SEDUCTION in Regency Society August 2014

DECEPTION in Regency Society September 2014

PROPOSALS in Regency Society October 2014

PRIDE in Regency Society November 2014

MISCHIEF in Regency Society December 2014

INNOCENCE in Regency Society January 2015

ENCHANTED in Regency Society February 2015

HEIRESS in Regency Society March 2015

PREJUDICE in Regency Society April 2015

FORBIDDEN in Regency Society May 2015

TEMPTATION in Regency Society June 2015

REVENGE in Regency Society July 2015

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer, but chose not to practise. Instead, she carved out a career in IT and studied history part-time, gaining a first-class honours and a master’s degree. A few decades after winning a children’s national poetry competition, she decided to pursue her lifelong ambition to write and submitted her first historical romance to Mills & Boon. They accepted it and she’s been writing ever since.

You can contact Marguerite through her website at: www.margueritekaye.com.

Forbidden in

Regency

Society

The Governess and the Sheikh
Rake With a Frozen Heart
Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

The Governess and the Sheikh

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Rake with a Frozen Heart

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Copyright

The Governess and the Sheikh

In loving memory of W,

who helped make me the person I am

and whose spirit, hopefully, lives on in me

Chapter One

Daar-el-Abbah, Arabia—1820

Sheikh Jamil al-Nazarri, Prince of Daar-el-Abbah, scrutinised the terms of the complex and detailed proposal laid out before him. A frown of concentration drew his dark brows together, but could not disguise the fact that his face, framed by the formal head dress of finest silk, was an extraordinarily handsome one. The soft golden folds of the cloth perfectly complemented the honeyed tones of his skin. His mouth was set in a firm, determined line, but there was just a hint of a curve at the corners, enough to indicate a sense of humour, even if it was seldom utilised. The sheikh’s nose and jaw were well defined, his flawlessly autocratic profile seemingly perfectly designed for use on the insignia of his kingdom—though Jamil had, in fact, refused to consent to his Council’s request to do so. But it was his eyes that were his most striking feature, for they were the strangest colour, burnished like autumn, with fiery glints and darker depths which seemed to reflect his changing mood. Those eyes transformed Jamil from a striking-looking man into an unforgettable one.

Not that the Prince of Daar-el-Abbah was easily overlooked at the best of times. His position as the most powerful sheikh in the eastern reaches of Arabia saw to that. Jamil had been born to reign and raised to rule. For the last eight years, since he had inherited the throne at the age of twenty-one following the death of his father, he had kept Daar-el-Abbah free from incursion, both maintaining its independence and enhancing its supremacy without the need for any significant bloodshed.

Jamil was a skilled diplomat. He was also a formidable enemy, a fact that significantly enhanced his negotiating position. Though he had not used it in anger for some time, the wicked scimitar with its diamond-and-emerald-encrusted golden hilt that hung at his waist was no mere ceremonial toy.

Still perusing the document in his hand, Jamil got to his feet. Pacing up and down the dais upon which the royal throne sat, his golden cloak, lined with satin and trimmed with passementerie twisted with gold thread and embedded with semi-precious stones, swung out behind him. The contrasting simple white silk of the long tunic he wore underneath revealed a slim figure, athletic and lithe, at the same time both graceful and subtly powerful, reminiscent of the panther, which was his emblem.

‘Is there something wrong, your Highness?’

Halim, Jamil’s trusted aide, spoke tentatively, rousing the prince from his reverie. Alone of the members of the Council of Elders, Halim dared to address Jamil without first asking permission, but he was still wary of doing so, conscious of that fact that, although he had the prince’s confidence, there was no real closeness between them, nor any genuine bond of friendship.

‘No,’ Jamil replied curtly. ‘The betrothal contract seems reasonable enough.’

‘As you can see, all your terms and conditions have been met in full,’ Halim continued carefully. ‘The Princess Adira’s family have been most generous.’

‘With good reason,’ Jamil said pointedly. ‘The advantages this alliance will give them over their neighbours are worth far more than the rights to the few diamond mines I will receive in return.’

‘Indeed, Highness.’ Halim bowed. ‘So, if you are satisfied, perhaps I may suggest we proceed with the signing?’

Jamil threw himself back down on to the throne, in essence a low stool with a scrolled velvet-padded seat. It was made of solid gold, the base perched upon two lions, while the back was in the shape of a sunburst. It was a venerable and venerated relic, proof of the kingdom’s long and illustrious history. More than three hundred years old, it was said that any man who sat upon it who was not a true and destined ruler would fall victim to a curse and die within a year and a day. Jamil’s father had cherished the throne and all it stood for, but Jamil loathed it as ostentatious and impractical—though, as with most things ceremonial, he continued to tolerate it.

He lolled on the unforgiving seat, resting his chin upon his hand, the long index finger of his other hand tapping the document that lay on the low table before him. The various members of his Council of Elders, seated in order of precedence on low stools facing the dais, gazed up at him anxiously.

Jamil sighed inwardly. Sometimes the burden of royalty was wearisome. Though the betrothal contract was important, it was not really uppermost in his mind right now. He recognised that the marriage his Council had for so long entreated him to enter into was a strategic and dynastic necessity, but it was of little personal interest to him. He would marry, and the union would seal the numerous political and commercial agreements that were the foundation of the contract. Daar-el-Abbah would gain a powerful ally and—once Jamil had done his duty—an heir. He personally would gain …

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He had no wish to be married. Not again. Especially not again for the sake of Daar-el-Abbah, this kingdom of his, which owned him body and soul. He didn’t want another wife, and he certainly didn’t want another wife selected by his Council—though, truth be told, one royal princess was bound to be very much like another. He hadn’t disliked his first wife, but poor Karida, who had died in childbirth not long after Jamil came to power, had seemed to prefer the comfits of the liquorice and crystallised ginger she ate with such relish over almost anyone or anything else.

Jamil could happily do without another such, as this Princess Whatever-her-name-was, to whom Halim and his Council were so keen to shackle him, would no doubt turn out to be. He was perfectly content with his single state, but his country needed an heir, therefore he must take a wife, and tradition decreed that the wife should be the choice of the Council. Though he railed against it, it didn’t occur to Jamil to question the process. It was the way of things. Anyway, in principle he was as keen to beget a son as his people were for him to provide them with a crown prince. The problem he was having was in reconciling principle with practice. The fact was, Jamil was not at all sure he was ready for another child. At least not until he had the one he already had under some semblance of control. Which brought him back to the matter uppermost in his mind: his eight-year-old daughter, Linah.

Jamil sighed again, this time out loud. A rustle of unease spread through the assembled Elders in response. Twenty-four of them, excluding Halim, each man wearing the distinctive Council insignia, an al-Nazarri green checked head dress with a golden tie, or igal, to hold it in place, the sign of the panther embroidered on his tunic. Behind the Elders, the throne room stretched for almost a hundred feet, the floor made of polished white marble edged with green-and-gold tiles. Light flooded the chamber from the line of round windows set high into the walls, reflecting through the gold-plated iron grilles, bouncing off the teardrop crystals of the five enormous chandeliers.

Most of the men arrayed before Jamil had served on his father’s Council, too. The majority were traditionalists, resistant to every attempt at change, with whom Jamil found himself becoming increasingly irked. If he could, he would retire the lot of them, but though he was coming to the end of his patience, the prince was not a foolish man. There were many ways to skin a goat. He would take Daar-el-Abbah into the modern world, and he would take his people with him whether they wanted to join him on the journey or not—though he preferred that they came of their own accord, just as he favoured diplomacy over warfare. This marriage now being proposed was his gesture towards appeasement, for the hand that gives is the hand that receives.

He should sign the contract. He had every reason to sign. It made no sense to postpone the inevitable.

So he would sign. Of course he would. Just not yet.

Jamil threw the papers at Halim. ‘It won’t do any harm to make them wait a little longer,’ he said, getting so swiftly to his feet that the Elders were forced to throw themselves hurriedly on to their knees. ‘We don’t want them thinking they are getting too much of a bargain.’ He growled impatiently at his Council. ‘Get up! Get up!’ No matter how many times he said he no longer wished them to show their obeisance in private meetings, they continued to do so. Only Halim stood his ground, following in his wake as Jamil took the two steps down from the dais in one and strode quickly up the long length of the throne room towards the huge double doors at the end.

‘Highness, if I may suggest …?’

‘Not now.’ Jamil threw open the doors, taking the guards on the other side by surprise.

‘But I don’t understand, Highness. I thought we had agreed that—’

‘I said not now!’ Jamil exclaimed. ‘I have another matter I wish to discuss. I’ve had a most interesting letter from Lady Celia.’

Halim hurried to keep pace as they headed along the wide corridor towards the private apartments. ‘Prince Ramiz of A’Qadiz’s English wife? What possible reason can she have for writing to you?’

‘Her letter concerns Linah,’ Jamil replied as they entered the courtyard around which his quarters were built.

‘Indeed? And what precisely does she have to say on the matter?’

‘She writes that she has heard I’m having some difficulty finding a female mentor up to the challenge of responding to my daughter’s quite particular needs. Lady Celia’s father is Lord Armstrong, a senior British diplomat, and she has clearly inherited his subtle way with words. What she really means is that she’s heard Linah is out of control and has run rings around every single woman in whose charge I’ve placed her.’

Halim bristled. ‘I hardly think that your daughter’s behaviour is any business of Lady Celia’s. Nor is it, if I may be so bold, the business of A’Qadiz, or its sheikh.’

‘Prince Ramiz is an upstanding man and an excellent ruler who has forward-thinking views similar to my own. I would suggest, Halim, that any opportunity to bring our two kingdoms closer together is something to be encouraged rather than resented.’

Halim bowed. ‘As ever, you make an excellent point, Highness. That is why you are a royal prince and I a mere servant.’

‘Spare me the false modesty, Halim, we both know you are no mere servant.’

Jamil entered the first of the series of rooms that ran in a square round the courtyard, unfastened his formal cloak and threw it carelessly down on a divan. His head dress and scimitar followed. ‘That’s better,’ he said, running his fingers through his short crop of hair. It was auburn, inherited from his Egyptian mother. Reaching into a drawer of the large ornate desk that dominated the room, he found the letter and scanned it again.

‘May I ask, does Lady Celia offer a solution to our supposed problem?’ Halim asked.

Jamil looked up from the elegantly worded missive and smiled one of his rare smiles, knowing full well that Lady Celia’s proposal would shock his Council and drive a pack of camels through the dictates of convention relating to the upbringing of Arabian princesses. Today’s Council meeting had bored him to tears, and he was sick of tradition. ‘What Lady Celia offers,’ he said, ‘is her sister.’

‘Her sister!’

‘Lady Cassandra Armstrong.’

‘To what purpose, precisely?’

‘To act as Linah’s governess. It is the perfect solution.’

‘Perfect!’ Halim looked appalled. ‘Perfect how? She has no knowledge of our ways—how can you possibly think an English woman capable of training the Princess Linah for her future role?’

‘It is precisely because she will be incapable of such a thing that she is perfect,’ Jamil replied, his smile fading. ‘A dose of English discipline and manners is exactly what Linah needs. Do not forget, the British are one of the world’s great powers, renowned for their capacity for hard work and initiative. Exposure to their culture will challenge my daughter’s cosy view of the world and her place in it. I don’t want her to become some simpering miss who passes the time while I’m finding her a husband by lolling about on divans drinking sherbet and throwing tantrums every time she doesn’t get her own way.’ Like her mother did. He did not say it, but he did not have to. Princess Karida’s tantrums were legendary. ‘I want my daughter to be able to think for herself.’

‘Highness!’ Shock made Halim’s soft brown eyes open wide, giving him the appearance of a startled hare. ‘Princess Linah is Daar-el-Abbah’s biggest asset; why, only the other day the Prince of—’

‘I won’t have my daughter labelled an asset,’ Jamil interrupted fiercely. ‘In the name of the gods, she’s not even nine years old.’

Slightly taken aback at the force of his prince’s response, for though Jamil was a dutiful parent, he was not prone to displays of parental affection, Halim continued with a little more caution. ‘A good marriage takes time to plan, Highness, as you know yourself.’

‘You can forget marrying Linah off, for the present. Until she learns some manners, no sane man would take her on.’ Jamil threw himself on to the tooled leather chair that sat behind the desk. ‘Come on, Halim, you know how appallingly she can behave. I’m at my wits’ end with her. It is partly my own fault, I know, I’ve allowed her to become spoilt since she was deprived of her mother.’

‘But now you are to be married, the Princess Adira will fill that role, surely.’

‘I doubt it. In any case, you’re missing the point. I don’t want Linah to be raised in the traditional ways of an Arabian princess.’ Any more than he would wish his son to be raised in the traditions of an Arabian prince. As he had been. A shadow flitted over Jamil’s countenance as he recalled his father’s harsh methods when it came to child-rearing. No, of a certainty he would not inflict those traditions on his son.

‘You want her to behave like an English lady instead?’ Halim’s anxious face brought him back to the present.

‘Yes. If Lady Celia is an example of an English lady, that is exactly what I want. If this Lady Cassandra is anything like her sister, then she will be perfect.’ Jamil consulted the letter in his hand again. ‘It says here that she’s one-and-twenty. There are three other sisters, much younger, and Lady Cassandra has shared responsibility for their education. Three! If she can manage three girls, then one will be—what is it the English say?—a piece of cake.’

Halim’s face remained resolutely sombre. Jamil laughed. ‘You don’t agree, I take it? You disappoint me. I knew the Council would not immediately perceive the merits in such a proposition, but I thought better of you. Think about it, Halim—the Armstrongs are a family with an excellent pedigree, and, more importantly, impeccable connections. The father is a diplomat with influence in Egypt and India, and the uncle is a member of the English government. It would do us no harm at all to have one of the daughters in our household, and in addition they would be in our debt. According to Lady Celia, we would be doing them a favour.’

‘How so?’

‘Lady Cassandra is already in A’Qadiz and wishes to extend her stay, to see more of our lands, our culture. She is obviously the scholarly type.’

‘One-and-twenty, you say?’ Halim frowned. ‘That is rather old for a female to be unwed, even in England.’

‘Quite. Reading between the lines, I suspect her to be the spinsterish type. You know, the kind of women the English seem to specialise in—plain, more at home with their books than the opposite sex.’ Jamil grinned. ‘Once again, exactly what Linah needs. A dull female with a good education and a strict sense of discipline.’

‘But Highness, you cannot be sure that—’

‘Enough. I will brook no more argument. I’ve tried doing things the traditional way with Linah, and tradition has singularly failed. Now we’ll do it my way, the modern way, and perhaps in doing so my people will see the merits in reaching out beyond the confines of our own culture.’ Jamil got to his feet. ‘I’ve already written to Lady Celia accepting her kind offer. I did not bring you here to discuss the merits of the proposal, merely to implement my decision. We meet at the border of A’Qadiz in three days. Lady Celia will bring her sister, and she will be accompanied by her husband, Prince Ramiz. We will cement our relationship with his kingdom and take delivery of Linah’s new governess at the same time. I’m sure you understand the importance of my caravan being suitably impressive, so please see to it. Now you may go.’

Recognising the note of finality in his master’s voice, Halim had no option but to obey. As the guards closed the doors to the courtyard behind him, he made for his own quarters with a sinking heart. He did not like the sound of this. There was going to be trouble ahead or his name wasn’t Halim Mohammed Zarahh Akbar el-Akkrah.

At that moment in the kingdom of A’Qadiz, in another sunny courtyard in another royal palace, Ladies Celia and Cassandra were taking tea, sitting on mountainous heaps of cushions under the shade of a lemon tree. Beside them, lying contentedly in a basket, Celia’s baby daughter made a snuffling noise, which had the sisters laughing with delight, for surely little Bashirah was the cleverest and most charming child in all of Arabia.

Cassie put her tea glass back on the heavy silver tray beside the samovar. ‘May I hold her?’

‘Of course you may.’ Celia lifted the precious bundle out of the basket and handed her to Cassie, who balanced her niece confidently on her lap, smiling down at her besottedly.

‘Bashirah,’ Cassie said, stroking the baby’s downy cheek with her finger, ‘Such a lovely name. What does it mean?’

‘Bringer of joy.’

Cassie smiled. ‘How apt.’

‘She likes you,’ Celia replied with a tender smile, quite taken by the charming image her sister and her daughter presented. In the weeks since Cassie had arrived in A’Qadiz she seemed to have recovered some of her former sunny disposition, but it saddened Celia to see the stricken look that still made a regular appearance in her sister’s big cornflower-blue eyes on occasions when she thought herself unobserved. The shadows that were testimony to the many sleepless nights since that thing had happened had faded now, and her skin had lost its unnatural pallor. In fact, to everyone else, Cassandra was the radiant beauty she had always been, with her dark golden crown of hair, and her lush curves, so different from Celia’s own slim figure.

But Celia was not everyone else, she was Cassie’s oldest sister, and she loved her dearly. It was a bond forged in adversity, for they had lost their mother when young, and though the gap between Cassie and their next sister, Cressida, was just a little more than three years, it was sufficient to split the family into two distinct camps, the two older ones who struggled to take Mama’s place, and the three younger ones, who needed to be cared for.

‘Poor Cassie,’ Celia said now, leaning over to give her sister a quick hug, ‘you’ve had such a hard time of it these last three months—are you sure you’re ready for this challenge?’

‘Don’t pity me, Celia,’ Cassie replied with a frown. ‘Most of what I’ve been forced to endure has been of my own doing.’

‘How can you say that! He as good as left you at the altar.’

Cassie bit her lip hard. ‘You exaggerate a little. The wedding was still two weeks away.’

‘The betrothal had been formally announced, people were sending gifts—we sent one ourselves—and the guests had been invited to the breakfast. I know you think you loved him, Cassie, but how you can defend him after that …’

‘I’m not defending him.’ Cassie opened her eyes wide to stop the tears from falling. ‘I’m just saying that I’m as much to blame as Augustus.’

‘How so?’ Until now, Cassie had refused to discuss her broken betrothal, for she wanted only to forget it had ever happened, and Celia, who could see that the wound to her sister’s pride was as deep as that to her heart, had tactfully refrained from questioning her. Now, it seemed, her patience was about to pay off, and she could not help but be curious. She leaned over to lift Bashirah from Cassie, for she was making that little impatient noise that preceded an aggressive demand for sustenance. Celia thought of Ramiz and smiled as she settled the baby at her breast. The child had clearly inherited her demanding temperament from her father. ‘Won’t you tell me, Cassie?’ she said gently. ‘Sometimes talking about things, however painful, helps, and I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘I’m perfectly all right,’ Cassie replied with a sniff.

