Claiming His Desert Princess

She felt as if her veins were full of sherbet. She was sparkling, alight. And she felt quite wicked. ‘When I first saw you tonight, I thought to myself, there is a man one would never forget. A dangerous man. With a very dangerous smile.’

‘When I first saw you tonight, and you smiled at me...’ Shaking his head, Christopher looked up at the stars and frowned. ‘Speaking of danger, delightful as your company is, I don’t want you to risk returning in the daylight to wherever it is you’ve sprung from.’

Reluctantly, Tahira too looked up at the sky, and gave a startled exclamation. ‘I had no idea it was so late—or rather, early. I will do everything in my power to help you, but I must go now. Will we meet again here, tomorrow night?’

Christopher jumped up, helping her to her feet. ‘Is it safe for you to do so?’

She rarely risked two night-time excursions in a row, but time was of the essence in so many ways. ‘I’ll be here,’ Tahira said emphatically.

‘Then so too will I.’ He watched her as she pulled on her cloak and headdress, securing her leather satchel to the camel’s saddle. A click of the tongue, and the beast was on its knees waiting for her to mount. Christopher took her hand, pressing it lightly before she clambered into the saddle. ‘Until tomorrow.’

A quick wave, and she headed off, urging the languid beast into a trot. She didn’t look back, but she sensed him watching her fading into the desert landscape.

* * *

Later, as she lay exhausted on her divan, she wondered if he had been a mirage, a figment of her imagination conjured up by the desert sands, a beguiling vision who would melt away in the harsh light of day, never to return. Burying her head under the pillow to block out the light filtering through the high oriel window, Tahira smiled to herself. She would have her answer soon enough.

* * *

The next evening, Christopher closed his notebook, placing it first in a waxed cover before concealing it behind a loose stone in the wall of the abandoned house which had been his temporary home for the last few weeks. It was highly unlikely that anyone would happen across it and if they did, impossible to imagine that they could break his ingenious code, but its very existence, the fact that his work was encoded, would give rise to suspicion, even without the incriminating sketches and maps.

The contents of his notebook went well beyond the remit of the dossier he had offered to compile for Lord Henry Armstrong, payment for the official strings the diplomat had pulled to expedite Christopher’s journey, and the local contacts he had provided. Thankfully, their bargain could be concluded without another face-to-face meeting. Christopher was determined never to set eyes on that loathsome countenance again. When he was done here, the shameful personal tie which neither of them welcomed, the existence of which Christopher had been oblivious almost his whole life, would be severed for ever. That dark past would be obliterated, the slate wiped clean. He would be master of his own destiny, free to embrace the future on his own terms.

A very lucrative future it could be too, if he chose to remain here in Arabia. Ironically, during the last six months, while seeking the owner of the amulet and collating the contents of Lord Armstrong’s dossier, Christopher had also discovered a plethora of hitherto untapped natural resources. The so-called Midas Touch which made him highly sought after as a surveyor was proving every bit as effective here in the Arabian landscape as it had proved in Britain and in Egypt. There was a wealth of ores and minerals just waiting to be exploited. He could easily make his fortune, or facilitate the making of others’ fortunes, if he were so inclined.

He was most emphatically not so inclined, though his meticulous habits dictated that he record every potential location, regardless. In the wrong hands, his very comprehensive findings could prove to be politically explosive.

Reminded of the hands his dossier was due to be delivered into—white, long-fingered, aristocratic, atavistic hands that he never wished to lay eyes on again—he shuddered with revulsion. He would make damned sure he provided only what he had agreed and no more. Bad enough that his lordship would benefit even to the degree Christopher had promised. It would be some consolation to deprive that peer of untold and as yet undiscovered riches. He could think of no man less deserving than that particular man, who had stolen his family, laid waste to his history. A man who placed his ruthless ambition before all else, who cared naught when others bore the consequences of his vile actions, and who bought silence with blood money. Recalling their one and only meeting, Christopher’s hand curled into a tight, painful fist, his mouth set into a vicious snarl. The day he rid himself of the connection could not come a moment too soon.

