Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Yes,’ Constance agreed, surprised by his tone. ‘But my grandfather loved books.’

  ‘And your father deprived you of that relationship too.’

  ‘Yes.’ Constance plucked at a thread on the blanket. ‘No, that’s not fair. My mother and I would have been welcome visitors, but Mama...’

  ‘“Mama chose Papa, as she always does,”’ Kadar quoted. ‘Were you a very lonely child?’

  ‘Odd,’ Constance said, with a twisted smile. ‘My parents thought me odd, so you see we have that much in common. Perhaps if I had been a boy my father might have shown more interest in me, and perhaps if I had been a boy, and my father had shown more interest in me, then my mother— But, there, that sounds horribly like self-pity.’ She folded her arms, glaring out at the sea. ‘I was a great deal more fortunate than most. You must not feel sorry for me.’

  ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Constance, you are far too admirable for that, but I wish—I wish things could have been different for you, and I fear that your family will never appreciate you as they ought.’

  ‘My family.’ Constance gave a heavy sigh. ‘I suspect I have put myself well beyond their appreciation. They will probably disown me. Let us not talk about that today, on our holiday.’

  ‘Not today, but soon, we must discuss it. I can help you, Constance.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And in the meantime, I am afraid we must set sail soon, if we are to be back in Murimon before dark, but if I may, I’d like to come up to the terrace and observe the stars with you later tonight.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Constance said, closing her mind firmly on the alarm bells which were telling her that she would like it far too much. Tomorrow, she told the persistently tinkling warning bells as she headed over to the rocks to collect her pantaloons, tomorrow she would listen and heed their warning. Tonight it would be just herself and Kadar and the stars.

  Chapter Eleven

  Constance pushed aside the telescope eyepiece and wandered over to the parapet to gaze out at the horizon. Though her skin still tingled from their long day in the sun yesterday, the lotion which Kadar had had sent to her suite had worked wonders. Night was giving way to morning. The holiday was over. Kadar had retired to his bedchamber to snatch a few hours’ sleep before he took up his formal duties. The stars were receding, the sky going through the first stages of its daily firework display, turning from inky blue to silver grey. Returning to the telescope, she flopped down on her cushions, feeling slightly sick. She could no longer ignore her feelings for him after what had passed between them on the beach. She was in love.

  That profound insight was not the source of untrammelled joy it should be. Instead, it made her feel very, very foolish indeed. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that she would fall in love. She had taken no precautions to guard her emotions until it was far too late. Kadar had given her a sense of purpose, a sense of worth, helped her take the first faltering step of this new path she was about to follow on her personal road to freedom. Kadar had seen something in Constance that no one else had seen. So, yes, gratitude formed part of what she felt, but there was a lot more to it than that.

  From the moment she set eyes on him she had known he was different from any other man she had ever met. She smiled now, recalling that shockingly primal gust of desire which had gripped her. Her body had known in an instant what it had taken her mind and her heart several more weeks to acknowledge. This man was made for her. The unspoken bond that existed between them, the desire which had beguiled her into a false sense of security was not something which would fizzle out. It was a symptom of a long-term malaise. She was in love, and though she had known Kadar less than a month, she knew with sickening certainty it was a love that would last a lifetime.

  Constance groaned. She loved him, and despite the fact that it changed nothing, deep inside her was a determination that it changed everything. She, Constance Montgomery, was in love. She wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes and allowed herself to dwell on this astounding fact. It was true, love knew no reason, cared not for logic. She loved him. For a moment, being in love was all that mattered.

  But only for a moment. Opening her eyes and sitting up with her back against the telescope, Constance prepared to administer a harsh dose of reality to herself. ‘Facts,’ she muttered, ‘facts. And the first and foremost of these is that these feelings have absolutely no impact on your future.’

  Her instinctive protest against this statement startled her. Love appeared not to care for harsh reality. She would simply have to try harder. ‘Fact one,’ she began, drawing up a mental list, ‘I can’t stay here for ever. Yes, the position of court astronomer would grant me all the freedom I could wish for and more, but is it a position I would wish to hold when Kadar’s passion for me has cooled, as it inevitably must?’

  It was tempting to answer in the positive, tempting to tell herself that they could return to their original official footing of court astronomer and prince, forget that they had ever been a man and a woman in the throes of passion, but she knew it for a lie. Her passion would not cool. It would be folly to remain here, counting the weeks or months, waiting for Kadar to turn his attentions elsewhere as he surely would—fact two. And fact three—all the time she’d be waiting, vainly hoping that he would fall in love with her. And fact four—he would never fall in love with anyone again because—fact five—you can’t improve on perfection. He’d said so himself, and emphatically at that.

  Which really was the insurmountable barrier of facts, Constance thought sadly. Even if all the other practical considerations, such as her complete unsuitability as a royal bride, and her determination never to be a bride were set aside, Kadar would never marry her because Kadar would never love her.

  ‘And so concludes my list.’ She got to her feet, padding over to watch the sunrise. As ever, the spectacle took her breath away. This morning the horizon was streaked with wispy cloud, filtering the rising sun’s rays into bursts of gold through a softer silver-gold shadow. Long fingers of light danced off the Arabian Sea, turning it the colour of melted butter.

