Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride (3 page)

‘Addendum?'

‘Lady Constance, in my report you are listed as missing, presumed dead. Yours was the only body from the ship's complement unaccounted for. As time passed it became ever more certain that you had perished, unfortunately.'

Constance stared at him in dismay. ‘You mean my mother will be informed that I have drowned?'

‘I am afraid so. And so too will whoever was to receive you in Bombay when Captain Cobb arrives to break the news.'

‘Captain Cobb? Arriving in Bombay? But...' Her head was beginning to reel. ‘I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

‘We were most fortuitously able to provide the captain with a replacement ship. He was most anxious to reach his destination, and since all hope of finding you alive had been abandoned, there was no reason for them to delay their journey further. They set sail almost a week ago.'

‘A week! A whole week! Then there is no chance of my joining them?'

‘No chance whatsoever,' the Prince replied with an air of finality. ‘May I ask, Lady Constance, why you were aboard the
Kent
? These East India ships have a very high attrition rate. Your parents must have been aware of the risks when they made arrangements for you to sail east.'

‘They were assured that I was in safe hands, since Captain Cobb enjoys an excellent reputation as one of the finest captains in the entire fleet and—and it seems it was deserved, for to only lose twenty-six lives from six hundred, when it could have been so much worse, is admirable seamanship.'

‘Assured by whom?'

‘The man who arranged my journey, who as a major shareholder is therefore extremely well versed in such matters.'

‘Ah, you mean this man is a merchant of the East India Company?'

‘Yes. Mr Gilmour Edgbaston.'

‘A relative?'

‘Not as such. Mr Edgbaston and I are— We are— The fact of the matter is that I was on my way to India to marry Mr Edgbaston,' Constance said faintly. ‘And now when Captain Cobb arrives he will have the sad task of informing my future husband that his bride has drowned at sea.' She swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter. ‘You can have no idea, Your Highness, how convenient that would be if it were true.'

* * *

Having absolutely no idea at all what to make of this last remark, Kadar studied the Englishwoman in some consternation. When he had first spotted it on the list of those who had perished, Lady Constance Montgomery's name had conjured up an image of a very proper middle-aged matron. He could not have been more wrong. The rough peasant's tunic she wore was far too big for her slim figure. Her hair, a deep glossy brown, tumbled down over her shoulders in wild waves. There was a roundness to her cheeks, a fullness to her lips quite at odds with the rather fierce brows. Her brown eyes were wide-spaced, fringed with thick lashes. Her gaze was direct and intelligent, a striking contrast to the vulnerability of her softer features and one which Kadar found unexpectedly—and most inappropriately—beguiling.

‘You cannot mean that you wish yourself dead,' he said, wondering if the raw pink scar on her forehead had deranged her mind.

She shook her head slowly. ‘No, no, of course I don't mean that literally only—oh, I don't suppose you will understand. Being a prince, I expect you are accustomed to arranging your life exactly as you wish it, but...'

‘You are mistaken,' Kadar answered with some feeling. ‘I had a great deal more freedom when I was not a prince.'

‘Oh?'

Her gaze was curious. He was oddly tempted to explain himself, which was of course ridiculous. Instead, he found himself contemplating Lady Constance's feet. They looked vulnerable, her dainty little toes peeping out from her tunic. But he should not be looking at her toes, dainty or otherwise. ‘You were telling me why you wished yourself dead.'

‘I was telling you that I don't truly wish that. Only that I wish— Oh, it sounds silly now. I wish I could have remained undiscovered. Missing presumed free, so to speak.' She gave a wry little shrug. ‘My marriage was arranged by my parents. I've never met Mr Edgbaston, and know very little about him at all, save his name, age and circumstances. When I left England, I thought I had resigned myself to making the best of the situation but I've had the whole sea voyage to—to reconsider.'

‘And while you were—what did you call it?—undiscovered you could pretend that it would never happen, is that it?'

Lady Constance nodded. ‘As I said, it was silly of me, but...'

‘But understandable,' Kadar said, with feeling. ‘Bad enough that you are being forced into a marriage to a man you have never met, but to have to travel halfway across the world, to leave behind all your friends, all your family, your most intimate acquaintance a woman you met for the first time on the day you boarded the ship, it is outrageous.'

‘When you put it like that, I rather think I would be better off dead.'

‘I apologise, I did not mean to upset you. It is merely that I—' Kadar broke off, shaking his head. ‘My words were quite out of turn,' he said stiffly. ‘I have no right at all to comment on your personal situation.'

