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The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin - Кейт Хьюит - Читать любовный роман онлайн в женской библиотеке LadyLib.Net
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Хьюит Кейт
The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin
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CHAPTER TWO
HE HADN’T come. Kalila gazed blankly at the stranger in front of her, heard the words, the explanations, the expected flattery, the apologies and regrets, but none of it made sense.
She couldn’t get her head—her heart—around the fact that her husband-to-be hadn’t bothered to show up. Would he even be at the wedding? Hadn’t he realised she’d been waiting, wondering, hoping…?
Or had he even bothered to think about her at all?
She swallowed the bubble of hysterial laughter that threatened to rise up and spill out. Her father was speaking, his voice low and melodious, inviting this man—who was he? Kalila’s brain scrambled for the remembered words, fragments—Prince Aarif. Zakari’s younger brother, sent on this glad errand. Her lips twisted cynically, but of course no one could see her smile behind this damned veil.
Her fingers clenched at her side. She longed to rip off the veil, destroy the entire charade, because that was all it was. A charade, a façade. False.
A piece of theatre, and she no longer wanted the role.
She wanted to run, to run and never stop until she was somewhere safe and different, somewhere she could be herself—whoever that was—and people would be glad.
Where, she wondered hopelessly, was that place? She didn’t think she had found it yet.
Her father had risen, and Kalila knew this was her cue to gracefully withdraw. This pretty little part had been scripted, rehearsed. She bowed, lowering her head with its heavy plait and awkward veil, and backed slowly out of the room, trying not to trip over the embroidered hem of her kaftan. She couldn’t wait to get out of this get-up, to be free.
She tore the veil from her face as soon as she was out of the room, grabbing a fistful of the kaftan to clear her feet as she strode to her bedroom. Juhanah followed, tutting anxiously.
‘The fabric—it is delicate!’ she protested, reaching for the veil Kalila had fisted in one hand.
‘I don’t care,’ she snapped, and Juhanah clucked again, prising the veil from Kalila’s fingers and smoothing it carefully.
‘You are disappointed, of course. But the king is a busy man, with many demands. It is just as well you become accustomed to this early, ya daanaya.’
‘Even before we’ve met?’ Kalila heard the sarcastic edge to her voice and was glad. She needed to vent her feelings, her frustration, for Juhanah was right, she was disappointed. Disappointed and hurt.
And she had no reason to be, because she had never thought Zakari loved her. How could he? So what had she been hoping for? She didn’t know, couldn’t answer, yet she felt deep in her belly, her soul, that something had been irretrievably lost today. She just didn’t know what it was.
Back in the sanctuary of her bedroom she took a deep, steadying breath. She knew there was no point in acting like a petulant child; she was a woman, with a woman’s life ahead of her. A woman’s duty, a woman’s burden.
Her mind slid back to the night eight months ago, alone in her Cambridge flat, when she could have walked away. She could have cut herself off from her father, her family, her country and culture. A small part of her would have welcomed it.
Yet she hadn’t, and she knew in her heart she never would have. Despite the endless, aching uncertainty and regret, she had a duty to her family. To herself.
And yet. And yet she hadn’t expected this. This hurt, this disappointment, so fresh and raw and painful.
She had been nourishing dreams without even realising it. Those shadowy dreams took form now as she acknowledged her own folly. She’d wanted Zakari to come here, to be eager for this day, and then to be speechless at the sight of her. She’d wanted him to be enchanted, enamoured, in love.
And all without even knowing her! She really was a fool. A child, to believe in such childish dreams, such fairy tales. To have let herself hope even when she thought she was being realistic, responsible. She’d fooled herself.
Kalila sighed wearily as she stared at her painted face in the mirror. A fan whirred lazily above her but the heat of midday was oppressive, made even more so by her heavy garments.
‘Please help me, Juhanah,’ she said. She pulled at the kaftan. ‘I want to get this off.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Juhanah soothed, hurrying to her side. ‘You will want to rest, to be fresh for this evening.’
Kalila frowned. ‘Why? What’s happening this evening?’
‘Did you not hear? Your father invited Prince Aarif to dine with you both tonight. Informal, he said.’ Juhanah’s smile glinted knowingly. ‘No kaftan, no hijab.’
Kalila breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed the heavy mass of hair away from her neck. ‘Good.’
