by Lynne Graham
Just as suddenly she was flooded with an explosive mix of rage and pain. When was enough enough? What did it say about her that she was willing to take whatever Rashad threw at her? Five years ago his rejection had destroyed her pride, her peace of mind and her happiness. Having encouraged her to care about him, he had broken her heart in the cruellest way available to him. When she had approached him recently in search of some compassion, he hadn’t had a scrap of pity to spare. He had treated her like the dirt beneath his royal feet! He had offered her the chance to pay off the debts with her body. Only her concern for her family’s future had persuaded her to agree to those degrading terms.
Yet when Rashad’s ruthless plans had run aground and blown up in his face and he had needed her support, had she refused? Oh, no, she hadn’t refused him anything but immediate sexual gratification! How could she have been so understanding? So ready to make allowances and forgive? In a passion of denial and self-loathing, she peeled off the kaftan and stalked through to the bathroom to wash her face clean of make-up. In the dressing room she dragged out fresh underwear, a shirt and cotton trousers, choosing from her own clothes, not from the designer wardrobe he had bought her. She was leaving him, she was going home to her mum. He could get stuffed! He could keep the fancy togs and all the ancestral jewellery, as well. She set the diamond engagement ring on the chest by the bed. She wasn’t hanging on to that as though it were a sentimental keepsake! Her throat was thick with tears. It was better to travel light.
Tying her hair back, she put on a jacket and checked her passport. She ripped a sheet of paper out of a notebook and put it on top of the file, which she left lying on the bed. She wrote: ‘You don’t deserve me. I’m never coming back. I want a divorce.’
Only when she reached a side entrance of the palace did she appreciate that her bodyguards had seemingly come out of nowhere to follow her every step of the way. Consternation assailed her, because, not only had she hoped to make a sneaky exit, but she had also thought that she was barely recognisable in her plain and ordinary outfit.
‘You would like a car, Your Royal Highness?’ Musraf, the only English speaker in her protection team, asked with a low bow.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m going to the airport.’ Tilda endeavoured to behave as though a late run to the airport on her wedding night was perfectly normal. But the Royal Highness appellation almost totally unnerved her, because she had not known she was entitled to that label and it made anonymity seem even more of a forlorn hope.
Within minutes a limousine pulled up. Ushering her into it, Musraf enquired about the time of her flight.
‘I want to go to London-but I haven’t organised it yet,’ Tilda informed him loftily.
She was assured that all such arrangements would be made for her. A private room was made available to her the instant she arrived at the airport. There she sat for two hours before being taken out to a private jet with the colours of the royal household painted on the tail fin. She crept aboard, feeling it was rather cheeky to leave Rashad by fleeing the country in one of his own aircraft. As it occurred to her that a wife who vanished within hours of a state wedding would cause him rather more serious embarrassment than that, she came up with an invented cover story for Musraf to relay to Rashad.
‘Say my mother’s not well and that’s why I left in a hurry,’ she instructed him helpfully before take-off.
Dawn was breaking when the jet landed in the U.K. Tilda had slept several hours and felt physically refreshed, but her spirits were at rock-bottom. Her protection team stayed close and while she was struggling to work out how to dismiss them politely her mobile phone rang.
‘It’s Rashad,’ her husband murmured, making her stiffen in dismay. ‘I’ll see you at the town house in an hour.’
‘Are you saying that you’re in London, too?’ Tilda vented in a hastily lowered voice that was the discreet version of a shriek. ‘That’s impossible!’
‘One hour-’
‘I’m going to see Mum-’
‘One hour,’ Rashad decreed.
‘I won’t be-’
‘If you’re not there I will come to Oxford for you,’ Rashad informed her with ruthless clarity. ‘You are my wife.’
Her face burning, Tilda thrust the phone back in her bag. He must have flown out of Bakhar very shortly after she had. His wife? His accidental wife would have been a more accurate description. How many women got married without even getting a proposal? Her teeth gritted. Well, if Rashad was that determined to stage a confrontation, he could have one with bells on! She had done nothing to be ashamed of. Although dating him in the first place struck her as being a hanging offence; he’d looked like trouble with a capital T. From start to finish, that was what he’d proved to be.
But even as she fought in self-defence to keep her furious defiance at a high, she remained miserably conscious of how devastating she had found the contents of that file. Actually seeing in print the kind of stuff that Rashad had believed her capable of had ripped any sentimental scales from her eyes. Love was a total waste of time with a guy who could happily make love to a woman he believed to be a total slut. That file had also resurrected the terrible pain that he had inflicted on her five years earlier. Well, there would be no more of it. He had done enough damage.
It was closer to two hours before Rashad strode into the drawing room of the town house where, just six weeks earlier, he had enforced his terms for their relationship. From the window, Tilda had watched him arrive and her chest had tightened and her breathing had shortened as though she was on the brink of a panic attack. She didn’t want to notice that he looked drop-dead gorgeous in a very snazzy black designer suit. She didn’t want to feel a hot, quivery sensation of near dizziness when she inadvertently collided with his smouldering tawny gaze.