And it would come. For the first time since he set out on this long journey, he believed the end might be in sight. Unfurling his fist, firmly confining Lord Armstrong to the dark recesses of his mind, Christopher rolled his shoulders, stiff from hours hunched over his makeshift desk. Heading for the outbuilding containing the well, he hauled up a fresh supply of water, stripped himself of his dusty tunic, and made his toilette. The underground spring which fed the well was deep, the water icy as he doused himself with it, stinging his freshly shaved chin. His spare tunic was almost as threadbare as the one he had taken off, but at least it was clean.

Pulling his boots back on, he sat down at the entrance of his temporary dwelling, staring up at the sky as it segued from pale blue to indigo. It was going to be a clear night. A propitious beginning to their exploration of the mine’s environs? Finally, after all this time, he must surely be on the right track. Closing his eyes, he could almost see his future, wavering like a mirage on the edge of his mind, so tantalisingly close.

Perhaps even closer than he imagined, with Tahira’s assistance. Christopher smiled slowly to himself. He was looking forward to seeing her again. Draping his cloak around him, and fastening the igal which held his headdress in place, he closed the door of his makeshift abode and went out to saddle his camel. Who would have thought that a chance meeting would bring about this collision of two people from such impossibly different worlds? He could not have dreamt of encountering a more beautiful, intriguing, exotic companion. That she not only shared his love of the past, but would, with luck, help him close the door on his own shameful history—fate, she had called it, and he had disagreed. But perhaps he had been wrong to do so. It might be that, every now and then, the stars did indeed align.

* * *

The third and innermost courtyard of the Royal Palace of Nessarah was a vast enclosed space, surrounded on all sides by a colonnade of twenty-two marble columns, the walls of which were set with huge mirrors interspersed with elaborate plasterwork covered in gold leaf, the pattern repeated on the ceiling. Divans covered in crimson velvet, tasselled with gold, lined the colonnade at regular intervals, the overall impression being one of lush, shaded opulence. In contrast, the central square of the courtyard was flooded with light.

The high domed ceiling was painted in ultramarine and studded with gold stars. The lower walls were covered in blue and white tiles, the higher ones painted a soft dove-grey, and the arched windows, deliberately set far too high for anyone to peer either in or out, allowed light to dapple the rich silk carpets and terracotta floor tiles. The inner courtyard was, like every other room in the harem complex, beautiful, luxurious, and utterly closed off to the outside world. Or so King Haydar and his only son, Prince Ghutrif, believed. Tahira, the eldest of the royal princesses, knew better.

The crystal chandelier which hung from the central point of the dome held exactly one-hundred-and-twenty-two candles. Tahira knew this for certain, for she had counted them numerous times in an attempt to pass the hours until darkness fell, forcing herself to lie still on the divan, refusing to consult her little jewelled timepiece yet again. She could feel it ticking now where it nestled, concealed beneath her clothing, marking out the hours, minutes, seconds, until she was once more free.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother’s wife, Juwan, enter the courtyard from the door which led to the Crown Princess’s official quarters. Heavy with her second child, which she determinedly proclaimed to all would this time prove to be a prized son, Juwan scanned the room, a frown drawing her finely arched brows together, which cleared as her gaze alighted on her prey.

Quickly closing her eyes, Tahira feigned sleep, but as Juwan sank on to the divan beside her with small sigh, she accepted the inevitable and sat up.

‘Juwan, you look fatigued, don’t you think you should rest, given your condition? It would be better if I left you in peace to do so.’ She stood, arranging a number of silk and velvet cushions invitingly, but although her sister-in-law lowered herself slowly down, rubbing the small of her back, she shook her head when Tahira made to leave.

‘No, stay with me a while. I wish to have a little talk with you.’

