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She jerked her head up, her eyes meeting his, seeing the implacable insistence there. ‘You had no right—’
‘I had every right,’ Bahir replied, and now she heard the hard implacability, felt it. ‘I am your father and your king. You have received your degree—the post-graduate course was merely a way to pass the time.’
Kalila swallowed. Her throat ached so much the instinctive movement hurt. ‘It was more than that to me,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ Bahir allowed, his shoulders moving in a tiny shrug, ‘but you always knew what the future held. Your mother and I never kept it from you.’
No, they hadn’t. They’d spoken to her before that wretched party, explained what it meant to be a princess, the joy that lay in fulfilling one’s duty. Propaganda, and Kalila had believed it with all her childish heart. She’d been dazzled by the crown prince of Calista, although now she didn’t remember much of Zakari, no more than a tall, charismatic presence, a patient—or had it been patronising?—smile. She’d only been twelve, after all.
‘You will come home with me,’ Bahir finished, beckoning to the waiter to clear their plates. ‘You have a day to say goodbye to your friends and pack what you need.’
‘A day?’ Kalila repeated in disbelief. Her life was being dismantled in an instant, as if it had been meaningless, trivial—
And to her father, it had.
‘I want you home,’ Bahir said. ‘Where you belong.’
‘But if I’m not getting married until May—’
‘Your presence is needed in your country, Kalila.’ Bahir’s voice turned stern; she’d worn his patience too thin with her desperate, fruitless resistance. ‘Your people need to see you. You have been away nearly four years. It is time to come home.’
That evening, packing up her paltry possessions, Kalila had considered the impossible. The unthinkable. She could defy her father, run away from her so-called destiny. Stay in Cambridge, live her own life, find her own husband or lover…
Yet even as these thoughts, desperate and treacherous, flitted through her mind, she discarded them. Where could she run? With what money? And what would she do?
Besides, she acknowledged starkly, too much of her life—her blood—was bound up in this country, this world. Zaraq’s future was bound with Calista’s; to risk her country’s well-being for her own selfish, feminine desires was contemptible. She could never betray her father, her country in such a manner. It would be a betrayal of herself.
So she’d returned home with her father on his private plane, had settled back into life in the empty palace with its skeleton staff. She drifted from day to day, room to room, at first trying to keep up with her studies in history and then discarding them in depression.
She’d attended to her civic responsibilities, visiting sick children, new businesses, shaking hands and cutting ribbons, smiling and nodding. She enjoyed the interactions with the people of Zaraq, but at times it felt like only so much busy work, a lifetime of busy work, for that was her duty.
Her destiny.
Now, gazing into the mirror, she wished—even wondered if—her destiny lay elsewhere. Surely she’d been made for, meant to do, more than this. Be more than this.
‘Princess?’ Juhanah said softly. ‘Beautiful, n’am?’
Kalila had a desperate, intense urge to rip the veil from her face. She’d never been veiled before—her mother had refused, wearing only Western clothes, her nod to old-fashioned propriety no more than a scrap of head covering on formal occasions. Her father hadn’t minded. He’d married his English rose as part of an attempt to Westernise his country. Yet now, Kalila thought with renewed bitterness, she looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. Like a harem girl. The coins tinkled when she moved.
‘Lovely,’ Juhanah murmured. Kalila’s fingers bunched on the gauzy material of her kaftan and a fingernail snagged on a bit of gold thread.
Juhanah tutted and batted her hand away. Just then a knock sounded on the door of the bedroom, and Juhanah went to answer it while Kalila continued to stare.
What would Zakari think of her like this? Was this what he wanted? Was this what her future looked like?
She swallowed, forcing the fears and doubts back. It was too late now, far too late. She understood her duty.
She just hadn’t known how it would feel.
Juhanah padded back into the bedroom and flitted around Kalila, tugging a bit of material here, smoothing it there. ‘You are radiant,’ she said and beneath the veil Kalila’s lips twisted sardonically. Was Juhanah blind, or just blinded by her own happiness? Her nurse was thrilled Kalila was fulfilling her duty and destiny as a crown princess. A queen. ‘And it is time,’ she continued, her eyes lighting, her plump cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘The sheikh has just arrived. He’s coming directly from the plane.’ And as if she didn’t understand already, her heart already beginning to hammer a frantic, desperate beat, Juhanah added in satisfaction, ‘Finally, he is here.’
