The Desert King's Housekeeper Bride

Yet on the sixth night, as he sat on the low cushions and the table was cleared and there was no reason for her to remain, he asked her to join him.

‘You do not live in the palace?’

‘I have a small cottage.’ Effie nodded, colour roaring up her cheeks as she tentatively took a seat on the cushion beside him. ‘Well, it was my mother’s.’

‘You said she was a palace maid, though—how could she afford it?’

‘She was a maid before I was born,’ Effie said, ‘but she saved her money well and invested it wisely. It’s only a tiny cottage, but with her savings, well, they lasted almost till she died. She never had to work again.’

She was so naive. Zakari smothered a smile. The only single mothers who owned real estate in Calista worked extremely hard for their money! Still, it was sweet, Zakari reflected, that she genuinely didn’t seem to know that she believed the lies her mother must have fed her.

‘You miss her a lot?’

‘Terribly.’ He saw a sparkle of tears in her eyes that she rapidly blinked back. ‘You must miss your mother too,’ Effie said. ‘Or, rather, mothers.’ He didn’t scold her this time, just gave a curt nod at her observation. Losing his mother at the age of eleven had been hard, but losing Anya five years ago had been just as bad. Zakari had never been particularly close to his father; they had respected each other, but there had never been any real conversation, let alone affection. With Anya it had been different. She had doted on him as if he were her own flesh and blood, had helped him navigate the terrifying prospect that one day he would be ruler and King, as well as confiding in him as to her own fears and pain. Zakari was only half listening as Effie chatted on, but he frowned her to silence when next she spoke. ‘…and with what happened to your youngest brother too…’

‘That is not for discussion.’ This time Zakari did speak sternly. He wanted to hear about her, not to discuss how he might feel about things. ‘So, it is nice that you have your own home…’ But she wasn’t so receptive now. No matter how he tried to cajole her to freely talk, the easiness between them had gone as Effie answered with only the minimum of responses.

Naive and sweet she might be, Zakari thought, but there was much more to her than just that. There was this intelligence in her eyes, this stubbornness within her, that over the days had entranced him—and never more so than now. Though she remained eternally polite, still she wouldn’t relent, refused to play the court jester just to amuse him. What was more, Zakari realised, after yet another monotone answer, Effie wouldn’t reveal anything more of herself if he did not grace her with the same.

Without a word she demanded from him something he rarely bestowed.

Real conversation.

‘You would make an excellent chess player…’ The edge of his mouth lifted into a smile at another monotone, polite answer as she forced him to ponder his next move. Zakari wondered whether opening up would box him in, or somehow release him.

‘I doubt it.’ Effie smiled softly. ‘I don’t play games.’

After the longest hesitation, weighing up her kind, sympathetic face through narrow, mistrusting eyes, Zakari chose the latter.

‘Every day I think of him.’ It was Zakari who broke the endless strained silence. He had never admitted such things—even to himself—could hear the unchecked words coming from his usually guarded lips, only he did nothing to halt them. ‘Still now, in my heart of hearts, I cannot accept that he is dead.’

‘So you cannot grieve…’ Hearing his pain on instinct, she touched him, her hand reaching for his forearm, but the moment contact was made she realised the inappropriateness, pulled her hand back and bunched it into a fist, yet she could feel the tingle in her fingers.

Zakari, in turn, was struggling. He had let her glimpse his pain, had shared enough that surely now she should continue, now she should talk, so that he might relax. Yet that brush on his arm, that mere hint of contact, had brought rare comfort. His black eyes pondered hers, acknowledging that lonely raw piece of his soul had, for just a fleeting second perhaps, been understood.

He had never grieved.

Had never been allowed to grieve.

A prince who would one day be king could not cry.

Anya had grieved. For a second his mind flashed back to Anya, sobbing on the bed. How he had wanted to weep with her, yet he had been sixteen—a king in training. As he stared at Effie, her sapphire eyes pooling with tears, his left shoulder tightened and he could feel again his father’s hand placed there.

‘Stay strong!’ His father, Sheikh Ashraf, had squeezed his son’s shoulder, when Zakari had wanted to be held. ‘It is not for us to demand answers.’

He had never questioned it, yet under her gentle presence he questioned it now.

‘Can I ask what happened?’

Her voice was as soft as his growling response. ‘You know what happened.’