Juhanah slipped the kaftan from Kalila’s shoulders. ‘You know this was your mother’s?’
‘It was?’ She turned in disbelief. ‘I never saw her wear anything like it.’
‘No, she didn’t, not very often.’ Juhanah ran one finger along the gold thread. ‘But she wore this to her own engagement party—your father chose it as a wedding gift. She looked very beautiful.’
Kalila tried to imagine her mother, tall, slender, blonde, wearing the outfit she had. Weighed down by its heaviness and expectations. She wondered how her mother had felt wearing it. Had she been as stifled and suppressed as Kalila had? Or had she seen it only as a costume, and a beautiful one at that?
Her mother had chosen to marry Bahir, she knew. It had been, against all odds, a love match.
So why, Kalila wondered as Juhanah quietly left the room and she stretched out restlessly on her bed, couldn’t she have the same?
Surprisingly, she slept, although she’d felt too anxious and upset to even close her eyes at first. Somehow she fell into an uneasy sleep, where even her dreams were tinted with a vague unhappiness.
When she awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the breeze blowing in from the window was blessedly cool.
Kalila pushed her hair away from her eyes and moved to the window. The sun was a fiery ball of orange, sending vivid streaks of light across a sky just darkening to dusk. It was a stark yet beautiful sight, and one she never tired of. She’d missed sunsets like these in England. She’d missed the purity of light and air, the violent brightness of the colours.
A glance at the clock told her she needed to ready herself quickly. The woman Prince Aarif saw tonight would be nothing like the vision of traditional womanhood he’d seen this afternoon, Kalila would make sure of that. The time for pageantry and play-acting was over. And besides, she reminded herself as she stepped into a scalding shower, there was no one to impress. Zakari wasn’t even here.
She scrubbed away the kohl and the red lipstick, the scents of jasmine and sandalwood. She scrubbed until her face was clean and bare and her skin smelled only of soap.
She dressed in a simple cocktail dress, modest by Western standards, although glaringly different from her earlier outfit. It was a simple silk sheath in pale lavender, skimming her body and ending mid-calf. She slipped on a pair of matching pumps and pulled her hair up into a quick and careless chignon. The only nod to make-up was a bit of lip gloss.
Taking a deep breath, wondering just why nerves had started their restless fluttering once more, Kalila headed downstairs.
Prince Aarif was already in the palace’s smaller, less formal dining room, drink in hand, when she arrived. Kalila paused on the threshold, taking in the table set intimately for three, and then the prince standing by the window, his back half to her. Her father was nowhere in sight.
She hadn’t given their unexpected guest more than a passing thought since she’d seen him that afternoon; it had been Zakari’s absence that had occupied her thoughts rather than Aarif’s presence.
Yet now she found her gaze resting on him, sweeping over him in open curiosity. He wore a Western suit in charcoal grey and it fitted his long, lithe form with gracious ease. He looked so different in these clothes than in his bisht, Kalila realised, so much more approachable and human. She wondered if she did as well.
Then, as if he sensed her presence, he turned to face her fully, and Kalila drew in a breath at the sight of his face, his eyes curiously blank although his lips were curved in a smile of greeting, the scar curving along his cheek. He looked formal, forbidding, almost angry even though he smiled.
Kalila forced herself to smile back. ‘Good evening, Prince Aarif.’
Aarif nodded once. ‘Princess.’
She stepped into the room, strangely conscious of the fact that they were alone, although even that was a fantasy. Servants were within earshot and her father would undoubtedly arrive in a few minutes. ‘Did you have a good afternoon?’ she asked, and heard the bright falsity in her own voice.
Aarif’s mouth flickered in something not quite a smile. ‘An enlightening one,’ he replied, and took a sip of his drink. He gestured to her own empty hand. ‘Would you like a drink?’
As if on cue, a servant came forward and Kalila asked for a glass of fruit juice. She wanted to keep her head clear.
‘I’m afraid I don’t remember you,’ Kalila said, smiling ruefully. ‘You must be Zakari’s younger brother, but I know he has many, and sisters too…’
‘Yes, there are seven of us.’ Aarif’s hard gaze settled on her as he added, ‘I remember you. You were quite young at that engagement party, weren’t you? You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.’
‘I was twelve,’ Kalila replied, her voice coming out in almost a whisper before she cleared her throat. She was touched—and unsettled—that he remembered her dress, her hair.
