Authors: Fiona McIntosh
She woke to the sound of Rafe’s humming and the smell of coffee and shifted to watch him on the balcony. He was in his bathrobe and his hair was damp, not even combed. It was the most untidy she’d seem him and his stance looked as relaxed and carefree as that day on the Weald. Stella stretched and he must have heard her soft sigh of pleasure because he swung around.
‘At last, sleepyhead.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearing noon . . .’
‘What?’ She sat up with alarm.
‘I jest. It’s not yet ten.’ She flung a pillow at him as he approached, which he caught deftly. ‘Coffee, my lady?’
‘Mmm, please.’
‘Let me have a fresh pot sent up. Some breakfast?’ She shook her head with a lazy grin. ‘Not hungry?’ he frowned.
‘For you, perhaps.’
‘Ooh, vixen!’ He grinned and flopped onto the bed to kiss her slowly and tenderly.
‘Did we . . . ?’
‘No, you slept all the way in the car and then yawned and promptly fell asleep as soon as we got into the room.’
She laughed. ‘I’m so sorry. And I must be imagining last night. Didn’t you check us into separate rooms?’
He dug in his pocket and found a key, holding it up sheepishly. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind if I was here when you woke up?’
‘I don’t.’ She kissed him again, teasing him with her tongue.
‘I don’t think I need breakfast either,’ he admitted, pulling off his robe.
‘What about my coffee?’ she enquired in an arch tone.
‘I’m afraid I cannot wait,’ he gestured downwards and she delighted in how good it felt to laugh so explosively.
They rolled together until he held himself above her.
‘What?’ Stella wondered gently.
He shook his head. ‘I feel like a teenager again.’
‘I remember my teens as being awkward.’
‘No, I remember that time as being so full of promise, everything to look forward to . . .’
‘Every girl a challenge?’
‘Of course. However, I admit I’ve never opened my heart as I have for you.’
She sighed, stroking back his thick hair, and stared at him.
‘Don’t believe me?’ he queried.
‘I want to.’
He kissed her, lowering himself so their bodies kissed too. Stella was vaguely aware of the pleasant thought that their limbs and hips seemed to fit seamlessly. It was as though they’d been originally sculpted as a pair of lovers, forever to be awkward with any other partner but each other. And then that notion drifted to the edge of her mind and disintegrated as thought itself disappeared into a blur of agonising and exquisitely escalating pleasure.
The soapy smell of his skin, a sweetly spiced fragrance from his shampoo and the faint taste of rich coffee on his breath enveloped her as his arms extended, pinned hers gently back, and they heard only their own shared music, moving to its rhythm.
‘Don’t ever leave me, Rafe,’ she pleaded.
He opened his eyes above her, pausing in a shared moment of suspended sweetness. ‘No matter what, Stella, no one can take away our memories; keep this moment in your mind always and know that there has never been anyone who means what you mean to me.’
It was an oddly emotional claim; she heard a note of wistfulness as though he might never be able to share this closeness again with her. There was a sense that this was their time and they had to make the most of it. Stella searched his gaze, wondering why she felt so suddenly sad, as though this was goodbye, but then he was lowering himself to hold her tightly as the Moroccan spring delivered the fragrance of sweet damascene roses that would forever remind her of him.
Later on the balcony, both now in their bathrobes and freshly showered, Stella took stock of where they were.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ she marvelled, looking out from the balcony towards the encircling mountains. ‘There’s still snow and yet it’s so warm and wonderful.’
He nodded. ‘The view from the roof terrace of the Atlas Mountain range is even more spectacular, if you can believe it.’
‘I can’t,’ she admitted, inhaling the heady fragrance of the climbing roses around their balcony.
‘The highest peak of the whole range is in the south-western corner of Morocco.’
‘I suppose you know every nook and cranny of it,’ she teased.
‘No, but I travelled with Berbers when I was younger and got to know the foothills where I saw Barbary macaques, even an Atlas bear or two . . . although they may already be extinct.’
She folded into him, putting her arms around his waist, never tiring of the hard, lean feel of his body. ‘Is that when you were happiest?’
He weighed her question in his mind, taking his time, his expression growing more serious. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in any moment than I am in this one,’ he said, kissing her hand that he was holding against his chest, over his heart. ‘You make me feel unencumbered.’
