Sheikh's Defiant Wife: Defiant in the Desert

‘You do realise that I’ve known you for years and yet you’re still something of a mystery to me,’ she said conversationally.

‘Good. That’s the way I like it.’

‘I mean, I know practically nothing about your past,’ she continued, as if he hadn’t made that terse interruption.

‘How many times have I told you, Sara? My past is irrelevant.’

‘I don’t agree. Surely our past is what defines us. It makes us what we are today. And you’ve never told me how you first got to know the Sultan—or to be regarded so highly by him. When I was a child you said I wouldn’t understand—and when I became an adult, well...’ She shrugged, not wanting to spell it out. Not needing to say that once sexual attraction had reared its powerful head, any kind of intimacy had seemed too dangerous. She put her fork down and looked at him.

‘It isn’t relevant,’ he said.

‘Well, what else are we going to talk about? And if I am to be the Sultan’s wife...’ She hesitated as she noticed him flinch. ‘Then surely it must be relevant. Am I to know nothing about the background of the man who was my future husband’s aide for so long? You must admit that it is highly unusual for such a powerful man as the Sultan to entrust so much to someone who has no aristocratic blood of their own.’

‘I had no idea that you were such a snob, Sara,’ he mocked.

‘I’m not a snob,’ she corrected. ‘Just someone seeking the facts. That’s one of the side effects of having had a western education. I was taught to question things, rather than just to accept what I was told or be fobbed off with some bland reply designed to put me in my place.’

‘Then maybe your western education has not served you well,’ he said, before suddenly stilling. He shook his head. ‘What am I saying?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘How unforgivable of me to try to damn your education and in so doing—to damn knowledge itself. Forget that I ever said that.’

‘Does that mean you’ll answer my question?’

‘That is not what I meant at all.’

‘Please, Suleiman.’

He gave an exasperated sigh as he looked at her. But she thought she saw affection in his eyes too as he lowered his voice and began to speak in English, even though Sara was certain that none of the servants or bodyguards were within earshot.

‘You know that I was born into poverty?’ he said. ‘Real and abject poverty?’

‘I heard the rumours,’ Sara answered. ‘Though you’d never guess that from your general bearing and manner.’

‘I learn very quickly. Adaption is the first lesson of survival,’ he said drily. ‘And believe me, it’s easier to absorb the behaviour of the rich, than it is the other way round.’

‘So how did you—a boy from the wrong side of the tracks—ever come into contact with someone as important as the Sultan?’

There was silence for a moment. Sara thought she saw a sudden darkness cross his face. And there was bitterness, too.

‘I grew up in a place called Tymahan, a small area of Samahan, where the land is at its most desolate and people eke out what living they can. To be honest, there was never much of a living to be made—even before the last war, when much blood was shed. But you, of course—in your pampered palace in Dhi’ban—would have known nothing of those hardships.’

‘You cannot blame me for the way I was protected as a princess,’ she protested. ‘Would you sooner I had cut off my hair and pretended to be a boy, in order to do battle?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

‘Carry on with your story,’ she urged, leaning forward a little.

He seemed to draw in a quick breath as she grew closer.

‘The Sultan’s father was touring the region,’ he said. ‘He wanted to witness the aftermath of the wars and to see whether any insurrection remained.’

Sara watched as he took a sip from his beaker and then put the drink back down on the low table.

‘My mother had been ill—and grieving,’ he continued. ‘My father had been killed in the uprisings and as a consequence she was vulnerable—struck down by a scourge known to many at that time.’ His mouth twisted with pain and bitterness. ‘A scourge known as starvation.’

Sara flinched as guilt suddenly washed over her. Earlier, he had accused her of self-pity and didn’t he have a point? She had moaned about her position as a princess—yet despite the many unsatisfactory areas of her life, she had certainly never experienced anything as fundamental as a lack of food. She’d never had to face a problem as pressing as basic survival. She looked into his black eyes, which were now clouded with pain, and her heart went out to him.

‘Oh, Suleiman,’ she said softly.

