by Nora Roberts
Though she staggered, she managed to stay on her feet.
Her breath came quickly as she fought for control, fought to keep the stinging tears back. Slowly, she lifted a hand to wipe at the blood where a jewel from his ring had nicked her. Their eyes held, so similar in shape, so alike in expression. It hadn’t been her he had struck, and they both knew it. It had been Phoebe. It was still Phoebe.
“Years ago,” she managed, “I might have been grateful for that much attention from you.”
“I will say this, then it will not be spoken of again.” Carelessly, he signaled for the broken china to be cleared. The rage she incited in him was rage unbecoming a king. “Your mother left Jaquir and forfeited all rights, all loyalty, and all honor. By doing so, she also forfeited yours. She was weak, as women are, but she was also sly and corrupt.”
“Corrupt?” Though it might have earned her another blow, Adrianne couldn’t bite back the words. “How can you speak of her so? She was the kindest, most pure-hearted woman I’ve ever known.”
“She was an actress.” He said it as though a word could taste vile. “She flaunted herself before men. My only shame is that I allowed myself to be blinded by her, to bring her to my country, to lie with her as a man lies with any whore.”
“You called her that before.” This time Adrianne’s voice shook. “How does a man speak so about the woman he married, about the woman he shared a child with?”
“A man can marry a woman, can plant his seed within her, but cannot change her nature. She would not embrace Islam. When I brought her here and my eyes were cleared, she would not accept her place, her duties.”
“She was ill and unhappy.”
“She was weak and sinful.” He held up his hand, a man used to doing no more to be obeyed. “You are the result of my early blindness and are here only because my blood runs through you and because Fahid interceded on your behalf. This is a matter of honor, my honor. You remain only so long as you respect that.”
She wanted to toss it back in his face, to shout, to scream that he had no honor. The part of her that had still yearned for love closed off. Not even the most clever of thieves could have broken the lock now. Adrianne folded her hands. She lowered her eyes. Gestures of submission. He could have struck her again, and she would have accepted it. He could have maligned her mother, insulted her, and she would have accepted it. Such was the power of revenge.
“I’m in my father’s house and respect my father’s wishes.”
He nodded, expecting no less from a woman of his family. His kingship sat on him comfortably. When he had returned to Jaquir so many years before with a queen, a Western queen, he had been bewitched. He had forgotten his roots, his duties, his laws because of a woman.
His punishment had been that his first child had been a female, and his queen unable to give him more children. Now the daughter of that shameful marriage stood before him, her head bowed, her hands folded. Since Allah had willed that she would spring from his first seed, he would give her her due, but no more.
With one sharp word and a gesture a servant hurried over to give him a box. “A gift, for your betrothal.”
Her control was back, making it easy for her to reach out. Adrianne lifted the lid. The rich purple of amethyst glinted up at her, set in heavy, intricately worked gold. The center stone was square cut, as wide as her thumb. A necklace suitable for a princess. The price of it, had it come from him years before, might have changed both their destinies.
Now it was just a colored rock. She’d always stolen better ones.
“You’re very generous. I’ll think of my father whenever I wear it.” That was a promise.
He signaled again before he spoke. “I will meet your betrothed. Then, while we discuss the terms of the marriage, you will go back to your quarters or walk in the garden.”
She tucked the box into the folds of her abaaya so that he wouldn’t see her fingers tighten on it. “As you wish.”
When Philip followed the servant into the room, he wasn’t expecting to see Adrianne at all, much less to see her still dressed in black with her head bowed and her shoulders braced as if for a blow. Beside her, Abdu’s white throbe was a striking contrast. They stood close, so close the materials nearly touched, but there was no sense of reunion or kinship. Abdu looked over her head as if she didn’t exist.
“With your permission,” she murmured.
“Yes.” Abdu gave it without glancing at her.
