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He would do his duty by his country. He would take a wife to be his Queen, to give the kingdom the much-needed heir who would secure the dynasty and guard the peace.
And that was all.
He would be a dutiful king, a faithful husband, surely a caring father. He might not have learned how to be a father from his own coldly distant parents, but surely that meant he knew what not to do? And there was Karim’s example to follow.
He needed a wife and he would treat her like a queen. But he would never, ever let her in. If he did she would see that all there was inside him where his heart should be was a cold, empty cavern.
There are hundreds of people out there—thousands. Husbands and wives, families and children, all of whom are enjoying the evening—the peace—because of you.
Zia’s voice, low, slightly breathless, sounded so closely in his ear that he almost turned, expecting to see that she had come to stand beside him. But it was nothing but imagination and the forceful impact of the memory of that night.
If he had been able to track her down, then what would have followed? A night of heated passion where he tried to sate this restless hunger in the warmth and softness of her body? Was he really brought so far down that he would have considered using her in this way because she had stirred senses he had thought were dead?
‘No!’
She deserved better than that. Better than him.
If nothing else then at least he could tell himself that he had shown a degree of honour when he had turned his back on her even though it was obvious that she had felt that same dangerous tug of attraction. He had spared her the moment when he would have had to walk away from her after one night. Because one night was all they could have had. He had already decided that he would speak those words and set in motion the search for a suitable wife and Queen.
‘Let it be done.’
And now things were moving forward. The news the chancellor had brought to him today was that matters had been set in hand. Prospective brides had been chosen, their families approached. All that mattered now was for him to see them. To make his choice.
‘Choice!’
He uttered the word aloud like a dark curse as he stared out of the window.
The truth was that he would have more personal choice of a new horse or even a hunting dog. The facts were that it was being made clear that he must choose on the basis of politics and diplomacy; the benefits to the country that his wife would bring, rather than anything else. Left to his choice, he would not go through this at all.
But he had vowed to do his duty to his country, and that vow held him like a chain.
* * *
‘But you don’t need me to be there!’ Aziza protested, turning to face her sister so that the determination on her face must show as clearly as possible. She had no need to try and show her horror; it must be evident from her tone and her expression. ‘This has nothing to do with me! It’s—it’s you they have asked for.’
‘I know.’
Jamalia’s smile had just a hint of smugness in it, and as she glanced in the huge mirror on the wall she positively preened as she smoothed back a non-existent loose hair in her sleek black mane. But a moment later her self-control slipped just a bit, showing a touch of vulnerability beneath.
‘But... I can’t go alone. I’ll need someone to help me—dress me—a chaperone.’
‘But why does it have to be me?’
Why couldn’t it be anyone else? Jamalia’s maid? Some other attendant? If only their mother hadn’t taken ill at just this particular moment. Now when she needed it least there slid into Aziza’s memory the recollection of how she had claimed to be just that—Jamalia’s maid—that night on the terrace when she had come up against Nabil in the shadows of the night.
‘I don’t understand you.’ Jamalia’s frown was a mixture of disbelief and displeasure. ‘I would have thought that you would look forward to another trip to the capital. You enjoyed the anniversary celebration, didn’t you?’
Aziza made a sort of inarticulate sound that her sister could take as agreement if she wanted to. Enjoyment wasn’t a part of the way she looked back on the night on the balcony when she had met up again with the man who had once held such a huge place in her young heart.
How could he have changed so much in the ten years since she had last seen him? Or had he changed at all? Wasn’t it more likely that she had been the one who had changed? She had grown up, matured, and that had meant that she no longer saw through the eyes of a child. Instead she saw the truth about the man behind her childish crush. Nabil was no different from the lordly boy who had occasionally enchanted her with a careless smile. It was just that she had never seen the truth before.
He hadn’t even recognised her! But something in her had recognised what he was. All that was male and virile in him had spoken very clearly to her most feminine core. She still got the shivers inside at just the thought.
‘Are you sure you want to go at all?’
She knew it was the wrong question but she had to ask it. Diplomacy, politics, the uneasy truce between two warring factions demanded that the Sheikh had a wife, and Jamalia was a prime candidate to fill that role. That was why they had been at the anniversary celebrations, after all, in the hope that Jamalia would catch Nabil’s eye. But Jamalia and their parents hadn’t met up with Nabil that night.
