Carefully closing the door behind him, Bakri walked into the room and bowed deeply.
‘Sire, I am pressed to remind you that your decision cannot be delayed for much longer. The delegation from Jabalahstan grows impatient for your decision.’
‘It is not their place to grow impatient,’ said Murat, his barely restrained anger beginning to erupt at last. ‘I have told them that I will give an answer once my deliberations are concluded and they are not concluded yet.’
‘I understand that.’ Bakri cleared his throat. ‘And if I can be of any assistance in helping you to arrive at that decision, sire, then it will be both my honour and my duty.’
Duty. There it was again. That damnable word which haunted royal men from the moment they left the cradle. Murat gave a heavy sigh as he turned to look out of the windows overlooking the palace gardens. This room had been his father’s—and his father’s before that—all the way back along the Al Maisan line, from when the mighty palace had first been built. It was a place to which women were never admitted, and previously he would have considered such a restriction both right and fitting. For it was a place where wars had been plotted. Where kingdoms had been argued over before inevitable divisions were made. It was a very masculine room where once he would never have been able to envisage the softness of a woman. But now...
Now he found his mind playing tricks with him. He had started to imagine Cat standing there. Cat with her long dark hair tumbling down her back. Cat clad in the softly flowing robes of a Qurhahian Sultana.
He shook his head, but still he could not shake off the tantalising image. Just as he could not escape from her presence in every dream he’d had since returning from England. It seemed that the impossible had happened.
His heart ached.
He could not think straight.
And for the first time in his life, he was unsure what to do.
Just before he’d left, he had told her that he loved her, thinking that such an admission would be cathartic. That he could let out those strange feelings which had gripped his heart so intensely and then he would be free of them. But he was not free of them. On the contrary, he was bound by them as surely as if they were chains of iron. He missed her as much as he had done from the beginning and he wanted her even more.
He thought about the way he’d felt as his car had driven away from that little Welsh seaside town. How the tears had slid noiselessly down his cheeks, unseen by anyone else, but startling him, all the same. He had only ever cried once before and that had been when his mother had died. He had been brought up in a culture where strength was everything; where it was considered wrong for a man to ever show his feelings. And that had never been a problem before, because he’d never had real feelings for a woman before.
But suddenly, he was consumed by them.
He looked at the portrait above the desk, at the fierce expression of the ancient Sultan and those hard and glittering black eyes which marked out all the Al Maisan men. He thought about what his life must have been like and then compared it to his own.
His mind went back to the things Cat had said to him, just before he’d left. Her breathless words and the appeal in her eyes had haunted him for days afterwards. He had tried very hard not to think about her, but that hadn’t worked either. And suddenly he found himself wondering how he could have been so...stupid.
He turned to Bakri and his emissary tensed, as if he had seen something in his monarch’s face which was momentous.
‘I cannot marry the princess,’ said Murat and his words sounded flat and hard as they echoed around that high-ceilinged room.
‘But, sire—’
‘Yes,’ said Murat. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Bakri and that you will be justified. I realise that I cannot continue to behave like this. That it isn’t fair to the women in question, nor is it fair to my people to keep refusing to marry, and to provide them with the heir which they long for. But I have a solution.’
Bakri narrowed his eyes. ‘You do?’
‘I do,’ said Murat grimly. ‘Get me Gabe Steel on the phone, will you?’
* * *
Catrin stared at the general manager as if she hadn’t heard him properly. ‘Could you...um...repeat that?’ she questioned.
Stephen Le Saux nodded, and smiled. ‘Of course. We’re very pleased with you, Catrin. You’ve worked very hard and shown great promise since you’ve been here. You’ve proved that you can turn your hand to pretty much anything and we’d like you to fly down to the Cornish hotel in our group. The assistant general manager has been taken ill and we need a safe pair of hands to help them cope, until she’s back on her feet. And it’s been decided that you would be the perfect candidate.’
Catrin swallowed, guessing that praise was exactly what she needed at a time like this, though she couldn’t deny her surprise. It was an honour to be asked, yes—but did she deserve it? She had been trying to work hard ever since Murat had gone back to Qurhah, but her heart hadn’t really been in it. Maybe it was difficult for a heart to be enthusiastic about anything when it felt so empty. As if there were a hole in your chest where that heart used to be.
She’d gone about her work, thinking—hoping?—that Murat might telephone, even though she had told herself that she wouldn’t pick up. But he hadn’t. There had been nothing but a very loud silence from the Middle East, forcing her to face a truth she didn’t want to face. It seemed that it really was over. And even though she knew they couldn’t have carried on like that it didn’t stop her from feeling as if her world had suddenly become muted. As if a dark curtain had descended and shrouded everything which was bright and good.
‘You’ll need your passport, for ID purposes,’ Stephen Le Saux was saying. ‘And you’ll need to be ready in an hour. We’ll be flying you down to Newquay this afternoon, if that’s okay?’
‘That soon?’ questioned Catrin, standing up and smoothing her palms down over her uniform dress.
‘Unless you have something keeping you here?’