‘I know what I read,’ Effie countered, ‘I know what I heard, but I don’t know.’

‘You know what you need to.’

‘It might help to talk.’

‘How?’ he asked, and Effie realised he truly didn’t know. Here before her was a man whose feelings had never come into things—who had been raised to act, rather than to feel.

‘It just might.’ She could have wept; not for his brother, but for the flicker of confusion in those guarded eyes. She could almost feel him relent and then recoil with every second that passed. What came so easily to her was unfathomable to him.

And then he gave her the sweetest gift of all. Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi, with painful words, invited her into his world and, Effie realised, she would love him for ever for it.

‘Emir, my brother, was sick, he had the flu…’ His strong voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper as he continued. ‘I never played with the younger children. I was raised to be king—it was not my place to do childish things…

‘Aarif and Kaliq, the twins, were creeping off to build a raft…They were teenage boys, they should have known better, but they were silly, planning this adventure that they would build a raft and sail out on it to sea. Zafir found out about their plans…’ His voice caught for a moment, but she calmly sat, just waited till he was ready to continue. ‘He begged to go with them. They lost control; they were swept to sea…’

She had heard bits about the tragedy that had happened when Effie was just four years old. She had seen for herself the scar on Prince Aarif’s face where he had been shot, and had read bits about it in the library, but hearing it from the King himself, from the brother who had lost so much, had the tears spilling from Effie’s eyes.

‘They were captured by diamond smugglers. Zafir was a proud little thing—he shouted to them who his father was. Of course, as soon as the smugglers realised just who it was they had captured they became greedy. They bound their wrists with ropes; Aarif and Kaliq still have the scars of the ropes that cut in as the smugglers debated the ransom they would demand…

‘On Calista, the palace was frantic. I remember the search going out, the helicopters and boats…’ Zakari shook his head. ‘It was Zafir that got free, he untied his elder brothers and they ran to the raft and set off. They almost got away, but they were spotted. Aarif was shot in the face; you can see the scars he bears…’

Effie nodded solemnly.

‘They are nothing to his pain inside.

‘Aarif fell into the sea; of course Kaliq jumped in to save his twin—they tried to get to the raft, but the sea pulled it away, with Zafir still on it. The smugglers recaptured the twins, beat them again and again…my father paid the ransom for his two sons …but Zafir…’ He couldn’t continue, so Effie did it for him.

‘He has never been heard of since.’

‘Had he lived, he would be turning twenty-seven this very week. Zafir would be a man.’

‘Maybe he is alive…’ Effie offered, but Zakari closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘My heart says that he is, my head tells me he is dead, that I must now let him rest, yet at my very core I cannot.’ He shook his head now—never had he revealed so much and it had utterly depleted him. Her comfort, the empathy in her eyes, seemed to be invading him now. ‘I will retire now.’

Without another word he did just that, leaving Effie sitting blinking for a moment, before forcing herself to stand, to plump up the cushions and tidy the area ready for the morning. She laid the table for breakfast, then headed to her area, undressed and slipped into bed.

Effie had to force herself to do her duties and then to remain in bed, because with every step, with every movement, with every thought, she was resisting the urge to go to him, to curl up like a kitten on the bed beside him, to offer him some warmth, to hear that deep liquid voice pour into her ears.

To share this night, not with a king, but with the man Zakari.

Concentrate!

Zakari was having trouble doing just that! The sun was high in the clear blue sky, his shadow invisible at his feet—feet that, even though it was only midday, kept willing him to return to her.

At first her chatter had irritated him. Her anxious face peering around the tent each evening as she awaited his return had gnawed at him. Her clumsy ways as she prepared his bath, her tall tales of her mother’s time in the Aristo palace had, at first, irritated him. The way Effie described her mother, she sounded more like a princess than a mere maid.

Yes, at first it had irked him.

And yet, now…

He had come to look forward to it.

The day dragged on endlessly. It was still hours from sunset, and, though he tried to focus on the problems of the islands, his mind wandered. No matter how much he tried to clear his thoughts it was either his brother’s image that danced before his eyes, or it was her face that drifted into focus…Her scent that seemed to lead him back long before sunset.

‘You’re early!’

Christobel would have been lying on a low sofa, reading trashy magazines, drinking wine, Zakari thought…yet here was Effie, rehanging the coloured drapes around the low cushions on the floor.