None! And no right to express his own feelings on the matter. He was a prince. How many times must he remind himself of that fact? It did not matter what brought Lady Constance Montgomery here. He had more than enough troubles of his own without becoming embroiled in what amounted to a family matter, no matter how much sympathy he felt for this woman with her clear gaze and her wry smile, the wild curl of her hair trailing down her back over that peasant's tunic, and her bare little toes. Now was not the time to be distracted by any of these completely irrelevant attributes, nor to delve further into the precise nature of her betrothal. The vast majority of marriages in the higher echelons of society were arranged, in both England and in Arabia. What he needed to do was to concentrate on resolving her sudden and frankly inconvenient reappearance.

‘The question now is,' Kadar said, ‘to decide what is to be done for the best.'

‘There really is nothing to discuss,' she replied flatly. ‘I too spoke out of turn. I have had my little idyll, and I rather enjoyed it, with no one knowing who I was or what I was or even knowing where I was. But it is over now. I am back from the dead, and must find a way of resuming my journey to India.'

Must? He did not like the implications of that word, but it was not his place to consider them. She was no child; she looked to be at least twenty-four or twenty-five, and she clearly knew her own mind. ‘I am afraid you don't quite grasp the implications of what I have told you, Lady Constance,' Kadar said. ‘When Captain Cobb reaches Bombay, this man to whom you are betrothed will be informed of your death. The missive which I have sent to the Consul General in Cairo will at some point in the near future result in your parents also being informed of your demise. I am very sorry to be so blunt, but you did say...'

‘I did, I said I wanted the unvarnished truth.' Lady Constance winced. ‘I did not expect it to be quite so brutal, but in essence it changes nothing, save that it makes it even more important that I complete my journey as soon as possible. I do not wish Mr Edgbaston to acquire another bride to take my place.'

Kadar nodded slowly. ‘Very well, then I will have the matter investigated, but I should warn you that as things stand, the next ship heading east to Bombay is not expected in our port for at least two months.'

‘Two months!' Lady Constance blanched. ‘Which means I would not arrive in Bombay for another three months. And in the meantime, Mr Edgbaston will continue under the illusion that I am dead.'

‘The alternative is to return to your family in England. Under the circumstances, the traumatic ordeal you have endured, no reasonable person could condemn you for wishing to do so.'

‘Unfortunately, my father is not a reasonable person, and would be more than likely to condemn me,' she retorted. Her cheeks flamed. ‘I beg your pardon, I should not have said—but there can be no question of my going back to England. I should not have given voice to my doubts. I should not even have allowed them into my head. I beg you to ignore them. I am honour-bound to marry Mr Edgbaston, Your Highness. My father received, in advance, a rather substantial dowry in return for my—my promise to wed, you see.' She summoned up a smile. ‘In effect, I am bought and paid for.'

‘You are not a piece of cargo, Lady Constance.'

‘Oh, but that is exactly what I am, Your Highness.' Her fingers strayed to her wound. ‘Damaged goods at that, currently lost in transit.'

There was just a trace of bitterness in her tone. She obviously knew perfectly well that she was being used and abused, but was determined not to be diminished by the fact, or to show her hurt. Was this how his affianced bride felt? No, he must not allow his mind to travel down that path. The contract had been agreed. As it had been for Lady Constance and her East India merchant.

Kadar smiled faintly as the legal implications of this struck him. ‘You know, as things stand at present, your situation is a rather interesting conundrum. Since in your own words you have been—er—bought and paid for, from your father's point of view, the contract has been fulfilled.'

‘Which is why I cannot return to England, and am duty-bound to marry Mr Edgbaston.'

Which meant, presumably, that her father had already spent his ill-gotten gains. ‘On the contrary,' Kadar said through slightly gritted teeth. ‘Mr Edgbaston cannot marry a woman who has drowned. According to the English law of contract and the customs and conventions which govern international trade, loss which results from
force majeure
,
in other words the storm which sank the
Kent
, frees both parties from either liability or obligation.'

Her smile was slow to come as she began to comprehend the meaning of his words, but it was worth waiting for. Her big brown eyes gleamed with humour. Her lips had a wicked curve to them. It lit up her face, that smile, quite transforming her hitherto serious expression, revealing a very different woman. Carefree. Captivating. Yes, that was the word. Under other circumstances, untrammelled by the burden she carried, she would be quite captivating. Kadar was certain, though he had absolutely no grounds to be so, that the faceless merchant she was to marry would not see this side of her. He wanted to set her free, which was impossible. He also wanted her. Which was unusual. And equally impossible.

‘So, provided I remain technically dead, the contract is void?'