‘You looked as if you were going to a birthday party.’ Aarif glanced away. ‘Perhaps it felt like that at the time.’
Kalila nodded, surprised and unsettled again that he could understand just how she’d felt. ‘Yes, it did. And I was getting the best present of all.’ The trace of bitterness in her voice must have alerted him, for he glanced at her with faint censure now, the moment of unexpected closeness shattered by her own confession.
‘Marriage is an honour and a blessing.’
He sounded so much like her father, Kalila thought. Like every man who lectured about a woman’s duty. ‘Are you married, Prince Aarif?’ she asked, a note of challenge in her voice.
Aarif shook his head. ‘No,’ he said flatly, and any further discussion was put to an end by the arrival of her father.
‘Ah, Prince Aarif. And Kalila, you look well rested. I am glad.’ He came forward, rubbing his hands together, every inch the beneficent ruler. ‘I was telling PrinceAarif earlier that we do not rest on formality here, especially among family and friends.’
Then what, Kalila wanted to ask, was the point of that spectacle today? Of course she knew: tradition, ceremony. Pride. She saw her father’s gaze move speculatively between her and Aarif and instinctively she took a step away from the prince. A new, hidden meaning to her father’s words making her uncomfortably aware of the potential impropriety of their brief conversation. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said with a perfunctory smile. ‘We are very glad to welcome you to Zaraq, Prince Aarif.’
‘And I am very glad to be here,’ he returned, his voice low, pleasant and smooth, yet somehow devoid of any true expression. Kalila glanced at his face and saw his eyes looked blank. He was wearing a mask, she thought, a veil, as much of one as she had worn this afternoon. She wondered what he was trying to hide.
Bahir drew Kalila’s chair, before sitting down, and Aarif followed.
‘Earlier Aarif was explaining to me why King Zakari could not be here today,’ Bahir said as he poured them all wine. Kalila took a sip; it was light and refreshing and bubbled pleasantly through her.
‘Oh, yes?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.
‘He is, of course, a busy man,’ Bahir continued. ‘With many royal duties. He is not, in fact, on Calista at the moment…’ He let his voice trail off in delicate inquiry, and Kalila watched with a flicker of interest as Aarif’s mouth tightened.
‘He is not?’ she asked. ‘Where is he, PrinceAarif?’
‘Please, call me Aarif.’ There was a thread of tension in his voice that Kalila heard with growing curiosity.
‘Then you must call me Kalila,’ she returned as a matter of courtesy, yet this pleasantry caused Aarif’s sharp gaze to rest briefly on her face and something unfurled deep in her belly and spiralled strangely upwards.
He wasn’t, she reflected, taking another sip of wine, a classically handsome man. The scar put paid to that, but even without it his face was too harsh, too hard. There was no kindness in it, no humour or sympathy. The only emotion she saw in his dark eyes, in the flat line of his mouth, was determination.
She wondered just what Aarif was determined to do.
The first course, stewed chicken seasoned with coriander and paprika, was served, and they all began to eat.
‘I have heard,’ Bahir said after a moment, his voice mild and easy, ‘rumours of diamonds.’
Aarif paused for only a fraction of a second before he smiled and shrugged. ‘There are always rumours.’
‘This rumour,’ Bahir continued, his voice turning hard for only a second, ‘is that half of the Stefani diamond is missing.’ He paused, and Kalila watched as Aarif continued chewing with what looked like deliberate unconcern. ‘I wonder if that is what concerns your brother, Aarif?’
Aarif swallowed and took a sip of wine. Tension crackled in the air and Kalila’s gaze flickered from one man to the other, both smiling and genial, yet too much shrewd knowledge in their eyes.
What was going on?
‘My brother is indeed concerned about the Stefani diamond,’ Aarif said after a moment. ‘It has long been his desire to unite the diamond, and of course the kingdoms of Calista and Aristo.’ His gaze rested once more on Kalila, and again she felt that strange unfurling, as if inside her something had taken root and now sought sunlight, life and air. ‘This, of course, is of benefit to you, Princess. You shall be Queen not only of Calista, but of Aristo also.’
Kalila tried to smile, although in truth she hadn’t considered herself queen of anything at all. She’d only been thinking of herself as someone’s wife, not queen of a country, or even two.
Queen. She tried to feel the obligatory thrill, but disappointment and fear were too pressing. She didn’t aspire to titles; she aspired to love.