She would have laughed, if laughing hadn’t become such an alien concept. ‘No, there’s nothing keeping me here,’ she said.
She went directly to her room. At least other areas of her life were looking good. Rachel was doing well at Uni and her mother was doing even better in Arizona. Even though all contact with the outside world had been banned for the first six weeks of treatment, Catrin had spoken to one of the counsellors at the clinic, who had sounded cautiously optimistic about her progress.
Hastily, she packed a bag and was ready and waiting when the hotel mini-bus arrived to take her to Cardiff airport, with Stephen himself at the wheel. But she started feeling confused when they got to the airport and he took her straight to a rather plush waiting room.
‘Are you sure I’m in the right place?’ she questioned as she looked around to see several smartly dressed people sipping from glasses of champagne.
‘Of course you are,’ he answered smoothly. ‘And you’ll be well looked after, I can assure you. Have a good trip.’
Catrin had only ever travelled by air with Murat, with his staff making all the arrangements, and in a way this seemed no different. Maybe that was what made her so compliant—allowing herself to be shown onto a plane which was much larger than she’d expected for a relatively short flight to Cornwall. And it wasn’t until they were in the air—indeed, until they were crossing the English Channel that she started to realise that something was very wrong. For a start, she was the only person on the plane and the stunning redhead stewardess was treating her as if she were some kind of royalty.
Catrin summoned her over with a hand which had suddenly started trembling. ‘Would you mind telling me where this plane is headed?’
The redhead smiled. ‘Why, to Qurhah, of course.’
Catrin’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. ‘But I�
��m supposed to be going to Cornwall.’
The redhead’s smile grew wider. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said gently. ‘This is one of the Sultan’s jets and you are the esteemed guest of the Sultan himself. You’re flying to Simdahab, the capital of Qurhah.’
Catrin wanted to leap from her seat and say that she wasn’t going anywhere, and certainly not to Qurhah to see a man she couldn’t have. A man she was doing her level best to forget, who had now decided in some outrageously macho way to actually kidnap her. But she could hardly demand a parachute and throw herself out of the plane, could she? Especially when her knees were feeling so weak that she didn’t think she’d be able to stand, let alone make a dash for it.
With an angry little sound, she sat back in the plush seat, shaking her head when the stewardess offered her a glass of lime juice. But the long flight meant that she couldn’t keep refusing drinks, or food, even though she merely picked at the tempting morsels she was offered.
Her gaze kept steering to the window, though the skies were now in darkness. But where the flicker of the plane lights passed over the ground, she could see the stark desert sands which Murat had spoken of so many times. And as the plane began its descent she could do nothing to prevent the shiver which ran down her spine, hating her reaction because she understood exactly what had caused it. Because this was the land which had spawned him. The land which had made Murat the cold-eyed warrior who had broken her heart.
So why had he brought her here? Against her will and against her knowledge?
She supposed that she could refuse to leave her seat, cling on tightly and demand to be flown back to Wales. But there was no way she could behave like that and maintain any degree of dignity, and she told herself that maintaining her dignity was paramount. Yet it wasn’t just that, was it? She was curious to know what had made Murat do something like this. He had promised to leave her alone and it seemed that he had broken his word—and it was that which surprised her more than anything.
A man called Bakri came onto the plane and introduced himself as Murat’s aide. It was weird, because, although she’d sometimes spoken to him when he’d phoned Murat in London, Catrin had never imagined she would actually meet him. She had never thought that her world would collide with the Sultan’s like this.
And she still didn’t know why it had.
Bakri was extremely courteous, but he stonewalled all her indignant questions with the mantra: ‘The Sultan will tell you everything you wish to know.’
Feeling slightly ridiculous in her jeans and T-shirt, Catrin walked down the aircraft steps to alight on Qurhahian soil and looked up into the starriest sky she had ever seen. She had removed her sweater on the plane but the fierce heat which hit her now was like being hurled into the centre of a furnace. She wondered where Murat was. Why he was not waiting at the bottom of the steps to meet her.
And then suddenly she heard a distant thunder, which gradually morphed into the unmistakable sound of approaching hooves. Her head jerked up to see a huge black stallion cantering towards her and Catrin’s heart missed a beat.
The man on the horse’s back could have been any man, with his anonymous flowing robes and a headdress billowing behind him. But it wasn’t just any man. She would have recognised that powerful frame anywhere, even before the rider grew close enough for her to see his stern and hawk-like face.
‘Murat,’ she gasped. ‘What the hell is going on?’
But he didn’t answer, just leaned right over and caught hold of her before lifting her up onto the saddle. And Catrin was so shocked by the apparent ease of this action that she leaned back into him as he clamped his arm tightly around her waist, dug his thighs into the horse’s flanks and set off.
It felt surreal. The airport buildings receded and tarmac roads soon gave way to sand as the horse entered the desert with a low whinny of delight.
Catrin’s heart was pounding wildly, though she wasn’t sure if that was from fear, or bewilderment, or the sheer excitement of being pressed up close to Murat’s hard body, with his arm locked tightly around her. There were no signs, but he kept looking up at the stars as if he was seeking guidance from those celestial signposts which never changed.
