The meaning and intent were clear, and Natasha glimpsed her future—a life that was a little more taken care of, for he had paid funds for her time here that were generous, and her brother’s debts were sorted out. She could return to Alzirz when she chose—except it would kill her.
To have the man she loved as an occasional treat, a reward for them both now and then with no strings, an exotic fantasy she could return to at times …
For how long? Natasha thought with tears in her eyes.
Till the time when her body was no longer the one he wanted? When she did not amuse him any more?
‘Rakhal knows that I would never agree to this.’ She shook her head. ‘I want to speak to him.’
‘Prince Rakhal wants to concentrate now on duty,’ Abdul explained. ‘I have arranged transport to take you back to London.’
‘No.’ He had asked her to stay till he returned and she did not believe Abdul. ‘I want to see him.’
‘It is not about your wants,’ Abdul said. ‘And Prince Rakhal knows that, which is why he has placed this stamp.’
She looked at the passport he handed to her. On it was the gold stamp that Abdul could not fake, for it could only come from Rakhal. What hurt her the most was not his coarse offer, but the fact that she considered it in the knowledge that somehow her body was now forever his. Somehow so too was her heart, even if she must leave. After Rakhal no one else would ever suffice.
‘I must return to the Prince now. A helicopter will take you to the airport.’
She lay alone on his bed and waited for the transport that would prise her away from the desert she loved and the rules that she loathed. She wanted to speak with him just one more time—wanted Rakhal to look her in the eye and tell her it was over.
She could hear the laughter and noises of the harem, the splashes in the pool and the music that seduced. She begged the stars for an answer, but all they did was shine silver—except one that was maybe a planet. That one shone a little gold, as she had on the night she had met him, and as her heart shone now with hope.
‘You should not be here.’ The madam scolded her as she parted the curtain. ‘You should not wander.’
But she showed the madam the gold stamp and with that she could not argue.
‘It will be at a time of my choosing, though,’ the madam warned her. ‘You will not be called on for now. When he returns from the funeral the Prince will be in deep tahir, but that will change before the wedding.’
And the gold stamp gave her rare status, for when a furious Abdul came to the tent late in the night, to insist that she take her flight to London, the madam shooed him away—for here the madam ruled.
She learnt so much in those days—the harem was nothing like she’d imagined. The women there were spoiled and pampered too. They were massaged and oiled and kept beautiful, and they spent their time chatting and laughing, reading and swimming, as any group of girlfriends on a luxury holiday together would.
‘We are spoiled by the Prince,’ said Nadia, who had a throaty French accent.
Natasha had been surprised to find out that not all the women were from Alzirz. The Prince, it would seem, liked variety.
‘Before I came here,’ explained Calah, who was from Alzirz, ‘my family was poor and I was to be married to an old man—to keep his home and share his filthy bed. I ran away, and I would have been working the streets, but I was lucky and I was chosen. Now I live in luxury and my family is being taken care of. I am studying for a degree—’ she smiled at Natasha ‘—and sometimes I get to be with the Prince.’ Her eyes challenged the doubt in Natasha’s. ‘Which is always a pleasure.’
Natasha’s cheeks burnt as she heard the other women discuss him, and she dreaded the ring of the bell that, for Natasha, would sound the end if the madam did not first choose her.
But days passed and the bell did not ring—and then Natasha found out why. ‘He is meeting with the King,’ the madam explained. ‘Soon his bride will be announced. Tomorrow, they say.’ She smiled to her girls and all but Natasha returned it. ‘Our Prince will announce his bride.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RAKHAL stared out of the palace windows to the celebrations that were starting in the street.
‘It is good to see the people so happy,’ the King said. ‘They fear my passing, they know now that it will be soon, and the wedding will please them.’
‘The people have nothing to fear,’ Rakhal said. ‘I will be a good leader.’
He would be. He had visions for his country and he knew that the people were ready. The wealth from the mines needed to be better returned to the people; infrastructure was needed—hospitals, schools and universities. But at a pace that would do no harm. His heart told him to protect the desert, not to inflict upon it modern ways—and he needed a clear head for that. He needed time alone and deep reflection for every decision he would make—not a wife who would demand he speak to her, who would pout when she was bored. Yet at that moment his heart ached for the same.
‘I have just days,’ the King said. ‘Soon the people will be in mourning. You must change that. You must give them an heir, give them hope …’
Rakhal looked out to the sea of people and thought of the grief that would soon seep into them. He knew his plans for the future would scare them rather than please. Theirs would be a grief that only a bride and a baby would appease.
But the bride he wanted could not be found—his people were still searching for her. She was back in London, Abdul had informed him, and yet she would not take his calls.
Rakhal had not thought it possible to mourn a living person, yet it felt as if he did, and he mourned too a baby that had never existed. He did not understand how Natasha could leave without speaking with him.
‘If I fly to London—’
‘Enough!’ The King was furious with his son—furious that still Rakhal insisted on bringing up this Natasha—and he let his displeasure show. ‘Still—even as death creeps in—you try to postpone your duty.’
