Claiming His Desert Princess

by Marguerite Kaye

  The bazaar was bustling with women gossiping, men haggling, children playing. Inured to the curiosity his shock of blonde hair and distinctive blue eyes aroused, Christopher made no attempt to disguise his foreignness and instead adopted the air of bland indifference which, while it did nothing to suppress the stares and whispered asides, at least discouraged the curious from approaching him directly.

  The arcade of shops ran around the outer walls on two levels, the arched entranceways to each decorated in highly individual styles, the startling variety of goods on sale evidence of Nessarah’s wealth. This kingdom was reputedly the richest in the whole of southern Arabia. It appeared that claim might be justified. Wandering past a spice-seller, Christopher was struck as he always was, not just by the heady aroma, but by the myriad colours, the care the owner had taken with the displays of produce, stringing up dried chillies like jewellery, moulding powdered spices into pyramid shapes ranged in an order that segued from the warm gold of turmeric to the deep, dark red of paprika and the burnt ochre of sumac. The confectionery stall next door housed sweetmeats stacked into complex towers, and next door again, nuts, pulses and grains were laid out in boxes and sacks with a pleasing symmetry. Beaten copper in every form was the province of the next shop in the arcade. Polished platters in every size, precarious stacks of cooking pots, ewers and bowls, trays and moulds, plain and decorated, the choice was infinite. Next door, a glittering display of decorative silver dishes, pierced and chased, urns and vases, mirrors, jewellery boxes and bonbon dishes.

  He wandered on, intent on finding the section of the market which had brought him here, yet careful to let none see that he had a purpose other than aimless browsing. Silver gave way to gold. Decorative items gave way to jewellery. Finally, he found it, tucked away, behind a closed screen, the entrance to the area of the bazaar given over to the trade in precious stones. But what to do? A huge mountain of a man dressed in the royal livery of crimson and white stood guard. A massive paw placed on his chest forbade Christopher from proceeding any further. ‘By invitation of Prince Ghutrif only.’

  Christopher bowed and backed away, his suspicions confirmed. The diamond trade in Nessarah was indeed tightly controlled by the royal family. It was frustrating, but after all, no less than he had expected. He would simply have to formulate a strategy, for he must match the stones of his amulet against those being mined here. He smiled to himself. As a last resort, he would find a way to confront the man who controlled the trade, Prince Ghutrif himself, though he wasn’t absolutely sure that a previously successful tactic of deliberately getting himself arrested was such a good idea. It had worked well enough in Qaryma, but Prince Azhar was a well-travelled man of the world. The little he had heard of Prince Ghutrif led him to think that that he was unlikely to be received with civility, let alone hospitality.

  He would think of something. There was certainly no need to show his hand just yet. With a polite nod of farewell to the watchful guard, Christopher retreated. The tinkling of a fountain drew him to a small courtyard, where mint tea was being served. A pleasant place to gather his thoughts, and to listen to the gossip. One never knew what nugget of valuable information one might overhear, but he had taken only one sip from his glass, when a squad of guardsmen entered. They wore the royal colours. He braced himself for arrest. Despite his low profile, his presence in Nessarah had clearly been detected, and was being investigated. After visiting so many kingdoms in the past six months, he supposed it was inevitable that word had got out. He set down his glass, careful to keep his expression one of mild enquiry.

  ‘Greetings, Stranger.’

  Christopher made a formal bow.

  The palace guard in Nessarah were considerably more polite than some others he had encountered. ‘With regret, we must ask you to leave the bazaar with immediate effect.’

  Extremely polite!

  ‘The bazaar is temporarily closed to the public in order to allow a royal shopping trip to take place. You may return in two hours.’

  ‘I would have thought King Haydar would have any number of people to do his shopping for him,’ Christopher exclaimed in surprise.

  The man cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘It is the royal princesses who are gracing the bazaar with their presence. Please,’ he added hastily as another of the coterie approached him, ‘you must go now, quickly.’

