Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride (19 page)

Once again her words were fuelled by her new-found love, and once again Kadar was subjecting her to his Mind Reader look. She must not wear her heart so obviously on her sleeve. Luckily he couldn't literally read her mind.

‘How can you be so certain of that when your experience of love is confined to an adolescent infatuation with a groom and a brief flirtation with a Russian acrobat?' Kadar asked, once again proving her wrong.

‘Don't forget the blacksmith,' she said in an effort to distract him. ‘I never claimed to be in love with any of those men.'

‘Which makes you singularly unsuitable to judge Zeinab.'

He was right. Constance slumped back in her seat, as if the air had been punched out of her body. ‘I'm sorry. You are quite right, I have no right to judge her. I wished only to help you, and all I have done is make you angry.'

‘I'm not angry, Constance.' Kadar picked up the notebook again, rifling through the pages until he came to her diagram. He drew a question mark above the head of the bearded figure. ‘And you have helped, despite what you think,' he said.

‘How?'

‘By pointing out that I have no way of knowing whether Zeinab was happy with her lot or not. I assumed—but I don't know for certain. There is one person who does, though, and I intend to ask him.'

‘Abdul-Majid.'

Kadar shut the notebook with a decisive snap and got to his feet. ‘Once the past is put to bed I can focus on the future. Now if you will excuse me, I have a betrothal to cancel, and plans to revise.'

Chapter Twelve

A
nxious as he was to confront Zeinab's father, experience had taught Kadar the value of contemplation. He was, as Constance had adroitly pointed out, a man who liked to consider and to plan. Picking up the key of his orrery, he wound it up and watched the planets slowly begin their orbits of the sun, the tiny representation of the moon rotating around the earth. His thoughts drifted away from the past to the present and his court astronomer.

Constance had said that she missed him. When he'd told her he'd missed her too, he hadn't been referring to their mutual passion. He had missed
her
,
though there had been times during their last conversation when he hadn't recognised her. Her thoughts and feelings, usually written so plain on her face, had been guarded, yet there had been other moments where she had seemed to him oddly overemotional. And judgemental too, implying that Zeinab had lacked the courage of her convictions, that Zeinab had not loved him enough. And that he had been too trusting.

Had he, as Constance implied, put his lover on a pedestal? Idealised her? Created an impossibly perfect version of reality? Kadar propped his chin on his hand, frowning as the planets orbited to the sound of the mechanical cogs turning the mechanism. Had it been a cathartic experience to discuss it with Constance? It had certainly raised questions he had never before asked himself, and he found that he now wished to seek answers to those questions.

The moon had ground to a halt again, as it was prone to do. He flicked it with his little finger, setting it off on its journey around the earth. Anningan, chasing his lady love, Constance had told him. Had he been more in love than Zeinab? Had he misread a lack of love as a desire to do the honourable thing? If she had run away with him, would they have been happy? With Zeinab by his side, would he have achieved more or less in life? She had never been strong, not like Constance. Zeinab was a delicate and fragile desert flower, requiring nurturing, careful tending. Not that she had been weak, but it was true, she had been inclined to bend her will to the wind, he recalled now. Resistance made her wilt. With Zeinab as his wife, he would not have been able to pursue success so single-mindedly. But with Zeinab as his wife, would he have wanted to pursue such success?

Had she loved him less than he her? Another potentially painful question, yet it merely roused his curiosity. She was dead, and so too was whatever love they had shared seven years ago. Seven years! It seemed like a lifetime, so much had changed. He had changed. He tried, but he could not remember what it had felt like, that love he had once thought so precious, so perfect. If he could meet Zeinab now, what then? Would their love blossom afresh? The question seemed treacherous, the answer treason, for into his head came a vision not of Zeinab, but of Constance. Captivating Constance, whose body he craved, whose passions equalled his. Kadar smiled, forgiving himself. To compare the two women was foolish beyond belief. Love and passion. Two very different emotions.

The orrery came to a stop, Jupiter halting with its usual jerky click. There was only one man capable of answering his questions. Could he trust him to tell the truth, or would Abdul-Majid's propensity for expediency lead him to tell Kadar only what he thought he wanted to hear?

He had been deeply unhappy in those early days after fleeing Murimon. Slightly disgusted at his younger self, he recalled taking perverse comfort in imagining Zeinab being equally unhappy. It had become a habit with him to think of them both nursing their broken hearts and shattered dreams, but truly, when he searched his memory, his conscience, the anguish of those first months had not persisted. The heartache had faded, leaving only a steely determination never to suffer it again.