  Who was she, this woman who had broken Kadar’s heart, this woman that no other woman could ever measure up to? Relieved to be distracted from her own weighty heartache, Constance turned her mind to Kadar’s. What did she know? Very little, it seemed to her at first. Some years ago, Kadar had fallen in love with a woman named Zeinab who for some reason could not marry him. A perfect love, he had called it, so perfect that he believed he would never find such a love again, so painful in its loss that he never wanted to risk such loss ever again.

  Dispirited, Constance returned to the desk and opened her notebook. Perhaps if she documented what she knew, like a star map, it would start to make sense. A star-crossed lovers’ map. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so tragic. She drew a heart shape around two stick figures representing Kadar and his love. What else did she know of his past? She drew a book. Yes, and there was his friend, who shared his love of books. A girl who had died, he had told her on the beach. And then he had closed the subject. Just as he had on another beach, talking of another female, now she came to think about it. His brother’s wife, who had died in childbirth.

  The lead of her pencil snapped on this second stick couple she had drawn representing Butrus and his wife. She stared down at her little diagram in horror. Dear heavens, surely not?

  I doubt the fates would be so very cruel as to allow history to repeat itself in this twisted way. Kadar’s words, spoken on this very terrace the night after his coronation. Constance picked up another pencil and drew a shaky triangle to connect all three women on her chart. Kadar’s childhood friend. Kadar’s lover. Kadar’s brother’s wife. She drew a circle in the centre of the triangle and wrote one word. Zeinab?

  Pity mingled with an immense sadness. Seven years ago, Kadar had left Murimon. Seven years ago, hi
s brother had been crowned. And married. A tear fell on to her notebook. Had Zeinab loved him? No question, Constance thought, her own new-found love making her absolutely certain. What woman would not fall in love with Kadar? Yet he had been forced to watch her marrying another, and his own brother to boot. No wonder his heart was broken. No wonder he had left Murimon. Such an honourable man. Such a terrible tragedy.

  The sun was fully visible over the horizon now. Constance sniffed, blew her nose, and stared down at her diagram. No wonder Kadar was so determined never to love again. She slowly closed the notebook over. And then to return from his exile and the entanglement of another bride intended for his brother. History repeating itself in a very cruel manner indeed. He must think himself doubly cursed. No surprise at all that he could not force himself to go through with it.

  But she couldn’t bear to picture him living alone for the rest of his life any more than she could bear the thought of him forcing himself into another arranged marriage for the sake of his kingdom. What she wanted above all was for Kadar to be happy, but Kadar seemed intent on courting unhappiness. The spectre of the past was still haunting him, no matter how much he denied it. But how best to help him exorcise his demons? And was she considering doing so in the vain hope that if Kadar laid his ghosts to rest he might miraculously find some way to love her?

  No. No, she could not be so utterly blind to reason as to contemplate that. So desperate as to avoid harsh reality. Constance yawned, exhausted from the emotions of the last few days. Returning to the cushions under the awnings, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. It could never come to pass, but where was the harm in dreaming, imagining how it might be. She pictured herself on the beach. The sand was gritty on her back. Kadar was naked beside her. He was kissing her. Touching her. Loving her.

  * * *

  Kadar prowled restlessly around the room where his plans for Murimon had been brought to life in the shape of a large model of the kingdom which took up most of the available space. It showed the locations of all the new schools and the huge development that would be the new port, the wharves and docks, and even the location of a ship-building yard proposed for future development. Lining one wall were detailed drawings and more explanatory information in written form. There would be representatives from many of the towns and villages on hand to explain to those who could not read, to attempt to answer questions, and to pass on those which they could not. His own idea, which Maarku from the Great Oasis had embraced with enthusiasm, co-ordinating the representatives on his behalf. The room was to be unveiled to the council in a few days’ time, opened up to the people next week. He should be feeling triumphant, but now Kadar was wondering if his utopia was simply a pipe dream.

  It would be extremely difficult to achieve without the Nessarah dowry. Some harsh and unpalatable choices would be forced upon him. New schools or deepen the harbour? This would allow more varied goods to be imported, but who would be able to afford to purchase them? Which of Murimon’s children to bestow the gift of education on first? And which adults? Or any? Better education would lead to increased wealth but being forced to stagger its introduction due to lack of sufficient funds meant only some would be beneficiaries. There would be rivalry. Resentment. Inequality. The very things he wished to eradicate. How to be a fair prince and provide equally for all? Kadar ran his fingers along the boundary of his model kingdom. It struck him that in one sense, it would be considerably easier and much fairer to make no changes at all.

  No, that was not an option. And nor, despite the fact that her dowry would eliminate the need for this painful dilemma, was marriage to the Nessarah princess. A prince first, and a man second. A month ago, returning from his first visit to Nessarah, he remembered thinking just that. His duty was first and foremost to his kingdom. But he also had a duty to be true to himself. He would not marry a woman he didn’t love, not even to launch Murimon into the nineteenth century. He would summon Abdul-Majid, set in train the delicate, rarely used but none the less established protocol for ending the betrothal, and he would then set about making the difficult choices which must be made as a consequence of his actions.

