“What about our other project?” She asked with a slight wobble in her voice.
His brows drew together. “It shouldn’t interfere. Until we know that there even is a project,” he said slowly, “I imagine you’ll be able to oversee this, too. Don’t you?”
“Of course.” Her voice was strained. Never in her life had she imagined she’d be discussing a possible pregnancy so dispassionately.
He wanted to ask if she was okay, but he was afraid he knew the answer. She wasn’t. He had made his point a little too strenuously the night before, and he felt like a first rate bastard now.
“I appreciate that you’re taking an interest in the future of Assan,” he said sincerely.
“I’m not going anywhere, Tariq,” she responded, and her voice held a note of iron. “So we are going to have to learn to accept one another.”
He nodded slowly. An idea, an obviously stupid one, formed in his mind. “Do you know what we need?” He asked, before he could stop himself.
She was almost afraid to ask. “No. What do we need?”
“A honeymoon.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She said, slowly shaking her head from side to side. Her eyes beseeched him to be reasonable.
“What? It is a tradition, is it not?”
“Tariq, come on. It’s the most ludicrous idea I’ve ever heard. You must see that.”
“What is so ludicrous about it?”
“If last night is anything to go by, you can hardly stand me. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”
He felt his heart hammering against his ribcage in an unfamiliar state of panic. He had stuffed up, royally. “You are the one who said we need to find a way to make this marriage work. Let’s make it work.”
“I didn’t mean by pretending to be in love! Oh, Tariq, no. It’s...” She closed her mouth. She knew enough of her husband to know that, once he’d made his mind up, he was impossible to persuade. She banked down on the emotions coursing through her, arranging her face into a study of acceptance. “Fine. Where?”
“Leave that to me. I like the idea of surprising you.”
“When do we leave?” She swallowed back a lump of nervous anticipation heavy in her throat.
He rocked back in his chair, not sure if he felt relieved or worried that she had accepted his crazy idea. “Saturday morning. We have a dinner Friday night for the commencement of parliament. We will go the morning after.”
She nodded again but her head was feeling fuzzy at the prospect of time alone with this man she had married. “Fine.”
“No need to seem so excited,” he muttered once she’d left his office. He tapped his heavy gold pen against the edge of his desk, wondering what on earth had inspired him to make that suggestion. He found it hard enough to resist her here, in the palace, where they were constantly surrounded by staff and officials. But alone together, in one of the most romantic settings on Earth... he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself.
More politicians than she could ever remember the names of were milling around the state apartments that, Monique had informed her, were only used for very formal entertaining. Which, in a royal household, was roughly once per month. At first, Rebecca had felt stupidly overdressed for this evening. The gold ball gown was roughly the same shape as a western style wedding dress. A fitted boned bodice sculpted her torso to just above the hip bone, where it suddenly gave way in a frothy bang of tulle. Lots of tulle. Acres of it.
Tariq greeted her at the top of the stairs. “Rebecca,” he took her hands in his. “You look beautiful.”
She looked down at her dress with a lopsided smile. “I look like an Academy Award Statue.”
“Except female.”
“Yes. But just as golden.”
He laughed, a genuine laugh, and she felt her heart squeeze painfully at the sound. “This will soon be over. Then, our honeymoon.”
She looked up at him earnestly. They’d hardly seen one another since that day in his office, when he’d floated the plan. “You still want to go on our honeymoon, then?” She held her fingers up and did the universal sign of inverted commas around the word honeymoon, denoting her scepticism with the idea.
His lips compressed, so that his mouth was just a slash across his face. “There is no question, Rebecca. It is happening.”
She bit down on her lip, butterflies dancing furiously in her stomach. “First, I have to get through tonight.”
“I’ll stay with you as much as I can,” he promised.
Unfortunately, Tariq was frequently drawn from her company, which meant she was a golden, shimmering sitting duck for anyone who wanted to bend her ear. When the buffet was opened for a late dinner, she moved with relief to the table, her eyes always seeking Tariq out.
“Your highness,” a man’s voice, familiar somehow, called her attention. She looked over, a bland smile on her face, only to see Faisal standing inches from her elbow.
“Faisal,” she exhaled. “You should not be here.”
“Your husband doesn’t own me. I am almost as high born as he is. He had no right to speak to me like that.”
She bit down on her lip. “I don’t know anything about that. But I think you should go.”
“I think I should stay.” He placed a finger on her forearm and she yanked her arm away in revulsion. Frantic blue eyes scanned the room behind him. Tariq was locked in conversation with six or seven parliamentarians, but he sensed her gaze and turned to look at her. Then, as his eyes fell on Faisal, she saw true hostility reflected in his expression. Such latent aggression that a frisson of fear ran the length of her spine.
It only took a second. He extricated himself from the group of business men and was at her side, an arm possessively wrapped around her waist, stroking her hip steadily through the fabric of the gown. “I would ask what you are doing here, but it is irrelevant.” He made a gesture to an invisible security guard, who appeared instantly. “Take this man into custody. He has threatened the Queen, been barred from entering royal palaces, and yet he has defied me and come here tonight. Take him away.”
