The Sheikh's Jewel

Sick to her stomach with nerves, she turned to where he stood—and her breath caught. It was strange, but it was only on the day she’d seen him returning to Sar Abbas as a national hero that she’d truly taken in his deep resemblance to Alim. A quiet, serious version, perhaps, but as, in his army uniform, he smiled and waved to the people cheering him in the streets, she’d seen his face as if for the first time.

Now, she struggled not to stare at him. So handsome and strong in his groom’s finery, yet so dark and mysterious with those glittering forest-green eyes. She groped with one hand to the bedpost to gain balance suddenly lacking in her knees. He was the man who’d come home a hero. He was—magnificent. He was hers.

‘None of you will listen or stand nearby,’ he snapped at the walls, and she was filled with gratitude when she heard the shuffle of many feet moving away.

Lost in awe, she faltered in her traditional greeting, but bowed in the traditional show of deep respect. ‘M-my husband, I …’ She didn’t know how to go on, but surely he’d understand how she felt?

Without a change of expression from the serious, cool appraisal, he closed the door behind him, and offered her a brief smile. ‘Sit down, please, Amber.’

Grateful for his understanding, she dropped to the bed, wondering if he’d take it as a sign, or was she being too brazen? She only wished she knew how to go on.

He gave her a slow, thoughtful glance, taking in every inch of her, and she squirmed in embarrassment. Her heart beat like a bird trying to escape its cage as she waited for Harun to come to her, to kiss her or however it was this thing began. ‘Well?’ she demanded in a haughty tone, covering her rush of nerves with a show of pride, showing him she was worthy of him: a princess to the core. ‘Do I pass your inspection, Habib Numara?’

For a moment, she thought Harun might actually smile as he hadn’t done since the hero’s return. There was a telltale glimmer in his eyes she’d noticed when he was in a rare, relaxed moment. Then, just as she was about to smile back, it vanished. ‘You have to know you’re a beautiful woman, Amber. Exquisite, in fact.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her voice losing its power. He thought her exquisite? Something inside her melted—

He turned from her, and, drawing out a thin wreath of papers from a fold of his robe, sat at her desk. ‘This should cover the necessary time. I forgot my pen, though. Do you happen to have one handy, my dear?’

Her mouth fell open as he began perusing whatever work he’d brought with him. He’d brought work to their wedding night? ‘In the second drawer,’ she responded, feeling incredibly stupid, but what else could she say?

‘Thank you,’ he replied, his tone absent. He pulled out one of her collection of pens and began reading, scrolling up and down the pages with his finger, and making notes in the margins.

She blinked, blinked again, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘Harun …’ Then she faltered to a stop.

After at least ten seconds, he stopped writing. ‘Hmm …? Did you say something, Amber?’ His tone was the cold politeness of a man who didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘Yes, I did,’ she retorted, furious. At least five different things leaped to her mouth. What do you mean by covering the necessary time? What is it with the el-Kanar men? This is our wedding night!

Don’t you want me?

But at the thought of asking it, her confused outrage turned cold inside her, making her ache. Why should this brother want me when the other two didn’t?

What’s wrong with me?

But what came from her mouth, born of the stubborn pride that was her backbone in a world where she’d had beautiful clothes and surroundings but as much control over her destiny as a piece of furniture or a child’s doll, she stated coldly, ‘If there’s no blood on the sheet tomorrow, the servants will talk. It will be around both our countries in hours. People will blame me, or worse, assume I wasn’t a virgin. Will you shame me that way, when I’ve done nothing wrong?’

His back stiffened for a moment.

Amber felt the change in the air, words hovering on his lips. How she knew that about him, when they’d still barely spoken, she had no idea, but whatever he’d been about to say vanished in an instant.

‘I see,’ he said slowly, with only a very slight weariness in the inflection. ‘Of course they will.’

He stood and stripped off his kafta, revealing his nakedness, and Amber’s heart took wings again. Magnificent? Even with the scars across his back and stomach he was breathtaking, a battle-hardened warrior sheathed in darkest gold, masculinely beautiful and somehow terrifying. Involuntarily she shrank back on the bed, wishing she’d found another place to sit. I’m not ready for this … please, Harun, be gentle with me …

She couldn’t breathe, watching him come to her.

