Banished to the Harem

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘There could be no discussion—your words left me with no choice but to act.’ He remained unmoved. ‘Now I will speak with the King. It is not every day that a Crown Prince returns in circumstances such as this. For now you will wait.’

  She had no choice but to wait, to sit as Rakhal swept out of the room, dark and unapproachable—a stranger.

  Rakhal did not like to leave her.

  He was more than aware how terrified she must be. Yet there had been no choice but to bring her here. Had it been any other time he could have waited things out in London, but festivities were already starting in Alzirz—their Crown Prince should be deep in the desert now, contemplating his country’s future, asking the desert for guidance as he chose his future bride, not walking into his father’s study to be chastised.

  He was braced for a row, his back ramrod-straight, his features expressionless, as would be expected of any ruler about to go into battle. He was ready for anything as an aide opened his father’s office door, braced for confrontation as he stepped inside, and yet nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him.

  He was more than grateful for his brutal training, for the beatings he had taken in the desert, for the cruel lessons he had been forced to learn, for his mask did not slip as he laid eyes on the frail shadow of a man who had once been so strong. His voice did not waver as he greeted his father; his eyes did not shut as he watched the feeble King attempt to stand.

  Rakhal kissed his father on both cheeks, as was their way, but it was not born of affection—it was simply the way that things were done.

  He waited for admonishment, for his father to tell him he was a fool, but instead his father coughed, and then coughed again as Rakhal waited, his fury building towards the palace doctor, who had told him there was still much time, that they were talking months. But that was the trouble with staff who were loyal. Even an esteemed doctor did not want to face the truth at times.

  The truth was in front of Rakhal.

  The truth he could clearly see.

  Soon he would rule.

  ‘I thought you would go straight to the desert.’ The King’s voice was thin and reedy, and as he gratefully sat back down it was clear that he was growing weak.

  ‘I will depart for there shortly.’ Rakhal kept his sentence brief. There was a thickness to his throat that was unfamiliar, a sting in his nose as he looked at the man who had been so strong and proud and tried to address him as if he still was.

  ‘So why the detour?’ The King coughed again. ‘You are wasting time.’ He saw his son frown—the only emotion he had displayed since entering his office. ‘There are only two days for coupling. You have wasted many hours travelling.’

  ‘That is not why I brought Natasha here.’ Rakhal instantly understood what his father meant. ‘I can assure you that what happened yesterday was a mistake. If Natasha is not pregnant then I fully intend to choose a bride from Alzirz—a woman who understands our ways, who will be proud to give birth to our future leader. The people will not take this well—I am aware of that …’

  ‘They will be appeased if there is an heir.’

  ‘Natasha would be a poor choice.’ It sounded harsh, even to Rakhal, yet it was essential that his father understood—for Natasha’s sake as much as the country’s. Except his father had other ideas.

  ‘You have already made your choice,’ the King interrupted. ‘When you slept with her unsheathed.’

  ‘It was once.’

  ‘It needs to be more.’ The King held his son’s eyes. ‘The desert must play its part in this.’

  For the first time Rakhal saw fear in his father’s eyes.

  ‘We ignored its rules once—’

  ‘Father,’ Rakhal broke in. ‘My mother’s death had nothing to do with that.’ Logic told him this, education told him too, and yet in this Rakhal’s voice did waver; in this Rakhal perhaps was not so strong.

  ‘You were conceived in London,’ the King said. ‘None of the rituals followed. For weeks we did not know that your mother was with child. And look what happened. You, Rakhal, know better than anyone the ways of the desert cannot always be explained. I am from a lineage that is pure royal; you are from a lineage that is both royal and from the desert. Are you so brave as to test your modern theories out with your own child?’

  For the first time since their meeting the King’s voice was strong and he stood to confront his son.

