished and instead there were a number of small bottles and tiny boxes, which she found contained native cosmetics.

  There was kohl with which Eastern women outlined their eyes, there was henna which she knew was to redden the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet and there was a coloured salve for her lips.

  She stared at them in surprise, then turned to see laid out on the bed a white caftan exquisitely embroidered with gold thread, a double veiled litham and beside it a white haik.

  This tent-like garment worn by Moslem women was, she knew, a disguise in which she would be completely unidentifiable.

  Also on the bed there was some gold jewellery, necklaces, long drop earrings, bangles, and what Nevada thought must be a headpiece.

  It had a large ornamental jewelled plaque in the centre of the forehead with a turquoise drop falling from it surrounded by small diamonds.

  Her own jewellery and, more important, all the money she possessed had gone and for the moment she contemplated storming up on deck to accuse Tyrone Strome of being a thief as well as everything else.

  Then she told herself he would only ignore her protestations.

  Moreover, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he had not been joking when he said that, if she did not obey him and put on the clothes he had provided, then he would undress her himself.

  “How could this be happening to me?” Nevada asked aloud.

  Then because she was in fact afraid, although she would not admit it, she slowly undressed and put on the caftan. She was not sure what she should do about her hair – she felt certain it would look absurd arranged in a fashionable style as she usually wore it.

  So she took out the pins and let it fall over her shoulders.

  As she looked at herself in the mirror, she could not help thinking that the fiery red hair reaching nearly to her waist was offset to advantage by the white and gold caftan.

  Then she asked herself almost plaintively what was the point of looking attractive for a man who hated her as violently as she hated him?

  But time was passing and she put on the ornate headdress, arranging the turquoise drop in the centre of her forehead. Then with an expression of distaste she picked up the litham.

  She held it in her hands feeling that it signified her complete capitulation to the authority and will of Tyrone Strome, when there was a knock at the door.

  Without waiting for her reply, he came into the cabin. “Are you ready yet?”

  “I have no idea how I arrange this,” she replied, holding out the litham towards him.

  He took it from her looking as he did so at her red hair falling over her shoulders.

  “Put on the earrings first.”

  She picked them up from the bed and set them in her ears.

  Because amongst her mother’s jewellery there were earrings that were exceedingly valuable, Nevada’s ears were pierced.

  The long, gold, ornately-worked rings hung easily from her small lobes, but she thought that by the end of the day they would feel very heavy.

  There were a number of bracelets for her wrists and rings for her fingers.

  “Henna your hands!” Tyrone Strome ordered, “and also colour your nails.”

  She wanted to defy him and refuse, but somehow in the smallness of the cabin he seemed so large and overpowering that almost automatically she obeyed.

  It took her a little time and he stood beside her, saying nothing but making her acutely conscious of his presence. When she had finished and her hands looked very different from the way she was used to seeing them, he said, “Now outline your eyes with kohl!”

  Again Nevada longed to refuse, but she knew it was useless. With the black line her eyes looked enormous and very green.

  Tyrone Strome picked up the litham and arranged it over her nose. There was something indifferent about the touch of his hands.

  ‘I might be a puppet or a piece of wood,’ Nevada thought crossly.

  He then took the haik from the bed and waited for her to rise from the chair on which she was sitting. He covered her with the all-enveloping garment and then turned towards the door.

  “We shall be going ashore in ten minutes. A Steward will show you up on deck where I shall be waiting for you. You will not speak to me, but will follow where I lead you until we reach the camels.”

  As he finished speaking, he left the cabin.

  As if her legs felt too weak to support her, Nevada sat down again on a chair and looked at herself in the mirror.

  Could this bundle of a woman with only two eyes to identify her really be herself?

  She had the terrifying feeling that she was leaving Nevada van Arden behind and that she would be lost completely, never to reappear in the world she had known before.

  Then she told herself she was being imaginative and that if nothing else this was an adventure which would be amusing someday to relate and perhaps to write down in her diary.

  When a Steward came to collect her and t
he wicker basket she walked proudly ahead of him up on deck, determined that if she was afraid then Tyrone Strome should not be aware of it.

