“No person was hurt.” The imam turned his dark eyes on Mackenzie’s face. “Unfortunately, there is a heavy price to pay for damaging the mosque.”
A laugh burbled up in Mackenzie’s throat. She choked it back. “How much is it?” She eyed her destroyed car and the remains of the column. “I’m not sure I can come up with all the money right away, but I could—”
The imam slowly shook his head. “The price is far heavier than that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Issam.
“You’ll need to take her into custody.”
Issam cocked his head to the side. “For what?”
“For damaging the mosque. I’m afraid Ms.—”
“Peters,” Mackenzie said automatically.
“I’m afraid Ms. Peters, according to our ancient laws, must be put to death for damaging the mosque.”
“What?” Issam put a protective hand on Inan’s head. “What ancient law? I’ve never heard of such a law.”
“A religious law. One that can’t be negated.”
Mackenzie saw the complete seriousness in the imam’s eyes. This had all gone too far. It was an accident, a terrible accident, but—to put her to death? That was beyond the pale.
She held both her hands up, drawing the attention of the two men.
And then she switched to their language, as easily as if she were stepping over a bridge.
“I take full responsibility for damaging the column,” she began, looking the imam in the eye. “But no one was hurt. And your most cherished laws are bound by the precious nature of human life.”
The imam, seemingly in spite of himself, was nodding, ever so slightly.
“Of course, in the oldest texts, places of worship were considered as precious as life itself. But we know—we know—” She did not allow her voice to waver. “That stone can be rebuilt. Children’s lives cannot. Please. Let’s all take a step back and consider this what it was—an accident that can be fixed.”
Mackenzie dropped her hands to her sides and waited. She had never been more aware of her body than in this moment, in the sunshine on the sidewalk outside of this mosque. A shiver tripped down her spine. She wasn’t in Al-Madiza anymore. And right now, in this moment, she was at the mercy of the laws of Al-Dashalid. Mackenzie, as well as anyone, knew that things could go very, very wrong in this moment.
But the imam would relent. Surely he would. She’d toppled a column, not the sheikh’s nephew, and all around her the street was humming with life. She’d missed all the other cars on the street. Even the man who had run the red light was probably fine. Really, she should be considered a hero.
He folded his hands in front of him and looked down.
This was the moment.
All would be forgiven, they’d walk away, and she could have her meeting with Issam. She would have the chance to fight for the women and children in that fort, and secondarily for her brother-in-law. She couldn’t let him down, either.
“It’s a law that has stood the test of a thousand years,” the imam said, breaking Mackenzie out of her thoughts. In her mind, she was already down the sidewalk, speaking quickly to Issam about the land. About the fort. About all the women and children, waiting for her to come here— “And it’s not going to crumble because of a car accident.”
“What?” Mackenzie couldn’t believe the words that had come out of the imam’s mouth. “You can’t be serious. It was an accident. I never meant—I was trying to save my own life, and everyone else’s—”
“Sheikh Issam,” the imam said, turning away from her, “take her into custody. Make the preparations. It has been decided.”
No. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Mackenzie watched as the imam turned back toward the destroyed column. He walked slowly, as if a great weight was on his shoulders.
“Wait. We can talk about this.”
He did not stop. He only raised one hand in the air, as if to silence her.
And Issam reached out and took her by the elbow.
3
Mackenzie stalked back and forth in the holding cell, taking deep, cleansing breaths. They weren’t working. She was furious.
The cell itself didn’t have anything to draw her attention. It was made of concrete and had the basics—a thin, plasticky mattress on a cot bolted to the floor, a metal toilet and sink behind a divider just a few feet high, so that the guards could still look in and see her.
She should be afraid. She should be terrified, crying—she’d been given a death sentence. But she was too angry to feel the fear.
She’d had enough of Middle Eastern men. Everywhere she turned, she was bumping into an alpha male determined to ruin her day. She did not take the imam for anything less than that, despite his mild tone of voice. He was as bad as anyone.
“It’s only a bad day,” she told herself aloud, because what else was there to do? “You’ll get through this.”
She would. She was certain of it. She was a good lawyer, and her mother had been a good lawyer, and they were strong women, both of them. “There’s always another way,” her mother used to tell her, bent over case files she’d brought home from the office. “We search for every avenue.”
Every avenue. Mackenzie would find another avenue that would get her out of this holding cell and out of the death sentence. She clenched her teeth, thinking of the way the imam had turned his back on her. One toppled column shouldn’t be worth ending her life over. Aside from that, intention was nine-tenths of the law in America. It had to be similar here. An imam on the sidewalk outside a mosque couldn’t simply condemn her to death with no recourse.
Could he?
She wished she could go for a run. A few hours earlier, she’d been pounding out the miles on the treadmill in her hotel’s exercise room, mentally preparing for the negotiations with Issam. That had gone off the rails, hadn’t it?
Mackenzie settled for pacing the room a little faster.
If they’d only give her access to the laws. She was sure that it was probably a collection of ancient books interpreted by another group of men, but if they gave her the books, she could find a way out.
