Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride

Chapter Three

As Kadar reined his horse in from a final breakneck gallop along the scimitar-like crescent of beach, the sun was well on the rise. The pure-bred Arabian stallion, flanks heaving and glistening with sweat, cooled his fetlocks in the shallow waters of the sea as Kadar watched the sky turn from pale grey, to pale pink, and then to gold, the colours reflected in the turquoise hue of the sea like a vast glittering mirror. He felt invigorated. His skin tingled with dried salt and sweat, his thigh muscles felt pleasantly tired, and his mind was as sharp as the air here on this, his favourite part of the coast.

His early morning ride was one of the very few things Kadar had not sacrificed since Butrus’s death had led to him assume power. This precious hour was often the only one he was granted in the space of a whole day to be alone, to gather his thoughts and to brace himself for the challenges of the day to come. But today, as he stared out at the sea, watching a little line of fishing dhows in the distance emerging from the port like ducklings paddling upriver, he was not thinking about his duties, he was thinking about Lady Constance Montgomery.

Almost from the moment she walked into the Royal Saloon, clad in that peasant tunic, with her wild hair, and those big hazelnut-brown eyes, he had been drawn to her. When he returned to the Royal Saloon last night he had found her asleep on the cushions, curled up like a little mouse, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her hair tumbled in waves over her shoulder. The softness of her flesh when he lifted her made his groin ache with desire. Her body was so pliant. The curve of her breast, the roundness of her rear, that sweetly female scent of her as he carried her to her quarters and laid her down on the bed. What man would not be aroused?

He did desire her, there was no point in denying it. It had been a long time since he’d felt that immediate tug of attraction, that frisson of awareness that was entirely physical, a primitive recognition that this particular woman, her particular body, was exactly suited to his.

Perhaps that was why he felt it so strongly? There had been women, over the years. His heart was closed and sealed, but his body was virile, his appetites healthy. He was careful in his choices. He had learned to recognise the women whose passions burned, like his, with a cool flame. But there had been no woman in his bed since he had departed the university at Athens en route to Murimon to attend Butrus’s wedding. And there had been no woman with the visceral allure of Lady Constance for a very long time.

Kadar closed his eyes, permitting himself a rare moment of indulgence to imagine how it would be to make love to her. He remembered that wicked smile, imagined those lips on his, teasing kisses, her hair a cloud of curls on her bare shoulders, and those generous breasts he had glimpsed, heavy in his hand. Pale-pink nipples? Dark pink? Or that shade of pink that was tinged with brown? Hard nipples. When he ran his thumbs over them, she would shiver, arch her back, thrusting her breasts higher. The curls which covered her sex would be the same burnished chestnut colour as her hair, perhaps a shade darker. She would sit astride him. She would slide onto him, slick and hot. When she rode him, her breasts would quiver, bounce. When he came...

Kadar swore long and viciously. He was fully aroused, painfully aroused, which was no state to be in while sitting on a hard leather saddle on a highly strung horse. He dismounted, leading the beast onto the dry sand. Now he was to be married, his desire must be reserved for his wife. He tried to conjure up her face, her body, but all he could recall were her eyes above the veil she wore, cool, distant, indifferent. He swore again as the blood ebbed from his manhood. It was to be hoped that this was not an ill omen.

* * *

Constance clambered back to consciousness, resisting the impulse to snuggle back under the thick blanket of drowsiness which enveloped her. Awareness came slowly. First of the bed she lay in, of the softness of the mattress, the pillows like clouds of feathers, the light, sensual flutter of the cool cotton sheets on her limbs. She was wearing something silky that caressed her skin, quite unlike the rough material of the tunic Bashir’s daughter had given her. She stretched luxuriously, from her toes all the way up to her fingertips, rolling her shoulders, arching her back. She felt as if she had been asleep for a very long time.

Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the ceiling. It was domed, painted a dazzling pristine white. The room was suffused with sunlight. The window through which it streamed was set high in the wall opposite, covered by some sort of carved wooden grille. Beautiful colours adorned that wall and all the others. Tiles. Red and yellow and blue and green, in an unfamiliar pattern that repeated every fourth row. There was a small table set beside her bed. On it sat a silver pitcher frosted with condensation. She was very, very thirsty. She poured herself a glass from the jug and took a tentative sip. Sharp lemon, sweet sugar flavours burst onto her tongue. It was refreshing and delicious. She drained the glass and poured another.

The nightgown she wore was cream, embroidered with tiny white flowers. She had never owned anything so pretty. How long had she been sleeping? Who had put her to bed? The whisper of women’s voices, the gentle hands massaging something soothing into her forehead, she had thought that a dream. The fog in her head began to slowly clear. She recalled the journey from Bashir’s village. The boat. She shuddered. Don’t think of the boat. And then the sedan chair. And then...