  He did as he was bid, following the crowds of people making for the central atrium. There were small posses of royal guards everywhere, some standing sentry, others sweeping through the warren of shops and stores, still others issuing urgent instructions to anxious-looking storekeepers. He left the rapidly emptying central atrium and stepped out into the blazing mid-morning sunshine, where most of the people stood, clearly eager for a glimpse of the royal cortège. Fascinated, Christopher stood too, finding a position on the far edge of the crowd.

  The royal entourage arrived in a magnificent caravan of camels, flanked by two sentry lines of heavily armed guards on foot. Ten women, female attendants or ladies in waiting, in two rows of five were cloaked and veiled in finest silk. Their camels were also elaborately dressed, with colourful tasselled saddle bags, silver bells tinkling from the reins, braided necklaces and chest bands adorning the beasts themselves. Amidst them, what must be the princesses’ own mounts, pure white thoroughbred camels, which were adorned with pearls and semi-precious stones. Their saddles, unlike the others, were canopied to shield them from the sun.

  Five princesses, women or girls, it was difficult to tell, for they were swathed in silk, head to toe and all of their faces, save the slit left for their eyes, leaving absolutely everything to the imagination. King Haydar’s most valuable assets, the kingdom’s most exclusive and reclusive females.

  They would be riding in strict order of seniority, Christopher knew. As they approached, the crowds fell to their knees in obeisance and he followed suit. All eyes were lowered. It was disrespectful to look at the princesses, but on the assumption that the princesses were modestly keeping their eyes to the ground too, Christopher risked a glance.

  He remembered now, what he had quite forgotten, that a princess of Nessarah was betrothed to Prince Kadar of Murimon. Now he looked more closely, he saw that the one in front was with child. Prince Ghutrif’s wife, he assumed, and so it must be the next one, clad in the colours of the setting sun, who was destined for the kingdom of Murimon. Impossible to determine anything of her, beneath those voluminous layers. He wondered idly whether the prince had been permitted to unwrap his prize before proposing. Most likely the match had been made for dynastic reasons. Bloodlines and power, that was what princes traded in, whether in Arabia or England. The story went that Prinny had agreed to marry Princess Caroline without meeting her. Not exactly the best example of the likely outcome of such random alliances. Though it was most unfair of him to compare the scholarly Prince Kadar with Prinny, it was barbaric, to think that the princess would have no choice in the matter. One reason, at least, to be thankful that the blood flowing through his veins precluded any dynastic match-making.

  The royal caravan passed by and Christopher got to his feet with the rest of the crowd, his thoughts turning to Tahira. No dynastic power would be traded, no royal treaties nor alliances would be created by her marriage. Her wedding robes would not be dripping with precious jewels, her dowry most likely consisted of linens and pewter, but in one sense her fate would be the same. She would be married to a man of another’s choosing. She would be passed from her family to his like a—a parcel. Her worth would be measured by the sons she produced. He knew that it was a common enough fate, he knew that there were far worse, but still, it made him furious. He pictured her, separated from her beloved sisters, deprived of the freedom to escape into the desert night, effectively caged like one of the lionesses in the Tower of London, pacing back and forward in the home forced upon her, withering, her spirit broken.

  It appalled him, but the
re was nothing he could do to change her fate. He couldn’t whisk her away on a magic carpet or even a white charger. Appealing as the fantasy might be, the reality was utterly impractical. She had nowhere to run to, no one to take her in, and he certainly had no place for her in his life. So why on earth was he even thinking about it! He recollected that one of Tahira’s dreams was to gallop across the desert on horseback. Such a simple wish. He wished he could indulge her whim.

  Stupid thought. He had more than enough on his plate without adding any unnecessary distractions. For a start, he had no access to horses. Though there were thoroughbreds aplenty here in Bedouin country, the Bedouins were not exactly renowned for their generosity with their horseflesh. Quite the contrary, in fact, and entirely irrelevant. His entire focus must be on his quest.