Tahira’s heart sank, for since the official visit from Murimon’s Chief Adviser two weeks ago which put an abrupt end to her betrothal, she had endured several such little talks or, more accurately, lectures. Juwan had made it clear—as if Tahira could possibly be in any doubt—that she was very deeply in disgrace. Resigning herself to the inevitable, from force of habit keeping her expression carefully neutral, Tahira pulled a large cushion to face the divan and sank down on to it, crossing her legs.

‘Only a few more weeks now, until your baby arrives. You must grow weary of waiting,’ she said brightly, in an attempt to divert her sister-in-law on to her favourite subject.

Juwan folded her hands over her mountainous stomach. ‘When the time is right, my fine son will grace us with his presence. It is his father who is impatient. Your brother is naturally anxious,’ she added hastily, lest her words be construed as any form or criticism, ‘to finally welcome his long-awaited heir. A man needs a son. I pray I do not let my husband down again.’

Ghutrif had demonstrated little interest in his daughter. Little wonder that Juwan refused to countenance the possibility of a second female child. Though every fibre of her being rebelled, Tahira could not dispute the facts. Here in the royal palace, patriarchal rule had always been both culturally entrenched and rigorously enforced, regardless of the slowly changing outside world. Here in the Nessarah harem, the female of the species was defined by her ability to produce more males to continue the line, or alternatively to enrich the kingdom by means of advantageous marriage contracts.

‘As you know,’ Juwan said, returning to the subject of her visit, ‘this most unfortunate second broken betrothal of yours has upset your brother and father a great deal.’

‘My first betrothed died unexpectedly. That was far more unfortunate for him than me, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Indeed it was. And only a matter of weeks before the marriage, in a most tragic and untimely accident.’

Tahira bit her tongue. Of course she would never have wished Prince Butrus dead, but she could not lie to herself. The tragic news had also come as a huge relief.

‘Clearly no blame can be laid at your door for that first instance,’ Juwan reluctantly conceded, ‘but now it has happened again, and involving the very same royal family. It does not reflect well on you.’

‘I was not the one who tore up the marriage contract,’ Tahira retorted indignantly. ‘And Prince Kadar, I understand, compensated our family far more generously than is customary in such circumstances.’

Juwan pursed her lips. ‘You see, this is another example of the many character traits which cause my husband great concern. Dowries, compensation, these are not matters we women should be discussing. No matter how much recompense your family may have received, the stain of shame clings to you, yet your behaviour in no way reflects this.’

‘What do you expect me to do, hide in a corner crying, or simply keep my head permanently bowed and my mouth permanently closed?’

‘That would certainly be a good start,’ Juwan replied tartly. ‘You set a very poor example to your sisters, continuing as if nothing has happened.’

‘Because as far as I’m concerned nothing did happen!’ Tahira exclaimed, her temper rising. ‘The one and only time I met Prince Kadar of Murimon, we were heavily chaperoned, and all communication was carried out on my behalf by my brother. I did nothing and I said nothing. The outcome is not my fault.’

‘You forget,’ Juwan said, ‘that I was one of the chaperons present to protect your honour. Though your father and my husband may have been oblivious, you overlook the fact that I too have been raised in the confines of the harem, and I too understand the unspoken language, the nuances of the body women such as we have learned to perfect. You made your indifference to the prince very clear without recourse to words.’

There was no point in denying the truth of this. Tahira had from the first fought both betrothals as furiously as was possible against the implacable wall of her brother’s determination to marry her off, to absolutely no effect. The fates had twice intervened in her favour, but she doubted they would do so again.

It was time to deploy a risky strategy. ‘If there is such a very large stain of shame attached to me, perhaps we should accept that I am simply not marriageable,’ Tahira said. ‘Very soon now, you will have your hands full taking care of your new son as well as your daughter. You will not wish to be distracted by having to look after the welfare of my younger sisters too. Let me be their official chaperon. Let me take the burden of that responsibility from you. I would be content with that role and would carry it out dutifully.’

