The Desert Bride of Al Zayed / Best Man's Conquest

Three

The following morning Jayne crept silently into the Emir’s quarters. A couple of men huddled in the antechamber murmuring prayers and didn’t notice her sneaking past. The male nurse in the bedchamber nodded to Jayne as she entered.

Jayne was shocked at the change in the tyrant who had made her life such a misery. Sheikh Rashid lay in the high bed, his face gaunt, the bones showing through skin as pale as parchment, his lips drained of all colour. He turned his head when she paused beside him. Jayne had a glimpse of rheumy eyes, great black sunken rings around them, and then his eyelids closed again.

“He is not well today,” the nurse said. “He has been drifting in and out of consciousness, confused about what is real and what is not. The painkillers are not helping.”

“What exactly is wrong with him?” Jayne asked delicately.

“He has cancer of the bowel. It has been eating him, sapping his vitality.”

So it was true. The old Emir really was dying. But Jayne felt no satisfaction…or even regret. Instead, a searing sadness followed by a vast well of emptiness filled her.

“I’m so sorry.”

Sheikh Rashid’s eyes opened. For a moment there was a flare of recognition. Jayne recoiled. The Emir muttered something indistinct.

“He is talking to you,” the nurse said. “Bend closer.”

Wary, as if he could bite, Jayne moved closer. She leaned forward.

“Lina,” she thought he whispered.

Jayne frowned. “He’s saying something.” She waited a moment, then reached out awkwardly and touched the pile of bedclothes. “I am here.”

“Lina,” he whispered more insistently.

Her eyes troubled, Jayne said to the nurse, “I think he is confusing me with someone else.” She patted the bedclothes, feeling the bony shoulder through the coverings.

His eyelids fluttered down and his breathing became regular.

“He’s sleeping. Your presence is soothing him.”

There must be some mistake. If he knew about her presence, the Emir would be rabid with rage. Withdrawing her hand, Jayne backed away to the door.

When Jayne went searching for Tariq a little while later, the disturbing sense of unease aroused by her visit to the Emir still had not left her. She found Tariq in the mews where the royal raptors were housed. Squinting through the dim light to the back of the building, Jayne made out Tariq’s form clad in his distinctive white thobe.

She picked her way past a row of hooded birds perched on railings. There had been times in the past when she’d thought the birds were accorded more respect and affection than she had been.

The falcon perched regally on Tariq’s glove glowered at her with suspicious eyes that reminded her instantly of Tariq—even though these were dark and his were pure gold. It was a larger bird than she’d expected to see. But the bird had the same long, pointed wings and dark eyes.

“That’s not Khan,” Jayne said, referring to Tariq’s prized bird. The bird gaped at her, its beak open, a show of aggression to an unfamiliar intruder.

“This is Noor, a young bird that I’m training. Like Khan, she’s a shaheen—a peregrine—but she doesn’t know you.”

“She’s bigger.” Jayne eyed the bird’s open mouth with caution. The feathers on the falcon’s head and neck were black, and a dark stripe extended down from the eye to the throat. Noor’s throat and cheeks were white with narrow banded stripes on her breast and flecks across her back.

“She’s a female, they’re up to a third larger than the males. Here.” Tariq passed Jayne a small piece of meat. “Place it in her open beak. It will stop her threatening you.”

Jayne fed the bird gingerly, wary of the sharp beak. When the titbit was gone, Noor tilted her head expectantly. “No more for now,” Jayne told the bird. To Tariq she said, “Where’s Khan?”

“Khan died. A long time ago.” The shadows in his eyes told her he was thinking of more than his beloved falcon.

Jayne could prevaricate no longer. “Your father is much worse than I expected.”

“I told you that he is dying.”

“I didn’t—” She broke off. I didn’t believe you. “I didn’t realise how bad it was. The nurse said that he has cancer.”

Tariq nodded. “He fought it with everything he had. He has lost the most important battle of his life.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words sounded so inadequate.

Tariq must have thought so, too, because he raised a mocking brow. “I doubt it. You always hated him.”