‘I do not want to postpone it—I accept that I must marry. But if I could just speak to her …’
‘And say what?’ the King demanded. ‘That you bend to her whims instead of serving your people? Never.’ The King had had enough. ‘Now we will feast, but tomorrow you will step onto the balcony wearing the gold braid and let the people know you have chosen your wife.’
Rakhal frowned, for this was straying from tradition.
‘Tomorrow I will step onto the balcony wearing the gold braid, but now I return to the desert,’ Rakhal said. ‘And I will feast and celebrate there, and tomorrow I will return and choose from your selection.’
‘Better you are here,’ the King snapped. ‘Save your seed for your bride.’
‘I’m sure,’ Rakhal snapped back, ‘that there is plenty.’
And he did not bend to his father—not even now; instead he returned to the desert, and then to the land his mother had once roamed. He roamed it now with his eagle.
Since Natasha had left he had not shaved nor bathed.
He prayed and he sat and he tried to meditate.
A dust devil formed and he heard his mother laugh at his problems. She did not understand that tomorrow he must announce a wife, that the people would panic if it did not happen. She laughed and she danced and he did not understand.
He felt the sun on his skull and tried to clear his thoughts, to let them slip out of his mind as fast as they came in, to clear his head so he might be centred.
He did this often.
Rakhal would clear his head and let the silent desert fill it, let the voice of the wind and the stories in the sand infuse him. He trusted in the answers. But no matter how long he sat, no matter how he tried to empty his mind, to focus on his country and the leadership that would soon be his, all too soon Natasha would fill his thoughts.
He could not speak to his aides, nor his family—for they would not give unbiased counsel. They would not contemplate let alone discuss changes to the mo
narchy, to the rules and their ways; they would never permit his thinking. His grandfather had taught a young Rakhal the desert ways, though, and even if his son had rejected them his grandson had not.
He loved the desert as he loved the stars, sought wisdom from the dunes, and he knew then what he must do.
He took his eagle and let it circle.
And then he sent his eagle to the skies again.
If he did it a third time the Bedouins would be alerted.
If he did it a fourth they would continue with their day.
But if the bird ceased flying after three times the wizened old man would be summoned.
Rakhal sought his counsel rarely, though it was rumoured that Emir, at times, met with the old man too.
Within the hour Rakhal sat with a man who had seen one hundred and twenty yellow moons and heard again about two tests. And Rakhal silently questioned why he would ask someone so old about ways that should be new.
‘I need to think of my country,’ Rakhal said, ‘except I think of her. I need my mind to be clear of her.’
‘I will guide you in meditation,’ the old man said.
Rakhal sat and let his mind empty, but still it was Natasha’s face that he saw.
‘Take your mind to the stars and beyond them.’
Rakhal did. But still she was there.
The old man took him further, past Orion, beyond the planets, and still there she was.
‘To the edge of the universe,’ the old man said. But still she was there. ‘To the end of the universe.’ She was there waiting.
‘And beyond the end,’ the old man instructed.
But there she was.
‘And beyond the end again.’
Her image was not fading.
‘It does not end.’ Rakhal opened his eyes to the old man and hissed his frustration.
‘It cannot end,’ the old man said, and stood. ‘Trust the desert. Trust in the traditions and the ways of old.’
‘She doesn’t want the ways of old.’
‘Tonight you should trust in them.’
But the ways of old were not being adhered to.
Rakhal returned to his tent and declined a feast of fruit and music to please him. He watched as the arak turned white when Abdul added ice, and he turned down the hookah—all the traditional ways for a prince to behave before he made his choice.
‘I wish to bathe.’
He summoned the maidens and asked that Abdul leave, for tonight he would be busy and the arak and the hookah would not help with that.
He laughed and chatted with the maidens who bathed him, and lay back as he was shaved, and then he rose from the bath, dressed in as little as was expected. And still Abdul remained.
‘You will leave,’ Rakhal said, and instructed the musician to play a more suitable choice for his mood.
‘Drink.’ Again Abdul pushed a glass towards him. ‘Celebrate these last hours of freedom.’
And Rakhal was certain now that she was near.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘HE HAS bathed!’ The madam clapped her hands and got her girls’ attention. ‘And he has shaved, and he has summoned music and the most potent of foods….’
Her voice trailed off as Abdul appeared, and Natasha watched the madam’s eyes narrow as he whispered some words.
They all waited but the bell did not ring, and she held her breath in hope, for maybe Rakhal could change even if not for her. But then came the kick in the guts of disappointment when finally it rang, and she could picture his hand reaching out to the rope on the bed where they had lain. There was a flurry of activity, the girls rubbing in oils and teasing their hair, doing their make-up and chattering excitedly as they tried to guess who might be chosen. Natasha held her breath and prayed it would be her.
‘Nadia.’
The madam slipped a yashmak over the scantily dressed woman and sprayed her with a musky scent. It filled Natasha’s nostrils and she felt like retching, for it was the same scent that had entered their room that night.
‘It has been a while. His need will be great.’
