Claiming His Desert Princess

Her mouth went dry. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been kissed.’

Christopher groaned. ‘The ultimate temptation and the ultimate deterrent. Do you have any idea how utterly delectable you are?’ He shook his head, sitting back. ‘No, of course you don’t, and I should not have said so.’

‘Because you don’t mean it?’

He laughed. ‘I never pay empty compliments. Utterly delectable does not do you justice. I have never met a woman like you.’

‘Now that is a compliment I can very easily return, for I have never met a man like you—though no doubt you will have deduced I have met very few men, and may think it’s not that high a compliment. But I have a feeling it would make no difference if I had.’

‘Tahira, you should not say such things, and you ought not to look at a man with those big eyes when you do, and smile that way, and—you can have no idea of the effect you have when you smile at me like that.’

She felt as if her veins were full of sherbet. She was sparkling, alight. And she felt quite wicked. ‘When I first saw you tonight, I thought to myself, there is a man one would never forget. A dangerous man. With a very dangerous smile.’

‘When I first saw you tonight, and you smiled at me...’ Shaking his head, Christopher looked up at the stars and frowned. ‘Speaking of danger, delightful as your company is, I don’t want you to risk returning in the daylight to wherever it is you’ve sprung from.’

Reluctantly, Tahira too looked up at the sky, and gave a startled exclamation. ‘I had no idea it was so late—or rather, early. I will do everything in my power to help you, but I must go now. Will we meet again here, tomorrow night?’

Christopher jumped up, helping her to her feet. ‘Is it safe for you to do so?’

She rarely risked two night-time excursions in a row, but time was of the essence in so many ways. ‘I’ll be here,’ Tahira said emphatically.

‘Then so too will I.’ He watched her as she pulled on her cloak and headdress, securing her leather satchel to the camel’s saddle. A click of the tongue, and the beast was on its knees waiting for her to mount. Christopher took her hand, pressing it lightly before she clambered into the saddle. ‘Until tomorrow.’

A quick wave, and she headed off, urging the languid beast into a trot. She didn’t look back, but she sensed him watching her fading into the desert landscape.

* * *

Later, as she lay exhausted on her divan, she wondered if he had been a mirage, a figment of her imagination conjured up by the desert sands, a beguiling vision who would melt away in the harsh light of day, never to return. Burying her head under the pillow to block out the light filtering through the high oriel window, Tahira smiled to herself. She would have her answer soon enough.

* * *

The next evening, Christopher closed his notebook, placing it first in a waxed cover before concealing it behind a loose stone in the wall of the abandoned house which had been his temporary home for the last few weeks. It was highly unlikely that anyone would happen across it and if they did, impossible to imagine that they could break his ingenious code, but its very existence, the fact that his work was encoded, would give rise to suspicion, even without the incriminating sketches and maps.

The contents of his notebook went well beyond the remit of the dossier he had offered to compile for Lord Henry Armstrong, payment for the official strings the diplomat had pulled to expedite Christopher’s journey, and the local contacts he had provided. Thankfully, their bargain could be concluded without another face-to-face meeting. Christopher was determined never to set eyes on that loathsome countenance again. When he was done here, the shameful personal tie which neither of them welcomed, the existence of which Christopher had been oblivious almost his whole life, would be severed for ever. That dark past would be obliterated, the slate wiped clean. He would be master of his own destiny, free to embrace the future on his own terms.

A very lucrative future it could be too, if he chose to remain here in Arabia. Ironically, during the last six months, while seeking the owner of the amulet and collating the contents of Lord Armstrong’s dossier, Christopher had also discovered a plethora of hitherto untapped natural resources. The so-called Midas Touch which made him highly sought after as a surveyor was proving every bit as effective here in the Arabian landscape as it had proved in Britain and in Egypt. There was a wealth of ores and minerals just waiting to be exploited. He could easily make his fortune, or facilitate the making of others’ fortunes, if he were so inclined.

He was most emphatically not so inclined, though his meticulous habits dictated that he record every potential location, regardless. In the wrong hands, his very comprehensive findings could prove to be politically explosive.