Jayne stared at him mutely. Now was hardly the time to correct him, to tell him that Sheikh Rashid had hated her with a ferocious intensity that had sometimes scared her witless. The Emir had seen her as an interloper, and had taken every opportunity to make her feel like an outsider, until he’d poisoned even Tariq against her.

The falcon shifted restlessly on the glove, bringing Jayne’s attention back to the bird. She studied the leather jesses bound to her legs. Noor was as captive as she had once been. “Noor wants your attention.”

“She’s hungry. She wants food.” Tariq moved his other hand into the bucket containing strips of meat. The falcon tensed, her head coming forward, anticipation in every line of her body. Tariq placed the piece of meat on the glove and the falcon lowered her head and took it.

“Here, give her another piece.”

Jayne fed it to the bird. This time Noor gave a squawk. Jayne gave the bird a wary look.

“She won’t eat you.” There was a hint of derision in his tone. “It’s easy to come to an understanding with a falcon. The falcon simply has to stay hungrier.”

Noor gaped at her again. “I don’t think she likes me.”

Tariq made an impatient sound. “She’s a bird. Noor doesn’t recognise like or love. She’s interested in having her wants satisfied. She feels no emotion.” He shot her a hooded glance. “A typical woman.”

Jayne ignored the dig. “She’s so graceful yet so strong.” She moved to stroke the bird, Noor flapped her wings in warning.

“Careful. She’s a wild animal, a predator. An opportunist. Not a house pet.”

“Is she hungry? Will you take her out to hunt? Or will she fly away?”

“She’s eaten sufficient. But even if I took her out she would not fly away. My relationship with Noor is straightforward, based on trust—unlike most male-female interactions. Noor trusts me to feed her. I trust her to return.”

Jayne felt the jab of the barb. She started to protest. Then gave up. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be drawn. Instead she said, “Your father spoke to me.”

Tariq’s gaze sharpened. “What did he say?”

“I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I think he was confused, he thought I was someone else. He called me ‘Lina.’”

His head went back, and his eyes flared to black. “That’s impossible. You must’ve misheard.”

Jayne considered him. What was that stark emotion in his eyes? Shock? Disbelief. And why? “What does it mean?”

“That was his name for my mother.” Tariq’s eyes were as empty as the stony desert she’d passed in the taxi yesterday.

“Perhaps he wants to see her?”

“No.” He made a sudden, definite movement. The falcon reacted by flapping her wings and hopping up and down on the glove. “My mother is not welcome in Zayed.”

Jayne waited. When Tariq failed to add more, she said, “I never met your mother. You never talk about her.”

“As far as my father and I are concerned, that woman does not exist.”

“Yet you see your maternal cousins, don’t you?”

“That is different. Not only are we bound by blood, we are bound by business interests, too. My cousin Zac owns supertankers, I run refineries. There’s a reason for us to get together. My cousins know that my mother is not welcome in my presence.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s how your father feels any longer. He’s dying. Perhaps he wants to make peace with your mother.”

“My mother abandoned us—him—for another man. She has her own family—another daughter.”

There was a flatness to Tariq’s tone that had Jayne shooting him a questioning look. There must be pain about his mother’s desertion. Somewhere. Deep inside him. They’d been married, yet she’d never been aware of this suffering within him.

“There is no space in her life for me or my father,” he said, feeding Noor another sliver of meat. “Nor would my father want her back.”

“Perhaps it’s not a case of wanting her back. Perhaps it’s more about wanting to tie off the loose ends in his life before he dies.”

“You misheard. My father would never want my mother back in Zayed.” The finality in Tariq’s tone warned Jayne that the subject of his mother was better left alone.

Absently Jayne watched the bird preen, her beak stroking through her feathers, setting them right. “I’m sorry I mentioned it. I just thought you might know who your father confused me with.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that he confused you.” A hand touched her hair. Jayne’s gaze jerked upward. Emotion flared in his eyes. “You both have long, dark hair and pale ivory skin.”

“I’ve never seen a photo of your mother.” Jayne was sure his mother would be beautiful. Nothing like her. Ordinary. Plain Jayne.