  ‘I was young and bold like you once. I did things my way instead of the ways of old—and look what happened. Your mother died in childbirth; you were born so small that you were not expected to survive. The desert taught us a cruel lesson, yet it gave us one chance to redeem ourselves—you are that chance, Rakhal. Go now and have her oiled and prepared.’

  Even as Rakhal opened his mouth to protest, the King found his voice and overruled him.

  ‘And tomorrow she shall be hennaed and rested.’

  ‘It is better that she stays at the palace now.’

  ‘No!’ The King was adamant. ‘Your role is that of protector—she will be terrified here without you. She shall remain in the desert with you till we have an answer.’

  Rakhal was appalled at the prospect. His time before selecting a bride was for deep contemplation. At night he could give in to his body’s urges, feast with the harem, and then return to the festivities and select his bride. It was unthinkable that he should have Natasha there in the desert with him—especially if he could not be with her. For it was forbidden. Once hennaed and painted, her body was not for him.

  ‘She does not belong in the desert.’

  ‘She does not belong in this land.’

  For the first time Rakhal glimpsed his father’s anger.

  ‘However, we shall deal with the problem, not the cause. You will do well to remember that from your teachings. Perhaps your choice was not the wisest, but the people will soon forgive if it proves fruitful. If not, the people need never know …’

  ‘Which is why you want her hidden away in the desert?’

  His father was older and wiser, and still he had more answers.

  ‘You cannot hide in the desert,’ the King responded. ‘My wife—your mother—told me that. The desert will always reveal the truth. There are maidens waiting for her there—they will keep me informed, as will Abdul. There will be no more discussion.’

  He looked his son in the eye and Rakhal did not like what he saw there. The once black eyes were now pale and milky. But on this point his father stood strong.

  ‘I am still King.’

  ‘And one day I will be,’ Rakhal said, but his father refused to be swayed.

  ‘Go now,’ he ordered his son. But as Rakhal reached the door he halted him. ‘You have heard the news from Alzan?’

  ‘About his twin girls?’ Rakhal had far too much on his mind to smile, for now he had to tell Natasha not just that she must join him in the desert, but that tonight she must join him in his bed.

  His father had had the excuse of ignorance when he had bedded his mother, had believed then that the teachings were merely fables. Rakhal did not have that excuse—his mother’s death had been a warning. And yet he could not force himself on her. And it would be force, Rakhal knew. So he had far more on his mind than to engage in idle gossip.

  ‘About his wife.’

  The King’s words halted Rakhal as he went to walk out. ‘His wife?’ Rakhal turned around.

  ‘Rumour has it that the Sheikha Queen was most unwell during her pregnancy. That it might prove fatal were she to try and conceive again.’

  ‘And is this from a reliable source?’ Rakhal checked.

  ‘Of course—and it had been confirmed by the most reliable,’ the King said. ‘Of course he did not say it directly—he never does.’

  Rakhal knew who his father was refering to: the wizened old man from the desert.

  ‘But he sees not just one test but two … two tests that will divide us for ever or reunite Alzanirz. Perhaps that test is
the twins. Of course Emir would not waste his breath asking me to forgo the rules—to allow a princess to rule Alzan.’ He looked to his son, saw despite the strong jawline, despite the unblinking gaze, that his features were just a little pale.

  ‘We allow a princess to rule Alzirz,’ Rakhal said. ‘If Natasha is pregnant, if the gift is a daughter, she will one day be Queen.’

  ‘Which is why Alzirz will go on.’ The King smiled, but then it died on his lips and there was hate in his eyes. ‘Did Emir’s father revoke the rule when my wife died?’ Bitter were his words. ‘No. Instead the entire burden of our country’s future fell to you, and now it is time for you to accept that burden like a man—like the Prince you are—and ensure our country continues. Which is why you will take this woman to the desert and to your bed this night.’

  Rakhal walked through the palace. History lined its walls—not just portraits of the royals, but oil paintings of the desert and the people from whom he came. He walked into the lounge where Natasha sat silent, and despite prompting by Abdul she refused to stand when he entered. All eyes except hers were on him.

