by Lynne Graham
Shahir was startled by that complaint. ‘I was showing you respect!’
‘Do you still feel that guilty about what we did that day at the castle?’ Kirsten whispered ruefully, marvelling at how much easier it was to say things on the phone that she would not have dared to say to him face to face.
‘No…I think about what we shared far too often,’ Shahir confided thickly. ‘I remember every second of our passion…’
Her heartbeat accelerated and she blushed. ‘That’s good.’
‘No, it’s frustrating. But tonight is my reward for almost a year of cold showers. My reward and your pleasure.’
Her green eyes opened wide. ‘Almost a year?’ she parroted in astonishment. ‘Are you saying—I mean…well, that there hasn’t been anyone else?’
‘Only you since we first met.’
She squeezed the mobile phone so hard she was vaguely surprised it didn’t smash into smithereens. ‘I like that. Oh, my goodness—I haven’t even thanked you for finding Daniel yet! That was the most wonderful present ever.’
‘It was nothing. I have to go,’ he told her apologetically. ‘My father is waiting.’
Kirsten set aside the phone and stared dizzily into space. Shahir had not made love with anyone since he had swept her off to bed at the castle. Her eyes shone. That thought made her feel very special. Had he desisted from sex out of guilt? She thought about that and decided that in some circumstances guilt was good—especially the kind of guilt that kept Shahir from straying into the beds of other women. For the first time he felt like hers, because he had not touched another woman since first meeting her on the hill above the glen.
When she wakened from her nap she felt as she were in a dream as all the activity of which she was the centre began again, with renewed enthusiasm. Her hair was washed and rinsed until the water ran clear. She bathed in a scented bath and lay down to have perfumed oils rubbed into her skin. While her hair was styled, her nails were manicured, and swirling designs in henna that symbolised good luck and health were skilfully painted on her hands and feet. A make-up artist attended to her face, while her companions chattered and enthused and commented at embarrassing length about how handsome, how virile, how everything Shahir was.
When it was time for her to dress, another screen was erected for her with much laughter. She rolled on sheer hold-up stockings edged with lace and donned a long fine silk chemise that felt sensuously soft against her skin. No other lingerie was offered to her. Amazing shoes ornamented with glittering stones were brought for her inspection and slipped on to her feet. Finally she was helped into a fabulously ornate embroidered and beaded robe in royal blue.
‘You look amazing.’ Jahan drew her out from behind the screen so that all the women could see her, and there was a spontaneous burst of appreciative comment and hand clapping.
Kirsten was transfixed by her unfamiliar reflection in a mirror nearby. She looked incredibly exotic.
She was encouraged to walk round an incense burner three times for good luck.
‘The bridal gifts.’ Jahan presented her with several boxes. ‘We are all eager to see what Shahir has given you.’
‘I didn’t know there were to be gifts. I didn’t give your brother anything,’ Kirsten lamented.
‘You gave Prince Shahir a son,’ an older woman piped up in astonishment. ‘A son in the first year of marriage. He has been blessed enough.’
Kirsten gazed in shock at the delicately worked gold crown that emerged from the first box. It was light, and not over-large, but it was definitely a crown and not a tiara. Jahan lifted it with reverence and placed it on Kirsten’s head. ‘This has not been used since Shahir’s mother, Bisma, died. You are honoured, for only our father, the King, could have offered it to you.’
There was an emerald necklace that flashed green fire, and it had been matched to drop earrings and a bracelet of fantastic design. Kirsten had never seen such fabulous jewellery, or dreamt that she might own it.
‘The emerald set was made especially for you. The goldsmith and the designer worked day and night to finish them in time,’ Jahan confided. ‘You must be so happy that you have my brother’s love.’
Kirsten veiled her gaze. ‘Yes…’
‘My mother was a second wife and less fortunate.’ The other woman sighed. ‘Shahir’s mother was the King’s first wife. She died of a seizure when Shahir was born and my father almost went mad with grief. He was urged by the people to marry again and have more sons. I was born, then my sister, and then Raza. My father could not love my mother as he felt she deserved and she was unhappy. In the end they divorced.’