She turned back to the door of the holding cell and pounded against it with the side of her fist. “Is anyone there?” she shouted, then knocked harder on the door. “I need help!”
* * *
This was not how this day was supposed to go. Far from it. Issam had stepped out of his shower worrying about all the wrong things. And picking up Inan from the mosque had set off a chain of events that was rapidly leading to disaster.
“Ms. Peters is an American citizen,” said Bahir, his right-hand man, reading off the tablet in his hand. “We had her scheduled for a meeting this afternoon. President Mulazim of Al-Madiza sent her as his representative.”
Issam rubbed a hand over his eyes. “An American citizen. And we’re holding her under a death sentence.”
“An American citizen who has come for diplomatic negotiations.”
Issam paced to the end of his private living room and looked out the window. It showed a view of the city, sprawling before him in the midmorning sun. Somewhere below was the mosque, with its one pillar in shambles on the ground.
The pillar wouldn’t be the only thing to collapse if Issam couldn’t find a way to calm this situation. The Americans wouldn’t take kindly to Al-Dashalid sentencing one of its citizens to death, and that would set off an international PR firestorm, not to mention destroying relations between the two countries. And it wasn’t only America he had to contend with. Al-Madiza had cautiously approached them months ago as the leadership in Caldad had grown bloodthirsty. If Issam didn’t stop Mackenzie’s sentence from being carried out, he could be at war on three fronts.
Then there was his family.
They would be equally appalled at this turn of events, he knew it. And Issam wasn’t married. If he didn’t find a bride soon, they could replace him, and after this, they would. The royal family valued its traditions, yes. But
not at this cost.
He turned back to Bahir, a short man in a tidy suit. “Is there any news from the legal team?”
“They’ve been researching since the moment you returned to the palace.”
“And?”
Bahir frowned. “The imam was correct. It is a law on the books. However, there is no evidence as of yet that a sentence like this has been carried out for hundreds of years.”
“Because the imams granted forgiveness?”
His second-in-command raised one shoulder in a helpless shrug. “Because no one has damaged the mosque.”
Issam growled in frustration, turning back to the window.
A door opened, and another man spoke to Bahir. Outside in the hallway, a child’s footsteps clattered on the floor, and a woman called, “Inan, slow down!” Her voice was kind but firm, and it hit Issam like a punch in the gut.
He’d had a nanny growing up. Sabah. She’d been warm and kind, older than his mother, and he couldn’t remember exactly when, but at some point Issam had become aware that Sabah’s life was much harder than his own. She worried over money for her five children.
It was his own ignorance of the law then that had been her undoing.
Issam had taken some of his mother’s old clothes, set for donation to a local charity, and given them to Sabah. His face burned with shame thinking of what had happened.
Her daughter had been sick. She’d mentioned it to Issam in passing, and he’d seen the fear in her eyes. The child was her youngest, and they’d needed to take her to the hospital. There were bills. Somehow, he’d thought the clothes would help.
Sabah had tried to pawn them in the local marketplace.
It was not an imam, then, who caught her, but one of his father’s advisers who was at the marketplace on the same day. He questioned her, then brought her back to the palace to confess to her crime.
Issam had not been at home when they brought her back. He had been at a football tournament, surrounded by the children of other wealthy citizens of Al-Dashalid.
It was the next day, when he had a new nanny he had never seen before, that he learned what happened.
He had not known that it was illegal to sell royal property for personal gain. Sabah had not known it was still royal property, since Issam had given her the clothes as a gift. Even after all these years, he could still see her face, her raised eyebrows when he’d brought the dresses to her.
“Are you sure?” She had asked him again and again. “Issam, if you’ve gone into your mother’s closet—”
“I haven’t,” he had insisted. “She had these set out to go to charity. Why can’t you have them? She’s giving them away. It’s the same thing.”
Now, as an adult, he could see what an impossible position he’d put her in. The job was important to her. It was essential to her family’s livelihood. And to turn down his gift would have been a risky proposition. But her mind had been clouded with worry about the hospital bills.
One trip to the marketplace had ended in her banishment.
He’d raged at the new nanny when he heard. “Banished? Banished from Al-Dashalid?” He felt so guilty. So angry. “Where will she go? How will her family survive without her?”
“That’s not our concern,” said the new nanny. “She broke the law and put the royal family at risk. That is the consequence.”
“It’s not fair,” Issam had spat, then run into another room. That new nanny had spent the entire day chasing after him, trying to contain his fury.
A person’s life destroyed by an ancient law because no one would reconsider.
He couldn’t let it happen again.
“It wasn’t fair,” he said to the window.
“What was that, Sheikh Issam?” said Bahir.
Issam turned toward him. “It’s not fair. The sentence cannot stand. I will not destroy—end—this woman’s life to appease a set of unjust laws.”
Bahir’s frown deepened. “But the laws themselves cannot be changed. All the research leads to the same conclusion, and with the imam—”
“I will find a way around the imam.”
At that moment, Kyril walked by in the hallway and poked his head in. “Are you all right, Issam? Your face normally isn’t so serious.”
