Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride (14 page)

‘If you wish to take advantage of it?'

‘I would not wish to inconvenience you.'

Kadar smiled. ‘I believe we have had this discussion before. It would inconvenience me greatly to lose my court astronomer before she had completed her work.' Yes, that was it. Nothing to do with his wishing her to stay on any sort of personal basis, because they had quite firmly established that there could be nothing personal between them. ‘So that is settled then?' Kadar said briskly.

Constance, however, frowned. ‘Are we then to continue to avoid each other's company, or—or— I'm sorry, I'm still not sure what you think, Kadar.'

‘I think that if a fire is not fuelled, it will quickly burn itself out.'

Constance considered this then heaved a sigh. ‘Then we have no option but to do as you say, and refuse to feed the fire. I am sure that knowing we are doing the right thing will make it easier to endure.'

‘It is also my hope.'

She laughed. ‘Then I would like to enjoy what remaining time I have with you. We cannot have an
affaire—
goodness, how decadent that sounds! But we cannot have one, and even if we did, it would come to an end with my departure anyway. Worse, it might have come to an end before then, and think how uncomfortable that would be.'

‘You make an excellent case for abstinence.'

‘One you can endorse?'

‘Yes. We are agreed, then.'

‘Excellent,' Constance said, and he told himself he was imagining the hollow ring to her voice. ‘Then I have a favour to ask of you. I would like to learn something of your language while I am here. I was wondering if there was anyone who could teach me.'

Himself, was the obvious answer, but he baulked at the idea of spending what little time he had with Constance engaged in such a dry activity as language lessons. ‘The only other person I know with any sort of fluency in English is Abdul-Majid.'

She shuddered theatrically. ‘Your chief adviser loathes me, and I'm pretty sure he would consider the role of teacher quite beneath him.'

‘Abdul-Majid considers any role save chief adviser quite beneath him,' Kadar retorted. ‘In fact I'm certain he considers himself superior to me.'

‘You don't like him, do you?'

He took some time before he answered, and when he did, his words were deliberately ambiguous. ‘His views are very traditional.'

‘As are the views of many people in your kingdom, many of the people you talked to at the oasis last week, but you were not so—so...' Constance faltered. ‘It is none of my business.'

‘No, it is not.'

She bit her lip, studying him through narrowed eyes, that way of hers that made him uncomfortable. ‘I call that expression Number One,' she said mysteriously. ‘The Haughty Prince. You do it when you want to keep your thoughts to yourself, or when you don't want a subject to be pursued, which amounts to the same thing, more or less.'

Kadar was both impressed and irritated. ‘I have nothing to hide.'

He should have known better than to try to call Constance's bluff in this way. ‘Then tell me why you don't like him,' she said. ‘He is a very influential man, he would be an excellent ally to have, yet you seem to make little effort to cultivate him.'

‘Abdul-Majid,' Kadar said grimly ‘is a man who cares only for privilege and position. He is a man who would sacrifice even his nearest and dearest in his pursuit of power. That is the source of my antipathy.'

‘Would sacrifice, or did sacrifice?'

‘Did sacrifice. His daughter, if you must have it.' He could not recall her face. He could not recall the colour of her eyes. He closed his own, trying desperately to conjure an image, but it was hazy. He felt himself a traitor. ‘The subject is now closed,' Kadar said, making blindly for the terrace steps and the sanctuary of his library.

* * *

Alone in his chamber, Kadar stared down at the papers strewn over his desk representing Murimon's future, his utopian vision for his kingdom, and forced himself to think about the man who epitomised Murimon's past. In his previous life he had met many traditionalists such as Abdul-Majid, men who would do almost anything to stop progress, men who revered customs and traditions not for their value but for their simple existence, but he had always prided himself on his own sense of justice and fairness, and had never failed to give them a hearing.

Was his chief adviser so different? Yes, he and Abdul-Majid shared a tragic history, but that did not mean the man had nothing of any merit to say. He had years, decades, more experience of Murimon's ways than Kadar had. Constance was, sickeningly, correct, when she said it would be easier if the chief adviser was on his side. And yet, as he contemplated the time he would have to spend to persuade the man to support him, every instinct rebelled. He did not want the support of a man who had bartered power and influence for his daughter's happiness. He would not permit the man who had destroyed his youthful dreams to sabotage the new dreams set out on the desk before him.