‘That’s very sad,’ Kirsten remarked, with a hollow feeling of threat in her tummy. She was trying not to wonder if some day Shahir would also decide that he was making her unhappy.
Jahan turned aside to speak to someone, and then turned back to Kirsten. ‘Faria says it is time for us to go to the audience hall.’
Faria says. That was all Kirsten heard. Her green eyes lodged on the piquant face of the young woman. She was gorgeous, if a little sullen in expression. She had eyes that were the alluring shape of almonds, honey skin and a wealth of tumbling black curls. Kirsten felt huge and clumsy next to her, for the other woman was much smaller and yet surprisingly curvaceous in shape.
‘You’ve gone white…don’t be nervous,’ Jahan whispered gently.
For goodness’ sake, how common was that name? Faria? What reason did she have to believe that the Faria whom Shahir loved belonged to the privileged circle of those invited to attend the royal wedding? Faria might well live in another country, thousands and thousands of miles away, Kirsten told herself in urgent consolation.
The crown, she discovered, was heavier than it had initially seemed. She had to keep her back straight as an arrow and hold her head high to prevent it from slipping.
The audience hall was thronged with people. She exchanged a warm smile with her brother. Only when the crowds parted did she see Shahir. His brilliant dark eyes were sombre, his lean, bronzed features stunningly handsome below the crown he wore as if to the manner born. In his scarlet and black military uniform, with a sword hanging by his side, he was magnificent. As she drew level he reached for her hand, and the words of the marriage service were spoken in Arabic and then in English.
Shahir slid a gold ring that bore a crest on to the forefinger of her right hand. ‘Now it is time for you to meet my father.’
King Hafiz received them in the privacy of an anteroom. He was a tall, sparely built bearded man, with astute dark eyes and a rather gloomy aspect. He did not speak English and Shahir acted as an interpreter. He bestowed his blessing on his son and daughter-in-law as both father and ruler. He raised Kirsten up from her deep curtsey and kissed her solemnly on either cheek, and told her through Shahir that she was so beautiful his son would only have had to look at her once to love her and see her smile to know that she had a true heart. He also came very near to smiling when he forecast that Tazeem would be the joy of his old age.
The festivities moved to a chamber where twin thrones on a raised dais awaited the bride and groom. Jasmine blossoms were scattered round her feet and Kirsten was given a drink composed of honey and rose water. Traditional folk dances were performed. Poems were read. A lute player sang plaintive songs.
‘Now, before we eat, you may change into something more appropriate…’ Shahir informed her.
‘Do I get to take off the crown?’
Vibrant amusement lit his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘I know it’s an honour to wear one, but it’s hurting my neck.’
In a room down the corridor she was helped out of her ceremonial robe and shoes. She was astonished when a glorious white wedding dress was brought to her. The gown was a neat fit at breast and waist, accentuating her slender figure. A simple circlet of pearls was set on her head.
From the instant she reappeared and began moving down the room towards him Shahir’s smouldering dark golden eyes were welded to
her. A heady pink lit her cheeks and her mouth ran dry.
‘You look amazing…you look as I dreamt you would look,’ he confessed in an appreciative aside.
The wedding banquet was served, but she had no appetite for food. After the meal she was formally introduced to courtiers and officials. She saw Faria with a man who appeared to be her husband, and it looked very much as though the couple were having a fight. At least Faria had a tight mouth and seemed to be talking through gritted teeth while her companion seemed to be trying to placate her.
‘That couple over there…who are they?’ Kirsten finally asked Shahir.
His bold, classic profile tensed. ‘My foster-sister and her husband.’
‘What do you mean…foster-sister?’
‘For several months her mother was my nurse after my own mother died in childbirth. In our society that relationship is viewed as the same as one formed by blood.’