He was joking, of course. Issam usually wore a serious expression, because his work was serious.
Hannah came up beside Kyril and put her hand through the crook of his elbow. “Are we stopping to chat?”
Hannah, Kyril’s American wife.
His wife.
They’d had an unexpected pregnancy, and he’d fixed the problem by making her his wife and part of the royal family.
“Are you coming, Issam?” Kyril said from the doorway.
“Where?” Issam wracked his brain. He’d had the meeting with Mackenzie, but with her being held—was there one with Kyril?
“Inan’s football practice,” Hannah filled in. “We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”
He needed a few minutes to think. Just a few more minutes. “I’m coming with you.”
4
Issam stood on the sidelines of the football field, protected from the sun by a long tent under which all the parents and relatives could gather. The sports complex abutted the royal property, so it was easy for Kyril, Hannah, and Issam to come through the back gate, deposit Inan with his coach and the rest of his teammates, and take their places under the tent. Hannah had immediately gone to talk with friends of hers, other mothers with children on the team, but Issam stood next to Kyril, his mind racing. For one thing, there was an open gate at the far end of the field, and people came and go with no one to keep an eye on them. A clear breach of security.
For another…
Was his idea ridiculous? It had come to him in a flash, watching Hannah and Kyril stand in the doorway, so comfortable with each other despite the rocky start they’d had. An unexpected pregnancy. A whirlwind engagement. There had been no guarantee of a happy marriage, yet Kyril seemed happier than ever. And Hannah was radiant.
Could he have the same outcome with Mackenzie?
Not the same, no—he did not want a love relationship like the one Kyril had with Hannah. It was simply too risky, too distracting. He had responsibilities.
And one of them was to Mackenzie.
A shout broke him out of his thoughts just in time for him to realize that a ball was headed straight for his face. Issam caught it at the last moment, then threw it back toward the field. “Nice kick!” he shouted in Inan’s general direction, though he wasn’t sure if the boy had been the one to land the kick in the first place.
Should he propose to her?
“What’s on your mind, brother?” Kyril stood next to Issam, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the field. “My son is not a breakout football star yet, but he’ll get there. Meanwhile, you’re distracted. Something is weighing on you. Tell me what it is.”
Kyril had such an easy authority. Issam’s shoulders relaxed. Surely he could tell Kyril about this, and his brother would give him an honest assessment.
“The accident at the mosque.”
Kyril shook his head, bringing his hand up to briefly cover his mouth. “We avoided tragedy today.”
“The woman driving the car—she hasn’t avoided tragedy.” He hadn’t yet told all this to Kyril, because all the details had been a spinning mess in his brain. Quickly, he sketched out what had happened—the driver running the red light, Mackenzie’s quick thinking, the column collapsing. Inan, perfectly safe.
“And the imam sentenced her to death?” Kyril was no longer watching his son on the field. He was watching Issam.
Issam’s gut twisted. “I’ve had my people researching since the moment I came back to the palace, but there’s no way out of the ancient law.”
“That can’t be true. There’s got to be a way.” Kyril furrowed his brow.
“There’s one way.” Issam’s heart beat faster. “I could marry her.”
Kyril was silent,
and into that silence, Issam poured out the plan that had been forming in his mind.
“She and I—we’ll be in conflict. I was supposed to meet with her about the no-man’s land at our border with Al-Madiza, and I know she’ll argue their side. But wouldn’t it be beneficial to keep our enemies closer? She might give me some insight. Or leverage.”
“She could,” Kyril said neutrally.
His lack of resistance made Issam more confident. “It could work like one of those political marriages. A union between two countries. And,” he remembered at the last moment, “it would solve the problem of getting married by my thirtieth birthday.”
“Yes.”
“It wouldn’t be for love,” Issam said firmly. “But the political and military advantages would be beneficial for us both.” He took a deep breath. “And it would save her life. As a member of the royal family, she would be immune to such judgments.”
Kyril turned his attention back to the field in front of them, where Inan was rallying his teammates to run—toward the wrong goal.
“You might be surprised, brother, to find that marriage isn’t as easy as running a background check.”
“This would be a business arrangement, though.”
“I’m saying you’re going to have to compromise to make things work between the two of you, even if you think it’s only going to be political.”
“Compromise?” Issam let out a huff. “I won’t need to give up anything. I’m saving her from certain death. It’s an easy equation.”
Kyril shook his head. “If this woman—if Mackenzie—becomes a member of the royal family, she will have the full rights owed to any of us. She might not fall in line as easily as you expect.”
“What makes you say that?” All Issam could picture was a grateful Mackenzie, tears in her eyes, throwing herself at his feet for his act of mercy and heroism.
“She must want something,” Kyril mused. “She wouldn’t have set up a meeting with you if she wasn’t intending to gain the upper hand for Al-Madiza.”
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as much as getting Mackenzie out of that cell and into a position where Al-Dashalid didn’t hang in the balance as a result of her car accident.
The Sheikh’s Fierce Fiancée: Sheikhs of Al-Dashalid Book Three Page 2