  Though it was not, for the moment, all consuming. He had to wait on an opportunity to acquire a sample of the turquoise from the mine once the miners had reached the ore seam. In the meantime, he had to find evidence that the mine was worked fifteen hundred years ago, but he could only search for that at night. He had to match his diamonds against samples from other mines in Nessarah. That was a trickier problem, regarding a deal of thought, now he knew the set up in the bazaar. But as to diamond and gold mines in Nessarah contemporary to the amulet—now there he was fortunate, for Tahira seemed pretty sure she’d be able to confirm those. Something which surely merited a favour in return.

  He had time on his hands. Why not use it to surprise her, to please her? Cudgelling his brain, trying to recall her other wishes, Christopher smiled softly to himself. A bit of ingenuity, that was all that was required, and some lateral thinking. He prided himself on possessing both. He was already looking forward to the challenge.

  * * *

  Alone at last in her private quarters at the end of a very long day, Tahira lay on her divan on a mound of cushions, staring out of the latticed window to the little courtyard, watching Sayeed, her pet sand cat at play. He was perched on the edge of the fountain, his long ringed tail swishing furiously as he swiped at the fish. It was one of his favourite games, despite the fact that he was almost entirely unsuccessful, for the fish were tiny, and the sand cat’s abhorrence of water extreme. Temporarily distracted from her dilemma, Tahira sat up, laughing as the spray of water generated by Sayeed’s swiping paw landed on his face, darkening his beautiful pale-gold coat. Hearing the sound of her voice, the cat cast the fountain a contemptuous look and leapt lithely down, padding through the open window, seating himself disdainfully on the cushion beside her.

  Tahira tickled his favourite spot on his forehead. Sayeed’s purr was more of a low growl. Vicious claws extended, he began to paw at the cushion, shredding the delicate silk. The fur on his front legs was soaking, making the two distinctive chocolate-coloured rings appear jet-black. ‘When will you ever learn?’ she asked him.

  Not deigning to reply, Sayeed began to wash his face with his paws, and Tahira’s mind reverted to that fateful moment this morning, when she had spotted Christopher in the milling crowd. She sat up with a sigh. ‘What am I going to do? Do you think he could possibly have recognised me?’

  The sand cat yawned, and returned to his ablutions. ‘You’re right, of course he did not,’ Tahira continued, hugging her knees, ‘I’m just being silly. Besides, what difference do you think it would make if he did? Are you thinking that Christopher would exploit the situation? But all he’s interested in is the turquoise mine, and I’ve already shared the extent of my paltry knowledge with him.’

  Sayeed tucked his paws neatly underneath him and stared at her with unblinking yellow eyes. ‘You cannot be imagining blackmail, surely? Christopher is not about to stride into the royal palace to inform my father that I have been breaking free from the confines of the harem, is he?’ Tahira shuddered. In fact, she knew Christopher was more than bold and self-assured enough to demand an audience with her father. But blackmail? She shook her head vehemently. ‘No, Sayeed, he is not that sort of man. You may take my word for that. It is true, his clothes are threadbare, but he has not the demeanour of a poor man, merely a man who does not care for worldly goods. You are quite mistaken on that score.’

  But Sayeed was evidently bored with the topic, and had gone to sleep. Tahira, however, could not rest. She was not the only one with secrets. Christopher was an enigma. This quest of his, to rid himself of a family heirloom, to sever all connections with his past, was a paradox. A noble deed which he insisted was ignoble. She knew how painful it was to lose a mother, yet Christopher had devoted six months of his life in an attempt to lose his dead mother’s legacy. Such dark emotions possessed him when he looked at the amulet, when he spoke of the past. Hatred? Surely not for his mother. And there was pain too. She longed to know the full story behind the heirloom, though she doubted very much she would be brave enough to ask, and she was pretty certain Christopher would never reveal it. His pain was buried too deeply.

  His honour though, he wore like another skin. In the fables which Tahira read to her sisters, the man who protested too much and too often was the man who had the blackest heart. But Christopher’s promise to protect her innocence, though made several times more than necessary, sprang from deep within himself. I do not refer to myself! She should have known better than to think, let alone suggest, that he did. Christopher was no seducer, but he had known one, and whatever the circumstances, they had affected him deeply. Why?

