The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin (5 page)

There was too much risk. Too much danger. It kicked his heart-rate up a notch, made his palms slick with sweat. He despised himself for it; he despised his fear.

He despised the uncertainty, the unknown.

Anything could happen here.

He glanced around, his eyes sifting through the crowds, and saw Kalila standing at the front of the cleared space, watching the little dance as if it completely captured her at
tention. Her hair fell down her back in a dark, gleaming plait, and the breeze moulded her loose clothing to her body, so Aarif could see the gentle swell of her breast and hip. He swallowed, dragging his gaze away.

Next to him a ragged little boy tugged on his leg, and Aarif glanced down at his smiling face and reached for a coin, glad for the distraction.

The presentation ended, and once again Aarif found his gaze pulled relentlessly back to the princess. She clapped and smiled, speaking to each woman in turn, her arm around them as if they were equals. Friends.

Aarif felt a reluctant tug of admiration for her poise. He knew she was under strain, nervous and tense, and yet she acted with an innate grace. She acted like the princess she was, the queen she would be. His brother’s wife.

He turned away, scouring the crowds on the other side for any sign of danger, darkness—

‘The king wishes you to join him and the princess,’ an aide murmured in his ear, bowing low, and Aarif was left with little choice than to make his way through the crowds to King Bahir’s—and Kalila’s—side.

She glanced at him sideways as he approached, smiling slightly, and Aarif gave a tiny bow back. Her smile deepened, but her eyes, those deep golden pools of reflected emotion and light, were sad, and Aarif felt something inside him tug, something start to unravel. He wanted to make her smile. He pushed the feeling away, and when Kalila looked back at the dancers so did Aarif.

The dance was followed by another, and then a performance by children. Aarif watched, feeling himself grow weary even as Kalila continued to smile and applaud, speaking individually to each man, woman, and child. Finally the performances ended, and Aarif realised a meal of sorts was to be served. Perhaps after they’d eaten they would be free to continue to the airport, and finally home. Safety.

Makeshift tables and benches, no more than rough planks, had been set up by the food stalls, and Kalila and her father sat down with a few other important dignitaries from the palace. A few well-placed individuals from the city crowd had been chosen as well, Aarif saw with a cynical smile, a pretty child, a smiling old woman, a fat merchant.

The food was served, dish after dish of beef kebabs and chicken with raisins and rice, stewed prunes and eggplant salad. Aarif ate a bit of everything so as not to offend, although his nerves were wound too tightly to enjoy what was a surprisingly delicious meal.

The plates were cleared and the music and dancing began once again in the square, with no sign of the festivities abating. Aarif suppressed a sigh of impatience, nerves tautening like wire. He was hot and sticky, tense and irritable, and they’d already been there too long. It was time to take charge.

He wove his way over to Bahir, who was smiling at some of the more energetic dancing that was now going on, men in a circle with their arms crossed, stamping their feet. Instinctively Aarif looked around for Kalila, but her slight figure was nowhere to be seen.

He scanned the crowded market place, the crush of bodies, searching for her distinctive figure, that gleaming plait of hair, knowing instinctively if she was there, certain he could find her.

She wasn’t there. He knew it, felt it like a shock to his system, rippling unpleasantly through him. Somehow, somewhere, she had gone. A sharp pain stabbed him in the gut, memory and anger and fear. Aarif’s mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed against the dazzling glare of the sun.

He saw Bahir glance at him in question, but Aarif did not want to see the older man now. He wanted to see Kalila. He wanted to know she was safe. He needed to.

He pushed away from Bahir, through the crowds, scanning the strange, smiling faces for a glimpse of the untarnished loveliness he’d seen in the garden last night.

Where was she?

He caught sight of the aide he’d assigned as her babysitter, and grabbed the man’s elbow. ‘Where is the princess?’ he demanded roughly.

The aide flinched under Aarif’s rough grasp. ‘She went into the church for some cool air. I thought there was no harm—’

Aarif swore under his breath and let the man go. His gaze searched the square before he found what he was looking for—an ancient church in the Byzantine style, made of a startling white stone with a blue cross on top of its dome. He moved towards it with grim purpose.