Aziza had and, recalling the cold, bitter man she had talked with, she was now forced to wonder, could she watch her sister marry that man?
Nabil had been so changed from the boy she’d given her heart to when she was young, and her heart ached for the loss of the person she thought he’d been. She could have watched Jamalia marry that Nabil...or could she? Wouldn’t that have broken her heart in a very different way? Loving Nabil as she had, wouldn’t she have longed for him as her own?
So could she go with her sister—watch her perhaps be chosen—watch her marry the Nabil she knew existed now?
‘Do I want to? Of course I want to go. Think of it, Aziza—to marry Nabil...become the Sheikha...’ Jamalia’s eyes glowed at the thought. ‘The clothes...the jewels...’
‘Is that all?’
‘All?’ Jamalia shook her head in disbelief. ‘It means a lot—and of course there is the added advantage of the fact that Sheikh Nabil is such a gorgeous man!’
She shivered in delighted anticipation. A couple of days before, Aziza might not have recognised the full impact of her response but now it brought back echoes of the way she had felt on a moonlit night on the balcony of the Ashar palace. Even now, just thinking of it, her blood heated and tiny, stinging sensations of awareness prickled over her skin.
‘Besides, you have to be my chaperone. Papa says so.’
And if Papa said so then that was it, Aziza acknowledged. His word was law and there was no going against it. The thought of facing her father’s wrath if she denied his command was actually worse than the prospect of meeting up with Nabil again.
‘So will you come?’
There was no other answer she could give. She wouldn’t have to see Nabil. There was no reason for her to have any contact with him.
‘All right, then. Yes, I’ll come.’
CHAPTER FOUR
NABIL HAD HAD ENOUGH. He had thought that by agreeing to an arranged marriage he was going to make things easier. That all he had to do was to instruct his chancellor to find a suitable bride, agree to any terms her family proposed and proceed to the wedding ceremony. Now it seemed that the rituals and procedures would never end. Today he had expected to see the chosen candidates; pick one to become his wife. Instead he was weighing up possible treaties, the balance needed for peace.
Could this thing get more like a bidding war? His breath hissed in through his teeth as he tried to find the patience to listen to what Omar was now telling him. Had he spent the last ten years dragging the country into the present century only to find that his need for a wife would take it right back again to the dark ages it had been in when his father had ruled?
‘I understand,’ he said at last, driven to the end of his patience. ‘Give me the list.’
An impatient gesture of his outstretched hand brought the chancellor hurrying, passing the sheet of paper to him. One name jumped out at him at once, and he knew there had never been a choice. Not really. This had been inevitable from the moment he had put the bride search into motion. There might have been other names, but those had really had no weight to their candidacy. If he really wanted to secure the throne, to ensure peace, then there was only this one way he could go.
Jamalia; Farouk El Afarim’s eldest daughter.
Just a maid. I am with Jamalia.
Damn you, Zia, get out of my head! He needed to think clearly and with the image of the woman he’d met on the balcony haunting his thoughts, that was impossible. But it didn’t take much thought to know that an alliance with the El Afarims was the most valuable gift he could give to Rhastaan.
‘Is Jamalia here today?’
‘She is sire but...’
‘I will see her.’
A sound the older man made brought his head up fast. He could almost feel the force of his own glare reflected back at him from Omar’s eyes.
‘I will see her—and no one else. I know that it isn’t protocol—’ he emphasised the word sardonically ‘—for me to meet her as yet. But surely there must be some way I can see her without having to come face to face?’
‘There is a room—with a two-way mirror.’
‘That will do.’
* * *
‘Oh, Zia, why do you think we’re here? What is happening?’
‘How should I know?’
Aziza regretted the sharpness of her words as soon as they’d escaped her. She didn’t feel quite in control of her tongue, or her thoughts. She had been a bundle of nerves ever since they had set out on this second visit to the palace. If she thought she’d been apprehensive before at the thought of meeting Nabil again, now that she knew the sort of mature, powerfully sexy man he had become, just the thought of being in the same building as him tied her stomach in knots. Now this new development, the way they had been told to move to this room and wait, set her nerves on edge, making it difficult to breathe.