  But though he was relieved to have formulated a workable strategy, Kadar was in no mood to set about executing it. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the temptation of replaying yesterday’s lovemaking in his head. Constance beneath him, on top of him, the sound of her voice, a whispery, throaty gasp as she climaxed, made his member stir to life. Captivating Constance, he had called her once and she was—utterly captivating. The way she smiled. The way she kissed. The way she bit her lip when she was trying to decide whether to press him on a subject she knew he would prefer closed. The way she saw past his words and into his mind—though that was most certainly a double-edged sword. No one had ever been able to do that. Not even Zeinab.

  Startled, Kadar looked around the room foolishly, as if someone else had spoken her name aloud. He rarely permitted himself to speak it. Until recently, he rarely permitted himself to think of her at all. He could see her as the child he had first known, a serious little girl with a passion for horses and books, but he still struggled to remember the beautiful young woman she had become. He could recall her voice, smoky, soft, and he could recall the way she walked as if she were floating beneath the layers of rich silks and gauzy lace she was fond of wearing. Yes, he remembered now, teasing her that she had grown to prefer fashion to books. He had hurt her. Tears had filled her eyes—and he also remembered their colour now, a very pale brown, like the sand at low tide. She had allowed him to kiss her then. He remembered that too, the innocence of her kisses. Not passionless. Innocent. She had never allowed herself to succumb to passion. She was more honourable than he—that was all. If things had been different, he didn’t doubt that she’d have allowed her passion full rein.

  He had never once pressed her. Those chaste kisses were all that they had shared. She was too precious, too sweet, too fragile. He had been afraid to overwhelm her with his desire. Though he had never once had any difficulty in restraining himself.

  In stark contrast to his lack of restraint on the beach with Constance. It had taken every single ounce of control not to take what she had offered, not to thrust into her, to feel her flesh enfolding him, holding him, to push higher inside her, and higher, to feel that delicious frisson as he thrust and withdrew, thrust and withdrew, to feel her tighten around him, to experience that painfully delightful tension as he held himself back until she came, the pulsing of her climax sending him over the edge.

  Kadar groaned. He was hard. How could he ever have imagined that what they had done would be enough to sate his need of her? He was very far from being sated, either of her body or of her mind. Captivating Constance. Clever Constance.

  Outside, the sun was coming up. He ought to be turning his mind to the diplomatic disaster looming over him. He ought to summon Abdul-Majid, but the need to be with Constance was overwhelming. Waiting only for his all-too-obvious desire to subside, Kadar made his way to the roof terrace.

  * * *

  She was sound asleep. Her bare feet were showing beneath the loose pleats of her pantaloons. He sank quietly onto the cushions beside her, curling himself into her back, breathing in the scent of her. Smoothing back her hair, he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist. She stirred, snuggling her derrière against him, and he too stirred, in a very different way. Not what he intended at all. Reluctantly, he loosed his hold on her and tried to edge away. Constance turned around, her eyes slumberous, her mouth curved into a soft smile. ‘Am I dreaming?’

  He knew he ought to move, but he could not bring himself to. Instead, he said her name, planting a kiss on her lovely lips. She sighed. She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  His hand had slid back around her waist. Her breasts were soft against his chest. He flattened his palm over the curve of her bo
ttom. She sighed again, snuggling closer, her thigh brushing his erection. ‘I’ve missed you too,’ Kadar said, speaking his mind, for once, without thinking.

  He kissed the faint line of the scar on her brow. Her fingers fluttered over his neck, his shoulders, slipping inside the collar of his tunic. Skin on skin. Kadar shuddered. Constance tilted her head in mute invitation and all thoughts of resistance fled.

  She tasted of sleep and sunshine. They kissed slowly, gently coaxing the heat between them into life. His lids were heavy, closed to reality. His senses were filled with Constance. Her soft curves. Her sweet mouth. Her sinful tongue. They kissed lingeringly, whispering their pleasure, hands tracing the shapes of their bodies, remembering, savouring, arousing.

  He slid his hand inside her overdress to cup the weight of her breast through her tunic beneath. Her nipple was a tight bud. He traced circles around it, relishing the way his touch made her shudder, sigh, her lips cling. She was lying on her back now, he was draped half over her, his leg between hers, his shaft rigid on her belly. Their kisses were passionate. He lifted his head, seeking her breast, and their gazes locked. Her eyes were cloudy, dark with desire, no doubt reflecting his own.

  It came slowly but surely, the awareness of what they were doing, the dangerous path down which they were travelling. Her eyes began to clear, again no doubt reflecting his. She moved fractionally. He moved too. They sat up. They adjusted their clothing. The stared out of the awning, at the pale blue of the noon-day sky.

  * * *

  If only it had been a dream, they would not have stopped, Constance thought. Kadar had got to his feet, was perched on the edge of the desk. Pushing her hair back from her face, she sat up. ‘Have you reached a conclusion regarding your plans, how best to terminate the betrothal?’

  ‘It is the recognised custom that if a betrothal is ended, a gift of compensation must be made to the injured party.’