Had he been staring at her? Kadar gave himself a little shake. ‘Precisely. At this moment in time your life is quite literally shipwrecked, cast adrift from both the past and the future. You can make of yourself anything you will.'

‘I could be reborn.' Lady Constance sighed. Her smile faded. ‘It is an attractive conceit, but without the means to survive, I'm afraid I must remain in my current incarnation.' She smothered a yawn. ‘I am so sorry, it has been a very long day.'

The journey she had just made under Abdul-Majid's escort, the trauma she had so recently endured, was clearly taking its toll. Her skin was pale, the raw pink wound on her forehead angry in contrast. ‘You have been through a difficult ordeal,' Kadar said. ‘We must not act precipitously. I will consider your situation carefully overnight. We will discuss it further tomorrow, when you are rested. In the meantime, you will be my honoured guest here at the palace.'

‘I don't want to inconvenience you any further than I already have.'

‘Your company has been a very pleasant distraction, I assure you.'

He had spoken without thinking, but it was the truth. Her fingers had strayed again to her scar. Now he acted without thinking, reaching over to catch her hand. ‘You should think of it as a badge of honour,' Kadar said. ‘Proof of your will to survive. You are a remarkable woman.'

A faint flush coloured her cheeks. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip. ‘Am I?'

He pushed her hair back from her forehead, his fingers feathering over the thin line of her wound. He felt her shiver at his touch, and realised, to his embarrassment that he was becoming aroused. ‘Remarkable.'

‘You have been much more understanding than I deserve.'

‘You deserve a great deal more than you expect.' The neck of her tunic gaped, giving him an inadvertent glimpse of the generous swell of her breast, stirring his blood. Kadar turned his eyes resolutely away. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I will have a suite of rooms prepared for you.'

Chapter Three

A
s Kadar reined his horse in from a final breakneck gallop along the scimitar-like crescent of beach, the sun was well on the rise. The pure-bred Arabian stallion, flanks heaving and glistening with sweat, cooled his fetlocks in the shallow waters of the sea as Kadar watched the sky turn from pale grey, to pale pink, and then to gold, the colours reflected in the turquoise hue of the sea like a vast glittering mirror. He felt invigorated. His skin tingled with dried salt and sweat, his thigh muscles felt pleasantly tired, and his mind was as sharp as the air here on this, his favourite part of the coast.

His early morning ride was one of the very few things Kadar had not sacrificed since Butrus's death had led to him assume power. This precious hour was often the only one he was granted in the space of a whole day to be alone, to gather his thoughts and to brace himself for the challenges of the day to come. But today, as he stared out at the sea, watching a little line of fishing dhows in the distance emerging from the port like ducklings paddling upriver, he was not thinking about his duties, he was thinking about Lady Constance Montgomery.

Almost from the moment she walked into the Royal Saloon, clad in that peasant tunic, with her wild hair, and those big hazelnut-brown eyes, he had been drawn to her. When he returned to the Royal Saloon last night he had found her asleep on the cushions, curled up like a little mouse, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her hair tumbled in waves over her shoulder. The softness of her flesh when he lifted her made his groin ache with desire. Her body was so pliant. The curve of her breast, the roundness of her rear, that sweetly female scent of her as he carried her to her quarters and laid her down on the bed. What man would not be aroused?

He did desire her, there was no point in denying it. It had been a long time since he'd felt that immediate tug of attraction, that frisson of awareness that was entirely physical, a primitive recognition that this particular woman, her particular body, was exactly suited to his.

Perhaps that was why he felt it so strongly? There had been women, over the years. His heart was closed and sealed, but his body was virile, his appetites healthy. He was careful in his choices. He had learned to recognise the women whose passions burned, like his, with a cool flame. But there had been no woman in his bed since he had departed the university at Athens en route to Murimon to attend Butrus's wedding. And there had been no woman with the visceral allure of Lady Constance for a very long time.

Kadar closed his eyes, permitting himself a rare moment of indulgence to imagine how it would be to make love to her. He remembered that wicked smile, imagined those lips on his, teasing kisses, her hair a cloud of curls on her bare shoulders, and those generous breasts he had glimpsed, heavy in his hand. Pale-pink nipples? Dark pink? Or that shade of pink that was tinged with brown? Hard nipples. When he ran his thumbs over them, she would shiver, arch her back, thrusting her breasts higher. The curls which covered her sex would be the same burnished chestnut colour as her hair, perhaps a shade darker. She would sit astride him. She would slide onto him, slick and hot. When she rode him, her breasts would quiver, bounce. When he came...