“There are no pictures in the palace of my mother. As there are none of you. Both of you treacherous, two-timing—”

Jayne shifted abruptly. “I’m not listening to this. I was prepared to discuss this in the past. You wouldn’t listen then and I’m not getting caught up in it all over again.” He’d stonewalled her then, breaking her heart. “It’s water under the bridge.”

Water under the bridge.

The painful memories exploded inside her. She swung away from Tariq and made blindly for the exit to the mews, to where shafts of silver sunlight broke into the gloomy interior, lighting her escape. No footsteps followed. And she was glad.

She didn’t want to talk about the baby that she’d carried in her body. The baby she’d lost. It hurt too much. It was something she could never forget, something that stayed with her every day of her life.

But what choice had she had?

The day dragged past. Jayne had bought some magazines at the airport in Auckland to read on the plane and she flicked through them listlessly. She itched for a book to read, but Tariq’s library was a place she dared not go. It held too many unpleasant reminders of his distrust.

So she lay down on the bed and dozed, until every last wisp of jetlag had lifted. When the knock sounded on the door late in the afternoon, heralding Latifa’s entrance, Jayne was ready for a distraction.

“There are many people in the palace this evening. His Excellency has been kept busy all day.” Latifa’s young eyes were kind and wise beyond their years. “I am sure Sheikh Tariq is looking forward to seeing the sheikhah tonight. There has been much talking today.”

This was what had driven her mad the first time round. The long days with no sign of Tariq. The absence of anything to do, while the men closed themselves behind high carved wooden doors, wearing sombre expressions. And few of the women she’d met had spoken English, even though some had seemed nice enough. But apart from one or two invitations none had made any overtures of friendship to her.

In the past Tariq had told her to be patient. That she would make friends in time, that her loneliness would ease.

If only it had been so simple.

“Look, this came for you today.” Latifa produced the box with the air of a magician performing a wondrous trick that deserved squeals of delight. Jayne didn’t have the heart not to smile.

“What is it?”

“It is most beautiful.” Latifa opened the lid to reveal a caftan and sheer hijab in shades of emerald shot through with bronze thread. “There are shoes to match and pants.” She pulled out the high-heeled pumps like a rabbit from a hat. “And more clothes will arrive in the morning.”

“I don’t want clothes,” Jayne protested.

But once dressed, Jayne had to admit that the colour suited her. The green accentuated the raven highlights in her hair, and her skin was paler than ever. Mascara, and a hint of kajal around her eyes to emphasise the shape, and she was ready to go. Draping the hijab across her shoulders and leaving her hair uncovered, she made her way downstairs, through the labyrinth of palace corridors.

The long table in the stateroom was laid with cutlery that gleamed in the light of the heavy chandeliers overhead. Men from the large delegation that Latifa had alluded to were already arriving; some in dark suits with only the traditional headgear, while others wore traditional dress. A few women were scattered around. A quick glance revealed that Tariq was nowhere to be seen.

An aide appeared and directed Jayne to where two vacant seats remained down the length of the table. Jayne kept her head down, aware of the speculative glances she was attracting. She was grateful for the welcoming smile from the woman seated to the left of her and they started to chat.

The woman introduced herself as Farrah Jirah in fluent English. It turned out that she was a doctor who practised in the maternity unit of the local hospital. Jayne found her charming, and she stopped worrying about where Tariq was.

When Tariq finally strode in, flanked by Ali and Mahood, Jayne could tell from the taut way he held himself that the latest round of meetings had not gone well.

Tariq’s gaze flashed to the top of the table, took in the empty place at the head. His brow drew into a frown as he scanned the surrounding seats. The tension in his shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw her.

Jayne turned back to talk to her friendly neighbour. A moment later she sensed someone beside her.

“Are you okay?”

It was Tariq. He looked tired, the lines around his mouth more deeply scored than they had been this morning, and his eyes held concern.

“I’m fine. You look tired.”

A ghost of a smile flitted over his harsh features. “It’s been a hard day.”

“I won’t even ask how whatever meetings you had went.” Ali and Mahood were trouble. Vipers. She’d known that since the first time she’d met them. And Ali’s daughter, Leila, was pure poison. Tariq was welcome to her.