She looked so patently not ‘all right’ that Celia laughed. ‘Liar.’

Cassie managed a weak smile in return. ‘Well, I may not be all right at the moment, but I will be, I promise. I just need to prove myself, make a success of something for a change, give everyone, myself included, something to be proud of.’

‘Cassie, we all love you, no matter what. You know that.’

‘Yes. But there’s no getting away from it, Celia, I’ve behaved very foolishly indeed, and Papa is still furious with me. I can’t go back to England, not until I’ve proved I’m not a complete nincompoop.’

‘Cassie, Augustus failed you, not the other way round.’

‘He was my choice.’

‘You can’t choose who you fall in love with, Cass.’

‘I’ll tell you something, Celia, I’m going to make very sure I choose not to fall in love ever again.’

‘Oh, Cassie, you say the silliest things.’ Celia patted her sister’s knee. ‘Of course you will fall in love again. The surprising thing is that you have not fallen in love before, for you are such a romantic.’

‘Which is precisely the problem. So I’m not going to be, not anymore. I’ve learned a hard lesson, and I’m determined not to have to learn it again. If I tell you how it was, maybe then you’ll understand.’

‘Only if you’re sure you want to.’

‘Why not? You can’t think worse of me than I already do. No, don’t look like that, Celia, I don’t deserve your pity.’ Cassie toyed with the cerulean-blue ribbons that were laced up the full sleeves of her delicate-figured muslin dress. ‘Augustus said these ribbons were the same colour as my eyes,’ she said with a wistful smile. ‘Then again, he also told me that my eyes were the colour of the sky at midnight, and that they put a field of lavender to shame. He brought me a posy of violets in a silver filigree holder and told me they were a hymn to my eyes, too, now I come to think about it. I didn’t even question the veracity of it, though I know perfectly well what colour of blue my own eyes are. That should give you an idea of how deeply in love I thought I was.’

A pink flush stole up the elegant line of Cassie’s throat. Even now, three months after it had all come to such a horrible end, the shame could still overwhelm her. Hindsight, as Aunt Sophia said, was a wonderful thing, but every time Cassie examined the course of events—and she examined them in minute detail most frequently—it was not Augustus’s shockingly caddish behaviour, but her own singular lack of judgement that mortified her most.

‘Augustus St John Marne.’ The name, once so precious, felt bitter on her tongue. Cassie made a moue of distaste. ‘I first met him at Almack’s, where I was fresh from another run-in with Bella.’

‘Bella Frobisher!’ Celia exclaimed. ‘Who would have believed Papa could stoop so low? I still can’t believe she’s taken Mama’s place. I doubt I will ever be able to bring myself to address her as Lady Armstrong.’

‘No, even Aunt Sophia stops short of that, and she has been pretty much won over since James was born. I have to say though, Celia, our half-brother is quite adorable.’

‘A son and heir for Papa. So the auspicious event has mollified even our terrifying aunt?’

Cassie giggled. ‘Bella Frobisher may be a witless flibberty-gibbet,’ she said in a fair imitation of their formidable Aunt Sophia’s austere tone, ‘but her breeding is sound, and she’s come up trumps with young James. A fine lusty boy to secure the title and the line, just what the family needs. And honestly, Celia, you should see Papa. He actually visits James in the nursery, which is far more than he did with any of us, I’m sure. He has him signed up for Harrow already. Bella thinks I’m jealous, of course.’ Cassie frowned. ‘I don’t know, maybe I am, a little. Papa has only ever been interested in us girls as pawns in his diplomatic games—he and Bella had drawn up a short list of suitors for me, you know. I mean, I ask you, a short list! How unromantic can one get. It was what I was arguing with Bella about the night I met Augustus.’

‘Ah,’ Celia said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. Only you must admit that when someone tells you to do something you are very much inclined to do the exact opposite.’

‘That’s not true!’ Cassie’s bosom heaved indignantly. ‘I fell in love with Augustus because he was a poet, with a poet’s soul. And because I thought he liked all the things I did. And because he is so very good-looking and most understanding and—’

‘And exactly the sort of romantic hero you have always dreamed of falling in love with.’ Celia kissed the now-sated and sleeping Bashirah and placed her carefully back into her basket. ‘And partly, Cassie, you must admit, because you knew Bella and Papa would not approve.’

‘I concede, that might have been a tiny part of the attraction.’ Cassie frowned. Celia had merely articulated what she herself had long suspected. When Bella had handed her the list of suitors her father had compiled, Cassie had promptly torn it in two. The confrontation had ended, as most of her confrontations with Bella ended, in an impasse, but over dinner, and during the coach ride to King Street, Cassie had found her resentment growing. It was while in this rebellious mood that she had encountered Augustus, a singularly beautiful young man who was most gratifyingly disparaging of her stepmother’s treatment of her.

‘We danced a quadrille that night at Almack’s,’ she told Celia, forcing herself to continue with her confession, ‘and during supper Augustus composed a quatrain comparing me to Aphrodite. He dashed it off right there on the table linen. I thought it was just the most romantic thing ever. Imagine, being a poet’s muse. When he told me about his impoverished state, I positively encouraged myself to fall in love, and the more Papa and Bella protested against my betrothal, the more determined I was to go through with it.’ Cassie brushed a stray tear away angrily. ‘The terrible thing is, in a way I knew it wasn’t real. I mean, there was a part of me that looked at Augustus sometimes and thought, Are you seriously intending to marry this man, Cassandra? Then I’d think about how much he loved me, and I’d feel guilty, and I’d think about how smug Bella would be if I changed my mind, for it would prove her right, and—and so I didn’t do anything. And the funny thing is that, though there were times when I questioned my own heart, I never once doubted Augustus. He was so impassioned and so eloquent in his declarations. When he—when he jilted me it was such a shock. He did it in a letter, you know; he didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face.’

‘What a coward!’ Celia’s elegant fingers curled into two small fists. ‘Who was she, this heiress of his, whom he abandoned you for? Do I know her?’

‘I don’t think so. Millicent Redwood, the daughter of one of those coal magnates from somewhere up north. They say she has fifty thousand. I suppose it could have been worse,’ Cassie replied, her voice wobbling, ‘if it had been a mere twenty …’

‘Oh, Cassie.’ Celia enfolded her sister in a warm embrace and held her close as she wept, stroking her golden hair away from her cheeks, just as she had done when they were girls, mourning their poor departed mama.

For a few moments Cassie surrendered to the temptation to cry, allowing herself the comfort of thinking that Celia would make everything better, just as she always had. But only for a few moments, for she had resolved not to spill any more tears. Augustus did not deserve them. She had to stop wallowing in self-pity, and anyway, what good did tears do? She sat up, fumbling for her handkerchief, and hastily rubbed her cheeks dry, taking a big gulp of air, then another. ‘So you see, Bella and Papa were right all along. I’m selfish, headstrong and foolish, and far too full of romantic notions that have no place in the real world. “A heart that can be given so easily cannot be relied upon, and must never again be given free rein.” That’s what Aunt Sophia said, and I have to say I agree with her. I have tasted love,’ Cassie declared dramatically, temporarily forgetting that she had abandoned her romantic streak, ‘and though the first sip was sweet, the aftertaste was bitter. I will not drink from that poisoned chalice again.’

Celia bit her lip in an effort not to smile, for Cassie in full unabridged Cassandra mode had always amused her terribly. It was reassuring that her sister wasn’t so completely given over to the blue melancholy as to have lost her endearing qualities, and it gave her the tiniest bit of hope that perhaps her very tender heart would recover from the almost-fatal wound dealt it by Augustus St John Marne. Ramiz would have dispensed swift retribution if he ever got his hands on him. Celia toyed momentarily with the satisfying vision of the feckless poet staked out, his pale foppish skin blistering and desiccating under the fierce desert sun, a legendary punishment meted out to transgressors in bygone days in A’Qadiz. And then, as was her wont, she turned her mind to practicalities.

‘You are expected at the border of Daar-el-Abbah in three days. Ramiz will escort you there, but Bashirah is too young to travel and I’m afraid I can’t bear to leave her so I won’t be coming with you. It’s not too late to change your mind about all this though, Cassie. The city of Daar is five days’ travel from here and you are likely to be the only European there. You will also have sole responsibility for the princess. She has a dreadful reputation, poor little mite, for she has been left to the care of a whole series of chaperons since her mother died in the process of giving birth to her. The prince will expect a lot from you.’

‘And I won’t let him down,’ Cassie said, clasping her hands together. ‘Who better than I to empathise with little Linah’s plight—did I not lose my own mother? Have I not helped you to raise our three sisters?’

‘Well, I suppose in a way, but …’

‘I am sure all she needs is a little gentle leading in the right direction and a lot of understanding.’

‘Perhaps, but.’

‘And a lot of love. I have plenty of that to give, having no other outlet for it.’

‘Cassie, you cannot be thinking to sacrifice your life to a little girl like Linah. This position cannot be of a permanent nature, you must think of it as an interlude only. It is an opportunity to allow yourself to recover, and to do some good along the way, nothing more. Then you must return to England, resume your life.’

‘Why? You are content to stay here.’

‘Because I fell in love with Ramiz. You, too, will fall in love one day, properly in love, with the right man. No matter what you think now, there will come a time when looking after someone else’s child will not be enough.’

‘Perhaps Prince Jamil will marry again, and have other children. Then he will need me to stay on as governess.’

‘I don’t think you understand how unusual it is, his taking you into the royal household in the first place. Daar-el-Abbah is a much more traditional kingdom than A’Qadiz. Should he take another wife—which he must, eventually, for he needs a son and heir—then he will resort to the tradition of the harem, I think. There will be no need for governesses then.’

‘What is Prince Jamil like?’

Celia furrowed her brow. ‘I don’t know him very well. Ramiz has a huge respect for him so he must be an excellent ruler, but I’ve only met him briefly. In many ways he’s a typical Arabian prince—haughty, distant, used to being revered.’

‘You make him sound like a tyrant.’

‘Oh, no, not at all. If I thought that, I’d hardly allow you to go and live in his household. His situation makes it difficult for him to be anything other than a bit remote, for his people idolise him, but Ramiz says he is one of the most honourable men of his acquaintance. He is anxious to forge an alliance with him.’

‘Yes, yes, I’m sure he is, but what does Prince Jamil actually look like?’

‘He’s very good looking. There’s something about him that draws attention. His eyes, I think—they are the most striking colour. And he’s quite young, you know, he can’t be any more than twenty-nine or thirty.’

‘I didn’t realise. I had assumed he would be older.’

‘Though he has not married again, it is not for lack of opportunity. I don’t know him well enough to like him—I doubt any woman does—but what’s important is, I trust him. The thing is though …’ Celia hesitated, and took Cassie’s hand in her own ‘… he’s not a man who will readily tolerate failure, and he’s not a man to cross either. You must curb your tongue in his presence, Cassie, and try to think before you speak. Not that I expect you’ll see very much of him—from what I’ve heard, one of the contributing factors to his daughter’s bad behaviour is his complete lack of interest in her.’

‘Oh, how awful. Why, no wonder she is a bit of a rebel.’

Celia laughed. ‘There, you see, that is exactly what I have just cautioned you about. You must not allow your heart to rule your head, and you must wait until you understand the whole situation before leaping in with opinions and judgements. Prince Jamil is not a man to get on the wrong side of, and I am absolutely certain that should you do so he would have no hesitation in trampling you underfoot. The point of this exercise is to restore your confidence, not have it for ever shattered.’

‘You need have no fear, I will be a model governess,’ Cassie declared, her flagging spirits fortified by the touching nature of the challenge that lay ahead of her. She, who had resolved never to love again, would reunite this little family by showing Linah and her father how to love each other. It would be her sacred mission, her vocation. ‘I promise you,’ Cassandra said with a fervour that lit her eyes and flushed her cheeks and made Celia question her judgement in having ever suggested her sister as a sober, level-headed governess, ‘I promise you, Celia, that Prince Jamil will be so delighted with my efforts that it will reflect well on both you and Ramiz.’

‘I take it, then,’ Celia said wryly, ‘that you are not having second thoughts or falling prey to doubts?’

Cassie got to her feet, shook out her dress and tossed back her head. Her eyes shone with excitement. She looked, Celia could not help thinking, magnificent and quite beautiful, all the more so for being completely unaware of her appearance. Cassie had many faults, but vanity was not one of them. Celia felt a momentary pang of doubt. How much did she really know of Jamil al-Nazarri the man, as opposed to the prince? Cassie was so very lovely, and she would be very much alone and therefore potentially vulnerable. She stood up, placing a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. ‘Maybe it is best that you should take a little more time, stay here for a few more days before committing yourself.’

‘I have decided. And in any case, it is all arranged. You are worried that Prince Jamil may have designs on me, I can see it in your face, but you need not, I assure you. Even if he did—which seems to me most unlikely, for though in England I pass for a beauty, here in Arabia they admire a very different kind of woman—it would come to nothing. I told you, I am done with men, and I am done for ever with love.’

‘Then I must be done with trying to persuade you to reconsider,’ Celia said lightly, realising that further protestations on her part would only unsettle Cassie further. ‘Come then, let me help you pack, for the caravan must leave at first light.’

Chapter Two

At dawn the next day, Cassie bade Celia a rather tearful goodbye and set off, following closely behind Prince Ramiz, who led the caravan through the dark and empty streets of Balyrma and out into the desert. She wore the royal blue linen riding habit she’d had Papa’s tailor make up especially for this trip, which she fervently hoped would not prove too stifling in the arid heat of the desert. The skirt was wide enough to ensure she could sit astride a camel with perfect modesty. The little jacket was cut in military style, with a high collar and a double row of buttons, but was otherwise quite plain, relying on the severity of the masculine cut to emphasise the femininity of the form beneath it. By the time the caravan began to make its way through the first mountain pass, however, the sun was rising and Cassie was wishing that a less clinging style was currently more fashionable. Though she wore only a thin chemise under her corset, and no other petticoats, she was already frightfully hot.

The first two days’ travel took a toll on both her appearance and spirits. The heat seared her face through her veil so that her skin felt as if it were being baked in a bread oven. Her throat ached from the dust and constant thirst, and the unfamiliar sheen of perspiration made her chemise cling like an unpleasant second skin that had her longing to cast both stays and stockings to the winds.

The excitement of the journey was at first more than compensation for these discomforts. The dramatically shifting scenery of ochre-red mountains and undulating golden dunes, the small grey-green patches that marked the location of oases, the ever-changing blue of the sky and the complete otherness of the landscape all fascinated Cassie, appealing at an elemental level to her romantic heart.

Until, that is, she started to lose sensation in the lower half of her body. The camel’s saddle, a high-backed wooden affair with a padded velvet seat that gave it a quite misleading air of comfort, began, on the second day, to feel like an instrument of torture. Renowned horsewoman that she was, Cassie was used to the relative comfort of a leather saddle with the security of a pommel, ridden for pleasure rather than used as a mode of long-distance transport. Six hours was the longest she’d ever spent on horseback. Counting up the time since she’d left Celia at the royal palace, she reckoned she’d been aboard the plodding camel for all but eight hours out of the last thirty-six. What had begun as a pleasant swaying motion when they had first started out, now felt more like a side-to-side lurching. Her bottom was numb and her legs ached. What’s more, she was covered from head to toe in dust and sand, her lashes gritty with it, her mouth and nose equally so, for she had been forced to put up her veil in order to see her way as dusk fell and Ramiz urged his entourage on, anxious to make the pre-arranged meeting point by nightfall.

Sway left, sway right, sway forward. Sway left, sway right, sway forward, Cassie said over to herself, her exhausted and battered body automatically moving in the tortuous wooden saddle as she bid it. Sway left, sway right, sway—‘Oh!’

The lights that she’d vaguely noticed twinkling in the distance now coalesced into a recognisable form. A camp had been set up around a large oasis. A line of flaming torches snaked out towards them, forming a pathway at the start of which Ramiz bid his own entourage to halt. Her aches and pains temporarily forgotten, Cassie dismounted stiffly from her camel, horribly conscious of her bedraggled state, even more conscious of her mounting excitement as she caught a glimpse of the regal-looking figure who awaited them at the end of the line of braziers. Prince Jamil al-Nazarri. It could only be him. Her heart began to pound as she made a futile attempt to shake the dust from her riding habit and, at Ramiz’s bidding, communicated by a stern look and a flash of those intense eyes that had so beguiled her sister, put her veil firmly back in place.

Following a few paces behind her brother-in-law, Cassie saw Prince Jamil’s camp take shape before her, making her desperate to lift her veil for just a few moments in order to admire it properly. She had never seen anything so magical—it looked exactly like a scene from One Thousand and One Nights.

The oasis itself was large, almost the size of a small lake, bordered by clumps of palm trees and the usual low shrubs. The water glittered, dark blue and utterly tempting. She longed to immerse her aching body in it. On the further reaches of the shore was a collection of small tents, typical of the ones she had slept in on her overland journey from the Red Sea to Balyrma. They were simple structures made of wool and goatskin blankets held up with two wooden poles and a series of guy ropes. The bleating of camels and the braying of mules carried on the soft night air. The scent of cooking also, the mouth-watering smell of meat roasting on an open spit, of fresh-baked flat bread and a delicious mixture of spices she couldn’t begin to name. Two much larger tents stood slightly apart from the others, their perimeter lit by oil lamps. Their walls were constructed from what looked to Cassie like woven tapestries or carpets, topped by a pleated green-damask roof bordered with scalloped edges trimmed with gold and silver.

‘Like little tent palaces,’ she said to Ramiz, momentarily forgetting all he had told her about protocol and tugging on his sleeve to get his attention. She received what she called his sheikh look in return, and hastily fell back into place, chiding herself and praying that her lapse had not been noted.

Another few paces and Ramiz halted. Cassie dropped to her knees as she had been instructed, her view of the prince obscured by Ramiz’s tall frame. She could see the open tent in front of which the prince stood. Four carved wooden poles supporting another scallop-edged green roof, the floating organdie curtains that would form the walls tied back to reveal a royal reception room with rich carpets, a myriad of oil lamps, two gold-painted divans and a plethora of silk and satin cushions scattered around.

