Claiming His Desert Princess

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘You escape through a tunnel which was once used to bring slaves—concubines into the palace?’ Christopher said with a bitter little smile. ‘Some would call that sweet vengeance.’

  ‘It was my first archaeological find.’ Despite the tension between them, she couldn’t help but smile at the memory. ‘You can’t imagine how excited I was, when I finally located...’

  ‘You told me your first find was a piece of pottery. Another lie.’

  Deflated, she found herself at a temporary loss for words. What had she expected, after all? That he would sweep her into his arms and forgive her?

  ‘Your broken betrothals,’ Christopher said, and her heart sank further at his tone. ‘I saw you once, the day after we met in fact, with your sisters, although I had no idea it was you. You were going shopping at the bazaar. I remembered then, that Prince Kadar was engaged to the eldest princess of Nessarah. He wasn’t long crowned when I met him. His brother was—’

  ‘Killed falling off his horse. Prince Butrus,’ Tahira interrupted flatly. ‘I was originally betrothed to him, and then Prince Kadar inherited me, along with the throne. A most flattering alliance, that would have been.’

  ‘Why did he break the betrothal?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care, I’m simply glad that he did.’

  ‘Murimon is a far more liberal kingdom than Nessarah. You wouldn’t have been locked away in a harem. No need to tunnel out at night, you could have...’

  ‘I don’t love him!’ Tahira flushed scarlet. ‘I did not choose him,’ she amended. ‘And he did not choose to marry his brother’s leavings.’

  ‘Do not talk of yourself in such terms,’ Christopher snapped.

  ‘Why not, it’s what we princesses are after all, commodities to be bought and sold.’

  ‘You did not seem to me to be particularly unhappy about that when I saw you this morning. You were holding his hand!’

  ‘He was holding mine!’ Anger was a relief. ‘What was I supposed to do, Christopher? He has just purchased me in a deal that my brother is very pleased with, what’s more. When we are married, he will be entitled to do a great deal more than simply hold my hand.’

  ‘I don’t want to know about that!’

  ‘Then why bring it up?’ she flashed back at him.

  ‘If he really is so repugnant to you, though I cannot imagine why...’

  ‘He is not repugnant. According to my sister—whose name, if your are interested, is Ishraq—no more perfect husband could exist. He is charming and he is kind and he is handsome and all manner of things, but none of them matter, because he is not you!’

  The air around them seemed to still. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Tahira had nothing left to lose. Christopher would not forgive her, now that he knew the truth, so why not tell him the whole of it? ‘I mean that I’m in love with you,’ she said, though by her tone, it sounded more like a declaration of war than love.

  Christopher looked first shocked and then horrified. ‘You cannot mean that. Princesses are not permitted to fall in love with bastards.’

  It hurt. Later, when she thought it over, it would hurt a great deal. For now, Tahira glared at him defiantly. Permitted or not, that is exactly what she had done. More fool her. And more fool her for telling him too. She ought to be relieved that he hadn’t believed her.

  ‘Princesses are permitted to do very little,’ she said sadly. ‘We are, as you have pointed out, defined by our blood. That is the biggest difference between us. You can choose to allow the circumstances of your birth to blight your life, while I cannot escape mine. I searched for any mention of our princess in the palace library, you know. The records are very precise, quite complete, but it is as if she has been eradicated from history. I don’t know what heinous crime she may have committed, but I do know if I defy my family’s wishes, I too will be effectively eradicated. Ostracised. As if I have never existed. My one and only purpose in life, as a princess of the royal blood, is to marry. Your blood is bastard—yes, I can use that foul term too—but still, you are more fortunate than I. You are free to choose.’

  ‘Do you now expect my pity, for the life of luxury you have been forced to lead?’