The door was partly ajar, and Aarif slipped inside quietly. The church was refreshingly cool and dark, and empty save for a few benches and some icons adorning the walls. Kalila sat on one of the benches, her back to Aarif. Something about her position—the rigid set of her shoulders and yet the despairing bowing of her head—made Aarif pause.

He took a breath, waited for the rush of fury to recede, acknowledging to himself it had been unwarranted. Too much. And yet for a moment he’d thought—he remembered—

He cleared his throat, and Kalila turned her head so her face was in profile, her dark lashes sweeping her cheek. ‘Have you come to take me away?’ she asked, her voice soft, as if it were being absorbed by the stone.

Aarif took a step towards her. ‘I wondered where you were.’

‘I wished for some air.’ She paused, and Aarif waited. ‘I’ve always liked this place. My parents were married here, you know. It was founded when the Byzantines went down to Africa—well over a thousand years ago now.’ She gave a little sigh as she looked around the bare walls. ‘It survived the invasion of the Berbers, the Ottomans, the Turks. A noble task, don’t you think, to keep one’s identity amidst so much change?’

Aarif took a step closer to her. ‘Indeed, as your country has done,’ he said, choosing to guide the conversation to more impersonal waters. ‘I know the history of Zaraq well, Princess,
as it is a neighbour of my own homeland, Calista. When nearly every other kingdom was invaded and taken over the centuries, yours alone survived.’

‘Yes, because we didn’t have anything anyone wanted.’ She gave a little laugh that sounded cynical and somehow wrong. ‘Ringed by mountains, little more than desert, and inhabited by a fierce people willing to fight to the death for their pathetic patch of land. It’s no wonder we survived, at least until the French came and realised there was nickel and copper to be had under our barren earth.’

‘Your independence is no small thing,’ Aarif said. He saw Kalila’s hands bunch into fists in her lap.

‘No, it isn’t,’ she agreed in a voice that surprised him; it was steely and sure. ‘I’m glad you realise that.’

Aarif hesitated. He felt the ripple of tension and something deeper, something dark and determined from Kalila, and he wondered at its source.

In an hour, he reminded himself, they would be on a plane. In three hours, they could be at the Calistan palace, and Kalila would be kept in the women’s quarters, safe with her old nurse, away from him. The thought should have comforted him; he’d meant it to. Instead he felt the betraying, wrenching pain of loss.

‘We have enjoyed the festivities, Princess,’ he said, ‘but you were right, we must go. The hour grows late and a storm looks to approach, a sirocco, and living in the desert you know how dangerous they can be.’

‘A storm?’ Interest lifted Kalila’s voice momentarily. ‘Will the plane be delayed, do you think?’

‘Not if we leave promptly.’

She hesitated, and Aarif resisted the urge to take her into his arms. He wanted to scold her, tell her to stop feeling sorry for herself, and yet he also wanted to comfort her, to breathe in the scent of her hair—

Irritated by his own impulse, he sharpened his tone. ‘I
regret to disturb your tranquillity, Princess, but there is a duty to fulfil.’ There always was, no matter how crippling the weight, how difficult the task.

‘I’m coming,’ she said at last, and there was a new resolute determination to her tone that relieved Aarif. She rose gracefully, glanced at him, her eyes fastening on his, and once again Aarif was transfixed by that clear gaze, yet this time he couldn’t read the expression in it.

‘I’m sorry, Prince Aarif,’ she said in a quiet, steady voice, ‘for any trouble I’ve caused you.’ She laid a hand on his arm, her fingers slender and cool, yet burning Aarif’s skin. Branding it, and he resisted the desire to cover her hand with his own, to feel her fingers twine with his once more. A simple, seductive touch.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise before managing a cool smile. ‘There has been no trouble, Princess.’ Carefully, deliberately, he moved his arm away from her touch.