‘So now, finally, you allow your true colours to show,’ Juwan said disdainfully. ‘Ghutrif and I are of one mind, Tahira. Your one and only duty, the purpose for which you have been bred, is to enhance the power and wealth of Nessarah through marriage. As the wife of the Crown Prince, it is my duty to ensure that your sisters are taken care of and married appropriately when the time comes, not yours.’

‘Juwan, I promised my mother...’

‘Tahira, that is another lesson which you have signally failed to learn. Your allegiance is not to a woman fourteen years dead, but to your brother, and to myself as his consort. Our wish is to have you married as soon as possible, sparing us all the pain of your most childish behaviour in defying us. Ghutrif will have his way. The easiest thing for yourself and the sisters you claim to love is to accept the inevitable with good grace.’

‘I do not claim to love my sisters. I love them with all my heart. Ever since our mama died...’

‘Spare me.’ Juwan made no attempt to hide her animosity. ‘You think yourself a surrogate mother to those three, but you are serving them very ill. It is not only my husband who believes you are an unhealthy influence. I see it for myself, the effect you have on them—but Tahira says, but Tahira doesn’t think—so many times every single day I hear those words. I am the wife of the Crown Prince, this is my harem, those girls have a duty to obey me without question.’

‘I don’t teach them disobedience, but I will not deny that I do encourage them to question what does not seem right or fair. My mother raised me to—’

‘Your mother is long dead,’ Juwan spat. ‘Your mother, who put her daughters before her only son, who failed to give Ghutrif his rightful place as the King in waiting. Your mother is no shining example to follow.’

Tahira struggled, but no amount of deep breaths and clenched fists could hold back the tears which gathered on her lashes. It was far too late now for her to rein her emotions in. ‘Ghutrif was always jealous, especially of me. You must not believe the stories he tells, for you must know how he slants things, colours things...’

‘How dare you criticise my husband!’ Juwan heaved herself to her feet. ‘Ghutrif is right. The sooner you are gone from here, the better. We cannot risk those other three following your bad example. It is time they learned that it is in everyone’s interests, not least their own, to let you go. Time they learned how selfish they have been. Alimah and Durrah in particular are forever begging me to ask my husband not to make another match for you.’

‘They are young. Do not judge them too harshly. Ishraq is more reconciled to her fate.’

‘Perhaps, but where you lead they will all follow eventually, even Ishraq. Do you really want them to reject the excellent marriages your brother will make for them? Do you wish to deprive them of the joy of children of their own?’

‘No, of course I do not! Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m offering to give up any prospect of marriage in order to better prepare them for theirs.’

‘Have you asked them if that’s what they want, for their dearest sister to sacrifice so much for them?’

‘It’s no great sacrifice from my perspective.’

Juwan shook her head, smiling in that condescending way that made Tahira wish to knock her turban off. ‘You have been a mother to those three for many years, but they no longer require a mother. Ishraq is almost twenty years old, more than ready for marriage. You are spoiling her chances and, fiercely loyal as she is, you may believe me when I tell you that she is becoming frustrated with your intransigence. She wants to establish her own harem, to raise her own family. As for Alimah and Durrah, they may be young yet, but in three or four years’ time they too will wish to fly this nest. It is the natural order of things. Only you are behaving unnaturally. Fortunately, though you may not believe it, my husband and I know what is best for you. The Murimon alliance would have been an excellent one, but that ship has sailed,’ Juwan said brusquely. ‘What matters now is to find you a replacement husband as a matter of urgency. You are twenty-four years old, a full three years older than I, but not yet past marrying age. The match being arranged for you will not be so prestigious, but you had better make sure you accept it with alacrity.’

Panic made Tahira forget herself. She clutched at Juwan’s sleeve. ‘Has my brother—or goodness, don’t tell me that my father...?’