‘I wish your brother every success,’ she finally said, keeping her voice light, and a servant came to clear their plates.
‘My brother will be successful,’ Aarif said, smiling, although there was an odd flatness to his voice, his eyes. ‘When one is determined, one is also successful.’
There was a tiny pause, and the servant came to clear the dishes. ‘Indeed, an excellent maxim to live by,’ Bahir said lightly, and poured more wine.
Kalila toyed with the next course, a salad made with couscous, cucumbers, and tomatoes. Her appetite had vanished and she felt unsettled again, uneasy even though she was in comfortable clothes. Even though she was herself.
She didn’t know what caused this sense of unease, a needy sort of dissatisfaction. Was it Zakari’s absence or Aarif’s presence? Her gaze flitted to the prince’s hard profile, lingered briefly on the strong curve of his jaw, the livid line of his scar, and she felt again that strange spiralling within, upwards, something happy and hungry. He interested her, she realised with a spark of surprise. Fascinated her.
Would Zakari have done the same? The shadowy figure from her childhood held little appeal compared to the enigmatic presence of this man…this man, who was not and was never going to be her husband.
Aarif turned, his eyes clashing with hers, and Kalila jerked her gaze away, feeling exposed, as if he’d somehow witnessed her disturbing thought process.
‘Kalila?’ Bahir raised his eyebrow, drawing her back into the conversation.
‘Please excuse me,’ Kalila said quickly, forcing herself not to flush. ‘My mind was elsewhere. Father?’
‘Prince Aarif was just inquiring about bringing you to Calista. He wanted to leave tomorrow, and I was explaining to him about our customs.’ Bahir smiled apologetically at Aarif. ‘You see, Prince Aarif, there is a tradition here in Zaraq. The people love the royal family—it has always been so.’ He paused and took a sip of wine. ‘It is, perhaps, why we have enjoyed over a hundred years of peaceful rule.’ It was, Kalila knew, a delicate reminder of the power and prestige Zaraq brought to this marriage alliance. ‘The people of Makaris, our capital, like to hold a little festival when a member of the royal family is going to be married.’ Bahir held up one smooth, well-manicured hand, anticipating Aarif’s response, although he hadn’t moved or spoken. He simply waited. ‘I know this festival would normally occur after the wedding, but Kalila will be in Calista then, and it is important to the people that they see the happy couple…or at least the radiant bride.’ There was no censure in Bahir’s voice, but Aarif must have felt it for his mouth tightened once more.
‘If my brother had been aware of such traditions, I am sure he would have made every effort to be here,’ he said after a moment, and Bahir inclined his head in gracious acknowledgement.
‘Of course, of course. As it is, he is not, and you are. And for the sake of our beloved people, as well as the peace of our happy country, the festival must go forward as planned. It is a small affair, a simple matter. Food, music, dancing. I thought, considering—’ he paused delicately ‘—you could stop in Makaris on your way to the airport, and enjoy the festivities for an hour, two, no more. The people like a glimpse of the royal family, that is all.’
‘On the way to the airport?’ Aarif repeated, his voice scrupulously polite. ‘It was my understanding we would depart from the palace’s airstrip.’
Bahir waved a hand. ‘Yes, yes, I can see how you would think that. But as I said, the people of Zaraq care very much for the royal family, and in truth Princess Kalila, being my only heir, is much loved. They will want to wish her well, say farewell, you know how it is.’ He smiled, but no one could mistake the shrewd glint in his eyes.
Aarif dabbed his mouth with a napkin before smiling easily, although Kalila saw that his eyes were just as hard and shrewd as her father’s. ‘Yes, of course. We must satisfy the people, King Bahir. Let it be as you wish.’
Bahir smiled in satisfaction, and Kalila felt a sudden wave of numbing fatigue crash over her at the thought of several hours of mingling, chatting, waving, smiling. Indulging everyone’s need for a fairy tale.
Yet it had to be done; it would be done. It was, she knew, all part of her duty as princess. As queen.
‘I am sorry to rush you from your home, Princess,’ Aarif said, turning to her. ‘But as you know, the wedding is in two weeks, and there will be preparations to complete there.’ He paused before adding almost as an afterthought, ‘And of course King Zakari will be eager to see you, his bride.’
‘Of course.’ Kalila stared down at her untouched plate. At that moment she had trouble believing Zakari was eager for anything but another diamond in his crown.