Feeling as if she had hit the bullseye, Kirsten fixed her attention elsewhere. Her throat ached, for his tension and his every word had confirmed her suspicions. The exotic brunette was Faria, the woman he loved and could not have. Another man’s wife and his foster-sister. She felt gutted, and her eyes were stinging like mad.
Raza strolled up and bent his dark head towards them. ‘Have you been watching Faria? Do you remember how she always seemed to be all sweetness and light? What a shrew she’s turned out to be!’ he remarked with an exaggerated shudder. ‘Poor Najim. He’s an easygoing chap, and very clever, but he made a bad choice there. Watching Faria make a fool of him in public is enough to keep me single for ever!’
Kirsten’s dulled eyes took on a sparkle of renewed animation. There was nothing appealing about a shrew, was there? She did not dare to look at Shahir lest she reveal her less than charitable feelings. Instead she gave Raza a big sunny smile.
‘May I dance with the most beautiful bride ever to have entered this family?’ Raza asked her winningly, down on one knee, hand clasped to his heart in melodramatic fashion.
As Kirsten laughed in appreciation of his sense of humour, Shahir rose upright in one powerful movement. ‘Perhaps…after she has danced with me.’
His dark golden gaze shimmered over her flawless face and he extended a lean brown hand to lead her on to the floor. Suddenly she was very conscious of his raw masculinity and she lowered her eyes.
‘I know what is on your mind,’ Shahir murmured quietly. ‘We will discuss it—but not here. We’ll be leaving soon.’
Kirsten did not know how to dance in a formal way. She tripped over his feet and tried to head off in the wrong direction. The experience was sheer purgatory for her. Worse still, she was tormented by the conviction that he must have seen her staring at Faria. Had her interest been that obvious to him? Could he know what she had been thinking? The jealousy? The hatred? The evil thoughts? She really didn’t want Shahir to have an accurate take on what went on in her mind
‘You are a possessive husband,’ Raza told his elder brother with lively amusement as the bridal couple left the floor. ‘But on your wedding day I will forgive you.’
Rose petals and rice were scattered in front of Shahir and Kirsten as they walked out of the palace and got into a white limo adorned with streamers and flags.
‘Now for the embarrassing stuff,’ Shahir groaned, flashing her a rueful smile that made her heart jump inside her. ‘Wave to the crowds as we pass.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’re flying to my grandfather’s palace at Zurak. Tazeem will join us tomorrow. But I do not wish to wait until we reach Zurak to say what I need to say to you.’
Kirsten stiffened and stole an apprehensive glance at him.
It was not a conversation Shahir wanted to have, but he knew he could not avoid the subject, for silence would encourage division. He breathed in deep. ‘A long time ago I told you that I loved another woman.’
Kirsten shrugged both shoulders with overstated nonchalance while still waving and angling a fixed smile out at the crowds of spectators waiting for the royal motorcade to pass by. She behaved as though the issue of his loving another woman was of as much interest to her as watching paint dry. ‘So?’
‘As you now appear to be aware, I was referring to my foster-sister, Faria.’
Her wooden pretence of composure cracked and her pale head swivelled, green eyes flashing defensively. ‘Am I that obvious?’
His dense black lashes screened his gaze. ‘No. I am attuned to your mood now.’
The royal couple waved, and the silence stretched like an elastic band being yanked to breaking point.
‘Don’t keep me in suspense,’ Kirsten breathed between clenched teeth.
‘I do not find it easy to talk about feelings,’ Shahir confessed in a driven undertone. ‘But I do know that I should never have told you that I loved Faria.’
‘Well…how were you to know that you were going to end up married to a woman with a memory like an elephant’s?’ Kirsten muttered waspishly, and it was awful because she could feel the tears gathering up behind her eyes like a dam ready to break.
‘That is not the reason why I should not have made that statement. Since that day I have come to appreciate that I was mistaken about what I believed I felt,’ Shahir disclosed tautly, his accent fracturing his words. ‘I am not in love with her. I have never been in love with her. It was…I now see…no more than a foolish fancy.’