Dark vibrations of anger were rippling through Rashad. ‘You went into my briefcase to see that file.’
Her chin came up. ‘I’d have blown up a safe to get a look at that file and I’m really glad I did.’
‘That’s not and will never be an excuse to walk out on our marriage.’
‘I didn’t walk, Rashad. I ran! And where were you? What was your reaction to the discovery that everything you accused me of, everything you dared to think about me, was hopelessly wrong?’ Tilda demanded grittily, her wide eyes burning with tears. ‘You went for a shower.’
Rashad vented a phrase in Arabic that sounded like a curse. ‘I was in shock-I was upset-’
‘Since when did you do “upset”?’ Tilda threw at him bitterly. ‘I’ve seen you cold, angry, scornful, silent. I’ve never seen you shocked or upset. Heaven forbid that anyone might suspect you have any real emotions!’
Rising to that challenge, Rashad settled blazing golden eyes on her. ‘I was schooled from an early age not to reveal what I thought or I felt. Initially, that training was aimed at ensuring I had good manners, but before I was much older my safety and that of others often depended on my ability to stay in control. I have never had the freedom to parade my emotions as you do.’
Reminded of his background, Tilda squirmed and felt guilty, but she could not help feeling that her hurt was increased by the extent of his rigid self-discipline.
‘Of course I was upset,’ Rashad added in fierce continuance. ‘How could you doubt it? The filthy lies in that file destroyed what we had found together five years ago.’
Her lashes lifted on mutinous turquoise eyes. ‘No, you did that. You believed those filthy lies. You didn’t give me a chance, not one single chance to speak up in my own defence.’
Rashad spread lean golden hands in a sudden driven movement that betrayed the level of his stress. ‘I believed the source of that file to be above reproach. When I realised last night that the contents were an unforgivable tissue of lies designed to destroy our relationship, I had to know who was responsible. For that reason I approached my father first to find out if he had ordered the fabrication of that file.’
‘Your father?’ she e
His lean, strong face was set in grim, angular lines. ‘He was most distressed when I showed it to him. He had never seen it before.’
Fabrication or not, Tilda was aghast at him having showed that file to King Hazar. ‘You actually showed the file to him?’
Rashad expelled his breath in a taut hiss. ‘I wanted him to see for himself how you were maligned. He was appalled because he believes that he was indirectly responsible. He was concerned when I told him five years ago that I wanted to marry you.’
‘You wanted to marry me way back then?’ Tilda whispered in utter astonishment at that declaration.
‘Let me explain this without interruptions,’ Rashad urged, strain marking the set of his stubborn jaw line. ‘My father is a man who did not become a ruler until he was past middle age. When I met you, he was still new to the throne and nervous of many things. A son and heir proposing to marry a foreigner was a source of worry to him.’
‘Yes,’ Tilda conceded rather numbly.
‘He shared his anxiety with his closest adviser, who was at the time in charge of Bakhar’s secret service. No course of action was discussed. My father did not feel he could interfere. But when I later told him that my relationship with you was over, he did wonder if the adviser had taken independent action. But he chose not to question him or mention the suspicion to me and both those omissions have been on his conscience ever since. He called in Jasim, who is now his closest aide. Jasim worked for my father’s advisor five years ago. He was aware of the file and very troubled by what was done,’ Rashad related heavily.
‘At least someone knows right from wrong,’ Tilda muttered.
‘Jasim was silent for fear of losing his position. His former employer is now dead. Jasim saw you when you visited the embassy in London last month and when you came to my house. He believed that I had discovered the truth about the file and he informed my father that you and I appeared to be seeing each other again.’
‘But nobody came clean and owned up about the file until it was too late to matter.’ Tilda had gone from shock that Rashad had been hoping to marry her five years earlier to overwhelming bitterness that the happiness that they had had then had been cruelly stolen from them. ‘And nobody’s going to pay for what was done to me or my reputation, either.’
Rashad was watching her every move. ‘Haven’t we all paid many times over?’
A sharp little laugh was dragged from Tilda. She turned from him to stare sightlessly out of the window overlooking the handsome early Victorian city square. ‘I don’t think five years of consorting with gorgeous supermodels and actresses and socialites was that much of a penance for you, Rashad.’
Rashad turned an ashen shade below his bronzed skin. He was willing her to look at him and she would not. There was a distance in her that he had never seen before. He did not know what to say to her. He could not deny the supermodels, or the actresses or the socialites, but not one of them had been blonde because it would have reminded him too much of her. Not one of them had brought him happiness. Not one of them had been her.
‘I did not forget you. I was never able to forget,’ he breathed flatly.
Tilda was unimpressed. ‘Only because of the insult to your pride. That rankled with you. You wanted revenge.’
‘I wanted you back-’
‘You wanted revenge. As if it wasn’t enough that you just dumped me without a word. As if it wasn’t enough that I had to see you kissing another woman. As if it wasn’t enough that you left my mother loaded with debt!’ Tilda flung at him chokily, striving not to parade her emotions in the manner he had described.
In response to that hail of accusations, his tawny gaze remained bleak. ‘What you say is true. I have no defence to offer.’