Prince Kadar.

Constance gave a little shiver, then frowned at her reaction. She was twenty-five years old and not immune to the appeal of a handsome man, but this was different, no passing fancy but a shocking pang of—of base desire. She had never felt such a very primal attraction before. She wasn’t at all sure that she liked it.

She smiled. No, that was a lie. She did like it, very much. She liked this tingling feeling she felt, and she liked the fluttering low in her belly, and she liked the little shiver—there it was again, that delicious little shiver, of feeling something she was pretty sure no lady should, and of wanting to do something no lady should either. That a man like Prince Kadar would ever—that she would ever—no, no, no, she never would. But goodness, the sheer impossibility of it was part of the allure.

She stretched again, enjoying the caress of silk and sheets of the softest cotton on her skin. Sinful, sinful, sinful. And decadent. Sinfully decadent. Decadently sinful. Constance laughed. It was not like her to be so frivolous. Then again, it was hardly commonplace for her to be lying in a bed in a suite in a royal palace, the guest of an Arabian prince. It was fantastical, a dream. Or the continuation of a dream, for nothing had seemed real to her since she had awoken in Bashir’s cottage. It was as if time was suspended, and her life too.

How was it that Prince Kadar had described it last night? ‘Cast adrift,’ that was it. Cast adrift from both the past and the future. She liked the idea of that, it was an alluring conceit. The Prince had a way with words. And his command of English was extremely impressive. He had told her he had lived abroad, but he had not told her where. Or why. Seven years, he had said. Through choice? What had he been doing, wherever it was he had been? And why had he come back to Arabia? She didn’t even know how his brother had met his fate—an accident, an illness? Constance frowned. Now she came to think it over, he had given away remarkably little, while she—she had revealed far too much.

She pulled the sheet over her head. Far, far too much. She had aired thoughts she shouldn’t ever have. So she would not permit herself to have them now. Instead, she would think of the Prince. Never mind all the things she didn’t know about him, what did she know? There had been moments when he let his guard down, but they had been very rare. Prince Kadar considered his words very carefully. He was one of those men who made good use of silences too. Deliberately, she was sure of it. He’d be the type of man to whom secrets would be blurted out, crimes confessed.

I am not married. One very interesting piece of information he had let slip. There had been something in his expression when he said those words, but she couldn’t articulate what it was. Why on earth was a man so—so fascinating and so tempting as Prince Kadar not married? It could certainly not be for lack of opportunity. Even without an Arabian kingdom and all its trappings, even if Prince Kadar were not a prince but a footman, or a groom, she could not imagine he would lack opportunity. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine him taking orders either. So perhaps not a footman. Or a groom. Or any sort of servant.

Oh, for goodness’ sake! To return to the point. Why wasn’t he married, when surely he could have his choice of any woman? Save women like her, of course, who would never choose to marry. Constance groaned, casting off the sheet. Except that was precisely what she was going to do just as soon as she could board a ship heading east. Provided she could force herself to actually board the ship. Which she would have to do, no matter how terrifying the idea was, because Mr Edgbaston had paid for her in good faith, and much as she’d like him to continue to believe her lost at sea, she was not lost at sea.

Her mood spoilt, her sense of impending doom returned, Constance dangled her legs over the edge of the high divan bed. She felt decidedly shaky. The floor was marble, cool on the soles of her feet. Pulling on a robe which had been helpfully draped at the bottom of the bed, she made her way carefully to the double doors set in the far wall. They were wooden, ornately carved, similar to the grille covering the window above. Pulling them wide, she found herself in a sitting room with a view out to a courtyard. Dropping onto a huge cushion beside the tall window, she leaned her cheek against the glass. What if she really could decide not to return from the dead? Who would miss her, truly? Mama...

A lump rose in her throat. Tears burned in her eyes. She had come all this way at Mama’s behest, even though she was pretty sure—no, she was absolutely certain—that what Mama wanted was not in her best interests. What would Mama want her to do now? The answer to that had not changed. She certainly would not want her to return to England. Constance sighed, her breath misting the glass. It was rather dispiriting to discover that whether one was dead or alive didn’t much matter to anyone. Save herself, of course.

A gentle rap on the door preceded the entrance of a small procession of servants, which diverted her from her melancholy introspection. One after another, they clasped their hands and bowed slightly before her in formal greeting. One maid set out breakfast. Two others began to lay out a selection of clothes in the most delightfully cool materials, and yet another maid presented her with a note, written in English. Prince Kadar requested her presence.