Kadar swore long and viciously. He was fully aroused, painfully aroused, which was no state to be in while sitting on a hard leather saddle on a highly strung horse. He dismounted, leading the beast onto the dry sand. Now he was to be married, his desire must be reserved for his wife. He tried to conjure up her face, her body, but all he could recall were her eyes above the veil she wore, cool, distant, indifferent. He swore again as the blood ebbed from his manhood. It was to be hoped that this was not an ill omen.

* * *

Constance clambered back to consciousness, resisting the impulse to snuggle back under the thick blanket of drowsiness which enveloped her. Awareness came slowly. First of the bed she lay in, of the softness of the mattress, the pillows like clouds of feathers, the light, sensual flutter of the cool cotton sheets on her limbs. She was wearing something silky that caressed her skin, quite unlike the rough material of the tunic Bashir's daughter had given her. She stretched luxuriously, from her toes all the way up to her fingertips, rolling her shoulders, arching her back. She felt as if she had been asleep for a very long time.

Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the ceiling. It was domed, painted a dazzling pristine white. The room was suffused with sunlight. The window through which it streamed was set high in the wall opposite, covered by some sort of carved wooden grille. Beautiful colours adorned that wall and all the others. Tiles. Red and yellow and blue and green, in an unfamiliar pattern that repeated every fourth row. There was a small table set beside her bed. On it sat a silver pitcher frosted with condensation. She was very, very thirsty. She poured herself a glass from the jug and took a tentative sip. Sharp lemon, sweet sugar flavours burst onto her tongue. It was refreshing and delicious. She drained the glass and poured another.

The nightgown she wore was cream, embroidered with tiny white flowers. She had never owned anything so pretty. How long had she been sleeping? Who had put her to bed? The whisper of women's voices, the gentle hands massaging something soothing into her forehead, she had thought that a dream. The fog in her head began to slowly clear. She recalled the journey from Bashir's village. The boat. She shuddered. Don't think of the boat. And then the sedan chair. And then...

Prince Kadar.

Constance gave a little shiver, then frowned at her reaction. She was twenty-five years old and not immune to the appeal of a handsome man, but this was different, no passing fancy but a shocking pang of—of base desire. She had never felt such a very primal attraction before. She wasn't at all sure that she liked it.

She smiled. No, that was a lie. She did like it, very much. She liked this tingling feeling she felt, and she liked the fluttering low in her belly, and she liked the little shiver—there it was again, that delicious little shiver, of feeling something she was pretty sure no lady should, and of wanting to do something no lady should either. That a man like Prince Kadar would ever—that she would ever—no, no, no, she never would. But goodness, the sheer impossibility of it was part of the allure.

She stretched again, enjoying the caress of silk and sheets of the softest cotton on her skin. Sinful, sinful, sinful. And decadent. Sinfully decadent. Decadently sinful. Constance laughed. It was not like her to be so frivolous. Then again, it was hardly commonplace for her to be lying in a bed in a suite in a royal palace, the guest of an Arabian prince. It was fantastical, a dream. Or the continuation of a dream, for nothing had seemed real to her since she had awoken in Bashir's cottage. It was as if time was suspended, and her life too.

How was it that Prince Kadar had described it last night? ‘Cast adrift,' that was it. Cast adrift from both the past and the future. She liked the idea of that, it was an alluring conceit. The Prince had a way with words. And his command of English was extremely impressive. He had told her he had lived abroad, but he had not told her where. Or why. Seven years, he had said. Through choice? What had he been doing, wherever it was he had been? And why had he come back to Arabia? She didn't even know how his brother had met his fate—an accident, an illness? Constance frowned. Now she came to think it over, he had given away remarkably little, while she—she had revealed far too much.

She pulled the sheet over her head. Far, far too much. She had aired thoughts she shouldn't ever have. So she would not permit herself to have them now. Instead, she would think of the Prince. Never mind all the things she didn't know about him, what did she know? There had been moments when he let his guard down, but they had been very rare. Prince Kadar considered his words very carefully. He was one of those men who made good use of silences too. Deliberately, she was sure of it. He'd be the type of man to whom secrets would be blurted out, crimes confessed.

I am not married.
One very interesting piece of information he had let slip. There had been something in his expression when he said those words, but she couldn't articulate what it was. Why on earth was a man so—so fascinating and so tempting as Prince Kadar not married? It could certainly not be for lack of opportunity. Even without an Arabian kingdom and all its trappings, even if Prince Kadar were not a prince but a footman, or a groom, she could not imagine he would lack opportunity. Mind you, she couldn't imagine him taking orders either. So perhaps not a footman. Or a groom. Or any sort of servant.