Cassie craned her head, but Ramiz’s cloak fluttered in the breeze and frustrated her attempts to see beyond him. He was bowing now, making formal greetings. She could hear Prince Jamil respond, his voice no more than a deep sonorous murmur. Then Ramiz stepped to one side and nodded. She got to her feet without her usual grace, made clumsy by her aching limbs, and made her curtsy. Low, as if to the Regent at her presentation, just as Celia had shown her, keeping her eyes lowered behind her veil.

He was tall, this prince, was her first impression. A perfectly plain white silk tunic beneath an unusual cloak, a vivid green that was almost emerald, bordered with gold and weighted with jewels. A wicked-looking scimitar hung at his waist. He certainly wasn’t fat, which she’d been expecting simply because Celia told her that it was a sign of affluence, and she knew Prince Jamil to be exceedingly rich. But the thin tunic was unforgiving. Prince Jamil’s body showed no sign of excess. He was more—lithe.

The word surprised Cassie. Apt as it was, she hadn’t ever thought of a man in such a way before. It was his stance, maybe; the way he looked as if he was ready to pounce. A line of goose bumps formed themselves like sentries along Cassie’s spine. Celia was right. Prince Jamil was not a man to cross. As he put his hands together in the traditional welcome, Cassie tried to sneak a quick look at his face, to no avail.

‘Lady Cassandra. As-salamu alaykum,’ Prince Jamil said. ‘Peace be with you.’

‘Wa-alaykum as-salam, Your Highness,’ Cassie replied from behind her veil, her voice raspy with thirst, ‘and with you also.’ She caught a glimpse of white teeth as he smiled in response to her carefully rehearsed Arabic. Or to be more accurate, he made something approximating a smile, which lasted for about two seconds before he held out his hand in greeting to Ramiz, and then ushered him into the throne room, where a servant pulled the organdie curtains into place, thus effectively obscuring them from view. Cassie was left to follow another man who emerged from the shadows to lead her towards the smaller of the two large tents.

‘I am Halim, Prince Jamil’s man of business. The prince asks me to ensure you have all you require. Refreshments will be served to you in your tent.’

‘But—I assumed I would dine with Prince Jamil and Ramiz—I mean Prince Ramiz.’

‘What can you be thinking of to suggest such a thing?’ Halim looked at the dusty-veiled female who was to be the Princess Linah’s governess with horror, thinking that already his worst fears were being confirmed. She had no idea of the ways and customs of the East. ‘You are not in London now, Lady Cassandra. We do things very differently here—Prince Jamil would be shocked to the core.’ The latter statement was a lie, for Prince Jamil was forever lamenting the outmoded segregation of the sexes at meal times, but this upstart governess was not to know that, and the sooner she was put firmly in her place the better.

‘Please, don’t mention it to him,’ Cassie said contritely. ‘I did not mean to offend. I beg your pardon.’

‘It shall be so, but you would do well to heed my warning, Lady Cassandra. Daar-el-Abbah is a very traditional kingdom. You must tread extremely carefully.’ Halim bowed and held back the heavy tapestry that formed the door of the tent. Cassie stepped across the threshold and turned to thank him, but he was already gone. She stared in wide-eyed amazement at the carpets, the wall hangings, the divans and cushions, the carved chests and inlaid tables. Another heavy tapestry, depicting an exotic garden in which nymphs sported, split the tent into two. In the smaller of the compartments she found, to her astonishment, a bath of beaten copper filled with warm water and strewn with petals. It had a delightful fragrance, orange blossom, she thought. A selection of oils in pretty glass decanters stood beside it on a little table, along with a tablet of soap and the biggest sponge Cassie had ever seen.

She needed no further encouragement, stripping herself of her travel-worn clothes and sinking with a contented sigh into the bath. She lay luxuriating in it for a long time, allowing the waters to ease her aching muscles. Eventually she sat up and washed her hair, then chose a jasmine oil with which to anoint herself before donning one of her own nightgowns and a loose wrapper in her favourite shade of cerulean blue. Her hair she brushed out and left loose to dry in its natural curl.

‘Since I’m obviously surplus to requirements while the men discuss weighty matters of state, I may as well be comfortable,’ she muttered to herself. Part of her resented being so completely excluded, despite the fact that she was perfectly well aware her presence would be unprecedented in this deeply patriarchal society. As Papa’s daughter, playing a role, albeit a small one, in the world of politicking and diplomatic shenanigans was second nature to Cassie. Though she was not the trusted confidante that Celia had been, she was used to pouring oil on troubled waters and providing a sympathetic ear. It irked her, though she knew it should not, that both Ramiz and her new employer should so casually dismiss her.

But as she emerged into the main room of the tent and found a silver tray covered in a huge selection of dainty dishes had been provided for her, along with a jug of sherbet, Cassie’s mood brightened significantly and common sense reasserted itself. She was expecting too much—and she would do well to remember that she was here to govern a small girl, not a country! The princes were welcome to their weighty affairs of state.

Stacking up a heap of cushions on the floor beside the tray, she set about making an excellent meal. Far better to enjoy her own company than to have to make polite conversation with the prince tonight, all the time on tenterhooks lest she overstep some invisible mark. Far better to have a good night’s sleep, to be introduced to him formally in the morning when she was refreshed and able to make a better impression.

She washed her fingers in the bowl and lolled back on the cushions in a most satisfyingly un-ladylike manner, which would have immediately prompted Aunt Sophia into one of her lectures about posture and politesse. The thought made Cassie giggle. Despite the fact that Celia was inordinately happy in her marriage, and despite the fact that, having met Ramiz, her initial reservations were quickly assuaged by his charm and patent integrity, Aunt Sophia thought Arabia a decadent place. For once a female has abandoned her corsets, there is no saying what else she will abandon, had been her parting words to Cassie. Firmly laced stays signify firmly laced morals. Remember that, and you will be safe.

Safe from what? Cassie wondered idly now, yawning. She should go to bed, but instead settled back more comfortably on the mound of cushions and examined her surroundings. The ceiling of the tent was constructed from pleated silk, decorated with gold-and-silver tassels. It reminded her a little of one of the rooms at the Brighton Pavilion, to which she, in the company of Papa, had been invited to take tea with the Prince Regent. Which room was it? Her eyes drooped closed as she tried to remember. Tea had been delayed for over an hour because Prinny was being bled. Papa was most upset, considering it very poor form. But at least she had been allowed to socialise with the prince, unlike here. Strange to think that Prinny was king now. Which room had it been?

Cassie fell fast asleep.

An hour later the princes, having concluded discussions to their mutual satisfaction, parted company. Ramiz, who had never before left Celia alone for more than one night since they were married, was anxious to return to Balyrma, and could not be persuaded to stay on, despite Jamil’s entreaties.

‘I won’t disturb Cassandra,’ Ramiz said to Prince Jamil, ‘you will pass on my goodbyes, my friend, if you would be so kind.’ Ramiz headed back to his own waiting caravan, glancing up at the night sky, reassured that the moon was full enough for him to be able to travel for a few hours before having to stop for the night.

Jamil waited until his new ally was beyond the torch-lit path, and turned to Halim. ‘That went well, I think.’

‘Indeed, Highness. Extremely well.’

‘I’ll see the Lady Cassandra now.’

‘But, Highness, it’s very late.’

‘Nonsense. She’ll be expecting me to welcome her formally into my household, as is the custom. You know that until I do, she will not be considered under my protection. I hope you told her, as I instructed you, that I would call on her when my business with Prince Ramiz was concluded?’

Halim swallowed. ‘Not in so many words, Highness. My English is not the best, perhaps something was lost in translation.’

‘That is news to me. You speak, to my knowledge, seven languages fluently.’ Jamil looked sharply at his aide. ‘I hope, Halim, I can be assured that your enthusiasm for this endeavour matches my own? I would not like to contemplate the consequences, were it otherwise.’

‘Highness! I promise you that—’

‘I do not want promises, Halim, I want your unequivocal support. And now, whether she is expecting me or not, I intend to see Lady Cassandra. We start for home at first light. Make sure all is ready.’

Jamil nodded his dismissal and turned towards Lady Cassandra’s tent. Over the last few days, he had constructed his own mental image of his daughter’s new governess. His fleeting glimpse of her had done little to confirm or deny the figure that existed in his mind’s eye, that of a rather frumpy, slightly forbidding bluestocking, austere and businesslike. He hoped he would not be disappointed.

He pulled back the door curtain of the tent and stepped through into the main room. The vision that greeted him was so far from the one he had imagined that Jamil stopped in his tracks. Was the sleeping beauty who lay before him some sort of offering or gift that Lady Cassandra had brought with her? It was a ridiculous notion, he realised almost immediately, but how else to explain the presence of this alluring female?

Her long hair, a dark golden colour with fiery tints, rippled over the cushions. Her face had all the classical proportions of beauty, but it was not that which made her beautiful. It was the way her mouth curved naturally upwards. It was the colour of her lips, like Red Sea coral. It was the hint of upturn on her nose, which made it not quite perfect. And it was her curves. There was something so pleasing, so tactile about a curve, which was why it was such a prominent feature of the Eastern architecture. Curves were sensual, and this female had them in plentiful supply, from the roundness of her full breasts, to the dip and swell from her waist to her hips.

She was wearing some sort of loose gown with long sleeves trimmed with lace, an absurdly feminine piece of clothing, obviously designed for the boudoir. The sash had come undone to reveal a thin garment that left little to the imagination. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts at the neckline. He could see the dark aureole of her nipples through the gauzy material. He could see all too clearly that underneath it she was completely naked. She gave off an aura of extreme femininity, the type of yielding softness that begged for a corresponding male hardness. A sharp pang of desire jagged through him. This woman had the type of beauty that turned heads. The type of beauty that inevitably spelled trouble.

‘Lady Cassandra?’

The temptress opened her eyes. They were the blue of a turquoise gemstone, under heavy lids that gave her a slumberous appearance. A woman waiting to be woken, stirred into life.

‘Yes?’ Cassie gazed sleepily up at the man standing over her and rubbed her eyelids. Her surroundings came into focus. And then so did the man. The first thing she noticed was his eyes, which were the strangest colour she had ever seen, burnished like an English autumn, though his gaze was wintery. His mouth was set in a straight line, his brows in a frown. His skin, framed by the traditional white silk head dress, was the colour of honey.

A man of loneliness and mystery, scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh. Lord Byron’s words popped into her head, as if they had been waiting for just this opportunity to be heard, so pertinent were they. Like the Corsair, this man was both intriguing and inscrutable. He had an imperious air about him, as if he surveyed the world from some higher, more exclusive plane. Intimidating, was the word which sprang to mind. Who was he? And what was he doing in her tent in the middle of the night?

Clutching at the neck of her nightgown, the sash of her robe, her unbound hair, Cassie tried to get up off the cluster of cushions upon which she had been lying and succeeded only in catching her bare foot on a particularly slippery satin one, which pitched her forwards. ‘Oh!’

His reactions were lightning quick. Instead of falling on to the carpet, Cassie found herself held in a hard embrace. She had never, even dancing a waltz, been held this close to a man—not even by Augustus, that soul of propriety. She hadn’t realised how very different was the male body. A sinewy arm, lightly tanned under the loose sleeve of his tunic, held her against his unyielding chest. Were all men this solid? She hadn’t really realised either, until now, that she was so very pliant. Her waist seemed designed for his embrace. She felt helpless. The feeling was strange, because it should have made her feel scared, but she wasn’t. Not completely.

‘Unhand me at once, you fiend!’

The fiend, who was actually remarkably un-fiendlike, retained his vice-like hold. ‘You are Lady Cassandra?’ he said, gazing at her in something akin to dismay. ‘Sister to Lady Celia, daughter of Lord Henry Armstrong?’

‘Of course I am.’ Cassie clutched her robe more firmly together. ‘More to the point, who are you, and what, pray, are you doing in my tent in the middle of the night? I must warn you,’ she declared dramatically, throwing herself with gusto into the role of innocent maiden, safe now in the knowledge that the stranger meant her no harm, ‘I will fight to the death to protect my honour.’

To her intense irritation the man smiled, or made as if to smile, a slight curl of the mouth that she’d seen somewhere before. ‘That will not be necessary, I assure you,’ he said. He had a voice like treacle, rich and mellow, his English softly accented.

‘I am here as Prince Jamil’s guest, you know,’ Cassie said warily. ‘If any harm were to come to me and he were to hear of it, he would—he would …’

‘What would he do, this Prince Jamil, who you seem to know so well?’

‘He would have you beheaded and dragged through the desert by a team of wild horses,’ Cassie said defiantly. She was sure she had read about that somewhere.

‘Before or after the beheading?’

Cassie narrowed her eyes and set her jaw determinedly. ‘You are clearly not taking me seriously. Perhaps I should scream.’

‘I would prefer it if you did not. My apologies, Lady Cassandra, allow me to introduce myself. I am Sheikh Jamil al-Nazarri, Prince of Daar-el-Abbah. I did not intend to alarm you, I merely wished to formally welcome you into my protection. Protection,’ he added sardonically, ‘that you obviously feel in urgent need of.’

Prince Jamil! Dear heavens, this was Prince Jamil! Cassie stared aghast at his countenance, forgetting all about the heinous crime of meeting a prince’s eyes, which Celia had warned her about. ‘Prince Jamil! I’m sorry, I didn’t realise, I thought.’

‘You thought I was about to rip your nightclothes unceremoniously from you and ravish you,’ Jamil finished for her, eyeing the luscious curves, barely concealed by her flimsy garment.

Cassie clutched her nightdress even tighter to her and tried, not entirely successfully, to banish this shockingly exciting idea from her mind. ‘I wasn’t aware that you were going to call on me,’ she said in what she hoped was an unflustered tone.

‘Halim did not mention that I intended to visit you?’

‘No.’ She saw a fierce frown form on the prince’s countenance. She would not like to be in Halim’s shoes. Cassie bit her lip. ‘I’m sure it was an oversight. He may even have mentioned it, but I didn’t hear him. I was very tired.’

‘Your generosity does you credit. Don’t worry, I won’t have him beheaded and dragged through the desert by wild horses.’

His words were accompanied by a half-smile that Cassie could not help but return. ‘I’m afraid I let my imagination run away with me a bit.’

She was not the only one. Reality crashed down on Jamil’s head with a vengeance, forcing him to bid a metaphorical goodbye to his cherished vision of a dowdy, sober, English aristocrat. He looked at the dishevelled female standing before him who apparently was Lady Cassandra Armstrong, Linah’s new governess. This ravishing, curvaceous, luscious creature with lips that were made to cushion kisses was to stay at the royal palace and teach Linah manners. Respect. Discipline.

Jamil clutched at the golden band of his headdress and pulled it from his head along with the gutrah itself and threw both onto a nearby divan. He ran his hands through his short hair, which was already standing up in startled spikes, and tried to imagine the reception his Council would give her. Almost, it would be worth bringing her back to Daar just to see their stunned expressions. Then he imagined Linah’s reaction and his mouth straightened into its familiar determined line. ‘No,’ he said decisively.

‘No? No—what, may I ask?’

‘I cannot permit you to be my daughter’s governess.’

Cassie’s face fell. ‘But why not? What have I done?’

Jamil made a sweeping gesture. ‘For a start you look like you belong in a harem, not a schoolroom.’

Dismay made Cassie forget all about the need for deference and the necessity of not speaking without thinking. ‘That’s not fair! You caught me unawares. I was prepared to go to my bed, not to receive a formal state visit. You talk as if I lie around half-naked on a divan all day, buffing my nails and eating sweetmeats.’

Jamil swallowed hard. The idea of her lying around half-naked was most distracting. To be fair, she was actually showing less flesh than if she had been clad in an evening gown. Except that he knew her to be naked underneath. And the folds of her robe clung so lovingly to her, he could not help but notice her contours. And there was something about her, the slumberous eyes, the full bottom lip, the fragrance of her skin, jasmine and something else, sensuous and utterly female.

‘What I meant is, you don’t look—strict enough to be a governess,’ he said.

Despite the very awkward situation, Cassie’s sense of the ridiculous was tickled. She bit hard on her lower lip, but her smile quivered rebelliously.

‘I don’t know what you find in the situation to amuse you,’ Jamil snapped.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Cassie said, trying very hard to sound contrite. ‘If you would perhaps tell me how you expect me to look, I will endeavour to change my appearance accordingly. I have lots of perfectly demure dresses, I assure you.’

‘It’s not a matter of clothing. Or lack of it. It’s—it’s you. Look!’ He took her by surprise, taking her by the arm and turning her towards the full-length mirror that stood in a corner of the tent.

Cassie looked at her reflection in the soft glow of the lamp that hung from the canopied ceiling. Her hair was burnished, more auburn than gold, curling wildly about her face, tangling with the lace at the neckline of her negligee. Her skin was flushed. Her eyes had a sparkle to them that had of late been missing. She had an air of disarray that made her look a little—wanton—there was no denying it. How could that be?

Behind her, Prince Jamil moved closer. She could feel the hardness of his body just barely touching her back. She could sense him, warm and male, hovering only inches away from her. He reached over her shoulder to brush her hair back from her face and his touch, for some reason, made her shiver, though she wasn’t cold in the slightest.

‘Look,’ he said, gazing at her intently, straightening the lace at her neck, running a hand down her arm to twitch the lace straight there, too, to tighten the sash of her robe which kept coming undone despite her best efforts to knot it securely. ‘Look,’ he said, his hand brushing her waist. Their eyes met in the mirror, autumn gold and summer blue, and she looked—not at herself but at them, the two of them, close enough to almost merge into one—as he did, too, at precisely the same moment.

And at that precise moment something happened. The air seemed to crackle. Their gazes locked. Cassie’s breath caught in her throat. Prince Jamil bent his head. She watched in the mirror as he lifted the fall of her hair from her shoulders, as if she were watching a play, as if it was happening to someone else, as if the sensual creature before her was not her.

But if it was not her, why was it that she could feel his lips on the bare skin of her neck? The tiniest touch, but it was searing. Her skin contracted and burned. Now her breath came, rapid and shallow, too fast, like her heart, suddenly galloping. She realised only a fraction of a second before he did so that he was going to kiss her.

Kiss her properly.

Kiss her on the mouth.

He turned her around and tilted her chin up. His eyes met hers again, darker gold now, intensely gold, irresistibly gold. He made the tiniest movement towards her, so subtle as to be almost undetectable, except she detected it and responded, stepping into his arms and lifting her face and slanting her lips. And he kissed her.

Cassie had been kissed before. Truth be told, men had a habit of trying to kiss her, though she gave them no encouragement as far as she was aware, and had never had any problem in actively discouraging them when necessary. But strangely, discouraging Prince Jamil simply did not occur to her.