The madam gave Nadia instructions and as she disappeared into the night Natasha lay on the cushions, closing her eyes against tears, trying and failing not to imagine what they were doing. She felt pure loss as their time together was terminated by a single ring of the bell, as her prince returned to the ways he knew best.
And her last tiny glimmer of hope died—a foolish hope, a stupid hope, she thought—when Nadia returned just fifteen minutes later.
‘Leave Nadia,’ the madam scolded as all the women except Natasha gathered around Nadia to ask how the Prince was. ‘She will bathe and get some rest.’
But the madam frowned as Nadia went to her cushions and lay silent. The other girls frowned too, for usually there was a more excited return.
Over and over he shamed her.
The bell rang through the night, and Natasha screwed her eyes closed as one by one the women returned and he made a mockery of all they had been, all she had asked him to consider. Finally, when the bell was quiet, when the women all dozed and slept, she prayed for sunlight. Dawn would be here soon. He would go to prayer and she would leave, Natasha decided. At first light she would leave.
And then the bell rang.
The madam stood and parted the curtain, looked outside and then over to Natasha. She put her fingers to her lips and summoned her.
Natasha was draped in a small skirt with a tiny coined fringe and beneath it she was naked. Her breasts were dressed with the same noisy fabric too, and a veil was placed to just reveal her eyes. She was told what it would mean should he gesture that she remove the veil. If he did that she would slap his face instead, Natasha decided. As the madam came to her with the musk Natasha shook her head, again remembering that night one of the women had come to the room. The scent still made her ill, but the madam insisted.
‘He will be sleepy,’ the mistress explained, ‘so you may not get to surprise him.’
Surprise him? Natasha thought darkly. She’d more likely spit at him—not that she would tell the madam that; instead she stood as she was delivered more instructions.
‘He might not want any conversation. Do your duty silently with him, so that the Prince’s mind can wander where it chooses. Let his hand guide you and if he talks just say you speak English,’ the madam said. ‘But rarely does he speak. Prince Rakhal does not waste time with conversation.’
She put a gold bangle on Natasha’s wrist, and large earrings in her ears that fell in gold rows—because, the madam said, he liked the noise. Natasha hated finding that out from another woman.
And then it was on with a yashmak.
As she left the tent the madam again put a finger to her lips, for outside lay a sleeping Abdul. There was a flutter of hope in Natasha’s stomach, a hope she dared not examine, for she understood Abdul’s instructions were that she be kept from him.
The madam hurried Natasha through to his tent, and as they got there the madam paused. ‘He deserves happiness,’ she said, and there were tears in her eyes as she kissed Natasha on the cheek.
She was left alone to enter—there were no maidens guarding his shadow tonight—and she could see his profile on the bed. In a moment she would face him.
Or rather, Natasha thought, holding her head high, Rakhal would face her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
STILL her phone was not answered, and Rakhal lay back on the bed and knew he was foolish even to hope.
All night he had hoped she would come to him—had done as he’d been told and trusted in the ways of old—had stupidly almost convinced himself that his father and Abdul were keeping the harem from him for a reason.
Soon the morning would be here. He would pray and then head to the palace, and there could be no more putting it off. Today he would announce his bride, and from there there could be no turning back.
He heard soft footsteps and then the jangle of jewellery, and as the woman entered and the heavy sc
ent of musk reached Rakhal the last vestige of hope died. For he knew she did not like jewellery or scent. He also knew in his heart that Natasha would never join the harem—it had been but a pipe dream.
The room was dark and the music played louder as Natasha stepped into his abode. Nervously she stood for a moment, looked to where he lay on the bed naked, a silk drape over his groin. He did not look up as she walked towards him. He did not look over, but spoke in Arabic to her.
She did not answer. Her throat was dry, and she was terrified that he would recognise her, that he would be furious. She walked slowly to the bed, reaching out her hand to him, to speak with him, to explain that she was here finally to talk. But what was the point? Natasha thought bitterly. She felt cheated on after the past night.
‘Did you not understand what I said?’ His hand grabbed hers as she reached out to touch him. ‘I said that you are to take the jewel that is on the table.’
She did not understand—although he had spoken in English this time. The madam had said nothing of this. Perhaps he meant afterwards, Natasha thought, and when his grip released her hand she hovered over his stomach. She saw the snake of hair that had teased her the day they had met. Rather than a row or a confrontation, she wanted one last time with him before the magic must end, and her finger moved to lightly trace the hair. She watched as his stomach tightened.
‘Take the jewel,’ he said, ‘and never speak of this to anyone. Go now and sit on that chair for a suitable time.’ The musky scent filled his nostrils, the sound of her bangles jangled, and all he wanted was Natasha. ‘If you talk, even amongst the others, I will know. You are to take the jewel as payment for your silence. My mind is with another. I need to think.’
Except his body betrayed him, for still those fingers traced the hair on his lower stomach. He grew hard even as he resisted, and the silk slithered away. Still the finger explored the flat plane of his stomach, and it was as if his skin recognised her. So light was her touch that it could have been Natasha’s—but he halted her there, his fingers lingering with regret on the bangles that had tainted his fantasy that it was her. She released him—but only to take the bangles off.
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