Aarif was hot, dusty, and tired. The short ride in an open Jeep from the royal airstrip to the palace itself was enough to nearly cover him in dust. He’d been met by a palace official who would take him to the palace’s throne room, where he would extend Zakari’s formal greetings to his bride and her father.
Aarif swallowed and the dust caught grittily in his throat and stung his eyes. Already he’d seen the official sweep a cautious gaze over his face, linger on that damnable line from forehead to jaw. His scar. His reminder, and everyone else’s, of his flaws, his failures.
The palace emerged in the distance, long and low, of mellow golden stone, with towers on either end. In every other direction the desert stretched to an empty horizon, although Aarif thought he glimpsed a huddle of clay and stone buildings to the west—Makaris, the nation’s capital.
The Jeep pulled up to the front entrance, a pair of intricately carved wooden doors under a stone canopy.
‘I will take you to wash and prepare yourself, Your Highness,’ the official said, bowing. ‘King Bahir awaits you in the throne room.’
Aarif nodded, and followed the man into the palace, down a cool, stone corridor and to a waiting chamber with benches and a table. There was a pitcher of lemon water, and Aarif poured a glass and drank thirstily before he changed into his bisht, the long, formal robe worn for ceremonies such as this. In the adjoining bathroom he washed the dust from his face, his eyes sliding away from his reflection in the mirror before returning resolutely to stare at his face, as he always did.
A light, inquiring knock sounded on the door, and, turning from that grim reminder, Aarif left the bathroom and went to fulfil his brother’s bidding, and express his greetings to his bride.
The official led him to the double doors of the throne room; inside an expectant hush fell like a curtain being dropped into place, or perhaps pulled up.
‘Your Eminence,’ the official said in French, the national language of Zaraq, his voice low and unctuous, ‘may I present His Royal Highness, King Zakari.’
Aarif choked; the sound was lost amidst a ripple of murmurings from the palace staff that had assembled for this honoured occasion. It would only take King Bahir one glance to realise it was not the king who graced his throne room today, but rather the king’s brother, a lowly prince.
Aarif felt a flash of rage—directed at himself. A mistake had been made in the correspondence, he supposed. He’d delegated the task to an aide when he should have written himself and explained that he would be coming rather than his brother.
Now he would have to explain the mishap in front of company, all of Bahir’s staff, and he feared the insult could be great.
‘Your Eminence,’ he said, also speaking French, and moved into the long, narrow room with its frescoed ceilings and bare walls. He bowed, not out of obeisance but rather respect, and heard Bahir shift in his chair. ‘I fear my brother, His Royal Highness Zakari, was unable to attend to this glad errand, due to pressing royal business. I am honoured to escort his bride, the Princess Kalila, to Calista in his stead.’
Bahir was silent, and, stifling a prickle of both alarm and irritation, Aarif rose. He was conscious of Bahir watching him, his skin smooth but his eyes shrewd, his mouth tightening with disappointment or displeasure, perhaps both.
Yet even before Bahir made a reply, even before the formalities had been dispensed with, Aarif found his gaze sliding, of its own accord, to the silent figure to Bahir’s right.
It was his daughter, of course. Kalila. Aarif had a memory of a pretty, precocious child. He’d spoken a few words to her at the engagement party more than ten years ago now. Yet now the woman standing before him was lovely, although, he acknowledged wryly, he could see little of her.
Her head was bowed, her figure swathed in a kaftan, and yet as if she felt the magnetic tug of his gaze she lifted her head, and her eyes met his.
It was all he could see of her, those eyes; they were almond-shaped, wide and dark, luxuriously fringed, a deep, clear golden brown. Every emotion could be seen in them, including the one that flickered there now as her gaze was drawn inexorably to his face, to his scar.
It was disgust Aarif thought he saw flare in their golden depths and as their gazes held and clashed he felt a sharp, answering stab of disappointment and self-loathing in his own gut.
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.