And Zeinab? How often had he thought of Zeinab? Not the love he had lost, but the princess, the wife, the woman living out her new life in the kingdom he had left behind? The harsh truth was that he had not thought of her at all, had not tried to imagine that life, had taken every care, in his limited correspondence with his home, not to discover what life might be like for her. Had she been content with Butrus? Had she made his brother happy, or had the lack of a child made them both miserable? Only Abdul-Majid knew.

The time had come to find out, because Constance was right—once again Constance was right, he corrected himself with a rueful smile. Whatever the truth, the time had come for him to face it and then put it firmly behind him.

* * *

‘Very well, Highness, I shall attend to the matter immediately. The question still remains as to appropriate compensation to the princess's family for the breach of contract.'

Kadar took a sip of mint tea, nodding his assent when Abdul-Majid offered to refill his glass from the chased silver pot which sat on the huge tray in the middle of the low marble table. This was his first visit to his chief adviser's suite of rooms since his return to Murimon. The bookshelves lining the walls were perhaps a little fuller, the rugs which covered the marbled floor a little more worn, but they were the same bookshelves, the same rugs which had been here when Abdul-Majid had been his father's chief adviser. This table—how many times had he drunk sherbet at this table as a boy, after lessons? How could he have forgotten those lessons in Ancient Greek and in Latin? The histories of the pharaohs and of the ancient Arabian tribes? Lessons learnt from scrolls so delicate that he had worn fine silk gloves to prevent the heat from his fingers damaging them. Abdul-Majid had been a patient and talented tutor. How could he have forgotten that?

But nothing had actually changed, and that was the irony. The room was the same. No doubt Abdul-Majid's determination to keep things as they were had not changed either. ‘I was thinking,' Kadar said, ‘that instead of jewels, we could offer Nessarah what they would have gained through the marriage alliance. Access to our port,' he clarified, seeing the confusion writ on the older man's face. ‘Favourable trading terms for both exports and imports.'

‘It is the tradition to offer precious stones, Highness.'

Kadar sighed. ‘Can you not see your way to break with tradition this once?'

‘As it transpires I think it a most excellent suggestion, Highness, and one which is likely to be well received. A proposition which I would be glad to broker on your behalf. From Nessarah's perspective, such trade is of far more value than some shiny baubles, and from our perspective—well, who would not wish to increase their trade with such a wealthy kingdom?'

‘Precisely,' Kadar said, trying not to sound as disconcerted as he felt.

Abdul-Majid tugged at his beard, forming his mouth into what might have been a smile, but it was difficult to tell. ‘I am an old camel, but it is still possible for me to learn new tricks, Sire. Tragic as the circumstances surrounding your succession, for Murimon your arrival is most timely. If we do not rise to the challenge of this new century, then we will fade into obscurity.'

‘Are you saying that you approve of my plans?'

‘I am saying that I understand the need for them, Sire.' Another tug of the beard, another slightly ingratiating smile. ‘My days of influence are over. It is time, as Candide says, for me to cultivate my garden. You do not need my approval, Highness, but if you ask do I think your plans are what Murimon needs, then my answer must be in the affirmative.'

‘When Butrus died, you told me that what Murimon needed was stability, a royal wedding, a new dynasty, yet you do not seem overly upset or indeed surprised at my decision to cancel the betrothal contract you negotiated for my brother.'

‘Prince Butrus was happy to rely on others to look after his best interests, Highness. You have always struck me as someone who prefers to make his own decisions, whether right or wrong.'

As ever with Abdul-Majid, there were two conversations going on, two sets of meanings to be attributed to his words. It was precisely the kind of conversation which Kadar had presided over countless times on behalf of the great and the good. The seeds of his own diplomatic skills had in fact most likely been sown by the man sitting at the table with him, but Kadar decided the time had come for frankness, not finesse.

‘Was my brother happy in his marriage to your daughter? No, don't shake your head and shrug your shoulders, Abdul-Majid, I want an honest answer.'

But Abdul-Majid shook his head and shrugged his shoulders anyway. He took a sip of tea. And then another. And then he did something he rarely did. He met Kadar's gaze square on. ‘He was content, as far as a man such as your brother could ever be happy with a woman who could not give him a son to succeed him. There were, as you would expect with Prince Butrus, other women, but he was discreet. I doubt my daughter suspected, else she would have confided her suspicions to me.'