Her hand dropped to her side, and she smiled back as if she didn’t believe him, going so far as to give her head a little shake, before she moved out of the cool church into the dusty heat of the crowded square.

The festivities were blessedly winding down by the time they found their way back to the royal party. Aarif was glad to see Kalila’s—and his—absence had not been noted, although Bahir gave them both a quick, sharp glance before indulging the crowd in a formal farewell of his daughter. He kissed both her cheeks and bestowed his blessing; while they went on to the national airport, he would return to the palace.

Kalila accepted his farewell with dignity, her head bowed, and then turned to enter her car. Everyone followed suit, the doors closed, and with a sigh of relief Aarif saw they were at last on their way. Surely nothing could go wrong now.

The cars moved slowly through the crowded streets of the Old Town, still chased by a merry crowd of well wishers, then back onto the main boulevard, a straight, flat road lined with dusty palm trees that led to the airport.

The airport was only ten kilometres away, but Aarif noted the darkening smudge on the horizon with some dismay. How long would it take to load all of the cases, make any arrangements? He knew well enough how these things could drag on.

As if to prove his point, the cars slowly drew to a halt. Aarif rolled down his window and peered ahead, but through the dust kicked up by the line of cars he could see nothing.

A minute passed and nothing moved. With another muttered oath, Aarif threw open his door and strode down the barren road to the princess’s car.

He rapped twice on the window and after a moment Kalila’s nurse, a plump woman with bright eyes and rounded cheeks, rolled down the window.

‘Prince Aarif!’

‘Is the princess well?’ Aarif asked. ‘Do you know why we are stopped?’

‘She felt ill,’ the nurse gabbled. ‘And asked to be given a moment…of privacy…’

A sudden shadow of foreboding fell over Aarif, far more ominous than the storm gathering on the horizon. He thought of his conversation with Kalila only moments ago in the church, her talk of independence, her apology for troubling him, and the shadow of foreboding intensified into a throbbing darkness.

‘Where is she?’ he asked, and heard the harsh grating of his own voice. The nurse looked both alarmed and offended, and drew back. Aarif gritted his teeth and tried for patience. ‘This is not a safe place, madam. I do not trust her security in such an inhospitable location.’ He glanced up; the smudge on the horizon was growing darker, wider. Makaris was at least five kilometres behind them, and rocky desert stretched in every direction, the flat landscape marked only by large, tumbled boulders, as if thrown by a giant, unseen hand.

The nurse hesitated, and Aarif felt his frustration growing. He wanted to shake the silly woman, to demand answers—

‘She’s over there.’ The woman pointed a shaking finger to a cluster of rocks about twenty metres away. A perfect hiding place.

Aarif strode towards them, his body taut with purpose and fury. He didn’t know why he felt so angry, so afraid. Perhaps Kalila did indeed need a moment of privacy. Perhaps she was ill. Perhaps this was all in his mind, paranoid, pathetic. Remembering.

Yet he couldn’t ignore his instinct; it was too strong, too insistent, a relentless drumming in his head, his heart.

Something had gone wrong. Something always went wrong.

Still, as he approached the rocks he hesitated. If Kalila was indeed in an indelicate position, it would not do to disturb her. Yet if she was in danger, or worse…

What was worse? What could be worse than danger?

Yet even as Aarif turned the corner of the rocky outcropping, he knew. He knew just what nameless fear had clutched at him since Kalila had apologised in the church, or perhaps even before then, when he’d heard her unhappy sigh in the garden.

For on the other side of the rocks, there was nothing, no princess. But on the horizon, riding towards the storm, was a lone figure on a horse.

Kalila, Aarif realised grimly, was running away.

K
ALILA
knew where she was going. It was that thought that sustained her as the wind whipped the headscarf around her face and the gritty sand stung her eyes. She pictured the scene behind her, how quickly it would erupt into chaos, and felt a deep shaft of guilt pierce her.

How long would it take Aarif to realise she had gone? And what would he do? Even with her brief acquaintance of the man, Kalila knew instinctively what the desert prince would do. He would go after her.