The rest of the evening passed with more ease, and Bahir made sure the wine and conversation flowed smoothly.
‘I have heard that many of the Al’Farisi princes have been educated at Oxford,’ he said as dessert, roasted plums seasoned with cardamom and nutmeg, was served. ‘I went to Sandhurst myself, which is how I happened to meet my late wife, Queen Amelia, God rest her soul. Her brother was one of my best friends.’ Bahir smiled in inquiry. ‘Did you attend Oxford, Aarif?’
‘I did, and then returned to Calista to oversee our diamond industry.’
‘You are a man of business.’
‘Indeed.’
And he looked like one, Kalila thought. All about hard facts and figures, details and prices. Even his eyes had the hardness of diamonds.
‘Kalila went to Cambridge,’ Bahir continued. ‘As I’m sure you, or at least your brother, knows. She studied history, and enjoyed her years there, didn’t you, my dear?’
‘Yes, very much.’ Kalila smiled stiffly, disliking the way her father trotted out her accomplishments as if she were a show pony. A brood mare.
‘An education is important for any ruler, don’t you think?’ Bahir continued, andAarif swivelled slightly to rest that harsh and unyielding gaze on Kalila.
She stilled under it, felt again that strange warmth bloom in her cheeks and her belly at his scrutiny. Strange, when his expression was so ungenerous, his eyes so dark and obdurate. She should quell under that unyielding gaze, yet she didn’t. She flourished. She wanted more, yet more of what? What more could a man like Aarif give?
‘Yes,’ he said flatly, and then looked away.
Finally the meal was over, and Bahir invited Aarif to take a cigar and port in his private study. It was a male tradition, one that took different guises all around the world, and all it took was for her father to raise his eyebrows at her for Kalila to know she’d been excused. It usually annoyed her, this arrogant dismissal of women from what was seen as the truly important matters, but tonight she was glad.
She wanted to be alone. She needed to think.
She waited until Bahir and Aarif were ensconced in the study before she slipped outside to the palace’s private gardens, an oasis of verdant calm. She loved these gardens, the cool shade provided by a hundred different varieties of shrub and flower, the twisting paths that would suddenly lead to a fountain or sculpture or garden bench, something pleasant and lovely.
She breathed in deeply the surprising scents of lavender and rose, imported from England by Bahir for the pleasure of his homesick wife.
The air was damp and fresh from the sprinkler system Bahir had installed, although Kalila could still feel the dry, creeping chill of the night-time desert air. She wished she’d thought to bring a wrap; her arms crept around her body instead.
She didn’t want to marry Zakari. She acknowledged this starkly, peeled away the layers of self-deceit and foolish hope to reveal the plain and unpleasant truth underneath. She didn’t want to travel to a foreign country, even one as close as Calista, to be a queen. She didn’t want to live the life that had been carefully chosen for her too many years ago.
She didn’t want to do her duty.
Funny, that she would realise this now. Now, when it was too late, far too late, when the wedding was imminent, the invitations already sent out even. Or were they? Funny, too, that she had no idea of the details of her own wedding, her own marriage, not even about the groom.
Kalila sighed. The path she’d been walking on opened onto a sheltered curve bound by hedgerows, set with a small fountain, its waters gleaming blackly in the darkness, the newly risen moon reflected on its still surface. She sank onto a bench by the fountain, curling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees, a position from childhood, a position of comfort.
From the ground she scooped up a handful of smooth pebbles and let them trickle through her fingers, each one making a tiny scuffling sound on the dirt below. She hadn’t realised the truth of her situation until now, she knew, because she hadn’t separated it from herself before.
Since she was a child of twelve—half of her life—she’d known she was going to marry King Zakari. She’d had a picture of him—from a newspaper—in her underwear drawer, although she made sure no one saw it. When she was alone, she’d taken it out and smoothed the paper, stared at the blurred image—it wasn’t even a very good shot—and wondered about the man in the picture. The man who would be her husband, the father of her children, her life partner.
In those early years she’d embroidered delicate daydreams about him, his beauty and bravery, intelligence and humour. She’d built him up to be a king even before a crown rested on his head. Of course, that youthful naiveté hadn’t lasted too long; by the time she went to Cambridge, she’d realised Zakari could not possibly be the man of her daydreams. No man could.