‘Odd term,’ she admitted, amused.
‘It’s true. It’s the right word. I feel free when I’m with you, Stella. You don’t contain me and yet I’m a willing prisoner to your chains. You were well named by your parents. You’re like a constellation all of your own, sparkling and beautiful . . . expansive in your thoughts and your attitude; dark and mysterious when you want to be.’
Stella loved his words but laughed. ‘You’re a terrible tease. Did you mean what you said about us having today to ourselves?’
‘Today and all of tonight is ours. No one knows we’re here.’
‘No guilt?’
‘The world we know is not here.’ He pointed. ‘It’s over there somewhere.’
‘So where’s this?’ she wondered, indulging his notion.
‘This is Planet Stella. A star that is a long, long way from the life I loathe. Here, no one intrudes. Here we are . . .’ He searched for the right word. ‘Naked,’ he finished, with a grin, which Stella returned. ‘But naked in every sense.’
She nodded. ‘I like that very much. I want you to always be honest with me, Rafe, no matter how hard it may be.’
‘There’s nothing hard about being with you, of course other than my —’
Stella stopped his words by covering his mouth with hers. He buried his fingers deeply into her hair and returned her affection with intensity.
As the scent of orange blossom from the nearby groves rode fresh and sparkling bright over the moodier fragrance of the rose blooms, Stella was sure she tasted the intoxicating potency of love in the kiss of Rafe Ainsworth.
When they parted, lips swollen, their gazes locked, she felt she might tear up from the intensity of what had passed unsaid between them and was glad he broke the tension of their kiss by speaking.
‘Tonight we’ll dance again, Stella.’ It made her smile. ‘One last dance,’ he murmured and before she could respond he kissed her again, pulling her back into the room as he slipped the bathrobe from her shoulders.
Rafe had hired a car and driven her away from the city into the leafy foothills where she could see pomegranates and figs growing wild.
‘I’m useless at geography. Isn’t this meant to be a desert area?’
Rafe grinned, looking tanned and relaxed in cream trousers with his white shirt open and sleeves rolled up. ‘The Sahara does kiss Morocco with the same intensity I enjoy kissing you, Stella, but it’s further south.’
‘Have you been to the Sahara?’
‘Yes. It’s an overwhelming place. It feels as though it has its own religion. You feel spiritually dwarfed by its vast emptiness. I’ve seen sand dunes that had to be nearing six hundred feet and yet that landscape can change in a few heartbeats when the winds come up.’
‘I think I’d love to see it.’
‘It’s dangerous, even for me, and I acknowledge its power. I was fortunate to travel in a caravan with some of its nomadic people when I was a boy.’
‘What a life you’ve led,’ she admitted, stroking his cheek. ‘Gosh, it’s beautiful here too,’ she said, ‘although hot.’
‘Yes, I think we need to get you a hat or a scarf or something or that beautiful skin I love so much is going to sizzle and blister.’
He started the engine and drove on.
‘Where are we headed?’
‘I’ll take you back to the city but we’ll avoid the casbah.’
‘I’m presuming that if no one knows you’re here then you don’t have to worry about being seen?’
‘I’m not the problem. It’s Joseph. I have no idea who may be observing him. He wouldn’t know either. So I’m simply being cautious for now and where I’m suggesting you and I go means we won’t be anywhere near the medina, where they may be watching.’
Reassured, Stella settled back, enjoying the breeze as he expertly guided them back to the city.
‘Feel like a mint tea?’
‘Tea? On such a warm day?’
‘Trust me, it’s extremely refreshing and cooling.’
He led her into the maze of alleys until Stella had lost all sense of direction but was happy to walk alongside Rafe, their arms loosely linked, and she began to imagine that this is what a honeymoon might be like. She was feeling an exciting sense of abandonment, where all responsibility to anyone but themselves was set aside. Deeply selfish, she knew it, but she also knew it was transient; tomorrow loomed and she was determined to ignore its shadow for a few hours longer.
They dodged the relentless path of merchants and their mules, leaping back beneath the canopies at the yell of cart owners as they manoeuvred their wares through the narrow alleys.
She fell deeper in love with his voice as he educated her about the extraordinary scenery around them.
‘That mosque – Koutoubia – is from the twelfth century. The majority of the walls would be end thirteenth, very early fourteenth century at the latest.’