No, he could not forgive him, but he could try to forget, close the door on the memories and the animosity between them, rid himself of the long shadow of the past. Butrus was dead. Zeinab was dead. Abdul-Majid was an old man. After the coronation, Kadar could find a way to retire him with honour. And in the meantime, he thought with a grim little smile, he would task his chief adviser with giving Constance language lessons.

His black mood began to lift. His plans lay before him, nearly completed. He had come to an arrangement with Constance which would permit him to enjoy a few more weeks in her company. What's more Constance had decided to free herself of the shackles of that cursed marriage—there, he could admit that was how he thought of it now. She would be free. Penniless and without family, but free. He could help her. He had contacts. He was certain he could help her. If she would let him.

His mood darkened again. In two days he would be crowned Prince of Murimon. In a matter of weeks, Constance's fate would be in her hands alone. She would be sailing for England and freedom, while he...

Kadar groaned. His coronation intended to mark the beginning of a golden age for Murimon, but it was also the countdown to the end of his own freedom and his impending marriage. And every day that it grew closer, his resistance to it grew stronger.

Chapter Nine

‘B
y anointing thy hands with this sacred oil, we give to thee, our king, the strength and the power to rule your kingdom and to defend our people from the unjust.'

The words spoken by the Chief Celebrant were almost exactly the same words which had been spoken at every Murimon coronation for centuries, and similar to the words spoken at the coronation of princes and kings of several other Arabian kingdoms too, so Abdul-Majid had informed Constance when he had provided her with a translation yesterday. She watched from her allotted position to one side of the Royal Saloon as Kadar's hands were anointed with frankincense. He was every inch the Prince today, dressed in a tunic and headdress of the finest silk, woven with gold. The long cloak fixed in place with an ornate golden clasp was also of gold, embroidered all over with an intricate and extremely elaborate geometrical pattern in jewel colours. It must be very heavy, for it trailed some twenty feet along the floor. At the centre of the clasp was a small red diamond, the companion of the huge Red Diamond of Murimon at the centre of his belt. Diamonds also glittered in his headband, on his boots and in the scabbard of the ceremonial scimitar tucked into Kadar's belt.

‘By anointing thy head,' the Chief Celebrant was now intoning, ‘we give to thee, our king, the wisdom to govern wisely and to rule justly.'

Constance was not the only woman present, which she knew was a clear break with tradition, and done at Kadar's insistence. The wives of all members of the Council, including Yasamin, stood with their husbands, and the huge retinue of palace servants, men and women, also stood together in one of the antechambers. But she was the only woman holding official office. Constance allowed herself a brief moment to admire the robes which Yasamin's grandfather had fashioned perfectly to her design. The tunic and pantaloons she wore were of celestial-blue silk the colour of the morning sky, beautifully made, but simple enough not to detract from the stunning beauty of her cloak. Midnight blue, the colour of the Arabian night sky, it had a high, stiff collar and very long pointed sleeves, the shape copied from a favourite picture Constance had once seen of the Arthurian wizard, Merlin. All of the main constellations were embroidered into the cloak which, if spread out, would depict as accurate a representation of the Arabian summer night sky as Constance had been able to draw. She was literally enveloped in the stars. She pulled the soft folds of the garment around her. Never, never would she forget this day.

The Chief Celebrant was preparing the special oil for the final part of the ceremony, mixing the secret ingredients into the frankincense of which even Abdul-Majid was ignorant. Any other man than Kadar would be lost in all the magnificent robes which he wore, his presence subsumed by the shimmer of gold and glitter of precious stones, by the fire that seemed to burn inside that huge diamond on his belt. But despite all his princely trappings, it was Kadar's own presence which shone through. There was authority in his stance and in his expression. In those fiercely intelligent eyes, there was strength, power, that certain something which singled out the true, natural-born ruler from mere mortals.

‘By anointing thy heart,' the Chief Celebrant chanted, ‘we give to thee, our Prince, the enduring and unquestioning love of our people, and in the name of those people, we do declare you Prince Kadar of Murimon.'

The audience fell in unison to their knees in obeisance, Constance following suit. She felt very strange, sneaking a look up at Kadar as the final words of the ceremony were spoken and repeated by all present, filled first and foremost with pride to be present on such a momentous occasion, privileged to be part of this ceremony, and almost overawed by Kadar's regal bearing.