Augustus’s kisses had been worshipful and chaste rather than intimate. To be honest, Augustus’s kisses had failed singularly to arouse the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love, which Lord Byron had so beautifully evoked and which Cassie had been led to expect. It had been one of the things that had made her question the depth of her feelings for Augustus, for neither the first kiss of love nor the twentieth had roused in her anything but mild indifference. But as Prince Jamil’s mouth met hers, indifference was the furthest thing from her mind, and she knew that when he finished kissing her, she would be in no doubt whatsoever that she had been kissed.

His hand cupped her head, urging her to close the space, the tiny space, between them. She did, relishing the way her curves seemed to meld into the hard planes of his muscular frame. Her breasts brushed tantalisingly against his chest and her nipples puckered in response, as they did when she was cold, except she wasn’t cold, and it was quite a different sensation. His other arm curved round her waist, nestling her closer. She licked her lips, because they felt dry. His eyes widened as she did so. He made a guttural noise like a moan that made her stomach knot. Then his lips touched hers, and she knew instantly that Lord Byron had been right after all.

Rapture. A soaring, giddy feeling surged through her as Prince Jamil’s mouth moulded itself to hers. He kissed as if he were tasting her, his touch plucking tingling strings of sensation buried deep in her belly. He pulled her closer, settling her against him, his fingers sinking into her hair, into the soft, yielding flesh of her waist. His mouth coaxed hers open, his lips settled on hers, harder now, making her sigh at the taste of him. She felt herself unfurling like a flower as his tongue touched hers, a shockingly sensual and intimate act. If he had not held her, if she had not clutched, with both hands, at his tunic, his arms, his shoulders, his back, she felt as if she would have fallen into an abyss. She felt wanton. She felt wild abandon. She wanted the kiss to go on for ever. She pressed herself against him, and encountered something solid and heavy pressing against her thigh.

Jamil leapt back at once. He stared at her as if she was a stranger. Cassie stared, too, her hand to her lips, which were burning, seared, marked. Shame and embarrassment washed over her. What must he think of her?

Jamil looked at her in horror. What was he doing? And by the gods, why was he still thinking of doing more! ‘You see what I mean now,’ he said, taking his frustration out on the cause of it, ‘you are clearly not governess material.’

Cassie was too bewildered to do anything other than stare at him. She felt a strange, needy ache, as if she had been starving, had been shown a banquet and allowed just one bite before the feast was withdrawn. Her body hummed and protested and begged for more. She was mortified and confused. Had she encouraged him? Was it her fault?

‘Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?’

She licked her lips. They felt swollen. ‘I …’

Jamil gave an exclamation of disgust, as much at his own actions as anything else. It was not like him to behave with such a lack of control. A prince must be above such emotions. ‘This arrangement is clearly not going to work. It is best we acknowledge that now. I will have you returned to your sister in the morning.’

The heavy edge of his cloak brushed against her ankle as he made for the door, rousing Cassie from her stupor. ‘Returned!’ she gasped, as the consequences of her entirely inappropriate behaviour began to dawn on her. She was to be sent back, like an unwanted present or a misdirected missive! Why could she not just for once think before she spoke or acted? ‘Please. I beg of you, Prince Jamil, to reconsider.’ Cassie tugged on his cloak in an effort to halt his retreat, and succeeded in earning herself an extremely haughty stare, but desperation made her ignore it. If he left now, he would not change his mind. He would send her back, she would be disgraced for the second time, only this time it was even worse because she would be letting not only herself but Celia down, and Ramiz, too, and she could not bear that. ‘Oh, please,’ she said again, ‘I implore you, your Highness, don’t be so hasty. Just listen to me, give me a chance to prove myself, I beg of you.’

Jamil hesitated momentarily and Cassie threw herself into the breach. ‘Prince Jamil. Your Highness. Sheikh al-Nazarri.’ She made a low and extremely elegant curtsy, completely unaware that she was granting Jamil a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. ‘You would concede that your daughter is in urgent need of a governess and I—well, to be frank, I am in urgent need of an opportunity to prove myself, so you see, we both stand to profit from making this arrangement work. I know I’m not what you were expecting, though indeed I’m still not sure what exactly you were expecting, but I assure you I am extremely capable of looking after a little girl like Linah. I myself lost my mother at an early age, and I have three younger sisters whose education and upbringing I’ve been closely involved in. I’m sure she and I will get on. I know I can get through to her, make a difference to her. Please. Don’t send me back. Give me a chance. You won’t regret it.’

She clasped her hands in supplication and only just resisted the urge to throw herself on her knees. Prince Jamil gave no indication of wavering, his face set in an implacable expression. Only his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else. What, she couldn’t discern.

Why on earth had he kissed her like that? To teach her a lesson? And why had she let him? She wasn’t attracted to him, she couldn’t be, she wasn’t going to allow herself to be attracted to anyone. Not ever. She’d never allowed a man such liberties before. No man had ever attempted to take such liberties before, but Prince Jamil did not seem to think his behaviour questionable. Only her own.

And he was right about that. She had behaved like a very wanton. No wonder he thought—oh, God, she didn’t want to even think about what he thought. Cassie clasped her hands together tighter and swallowed her pride. What use was pride, after all? She had no right to it, and no use for it either, if it prevented her from using all her powers to persuade the prince that she was worthy of his trust. ‘I don’t know what came over me—when you—when you—when I allowed you to kiss me, I mean,’ she said, blushing madly but forcing herself to continue to meet those strange golden brown eyes. ‘I can only assure you that I am not in the habit of allowing—of indulging—in kissing.’

‘I know,’ Jamil said, surprised out of his rigid hold on his control by this naïve admission.

‘You do?’

‘Your kisses were hardly expert.’

Cassie wasn’t sure if this was an insult or a compliment. Though she was much inclined to pursue this very interesting question, for once sense prevailed and she held her tongue. ‘Anyway, whatever they were or were not, I assure you I won’t subject you to them again.’

Despite his determination not to be persuaded, Jamil was intrigued. And amused. It had been so long since he had found anyone so entertaining as Lady Cassandra. Or so—confounding. Unexpected. Interesting. He would be quite happy to be subjected again to her kisses. More than happy. The question was, was this a good thing or a bad? ‘My daughter.’

‘Linah.’

‘She is.’

‘Unhappy.’

He raised a supercilious brow. ‘I was going to say difficult.’

‘Yes, but that’s because she’s unhappy.’

‘Nonsense. She has no reason to be so. She has everything any little girl could wish for.’

‘Children are not born difficult, they are difficult for a reason,’ Cassie persisted, feeling herself on surer ground. ‘The trick is to work out what that reason is. Linah is only eight years old, she has not the language to express her feelings properly. So instead she expresses them by.’

‘Being difficult.’ Jamil pondered this. All his experience told him that leniency was the root cause of Linah’s tantrums. It had not occurred to him until now that Linah could actually be unhappy; he had assumed that withholding the harsh physical discipline which had been meted out to him would be enough. Could he be wrong? The thought was discomfiting.

‘You see, I do understand little girls,’ Cassie continued, sensing from the look on the prince’s face that she had struck a chord. ‘I want nothing more than to help Linah. If we could forget about what happened tonight—make a fresh start in the morning …’

Jamil raised an imperious hand. ‘Enough. I admit, you’ve given me food for thought, but it’s late. I will sleep on it and inform you of my decision in the morning.’

‘Sleep is the wisest counsel. That’s what my sister Celia always says.’

Jamil smiled properly this time, showing a fleeting hint of a single dimple. ‘My father used to say something similar. I will bid you goodnight, Lady Cassandra.’

Dazzled by the way his face changed, from intimidating sheikh to an extraordinarily attractive and somehow more youthful man, Cassie gazed up at him. Only his turning to go brought her to her senses. ‘Goodnight, Highness,’ she said, dropping another curtsy. By the time she emerged from it, he was gone.

Chapter Three

The next morning found Jamil, most unusually for him, still in two minds. It did not help that Lady Cassandra had haunted his dreams. It did not help that the memory of her lips, her skin, her nubile body, had awakened his own slumbering desires, conjuring endless teasing fantasies that made sleep impossible. He had finally quit his divan in desperation, plunging into the refreshing water of the pool before dawn had even risen, in an effort to cool his body and order his mind. He was quite unused to such carnal thoughts getting in the way of his decision-making process. The base needs of his body had never before intruded on the logical processes of his brain. Lady Cassandra confused him by blurring the neatly ordered boundaries of his mind. She was made for pleasure. She was here for a much more pragmatic purpose.

Returning to his tent to don his travelling clothes, Jamil resorted to drawing up a mental list of the advantages and disadvantages of employing Lady Cassandra as Linah’s governess, and in doing so uncovered one of the questions that had been niggling away in the back of his mind. Lady Cassandra had said she urgently needed an opportunity to prove herself. Why? he wondered. Prove herself after what?

It was the first question he put to her when she appeared before him in the makeshift throne room. She wore her travelling outfit, the blue riding habit and veil in which she had arrived yesterday, and was at pains to keep her head correctly bowed, but Jamil was in no mood to allow her to hide behind the trappings of propriety. He bade the servants draw forwards the light curtains and instructed her to put back her veil. He did not, however, bid her sit, choosing to keep her standing before him, like a supplicant. ‘Explain to me, if you please, what you meant by needing an opportunity to prove yourself,’ he said in clipped tones.

Cassie stared at the prince in consternation. All through the long night she had rehearsed her arguments and mustered her reasons, drilling them into a tight formation, readying them to be paraded, impeccable and indisputable, before the prince. She was ready to recite lesson plans in everything from watercolour painting to deportment, map reading to account keeping, playing upon the pianoforte—though she wasn’t particularly sure that such an instrument would be available—French conversation—though she didn’t know, when it came down to it, if Linah even spoke English—botany—though she had no idea what flowers—if any—grew in the desert—and horse riding, the one subject on which Cassie knew herself to be expert. All of this she had ready at her fingertips, along with her ideas for instilling strict but fair discipline, and most of all her ardent desire to give Linah some much-needed affection.

But it seemed Prince Jamil was not interested in any of this. Instead he wanted to know about her motives, a subject Cassie herself was a little hazy on, just at the moment. ‘I suppose I meant that it would be good to be of use,’ she fumbled.

Prince Jamil’s mouth tightened. ‘Of all things, I abhor prevarication. It leads, more often than not, to deceit. If you are to be my daughter’s governess, I must be able to trust you implicitly. To deceive me as to your motives.’

‘Oh, no, I would never do that.’

‘Then I ask you again, what precipitated this burning desire to prove yourself?’

Blushing, Cassie shuffled from one foot to the other, trying desperately to find a way of satisfying the prince’s curiosity without putting herself in too unflattering a light, but a glance up at his stern countenance told her she would do far better to give him the unvarnished truth. He would not tolerate anything else, and she most assuredly did not want to risk being discovered in what he would then assume to be a lie. She clasped her hands together and began the sorry tale of her ill-fated betrothal to Augustus, though telling it rather to her riding boot than to Prince Jamil, not daring to look up for fear that his countenance would betray his disapproval.

‘I made a mistake, a terrible lack of judgement,’ she concluded. ‘Had I not been so headstrong, so indulgent of my sentimental inclinations, I and my family would have perhaps been spared the humiliation of my being so publicly jilted.’

‘But surely it is this man Augustus—if you can call such a desert scorpion a man—surely it is he who should feel shame?’ Jamil said contemptuously. ‘You are the innocent party. He, on the other hand, has behaved in a manner that shows a complete lack of honour and integrity. He deserves to be the outcast, not you.’

Cassie shook her head. ‘It is not how the world sees it, nor indeed how my—my papa sees it.’

‘In my world we would see such a thing quite differently.’

Cassie jutted her chin forwards determinedly, a gesture Jamil found strangely endearing. ‘Well, however anybody else chooses to see it,’ she said, ‘I assure you, no one could be more ashamed than I, nor more determined to change. I do not intend ever to give my heart rein again.’

‘A wise decision. The heart is not, in my opinion, a logical organ.’

‘No. Nor a reliable one. I have my faults, but I do not need to be taught something twice.’

‘He who is burned must always beware the fire, hmm?’

‘Exactly.’

‘So, not to put too fine a point on it, Lady Cassandra, you’re telling me that you were sent out here in disgrace?’

Cassie wove and unwove her long fingers. ‘No, not precisely. Papa wished me to retire to the countryside until the scandal had blown over. It was Celia’s suggestion that I come out here—she knows, you see, how very taken I was with Arabia when Aunt Sophia and I came to rescue—’ Jamil raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘That is to say, came to visit Celia before she was married. And I was also most eager to … to put some distance between myself and Papa’s new wife, who seemed to relish adding fuel to the fire with regards to my predicament.’ Cassie’s breast heaved at the thought of her stepmother. ‘Bella Frobisher is a grasping, selfish cuckoo in the nest and now, of course, that she’s produced an heir—well! You can imagine how she crows.’

She broke off with an exclamation of dismay. ‘I beg your pardon, we seem to have strayed rather from the point. The thing is, your Highness, that I’m afraid my betrothal rather confirmed Papa’s opinion of me as—as a little lacking in judgement and not very dependable,’ she said, blushing deeper than ever, ‘and I would very much wish to prove him wrong.’

‘It seems to me that your father is at fault in allowing you far too much latitude. Here in Arabia, we recognise that women are the weaker sex, and do not permit them to make life-changing decisions, such as a choice of husband, for themselves.’

Cassie’s immediate reaction was to inform Prince Jamil that here in Arabia, in her opinion, women were not so much protected as subjected, but even as the words formed she realised that they undermined her cause no end. ‘My papa would heartily agree with you on that topic,’ she said instead.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, if Papa had his way, he would marry all of us off to his advantage, regardless of our wishes.’

‘That is not what I meant at all. It is not my intention that Linah become a state asset, not that that is any of your business. All I want is for her to learn respect for authority, to understand that there are boundaries she must not cross.’

‘Children who are unhappy are wont to misbehave in order to gain attention,’ Cassie said carefully.

‘Yes, so you said last night. What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, Linah has been without a mother since she was a baby, hasn’t she?’

‘She has had any number of females to look after her and pander to her every whim. In fact, she has been over-indulged. I concede that’s partly my fault. I have allowed her to be spoiled in order to compensate for the loss of her mother and as a consequence have been reluctant to discipline her.’

‘It’s not spoiling or discipline she really needs. Tell me, Prince Jamil, are you close to your daughter?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you see her every day? Play with her? Talk to her? Show any sort of interest at all?’

Jamil stiffened perceptively. ‘Of course I take an interest, she is my daughter.’

‘How?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘How do you show an interest?’

‘I am given a weekly report of her behaviour and her progress with her lessons—at least I was, until the last female I hired departed. Linah is brought to me at the end of each week to discuss this.’

Cassie bit her lip. It was exactly as she had suspected. Poor little Linah was desperate for affection, and her cold-hearted father did nothing but mete out criticism. ‘So, the only time you see her is to chastise her?’

Jamil stiffened. ‘I have never laid a hand in anger upon my daughter.’

‘Good heavens, I should hope not,’ Cassie said, startled by the sudden harshness in his face. His eyes glittered fiercely, and she remembered Celia’s caution again. Prince Jamil was not a man to cross. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest such a thing for a minute.

‘I do not want my daughter beaten.’

‘Of course not! When I said chastise, I meant tell her off.’

‘Oh. I see. I misunderstood. Yes. If that is what you meant, then I do. When Linah behaves so badly, she can hardly expect—’

‘She behaves badly to get your attention!’ Cassie interrupted. ‘For goodness’ sake, can’t you see that? You said last night that Linah had everything a child could wish for.’

‘She does, she wants for nothing.’

‘Except for the most important thing of all.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Love. A father’s love, your love.’

‘My feelings for my daughter are—’

‘Unspoken!’ Cassie declared roundly. She glared at the prince, all deference forgotten in the heat of the moment. ‘Well, are they not?’

Jamil got swiftly to his feet and descended the step upon which the throne stood. ‘As I was saying, Lady Cassandra,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘what Linah needs is discipline.’

‘And as I was saying,’ Cassie riposted, ‘what she needs is affection.’

‘Respect is what she should have for me. I see no evidence of it, and showing her affection is hardly likely to induce it. As well expose an open wound and suggest she strike there.’

Cassie stared at him, appalled. How could he talk so coldly of his own daughter? Even her own father was not so—so clinical. ‘She needs love,’ she said obstinately, forcing herself to continue to look straight into the prince’s stormy eyes, ‘I can provide that. I can teach you how to do the same.’

‘How dare you! How dare you presume that you can teach me anything?’ Jamil replied angrily. ‘I am a royal prince, a direct descendent of generations of wise and powerful potentates, a leader of thousands. And you, a mere woman, dare to tell me how to treat my own daughter.’

‘The poor girl is obviously starved of love. For goodness’ sake, you’re all she has. How would you have felt if your mother had died when you were a baby? Wouldn’t you have made every effort to make sure you didn’t lose your father’s love, too? I know when my own mother …’

The rest of what she was about to say died on Cassie’s lips as she took in the prince’s stark white countenance. With horror, she realised just how presumptuous her hasty words must have sounded. She had no idea, after all, about the prince’s own experience. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, ‘I didn’t think—did your mother die young?’

‘No, but she may as well have.’ He had been five when he had been forcibly removed to the east wing. She might as well have been dead for all the contact he was allowed with her. Jamil’s knuckles whitened. Realising by the way the English woman was looking at him, that his anguish was plain to see, he made a huge effort, forced the past back into its box and turned the key. ‘You are impertinent, and you raise issues that are entirely irrelevant. We are talking about Linah, not me.’

Too relieved at being spared any more serious rebuke to even consider pursuing the interesting question of Prince Jamil’s as-good-as-dead mother, Cassie could only nod her agreement. It was time, most definitely time, to take another tack. Time enough, when she had Linah’s confidence, to return to the subject. ‘Please. I didn’t mean to offend you. Let me talk to you instead of what I mean to teach Linah.’ Giving him no chance to interrupt, haltingly at first, then with growing confidence and enthusiasm, Cassie put forward the plans she had made for her charge. As she talked, gesticulated and talked more, Jamil watched her closely, listening even more closely, trying to focus only on what she said about Linah, not to be distracted by the way enthusiasm lent a glow to her beautiful countenance, the way her body rippled under her ridiculously inappropriate travelling dress when she made her point with extravagant hand gestures. He tried to see her as a governess. To imagine her as Linah’s governess. To picture her there, in the schoolroom of the palace, and not, definitely not, as he had seen her last night, strewn invitingly over a divan, reflected lusciously in a mirror.