‘How do you follow this maze?’ she declared.
‘It has grown a lot even since I was here. Behind all of these walls are homes – some
dars
, some what’s known as
riads
.’ At her frown he explained. ‘Traditional Moorish houses built around a central courtyard – it’s open to the sky so it becomes an airy, light-filled dwelling, often exquisitely decorated with
zellij
– mosaic tiles – owned by the wealthier Moroccan families. They have lots of lush plantings to bring cool and shade. The
dars
don’t have courtyards, fountains or gardens and lack decoration but their simplicity makes them beautiful.’
‘You wouldn’t know from these high walls.’
He nodded. ‘And every tiny neighbourhood has its own bakery, place of worship, public fountains for ablutions and so on.’
‘Everywhere looks the same to me. I don’t know how you differentiate.’
‘I’m sticking to the walled paths I know and time marches slowly in these narrow alleys.’ He spoke in Arabic to a seller who was haranguing them to look at his teapots that were hung all around where they stood. The man backed away good-naturedly. ‘The doors are like little landmarks too.’
‘The carvings on them are delightful,’ she noted.
‘Made of cedar,’ he said, nodding. ‘The Moors kept their clothing in cedar wood because it smells so good,’ he added.
‘You’re a fount of knowledge today,’ she teased as a basket full of pomegranates was suddenly thrust at her by a lad with a heartbreakingly sweet smile. She ignored that the basket bled a bloodlike juice, refusing any prophecy in her suddenly superstitious frame of mind. The boy spoke in Arabic but his enquiry sounded polite and he somehow bowed to her while balancing his precarious load.
‘Can we buy one at least?’ she whispered to Rafe.
He and the boy conversed momentarily, coin was exchanged and she was handed two large smooth-skinned fruit, fat and blushing ripe, just about to burst to reveal their sweet jewels of flesh.
‘I’ve never tasted pomegranate,’ she admitted.
‘Now you shall,’ he promised. He led her on. ‘Come on, they’ve seen us buy something now, we’ll be mobbed in a blink.’
Right enough, she could see the beseeching looks of purveyors of flowers to fruit and vegetables she didn’t even know the names of, holding out their produce for her inspection. Rafe took her hand and they skipped happily down another laneway and several others that felt identical until he was guiding her beneath the cool awning and dusty darkness of a shop that sold silk.
‘Let’s find you a scarf,’ he grinned.
Scarves fluttered like the wings of butterflies as the shopkeeper, thrilled to have customers, began to show off his wares. He spoke in rapid Arabic and Rafe translated.
‘He’s telling us these are the colours of nature. The Moors used natural pigments so they got their reds from poppies and pomegranates, blue from the mineral indigo, black from coal.’ He nodded at the fellow speaking alongside him, flinging out endless drifts of silken beauties. ‘The yellow is achieved by saffron from the Atlas Mountains.’
‘Is green from mint leaves?’
He stopped the man, said something and they both laughed. She blinked in consternation.
‘We’re congratulating you, Stella. The green comes from the mint plant, yes, orange from henna, and so on.’
They emerged and Stella felt like one of the starlets she’d seen in the movies. She was wearing a summer dress not unlike the colour of the damascene roses and she’d chosen a scarf of rich and light greens on a cream background to dramatically team with it. Rafe had draped it around her hair so it covered her shoulders as well and she realised his gift ensured her modesty now respected the culture of the people she was amongst.
‘There,’ he admired with a smile. ‘Now you really are the colours of Morocco . . . roses and mint.’
She wanted to kiss him but wondered at how brazen it might appear. Instead, she whispered her thanks.
‘I’ll show proper gratitude tonight, paying in kind.’
‘Then I need you to understand that it was
very
expensive,’ he warned and they lurched out of the shop, effervescing with amusement in their carefree togetherness.
They passed a stall with fresh stalks of mint piled so high that Stella had to stop to admire the small mountain of fuzzy, intensely green leaves with their jagged edges. ‘I’ve never seen so much in one place,’ she claimed. ‘It’s cooling just standing next to this shop.’
Rafe breathed in deeply, closing his eyes momentarily. ‘That’s the smell of Marrakech for me. Always will be. I grew mint in the garden at Harp’s End just so that I could always have this fragrance close.’