Rebecca watched as Faisal was escorted from the ballroom, amazed that it had all happened so quickly and with very few people even noticing anything was amiss. She had to work hard to maintain an appearance of calm. “I’m fine,” she answered Tariq’s unspoken question. “Please, return to your duties, Tariq.”
“No, Rebecca. I think now I will stay with you.”
“Go, Tariq, or everyone will think you’re ashamed of me.” She whispered, a bright but slightly shaky smile pinned in place.
“Ashamed of you?” He responded in an undertone. “Please, elaborate.”
“That you can’t trust me to be alone. Worried what I might say.”
A muscle flecked in his cheek and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how shrewd her observation was. She was his Queen, and people would expect her to have autonomy. He nodded tersely. “Very well. Enjoy yourself.” He turned and cut through the room, and perhaps only to Rebecca, because she knew him so well, every step he took radiated frustration.
Around them, the party continued. It was amazing that such a drama could unfold with no collateral damage. Faisal was gone, Tariq had returned to his parliamentary guests, and Rebecca was alone, at the edge of the buffet table, wishing she was just about anywhere else. She was tired. Tired of the pretence. Tired of a husband she loved who couldn’t stand her. For the first time, she wondered how foolish she’d been to go through with this marriage.
“Madam, you will try the goat?” A short, squat chap asked good-naturedly, interrupting her troubled reflections.
“Goat!” A woman decried with amusement. “Of course she will not. Her highness has a more delicate pallet. Goat would be too local.”
Rebecca felt herself bristle at their words. “I would love to try the goat,” she contradicted. As she looked down at the buffet and saw the dish in question, she wished she could gobble those words right back up. The Goat was
simply a goat head. A whole head, with eyes, and an open mouth, and cheeks slashed open to expose a lurid pink flesh. “Oh...” she stumbled a little. “It looks...delicious.”
“Here,” the first man held a forkful of quivering, pink looking flesh up to her. “Try it. It’s a delicacy from southern Assan.”
Rebecca’s stomach clenched in apprehension, but a small group of Assanians had gathered to watch their new queen taste an apparently sacred meal. She took the fork gingerly and, holding her breath, bit into the meat. Were it not for the spectre of the goats head staring back at her, she might have found it passable. But the glassy eyes watching her accusingly turned her stomach.
“Delicious,” she gasped. “Excuse me.” With as much grace as she could muster when vomit was threatening to spill from her mouth, she crossed the room and disappeared from the ballroom. The bathrooms were too far. She ducked into the kitchen, where a small army of staff was busy in preparations, grabbed a rubbish bin, and promptly proceeded to lose the entire contents of her lunch into the bag lined vessel.
A hand was on her shoulder as she heaved herself senseless, and finally, when she was all done, she unfolded from the hips. “Tariq,” she muttered, grabbing a serviette from the nearby stainless steel bench and wiping her lips gingerly. “Why did you, of all people, have to witness that?”
He drew a hand through his hair. “You should not have done that, Rebecca.”
“Done what? Vomited? Funny thing. I really found I just couldn’t help myself.” She responded tartly.
“No,” he shook his head. “Eaten the goat cheek.”
“They were all staring at me. Expecting me to refuse. I ... I felt I had to.”
“You were wrong,” he intoned harshly.
“Aren’t I always?” She snapped defensively, patting her mouth with a napkin.
He stifled a groan. “You do not have to prove yourself to them, or anyone. You are Queen of Assan. You are my wife. What they think of your taste buds has very little bearing on anything at all.”
She felt about the size of a squirming bug on the sole of his hand crafted shoe. Her voice came out as little more than a whisper. “It wasn’t about my taste buds and you know it. They were judging me.”
His shrug was pure nonchalance. “So what, Rebecca? Many people will judge you. People judge me, too.”
She thrust her hands to her hips in a gesture of disbelief. “Oh, sure.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why does it bother you so much? You have nothing to prove.”
“Maybe not to them,” she sniped, fingering the enormous diamond choker she wore nervously. How could a man like this ever understand?
“So let me get this straight. You ate the cheek of a goat to impress me?”
She stared down at the bright white tiles of the kitchen floor. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” He drawled mockingly.
She lifted her eyes to him, wondering if he’d ever felt insecure or uncertain in his whole life. Impossible, she decided quickly. He had more confidence in his big toe than most people had in their whole bodies.
She wrung her hands in front of herself. “I’m sure people wonder why you married me. A girl from England. Pale, thin, with silly yellow hair. I stick out like a sore thumb.” She dropped her eyes. “I just thought that it would help if I showed that I’m sensitive to local customs.”
His expression didn’t change as he digested her halting explanation. “You want them to accept you so that it makes things easier for me?” His lips tilted into a lopsided grin as he reached out and took her hands in his. “Rebecca, the thing the people of Assan want more than anything else is that rather important project we’re already working on.”
“A baby,” she said quietly.
Her husky statement gave him pause for thought. “You want a baby...”
She looked up at him and then across at the kitchen staff, going on about their duties as if the rulers of the country weren’t standing in the kitchen, having an intensely personal conversation. “I... I don’t want to have this discussion here.”