“King Abdu ibn Faisal Rahman al-Jaquir, head of the House of Jaquir, sheikh of sheikhs, may I present Philip Chamberlain, the man, if you consent, I will marry.”
“Mr. Chamberlain.” With a hand extended, Abdu stepped forward. He could behave in Western fashion when it suited him. “Welcome to Jaquir, and to my house.”
“Thank you.” Philip clasped hands. Abdu’s was smooth and strong.
“Your rooms are suitable?”
“More than. I’m in your debt.”
“You are my guest.” He flicked a glance toward Adrianne. “You may go.”
It was the tone one used to dismiss a servant. Philip caught it, resented it, had nearly decided to be amused by it. Then she lifted her face. The look was brief, but long enough for Philip to see the mark along her cheekbone that was already darkening to a bruise. She bowed her head again, and with her long skirts whispering around her, she left them.
He had to take a breath, a long, slow breath. For her sake, he wouldn’t do or say anything rash. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. Surely at their first meeting Abdu couldn’t have struck the daughter he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years.
“Will you sit?”
Pulling himself back, Philip turned to Abdu. The eyes that met his were very sharp, very measuring. “Thank you.” The moment he had, fresh cups were hurried over and tea was poured.
“You are British.”
“Yes, I was born in England and have spent most of my life there, though I travel frequently.”
“In your business.” Ignoring the tea, Abdu folded his many-ringed hands. “You deal in the buying and selling of gems.”
He’d worked with that cover for years. With Interpol’s assistance, it was solid. “Yes. It requires a good eye and a flair for bargaining. I enjoy handling stones.”
“Arabs are natural bargainers, and we have always understood the value of stones.”
“Of course. The ruby on your third finger. May I?”
With a lift of brow, Abdu held out his hand.
“Seven to eight carats, Burmese at a guess—excellent color, what they call a pigeon-blood red with the vitreous luster you expect from a quality stone.” Sitting back, Philip picked up his cup. “I recognize, and respect, gems of great value, Your Highness. Which is why I want your daughter.”
“You’re frank, but there is more involved in a marriage of this nature than your wants.” Abdu said nothing more for a moment. He’d given Adrianne’s marriage some thought, as he would any minor social or political matter. If she had been of pure blood, he would never have sanctioned her marriage to a European, and certainly not some pale-skinned British gem merchant. However, her blood was tainted. She was of much less value to him than a good horse. In a small way, she could be a link between Jaquir and Europe. More important, he had no desire to have her in Jaquir.
“I’ve had little time to explore your background, Mr. Chamberlain, but what I have learned is satisfying enough.” And perhaps unlike her mother she would bear sons. Grandsons in England could be of some use in the future. “If Adrianne had remained in my house, a different marriage would have been arranged for her, one that suited her position. However, since that is not the case, I’m inclined to approve—if terms can be agreed upon.”
“I don’t claim to be an expert on your culture, but I understand that a settlement is customary.”
“The bride price, a gift which you will offer to my daughter. This gift will be hers, and remain hers.” He didn’t think of The Sun and the Moon, but Philip did. “
It is also expected that you will make a gift to her family, in recompense for our loss of her.”
“I see. And what gift would recompense you for Adrianne?”
He considered toying with Philip. The reports had indicated the Englishman was wealthy, but there were things more important to Abdu than money. The first of these was pride. “Six camels.”
Though his brow shot up, Philip managed, barely, to conceal amusement. Thoughtfully, he tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. “Two.”
Abdu was more pleased than he would have been with an easy agreement. “Four.”
Though he wasn’t sure where he was going to get his hands on one camel, much less four, Philip nodded. “Agreed.”
“So it shall be written.” Still watching Philip, Abdu barked an order to a servant. “My secretary will draft the contracts, in both Arabic and English. This is satisfactory?”
“I’m in your country, Your Highness. We’ll do things your way.” He set aside his cup and longed for a cigarette. The tea was laced with some spice his British palate found mildly objectionable. “As Adrianne’s father you would be concerned that she will be well provided for.”