His mouth hardened, as if her sympathy was unwelcome. ‘The Sultan was being entertained by a group of local dignitaries and there was enough food groaning on those tables to feed our village for a month,’ he said, his voice growing harsh. ‘I was lurking in the shadows, for that was my particular skill—to see and yet not be seen. And on this night I saw a pomegranate—as big as a man’s fist and as golden as the midday sun. My mother had always loved pomegranates and I...’

‘You stole it?’ she guessed as his words faded away.

He gave her a tight smile. ‘If I had been old enough to articulate my thoughts I would have called it a fair distribution of goods, but my motives were irrelevant since I was caught, red-handed. I may have been good at hiding in the shadows, but I was no match for the Sultan’s elite bodyguards.’

Sara shivered, recognising the magnitude of such a crime and wondering how he was still alive to tell the tale.

‘And they let you off?’

He gave a short laugh. ‘The Sultan’s guards are not in the habit of granting clemency to common thieves and I was moments away from losing my head to one of their scimitars, when I saw a young boy about the same age as me running from within one of the royal tents and shouting at them to stop. It was the Sultan’s son, Murat.’ He paused. ‘Your future husband.’

Sara flinched, for she knew that his heavy reminder had been deliberate. ‘And what did he do?’

‘He saved my life.’

She stared at him in bewilderment. ‘How?’

‘It was simple. Murat was protected and pampered—but lonely and bored. He wanted a playmate—and a boy hungry enough to steal from the royal table was deemed a charitable cause to rescue. My mother was offered a large sum of money—’

‘She took it?’

‘She had no choice other than to take it!’ he snapped. ‘I was to be washed and dressed in fine clothes. To be removed from my own country and taken back to the royal palace of Qurhah, where I was to be educated alongside the young Sultan. In most things, we two boys would be as equals.’

There was silence while she digested this. She could see how completely Suleiman’s life would have been transformed. Why sometimes he unconsciously acted with the arrogance known to all royals, though his was tempered by a certain edge. But his mother had sold him. And there was something he had omitted to mention. ‘Your...mother? What happened to her?’

This time the twist of pain on his face was so raw that she could hardly bear to observe it.

‘She was given the best food and the best medicines,’ he said. ‘And a new dwelling place was built for her and my two younger brothers. I was taken away to the palace, intending to return to Samahan to see my family in the summer. But her illness had taken an irreversible toll and my mother died that springtime. I never...I never saw her again.’

‘Oh, Suleiman,’ she said, her heart going out to him. His mother’s sacrifice had been phenomenal and yet she had died without seeing her eldest son. How terrible for them both. She wanted to go to him and take him in her arms, but the unseen presence of the servants and the expression on his face warned her not to try. Only words could convey her empathy and her sorrow and she picked the simplest and most heartfelt of all. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘So very sorry.’

‘It happened a long time ago,’ he said harshly. ‘It’s all in the past. And that’s where it should stay. Like I said, the past is irrelevant. Now perhaps you will understand why I prefer not to talk of it?’

She looked at him. All these years she’d known him—or, rather, had thought she’d known him. But she had only seen the bits he had allowed her to see. He had kept this vital part of himself locked away, until now—when it had poured from his lips and made him seem strangely vulnerable. It made her understand a little more about why he was the kind of man he was. Why he kept his feelings bottled away and sometimes seemed so stubborn and inflexible. It explained why he had always been so unquestioningly loyal to the Sultan who had saved his life. He was so driven by duty—because duty was all he knew.

Suddenly she realised why he had rejected her on the night of her brother’s coronation. Again, because it was his duty. Because she had been betrothed to the Sultan.

Yet the price of duty had been to never see his mother again. No wonder he had always seemed so proud and so alone. Because essentially he was.

And suddenly Sara knew that she could not seduce him as some cynical game-plan of her own. She could not use Suleiman Abd al-Aziz to help her escape from this particular prison. She could not place him in any position of danger, because if the Sultan were ever to discover that his bride-to-be had slept with the man he most trusted in all the world—then all hell would be let loose.