‘I’m sorry—but obviously I know no more than you.’
Jamalia was in a twitchy enough state as it was. Aziza wasn’t going to let on that she had her strong suspicions that the large mirror on the wall in which her sister was preening herself was in fact a window through which they could be observed by anyone who wanted to watch.
‘My hair’s a mess!’ Jamalia tugged at a lock of silky black hair, twisting it round her fingers as she made a petulant face at her reflection. ‘I knew I should have got you to do it instead of—’
‘Shall I do it now?’ Aziza volunteered hastily. Anything to distract her sister.
Dressing Jamalia’s hair was a skill she had learned from a very young age. She had hoped that if she made her father’s favourite look good then it might win her some of Farouk’s approval. That hadn’t worked, but at least Jamalia appreciated her efforts.
‘It won’t take a moment to braid these pieces, fasten them up at the sides.’
‘All right.’ Jamalia’s petulant expression eased as she watched her younger sister set to work on her hair. ‘Hmm—that doesn’t look half bad. And I tell you what would make it look even better...’
She was fumbling with her necklace as she spoke, never taking her eyes from the mirror as she lifted the necklace and placed it on her head.
‘Help me fasten it, Zia...’
In a moment, the heavy jewelled pendant was hanging in the centre of her forehead, right against the silky black of her hair.
‘See?’ Jamalia preened, turning her head to see the effect from both sides, smiling at herself—and possibly at their hidden viewer—as she did so. ‘The perfect look for the new Sheikha!’
It must be wonderful to have her sister’s total self-confidence, Aziza thought as she compared their two images in the mirror. But then Jamalia had always known she was beautiful, always been treated as the jewel in the family. Jamalia took after their father: tall, slender, elegant, stunning. They were so alike, it was no wonder Farouk had always favoured her. Beside her glamourous sibling Aziza felt like a small, rounded puppy, cuddly perhaps, but lacking the sort of pedigree Jamalia wore effortlessly. Because of that, it had always been made plain to her that it would cost her family an expensive dowry to marry her off.
You want me to kiss you, do you...? From the depths of her memory came the sound of Sheikh Nabil’s voice, dark with mockery and contempt, so clearly that she could almost believe he had come into the room behind them. You stupid little fool—you wouldn’t even know who you were kissing. What kind of man you wanted...
Did Jamalia know what sort of a husband she would get in this man? Did she understand—or did she even care? It seemed that all her sister cared about was the title of Sheikha, the ceremonial role, the wealth and luxury that would come with it. At least her sister wouldn’t be pushed into a totally subservient place as Nabil’s wife, as might have happened in the past. In the ten years since his first wife had died, the Sheikh had worked ceaselessly it seemed to ensure that women had a better life, more equality. Hadn’t she longed to take advantage of it herself, to be able to go to university to study languages? Another mark against her, in her father’s opinion. After all, who would want to marry a bluestocking, someone who spent so much of her free time with her books? At least she’d learned to drive and enjoy the independence that gave her, while her sister had never bothered to take driving lessons.
But then of course, if she became Queen, Jamalia would never need to steer her own vehicle. She would have a sleek, luxurious, armour-plated official car at her disposal, together with a professional chauffeur, on duty day or night, whenever she wanted him.
Jamalia as Queen... Why did her stomach seem to drop, her nerves clench, at just the thought? Not at the thought of her sister as Sheikha—but as Nabil’s wife.
* * *
‘That is the woman you mean?’
Nabil was already turning away from the two-way mirror through which he had been observing the two women in the room beyond them. He had seen enough. If the truth was told he had seen more than he had ever wanted or expected.
He had never anticipated that he would see her. That the woman who had plagued his thoughts would be there in the room with his prospective bride. Well, of course he had known that this Zia was Jamalia’s maid. She had said so herself. But he hadn’t known that Zia would be here, now, with Jamalia when he had come to see her today. He had expected Jamalia’s mother to be acting as chaperone and instead had found himself staring straight at Zia.
And that had thrown everything off-balance.
It had forced him to remember the heavy throb of his blood when he had been talking with Zia on the balcony. The way that the soft scent of her skin, mixed with some light floral fragrance, had drifted towards him on the night air, making him think of the secrecy of a bedroom, soft sheets...