Abdu’s face remained impassive. There may have been a trace of sarcasm in Philip’s voice, or it may have been the British accent. “Of course.”
“Of course. I had a million pounds in mind for her settlement.”
It was rare for Abdu to be taken by surprise, rarer still for that surprise to show on his face. The Englishman was either mad or besotted. Perhaps Adrianne, like her mother, had the power to blind a man. But the Englishman’s fate was no more concern to him than that of the daughter who reminded him, just by existing, of a mistake. He wouldn’t give her the honor of bargaining.
“It shall be written. We will have a meal this evening to introduce you to my family, and to announce the betrothal.” He rose in dismissal.
“It will be my pleasure.” He’d been prepared to find Abdu cold, but the reality was more rigid, more dispassionate than any speculation. “Will you attend the wedding in the spring?”
“The spring?” Abdu’s lips curved for the first time in what might have been a smile. “If you wish to have a ceremony in your own country, it is no concern of mine. However, the marriage will take place here, next week, as is fitting under the laws and traditions of Jaquir. You will wish to rest until this evening. A servant will show you the way.”
Philip stood where he was as Abdu left him. He might have laughed, but he doubted Adrianne would find the news amusing.
The evening was to be a mixture of the old ways and the new. Adrianne bound her hair but ignored the veil. She dressed modestly, adhering to aurat, things that cannot be shown, by choosing a gown with long sleeves and skirt and a high neck. But the label was Saint Laurent. Word had spread through the women’s quarters that Philip would be introduced. That alone told her that he had pulled it off. Now that Philip and the engagement had been accepted, the first stage of the plan was behind her.
It was too late to turn back. It had always been too late.
The diamond on her finger winked in the mirror as she concealed the bruise on her cheek with makeup. Symbols, she thought, of the two men who had changed her life.
Stepping back, she took a last inventory. She’d chosen black deliberately, knowing the other women would be arrayed in peacock colors. In black she would appear only more modest and obedient. Reluctantly, she fastened the amethyst around her neck. Abdu would expect it. Until she left Jaquir she intended to go on giving him what he expected.
Philip had been right about one thing. When she allowed her emotions to surface, she became reckless. However true her words to Abdu had been that afternoon, they had been rashly said. She had the bruise to remind her that he was not now, nor had he ever been, a man to listen to a woman’s heart.
She touched a finger to it again. She wasn’t angry about the blow, or even resentful. The pain had been brief, and the mark itself served to remind her that no matter how many new buildings, new roads, new freedoms existed in Jaquir, men still ruled however they saw fit. She was less of a daughter to Abdu than she was a thing to be married off and shuttled out of the country, where whatever mistakes she made wouldn’t reflect on his honor.
She wasn’t sorry for that, but she was sorry that she had harbored a place in her heart for the hope that there might have been love and regret and reunion.
Hope was dead. Adrianne turned at the knock on the door. Now there was only purpose.
“Yellah” Yasmin, dressed in bright striped satin, grabbed her hand. “Come on. Hurry,” she repeated in English. “My father has sent for us. Why do you wear black when red would be more flattering?” Even as Adrianne’s lips twitched, Yasmin was pulling her toward the other women.
The men were already in the salon. Abdu, three of his brothers, his two sons, a smattering of cousins. Adrianne flicked a glance at the boy who was her younger brother. He’d only be fourteen, but he was already ranged with the men. In a matter of seconds they studied one another. She saw a mirror of the curiosity she was feeling, the same grudging kinship. This time she didn’t try to prevent the smile, and was rewarded by the brief curving of his lips. In his smile she saw her grandmother.
Then there was Philip, looking wonderfully, coolly European. Like an oasis, she thought, refreshing and comforting. She wanted to reach out, if only for a moment, and link hands. Make a connection. Instead, she kept her hands folded in front of her.