‘But do you know what your biggest sin is? That you didn’t care enough about me or what we had to confront me or even doubt that file!’ Tilda condemned fiercely, raging resentment finally breaking through her hollow sense of bitterness. ‘You put your pride first.’
‘I wouldn’t now,’ Rashad murmured in a roughened undertone.
‘Oh, yes, you would. Last night, instead of concentrating on me, you went for a blasted shower and then you went off to see your father! You wanted someone to blame. You couldn’t put me or my feelings first even then,’ she accused shakily.
‘That is not how it was.’ Rashad drew in a deep shuddering breath. ‘I was so angry at what we had lost-’
‘You didn’t lose me; you dumped me!’
Lean, vibrantly handsome features taut over his superb bone structure, Rashad dealt her a resolute dark golden appraisal. ‘I know how many mistakes I have made with you, but I won’t give up trying. I refuse to accept that the past should be allowed to wreck our marriage.’
‘But that marriage is less than I deserve and I’m not settling for it,’ Tilda protested vehemently. ‘Your father is also obviously dead set against even having me in the family, although he was too well mannered to reveal those reservations to me.’
‘My father is not against you,’ Rashad asserted with assurance. ‘Did I not tell you how much he regretted his doubts when I first knew you? It seems that ever since he has been haunted by the fear that he was responsible for the end of our relationship. He is very pleased that we are married and most impressed by the way you have taken on a public role.’
Tilda shook her silvery fair head. ‘But I’m only your wife now because your revenge rebounded on you. When I saw that file, I just felt sick with anger that you had believed that rubbish…I couldn’t ever forgive you for that.’
‘But you are still my wife and it would go against my very nature to let you leave me,’ Rashad responded quietly. ‘I will do everything within my power to keep you. My bad judgement caused this. I believe that I can make our marriage what you deserve.’
The tears that she refused to shed were strangling her. Her throat ached and she could barely swallow. He was blaming himself for everything and, contrary as she was, she didn’t like that. She was conscious of how hard he worked in every corner of his life. He carried a huge load of responsibility. It seemed wrong that he should feel forced to work at his marriage, as well. It had been his father’s weakness and reluctance to be honest with his son that had created the situation. Rashad had been set up for a fall just like her and he was a warrior, born and bred, and he had responded with natural aggression.
She hated the fact that she was already making excuses for him. She felt like someone hovering indecisively while the last lifeboat was lowered from a sinking ship. That sinking ship was her image of what it would be like for her to live in a loveless marriage. In such a union, she would never feel truly necessary or special to him and she would always be forced to keep the emotional stuff low-key for fear of making him feel uncomfortable. The very knowledge that she wasn’t loved would only make her continually try harder to be the best possible wife, and the most she could ever hope for in return would be appreciation and acceptance.
Involuntarily, driven by forces stronger than her willpower, Tilda stole a glance at Rashad and it was as if her very body was screaming at the threat of having to survive without him. For once, that response had nothing to do with his dazzling sexual magnetism. He might as well have chained her to him, she acknowledged bitterly, for there was a deep abiding need within her to be with him and to grasp at whatever closeness he could offer. Even though deep down inside she was still seething with indignant pain and anger over that hateful file, she knew that she still loved him enough for both of them. Walking off into the sunset with her pride intact was only going to make her wretchedly unhappy.
In an effort to bolster her mood, Tilda reminded herself that she had seriously undervalued her importance to Rashad when he was a student. She had assumed that all he had ever been after was a good time-primarily a good time in bed-while instead he had been making plans to marry her. Energised by that tantalising information, she fixed glimmering turquoise eyes on him. ‘Were you in love with me five years ago?’
Rashad froze. He looked like a guy confronted by a firing squad without warning. ‘I…’A tiny muscle pulled taut at the edge of his wide, sensual, unsmiling mouth. ‘I liked you very much.’
It was a response that would have delighted her had they both been aged around ten years old.
Recognising that he had said the wrong thing, Rashad said abruptly, ‘If I say I loved you, will you stay with me?’
And that telling response from Rashad, who barely uttered a word without triple-checking it in moments of stress, shed blinding light on his motives for Tilda. Never had she felt more ashamed of herself. She had him over a barrel. Within twenty-four hours of the televised state wedding she had scarpered. Angry, hurt and humiliated and needing to hit back the only way she knew how, she had run away. Doubtless Rashad thought her behaviour had been very immature. He had had to follow her and try to persuade her to return to Bakhar with him. What choice did he have? If his wife abandoned him he, along with every Bakhari, would feel they had lost face because he had picked the wrong wife. It wasn’t fair to ask him if he had loved her.
‘I think we should have some breakfast. Have you eaten?’ Tilda enquired woodenly in a change of subject aimed at politely and quickly burying her stupid question and his revealing response.
His winged ebony brows drew together. She could see him struggling to master his bewilderment. ‘No. I could not eat.’
Tilda drew in an irregular breath. She trod over to the bell in the wall and pressed it. The silence swirled like a stormy sea full of dangerous depths. A manservant appeared and she ordered breakfast in slow, careful Arabic.
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