She didn’t know how long they galloped for, only that it felt like the most exhilarating journey of her life—but at some point she realised that a canopied dwelling had appeared in the distance and that Murat was heading towards it. And, minutes later, he brought the horse to a standstill in front of what looked like a very large tent.
But as he jumped down from the stallion and then raised his arms to lift her gently down onto the sand, Catrin realised that this was like no tent she’d ever seen.
Fretwork lamps stood in a glowing circle outside, casting intricate shadows onto the heavy canvas. The shadowed figure of a servant pulled back two lavishly embroidered flaps to reveal the lavish interior within.
‘Come,’ said Murat, adding something in Qurhahian, which caused the servant to melt into the darkness.
Still feeling shell-shocked, Catrin followed Murat into a lantern-lit room of unbelievable splendour. A long day-bed was covered by throws of gold and scarlet silk and heaped with a mishmash of silken cushions. On an engraved table stood a silver pot of what smelled like very strong coffee and beside it were two tiny silver cups. The air was scented with sandalwood though it was underpinned by something much richer and sweeter, something which might have been tuberose.
Catrin turned to see the low divan which stood at the far end of the tent and when she turned back again it was to find Murat’s eyes on her, his expression intense and very watchful. She studied him right back, acknowledging that this was a Murat she had never seen before, looking as if he had stepped straight from the pages of an ancient fable. And she hated the leap her heart gave nearly as much as she hated the way that her eyes ran so greedily over his powerful frame.
He looked...unfamiliar. She had never seen him in his desert robes before and she thought how unfair it was that she had not been given a chance to prepare herself for the impact of that.
He was all dark and gleaming power. The pale gold of the flowing garments emphasised the much darker hue of his skin, and somehow managed to emphasise the hard body beneath. His hair was covered by a matching headdress, knotted with an intricately woven circlet of black silk. And even that was a turn-on. She thought how privileged she had been to see the Sultan’s hair in a past life. To have run her fingers through it and kissed it.
Catrin’s hand flew to her throat in horror.
Privileged to see his hair?
Had she been slipped some kind of drug while she’d been on board the plane, which had wiped her brain clear of any logic or reason? She glared at him. Had he brought her here for his pleasure? To make love to his erstwhile Welsh mistress, before inevitably casting her aside for the princess he would one day marry?
‘Why have you brought me here, Murat? What the hell is going on?’
His gaze was steady; his eyes like chips of black ice.
‘I had to see you.’
She swallowed, telling herself not to fall for it. She couldn’t afford to fall for it. ‘Even if you did,’ she said, sucking in a deep breath and trying to slow down the rapid thunder of her heart, ‘couldn’t you have just gone about it using normal channels? Ever thought of sending an email or even phoning?’
‘And would you have answered?’ he demanded. ‘Would you have been prepared to come here, if I had asked you to? If I told you that the need to see you felt as imperative to me as breathing itself, would you have listened to me?’
There was no doubting the deeply poetic nature of his words, and no doubting that it made her heart race even more to hear them. And they certainly sounded sincere. But Catrin kept her face set in a mulish expression, instinct warning her to protect herself behind the steely armour of anger. ‘I don’t appreciate
being bundled onto an aircraft and flown halfway around the world,’ she spat out, ‘just to satisfy some stupid whim of yours. How on earth did you manage to get my boss to cooperate?’
‘I asked him.’
‘Or bribed him, more likely.’
‘There was no need to resort to such methods. Though I can’t deny that I would have employed them if necessary,’ he said, with a smile obviously designed to make her melt. ‘In fact, he seemed rather captivated by the love-story aspect of my request.’
‘But there is no love story!’ She walked over to the other side of the tent, because his proximity was making it difficult for her to breathe. ‘Your “love” is currently on ice—just waiting for Princess Lucky to waltz in and melt it.’
For a moment he said nothing, just let his gaze travel over her very slowly as if he’d never really seen her properly before.
‘Oh, Cat,’ he said softly. ‘You are magnificent.’
‘No, Murat, you’re the one who’s supposed to be magnificent, not me. And...’ Some of her bravado was leaving her now. Suddenly she was feeling very alone—and scared. Scared of the way he could make her feel and scared of how much more he could hurt her. And she couldn’t afford to let him hurt her, not any more. Because she was strong Cat, not weak Cat. She was Cat who didn’t cry and yet these stupid tears were pricking away at the backs of her eyes. ‘It’s a cheap trick to bring me out here into the middle of nowhere, where I’m effectively at your mercy.’
He said nothing, just walked across the room and took her hand, bringing her fingertips to his mouth and leaving them there, so that when he spoke she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. And Catrin was appalled to discover that she wasn’t pulling away. That she was just standing there and letting him touch her.
‘And is it a cheap trick to ask you to be my bride, Cat?’ he questioned. ‘To be my Sultana and help me rule over the people of Qurhah for as long as we both shall live?’
Seduced by the Sultan Page 13