The thought sent a shiver of apprehension straight through her, and she clenched her hands on the reins. Arranging her disappearance had not been easy; the plan had crystallised only that morning when she’d looked down at the courtyard, seen the dismantling of her life, and realised she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ride like a sacrifice to Calista, to marry a man she didn’t love, didn’t even know. Not yet, anyway.

Yet even as she rode towards a grim horizon, an uncertain future, she knew this freedom couldn’t last for ever. She couldn’t live in the desert like a nomad; Aarif would find her, and if he didn’t someone else would.

Yet still she ran. That was what fear did to you, she supposed. It made you miserable, sick, dizzy. Desperate. Willing to do anything, try anything, no matter how risky or foolish, how thoughtless or selfish.

So she kept riding, heading for the one place she knew she’d be safe…at least for a little while.

Two kilometres behind her Aarif grimly wound a turban around his head to protect himself from the dust. Already the wind was kicking grit into his eyes, stinging his cheeks. What was she thinking, he wondered furiously, to ride out in weather like this? He’d warned her of the storm, and surely, as a child of a desert, she knew the dangers.

So was she stupid, he wondered with savage humour, or just desperate?

It didn’t matter. She had to be found. He’d already sent an aide back to fetch a horse and provisions from the city.

The aide had been appalled. ‘But King Bahir must be notified! He will send out a search party—’

Aarif gestured to the darkening sky. ‘There is no time for a search party. The princess must be found, and as soon as possible. I will go…alone.’ He watched the aide’s eyes widen at this suggestion of impropriety. ‘Circumstances are dire,’ he informed the man flatly. ‘If the princess is not found, it will be all of your necks on the line.’ And his. He thought of Zakari, of Bahir, of the countries and families depending on him bringing Kalila back to Calista, and another fresh wave of fury surged through him.

‘Prince Aarif!’ A man jogged up to his elbow. ‘There is a horse, and some water and bread and meat. We could not get anything else in such a hurry—’

‘Good.’ Aarif shrugged into the long, cotton
thobe
he wore to protect his clothes from the onslaught of the sun and sand. He’d exchanged his shoes for sturdy boots, and now he swung up onto the back of the horse, a capable if elderly mount.

‘Drive to the airport,’ he instructed the aide, ‘and shelter there until the storm wears out. Do not contact the king.’ His mouth curved in a grim smile. ‘We don’t want him needlessly worried.’

The man swallowed and nodded.

Turning his back on the stalled motorcade, Aarif headed into the swirling sand.

The wind was brisk, stinging what little of his face was still unprotected, but Aarif knew it could—would—get much worse. In another hour or two, the visibility would be zero, the winds well over a hundred miles an hour and deadly.

Deadly to Kalila, deadly to him. It was the princess he cared about; his own life he’d long ago determined was worthless. Yet if he failed to bring the princess back to Calista, if she died in his care…

Aarif squinted into the distance, refusing to let that thought, that fear creep into his brain and swallow his reason. He needed all his wits about him now.

The old horse balked at the unfamiliar terrain. She was a city animal, used to plodding ancient thoroughfares before heading home to her stable and bag of oats every night. The unforgiving wind and rocky ground were terrifying to her, and she let it be known with every straining step.

Aarif had always been kind to animals; it was man’s sacred duty to provide for the beasts in his care, yet now his gloved hands clenched impatiently on the reins, and he fought the urge to scream at the animal, as if she could understand, as if that would help. As if anything would.

Where was Kalila? He forced himself to think rationally. She’d had a horse hidden behind the rocks, so someone had clearly helped her. She’d had a plan, a premeditated plan. The thought caused fresh rage to slice cleanly through him, but he pushed it away with grim resolution. He needed to think.

If she had a horse, she undoubtedly had some provisions. Not many, perhaps not more than he had, a bit of food, some water, a blanket. She was not an unintelligent woman, quite the contrary, so she must have a destination in mind, he reasoned. A safe place to shelter out the storm she knew about, the storm he’d
told
her about.

But where?