Oh, for goodness' sake! To return to the point. Why wasn't he married, when surely he could have his choice of any woman? Save women like her, of course, who would never choose to marry. Constance groaned, casting off the sheet. Except that was precisely what she was going to do just as soon as she could board a ship heading east. Provided she could force herself to actually board the ship. Which she would have to do, no matter how terrifying the idea was, because Mr Edgbaston had paid for her in good faith, and much as she'd like him to continue to believe her lost at sea, she was not lost at sea.

Her mood spoilt, her sense of impending doom returned, Constance dangled her legs over the edge of the high divan bed. She felt decidedly shaky. The floor was marble, cool on the soles of her feet. Pulling on a robe which had been helpfully draped at the bottom of the bed, she made her way carefully to the double doors set in the far wall. They were wooden, ornately carved, similar to the grille covering the window above. Pulling them wide, she found herself in a sitting room with a view out to a courtyard. Dropping onto a huge cushion beside the tall window, she leaned her cheek against the glass. What if she really could decide not to return from the dead? Who would miss her, truly? Mama...

A lump rose in her throat. Tears burned in her eyes. She had come all this way at Mama's behest, even though she was pretty sure—no, she was absolutely certain—that what Mama wanted was not in her best interests. What would Mama want her to do now? The answer to that had not changed. She certainly would not want her to return to England. Constance sighed, her breath misting the glass. It was rather dispiriting to discover that whether one was dead or alive didn't much matter to anyone. Save herself, of course.

A gentle rap on the door preceded the entrance of a small procession of servants, which diverted her from her melancholy introspection. One after another, they clasped their hands and bowed slightly before her in formal greeting. One maid set out breakfast. Two others began to lay out a selection of clothes in the most delightfully cool materials, and yet another maid presented her with a note, written in English. Prince Kadar requested her presence.

Constance gazed around her at the flurry of activity, which included two more maids setting out a huge bath in the bedchamber. Honestly, she had no cause at all to be downhearted. She had days, perhaps even weeks of respite ahead of her here as a guest in this fabulous royal palace. Days in which to enjoy being becalmed, cast adrift, shipwrecked. She was going to savour every one of them.

* * *

Constance learned that it took an inordinately long time to prepare one for an audience with a prince. First she was bathed in water delicately perfumed with rose petals. Her freshly washed hair was tamed into something resembling submission thanks to some scented oil. The clothes, which she had eventually allowed the collection of maids to select for her, were also unlike anything she had ever worn. Loose pantaloons, gathered tightly at her ankles and cinched at her waist, made from a creamy gossamer-fine fabric that clung revealingly to her legs. A thin-strapped camisole was her only undergarment. Over this, a simple tunic in cream muslin which stopped at her thighs, and on top of that, a sort of sleeveless half-dress in apricot silk which fastened with tiny pearl buttons, leaving the slip beneath, and the bottom of those shocking pantaloons, exposed. Soft kid slippers adorned her feet.

Studying her reflection, quite unrecognizable to herself, Constance thought she resembled something between a milkmaid and a concubine. Not that she'd ever actually seen, far less met, a concubine. It felt decidedly odd, being fully dressed without being laced into a corset. Though the overdress was buttoned tightly at her waist, the neckline skimmed the top of her breasts, which were confined only by the thin muslin of the tunic—or rather cradled rather than confined. Staring critically at the swell of her bosom, she supposed she was at least more decently covered than if she had been wearing a ball gown in the latest fashion.

And the posse who had created this vision seemed to be happy with the effect. She was, finally, fit to be seen by the Prince. Smiling and miming her thanks, Constance trailed in the wake of another servant through a warren of corridors before being ushered up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. She paused for a moment at the top, her eyes dazzled by the brightness of the sun. Blinking, shielding her eyes while she became accustomed to the glare, she found herself on a large rooftop terrace.

The floor was laid out in mosaic, white with swirling patters of green and yellow and red, like the floor of a Roman villa. A parapet of red stone bounded the terrace, and tall terracotta pots filled with exotic ferns stood sentry at each corner. In the centre a large angular object shrouded in canvas took up much of the available space, and over in one corner an awning had been set up, under which a desk strewn with papers, scrolls and stacks of leather-bound books had been placed. Seated behind it was Prince Kadar.

‘Lady Constance.'

His hair was damp, slicked back over his head, though it was already beginning to curl rebelliously. He wore a long tunic in broad grey-and-white stripes, grey trousers, black slippers. She still couldn't decide whether his eyes were grey or green, but she had been right about his mouth. Sensual. There was no other word for it. Except perhaps sinful. And if she didn't want to appear like a blushing idiot, she had better stop thinking about it.