Her forthright attack on him rankled, and it was ridiculous nonsense, of course, but Jamil was a ruthlessly fair man. Loath though he was to admit it, Lady Cassandra talked at least some sense. And there was the point, the worrying point, she had made about Linah being unhappy. Did all this add up to enough for him to take a chance on her? If he did not, what were the alternatives? None, and Prince Ramiz would be offended into the bargain.

‘And as to geography,’ Cassie was saying, ‘I have sent to England for a dissected map just exactly like the one the royal princes had. It is in French, too, which will help Linah with the language. Which puts me in mind—I assumed she spoke English, but of course that is rather arrogant of me and—’

‘She is badly behaved, not stupid,’ Jamil said haughtily. ‘As she is a daughter of the House of al-Nazarri I would expect nothing less. She already speaks good English and a little French. I would wish her to have also Italian, the rudiments of Latin and Greek, and perhaps some German.’

‘Oh. Right. Capital. I’m afraid I don’t have any German, though,’ Cassie admitted, looking somewhat downcast. ‘But in my humble opinion that’s no great loss. I’ve met the Prussian ambassador and frankly he was as tedious and long-winded as the language. Oh, I hope you don’t have any German friends, I meant no offence.’

Jamil smiled inwardly. Despite this female’s appalling lack of deference and her seeming obliviousness to all the rules of protocol, he found her amusing. On the whole—yes, on the whole, the positives of taking her on outweighed the negatives. Though of a surety both Halim and his Council would be ready to pounce on any gaffes.

‘You understand,’ he said, ‘that your appointment would be most unusual. My country is a very traditional one—in fact, you may as well know that the majority of my Council and trusted aides will oppose your role.’

Cassie’s face fell. ‘You mean I will have to win their approval?’

Jamil pursed his lips. ‘They may voice their opinions, but they may not dictate to me. I mean merely that it will be better not to offend them.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘How might I offend them?’

‘As I have already informed you, Lady Cassandra, you look as if you belong not in the schoolroom, but the boudoir.’

‘Harem, actually, is what you said. I can’t help how I look, your Highness. And I assure you, that I will not—last night—it was …’

‘Nothing of that sort will pass between us again,’ Jamil said firmly, speaking as much to himself as to Lady Cassandra. ‘As Linah’s governess you must be beyond reproach—is that understood?’ As Linah’s governess, she must now be strictly out of bounds. Why did he feel instinctively that this would prove so difficult? It should have been a warning, but Jamil, whose own self-discipline was so ingrained as to have become instinctive, did not heed it.

‘I understand perfectly, your Highness,’ Cassie said, trying hard not to feel indignant. The prince had every reason to doubt her ability to conduct herself properly after all, given what she had just told him and how she had behaved last night. There was no point in telling him it was out of character; she must let her future conduct demonstrate that.

‘You will most effectively contradict any criticism by obtaining results,’ Jamil said brusquely, unwittingly echoing Cassie’s own thoughts.

‘Can I assume then that you will visit Linah regularly to check her progress?’ Cassie asked sweetly.

‘I am an extremely busy man. Affairs of state keep me occupied.’

Cassie took a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, your Highness, but Linah will fare much better if I can reward her behaviour with the promise of a visit from you,’ she said in a rush.

‘She can be equally rewarded by the knowledge that her good behaviour pleases rather than angers me,’ Jamil replied implacably.

‘With respect, it’s not quite the same.’

‘Your persistence in this matter is becoming tedious, Lady Cassandra. If you are so sure my daughter is in need of affection, then supply it yourself. Consider it part of your duties of employment.’

Cassie’s eyes widened. ‘Does this mean you’ll give me a chance, then? Am I indeed to be Linah’s governess?’

‘For one month only, subject to satisfactory progress being achieved. Then we will see.’

All else was forgotten in the relief at having achieved her objective. She was not to be sent back. Cassie let out a huge sigh. ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, I won’t let you down, I promise.’

‘I will hold you to that. I do not take kindly to those who do. We start for Daar in fifteen minutes.’

Jamil pulled back the curtains and strode out into the morning sunshine, calling for Halim. Cassie stood, gazing at the space he had occupied, her mind in a daze. She’d done it, she’d persuaded him. A smile spread over her face, and she gave a little skip of excitement. She was going to Daar. She was going to be Linah’s governess. She was going to show Papa that she could do something worthwhile. She was going to show the little princess what love was, and she was going to teach the little girl’s cold-hearted, autocratic, infuriating father how to love her back. Whether he wanted to or not.

This gave Cassie pause. She did not doubt that somewhere, buried very deep, was Jamil’s love for his daughter, but uncovering it would take tact as well as patience. For some reason, he was very resistant to the idea. Yet cold as he was—as he liked to appear, perhaps?—he could not really be so. He cared enough about Linah to want to bring her up properly. And Cassie had her own reasons for knowing he wasn’t incapable of emotion. Last night.

Stop! She wouldn’t think about last night. Her own behaviour had shocked her. She just couldn’t understand it. But Jamil—well, he was a man, after all. One to whom desire came easily. Cassie’s skin prickled. He had seen her in a state of undress and he had wanted to.

It was her fault! He was hot-blooded. It must be the desert air, or the heat of the sun, or perhaps there was just something in the prince’s culture that encouraged such behaviour. Celia had hinted at something she called sensuality, though she wouldn’t explain, and to tell the truth, Cassie had been too embarrassed to ask. Whatever it was, it had to be said, there was something terribly romantic about desert princes. And Jamil was the epitome of a desert prince. A passionate sheikh with a strong sense of honour—look at the contemptuous way he had talked of Augustus! It made her feel just a bit better, to have him take her part. Sort of. Just a little.

But that didn’t mean he would always be so understanding. She would do well indeed to forget all about last night, and all about Jamil as anything other than her exacting employer. She was done with romance. Done with giving her heart any say at all in matters. She was done, quite done, with men, whether traitorous poets or desert princes, romantic or otherwise.

Cassie made the journey to the city of Daar mounted on a snowy white camel, a rare breed, though its exclusivity did not, unfortunately, make it any more of a comfortable ride than its more dowdy brethren. The high-backed saddle was more splendid than the one on which she had arrived at Jamil’s camp, but it was still basically a sparsely-padded wooden seat. As Jamil made a clicking noise at the back of his throat, and the beast knelt down to allow her to mount, Cassie’s muscles protested by cramping. However, she climbed on to what passed for a saddle, pleased to discover that she did so with some semblance of grace, even more pleased to see the very brief look of approval that flitted across Jamil’s face. He made the clicking noise again, and the camel got back to its feet. Cassie arranged her skirts and pulled the long veil, which she had attached to her little military hat, over her face. ‘I’ll take the reins, thank you,’ she said, holding out her gloved hand.

Jamil hesitated. It was the custom for women to be lead and the white camel was not only extremely rare but extremely sensitive, with a mouth as soft as a thoroughbred horse. What if this woman was as impetuous a rider as she was in every other way? It would just take one jerk of the reins and she would end up thrown.

‘You need not worry, I won’t let him bolt and I won’t ruin his mouth,’ Cassie said, reading his thoughts a mite too easily for Jamil’s liking. He surrendered the reins reluctantly, and, mounting his own camel with practised ease, headed the caravan east.

They had journeyed all day, save for a short break at the sun’s zenith, and on into the night, too, for Jamil was anxious to be home. By the time they made camp, the stars were already luminous, stitched like jewels into the blue velvet blanket of the sky. Cassie sat a little apart on a little outcrop of rocks, next to the small drinking pool, watching them set up the tents. Leaning back on her hands, she threw her head back to gaze up at the night sky, which looked so vast compared to England, the stars seeming to hover so much closer to earth than they did at home. The desert, too, in daylight, was vast, undulating and unrolling in front of them in shades of ochre and rust, of gold and tawny brown, a landscape of barren beauty, so exotic in its fierceness, and so very different from England that she felt as if she were on another planet. Celia said it had intimidated her when first she came here, but Cassie found it invigorating and beguiling. She liked its very otherness. She even liked the way it put her firmly in her place, reminding her she was one tiny scrap of insignificance in the face of nature’s magnificence.

It struck her that Jamil seemed the very physical embodiment of the desert’s exotic charms. Perhaps that was why he integrated so seamlessly into the terrain. It certainly explained the ease with which he navigated the way across what looked to Cassie to be a vast expanse of nothingness. He was a product of the desert, yet not subjugated or intimidated by its harshness, seeming instead to dominate the sandy landscape.

Above her, two shooting stars streaked across the sky, one after the other. Her aches and pains forgotten, Cassie cried out with delight. ‘Most glorious night! Though wert not sent for slumber!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Cassie jumped. Jamil was standing beside her. How did he move so silently?’ It’s Byron. An English poet, he—’

‘You admire such a man, who has behaved so scandalously?’

‘You know of him, then? I admire his poetry, regardless of his behaviour.’

‘I forget, you have a weakness for poets, do you not? Or more accurately, perhaps, for poets who treat women with a callous disregard for honour. But it is much too beautiful a night for harsh words,’ he added, noting her hurt expression, ‘and in any event, you must be very tired, Lady Cassandra.’

‘Cassie, please. My given name has too many unwarranted associations.’

‘You don’t see yourself as a prophetess, then?’

‘Hardly.’ When he smiled, as he was doing properly now, his expression softened, making him look much less austere. Cassie smiled back. ‘If only I had been able to see a bit further into the future, I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself over Augustus.’

‘But then you wouldn’t have come here.’

‘Very true.’ Cassie tried to smother a yawn.

‘You are tired, and no wonder, it has been a long day.’

‘I am a little weary, I must confess.’ Her head drooped. ‘I should retire.’ As she stumbled to her feet, a strong pair of hands circled her waist. ‘I can manage,’ she protested, but already she was falling asleep.

With an exclamation that could have been impatience, and might have been something more tender, Jamil scooped her up and carried her to her tent, where he laid her down on the divan. She was already deeply asleep. He hesitated before loosening the double row of buttons on her ridiculous little jacket, easing her carefully out of it, resisting the urge to look at the soft curves revealed under the flimsy material of her undergarment. Settling her carefully, he unlaced her boots, but left her stockings on. This much she might reasonably thank him for; any more would be a liberty.

He pulled a rug over her, tucking it securely in at the sides, for the coming dawn would be cold. She nestled her cheek into a cushion, her lips pouting into a little contented sigh. Long lashes, a darker gold than her hair, fanned on to the soft curve of her dusty cheek. Her hair was a tangle, tresses curling down her neck, little tendrils clinging to her forehead. No doubt she would be horrified by her state of dishevelment, but to Jamil the imperfections enhanced her appeal. She was no goddess now, but mortal, flesh and blood, and possibly the most disturbing flesh and blood he had ever encountered. There was something about her that made him want to cradle her and ravish her at the same time.

‘Governess, governess, governess,’ he muttered to himself as he made his way to his own tent, matching the words to his stride.

They rode on the next day and the next. The land began to rise as they neared the mountains, which rose starkly in front of them like a painted theatre backdrop. They passed several small communities based round the oases. The houses were ochre-coloured, built into the rocks to which they clung precariously, like small children to a mother’s side. As the caravan passed, the people threw themselves to their knees. Women abandoned their laundry, men stopped their tilling of the narrow strips of cultivated land, little children rushed excitedly towards the beautiful white camels, only to be pulled back by mortified mothers. Jamil nodded his acknowledgement, but made no move to stop. Looking back over her shoulder, Cassie caught a group of women staring and pointing at her, though they immediately dropped their gaze when they saw they had been spotted.

It was the same in the next village and the next, each one larger than the last, eventually joining up into a string of settlements linked by vibrant irrigated fields, before finally the walls of the city of Daar came into view. The scent of damp soil and ripe vegetation replaced the dry dusty smells of the desert. On the steep approach to the gate where the water from the main oasis had been channelled, the dates were being harvested from the palms that grew along the banks. Huge woven baskets sat under the trees, waiting to be filled and ferried into the city by a train of mules. Cassie watched in astonishment as the pickers shimmied down the trunks of the trees at a terrifying rate, to make obeisance to their returning prince.

She had fallen behind Jamil. With every step that took them closer to the city, he became more remote, almost visibly assuming the mantle of power. Under his head dress, which was no longer pulled over his face, his expression was stern, the little frown lines apparent. His shoulders were set. He was no longer Jamil, but Prince of Daar-el-Abbah. Behind him, Cassie felt lost and a little apprehensive. Their regal entrance into Jamil’s city was quite sufficient to remind her of the true nature of their relationship,

Daar was built on a plateau. The city gates were emblazoned with a golden panther rampant and some Arabic script she assumed would spell Invincible, which Celia had told her was Jamil’s motto. They passed through the large gates into a city which looked very much like Balyrma, with a network of narrow streets running at right angles to the main thoroughfare. Each alley was crowded with tall houses, overhanging more and more as they rose so that at the top they almost seemed to touch. A series of piazzas with a fountain at the centre of each linked the main thoroughfare, which she was surprised to see was cobbled. The air was redolent with a myriad of smells. The sharp, distinctive tang from the tannery mingled with the aroma of spices and roasting meat. The citrus perfume of lemons and oranges vied with the sweet heady scent from a white blossom Cassie did not recognise. A pungent, surprisingly familiar sheep-like smell emanated from a herd of penned goats. As they picked their way through the crowds, she barely had time to track down the source of one aroma before another assailed her senses.

Everywhere was colour: the robes of the women, the blankets that were being strung out to air across the alleys, the blue and red and gold and green tiles which decorated the fountains and the minarets. And everywhere was noise, too, the braying of the animals, the excited cries and laughter of the children, the strange ululating noise that the men made as they bowed. Captivated and overwhelmed, Cassie forgot her fears and surrendered herself to the magic of the East.

Towards the end of the plateau, nearer the palace, the alleys were gradually replaced by grander houses with white-tiled walls and keyhole-shaped doors, tall turrets marking the corners. The royal palace was built on the furthest part of the plateau, surrounded on three of its sides by the city walls, which formed a second layer of protection after the palace’s own. The doors of the gatehouse were of a dark wood, fronted by a heavy portcullis that was being drawn up as they approached. The golden panther was emblazoned on a crest at the apex, and emblazoned, too, on the twin turrets that were built into the corners of the high white walls. An intriguing line of little ornamental towers stretched along the top of the wall, above an intricately tiled border of red and green and gold. Fascinated, Cassie slowed her camel in order to drink in the detail, unwittingly causing a minor traffic jam as the whole caravan halted behind her. Jamil, who had already passed through the doorway, quickly sent his gatekeeper out to lead her camel in.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cassie whispered, once she had finally climbed out of the saddle, ‘your palace is so beautiful I stopped to get a better look.’

Jamil gave no acknowledgement, shaking out his cloak and making his way across the courtyard to where Halim awaited him. Cassie stood alone in the shadow of the gatehouse, wondering what she should do. Glancing around her, at the gatekeeper, the guards who stood with their arms crossed, she was met with blank expressions and downcast eyes. She took a hesitant step into the courtyard, then another, as far as the fountain, which was its centrepiece. Neither Jamil nor Halim gave any sign of noticing her. The water, which sprinkled from a smiling fish, looked lovely and cool. She stripped off her gloves and put back her veil, holding out her hands to let it drip on to them, then dabbed her wrists to her hot forehead. Heavenly! She sat down on the fountain’s rim, and trailed her fingers in the water, smiling to see the little gold and silver fish that swam in the bowl. The sound of someone clearing their throat made her look up. She encountered the impassive gaze of Halim.

‘Lady Cassandra, Prince Jamil has asked me to take you to Linah.’

‘But—is the prince not going to introduce me to his daughter himself?’

‘The prince has more important matters to attend to.’

Cassie got to her feet. ‘Will the prince be visiting Linah later?’

‘I am Prince Jamil’s man of business, Lady Cassandra. He does not make a point of sharing his domestic arrangements with me.’

‘I see,’ Cassie said. Obviously this man was not happy with her presence here. As she followed Halim’s rigidly disapproving back across the courtyard and along a seemingly endless corridor to the back of the palace, Cassie’s confidence ebbed. Jamil hadn’t told her anything of his domestic arrangements. She had no idea what her place was in the palace hierarchy.

Halim stood back to allow her to go through a door flung open by a guard. The door clanged shut behind her. She heard the gradually retreating sound of Halim’s footsteps echo on the tiled floor on the other side of the door.

The room was small, a mere ante-chamber. Two of the walls were covered in mirrored tiles that reflected the beautiful enamelled vase which sat on a gilt table in the centre of the room. She passed through another doorway, lifting aside the lace and silk curtains, and found herself in the most unusual courtyard she had ever seen. It was not square but oval, with a colonnaded terrace curving all the way round, a series of connected rooms leading off it, with a second tier of rooms above. There were two fountains playing in harmony, one with the sun as its centrepiece, the other the moon. The courtyard was decorated with intricate mosaic, which featured a gold border interlaced with blue flowers, inside which was portrayed, to Cassie’s delight, what looked like Scheherazade sitting at King Shahryar’s feet. A spiral staircase set in the furthest end of the oval attracted her attention. Picking up her skirts, she climbed up to the second floor, which had a covered terrace, and upwards again, to the topmost part of the turret, where the stairs ended on a flat viewing platform like a English castle’s battlement. Clutching the sides, for the height was dizzying, Cassie could see that her courtyard and terrace were set into the furthest part of the plateau. Below the white walls of the palace were the ochre ones of the city. Beyond that, the lush, green terraced fields fed by the oasis stretched out, and beyond that lay the desert and the mountains.

She stood there for some time, gazing out over Jamil’s kingdom, oblivious of the baking heat of the sun, until a scuffling sound distracted her. Looking down into the courtyard, she saw a small, exquisitely dressed young girl gazing up inquisitively at her. ‘Hello, Linah,’ Cassie called down, for it could only be she, ‘my name’s Cassie and I’m your new governess.’

Chapter Four

Cassie’s initial enthusiasm for her new role was very quickly tempered by the reality of the challenge facing her. Linah, an astonishingly beautiful child with soulful eyes the same shade as her father’s, was also an extremely accomplished tyrant, ruling her miniature kingdom through a combination of endearing smiles and extraordinary tantrums, both of which she seemed to be able to turn on and off at will.