He wanted five minutes alone with her. There had been no opportunity for a single word since they’d stepped off the jet. He’d have preferred to tell Adrianne about the monkey wrench Abdu had tossed in the works. Five minutes, he thought, fretting against the customs that were both cover and restraint. There was a volcano in her. He’d seen it flare briefly in her eyes that afternoon. There was no telling if Abdu’s announcement would cause it to erupt.
One by one, with a formality suited to Buckingham Palace, the women were introduced to him. In their opulent party wear they were a rainbow of dark women with dark eyes and soft voices. Some gowns were elegant, some gaudy, some chic, some foolish, but the women were all identical in attitude. Heads were lowered, eyes downcast, pretty ringed hands were folded at the ends of concealing sleeves.
He watched Adrianne step forward, at her father’s gesture, to greet her brothers. Fahid kissed her cheeks, then gave her arms a quick squeeze. “I’m happy for you, Adrianne. Welcome home.”
He meant it, she realized. While it was impossible for Jaquir to be home she felt a comfort. I love Adrianne. He had often said it to her, simply, honestly, in the way of children. Those children were gone, but there was something of them left in the way their eyes met, held. How could she have known, after doing without for so long, that family would mean something?
“I’m glad to see you again.” And she, too, meant it.
“Our brother Rahman.”
She waited, as was proper, for him to kiss her. It wasn’t restraint she felt from him when his lips brushed her cheeks, but shyness.
“Welcome, sister. We praise Allah for bringing you back to us.”
Rahman. He had the eyes of a poet and the name of their great-grandfather, the warrior. Adrianne wanted to speak with him, forge some link. But Abdu was looking at her.
Philip continued to watch as she was presented to the rest of her family. Her younger brother he recognized as the boy who had been praying in the room close to his own. How would it feel, he wondered, to face a brother you’d never seen before? Strange, but until now he’d never considered the fact that he might have siblings. He thought of the gulf between Adrianne and the other children of her father. Perhaps it was best never to know.
She was speaking Arabic smoothly, musically. That more than anything made the entire scene like a dream. Though he willed her to, she didn’t even glance in his direction, but moved, as directed, to Abdu’s side.
“Tonight we rejoice.” In deference to Philip, Abdu spoke in clear,
precise English. “I give this woman of my family to this man. Under the will of Allah, and for His honor, they shall be married.” Taking Adrianne’s hand, he placed it in Philip’s. “May she be a fruitful and modest wife.”
Adrianne might have smiled at that, but she saw her grandmother, supported by younger women, wipe a tear from her eye.
“The documents have been signed,” Abdu continued. “The price set. The ceremony will take place one week from today. Inshallah”
Philip felt her fingers jerk in his. Her head came up, and for two heartbeats the volcano was there, smoldering. Then she was lowering her eyes again and accepting wishes for happiness and children.
They still had exchanged no words when she, along with the other women, filed out to where they could celebrate out of sight of the men.
Adrianne’s dreams were disturbing enough to make her toss in bed. They weren’t clear. One bled formlessly into the next, leaving her with a feeling of unease and grief. She’d hoped to exhaust herself, then escape into sleep. After all the chattering about wedding dresses and wedding nights, she had been exhausted. But a sleep chased by dreams wasn’t escape.
When a hand covered her mouth, she shot up in bed, one hand grabbing a wrist, the other groping for purchase.
“Easy.” Philip said the word in a whisper directly into her ear. “You start yelling and your relatives are going to cut vital little pieces off my body.”
“Philip.” The first wave of relief was so intense, she threw her arms around him. He slid easily to the bed with her, then cut off even her murmur with his mouth. That was it, the taste he’d needed, craved, all evening. He hadn’t known need could build so high in a matter of hours, or that worry could press like an anvil’s weight on the back of the neck.
“I’ve been going crazy,” he muttered against her throat. “Wondering when I could talk to you, touch you. I want you, Addy.” He nipped lightly at her ear. “Now.”