Constance gazed around her at the flurry of activity, which included two more maids setting out a huge bath in the bedchamber. Honestly, she had no cause at all to be downhearted. She had days, perhaps even weeks of respite ahead of her here as a guest in this fabulous royal palace. Days in which to enjoy being becalmed, cast adrift, shipwrecked. She was going to savour every one of them.

* * *

Constance learned that it took an inordinately long time to prepare one for an audience with a prince. First she was bathed in water delicately perfumed with rose petals. Her freshly washed hair was tamed into something resembling submission thanks to some scented oil. The clothes, which she had eventually allowed the collection of maids to select for her, were also unlike anything she had ever worn. Loose pantaloons, gathered tightly at her ankles and cinched at her waist, made from a creamy gossamer-fine fabric that clung revealingly to her legs. A thin-strapped camisole was her only undergarment. Over this, a simple tunic in cream muslin which stopped at her thighs, and on top of that, a sort of sleeveless half-dress in apricot silk which fastened with tiny pearl buttons, leaving the slip beneath, and the bottom of those shocking pantaloons, exposed. Soft kid slippers adorned her feet.

Studying her reflection, quite unrecognizable to herself, Constance thought she resembled something between a milkmaid and a concubine. Not that she’d ever actually seen, far less met, a concubine. It felt decidedly odd, being fully dressed without being laced into a corset. Though the overdress was buttoned tightly at her waist, the neckline skimmed the top of her breasts, which were confined only by the thin muslin of the tunic—or rather cradled rather than confined. Staring critically at the swell of her bosom, she supposed she was at least more decently covered than if she had been wearing a ball gown in the latest fashion.

And the posse who had created this vision seemed to be happy with the effect. She was, finally, fit to be seen by the Prince. Smiling and miming her thanks, Constance trailed in the wake of another servant through a warren of corridors before being ushered up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. She paused for a moment at the top, her eyes dazzled by the brightness of the sun. Blinking, shielding her eyes while she became accustomed to the glare, she found herself on a large rooftop terrace.

The floor was laid out in mosaic, white with swirling patters of green and yellow and red, like the floor of a Roman villa. A parapet of red stone bounded the terrace, and tall terracotta pots filled with exotic ferns stood sentry at each corner. In the centre a large angular object shrouded in canvas took up much of the available space, and over in one corner an awning had been set up, under which a desk strewn with papers, scrolls and stacks of leather-bound books had been placed. Seated behind it was Prince Kadar.

‘Lady Constance.’

His hair was damp, slicked back over his head, though it was already beginning to curl rebelliously. He wore a long tunic in broad grey-and-white stripes, grey trousers, black slippers. She still couldn’t decide whether his eyes were grey or green, but she had been right about his mouth. Sensual. There was no other word for it. Except perhaps sinful. And if she didn’t want to appear like a blushing idiot, she had better stop thinking about it.

‘Good morning.’ The Prince bowed over her hand, in the European style. ‘I trust you are feeling better? You look quite—quite transformed.’

‘I have certainly never worn exotic garments such as these,’ Constance replied, flustered by her thoughts, and by his touch, and by that gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, which she must have imagined.

‘I regret our markets were unable to provide the kind of clothing you are accustomed to—or so I was informed by the female who selected these. The wife of one of my Council members.’

‘Please thank her. And please believe me when I tell you that I like these clothes much better. They are infinitely more suitable to this climate. In my own clothes, I would be far too hot. All those petticoats and...’ stays was not a word one said to a gentleman, never mind a prince ‘...and things,’ Constance finished lately. ‘What I mean is, thank you, Your Highness, for being so thoughtful. I am afraid that I have no means to pay you back for these, but...’

‘Do not, I pray, insult me.’

His manner changed so abruptly that Constance flinched, only then realizing how informal he had been moments before. She bit her lip. She dropped into something that could be construed as a curtsy. ‘I assure you, no insult was intended.’

Silence. A nod. More silence. Constance stared down at her feet. ‘I expect you’ve brought me up here to tell me I’m to be packed off on a ship at first light,’ she said resignedly.

Prince Kadar pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘It is, unfortunately, uncommon for trading vessels from the west to call in at our port. Most sail straight for India once they have navigated the Cape of Good Hope. I have confirmed that the next ship is not expected until August.’

‘August! But this is only May.’

‘Unfortunately we have no other ship here at Murimon which is fit for the voyage. Apparently my brother commissioned a schooner to be built. A three-master. Ocean going.’ Prince Kadar shook his head. ‘Why Butrus imagined he needed such a thing, I have no idea, but it is beside the point. It is not completed, and will not be until July at the earliest.’

‘So I am effectively stranded here for two months,’ Constance said.

‘Possibly three.’

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

Prince Kadar gave her one of those assessing looks. ‘For what?’