What Jamil had referred to as the schoolroom turned out to be an entire wing of the palace, formed around what Cassie called the Scheherazade courtyard. Here, Linah and her retinue of handmaidens and servants spent their days in almost complete indolence, free from supervision since the last in the series of women who had been employed to care for her had departed somewhat hastily after her charge introduced a large snake into her sleeping chamber.

Linah, as Cassie very quickly discovered, was an extremely bright little girl. The combination, however, of bored intelligence and the complete deference in which she was held by the members of her miniature household meant she was also a little girl wholly lacking in discipline and accustomed to getting her own way. Cassie, calmly removing a series of small rodents from her shoes, her divan and even her dressing case, very quickly realised that Linah’s reputation was well earned.

At first, the child was determinedly uninterested in Cassie’s carefully planned lessons, drumming her fingers on the miniature desk, kicking her heels against the legs of her chair—for the room used for lessons had been kitted out, to Cassie’s surprise, in a Western manner, presumably by Jamil and at great expense. There was a substantial oak desk for herself, a slate board and a large globe, all imported. When requested to desist, Linah would either roll her eyes and feign sleep, or simply throw the desk over and storm out, hiding herself within the ranks of her maidservants, a clutch of giggling, fluttery creatures who made Cassie think of a cloud of butterflies, who were only too keen to pander to Linah, soothing her with comfits, singing her to sleep in her favourite spot under the lemon tree by the fountain, so that no amount of coaxing or reasoning or even threats from Cassie could persuade her to return to the classroom. That the child was bored, Cassie could plainly see. That she had an excess of energy to fuel her regime of defiance was also obvious.

There had been some minor signs of improvement of late, but not sufficient, in Cassie’s view, to yet be measured in any way as success. Linah occasionally paid attention during lessons, very occasionally she asked a question or deigned to do a few sums, but mostly she continued with her campaign of disobedience. After ten days, Cassie, having signally failed to exert her authority, was starting to wonder whether the task was beyond her.

It was evening, and she was taking refuge in her room—actually a suite of rooms, which took up the whole southern ellipse of the main courtyard, consisting of a day room that led to a sleeping chamber, a dressing room and a magnificent tiled bathing room. She’d been certain that all it would take was a little love and affection, but Linah responded to neither and Cassie, who was used to the security of her own loving little circle of sisters, was beginning to realise just how much she had taken the daily tokens of affection between them for granted—and how much they had sustained her, too, for without them she was beginning to feel as lost and unloved as poor little Linah.

Cassie sat up wearily, resolutely denying herself the solace of a good cry, and rubbed her eyes, though a few stray tears escaped. She was tired, she was a bit disillusioned and a bit homesick, that was all. With Jamil inexplicably absent, she had no one to talk her problems over with, no one to confide in, nor anyone to encourage her either. Cassie, used to the bustle of the Armstrong household where female company, whether in the shape of her beloved sisters or her formidable Aunt Sophia, was never in short supply, found herself longing even for such an unsympathetic ear as Bella’s. She was lonely, and she was unsure of herself, and she was afraid of making mistakes.

Another tear trickled its solitary path down her cheek, and then another. Cassie sniffed. Crying was pointless, as was self-pity. If she was Celia—but she was not, and never would have her elder sister’s calm assurance. How much she wished she was with Celia right now. Just a few moments in her company would restore her equanimity.

She sniffed again, but her tears gathered momentum. Bella was right. Aunt Sophia was right. Papa was right. She had been foolish beyond measure to think she could succeed where so many others had patently failed. Linah didn’t even like her and Jamil quite obviously wasn’t interested in his daughter. He’d told her as much, yet she hadn’t listened, so determined had she been to hear only what she wanted to hear. Yet again.

She fumbled for her handkerchief, but the scrap of lace that her sister Caro had so carefully embroidered eluded her grasp, which made her tears flow faster still. She was useless! Linah could see that, and if an eight-year-old child could see that, it surely would not be long before her father did, too—if he ever deigned to visit them. Finally locating her kerchief, Cassie rubbed her cheeks furiously. She would not fail. She would not allow herself to fail. ‘I’ll show them, all of them,’ she muttered, ‘and in particular one uncaring man with autumn-coloured eyes who needs to be taught a lesson in love.’

Strengthened by this reviving thought, her mood lightened. The heat of the day had given way to the welcome cool of the desert night, the time she loved best. She kicked off her kid slippers, untied her garters, stripped off her stockings, and made her way out to the courtyard, wriggling her bare toes with relish on the delicious cool marble of the tiled floor. The air was lemon-scented, the moon a thin silver crescent. Making her way over to the minaret, she climbed the stairs, feeling her way with her toes in the dark. At the top of the tower, she sat, her arms clasping her knees, and gazed up at the stars, which seemed, tantalisingly, almost within reach.

Save for a fleeting visit a day after her arrival, she had not seen Jamil at all. He was away dealing with weighty matters, she had been informed by Halim, who greeted her ongoing enquires with disdain. Prince Jamil would return when Prince Jamil saw fit. It was unlikely, Halim said with a superior smile, that his first port of call would be the schoolroom. Prince Jamil was far too important, he clearly implied, to be wasting his time on English governesses and wayward daughters.

At first Cassie had been relieved not to have to face him—or at least that’s what she told herself. Best not to be reminded of that kiss. Best not to be distracted by his presence. She didn’t want to think of Jamil as anything other than her charge’s father—though it was one thing to decide to think that way, quite another, she discovered, to do it. His absence was proving just as distracting as his presence would have been.

Throwing her head back, she looked up at the heavens. The vastness of the skies, the fierce beauty of the endless desert landscape, had an eternal quality. She could neither change nor conquer it, but what she could do was embrace it. There was nothing so pure or so perfect or so wildly exciting as nature in this raw state. It was intoxicating. The natural effervescence with which she used to embrace life began to return, and with it came a renewed determination to succeed in making Linah happy. Which meant confronting Jamil, an idea as exciting and intimidating as taking on the desert over which he alone was master. He was out there now, somewhere under the stars, perhaps surveying them just as she was. Perhaps looking at that particular one, just there. Perhaps he, too, saw the shooting star that blazed across the tip of the moon’s crescent. Perhaps …

A noise in the courtyard below caught her attention. Thinking it might be Linah, who was prone to sleepwalking, Cassie got to her feet and leaned over the parapet, but the person looking up at her was most definitely not a child. A tall figure, lithe in his white robe, with eyes that glittered in the harshly beautiful planes of his autocratic face. Cassie gripped hold of the parapet, trying to ignore the absurd little flutter of excitement which rippled through her tummy. ‘Your Highness—Jamil. You’re back.’

‘Lady Cassandra.’ He made a small bow. ‘Cassie. I am only just returned this past hour.’

Only an hour ago, and yet he had come here to see her! To see Linah—or at least to obtain a report on Linah, Cassie reminded herself sternly. ‘I—we are flattered. I’m afraid Linah is asleep.’

‘I should hope so. But you, I see, are not.’

‘It’s a beautiful night.’

Jamil stared up at her, what he could see of her above the parapet. The fiery tints of her hair and the pale material of her dress outlined her starkly against the night sky. He had forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful she was. She looked like a princess in a tower, awaiting rescue. ‘Lovely,’ he said softly.

Cassie leaned precariously over to obtain a better view. Jamil was barefoot and bare-headed, as she was. Even without the trappings of authority, his air of command was there in the way he stood, feet firmly planted, hands on his hips, head thrown back. He looked like the master of all he surveyed, she thought, then had to suppress a smile because of course he was, and there could be no mistaking the fact. Including her. Cassie shivered. It was a disturbing thought. She knew she shouldn’t like it.

‘If you lean over any further, you will fall,’ Jamil said. ‘Come down and tell me how you have been getting on with my daughter.’

His daughter. Of course, that’s what he’d come to talk about. He wasn’t interested in her. She had imagined the glint of smouldering desire in his expression. Reality broke into her fantasy of playing Juliet or Rapunzel, of Jamil mounting the tower—without using the stairs, of course—to come to her rescue. His daughter was his only concern. And should be her only concern!

Jamil watched her descend the lower, exposed staircase. He had forgotten how gracefully she carried herself, the way she seemed to glide rather than walk. He had forgotten that certain something about her which exuded sensuality, that certain something of which she seemed entirely unaware, and of which his own body was only too conscious. As she approached him across the courtyard, her progress marked by the silken rustle of her gown, his manhood stirred. He had thought absence would eliminate this inconvenient attraction, but it only seemed to have enhanced it.

Cassie curtsied. ‘I trust the business that took you away from us was successfully concluded?’

‘Eventually. I had not meant to be detained for so long.’

As he turned towards the cushions that lay in their habitual place scattered around the sun fountain, holding out his hand to allow her to precede him, Cassie noticed the scar, a long vicious slash running from his wrist to the inside of his elbow, angrily red, held together by some rather fearsome-looking stitches. ‘Your arm! What on earth happened?’

‘It’s nothing. A skirmish on the border, a band of opportunistic brigands.’

‘You fought them yourself? Did not your guards …?’

Jamil smiled, his real smile, the one that made her heart turn cartwheels. ‘You think me incapable of defending myself against a few cutthroats?’

‘I think you capable of taking on an entire army of cutthroats if you choose,’ Cassie said frankly, ‘I am just surprised that your guards allowed the men to get near you.’

‘I was alone. I could not sleep, and had left the caravan behind.’

‘Good God, Jamil, you should have more of a care. How many were there?’ ‘Four.’

It was hard not be impressed—he must be as fierce a warrior as his physical attributes suggested. But to have placed himself in such danger! ‘You could have been killed.’

‘But as you see, I am perfectly unharmed.’ ‘If you can call that unharmed,’ Cassie replied tartly, pointing to the wound. ‘Is it painful?’ ‘Not really.’

‘Which means it is. Sit down, let me look at it.’ In her concern, Cassie had once more forgotten all about the rules of propriety. She pushed Jamil on to the cushions and knelt before him, scrutinising his arm carefully. ‘It looks angry, the skin is pulling where it has been stitched, but it’s not infected,’ she said finally. ‘I have some lavender oil, it will take away the inflammation.’

She hurried off to retrieve the bottle from her dressing case, and knelt before Jamil again, dabbing the oil carefully on the scar, frowning with concentration as she bent over him. ‘There.’ She sat back to admire her handiwork, holding his arm in her lap, so intent upon her task that she did not notice his expression until she looked up. ‘What is it?’

‘You seem very knowledgeable.’

‘Only a little. Mama was interested in healing herbs and plants, and when she died, she left me her recipe book—well, actually, she didn’t quite leave me it, I sort of took it,’ Cassie admitted, ‘as something to remember her by. I made this oil myself, it’s perfectly safe.’

Male eyes the burnished colour of an English autumn met female eyes the colour of turquoise. Jamil turned his injured arm over to clasp her fingers. Her knees were pressing into his thigh through her dress. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts through the lace that covered them. The material was pale blue, embroidered with tiny white flowers. The same tiny white flowers decorated the ruffle of lace at her arm. She smelled of lavender and something else he couldn’t name. Floral and heady. ‘Thank you,’ Jamil said again, lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss on the fragile pulse of her wrist. He felt it flutter under his lips. He heard the soft intake of her breath. Then he remembered.

Governess, governess, governess. It should not be so difficult to remember! He dropped her hand as casually as he could manage and sat back on the cushions, adjusting his position to put a little distance between them. ‘Tell me about Linah.’

Cassie struggled to assemble her thoughts, which seemed to have scattered like dandelion clocks in the breeze. She tugged her skirts over her bare toes, trying to put from her mind the romantic picture they made, the two of them, sitting under the stars by the tinkling fountain, she and the desert prince.

Not the desert prince. Linah’s father. Her employer. Who wanted to know about his daughter. That was all. That was absolutely all. ‘Linah. Linah is—she and I are—I think we’re making progress.’

She started to tell him, haltingly, of her trials and tribulations, of the breakthroughs and the setbacks, the small triumphs and the still-regular defeats. Tempting as it was to exaggerate her success, she knew better than to lie, remembering quite clearly Jamil’s detestation of prevarication. ‘She is learning to trust me a little, but it is early days yet. Linah is still testing the limits of her powers.’

‘You mean she is still ungovernable.’

His voice contained not anger, but resignation. He thought she was failing. He had expected her to fail! Cassie clenched her fists determinedly. ‘Not at all, but Linah is a very clever little girl. All her experience has taught her that such strategies as she employs—’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, her temper tantrums. And her refusal to cooperate. And her hiding behind those maidservants of hers. And the practical jokes, of course.’

‘Practical jokes?’

‘Your daughter has an affinity with wildlife.’ ‘You will explain, if you please?’ ‘Mice, snakes and a whole host of other creatures I’m afraid I don’t even recognise. Linah seems to be able to tame them, or mesmerise them in some way, it’s really quite amazing. Then she puts them where they should not be—you know, divans, chests, cupboards. She put a toad in the tea samovar. Really, one has to give her credit for being inventive.’ ‘And cruel.’

‘She’s not cruel—or rather, she is but doesn’t realise it, and once she realised that I was not alarmed—’ ‘Not alarmed?’

‘Truly, Jamil, it didn’t bother me at all. I was brought up in the English countryside where wildlife abounds. My sisters, you see, were wont to do much the same sort of thing to Celia and me when they were being naughty. I explained to Linah that she was frightening the poor creatures more than me, and she stopped.’

‘Explained?’ Jamil said ominously. ‘You should have punished her for her actions. By failing to demonstrate your authority, you are showing weakness. She will exploit that, one way or another, if not now, then later.’

‘She is not my enemy, Jamil. It was punishment enough for her to know that she had caused distress without realising it,’ Cassie explained patiently. ‘And as I said, she hasn’t done it since.’

‘Can you be certain these unorthodox methods of yours will work?’

‘Not entirely, not yet.’ Cassie looked up from the intricate pattern she’d been weaving with her fingers in her lap. ‘She is only eight, Jamil.’

‘Old enough to understand right from wrong. Old enough to exert some control over her temper.’

‘You expect too much. At her age, I am willing to bet you had a considerable temper.’

‘By her age, I had already learned how to control it.’ Or to suffer the consequences.

‘At eight!’ Cassie exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it. Why, you must be at least twenty-eight now, and I have seen you lose your temper several times.’

She was smiling, meaning only to tease, but Jamil’s lips thinned. It was true, Cassie seemed to bring out extremes in him that he had not thought himself capable of, but it was not anything of which he was proud. ‘It may surprise you to know that I rarely lose my temper,’ he said curtly. ‘In fact, the only time I have lost it has been in your company. And that is not a compliment.’

‘I didn’t take it as such. Why are you so touchy? All I meant to say was that, as a little boy, you probably had just as many tantrums as Linah, only you don’t remember.’

‘You are quite mistaken,’ Jamil said with an air of finality.

She opened her mouth to contradict him, saw the implacable look on his face, and something darker in his eyes, which gave her pause. He had not been a happy child, that much was obvious. She decided, wisely for once, to change the subject. ‘I’ve been thinking, it would be a good thing for Linah to have more company her own age. She’s lonely, she doesn’t seem to have any friends. Children need the stimulation of others.’

‘That is why she has you.’

‘It’s not the same. Surely you are not so old that you cannot remember what it was like to play with your friends?’

‘I did not have any friends,’ Jamil said starkly.

Cassie’s mouth dropped open. ‘What? Don’t be silly, you must have. At school, and—’

‘I did not go to school. It is the tradition with princes of the royal blood in Daar-el-Abbah to be kept in isolation so that others may not witness their early mistakes, their growing pains. That is why our motto is Invincible.’

‘That must be hard to live up to.’

‘A prince is the ultimate role model for his people; his behaviour must be beyond reproach.’

‘But you are human, for goodness’ sake, you’re not flawless. No one is. I would have thought your people would see a few signs of mortality as a good thing.’

‘You know nothing of the matter. That is not our way.’

Cassie stared at his bleak profile in astonishment. He had not be exaggerating, then, when he said he had no friends as a child. The isolation he mentioned, it was the literal truth. Aghast at the very idea of such an upbringing, she also felt an immense pity for the lonely little boy Jamil must have been. No wonder he had no idea about how to treat his own daughter. ‘Is that what you wish for Linah,’ she asked, trying desperately to keep the emotion she felt from welling up into her voice, ‘to be raised in isolation, to be chastised when she shows any signs of normal, everyday emotion—what you call weakness?’

Jamil stared off into the distance, giving no sign that he had heard her. ‘Jamil? Is that what you want?’ Cassie demanded, in her anxiety to get through to him, once again forgetting all about restraint. ‘Do you want your daughter to become just like you—cold-hearted and apparently incapable of showing affection even for her own children? Well? It’s not right and it’s not fair, Jamil. She may be a princess, but she’s also a little girl.’

At some point in her last speech, Cassie had grabbed Jamil’s sleeve in an effort to make him listen. At some point in her speech, it had worked. He was no longer staring off into the distance, but right at her, and he did not look happy. She tilted her chin defiantly.

Jamil carefully detached her hand from his arm. ‘Once again,’ he said stiffly, ‘you overstep the mark. You talk about things which you have no understanding of. None!‘

She flinched at the vicious tone in his voice, but refused to give ground. ‘Linah—’

‘Linah will not endure what I did. I will not inflict such a regime on her, but—and you will listen most carefully here, Lady Cassandra, for I do not wish to have to repeat myself again—she is of the royal blood, and though as a woman she is not required to be seen as invincible, her behaviour must be superior to all others. She must learn to take control of her emotions. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, but she will learn how to do so much more easily if the discipline is inflicted by her peers. Little girls can be quite ruthless, you know, far more so than boys. If Linah misbehaves among her friends, she will be ostracised. She will learn quickly enough that she cannot do as she pleases.’ Seeing that Jamil was struck by this, Cassie pushed home her advantage. ‘As a princess, she must learn not just discipline, but kindness. Surely you agree she will be a better princess for having some understanding of her subjects?’

‘I don’t know. It is not the custom.’

‘You keep saying that, but traditions are only traditions for as long as they are maintained. You are the prince; if you wish to change something, you can do so. Set your own traditions.’

Jamil’s expressions softened into one of his near smiles. ‘My Council—’

‘You said yourself, your Council need to be brought into the nineteenth century,’ Cassie pointed out quickly. ‘Or at least,’ she amended conscientiously, ‘I think that is what you meant.’

Jamil’s smile widened. ‘I see now that you are indeed Lord Henry Armstrong’s daughter.’