  Then when she saw him it was in fact with a start of astonishment, for she had forgotten that if she was to be dressed as a native so was he.

  He was all in white, wearing the magnificent flowing garments of a Sheik. His serwal or trousers ended with tapering legs hugging his calves above red leather riding boots.

  His head was covered with a white turban which she knew would be worn by the more important Berber Chieftains.

  Strapped to his left side with a silk cord was a Moorish dagger in a jewel-studded sheath.

  If she had not hated him so violently, Nevada would have admitted that the flowing robes made Tyrone Strome seem even taller and more imposing than he appeared in European dress.

  His skin was very sunburnt and his fine-cut features made it quite easy to credit that he was in fact from one of the ancient tribes with which Southern Morocco abounded.

  He did not speak to her, but the moment she appeared, he turned and walked down the gangplank onto what she saw was a small jetty against which the yacht was moored.

  It was not, she was sure, a regular port – in fact beyond the jetty there were very few buildings. Those there were seemed small and dilapidated, constructed only of the same hard-baked soil on which they were erected.

  As soon as she stepped ashore, however, Nevada had eyes not for the buildings or even for the desert-like surroundings where they were disembarking.

  Instead she saw only the camels and the donkeys that were waiting for them, realising that in fact it was what constituted a caravan.

  The camels were sitting down, turning their long serpent-like necks first one way and then another and making a strange noise that sounded like a strangled growl or a curious bubbling.

  Tyrone Strome was being greeted by men wearing light blue cotton robes and black turbans.

  They were tall, graceful and muscular with long black silky hair, black eyes, small noses and, Nevada noticed, curiously delicate hands.

  She guessed, and longed to ask if she was right, that they were the so-called ‘Blue Men’, southern Morocco’s legendary desert nomads, men of Arabic and Berber descent mainly from the Regeibat tribes.

  Their nickname came from their blue-dyed clothing, since the dyes were not fast and sometimes their bodies and faces also became blue-stained.

  Despite her resolution to oppose Tyrone Strome in every possible way, to show if not hostility then complete indifference to anything he did, Nevada could not help being interested in the Blue Men and their camels.

  The animals’ saddles were decorated with fringes ornamented with amber, with tassels and coloured stones that Nevada felt must be pieces of porcelain, but she was not sure.

  She had little time to look around her as Tyrone Strome with a wave of his hand indicated a camel which had on its back a litter in which she realised she was to travel.

  One of the ‘Blue Men’ helped her into it, keeping his eyes averted from her face although there was nothing to see but her eyes.

  Then, as Nevada held tightly onto the arms of her strange chair, the camel rose awkwardly to its feet and they set off in a long procession.

  It was led by Tyrone Strome on a horse, followed by men riding donkeys or leading camels laden with what appeared to be luggage or packages.

  Nevada found it extremely tantalising that she had no idea where they were going and she wished now she had asked Tyrone Strome more questions when he first told her that they were leaving the yacht.

  It was obvious that where they were was almost desert, except there was a lack of sand.

  It was in fact a flat stony wasteland, mile upon mile of gravel-strewn country without vegetation.

  But it had in itself a strange beauty because the soil could change its hue from dead grey to orange-brass and copper-brown to pure ochre.

  She was conscious of measureless space and a tremendous overarching sky above.

  They must have travelled for nearly two hours, finding little variation in the desert-like scenery except that occasionally in the distance Nevada would see a building and knew it was a Kasbah.

  They were small and she was sure they were not important, but because they were built from the soil on which they stood they varied in colour. One she noticed was the creamy brown of café-au-lait and she saw that round it were some palms and fruit trees.

  But Tyrone Strome obviously had no intention of stopping and they moved on, slowly, relentlessly, with Nevada swaying with every step and she was only thankful the movement did not make her seasick.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, Tyrone Strome held up his hand and the caravan came to a halt.

  Nevada was surprised.

  There was no change in the scenery and they seemed to have reached nowhere.

  Turning his horse’s head, Tyrone Strome rode back down the line of camels and donkeys until he reached Nevada.

  He gave a sharp order in Arabic. The man who was leading her camel spoke and the animal slowly, grunting as he did so, went down on his knees.

  Nevada looked enquiringly at Tyrone Strome.