But there was more to it than that. Behind that princely façade, there was a man whom Constance thought so much more admirable, for he was flesh and blood, a man who knew he could never be infallible, yet strived to come as close as he could to that state. A man of honour and integrity. A man of passion. Of all of this she was aware, and some of it only she, of all here present, knew.

Tears filled her eyes as the emotion of the occasion took hold of her. This ceremony tied Kadar to Murimon for ever. It heralded a new beginning for his kingdom, but it also marked the official end of his old life. His role from now on was Prince of Murimon. His future here, creating the kingdom he wanted for his people. A new dawn. Yet for her, it was the beginning of the end. It was an illusion, this being part of something, her role here as court astronomer. Soon, she would have to set sail into her future, to decide for herself what form it would take, what role she would carve for herself.

Her tears could no longer be held back. Here, in the Royal Saloon, at the end of this most moving and life-changing of rites, she could admit to herself that she cared for the man who was now Prince, cared for him rather too much. Never before had she felt this way about any man, because previously, she had equated such feelings with marriage, and therefore entrapment. There was no question of marriage here, and even if there were—no, she had not changed her mind on that. But it had not occurred to Constance until now that it was possible to feel two quite contrary things at the same time: a profound and deep-rooted affection for a man—no, she would not dare go so far as to call it anything more; and a fierce determination never to be any man's property.

Shaken, she rose to her feet with everyone else at Kadar's command. Confused, she listened as he spoke, noting how mesmerised his audience was by his words, noting that she was very far from being the only one with tears on her cheeks, noting the assurance with which the new prince spoke, knowing that his people hung on his every word, though she had no idea what those words meant.

Kadar concluded his coronation speech and, as the first cheers broke out, he made his way out of the Royal Saloon and Constance took up her position at the rear, behind the two lines of council members who would bear their prince's train. Her thoughts turned, as they had over and over again in the preceding nights, to two other women. The princess whom Kadar was to marry. And the woman who had broken his heart.

* * *

It was very late, or rather very early, when Kadar finally changed out of his coronation robes. He ought to be exhausted, for the day of his coronation had been an exceedingly long one, but instead he felt light-headed, wide awake, slightly detached from reality as he had all day, as if he had been watching himself from afar. It had all gone like clockwork, thanks to the ever-efficient Abdul-Majid, but from that satisfaction too he felt quite detached. He was officially Prince of Murimon, the foremost personage in his kingdom. He shook his head at the incongruity of it. As second son, he had never dreamt this day would come. Now he had everything which Butrus had ever wanted, and he was going to turn it into something which his brother could never have dreamt of. He had revealed only the outline of his plans to the council, and had repeated the exercise for the benefit of the people crowded into the piazza following his coronation. It was impossible to tell whether the apparent enthusiasm with which his words were greeted was merely a product of this most momentous of days. When the formal public exhibition of his plans was unveiled in the special room in the palace which was currently being prepared for just that purpose, then he would know more.

Would Butrus really be so appalled? Baffled, more like. Butrus would fritter away the huge Nessarah dowry on extravagant toys like the three-masted schooner he had ordered, on horses he could not hope to master, and on goodness knew what other luxuries. It was a large sum of money. It would take dedication and many years to spend it in such a fashion, but it probably wouldn't occur to Butrus that it might be spent in any other way. What was the point of changing traditions and customs and a way of life which had served for centuries? he would probably ask. ‘Progress, Brother,' Kadar whispered softly.

Clad now only in a cotton tunic, he stared out at his kingdom from his rooftop terrace, breathing in the soft night air, listening to the waves gently breaking on to the shore in the distance. They were as different as night and day, he and his brother, but there were certain occasions, like now, when he missed Butrus. He didn't regret the years of his self-imposed exile, for he could not have stayed to witness—no, that would have been painful beyond endurance. But he wished Butrus could have come and visited him. Perhaps then, faced with a fast-changing Europe his brother would have opened his eyes to the need for change closer to home. ‘Or perhaps not,' Kadar said wryly to himself. All Butrus had wanted was here. A kingdom to rule, a people to revere him, a dynasty to succeed him.

A dynasty to succeed him.