He drew the horse to a halt, scanning the horizon once more. Through the swirling sand he could just barely see the outlines of rocks, dunes, the ever-shifting shape of the desert. Nothing seemed like a probable resting place, yet he knew he would investigate every lone rock, every sheltered dune. It was his duty.

His duty. He wouldn’t fail his duty; he’d been telling himself that for years, yet now, starkly, Aarif wondered when he
hadn’t
failed. He shrugged impatiently, hating the weakness of his own melancholy, yet even now the memories sucked him under, taunted him viciously.

If you hadn’t gone…if you hadn’t said Zafir could come along…if you hadn’t slipped…

If. If. If. Damnable, dangerous ifs, would-have-beens that never existed, never happened, yet they taunted him still, always.

If
…your brother would still be alive.

Aarif swore aloud, the words torn from his throat, lost on the wind. The horse neighed pitifully, pushed already beyond her limited endurance.

And then he saw it. A dark grey speck on the horizon, darker than the swirling sand, the clouds. Rock. Many rocks, clustered together, providing safety and shelter, more so than anywhere else he could see. He knew, knew deep in his gut, that Kalila was making her way towards those rocks. Perhaps she was already there; she must have known the way.

He imagined her setting up her little camp, thinking herself safe, smiling to herself that she’d fooled them all, fooled
him
, played with their lives, with his own responsibilities and code of
honour
—

Cursing again, Aarif raised the reins and headed for the horizon.

She hadn’t ridden so fast or furiously in months, years perhaps, and every muscle in Kalila’s body ached. Her mind and heart ached too, throbbed with a desperate misery that
made her wonder why she’d ever taken this stupid, selfish risk. She pushed the thought away; she couldn’t afford doubt now. She couldn’t afford pity.

Aarif had been right. A storm was blowing, a sirocco, the wet winds of the Mediterranean clashing with the desert’s dry heat in an unholy cacophony of sound and fury. She had, Kalila guessed, maybe half an hour to set up shelter and get herself and her horse secure.

She murmured soothing endearments to her mare, As Sabr, and led her to where the huge boulder created a natural overhang, the small space under the shadow of stone enough for a tent, a horse.

Her father had taken her camping here when she was child; it was a no more than twelve kilometres from the palace, less even from Makaris, yet with the blowing sands it might have been a hundred.

Kalila set about her tasks, mindless, necessary. The tent was basic, with room only for two people.

Two people. Kalila’s mind snagged and then froze on the thought, the realisation. If Aarif came after her…if he found her…

But, no. He had no idea where she was going, had never been in this desert before, didn’t know the terrain, if he was out here at all. Surely in this storm he would turn back, he would wait. Any sensible man would do so, and yet…

Aarif did not seem a sensible man. He seemed, Kalila realised, remembering that hard look in his eyes, her heart beating sickly, a determined man.

What would she do if he found her? What would he do?

She pushed the thought, as she had a host of others, firmly away. No time to wonder, to fear. Now was the time for action only.

With the wind blowing more ferociously every second, it took Kalila longer to assemble the tent. She was furious with her own ineptitude, her soft hands and drumming heart. She’d as
sembled a tent like this—this tent even—a dozen, twenty times, yet now everything conspired against her; her hands cramped and slipped, her muscles ached, even her bones did. Her eyes stung and her mouth was desperately dry. Her heart throbbed.

Finally the tent was assembled and she took the saddlebags from As Sabr—food, blankets, water—and shoved them inside. She covered the horse with a blanket, drawing her closer against the rock for safety.

Then she turned to make her way into the tent, and her heart stopped. Her mouth dropped open. For there, only ten metres away, was a man. He was turbaned, robed, veiled except for his eyes, as she had been yesterday. He looked like a mythical creature, a hero—or perhaps a villain—from a fairy tale, an Arabian one.

It was, Kalila knew, Aarif.

He had found her.

Her mind froze, and so did her body. Kalila stood there, the winds buffeting her, the sand stinging her eyes, flying into her open mouth. She closed it, tasted grit, and wondered what would happen now. Her mind was beginning to thaw, and with it came a fearful flood of realisations, implications. Aarif looked furious. Yet with the realisation of his own anger was her own, treacherous sense of relief.