But he walked around the bed as if she weren’t there. He didn’t touch her, didn’t even look at her. At the other side of the bed, he put something down, and used both his hands to sweep all the rose petals from the coverlet. ‘I don’t like the smell. Cloying.’

‘I like it,’ she said, halfway between defiance and stupidity.

He shrugged and stopped brushing them away. ‘It’s your bed.’ Then he lifted the thing he’d put on the bed: a ceremonial knife, beautifully scrolled in gold and silver.

‘What’s that … Harun …?’ Her jaw dropped; she watched in utter disbelief as he made a small cut deep in his armpit, and allowed a few drops of blood to fall into his cupped palm.

‘What—what are you …?’ Realising she was gaping, she slammed her mouth shut.

‘Making a cut where it won’t be seen and commented on,’ he said in a voice filled with quiet irony. ‘Thus I’m salvaging your pride in the eyes of others, my dear wife.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Beyond pride now or remembering any of her instructions for tonight, she gazed at him in open pleading. ‘What are you doing?’

He sighed. ‘As you said, virgins bleed, Amber. It’s my duty to ensure that your reputation isn’t ruined. Pull the coverings down, please, and quickly, before the blood drops on the rug. Imagine what the servants would make of that.’ His tone was filled with understated irony.

She closed her mouth and swallowed, and then swivelled around in the bed to pull the covers down.

She watched as he dripped blood into his other hand. ‘It seems enough, I think,’ he said after thirty seconds. Her husband of six hours looked at her. ‘Which side of the bed do the servants know you prefer?’

Torn between shock and fury born of humiliation, she pointed.

‘Thank you.’ As casually as if he’d spilled water, he smeared his blood on the bed. Then he walked into the bathroom; she heard the sound of running water.

When he came out he returned to the desk, picked up his bridegroom’s clothing, pulled it back over his head and let it fall to his feet. He sat down again, reading, scrolling and making notes.

Not knowing what else to do, she sat on the bed, drawing her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped tight around them. And for the next hour, she watched him work in growing but helpless fury.

Why won’t you touch me? she wanted to scream. Why don’t you want to touch me? What did I do wrong?

But she’d made an innocent scene with Fadi when it was obvious he was running from her, and he’d told her about Rafa. I can’t marry her, but I love her, Amber.

She’d made another scene before her father when Alim fled the country rather than marry her. He has rejected both Fadi’s position, and Fadi’s bride.

She was already the bad-luck bride in the eyes of the servants and the people—but if they found out about this, she’d never recover. Fadi had loved another; Alim fled the country—but neither of them had made the rejection this obvious.

Asking him why would only humiliate her further.

After a while, her husband said without looking at her, ‘It would be best if you went to sleep, Amber. It’s been a very long day for you.’

She lay back on the sheets, avoiding the smeared blood—but she kept watching him work out of a stubborn refusal to obey anything he asked of her. If he wasn’t going to be a real husband, it relieved her of the necessity to be any kind of wife.

Suddenly she wondered how long a day it had been for him. How long had he been working—right up until he’d dressed for the wedding? During the ceremony and after he’d kissed her hand, touched her face with a smile, played the loving bridegroom—for the cameras and the people, no doubt. Now he was working again. Barely two months ago, Harun fought for his life, for the sake of a nation that didn’t belong to him.

Did he ever stop, and just be a normal man?

Harun, just look at me, be kind to me for a minute. I’m your bride, she wanted to say, but nothing emerged from her mouth. She was lying on their marriage bed, his for the taking in this shimmering piece of nothing, and he was doing stupid paperwork.

He didn’t even look at her, just as he never had before.

As a soldier, they said, he’d fought with a savagery beyond anything they’d seen before. Like Fadi, had he done it to escape her? What a shame for him that he’d lived, forced into taking a wife he clearly didn’t want in the least.