  ‘You are to come to the desert with me.’

  ‘No.’

  He heard her inhale, heard the rate of her breathing increase. ‘We are leaving now.’ Rakhal ignored her refusal. Abdul was watching him after all. But once they were alone he would talk to her. He would reassure her. For now he had to appear to be abiding by the rules. ‘The helicopter is being prepared.’

  ‘No!’

  This time she did bite and kick and scream, but her protests were futile.

  It could, as Abdul informed her, be no other way.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NATASHA had never been on a helicopter, and as it took off her stomach seemed to rise with it. She closed her eyes on a living nightmare. Abdul was on one side, and there was also a young veiled woman beside her. Rakhal sat opposite, speaking in Arabic to his aide, and she tried to shut out the words coming in over the headphones. But suddenly Rakhal spoke in English.

  ‘To the left is Alzan.’

  Natasha snapped open her eyes. ‘I don’t need a tourist guide.’

  ‘I am simply trying to orientate you,’ Rakhal said.

  Realising that any information might help, Natasha looked out of the window. But all she could see was endless desert and panic rose within her. She could die here, right this minute, and no one would ever know; her friends and family didn’t even know that she was here.

  ‘There—over there,’ Rakhal said some time later, ‘is my desert abode.’

  As it came into view she could see a collection of tents, but as the helicopter hovered she saw that it was not just tents—more a large complex. The helicopter’s spotlight, as it searched for its landing spot, illuminated horses circling their enclosure as the light disturbed them, and there were camels too. But more surprising for Natasha was that there were swimming pools. She counted three of them, right there in the deep of the desert, and even without the helicopter trained on them they were lit up. Beside one there were people brightly dressed and dancing.

  Even though she had nothing to compare it to, his desert abode was nothing like she had expected.

  Cold air hit her cheeks as Rakhal helped her out of the helicopter. His strong arms lifted her down and they ducked under the blades, his grip tight on her hands. Within two steps her shoes were lost in the sand. She made no attempt to retrieve them. Her footwear was simply irrelevant now. Her only thought was that she wanted to run back to the helicopter, to dive in and be lifted away. But by the time they had reached one of the tents the helicopter was already taking off into the sky.

  Natasha could hear the throb of sensual music from the poolside, the sound of laughter too, and the cool air was tempered with incense. It was almost irreverent. Perhaps the servants were having a party, Natasha wondered. Perhaps they had not realised Rakhal was returning tonight.

  It was quieter inside, but there was no relief to be had.

  ‘You will put on these,’ Rakhal informed her.

  And though she did not want the small slippers she obliged. She wanted to be alone with him, wanted to argue away from Abdul’s dark eyes that followed her every move. An argument about slippers was not high on her priorities!

  ‘Not your robe,’ Rakhal halted her as she went to take it off. ‘The maidens will do that.’

  Four women were approaching, their heads lowered, bowing to Rakhal and reaching out for her. Natasha flinched. He spoke to them in Arabic and they backed away.

  ‘Come through,’ Rakhal said. ‘I have told them I need to speak with you first.’

  He led her through to a larger area, and thankfully the maidens did not follow. It was dimly lit and had a sensual luxury. There were cushions everywhere, and low tables heavily laden with food, and perhaps they had been expecting him after all, for there was music coming from behind a screened area and incense burnt in here too. She felt as if she was stepping into somewhere forbidden.

  She was almost right. It wasn’t forbidden, but it was most unusual to have a woman here with him, and Rakhal was more than a touch uncomfortable with Natasha’s presence. His desert abode was not really the place he would consider bringing the potential mother of a royal heir, but circumstances had left him with little choice.

  ‘Not you.’ He turned to Abdul who, unlike the maidens, had followed them through. ‘I wish to speak to Natasha alone.’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Abdul said, for on this matter even he could pull rank with the Prince. ‘I have express orders from the King.’