Reminded of the hands his dossier was due to be delivered into—white, long-fingered, aristocratic, atavistic hands that he never wished to lay eyes on again—he shuddered with revulsion. He would make damned sure he provided only what he had agreed and no more. Bad enough that his lordship would benefit even to the degree Christopher had promised. It would be some consolation to deprive that peer of untold and as yet undiscovered riches. He could think of no man less deserving than that particular man, who had stolen his family, laid waste to his history. A man who placed his ruthless ambition before all else, who cared naught when others bore the consequences of his vile actions, and who bought silence with blood money. Recalling their one and only meeting, Christopher’s hand curled into a tight, painful fist, his mouth set into a vicious snarl. The day he rid himself of the connection could not come a moment too soon.

And it would come. For the first time since he set out on this long journey, he believed the end might be in sight. Unfurling his fist, firmly confining Lord Armstrong to the dark recesses of his mind, Christopher rolled his shoulders, stiff from hours hunched over his makeshift desk. Heading for the outbuilding containing the well, he hauled up a fresh supply of water, stripped himself of his dusty tunic, and made his toilette. The underground spring which fed the well was deep, the water icy as he doused himself with it, stinging his freshly shaved chin. His spare tunic was almost as threadbare as the one he had taken off, but at least it was clean.

Pulling his boots back on, he sat down at the entrance of his temporary dwelling, staring up at the sky as it segued from pale blue to indigo. It was going to be a clear night. A propitious beginning to their exploration of the mine’s environs? Finally, after all this time, he must surely be on the right track. Closing his eyes, he could almost see his future, wavering like a mirage on the edge of his mind, so tantalisingly close.

Perhaps even closer than he imagined, with Tahira’s assistance. Christopher smiled slowly to himself. He was looking forward to seeing her again. Draping his cloak around him, and fastening the igal which held his headdress in place, he closed the door of his makeshift abode and went out to saddle his camel. Who would have thought that a chance meeting would bring about this collision of two people from such impossibly different worlds? He could not have dreamt of encountering a more beautiful, intriguing, exotic companion. That she not only shared his love of the past, but would, with luck, help him close the door on his own shameful history—fate, she had called it, and he had disagreed. But perhaps he had been wrong to do so. It might be that, every now and then, the stars did indeed align.

* * *

The third and innermost courtyard of the Royal Palace of Nessarah was a vast enclosed space, surrounded on all sides by a colonnade of twenty-two marble columns, the walls of which were set with huge mirrors interspersed with elaborate plasterwork covered in gold leaf, the pattern repeated on the ceiling. Divans covered in crimson velvet, tasselled with gold, lined the colonnade at regular intervals, the overall impression being one of lush, shaded opulence. In contrast, the central square of the courtyard was flooded with light.

The high domed ceiling was painted in ultramarine and studded with gold stars. The lower walls were covered in blue and white tiles, the higher ones painted a soft dove-grey, and the arched windows, deliberately set far too high for anyone to peer either in or out, allowed light to dapple the rich silk carpets and terracotta floor tiles. The inner courtyard was, like every other room in the harem complex, beautiful, luxurious, and utterly closed off to the outside world. Or so King Haydar and his only son, Prince Ghutrif, believed. Tahira, the eldest of the royal princesses, knew better.

The crystal chandelier which hung from the central point of the dome held exactly one-hundred-and-twenty-two candles. Tahira knew this for certain, for she had counted them numerous times in an attempt to pass the hours until darkness fell, forcing herself to lie still on the divan, refusing to consult her little jewelled timepiece yet again. She could feel it ticking now where it nestled, concealed beneath her clothing, marking out the hours, minutes, seconds, until she was once more free.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother’s wife, Juwan, enter the courtyard from the door which led to the Crown Princess’s official quarters. Heavy with her second child, which she determinedly proclaimed to all would this time prove to be a prized son, Juwan scanned the room, a frown drawing her finely arched brows together, which cleared as her gaze alighted on her prey.

Quickly closing her eyes, Tahira feigned sleep, but as Juwan sank on to the divan beside her with small sigh, she accepted the inevitable and sat up.

‘Juwan, you look fatigued, don’t you think you should rest, given your condition? It would be better if I left you in peace to do so.’ She stood, arranging a number of silk and velvet cushions invitingly, but although her sister-in-law lowered herself slowly down, rubbing the small of her back, she shook her head when Tahira made to leave.

‘No, stay with me a while. I wish to have a little talk with you.’