Juwan carefully removed her fingers. ‘As you know perfectly well, our beloved King Haydar is far too frail to take an active role in any matters of state, and entrusts my dear husband to act on his behalf. Ghutrif is expending a great deal of energy in order to secure a suitable husband for you and is making excellent progress. I hope you will be suitably grateful. This harem has become a place of turmoil when it should be an oasis of calm while I await the birth of my son. If you cannot act out of a sense of duty towards me or my husband, demonstrate your avowed love for your sisters by embracing the next offer made for your hand.’ Juwan glanced up at the row of high arched windows. ‘It grows dark, long past time for me to retire. I bid you goodnight.’

* * *

Tahira watched her sister-in-law sway across the courtyard like a dhow in full sail before making swiftly for her own quarters, her thoughts already turning to the night ahead. She would have to be extremely careful. The merest hint of her sense of excited anticipation might arouse suspicion. Her sister-in-law saw a great deal more than she let on. They all did, here in the stifling atmosphere of the official harem, and no doubt it was the same over the wall, in the unofficial harem inhabited by her brother’s concubines. There was little else to do save to observe and to gossip, for those who had not the key to freedom.

But Tahira did. Her heart jumped. Butterflies fluttered in her tummy. Juwan’s little talk had left her feeling both furious and defiant. She did not want to accept the stark truth which had been laid out before her. She did not want to think of the fate which imminently awaited her, or the pain of separation it implied. She did not want to admit that there was any truth in anything Juwan said. All she wanted was to escape. The sensible thing would be to keep her head down, play the supplicant, act the penitent. But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, Christopher was awaiting her.

Christopher. The perfect antidote to her unpalatable reality. A man with no surname and precious little background. A man of mystery with a mystery of his own to resolve. He had most certainly not told her the full story behind that priceless amulet, a fifteen-hundred-year-old relic that might even prove to be part of her very own heritage. How she had managed to contain her astonishment when she realised it might actually have been passed down through the generations of her own family was anyone’s guess. One of her own ancestors might actually have worn it. When she touched it, she had sensed the connection, she was certain of it. Just thinking about it gave her goose bumps. It was not just serendipity. The fates had placed her there at the mine last night, they meant her to help Christopher solve the mystery of the amulet. She, who knew better than anyone in the whole of Nessarah the history of the kingdom’s mines. She, who might even be a direct descendant of the person for whom the amulet was fashioned. No wonder it seemed to speak to her heart. She laughed at herself for being so fanciful, but she believed it to be true all the same.

Christopher, however, felt no such attachment to the amulet. Her smile faded as she recalled his expression when he looked at it. Not a precious link to a distant past, but an unwelcome link to his own history that he wanted to sever. How quickly his mood had swung last night. He had looked at the beautiful piece of jewellery with such loathing. That devil-may-care façade she found so attractive hid a much darker, more tortured soul. Christopher was not a man she would care to cross.

But he was definitely a man she wanted to know better. Tahira wrapped her arms around herself. A man who saw her, a woman without a royal title or impeccable blue-blooded lineage, but like him, without a name and with precious little background. Christopher had made it very clear he liked what he saw. That a man so vital, so wildly attractive could be attracted to her—she couldn’t quite believe it. Last night, she had rather desperately wanted him to kiss her. The ultimate temptation and the ultimate deterrent, he had called her innocence. Was it wrong of her to wish that innocence away?

Yes, Tahira acknowledged with a wicked smile, very wrong but very appealing. Not that she would ever dare surrender what amounted to her most marketable asset, but there was no harm in travelling a very little way down the sinful path, when no one would ever know, was there? If one thing had become clear from her discussion with Juwan, it was that the days of her current life were severely numbered.

Talking of time! Tahira checked her watch, and gave a gasp of surprise. It was later than she realised. More than time for her to assume the garb of her alter ego and escape from the harem under cover of darkness, to keep her assignation with the mysterious and brooding foreigner. After all, it would be foolish not to take maximum advantage of what little time, and personal freedom, she had left.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.