Damn it to hell! Even now he was thinking of her—of Zia—when she should be the last thing on his mind. Perhaps he should have taken her to bed on that night—when she had been practically begging him to do so—and got this sensual itch out of his system.
‘Sire?’ Omar was waiting for him to continue. ‘And she is the woman of your choice?’
‘She...’ This was getting worse. He’d almost said yes to Omar’s selection of a bride when his mind had been full of some other woman. Of bedding his prospective bride’s maid.
Clearing his thoughts with a brutal shake of his head, he brought his mind back into focus.
‘No. No, she’s not.’
How could he ever marry Jamalia when as his Queen she would surely bring her maid with her? And yet how could he now refuse to take Jamalia as his wife and risk insulting her father by rejecting his beautiful daughter?
He could see why Jamalia had been selected. She was stunning; there was no doubt about that. She would look magnificent as Queen. But he wanted more than a queen, someone who would give him an heir to his throne. He also wanted someone who would be a mother to his children. He hadn’t acknowledged how much that mattered to him until now. Until he had seen Jamalia preening in the mirror, her total sense of entitlement reminding him of nothing so much as his own mother.
Having been the child of a woman who loved her role as Queen so much that she had never had time for her son, he never wanted any child of his to go through that. He had seen his parents for perhaps an hour or less each week. Times when he had been brought from the nursery, spruced up and groomed, ready for the formal occasion that spending time with his mother had always been. Brought into her private sitting room, he’d had to bow the requisite three times before he could even approach her. And he had always known that the delicate touch of her hand on his head as she commented on how he had grown was one of the two gestures of ‘affection’ she would allow him.
The other was when his brief time was up and his nurse had prepared to escort him from the room. Then his mother would bend her head towards him, wreathing him in the overpowering scent of her perfume, and offer him her powdered cheek for his kiss, allowing him only the lightest, briefest, moment of contact for fear that the contact might smudge her immaculate make-up.
And then he was dismissed.
Small wonder then that the death of both his mother and father in the helicopter crash had barely touched him. How could he miss people who had created him but yet had been barely present in his life? The death of his old nurse, two years later when he was sixteen, had had a far more dramatic effect on his life.
That was not how he wanted the future to be for his children. Having seen how Clemmie was with her son and daughter, he wanted that sort of mothering for any child of his. And something about Jamalia’s self-absorption scraped over his skin like sandpaper.
‘No?’
Clearly Omar thought he had lost his mind—or at least come close to it. But the truth was that he felt more clearer-headed than he had in a long time.
‘But, sire—the treaty...’
He didn’t need reminding about the importance of the treaty, but now, remembering the time he had spent in Farouk’s home when he’d been twelve, he also knew why, unconsciously, he had been avoiding all contact with the man’s older daughter. Told that he was spending some time with an important family, his mind had caught on the word family, hoping that there might be someone who might become a friend. Or that the El Afarims could at least show him something of what a family life might mean.
Instead, it had been plain that the visit was more one of diplomacy and state. Even then, there’d been obviously plenty of scheming going on in the background, as the way that Jamalia had been pushed forward from the start had made plain. He had never taken to the elder El Afarim daughter but...
‘There is a younger sister, isn’t there?’
He had no idea where the memory had come from but suddenly it was clear in his mind. The image of a small, shy child who had peered out at him from behind her mother’s skirts, a soft giggle escaping her curved lips. A little girl so much shorter and more rounded than her older sister with the smile of an angel that had made him feel welcome in a moment. A girl who had cared for a bundle of orphaned kittens as if they were precious to her, feeding them from a dropper with infinite patience, and who, young as she had been, had had a magic touch with a crying baby cousin, soothing him to sleep in just moments. If he had to make an arranged marriage to provide heirs for the sake of his country’s future then the least he could do was to give those heirs a mother who would give them more than he had ever had.
‘If the treaty is to go ahead, then all it needs is that I marry one of the El Afarim girls?’
‘Indeed, but...’
‘But nothing.’ Nabil’s hand came up to cut off any further conversation with a slicing gesture. ‘Enough. If the treaty still stands, then that’s the way it will be. If I have to have an arranged wife, then I’ll take the younger sister. Let it be done.’
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