And even when she’d thought she was being realistic, nobly doing her duty, accepting the greater aims of her country, she’d still clung to those old daydreams. They’d hidden in the corner of her heart, dusty and determined, and only when Aarif had shown himself in the throne room had she realised their existence at all.
She still believed. She still wanted. She wanted that man…impossible, wonderful, somehow real.
Because that man loved her…whoever he was.
For a strange, surprised moment, Aarif’s implacable features flashed through her mind, and she shook her head as if to deny what a secret part of her brain was telling her. The only reason she thought of Aarif at all, she told herself, was because Zakari wasn’t here.
Yet she couldn’t quite rid herself of the lingering sense of his presence, that faint flicker of his smile. You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.
Such a simple statement, and yet there had been a strange intimacy in that memory, in its revelation.
‘Excuse me.’
The voice, sharp and sudden, caused Kalila to stiffen in surprise. Aarif stood by the fountain, no more than a shadowy form in the darkness. They stared at each other, the only sound the rustling of leaves and, in the distance, the gentle churring of a nightjar.
‘I didn’t realise,’ Aarif said after a moment, his voice stiff and formal, ‘that anyone was here.’
Kalila swallowed. ‘I thought you’d still be with my father.’
‘We finished, and he wished to go to bed.’
More time must have passed than she’d realised, lost in her own unhappy reflections.
‘I’ll go,’ Aarif said, and began to turn.
‘Please. Don’t.’ The words came out in a rush, surprising her. Kalila didn’t know what she wanted from this man, so hard and strange and ungiving. Yet she knew she didn’t want him to go; she didn’t want to be alone any more. She wanted, she realised, to be with him. To know more about him, even if there was no point. No purpose.
Aarif hesitated, still half-turned, and then as Kalila held her breath he slowly swivelled back to her. In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Princess?’
Kalila patted the empty seat next to her. ‘Please sit.’
Another long moment passed, and in the darkness Kalila thought she could see Aarif gazing thoughtfully at that empty space before he moved slowly—reluctantly—and sat down next to her, yet still far enough apart so his body did not touch hers at all.
The constraint of his behaviour, Kalila realised, was revealing in itself. Was he aware of the tension Kalila felt, that heady sense of something unfurling within her, something she’d never felt before?
Did he feel it too?
He couldn’t, Kalila decided, or if he did, he was not showing it. He sat rigidly, his hands resting on his thighs, unmoving, and it amazed her how still and controlled he was, giving nothing away by either sound or movement.
‘This is a beautiful garden,’ Aarif said after a moment, and Kalila was glad he’d spoken.
‘I have always loved it,’ she agreed quietly. ‘My father designed it for my mother—a taste of her homeland.’
‘Like the Gardens of Babylon, built by Nebuchadnezzar for Amytis.’
‘Yes.’ Kalila smiled, pleased he’d recognised the connection. ‘My father used to call my mother Amytis, as an endearment.’ She heard the wistful note in her voice and bit her lip.
‘I’m sorry for her death,’ Aarif said, his voice still formal and somehow remote. ‘The loss of a parent is a hard thing to bear.’
‘Yes.’
‘When did she die?’
‘When I was seventeen. Cancer.’ Kalila swallowed. It had been so unexpected, so swift. There had only been a few, precious, painful weeks between diagnosis and death, and then the raging emptiness afterwards. Going to Cambridge had been a relief, a new beginning, and yet Kalila knew the ache of her mother’s loss would never fully heal. It was something you carried with you, always.
‘I’m sorry,’ Aarif said quietly, and Kalila knew he meant it. Above them the nightjar began its steady churring once more.
‘I know you lost your father and stepmother a few years ago,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I…I heard of it. I’m sorry.’ She’d written to Zakari, she remembered, expressing her condolences, and she’d received a formal letter back. Now she wondered if he’d even written it.
‘Thank you. It was…difficult.’ Aarif said nothing more, and Kalila did not feel she could brave the intimacy of asking. He shifted slightly, and she wondered if he was uncomfortable. There was a strange, quiet intimacy provided by the cloak of darkness, the sounds of the night gentle and hypnotic around them. She wished she could see his face, but the moon had gone beyond a cloud and she could see no more than the shadowy outline of his shoulder, his jaw, his cheek.
‘Tell me about Calista,’ she finally said. ‘You know, I’ve never been there.’