‘I will take that as a compliment,’ Cassie replied with one of her irrepressible smiles. ‘A compliment from you is as rare an event as a rainy day in the desert. I shall cherish it. But seriously, will you think about it, Jamil. Please? For Linah’s sake? You know it—’

‘What I know, Cassie, is that a wise strategist knows when to retreat as well as when to advance,’ Jamil interrupted. ‘Your point is well made and I will reflect on it, but you should stop now, before you lose the advantage you have gained.’

She did so most reluctantly as she had still not broached the subject of Jamil’s contact with his daughter. Proud of her restraint, for it did not come at all naturally to her, Cassie nodded, fastening her lips together primly.

‘I can see that you are making a significant effort on my behalf,’ Jamil said, trying very hard not to laugh. Another thing he had forgotten about this beguiling creature was her more endearing qualities. She had the ability to throw him from one extreme to the other, in a way no one else could. Not that he was endeared. Just tired.

He had been away too long. The increasing demands of his kingdom were a sign of successful expansion, yet he did not feel rewarded. Halim had been appalled by the brigand attack just as much as Cassie, but for quite different reasons. Infallibility again. The shedding of blood was evidence of mortality. Halim feared for the prince, but Cassie feared for the man. No one else, it seemed to him, saw him in that way. Cared for him in that way.

‘You have everything you need here?’ he asked brusquely, getting to his feet.

‘Yes, thank you. Linah’s schoolroom is exceedingly well equipped.’

‘I did not ask about Linah, I asked about you.’ Jamil reached out his hand to pull Cassie up beside him. Instead of letting her go, he pulled her to him, the better to scrutinise her face. ‘You look tired.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been crying?’ ‘No, I—it was nothing.’

‘What have you not told me? If you are trying to protect Linah, let me tell you that—’

‘No, Linah is not the cause, not really. I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself, that’s all.’

‘You are unhappy here?’

‘No, not unhappy but—well, being cooped up here all day, it can be a bit stifling,’ Cassie replied with an apologetic look.

Jamil frowned. ‘I should have thought about it before. Of course you are used to having a little more freedom. Would you like to ride?’

‘Camels?’

Cassie’s expression of dismay was so comical, Jamil could not restrain a bark of laughter. ‘No, horses.’

He had a nice laugh, deep and infectious, extremely masculine. Cassie smiled back. Exercise, she realised, was what she needed to blow away the blue megrims, and maybe it would do Linah good, too. ‘That would be wonderful. Does Linah ride?’

‘It is considered improper for women here, unless they are led.’

‘You are a prince—are not traditions yours to make or break as you wish?’

‘Or as you wish? You tread a fine line, Lady Cassandra.’

The tone in his voice pulled her up sharply. Cassie’s face fell. She dropped her eyes. ‘I beg your pardon, Highness. I would not wish to place you in a difficult position. If it would cause too much offence …’

‘As you point out, I am the prince,’ Jamil said sardonically. ‘I will arrange it, but it must be tactfully done. You may ride, and Linah, too, but you will need an escort.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after Linah and myself.’

‘I am not talking about your riding skills, Lady Cassandra, I’m talking about your safety. There are those who will be offended by your embracing such freedom. You must promise me never to go out without an escort.’

‘Yes. Very well, but …’ Catching Jamil’s ominous expression, Cassie caught her words just in time. ‘I promise.’

‘We will begin tomorrow morning. I will accompany you personally.’

‘You! I assumed you meant a guard, or a groom.’

‘When I am satisfied there is no risk. For the moment, I will personally supervise these excursions.’

If she was delighted, it was for Linah’s sake. If she was already looking forward to it, that was for her also. Absolutely it was. ‘Thank you,’ Cassie said warmly, ‘Linah will be thrilled.’

His proximity was making her blush. His almost palpable maleness accentuated her awareness of her own femininity. She should say goodnight now. Drop a curtsy to release herself from his hold and say goodnight, because if she did not.

‘Goodnight, Lady Cassandra.’ Jamil released her and walked off across the courtyard, his feet padding soundlessly on the tiles. The huge door swung inwards. He was gone, in a flutter of white robes, before Cassie could reply, or even decide if she was relieved or not.

The prospect of a riding lesson in the company of her father sent Linah into paroxysms of excitement. She could barely be persuaded to eat, gulping down a mango sherbet and some pineapple, dancing anxiously from foot to foot while Cassie rummaged among her copious wardrobe for something suitable to wear. Terrified lest she be left behind, Linah insisted on watching while Cassie made her own toilette, laughing at Linah’s fascinated inspection of her stays, stockings and boots.

The riding lesson went well, with Linah cowed into her best behaviour by her father’s presence. Her natural affinity with animals allowed her to form an instant bond with the sprightly little pony Jamil had picked out for her. Cassie’s own mount was a thoroughbred Arabian dappled grey mare, a flighty, highly strung beast that tried to throw her the minute she sat in the saddle. The mare reared up on her hind legs, and when this failed, spun round in tight circles before attempting to rear up again. Cassie, however, had had enough, and reined her in sharply, leaning over to whisper soothing words into her ear the minute she was under control. Jamil, watching with an open-mouthed Linah, was more impressed than he cared to admit. He had known her to be more than competent, and would not have seated her on the grey had he doubted her ability, but still, the grace with which she held her saddle, the way she gave her mount its head before reining it in, evidenced a horsewoman of rare ability.

‘That was amazing, was it not, Baba?’ Linah said, her admiration for her most unusual governess rousing her from her shyness.

Jamil looked at his daughter in surprise. She had not called him Baba since she was a small child. His own father had banned the term. I am a father to all my people, not just you, Jamil remembered being told pointedly. ‘Amazing, but rather ostentatious,’ he agreed curtly, watching the light fade from Linah’s eyes, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest, telling himself it was for her own good.

They rode out through the city gates, with Linah on a leading rein, to a sandy paddock enclosed by tall cypress trees. Tethering his horse, Jamil watched while Cassie taught her the rudiments of walking and trotting. His daughter was awkward at first, glancing over each time she made a mistake. Realising that he was making her nervous, Jamil removed himself from her sight. Watching from the cover of one of the trees, he saw her grow in confidence, soon able to attempt a trot round the paddock on her own.

‘Did she not do well?’ Cassie said, beaming at her charge, when they rejoined him back at the stables.

‘She shows some ability,’ Jamil agreed stiffly. He watched Linah’s face fall, saw Cassie frown at him in vexation, and told himself once more that it was for the best, but still he felt unaccountably guilty.

‘Thank your father for most graciously giving up his time,’ Cassie said to Linah, ‘for if you do not, he will think his presence unnecessary, and will not come again.’

‘Oh, no, Baba, I would not like you to think that. Please will you come again tomorrow?’

‘Affairs of state permitting. Fakir will show you how to rub down your pony,’ Jamil said, nodding at his head groom. ‘You must learn to take care of your horse if you are to become a real horsewoman.’ When Cassie made to dismount in order to help, however, he shook his head. ‘That mare of yours is still fresh, we’ll go for a gallop before the sun is too high.’

Surprised and delighted at the opportunity to put such a beautiful animal through its paces, Cassie waited only until they were back out of the city gates to release her hold. The grey mare needed no urging, flying across the sand with Jamil, mounted on a magnificent black stallion, in hot pursuit.

They rode together again the following day, after Linah’s lesson, and the next and the next. Away from the confines of the palace, Jamil was a different person. Not just more at ease in the wide, untrammelled space of his desert, but more approachable, too. They found they shared a passion for the natural world, and Cassie’s obvious enthusiasm for the harshly vibrant beauty of the desert, so different from the soft green landscape of England, encouraged Jamil into increasingly ambitious expeditions in search of rare plants or obscure species. The time flew by with a speed that surprised them both. Several times Jamil had returned to the palace to find Halim in a lather of worry at his having kept some merchant or visiting dignitary waiting.

Halim did not approve of his prince taking time out from his formal schedule, not even if he did return looking refreshed. Especially, Halim did not approve of Jamil spending that time in the company of his daughter’s English governess, though he was far too circumspect to give voice to such thoughts. People were talking. Such talk would end when Prince Jamil’s betrothal to the Princess Adira was made public, so Halim devoted his energy to the arrangements for the ceremony. If they were watertight, this time the prince could not escape them. He would be wed and then life for Halim, and the whole of Daar-el-Abbah, would continue as it had always done.

Chapter Five

Cassie woke every morning looking forward to the coming day. Gone was her homesickness, banished were her doubts. Linah flourished under the combined regime of physical and mental exercise, her natural intelligence and surprisingly wry sense of humour were beginning to emerge. While she still shied away from any physical signs of affection, she had twice now allowed herself to be cuddled when waking from a nightmare, and once slipped her little hand into Cassie’s on the journey to the stables. The tantrums had abated dramatically. The sulks were not gone, but had become rare. Her behaviour was improving, definitely improving with every passing day.

Though she was not aware of it, for she rarely bothered these days with her looking glass, Cassie, too, was improving every day. Her skin glowed with vitality, tinged with the sun, rosy with health. Her eyes sparkled, the azure of a summer sea with the sun glinting upon it. She walked with a lighter step. She hummed to herself when sitting sewing in the shade of the lemon tree. She was happy.

She was happy because she was making a difference to Linah. She was happy because she was doing something positive. She was happy because Jamil was pleased with her efforts. She was happy because in Jamil, the man she had come to know, if not yet fully understand, she felt she had found that rare thing—a true friend. The thought made her smile, for Jamil would have scorned it—had he not said that he did not want or need friends? But that made her smile all the more. Of course they were friends. What else could it be, this empathy that had grown up between them, the ease with which they talked, disputed, laughed, the way sometimes they did not even need to do that, content merely to be in each other’s company?

‘Friends.’ She said the word aloud, as if tasting it, and again, this time more assertively. They could not be anything else. She did not wish it. He did not think of it. At least …

Sometimes, when they were alone in the desert, she caught him looking at her. Sometimes, she looked at him just like that, she suspected. Hungrily. Imagining. Trying not to imagine. Remembering. Trying not to remember. When their hands met accidentally, something akin to a shock surged through her, making her awkward, aware of something not right, something too right. She thought about that kiss in those moments. His lips on hers. His arms around her. She thought about it, then she banished it.

She banished it now, forcing her mind to focus on her one other concern. Though she and Jamil might be friends, Jamil and Linah were not. Though his attitude towards his daughter had softened, and he showed a real interest in her progress, Jamil seemed to be incapable of showing her any sign of affection. He spoke to his daughter as to an adult. He was a perfectionist, and there was nothing at all wrong with that, save that he praised so rarely and criticised so frequently. Could he not see that the child worshipped the ground he walked on? That one sign of affection would make an enormous difference to her confidence? Tough as his own upbringing must have been, from the very little he had let fall about it, surely there must have been some tender moments for him to recall?

Casting aside her sewing, a sampler she had been making for Linah, Cassie got to her feet. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when everyone took respite in the cool of their rooms, but she was restless. The Scheherazade courtyard was eerily quiet. Looking for a distraction, she remembered that Linah had once mentioned gardens on the eastern side of the palace, old gardens gone to ruin. The idea of a secret wilderness, a neglected and forgotten hideaway, appealed strongly to the romantic side of Cassie’s nature. Opening the huge door that led to the corridor, nodding in a friendly way to the guards, she set off in search of it.

***

Jamil could not concentrate on the papers before him. The complicated series of commercial transactions began with the trading of Daar-el-Abbah’s diamonds upon the lucrative Dutch market and ended with the import of some of the new spinning equipment from the British cotton mills. Bills of lading, interest calculations, net costs, gross costs, profit and conversions from one currency to another danced before his eyes. The end result was positive. It always was.

Jamil rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension there. This morning he and Cassie had ridden out to a nearby oasis with Linah, his daughter permitted for the first time to handle her pony without the leading string. She’d done well, sitting straight-backed and riding light-handed, in an excellent imitation of her teacher. He’d been proud of her, but though he formed the words of praise, he could not speak them. Cassie had been unable to hide her disappointment; he saw it in the downturn of her mouth, in the tiny frown instantly smoothed between her fair brows.

Jamil cursed softly under his breath. He would not let this woman’s disapproval dictate his actions. He had learned the hard way just how important it was not to let anyone know what he was feeling—that he even had feelings—for feelings could be exploited. They were a weakness. For her own good, Linah should be taught the same lesson.

But, increasingly, he found it hard not to show just the sort of weakness his father had been so keen to eradicate. It had been easier, when Linah was not so often in his company. Now, with his daughter’s endearing personality imprinting itself upon him every day, thanks to Cassie, it was proving difficult to maintain the barriers that had been so hard built. Sometimes he felt as if Cassie was determined to remove them brick by brick. To expose him. Sometimes he appalled himself by wanting to help her.

Abandoning his papers, Jamil got to his feet and wandered out into the courtyard. The heat was stifling. Even the ever-industrious Halim had retired for the afternoon. In search of distraction, he found himself wandering in the direction of the schoolroom, only to be informed by the guards that Cassie had left, half an hour before. It was not like her to go off unchaperoned like that. Slightly concerned, Jamil set off in search, tracing her meandering path through the endless corridors of the palace by way of the various sets of guards she had passed.

The trail went cold at the entrance to the east wing, where he paused, his frown deepening. The large oak door with its heavy iron grille was closed. There was no reason to think she would have opened it, save the fact that he knew there was no other way for her to have gone without being noticed. No guard stood at this door. No one, to Jamil’s knowledge, had passed beyond the door for years. Eight years. Eight years, six months and three days to be precise. Since the day Jamil had come to the throne of Daar-el-Abbah, exactly one week after his father had died.

Just looking at the implacable door made Jamil’s heart pound as if his blood were thick and heavy. There was no reason for Cassie to have entered the courtyard. No reason for him to have expressly forbidden it, either. He had locked the memories away long since. But now, looking through the grille to the dusty ante-room beyond, he knew that was exactly what she had done.

He didn’t want to go in there. He really, really didn’t want to. But he didn’t want Cassie there, either. His palms sweating, his fingers shaking, Jamil opened the door and stepped in, back, over the threshold of his adulthood into the dark recesses of his childhood.

She’d found the door after following many false trails and dead ends. She’d known it must be the one, from the rusty look of the key. That there had been a key in the lock at all surprised her. That it turned, gratingly and reluctantly, had excited her, but then she stepped inside and the overpowering air of melancholy descended like a thick black cloak.

It was a beautiful place, a completely circular courtyard with a dried-up fountain, the marble cracked and stained, the ubiquitous lemon trees grown huge and wild, jasmine and something that looked very like clematis, but could not be, flowering with wild abandon around the courtyard’s colonnaded terrace. Dried leaves covered the mosaic floor. She heard the unmistakable scuttling of small creatures as she crossed it slowly. The fountain’s centrepiece, which she had at first thought to be a lion cub, she now realised must be a baby panther. She had not seen the panther fountain in Jamil’s private courtyard, but he had once described it to her, mockingly. This must be its counterpart, which meant that this must be the rooms of the young Crown Prince Jamil, shut up and left to crumble into ruin, as if he had turned his back not only on his childhood, but his past.

Cassie shuddered. The stark contrast of the dull tiles, the weeds that grew between the cracks in the floor, the general air of sullen neglect, with the rest of the pristinely cared for palace, was unbearable. Sensitive as she was to ambiance, she could almost taste the ache of unhappiness in the air. Wandering over to another solid-looking door, she peered through the grille and caught a glimpse of the secret garden. Far from the pretty wilderness she had imagined, this one was barren, arid, with skeletal trees, the bark shed in layers like skin, with thickets of some barbarous thorny shrub covering the entire ground area, like a spiky, mottled carpet.

She should not be here. It was too private a place, too redolent with intimate memories. Instinctively, she knew that Jamil would be mortified by her presence. Yet instinctively, too, she felt that here lay the key to his relationship—or lack of it—with his daughter. If she could find it—if she could understand—then surely …

Holding the hem of her gown clear of the detritus that covered the courtyard floor, Cassie picked her way carefully to the doorway of the apartments. Like all the palace suites, they followed the shape of the courtyard, a series of rooms opening out, one on to the other. The divans had been abandoned, their rich coverings simply left to rot. Lace, velvet, silk and organdie lay in tatters. The mirrored tiles of the bathing room were blistered, the huge white bath, sunk into the floor, yellowed and cracked. She found a silver samovar with a handle in the shape of an asp, tarnished and bent. A notebook, the pages filled with a neat, tiny hand in Arabic, which stopped abruptly half-way down one page. When she picked it up, the spine cracked, the cover page separated.

Careless now of her gown, overcome with the melancholy of the place, Cassie wandered into the last room. A sleeping divan, the curtains collapsed on the bed. An intricately carved chest. On the wall above it, hanging on a hook, what looked like an ornamental riding crop. She took it down, admiring the chased-silver handle decorated with what looked like emeralds. Obviously ceremonial. How had it come to be left here?

‘What in the name of all the gods do you think you’re doing? Put that down immediately.’

Cassie jumped. The riding crop fell to the ground with a clatter. Jamil kicked it under the carved chest. His face looked thunderous, brows drawn in a straight line, meeting across his nose, his mouth thinned, the planes of his cheekbones standing out sharply, like the rugged contours of the desert mountains.

‘Well?’

‘I thought—I heard about a secret garden. I wanted to see it.’

‘Well, now you have, so you can leave.’

His eyes blazed with anger, though his tone was icy cold. She was afraid. Not of him, but of the pain she could see etched into his handsome countenance. ‘Jamil.’

‘You should not have come here.’

His tone was bleak, his eyes echoing his mood. She could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the tightness of his voice. ‘They were yours, these rooms, weren’t they?’ Cassie asked softly.

‘These are the traditional apartments of the crown prince. Mine. Before me, my father’s. And before him, my grandfather’s.’

‘So this is one tradition you definitely intend to break with?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You obviously don’t intend any son of yours to stay here, or else you would not have allowed the place to fall into such decline,’ Cassie said, with a sweeping gesture towards the derelict courtyard.

‘If—when—I have a son, he will have—he will be given …’ Jamil faltered, swallowing hard. ‘No.’ He shook his head, shading his eyes with his hands. ‘No. As you say, this is one tradition that ends with me.’

‘I’m glad.’ Cassie laid a hand tentatively upon his arm. ‘This is not a happy place, I can tell.’

‘No,’ Jamil replied with a grim look, ‘happiness was a commodity in short supply here.’ The hand he used to run his fingers through his auburn hair was trembling. ‘Discipline, honour, strength—they are what matter.’