As soon as the celebrations were ended, the pressure for Kadar to marry would intensify. He had used his upcoming coronation as a shield, very effectively as it turned out. Now disarmed, he was forced to confront this next rite of passage square on. He was marrying for money and an heir. Yes, the money would benefit his people, and if that alone was the reason, perhaps he would not feel so squeamish. But dynastic purposes? The notion filled him with repugnance. Children were human beings, not heirs in waiting. They should be brought into this world for one reason only—that they would be loved—and as the product of one thing only—and that was love.

Oh, love, sweet perfect love. The province of youth, of innocence, granted but once in a lifetime. He had sipped from that cup, had been permitted a glimpse of paradise. Should he have fought harder, pleaded his case more strongly, simply taken matters into his own hands, overcome all her scruples and forced the issue by taking decisive action? But he had not, and it was seven years too late for regrets. He would have been happy, theirs would have been a perfect union, but it was not to be, and now would never be. As to this loveless union which his people wished him to undertake, which his brother had been about to embrace...

A noise on the steps made him turn. Constance, wrapped in a white robe, her hair floating like a cloud behind her, appeared on the terrace and stopped dead at the sight of him. Kadar held out his hand. ‘You're not disturbing me.'

She joined him in the ghostly predawn light. Her feet were bare, as usual. ‘Are you surveying your domain now it is officially yours?'

Her very presence had a calming effect on him. ‘Yes, I find I've suddenly developed despotic tendencies.' He was rewarded with one of Constance's captivating smiles. ‘What brings you up here?' he asked. ‘Couldn't you sleep?'

‘Couldn't you?'

He laughed softly. ‘Perhaps I am sleeping. Today has felt like one long dream.'

‘You were magnificent, Kadar. It was a most moving ceremony. I have no doubt that you will provide your people with the prince they deserve and, judging from the reaction to the speech you made in the piazza, I think they agree with me.'

He was absurdly pleased, though he merely shrugged. ‘You looked quite magnificent yourself today. Every inch the court astronomer. In fact the most impressive I have ever seen.'

‘And how many other court astronomers have you met?'

He grinned. ‘None! But I have to say, your ceremonial robes looked spectacular. The design using the map of the night sky was an inspired idea.'

‘Yasamin's grandfather must take the credit for that. He made a wonderful job of bringing my suggestions to life.'

‘When I said you looked magnificent I was referring to the person wearing the robes, not the robes themselves.' He turned to face her, pushing her hair back from her face, twining a long silky curl around his fingers. Looking down at her—big eyes wide open, fierce brows, soft mouth, that combination of strength and vulnerability which he had detected in her from the start—made something twist in his gut. Wanting, yearning, something stronger and more powerful than mere desire, overwhelmed him. He slid his hand further into her curls, letting their silky softness caress his forearm. It felt like an age before his lips touched hers, both of them watching, waiting on the other to withdraw, drawing nearer and nearer, until their mouths met, and even then, pausing. Then she emitted a soft sigh and melted into his arms.

* * *

When Kadar's lips met hers it felt so right that it left no room to conclude it might be wrong. This was a kiss that had been waiting patiently, suspended in the stars above them since that last kiss here on this terrace. Their mouths clung, their lips lingered, not tasting but drinking, savouring, a slow blurring of two people into one. Constance's eyes drifted closed. She could taste starlight in their kiss, something ethereal, brightly shining, yet it was a light which would slip through her fingers if she tried to catch it. A kiss which could not be earthbound, yet a kiss which felt so real.

She sighed as Kadar pulled her closer, wrapping his arm tightly around her waist. Her body nestled against his, her curves fitting into his hollows, her hands smoothing over the ripples of his muscles, relishing the tension in him belied by those pliant kisses, like wine now, heady, sweet, achingly sweet, bringing her body to life, making her melt against him, making her feel as if she could fly with him to the stars, where their kisses came from.

Deeper kisses, drugging kisses. His tongue sweeping over her bottom lip, hers licking into the corners of his mouth, and then tongues touching, that touch like a secret connection, making all the pulse points of her body into one shimmering constellation, her mouth, her breasts, her fingertips, her belly, her toes, and the beating pulse of that constellation throbbing inside her.

She could feel his arousal hard against her, but still their kisses were yearning kisses, kisses that longed only for more kisses and more kisses, kisses whose point was only kissing, and kissing, and kissing. Until desire rushed through her like a riptide, the fierceness of it startling her. And Kadar felt it too. So their kisses slowed, because they could not continue. And stopped, because they had to. And they stared at each other, dazed and dazzled. And then they let each other go.