  ‘I don’t expect anything from you. You have already given me more—you have done more for me, understood more of me, than anyone, and I want—all I can hope for now is that you will be happy.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because you are deluded!’ The truth burst from her, making her wring her hands in despair. She had not come here to voice any of her doubts, but her doubts were all she could give him. ‘You think that all the blame must be placed at the door of the man who is your true father, but it is not so simple, Christopher. If your mother was of such excellent family, what were they thinking, to allow her to spend so much time alone with a man who could not aspire to her hand in marriage? Did she lie, connive to be in his company? And if she did, do you not think that she is in a little way culpable?’

  ‘You cannot know...’

  ‘I know a great deal more of such situations than you! I know the risks a woman will take to escape the shackles placed upon her by her family.’

  ‘The situations are not the same. You are twenty-four years old, she was sixteen.’

  ‘Exactly! Christopher, if she had lived, do you honestly think she would have been allowed to keep you? She was a mere child herself. She may not have found it easy to give you up, but she would have found it impossible not to do so.’ She paused, taking a steadying gulp of the salty night air. ‘Which brings me to your father.’

  ‘I would rather you did not bring him into the conversation. I have heard enough of your misplaced opinions.’

  ‘Misplaced? Are you sure about that? Why have you not left for Egypt if you are so certain that you are done with the past now that your amulet is buried?’

  ‘That is none of your business.’

  He glowered at her. Tahira glowered back, counting. One hundred, and still he did not speak. She girded her loins and broke the silence. ‘There is another part of the harem,’ she said, ‘where my father and my brother keep their concubines. These women have children. Brothers and sisters who share half my blood, though to say such a thing is not permitted, amounts almost to treason. I will never know them, any more than you will ever know the five sisters you have.’

  ‘Half-sisters, who are entirely unaware of my existence, and if I have anything to do with it, will remain forever so. I know their father for the despicable cur he is, but I will not destroy their love and respect for him.’

  ‘Even if it means depriving yourself of a family you could love and respect?’

  ‘I am not so naïve as to imagine those five females could either love or respect the proof of their father’s misspent youth.’

  ‘No, you are an honourable man. And a thoughtful one, and one who deserves better, Christopher. As to your father...’

  ‘If you’re going to tell me again that he did me a favour in having me adopted...’

  ‘If you had been his legal son, how much freedom would you have to choose how to live your life? Would you be permitted to leave England, to traipse around Egypt, living in caves and tents, and spending most of your waking hours digging up bones, to quote your own words? I doubt it.’

  ‘The point is a moot one. I’m not legitimate.’

  ‘Nor are the children from the other side of the harem, but like you, they are free of the chains of their birth, free to make their own lives. Like you, they have no shame attached to their name because, like you until nine months ago, they believe themselves to be the legitimate children of another family entirely.’

  Christopher looked uncomfortable. ‘But they do not have the privileges their birth should entitle them to.’

  ‘No,’ Tahira agreed. ‘Whi
ch is why great pains are taken to ensure that the male children never find out who their true father is, lest they claim a share. Females, however—that is another matter. What female who has lived life outside the harem would fight to be allowed into it? I am accustomed to the life, but it would be cruel to imprison one who was not.’

  ‘Will it be the same—this man you are to marry, will he expect you—will you be confined as you are now?’

  The very questions she had tried to ask today, eliciting only such vague answers that she must assume the worst. But she would not burden Christopher with it. ‘The world is changing all the time,’ she equivocated. ‘As you said, in Murimon...’

  ‘Tahira, you’re not going to be living in Murimon.’

  ‘Christopher, what difference does it make to you where I live?’

  ‘You ask that, after all we have—I told you. I want you to be happy.’

  How could he imagine she could be when she had just confessed her love for him? Because he didn’t believe her, Tahira thought despairingly. And what difference would it make if he did? How many times must she ask herself that question! ‘I must go.’

  ‘You should not have come here in the first place,’ Christopher said harshly. ‘To have arrived here so early in the night, you must have taken a foolish risk.’

  ‘You sound like Farah.’