‘Infallibility.’

‘Invincibility. My motto. My fate.’ His shoulders slumped. He sank down on to the lid of the chest suddenly, as if his legs would no longer support him. ‘Here is where I was taught it. A hard lesson, but one I have not forgotten.’ He dropped his head into his hands.

Jamil was a man who had until now appeared as invulnerable as a citadel, with all the power of an invincible army. Seeing him so raw, so exposed, all Cassie yearned to do was to comfort and to heal. Careless of all else, she crouched down and cradled his head, smoothing the ruffled peaks of his hair back into a sleek cap, stroking the cords of tension in his neck, the knotted sinews of his shoulders, his spine. Jamil stilled, but did not move. She drew him closer, wrapping her arms around him, oblivious of the awkwardness of her own cramping limbs, thinking only somehow to ease the hurt, the deep-buried hurt that clung to him now like a dark aura.

She whispered soothing nothings and she held him close, closer, pressing tiny fluttering kisses of comfort on to the top of his head, enveloping his hard, tense lines with her softness. They stayed thus for a long time, until gradually she felt him relax, until he moved his head, and she realised, almost at the same time as he did, that it was nestled against her breasts. She became conscious of his body not as something to be comforted, but as something to be desired. Her own body responded alarmingly, heating, her nipples hardening. He stirred in her arms and she released him, blushing, looking away, concentrating on standing up, shaking out the leaves and twigs and dirt from her skirts.

‘I must apologise,’ Jamil said, rising slowly to his feet.

‘There is no need,’ Cassie said quickly.

‘A moment of weakness. I would be obliged if you would forget you witnessed it.’

Cassie chewed on her lip, knowing that further probing might well anger him. ‘Jamil, it is not weakness to admit to having been unhappy—rather the opposite.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Something horrible happened here, I can sense it.’ She shuddered, clasping her arms around herself. ‘Don’t you see that by refusing to acknowledge it, you are granting whatever it is the victory of silence?’ She clutched at his sleeve to prevent him from turning away.

‘You exaggerate. As usual.’

‘No. No, I don’t. Jamil, listen to me, please.’ She gazed desperately up into his face, but the shutters were firmly back in place. ‘Why can you not tell Linah how you feel about her?’

The directness of the question took him by surprise. Jamil raised a haughty eyebrow.

‘I know you care for her,’ Cassie continued recklessly. ‘I know that you’re proud of her, but you can’t bring yourself to tell her. Why not?’

Jamil pulled himself free. ‘Show thine enemy a heart, and you hand them the key to your kingdom. My father taught me that lesson here in this very room with the aid of a very persuasive assistant,’ he said fiercely, stooping to retrieve the riding crop from under the chest.

‘He beat you! My God! I thought that thing was ceremonial.’

Jamil’s laughter was like a crack from the whip he held. ‘In that you are correct. The ceremony of beating the weaknesses out of the crown prince was one that took place on a regular basis.’

Cassie’s face was ashen. ‘But why?’

‘To teach me to conquer pain. To ensure that I understood extreme emotions well enough to abandon them. To make me what Daar-el-Abbah requires, an invincible leader who relies upon no-one else.’

‘There is no such thing,’ Cassie said passionately. ‘You are a man, not a god, no matter what your father thought, no matter what your people think. Everyone needs someone. For heaven’s sake, Jamil, that is absolutely ridiculous. You are a man, and you have feelings, you can’t pretend they don’t exist.’ Even as she spoke the words, Cassie realised that that was exactly what Jamil did. The appalling nature of his upbringing struck her afresh. Her fury at Jamil’s father knew no bounds. ‘What about your mother? Where was she when this was happening?’

‘I was not permitted to see her, save on ceremonial occasions, once I was established here.’

‘That’s what you meant about losing her at an early age?’

Jamil nodded.

‘What age, precisely?’

‘Five.’

Cassie’s mouth fell open. ‘That’s barbaric!’

‘Unfamiliar customs often seem barbaric. We are an ancient civilisation, much older than yours.’ Cassie’s utter horror was written plain on her face, making Jamil deeply uncomfortable. Having locked up these rooms, he had persuaded himself he had also locked away what had happened here. Only in moments of weakness, in the dark of night, did the memories intrude, scurrying out from the crevices of his mind, like scorpions in the desert after dark, to sting him. He dealt with them as his father had taught him to deal with any weakness, by ruthlessly suppressing them. Now, seeing his childhood experiences through Cassie’s eyes, he felt cornered. He had endured, but never questioned. What he had been taught here formed the foundations of his entire life. He did not want to have to scrutinise them. He did not want to even think about whether they were wrong. ‘It is the way of things here,’ he said, annoyed to find that his voice contained just a hint of defensiveness, even more annoyed to find himself wondering whether Cassie might have a point.

‘Well, if the result of your traditions is a long line of cold, unfeeling, invincible rulers like you,’ Cassie responded heatedly, ‘then I’m glad I’m not part of it. And I’ll tell you something, Jamil, I think deep in your heart, you don’t want to be part of it either.’

‘You know nothing about—’

‘You’ve already admitted you won’t be treating your son in the same way,’ Cassie interrupted ruthlessly, desperate to find a way to get through to the man she now realised was barricaded up inside a coat of armour forged from pain and suffering. ‘You told me that you wanted things to be different for Linah, too. You want a different life for your children, you’re even prepared to face the wrath of your Council to provide it, but can’t you see the place you need to start is with yourself? Jamil, your father was so wrong.’ Her eyes were wide with unshed tears. ‘To care is not a weakness, it’s a strength. To stand alone, to say you don’t need anyone, that’s simply a lie. Everyone needs someone to love, everyone needs someone to love them, don’t you see that?’

‘Your love for your poet—did that strengthen you or weaken you?’ Jamil asked coldly. It was a cruel remark, he knew that, but he was hurting.

Cassie flinched. ‘I did not love Augustus.’ Not at all, she realised suddenly. She had been in love with the idea of love only.

‘You told me yourself, the first time that we met, that what you felt was humiliation as a result of this so-called love.’

He was just lashing out, she knew that. This place held such awful memories for him, it would be a miracle if he did not. And what he said was true, after all, even if it was said to divert her. To divert him. Cassie laced her fingers together, then unlaced them. Then laced them again, frowning hard. ‘You’re right, I did feel humiliated,’ she admitted, ‘but not by being in love, by being so mistaken. I was humiliated and ashamed of my stupidity, my wilfulness.’

She stared at him hopelessly. An immense pity for the lonely boy he had been, for the solitary man he had been forced to become, washed over her. How to get through to him, she had no idea, especially since he seemed intent on preventing her. This was a pivotal moment, she felt it. If she did not make him see now, he never would. ‘You are missing out on so much by denying yourself.’

‘You cannot miss what you have never had,’ Jamil replied curtly. ‘In any case, I am not denying myself. I am protecting myself. And my kingdom.’

‘By refusing to allow yourself to feel! To love! Do you deny your people such things?’

‘Love! Why must you always bring that up? It doesn’t exist, save in those pathetic poems you are forever reading.’

Seeing his determinedly set face, Cassie almost despaired. His knuckles were white around the horse whip. A horse whip, for God’s sake. His father had trained him in the same way as he trained his thoroughbreds. A flash of rage gave her a surge of strength. She grabbed the riding crop from Jamil and, bending it over her knee, snapped it in two. ‘There! That is what I think of your father’s methods, and that is what I think of your stupid traditions,’ she declared, panting with the exertion. ‘Do you really want this thing to dictate your entire life?’ She threw it with all her might out into the desolate garden. ‘What he did to you was cruel. Disgustingly, horribly cruel, but he is dead now. You are your own man, not your father’s. He was wrong, Jamil, wrong. Allow yourself to feel, allow yourself to love, and you will see for yourself how happy it can make you.’

‘It did not make you happy,’ Jamil retorted pointedly.

‘Oh, why must you keep bringing Augustus into everything?’ Cassie exclaimed. ‘I’m beginning to feel as if I’ll never be rid of him.’ But at least Jamil was looking at her properly now. He was listening. Cassie took a deep breath. ‘When you love someone, really love someone, you can feel it here …’ she pressed a hand to her bosom ‘… or here.’ She touched her stomach. ‘I’ve never felt that, I admit it. Few people do, but when they do, they just know. That is the kind of love that makes you strong.’

‘That kind of love is a myth.’

‘No. No, it’s not. It’s just rare,’ Cassie said, surprising herself now, for it turned out she did believe in love after all. ‘But when you find it, as my sister Celia has, it is the greatest source of strength in the world. Far, far greater than the sword, or scimitar or whatever. It’s not that you depend upon someone, it’s that you have someone else to depend on. Oh, why can’t you see that?’

‘Perhaps I would give your little flights of fancy more credence if you spoke from a position of experience,’ Jamil replied. ‘But since you have already admitted that you do not.’ He shrugged.

Cassie gave a rather undignified squeal of frustration. ‘You don’t have to have experienced something to know it exists, believe it exists! In here!’ she exclaimed, pressing her hand to her breast.

Her face was flushed. Her bosom heaved with indignation. A long tress of fiery gold hair had come undone and lay over the white skin of her shoulder, where her dress had slipped. Her eyes sparkled a blue that put turquoises to shame. The maelstrom she had stirred up was suddenly too much for Jamil to cope with. Resorting to one of the few ways he knew of to express himself, he pulled her roughly into his arms, and silenced her in the age-old way, with a passionate, angry, famished kiss.

Cassie struggled only briefly, her hands flailing against his chest in an ineffectual attempt to free herself. It was a kiss meant to punish, she knew that, knew, too, that she had pushed him to his limit. It meant nothing, she told herself, nothing more than a show of strength, but still, the touch of his lips on hers, the lean length of his body held close, but not close enough to the soft yieldingness of hers, was beginning to work its magic. Cassie stopped struggling. Her body seemed to melt into his. Her lips parted. Her skin heated. Her heart began to pound.

It was over too quickly. With a hoarse cry, Jamil pushed her away, glaring at her as if it were her fault. As it was, Cassie could see quite clearly why he would think so. For long moments they simply stared at each other, breathing, lost in a tangled jungle of emotions, unsure about which path to take to regain solid ground. It was Jamil who broke the silence, his voice harsh, edged with something less certain that gave Cassie a tiny cause to hope.

‘I will not apologise for that, it was your own fault.

Once again, you dare to intrude on matters that do not concern you. You should not have entered here. I wish that you had not. This place.’

‘You should reclaim it. Banish the ghosts, take it back. Until you do, it’s like a dark secret, brooding away.’

‘This place,’ Jamil continued, ignoring her interruption, ‘is none of your business. I don’t want you coming here again and I certainly don’t want you bringing Linah here.’

‘Of course not. Jamil, you could make Linah so happy if you showed her just a little bit of affection. Loving her could make you happy.’

Jamil sighed heavily. ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’

Cassie took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. ‘It takes courage to change the habits of a lifetime, but courage is something you have in abundance.’

Jamil’s smile was twisted. ‘I’m not the only one. You have the courage of your convictions.’ He kissed her knuckles. ‘I’ll think about your suggestion.’

‘That’s all I ask.’

‘For the moment, at least,’ he said wryly. ‘Come, let us leave this place.’

Turning the key in the lock of the outer door, Jamil removed it and secreted it in his robes. Cassie watched him stride down the corridor, his tunic rippling in the slight breeze caused by his rapid gait. Poor, tortured Jamil. If he could but make a start by loving Linah, then maybe some day he would be capable of real love.

Why was that thought making her uncomfortable?

She had an absurd urge to run after him, missing him more with every step he took away from her, a premonition of a time when he would be gone from her for ever. She hadn’t thought about that until now. Until today. She didn’t want to think about it now.

It would have been naïve to expect that Jamil would be transformed overnight, but from that day on, Cassie did detect a marked difference in him. Awkwardly at first, but with increasing confidence as Linah responded, he began to allow his feelings for his daughter to show. Cassie looked on with a pride she took care to disguise. Knowing that she had been instrumental in effecting this change was enough; she did not want his gratitude, and she most certainly did not want Linah to guess the part she had played. Besides, it was a painful enough process for Jamil to override the years of pain that had beaten his reserve into him. She did not want him worrying about her witnessing his metamorphosis.

She was watching him with Linah one day. Jamil was standing in the middle of a bathing pool, teaching his daughter to swim. He had abandoned his cloak and igal, but retained his tunic. The water came up to his waist. Linah, lying supported in his arms, was giggling at something he had said. He looked over at Cassie and smiled. Their eyes met and her heart did a little flip flop. His tunic, damp from Linah’s splashing, clung to his body like a second skin, showing off his muscles, the width of his shoulders, the dip of his stomach. His hair was sticking up in endearing spikes. His eyes sparkled with good humour.

Father and daughter together. It was exactly the tableau Cassie had dreamt of creating, but though it was of her making, she felt excluded. Father and daughter. The obvious gap opened up before her like an abyss. They had been playing happy families, the three of them, but she was not really part of it. And yet she wanted to be, she realised. She wanted to be a lot. Because she loved Linah now, too. But mostly because she was in danger, in very real danger, of feeling something she should not feel for Linah’s father. And that would be a mistake.

Cassie turned away from Jamil’s beckoning smile, busying herself with packing away the lunch things. It was not too late. She had caught herself just in time. It was not too late.

‘The Council await you, Highness.’

Jamil looked up from the document he’d been perusing and gazed blankly at his man of business, who was hovering in the open doorway.

‘The betrothal contract,’ Halim prompted anxiously. ‘You rearranged the signing for today. It must be witnessed by the Council, so I took the liberty of organising the gathering. They are ready.’

‘The betrothal contract.’

‘Yes, Highness. You said—’

‘I know what I said. This alliance is advantageous to us, it is to be welcomed.’ But Jamil did not want to be married. He did not want to even have to think about marriage, about siring an heir with a female he had absolutely no interest in whatsoever. The idea of it filled him with repugnance. He was sick and tired of having to think about the endless matters of state that obtruded on his day, and sick and tired of having to spend his time resolving them, one problem after another. Sometimes it felt as if he was the only person in the whole kingdom of Daar-el-Abbah capable of making decisions. Jamil rubbed the bridge of his nose with long, elegant fingers. It had always been thus—why was it bothering him so much now?

With some caution, Halim approached the desk behind which his master sat. The prince had been behaving strangely of late, spending much time with his daughter and that English governess of hers. ‘You must be heartened by the improvement in your daughter’s behaviour,’ he said carefully, ‘the whole palace is talking about the change in her.’ And the change in Prince Jamil! ‘You will be able to hand over Princess Linah with confidence now.’

‘Hand her over?’ Jamil looked confused.

Halim laughed nervously. ‘Well, you will hardly require the services of the English governess when you are married, Highness. Your daughter will be in the care of your new wife, as is right and proper.’

‘Eventually, perhaps, when I am actually married.’

‘But with the betrothal papers signed, there will be no reason to delay.’

No reason, save his own reluctance. ‘I’ve only met Princess Adira once, remember.’

Halim beamed. ‘And the next time you meet her will be on your wedding night, as is the tradition.’

Jamil thumped his fist down on the desk. ‘No!’ He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘It is time both you and the Council recognised this is the nineteenth century, not the thirteenth. I won’t have my wife brought to me painted and veiled like some offering. I am not a prize stud camel, I don’t perform to order. And she—Princess Adira—she’s barely exchanged two words with me.’

‘You are hardly marrying her for her conversational skills,’ Halim said with a smirk, ‘she will be first wife, not first minister.’

‘First and only wife. Therefore it is, even you will admit, preferable that at the very least we do not hold one another in dislike.’

‘Indeed, but the Princess Adira—’

‘I am sure she has many excellent qualities, but that’s not what I’m talking about.’

‘What are you talking about, Prince Jamil?’

A beautiful face, a pair of turquoise eyes, a coral mouth curved into a welcoming smile.

‘Master?’

Someone to depend upon. Someone who would share and not just take. Cassie! The beautiful creature who had created a sanctuary in Linah’s apartments where he could be free from the cares of the world. Who saw him not as Prince Jamil, ruler of Daar-el-Abbah, nor as a provider, nor as a peace maker, neither as an enemy nor an ally. Who called him Jamil in that soft husky voice of hers with the quaint English accent. Who saw him as a man, not a prince. Who talked to him as a friend. Whose delicious body and delightful scent and coral-pink mouth haunted his dreams.

It would be pleasant there in the courtyard as dusk began to fall. An oasis of calm and peace, of seclusion from the world, even if it was just an illusion. He would go to her once he had, yet again, done his duty by signing away the little he had left of himself. He would go to her, and she would soothe him just by talking about the mundane details of her day. He would let her voice wash over him, and he would forget about everything else for a few precious moments.

The thought was enough of an incentive to force him into action. ‘Very well, let’s get this over with.’ Jamil grabbed the ceremonial gold-and-emerald cloak that lay waiting on the divan under the window and fastened it around his neck with the ornate emerald pin. The sabre next, then the ring and the head dress and the golden band. He straightened his shoulders and tugged at the heavy belt holding the sabre in place. Then he nodded at Halim, who flung open the door to the prince’s private apartments, and clicked his fingers to summon the honorary guard.

Six men, dressed in pristine white, formed up in the corridor behind their ruler. Halim himself picked up the trailing edge of Prince Jamil’s cloak, and the party set off for the throne room at a swift pace.

The double doors of the magnificent room were already open in readiness. Two rows of Royal Guards formed a pathway to the dais, their scimitars raised, points touching. Rays from the sinking sun slanted through the high windows and glinted on the polished steel. The waiting Council of Elders made obeisance as Jamil strode by, remaining on their knees, heads bowed, eyes averted, until he ascended the steps to the throne and bowed solemnly in greeting. The contract lay before him on a low table along with a selection of quills and a bottle of ink. Jamil picked up a pen, dipped it in the ink and signed his name, waiting impatiently for Halim to heat the wax before imprinting the seal from his ring.

It was done. His duty was done. He would not think of it now. He would not allow himself to dwell on the consequences. Jamil scattered sand over the wet ink and pushed the document aside. He got to his feet so quickly that he was already halfway back down the length of the throne room before Halim and the Council realised he was going.

‘Highness, the celebrations,’ Halim shouted after him.

‘I am sure you will enjoy them all the more for my absence,’ Jamil called over his shoulder. In other circumstances, the startled look on Halim’s face would have amused him. Right now, he could not have cared less. Without bothering to change out of his formal robes, Jamil took the now very familiar route to the schoolroom.

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