  So many questions likely to remain unanswered, for even if she did dare ask, she did not dare risk being questioned herself in return. Her curiosity must be balanced by caution if she were not to endanger their night-time rendezvous. She so desperately wanted to help Christopher resolve the puzzle of the amulet. And, yes, she rather desperately wanted to spend more time with him too.

  Outside, it was dark. She began to change out of her harem clothes, and into her night-time garb. The familiar rustle alerted Sayeed, who yawned and stretched in anticipation of a very different kind of night-time’s occupation. By the time his mistress was ready, he was pacing at the door leading to her courtyard, eager to be out hunting.

  Tahira locked the door of her private divan and crept out into the courtyard, the cat at her heels. Somewhere in the desert beyond the towering walls, a hawk screeched. Sayeed growled in response, and Tahira laughed softly, her blood fizzing with excitement as she stealthily made for the entrance of the tunnel.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  Christopher brought his camel to a halt and dismounted. Following suit, Tahira gazed around her, intrigued. ‘You live here?’

  ‘For the moment. It is no palace but it serves my modest needs adequately.’ He took her camel’s reins and led it over to a small patch of scrub along with his own, where he tethered the beasts.

  What he referred to as his humble abode was in fact the abandoned remains of a desert traveller’s well. The small cluster of buildings were built of adobe, from a distance blending so well with the surrounding sands so as to be almost invisible which, it occurred to Tahira, would have been precisely why Christopher chose it. In which case she was especially privileged to have been invited into his secret bolthole.

  The main house stood more or less intact, with a large wooden door still in place, the windows small slits to keep out the heat of the day. Behind it and to one side stood several crumbling outbuildings, a low perimeter wall marking the remains of a cultivated plot. On the other side stood the well house, with its peaked roof and huge double doors keeping the workings of the precious well safe from the vagaries of the desert and any thirsty wildlife searching for water.

  ‘I have purloined the home of the well-master and his family for my own,’ Christopher said. ‘These ruins around it would have provided basic accommodation for passing travellers and their camels, I think.’

  ‘Does the well still work?’

  ‘Come an
d see for yourself.’

  He heaved open the double doors and lit the lantern which was standing in readiness by a full tinderbox. The mechanism for drawing up water was relatively simple, consisting of a large leather bucket attached to a thick rope, which was wound around the horizontal strut strung between two forked supports. The winding mechanism was also wooden and looked like a ship’s wheel. Christopher loosened the rope. It seemed to plummet a very long way down very quickly. Tahira did not hear a splash, though she could see, from the way his shoulders strained as he turned the wheel and wound in the rope, that the bucket was not coming up empty. He dipped a tin cup into the bucket and handed it to her. The water tasted sweet and was icy cold. ‘I’ve never drunk from a well before,’ she said. ‘I had no idea it was so delicious.’

  Christopher took the cup from her and refilled it. ‘What a sheltered life you have led.’

  He slanted her a smile, his brows slightly raised, an invitation to confide. Tahira was not so foolish as to do so, but she was tempted, and felt oddly disloyal having to shrug instead. ‘Why do you think this place was abandoned, when the well is clearly not dry?’

  ‘It’s quite far off the main route to the city. Perhaps they found another well in a more convenient location. Lucky for me. I’m very comfortable here.’

  ‘But how on earth did you find it? You would hardly know it’s here.’

  Christopher laughed. ‘It seems I have a nose for water buried underground, as well as minerals and ores. They say I have the Midas touch.’

  ‘That sounds like a talent that could make a man very rich indeed.’

  ‘If one were so inclined.’

  ‘But you are not?’

  ‘I am not inclined to become a speculator and all that entails. The exhaustive political manoeuvring involved when dealing with avaricious land-owners like the Egyptian pashas. The need to be ruthless and cut-throat in business and financial matters. The need to protect your interests when so many covet what you have. None of that appeals to me.’ Christopher grimaced. ‘It would also be inordinately time-consuming. Time I can spend on my excavations is more precious to me than money. So I am content to sell my services to the highest bidder to fund my digs and in return to levy another, non-financial charge.’