  ‘Then she is clearly a sensible woman. Does she know of this tunnel you use?’

  ‘Yes, though she would no more wish to return to the harem than...’ Flushing, she turned away. ‘I must go, Christopher. I am sorry that you believe I betrayed your trust. I am sorry that you think I lied to you, duped you, all the things you accuse me of—I’m very, very sorry, because all I ever ever wanted—well, I’ve said it all.’

  ‘Tahira.’ He caught her by her shoulders, turning her to him. His arms slid down her arms, but he made no attempt to pull her any closer. ‘Promise me you will at least try to be happy?’

  A demand? A plea? Was she imagining the hint of desperation in his voice? No more lies. ‘I will be happy thinking of you being happy,’ she said, pushing the fall of his hair away from his brow.

  ‘You didn’t really mean it, did you? When you said—no one could endure to marry another man if they—you didn’t mean it, did you?’

  She meant it. She would be enduring it. But he sounded so pained, so painfully eager for her denial. Though her heart was breaking, she managed a tiny shake of her head, keeping her fingers crossed behind her back, speaking the words to herself, even as she denied them. I love you. I love you. I love you.

  Christopher groaned, pulling her tight against him. She tilted her face for his kiss. His lips hovered over hers, and then with a sigh he let her go. ‘Goodbye, Tahira.’

  This time, it was final. ‘Goodbye, Christopher.’ My darling, she added to herself, for the last time, my love.

  Chapter Twelve

  Four days later

  Christopher hauled his camel to a sudden halt. It was no good, he could no longer ignore the undisputable fact that the further he travelled from Nessarah, the stronger the resistance from the invisible thread which had attached itself to him. No matter how many times he told himself it was over, his business in that kingdom was unfinished.

  Sliding wearily from the saddle, he found a tiny patch of shade in the lee of a high dune, and dropped on to the sand. For nine months, all he had been able to think about was divesting himself of his amulet, staunch in the belief that by doing so he would bury his past in the process, wipe the slate clean, start again. Replaying that conversation with Lord Armstrong—he would never think of the man as his father—he recalled thinking that his life had been built on sand, that he had no idea who he was.

  But he did know now, ironically, thanks to this six-month journey through Arabia, the quest he would never have taken on were it not for his shameful heritage. Traversing so many desert kingdoms, he had been stripped back to his essence, forced to rely on himself, tested to limits he’d had no idea he could endure. His quest had accentuated his natural reckless streak and demonstrated his resilience. He had not once buckled under pressure. He had discovered a talent for complex problem solving and subterfuge, and as the old man at the camel race had pointed out, he had become a man who saw what others did not. In more ways than one. His Midas touch appeared to be significantly more wide-reaching than even he had realised. In fact, contrary to what he’d believed, he’d had no idea who he was before that earth-shattering day, and perhaps he’d never have known, if it hadn’t been for Lord Armstrong, who had unwittingly launched him on this very personal journey.

  Christopher took a long swig from his goatskin flask. The water was warm from the heat of the day, which was coming to a close. Here was as good a place as any to set up camp for the night. He began to do so, hobbling his camel, which had taken on more than enough water this morning to see them through to the next oasis.

  How many of the character traits which defined him did he owe to the man who had sired him? Not a single one. To the people who had raised him, however—so many memories of the couple he had believed to be his parents had assailed him as he made his slow progress from Nessarah. He couldn’t recall any sudden blinding moment of clarity, it had come to him slowly, the reason Andrew and Agnes Fordyce had never sold the amulet, the reason they had hidden it away with the accompanying document. Not guilt, but love. Like Christopher himself, they wanted to deny his true heritage, to claim him for their own, raise him without recourse to blood money, as they would have raised a child of their own. But Andrew Fordyce had been unable to destroy the evidence which contradicted this most loving lie, by burning the document and burying the artefact. Andrew, who had imbued Christopher with his love of the past, would have seen such an act as vandalism. The document and the amulet were part of Christopher’s history, no matter how much Andrew Fordyce might have wished to deny it, and so he had compromised, and effectively buried both.