  “Get down,” he ordered.

  Wonderingly, glad for the moment to be free of the swaying litter, Nevada, helped by the camel driver, stepped onto the sand.

  She was wearing babouches decorated with gold embroidery. They were very light slippers and the stones hurt the soles of her feet.

  As she moved forward tentatively, hoping she would not have to walk far, Tyrone Strome swung himself off his horse and came to her side.

  “I have something to show you.”

  She looked at him in surprise. There appeared to be nothing on either side of them.

  Then he led her a little way from the caravan to where she saw what appeared to be a heap on the ground.

  As they drew nearer, Nevada, thinking of little but the discomfort of her feet, saw large white bones, then a skull. Tyrone Strome stopped.

  “You thought it would be interesting to see a dead man,” he said. “Well, here is one. He was murdered and Moorish custom prohibits the burial of a victim until after vengeance has been taken on his murderer.”

  Nevada gave a little gasp.

  Now she could see the skeleton lying full length where he had fallen. The vultures had plucked the flesh from his bones so that his lipless teeth seemed to grin in his skull with its empty eye sockets.

  There were his finger bones lying by what had at one time been his body and the sun or perhaps the vultures had devoured him and had left only the rags of his djellaba and turban.

  She gave a little scream and would have turned away, but Tyrone Strome reached out and caught hold of her wrist.

  “I want you to look at this man,” he said, his voice hard and contemptuous. “Think of him as he was, young and virile, optimistic, perhaps ambitious and very probably in love.”

  He pulled Nevada a little closer as he added,

  “Now he is dead, look at what is left of him.”

  “Let me – go!”

  She tried to pull herself from his clasp but realised how helpless she was.

  “You find the idea of death amusing,” Tyrone Strome went on. “To me it is a pitiable waste when it comes too soon! A waste that a young man must die because of the greed of an assailant or the cruelty of a woman.”

  Nevada closed her eyes.

  She could not bear to look at the skeleton. She felt as if Tyrone Strome’s condemnation was as horrible as the fleshless bones and the empty sockets where eyes had once looked at life with curiosity.

  Suddenly she felt she would faint. She must have swayed a little so that Tyrone Strome was aware of what was happening.

  His hands released her wrist and, because Nevada felt she could bear no more, she turned and stumbled blindly back towards the camels.

  Somehow she was helped onto the litter and, when they started off again, Tyrone Strome leading the way, she put her ha
nds up to her eyes and covered her face.

  Had she really mocked at death? Had she really incited David to take his life?

  It all seemed to have happened a long time ago, yet if he had died she knew now that she would never have been able to forgive herself – or forget.

  They moved on for another hour. Then reaching a cluster of palm trees the caravan once again came to a halt.

  As she dismounted, Nevada realised that they had reached an oasis and, because the sun had been hot, she was thankful for the cool shade of the feathery branches.

  She had found the veil over her face was extremely heating and she longed to set it on one side.

  Only her fear of Tyrone Strome’s reaction prevented her from doing so.

  She saw that one of the camel drivers had taken a brightly coloured rug from his camel and set it down at the far end of the oasis. As Tyrone Strome walked towards it, she realised that that was where he would sit.

  She waited, wondering where she was to go, when he turned and beckoned to her.

  She walked towards him, feeling more eager than she might otherwise have been because she was thirsty.

  At least, she thought, here in the middle of the desert, she would not be expected to cook her own meal!

  Tyrone Strome sat down on the rug.

  His legs were crossed under him in the conventional attitude of the East. Nevada wanted to copy him but she found that, owing to the narrowness of her caftan, she could only kneel and sit back on her heels.

  Food was set in front of them and a servant carried a goatskin which Nevada knew contained water.

  It was poured into a glass and while she longed to drink it immediately she had the feeling that to remove her veil while a servant was there would be incorrect and so she waited.

  At last the men who were attending to them moved away and Nevada noticed that, although the camel drivers and other attendants sat at the other side of the oasis, they all turned their backs out of respect for their Master’s privacy.

  “Now you may drink,” Tyrone Strome said.

  It tasted slightly brackish, but at that moment she would have welcomed anything that was liquid.