Aarif was silent for so long Kalila wondered if he’d heard her. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he finally said. ‘Much like here.’ He paused, and Kalila waited. ‘Of course, not everyone sees the beauty of the desert. It is a harsh loveliness. Was it difficult for your mother to live here?’
‘Sometimes,’ Kalila acknowledged. ‘Although she took trips back to England—I spent my first holidays in Bournemouth.’
The moon glided out from behind a cloud, and in the pale light Kalila saw his teeth gleam, and she realised he was smiling. Faintly. The gesture surprised her; he hadn’t smiled properly since she’d met him. She wished she could see more of it. She wondered if the smile lit his eyes, softened the hard planes of his face, and realised she wanted to know. ‘And she had the garden, of course,’ she finished after a moment, her voice sounding stilted. ‘She loved it here.’
‘And you?’ Aarif asked. ‘Will you miss your homeland?’
Kalila swallowed. ‘Yes…I think so.’ He said nothing, but she felt his silent censure like a physical thing, tautening the small space between them. And, of course, why shouldn’t he be surprised? Disappointed even? Here she was, admitting that she didn’t know if she’d miss her own country! She opened her mouth, wanting to explain the jumble of confused emotions and disappointed dreams to him, but nothing came out. What could she say, and what would this man want to hear?
Yet somehow, strangely, she felt as if he might understand. Or was that simply the wishful thinking of a woman with too many disappointed dreams?
‘I’ll miss Zaraq, of course,’ she said, after a moment, wanting, needing to explain. ‘And my father. And friends…’ She trailed off, unable to put words to the nameless longing for something else, something deeper and more instrinsically a part of herself, something that had no name. Something, she realised despondently, she wasn’t even sure she’d ever had.
‘It is a strange time,’ Aarif said after a moment. His voice was still neutral, yet in the shadowy darkness Kalila saw him lift his hand and drop it again—almost as if he’d been going to touch her. Her heart beat harder at the thought. ‘Once you are in Calista, you will feel more settled. The people will welcome you.’ He paused before adding, his voice still flat, ‘I’m sure they will love you.’
The people. Not Zakari. And what of him? What of Aarif? The question was ludicrous, so ridiculous and inappropriate that under the cover of darkness Kalila’s cheeks warmed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose I sound like I am full of self-pity, but I hope—I know—’ she swallowed painfully ‘—that it will be better with time.’
‘Time heals most things,’ Aarif agreed, yet Kalila felt he was saying something else, something far from a platitude. Most things…but not all.
Aarif stirred on the bench and Kalila knew he wanted to leave. The night had grown quiet, their conversation too close. Yet the thought of his departure alarmed her, and she held out one hand, the moonlight bathing her skin in lambent silver. ‘Tell me about your brother.’
The words fell in the silence like the pebbles from her hand, disturbing the tranquil stillness. Kalila wished she hadn’t spoken. Why had she asked about Zakari? She didn’t want to know about him. She didn’t even want to think about him.
But you need to know. He is going to be your husband.
‘What kind of man is he?’ she asked, her voice trailing to a whisper. It shamed her that she had to ask. She felt as if she’d exposed something to Aarif without even realising it, as much as if she’d shown him that faded photograph in her lingerie drawer.
‘He is a good man,’ Aarif said after a long moment when he’d remained still and silent, his head half turned away from her. ‘A better man than I am. And a good king.’ Kalila started at his admission. A better man than I am. Why? What kind of man are you? She wanted to ask, but she was silent, and Aarif finished, ‘He will do his duty.’
His duty. Highest praise, no doubt, from a man like Aarif, but to Kalila it had the ring of condemnation. She wanted so much more than duty. Summoning her spirit, she tried for a laugh. ‘Can’t you tell me more than that?’ she asked, keeping her voice light.
Aarif turned to look at her, his eyes and face carefully expressionless. ‘I fear I cannot tell you the kinds of things a bride would like to know about her groom. And in truth, you will know soon enough.’
‘I thought he would have come. To see me.’ Kalila bit her lip, wishing the words back. Then she shrugged, a sudden spark of defiance firing through her. ‘He should have.’
Aarif stiffened, or at least Kalila felt as if he had. Perhaps he hadn’t moved at all. Yet she knew she’d gone too far; she’d almost insulted King Zakari. Her husband. She closed her eyes, opening them once more when Aarif spoke.