Tahira’s heart sank, for since the official visit from Murimon’s Chief Adviser two weeks ago which put an abrupt end to her betrothal, she had endured several such little talks or, more accurately, lectures. Juwan had made it clear—as if Tahira could possibly be in any doubt—that she was very deeply in disgrace. Resigning herself to the inevitable, from force of habit keeping her expression carefully neutral, Tahira pulled a large cushion to face the divan and sank down on to it, crossing her legs.

‘Only a few more weeks now, until your baby arrives. You must grow weary of waiting,’ she said brightly, in an attempt to divert her sister-in-law on to her favourite subject.

Juwan folded her hands over her mountainous stomach. ‘When the time is right, my fine son will grace us with his presence. It is his father who is impatient. Your brother is naturally anxious,’ she added hastily, lest her words be construed as any form or criticism, ‘to finally welcome his long-awaited heir. A man needs a son. I pray I do not let my husband down again.’

Ghutrif had demonstrated little interest in his daughter. Little wonder that Juwan refused to countenance the possibility of a second female child. Though every fibre of her being rebelled, Tahira could not dispute the facts. Here in the royal palace, patriarchal rule had always been both culturally entrenched and rigorously enforced, regardless of the slowly changing outside world. Here in the Nessarah harem, the female of the species was defined by her ability to produce more males to continue the line, or alternatively to enrich the kingdom by means of advantageous marriage contracts.

‘As you know,’ Juwan said, returning to the subject of her visit, ‘this most unfortunate second broken betrothal of yours has upset your brother and father a great deal.’

‘My first betrothed died unexpectedly. That was far more unfortunate for him than me, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Indeed it was. And only a matter of weeks before the marriage, in a most tragic and untimely accident.’

Tahira bit her tongue. Of course she would never have wished Prince Butrus dead, but she could not lie to herself. The tragic news had also come as a huge relief.

‘Clearly no blame can be laid at your door for that first instance,’ Juwan reluctantly conceded, ‘but now it has happened again, and involving the very same royal family. It does not reflect well on you.’

‘I was not the one who tore up the marriage contract,’ Tahira retorted indignantly. ‘And Prince Kadar, I understand, compensated our family far more generously than is customary in such circumstances.’

Juwan pursed her lips. ‘You see, this is another example of the many character traits which cause my husband great concern. Dowries, compensation, these are not matters we women should be discussing. No matter how much recompense your family may have received, the stain of shame clings to you, yet your behaviour in no way reflects this.’

‘What do you expect me to do, hide in a corner crying, or simply keep my head permanently bowed and my mouth permanently closed?’

‘That would certainly be a good start,’ Juwan replied tartly. ‘You set a very poor example to your sisters, continuing as if nothing has happened.’

‘Because as far as I’m concerned nothing did happen!’ Tahira exclaimed, her temper rising. ‘The one and only time I met Prince Kadar of Murimon, we were heavily chaperoned, and all communication was carried out on my behalf by my brother. I did nothing and I said nothing. The outcome is not my fault.’

‘You forget,’ Juwan said, ‘that I was one of the chaperons present to protect your honour. Though your father and my husband may have been oblivious, you overlook the fact that I too have been raised in the confines of the harem, and I too understand the unspoken language, the nuances of the body women such as we have learned to perfect. You made your indifference to the prince very clear without recourse to words.’

There was no point in denying the truth of this. Tahira had from the first fought both betrothals as furiously as was possible against the implacable wall of her brother’s determination to marry her off, to absolutely no effect. The fates had twice intervened in her favour, but she doubted they would do so again.

It was time to deploy a risky strategy. ‘If there is such a very large stain of shame attached to me, perhaps we should accept that I am simply not marriageable,’ Tahira said. ‘Very soon now, you will have your hands full taking care of your new son as well as your daughter. You will not wish to be distracted by having to look after the welfare of my younger sisters too. Let me be their official chaperon. Let me take the burden of that responsibility from you. I would be content with that role and would carry it out dutifully.’

‘So now, finally, you allow your true colours to show,’ Juwan said disdainfully. ‘Ghutrif and I are of one mind, Tahira. Your one and only duty, the purpose for which you have been bred, is to enhance the power and wealth of Nessarah through marriage. As the wife of the Crown Prince, it is my duty to ensure that your sisters are taken care of and married appropriately when the time comes, not yours.’