‘Really?’ Kirsten prompted chokily, thinking that he really had to think she was the stupidest woman in Dhemen to be telling her such a story on their wedding day.
Yet she understood what he was doing. When he had admitted that he loved Faria he had never dreamt that Kirsten would one day become his wife. Naturally he now wished he had kept quiet, and was keen to cover his tracks. Some dark secrets were better left buried. And how could she blame him for trying to hoodwink her? Recognising how jealous and insecure his bride was feeling, he was attempting to defuse the situation in the only way he could. He had told her a little white lie, the way well-meaning people lied to children sooner than reveal the cruel truth.
‘You need never think of the matter again,’ Shahir asserted with conviction.
‘I won’t.’ At least not around him, she thought tragically.
A helicopter ferried them to the palace at Zurak. She gazed in wonder at the picturesque stone building. Surrounded on all sides by desert, the palace sat in the middle of a lush oasis of trees and greenery like a mirage.
‘When my ancestors were nomads they stayed here in the heat of summer. My grandfather met my grandmother when she drew water from the well for him. It was love at first sight for them both. His father asked her father for her hand in marriage and that was that.’ Shahir laughed and linked his fingers firmly with hers. ‘Life was very much simpler in those days.’
‘As long as you didn’t have to draw the water from the well,’ Kirsten could not resist pointing out.
‘In all the great poems of the East men are portrayed as the more romantic sex,’ Shahir informed her without skipping a beat. ‘From the first moment I saw you, you were never out of my mind.’
That was lust, not love, she almost told him morosely. Did he think she had forgotten that every time he had touched her he had regretted it? Didn’t he realise she still remembered that he had proposed marriage out of guilt at having taken her virginity? But their lives had moved on and they were married now. Furthermore, he was clever and he was practical. He wanted their marriage to be a success and naturally he was trying to make her feel good. Romance and compliments were part of the show, she reasoned.
She asked herself if that really mattered. Although he did not love her, she loved him, and she too wanted their relationship to work.
A fountain was playing in the centre of the tiled entrance hall. It was deserted. He pulled her gently round to face him and kissed her slow and deep, until she was dizzy with longing. She discovered that she no longer wanted to think about the fact that he was laying se
nsible foundations for a successful royal marriage.
Hand in hand, they walked up a wide marble staircase. Their footsteps echoed in the hot still air and the silence was magical after the noise and bustle of their wedding celebrations.
He thrust wide the door of a room at the end of the long gallery, and swept her up into his arms to carry her over the threshold. ‘You look amazing in that dress…like you belong in a fairytale.’
He kicked shut the door in his wake and strolled almost indolently across the huge room to deposit her on a big four-poster bed. Silk and lace frothed round her in a highly feminine tangle of fabric.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ she gasped, tipping her head back to survey the map of the heavens painted on the vaulted ceiling far above.
‘A bed with a view.’ In the act of unbuttoning his military jacket, Shahir came down on the bed on one knee to claim her lush pink lips again, with a hunger that jolted her right down to her toes. ‘But it will be morning before you have the time to admire it.’
‘Is that a promise?’ she asked breathlessly.
He unclasped the sword and set it aside with care before removing his jacket. ‘Come here…’
Entrapped by the scorching gold of his scrutiny, she slid off the bed and approached him. He lifted the pearl circlet from her hair, gently turned her round and unzipped her gown. The dress tumbled round her knees and he lifted her free of the folds, hauling her back into the hard muscular heat of his masculine frame. The fine silk shift pulled taut over the pouting fullness of her unbound breasts and clung to skin that felt smooth and sensuous.
‘You’re so perfect, Your Serene Highness…’ He sighed, his expert hands roaming over the pert mounds, massaging the rosy crowns into a swollen sensitivity that drew a breathless moan from her parted lips. Her head angled back, her silvery blonde hair falling like a sheet of polished silk across his shoulder. His mouth blazed a roving trail from her delicate jawbone to the pulse-point below her ear that made her jerk in response.