He had come.

Had she actually wanted him to find her? She was ashamed by the secret manipulations of her own heart, and she pushed the thought away as Aarif slid off his horse, leading the pathetic animal towards the shelter of the rock. His body was swathed in cloth, and she could only see his eyes, those dark, gleaming, angry eyes.

Kalila swallowed; more grit. Aarif came closer, the horse stumbling and neighing piteously behind him. Kalila still didn’t move. Where could she go? She’d already run away and he’d found her. He’d found her so very easily.

He dealt with the animal first. From the corner of her eye
Kalila saw him soothe the horse, give her water and a feed bag. He patted her down with a blanket, his movements steady, assured, yet Kalila could see the taut fury in every line of his body; she could feel it in the air, humming and vibrating between them with the same electricity that fired the storm.

The horse dealt with, he turned, and his gaze levelled her, decimated her. She swallowed again, choking on sand, and forced herself to keep his gaze, even to challenge it. Yet after a long moment she couldn’t, and her gaze skittered nervously away.

The wind whistled around them with a high-pitched scream; in half an hour, less perhaps, the storm would be at its worst, yet still neither of them moved.

‘Look at me,’ Aarif said. His voice was low, throbbing, yet even with the shrieking wind Kalila heard it; she felt its demand deep in her bones, and she looked up.

Their eyes met, fought, and Kalila felt the onslaught of his accusation, his judgment. Aarif stared at her for a full minute, the dark fury of his gaze so much more than a glare, so much worse than anything she’d ever imagined.

She’d been so stupid.

And he knew. She knew.

Aarif muttered something—an expletive—and then in two quick strides he was in front of her, one hand stealing around her arm, the movement one of anger yet control.

‘What were you thinking, Princess?’ he demanded. His voice was muffled by the cloth over his face and he yanked it down. Kalila saw sand dusting his cheeks, his lips, his stubble. She swallowed again, desperate for water, for air. ‘What were you thinking?’ he demanded again, his voice raw, ‘to come out here in a storm like this? To run away like a naughty child?’ He threw one contemptuous arm towards the tent. ‘Are you playing house, Princess? Is life nothing but a game to you?’ His voice lowered to a deadly, damning pitch. ‘Did you even think of the risk to you, to me, to our countries?’

Kalila lifted her head and tried to jerk her arm away, but Aarif held fast, his grip strong and sure. ‘Let go of me,’ she said. She would keep her pride, her defiance now; it was all she had.

He dropped her arm, thrust it away from him as if she disgusted him. Perhaps she did.

‘You have no idea,’ he said, and there was loathing and contempt in his voice, so great and deep and unrelenting that Kalila felt herself recoil in shame. ‘No idea,’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘And I thought you had.’

‘You have no idea,’ Kalila shot back. ‘No idea what has gone on in my head, my heart—’

‘I don’t care,’ he snarled and she jerked back proudly.

‘No, of course not. So why ask what I was thinking? You’ve condemned me already.’

His gaze raked her and Kalila kept her shoulders back, her spine straight. She wouldn’t cower now.

‘Maybe I have,’ Aarif said.

Another piercing shriek of wind, and then a louder, more horrifying crack. Aarif glanced up but before Kalila’s mind could even process what she heard he’d thrust her back against the rock, her back pressed against the uneven stone, his body hard against hers.

The rock above them had broken off, a stress fracture in the stone that had finally given way in the wind, and fallen below with a sickening thud. Kalila swallowed. That could have—would have—fallen on her if Aarif had not pushed her out of the way.

She looked back at Aarif, and with a jolt of alarmed awareness she realised how close he was, his face inches from hers. His eyes bored into hers, his gaze so dark and compelling, yet with a strange, desperate urgency that caused an answering need to uncoil in her own belly.

His eyes searched her mind, her soul, and what did he find? What did he see? What did she want him to see?