‘Do you really think she would have spoken to you of such a thing?'

‘Yes.' The affirmative was spoken with absolute certainty, but immediately Abdul-Majid's voice gentled. ‘My daughter trusted me, Highness. I always knew what was in her heart.'

Like Kadar, Abdul-Majid was a man who chose his words carefully. Was this an admission of guilt? ‘You must have known then that she loved me,' Kadar said, although what had been a statement of certainty for so long was now most definitely posed as a question.

His answer was painfully slow in coming. Once again, Abdul-Majid chose his words with care. ‘She did love you, Highness, but Zeinab was— My daughter was accustomed from a very young age to the knowledge that one day she would be crowned Princess of Murimon. She could not help but be attracted to the influence and the riches that position would provide.'

‘The lemon does not fall far from the tree,' Kadar said drily.

Abdul-Majid acknowledged this with a shrug and a nod. ‘She was my daughter. We were more alike than perhaps you realised. But you must not think her guilty of deceit, Highness. Her feelings for you were genuine, if not as strong as yours for her. Nor was her resolve as resolute as yours in the face of opposition.'

‘I would never have tried to make her do anything she didn't want to do. Quite the contrary,' Kadar said, recalling his conversation with Constance. ‘So many times I begged her to allow me to speak to my father, but she would have none of it and I acceded to her wishes.'

‘For which I am glad. Sire, I am truly sorry to have to say so, but what you wanted could never be permitted to happen. You would only have succeeded in making things worse for both of you.'

‘I asked her to elope with me, did you know that?'

‘I did, and that would have been another huge mistake on both your parts. I told my daughter as much. Zeinab was a delicate desert flower who could only flourish in the cossetted confines of the palace. She was born and bred for court life, not living a nomadic life with you, surviving on your wits. She knew that in her heart, which was why she chose to marry Prince Butrus. Highness, the stark truth is that you were not capable of making each other happy.'

‘A delicate desert flower,' Kadar said, with a twisted smile, remembering his own thoughts.

‘As you say.'

‘And did she bloom under my brother's tender care?'

The older man sighed, dropping his eyes to his empty glass. ‘The lack of a son and heir was a tragedy which affected them both, but she was as content as it was possible for a wife to be, under such circumstances.' He looked up, his eyes damp. ‘It has been a great source of regret to me that this has caused a rift between us, but I am, despite what you may think, first and foremost a father, even before I am a loyal servant of the crown. My intervention was with my daughter's best interests at heart. I would do so again, Highness.'

‘I would like to think you would,' Kadar said, getting to his feet. ‘If we could have had this conversation seven years ago—ah, no, that is unfair of me. I doubt very much I would have listened. I would more likely have acted in the mistaken belief that I was playing the knight errant, and I suspect the repercussions would have been as you said. Unhappiness. For all parties. I thank you for your honesty.'

‘And I must humbly thank you for your gracious understanding, Highness, and beg your forgiveness.'

‘Even though you would do it again?' Kadar laughed shortly. ‘Let us, as the English say, draw a line under the matter. It is done, and I am done with it. The future is what matters. Will you draw up the necessary papers, setting out the terms of our offer to Nessarah?'

‘I will do more than that. I will personally deliver them and obtain their agreement, Highness. After which I think it is best that I retire from this positon. You will wish a younger man, a man you have chosen yourself, to be your trusted adviser.'

‘So you'll go and cultivate your garden, just like Candide?'

‘It is as Cicero said, Highness. If you have a garden, and a library,' Abdul-Majid said, indicating the bulging shelves, ‘a man has everything he needs.'

‘Except your daughter to share it,' Kadar said sadly.

‘But she does, Highness. She is here with me, every day in my heart.'

* * *

Constance spent the night as usual working on her star maps, but for once the heavens could not hold her attention. Time and again, her mind strayed from tracking constellations to Kadar's decision to track down the truth of his past. Had he spoken to Abdul-Majid? Was he now avoiding her because it had been an unsatisfactory meeting, because it had changed nothing, or changed too much, or because there had been no meeting at all? Perhaps he had thought better of it. That might be best. She had been so certain that she was doing the right thing in forcing him to confront the past, but now she was terrified that the only thing it would do was cause him more pain.

* * *

Finally, as dawn broke, her patience snapped. Quickly changing into her riding clothes, Constance saddled up her lovely mare and headed for the beach.