  Christopher had deeply mourned his mother, for when she died she was his mother, as far as he knew. Feeling deceived and betrayed, he had not properly mourned his father, the man who had raised him, loved him as his own son, even if they shared not a drop of common blood. Now he saw how wrong he had been, how unjust had been his feelings, and how unforgivable. Finally, nine months after Andrew Fordyce had departed this earth, Christopher bowed his head, covered his face with his hands, and wept freely and unashamedly for his father.

  * * *

  He had slept. When he awoke, night had fallen. Christopher rose, stretching his cramped limbs. The release of his pent-up grief had cleared his mind. He had been seeing things all the wrong way round, thinking that he must redefine himself in the shadow of a man who was not much more than a complete stranger, deny everything he knew of himself simply because the blood which flowed in his veins came from a different source than he’d believed. His blood might be illegitimate in the eyes of the law, but Tahira had been right, after all. He couldn’t pretend he had not existed before he had discovered the amulet, he couldn’t ignore his history, it was part of him, all of it, and he had to stop fooling himself. Coming face-to-face with Lord Henry Armstrong had changed him, but it had not, as he had feared, defined him. It had been the making of him.

  He was his own man. He belonged to no one. It had been a huge mistake to bury the amulet, Tahira had been right about that too. It was the only connection he had to the woman who had died giving birth to him. Not a symbol of betrayal at all, but a precious piece of his heritage. He wanted it back.

  Unable to contemplate waiting until morning, Christopher made haste preparing to retrace his steps back to Nessarah by the pale light of the moon. As his camel plodded at a stately pace south, he began to feel oddly lighter. It took him until dawn broke to understand that it was, finally, relief. He was doing the right thing, at last.

  The air smelt fresh. Dew glittere
d on the scrub, darkening his camel’s hooves. Gossamer-like cobwebs were spread out between the thorny branches like tiny spun shawls hung out to dry. The heart-shaped blue-and-yellow flowers that bloomed for brief hours only on mornings such as this, brought bright clusters of colour to the sands.

  Tahira had wished to spend the night in the desert, to wake up to a morning such as this. The one wish he’d not been able to grant her.

  Tahira.

  Christopher felt the now familiar lurch in his heart when he thought of her. Which is why he’d tried not to think of her. Tahira, who had discovered an ancient tunnel in the plans of the royal palace. He imagined her, first poring over the plans, then relocating her own quarters in order to search for it. She must have worked at night, right there in the harem in the middle of the palace, risking discovery as she strove to locate the entrance, opened the tunnel up, made her way through it to the outside world. She must have been wildly excited and quite terrified of being found out. She must have struggled to keep such a momentous secret to herself. He admired her fascination with the past which had led to the discovery, the reckless courage which fuelled every forbidden journey to the desert, the fierce, protective love for her sisters that forced her to keep her secret from them. When she’d told him of it, he’d been too angry to see any of this, and she—how disappointed she must have been, to have her achievement dismissed so callously.

  His angry reaction bewildered him now, as he stopped at a well to take on fresh supplies. Looking back, he could admit that almost everything Tahira had said to him that night in justification had been true. If she’d told him who she really was, it would have put an immediate end to their time together, time which had become very precious very quickly. Why hadn’t he been able to shoulder some of the blame for her deception? Had it ever been a deception? From the first, he’d compromised his curiosity about her, had shut his mind to the questions which he could easily have found answers to, telling himself that it was what she wanted, when actually it was what he wanted too. Because he had known instinctively that the truth would put an abrupt end to everything, and he had deliberately suppressed his suspicions, deliberately refused to piece together the clues she had let fall, into any coherent whole. He’d been shocked when he saw her at the camel race, but it hadn’t taken him very long at all to assimilate what it meant.