‘I shall be inconveniencing you. Three months is a long time for an uninvited guest to stay.’

The Prince smiled. ‘But I did invite you, last night, to stay for as long as you wish.’

‘Yes, but...’

‘Lady Constance, I repeat, your presence here is most welcome.’

Goodness, but when he smiled she quite lost track of her thoughts. It was like the dazzle of a faraway star captured in the lens of her telescope, temporarily blinding her to everything else. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, blinking. ‘If there is anything I can do while I am here to work my passage, so to speak, then I would be delighted to help. I’m afraid I’m not a very good needlewoman, but I’m very good with accounts. Though I can’t imagine why you would need a bookkeeper when you most likely have a treasurer.’

‘And an assistant treasurer and any number of scribes,’ the Prince said. ‘There are any number of needlewomen here at the palace too, I expect. Your time will be your own.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with it. I like to be busy.’

‘Then you must see some of our country, explore its delights. Which brings me to the reason I asked you up here, to my private terrace. Come.’ Prince Kadar ushered her over to the waist-high parapet. ‘There, take a look at Murimon.’

The view which confronted her was quite stunning. Sea and sky met on the horizon, both brilliant azure blue, the sky streaked with wispy white cloud, the sea sparkling with little white-crested waves. A line of fishing boats was strung out in the distance, too far away for her to make out more than the distinctive shallow hulls and single lateen sails. The wide sweep of the coastline to her left consisted of a number of little bays and fishing villages similar to Bashir’s village, with white strips of sand, the houses huddled together on the narrow shoreline. Behind the nearer villages, narrow strips of green cultivated land could be made out. On the right, the terrain was more mountainous, rolling red-and-ochre hills guarding much steeper, jagged peaks. Here, there were few vestiges of green, and even fewer villages.

The port of Murimon sat proudly in the centre, directly below the palace. The harbour was formed by two long curves of rock embracing the sea. At the end of each arm stood a lighthouse. On the furthest-away point, buildings covered every inch of available space, some three or four storeys high, some squat and low. Presumably wharves, their huge doorways opened directly onto the jetties which sat at right angles to the shoreline. The nearer harbour wall was higher and rockier, housing a small defensive fortress. The port was nothing like the size of Plymouth, where she had embarked on the Kent, but it looked to have a similar sense of bustle. Ships of all shapes and sizes sat at anchor in the middle of the bay or were moored to the jetty. Dhows, much bigger than the fishing boats of Bashir’s village, darted in and out between the statelier vessels.

The town attached to the port lay spread out below them. Constance leaned over the parapet to get a closer look. The path she must have followed in her chair last night zigzagged up the hillside below, past houses, tall and narrow, and tinkling fountains set in small squares.

She leaned over further. The roof terrace seemed to be at the highest point of the palace, in the very centre of the building. There looked to be three or even four storeys below the huge central edifice on which they were perched, with two low terraced wings on either side. A vast piazza, tiled with marble and bordered by two straight sentry-like lines of palm trees, formed the entrance to the palace itself, with a sweeping staircase on either side of an arched portal meeting on the first floor. It was exotic and absurdly impractical and utterly foreign and completely overwhelming.

‘Well, what do you think of my humble domain?’

Constance turned too suddenly, snatching at the edge of the parapet as the heat and the glare of the sea and the sky and the sun all combined to make her dizzy.

A strong arm caught her as she staggered. ‘Careful. I would hate to have to report your untimely death for a second time.’

She laughed weakly. Her cheek rested against the Prince’s shoulder. She closed her eyes to combat the dizziness and breathed in the clean scent of cotton dried in the sunshine, warm skin and soap, and the slight tang of salt from the sea. Her senses swam. She put her hand onto his chest to right herself. Hard muscle over bone. Which she had no right to be touching.

‘Thank you, I’m perfectly fine now.’ Constance turned back to the view, shading her eyes. ‘Your humble domain is absolutely spectacular. I’ve never seen anything remotely like it. How far from the harbour was the Kent when she went down?’

‘You see that dhow out there?’ He stood directly behind her, his arm pointing over her shoulder at a distant boat. ‘She lies not far from there. Almost all of her passengers and crew were rescued by the boats which were harboured at the port. A few of those who perished were found in the next bay, over there. The bay where you were washed up is beyond that outcrop, as you can see, a fair distance away. The piece of broken mast you clung to must have drifted with the tide and carried you there before depositing you on the beach.’

The sea looked so calm, she could hardly credit that it could have been so violent. ‘I don’t remember anything,’ Constance said with a shudder, ‘save being thrown overboard. Absolutely nothing after that.’

‘It is as well.’ Kadar stepped back. ‘I think you have more than enough terrible memories of the storm to keep you awake at night.’