He breathed out through his nose. “Starting tomorrow, we will have many important discussions, my Sheikha. And for once, I will not let you put me off with half answers and quick subject changes.”
“Oh, boy, that sounds fun,” she snapped sarcastically.
He leaned down so that his lips brushed against her ear. “There will be plenty of fun, too,” he whispered. “Now, come dance with me, so that we can show our people just how happy we are together. Let’s try to act as though we’re in love, hmm?” It was his turn for sarcasm, only his words left her with a hollow ache where her heart had been.
If only she didn’t love him.
Chapter Ten
“You want me to get on that?” She looked dubiously at the camel that had been rigged with a bright red woven rug.
Tariq, dressed in traditional Assanian robes and looking every bit the desert King, had a perfectly serene expression in place. Only, Rebecca knew him well by now, and she was certain that he was laughing at her. “Come. This is a gentle beast.”
Rebecca looked at the enormous camel dubiously.
“I thought you wanted to show your sensitivity to Assanian customs?” He was definitely teasing her now.
“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered, finally putting her foot in the hands he held clasped before her.
“Why ever would you say that?” He chuckled, giving her the boost so that she could heave herself into the seat and take the reins. The camel gave a little two step once she was in place and Rebecca made a small sound of concern.
“There, there, girl,” Tariq ran a hand down the animal’s nose, speaking soothingly in Arabic.
“Are we going far?” She asked, looking across the flat dessert sands and seeing nothing but ... well, sand, for miles.
“It’s about an hour’s trip. Here.” He clipped a turquoise umbrella with golden tassels into a holster on the side of the saddle, then gracefully ascended the larger camel beside hers.
“I’ll lead you,” he said, and, reaching across, he took her reins into his left hand, and held his own aloft in his right.
“So I just sit here?”
“And get a little bumped about in the process,” he laughed again, and once they’d taken off, she saw what he meant. Though the camels were gentle, there was an inevitable lurching that took place with each of their loping steps.
It was still pre-dawn, and though the sun was rising, the sky was painted a lavender colour with a twinkling of stars in the distance. “It would be too hot to travel out here like this in a few hours time,” he said, following her gaze.
“It’s beautiful,” she said simply, admiring the way the white sands of the desert gave way to the early morning sky.
“I’ve rarely seen anything that’s pleased me more,” he agreed.
A little under an hour later, as the sun took over from the stars and watched their progress, a sparkling lagoon came into sight, lined with desert palms and small sand dunes. At the far edge was a large, burgundy and gold coloured tent.
Beyond the tent, there were two jeeps. Jeeps! She shot him a mutinous glare and he laughed. “Yes, we could have driven,” he responded to her unanswered question, “but that wouldn’t have been half as much fun.”
“What is this place?” Her tone was full of wonderment. Tariq brought the camels to a halt and she just stared at the scene that looked like it had leaped to life straight out of one of the storybooks her grandfather had given her.
“This is my sanctuary,” he answered simply.
“I can see why.”
He gave the camels a gentle nudge and brought them alongside the water. “Shall we walk the rest of the way?”
“Yes, please.”
He stifled a laugh at her keenness to end the camel ride.
He climbed down from the animal as though he’d been riding them all his life, which, she supposed, he probably had been. Then, he spoke a
soft word in Arabic and her camel slowly folded its long legs, so that she was able to slide down its rotund belly.
More Arabic and both camels walked to the waters’ edge and began to drink.
Rebecca fell into step beside Tariq.
“I believe this is the first time we’ve been truly alone together,” he remarked thoughtfully.
“Alone except for the staff,” she drawled, nodding towards the jeep.
“No. We are alone.”
Rebecca’s heart lurched fiercely at this news. She had thought he used the term loosely –f or when was he ever alone. “But – what about your ever present security?”
“Not necessary out here. This is palace land. You needn’t be worried.”
She wasn’t worried about perceived security threats. She was however, suddenly, inexplicably worried about the prospect of being totally alone with this man for any period of time.
Reading her mind, he slanted her a knowing smile. “Uh huh. The thought of us alone together makes you nervous?”
“A little,” she surprised him by answering honestly.
“Me too,” he acknowledged with a wry grimace. “I find it hard enough to control myself when there’s an army of palace officials milling around. Already I’m longing to remove that delightful scrap of fabric and revel in your beautiful body.”
His words created a rush of sensation in the pit of her stomach.
They’d reached the tent and he parted a swathe of thick fabric and stood back to allow her entry. From the outside, the structure was reasonably unassuming. Large, certainly, but very rustic in design. Inside, it was sumptuous, glorious, royal. Thick carpets were spread across the floor, and furniture was set up to give it the appearance of being just another room of the palace, only more sensual.
“Breakfast,” he nodded towards a low-level table on the far side of the tent, where a platter of fruits and cold meats had been set out.
“I’m starving,” she nodded, heading straight for the pomegranates. She sat down on the ground, her legs folded beneath her, and Tariq watched her enjoy the red fruit.
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