  Rakhal hissed in frustration, for it was essential that he spoke to Natasha alone. He needed to tell her he would not harm her, would not force her into something that she did not want. But he could not say such things in front of Abdul, so he turned to Natasha, who stood pale but defiant beside him.

  ‘Normally,’ Rakhal explained, ‘my wife—’

  ‘I’m not your wife,’ Natasha cut in.

  ‘The potential mother of my child, then.’ He was finding this difficult. Her huge green eyes were hostile and scared, and that was not how she should be at this fragile time. He must be alone with her, for she had no idea of the royal ways of old and she had to be seen to comply. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I will help you with your robe.’

  ‘I can help myself.’ She lifted it off and threw it down, stood in the dress she had chosen that morning.

  The coat she had left on the plane, and the dress she had put on with such excitement was now crumpled. Her gorgeous hair was knotted from the robe and from her distress before, and her lips were swollen from crying. She looked very small, very scared, and also terribly, terribly defiant as she tossed the robe to the floor, and it evoked unusual feelings in Rakhal. He wanted to soothe her, wanted to calm her, and he crossed the room. But she shrank back, as she had with the maidens.

  ‘Sit?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps eat …’

  ‘They’ll be looking for me,’ Natasha said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My friends,’ Natasha said. ‘I do have a life. You can’t just whisk me off and expect no one to notice. They’ll call the police …’

  ‘Why don’t you ring them, then?’ Rakhal frowned.

  ‘Ring them?’

  ‘I will have someone bring you a phone.’ He called something in his own language and in less than a moment a maid appeared. ‘There is no need for histrionics, Natasha. Ring your friends and tell them.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘The truth,’ Rakhal said. She took the phone and he watched the wrestle in her eyes. ‘I do not want your people worrying about you. Ring them and put their minds at rest.’

  She hurled the phone at him, for he had her trapped every which way. But Rakhal had reflexes like lightning, and caught the phone.

  ‘Ring and say you have taken a holiday,’ he suggested. ‘Because for now you can treat it as one. For now this is your home, and you will rest and be pampered. You will come to no harm, Natasha.’ He walked o
ver and touched her cheek. She shrank back. ‘My role is to ensure you are looked after.’

  He had to explain things to her—had to tell of their ways.

  ‘If I had a bride she would live at the palace,’ Rakhal explained. ‘For two days I would be with her, and then the maidens would take care of her. She would be hennaed and oiled and …’ Much more than that he did not know, for he would not see his wife after two days of coupling—what happened after was dealt with by women. He told Natasha the little he knew. ‘She would rest and be looked after, and if the oils and the flowers did not work I would return to her the next month.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You do not need to,’ Rakhal said. ‘The maidens know what needs to be done, how you need to be looked after, the things that must be taken care of. If you do carry the future heir there are prayers to be said, traditions that must be upheld. As I said, normally you would be at the palace. I would not see you.’

  He walked to a veiled area and pulled the curtain back. After a brief hesitation she followed him. ‘Here is where you will rest.’ It was a lavish room of purples and reds, with a large circular bed in the centre. Above it hung a thick rope. ‘You pull that and a servant will come. If you need a drink or food or a massage,’ Rakhal explained. ‘You may join me for conversation if I am in the lounge and the music is silent.’

  ‘I shan’t be joining you,’ Natasha said, but for the first time since the plane, for the first time since realisation had hit, the tightness in her chest was abating. For the first time she felt as if she could properly breathe. This was a room just for her, and she stepped into it, desperate to be alone, to gather her thoughts, to make sense of all that had happened.

  ‘My resting area is the other side of the lounge,’ Rakhal said, but she simply shrugged.

  She did not care where Rakhal rested. All she wanted was to be alone—except she froze when she heard him speak on.

  ‘It is only tonight that you will join me there.’

  Natasha did not turn around; the tightness was back in her chest and sweat beaded on her forehead, yet she forced her voice calm. ‘What did you say?’