‘It was my fault that you were expecting King Zakari,’ he told her flatly. ‘I should have explained the arrangements before my arrival.’
Kalila glanced at him, curiosity flaring within her. Aarif held himself rigidly now, and although he was still unmoving she felt his tension emanating from him in forceful waves. He was not the kind of man to make such a mistake, she reflected, so what had happened? Why was he taking the blame?
‘It is no matter,’ she said after a moment. She could hardly explain how much it had mattered, or why. ‘King Zakari will be waiting for me in Calista. The wedding has already been delayed several times—what is a few more days?’
‘It seems,’ Aarif replied, his voice carefully neutral, ‘that it matters to you.’
Kalila looked away. That afternoon, it had mattered. She had been disappointed, hurt, like the child at a birthday party Aarif had thought her, waiting for a present only to find it empty inside. Yet now she felt worse; she was numb, indifferent. She’d finally realised there had never been a present, or even a façade of a present. There had only been an empty box.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Princess Kalila, I should go.’ Aarif rose from the bench. ‘It is not seemly for us to be like this.’
‘Why not? We shall be as brother and sister in a matter of weeks,’ Kalila replied, raising her eyebrows in challenge.
Aarif paused. ‘True, but you know as well as I do that in countries such as ours men and women who are unattached do not spend time alone together, unchaperoned.’
‘Are you unattached?’ The question slipped out without much thought, yet Kalila realised she wanted to know. He wasn’t married, but was there a woman? A girlfriend, a mistress, a lover?
She shouldn’t ask; she didn’t need to know. Yet she wanted to. Something about that still, considering gaze, the carefully neutral tone, made her want to know the man that must be hidden underneath.
‘Yes.’ Aarif made to turn. ‘And now I must bid you goodnight. I trust you can find your way safely back to the palace?’
‘Yes—’ Half-turned as he was, the moonlight bathing his cheek in silver, illuminating that livid line from brow to jaw, Kalila found another question slipping out. ‘How did you get that scar?’
Aarif jerked in surprise, and then he turned slowly to face her. From the surprised—almost trapped—look on his face Kalila realised it was not a question she should have asked. It was not one Aarif wanted to answer. Still, she waited, her breath caught in her throat, her mind a flurry of questions.
‘A foolish accident,’ Aarif finally said, stiffly, as if he were not used to explaining. Perhaps he wasn’t.
‘It must have been.’ She regarded him solemnly, longing to lighten the moment, to make him smile again—somehow. ‘You look as if someone came at you with a scimitar,’ she added, letting a teasing note enter her voice. ‘Did you win?’ She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
After an endless moment Aarif’s mouth curved in a tiny, reluctant smile. That hint of humour caused Kalila’s heart to lurch, her insides to roil in a confused jumble, for suddenly he did not seem like the man he’d been before. Suddenly he seemed like someone else entirely. Someone she wanted to know, the man underneath she’d wondered about coming to the fore.
‘Would you believe me,’ he asked, ‘if I told you I took on three camel rustlers by myself?’
His gaze was steady on hers, his mouth still curved. Kalila smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I would.’
And suddenly the moment of levity took on a deeper, disquieting meaning; suddenly something was stretching between them, winding around them, drawing them closer though neither of them moved.
Aarif’s eyes held hers and she didn’t look away. She reached one hand out in farewell, and to her surprise Aarif clasped it, his fingers, dry and cool, wrapping around hers, sending a jolt of startling awareness along her arm and through her whole body.
Her fingers tightened on his, and as the moment stretched on—too long—neither one of them let go. Neither of them, Kalila felt, wanted to. She should have pulled her hand away. Aarif should have loosened his grip.
Yet neither of them did, and the moment stretched on suspended and endless, as they remained, linked by their clasped fingers, holding each other’s gaze with a silent, suppressed longing. Kalila felt a clamour of different emotions rise within her: the need to be understood, cherished. Loved. The idea, strange and impossible, that this man could be the one who would.
Then, as if rousing himself from a dream, Aarif shook his head, the light in his eyes replaced by an even more disquieting bleakness, his mouth returning to its familiar, compressed line. He dropped her hand so suddenly Kalila’s arm swung down helplessly in the darkness, landing in her lap with a thud. She curled her fingers, now burning with the memory of his touch, against her thigh as Aarif turned away.
‘Goodnight, Princess,’ he said, and disappeared silently into the darkness of the garden.
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