‘I’m sorry you had to see the place like this, Your Highness.’

‘Carry on.’

‘I just took them outside to freshen them up,’ Effie explained.

‘It is no problem.’ He was frowning slightly, but not because she was working. There was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite place. She was on a small ladder and Zakari watched with more than idle interest as she stretched, her dress lifting, showing creamy, smooth white thighs, and Zakari felt his throat tighten a touch, could see the strain of the fabric over her large breasts, the curve of her round bottom as he stretched out on the cushions.

‘So, how was your day?’ She gave a little laugh as she hung the final drape. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

‘It was…’ Zakari pondered for a moment ‘…less than productive.’

‘Oh!’

Her cheeks were pink from exertion, those blue eyes bluer somehow, like two glittering jewels, and her mouth soft and pretty.

How, Zakari thought to himself, could he not have seen her beauty?

And then Zakari felt his heart still for a fraction. As she stretched to arrange the drape Christobel’s ill-fitting dress allowed a revealing glimpse of Effie’s smooth underarms. His eyes once again ran down her legs seeing again the smooth skin there, the sheen of moisturiser now clearly evident. Only now he realised she had been playing with Christobel’s things.

‘Can I ask why?’ Her question confused him; he was completely unable to recall what they had been discussing. ‘You said your day had been less than productive.’

‘Oh, that!’ Zakari gave a quick nod, relieved she had not sensed his distraction, embarrassed, had he but known it, at almost being caught staring. ‘I seem to be spending a lot of time thinking about my brother.’ He watched her pause, her kind, worried face turning around. Her hair was tumbling out of its tie and long snaky curls danced around her slender neck. ‘Thinking of the man he would be, had he lived.’

‘That’s because you spoke of him.’

‘It is nice to remember.’ Zakari gave a pale smile. ‘It hurts, but it is good.’

‘I’m so sorry for your pain,’ Effie said, and Zakari knew that she meant it, knew that she offered so much more than a platitude. ‘Does it ever lessen?’

He knew then she was asking for herself, about her own private pain, that she was so much newer on the path of grief than him.

‘You learn to live with it. It does not diminish, but you learn to carry the load. And you will too,’ he added.

‘Thank you.’ The small grateful smile she gave at his insight warmed him somewhere deep inside. Only Zakari didn’t smile back, just held her gaze for a moment, waiting for her blush to deepen, for her to lower her eyes, for that moment of connection that always came so easily with women—that awareness that told him he was wanted.

Except it didn’t happen. Instead she gave a wider smile and changed the subject. ‘I will just finish off these, then I’ll draw you a bath, but first I will get some refreshments…’

He gave a brief nod.

Lying back on the cushions, his tongue on the roof of his mouth as she worked just inches away from him, for the first time Zakari wondered about a woman.

Because till now he had always known the answer.

Always.

Always a woman wanted him, always there were signs; signs Zakari easily followed. He read women well—calm, neurotic, needy, wanton, he took pleasure in taming them all, interpreting involuntary signals, then homing in and claiming his triumphant prize. Rare was the woman who would refuse a king, yet they were the challenge Zakari relished the most. He loved the dance between a man and a woman, especially if she was unattainable, when he could use his sensuality, his prowess to reduce the most difficult woman to quivering jelly.

Only Effie was unreadable.

Was it curiosity that had had her toying with Christobel’s things, or had it been for him?

‘Done!’

As she came down the ladder for a second she was unsteady—well, not really, but it was excuse enough for Zakari to reach out his hand and steady her, to hold her as she took the last two steps.

‘Thank you.’

His hand was on her wrist, her skin soft beneath his fingers, this smell catching him—not a hint of fragrance, just the scent of her alone, combined with the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, and there was his answer.

Though she seemed outwardly unperturbed he could feel her pulse flickering rapidly beneath his fingers, knew the contact had unsettled her, troubled her, but in the most primal of ways.

A bird had flown into the palace.

An ugly, small grey bird that caused momentary chaos.

Little Zafir was whooping with delight as he chased it, the maids running with brooms as the tiny bird fluttered and panicked, its terrified flapping leading it to the study, where it banged hopelessly against the glass doors.

Anya shooed the staff away, and told Zafir to quietly sit and observe while she addressed her eldest son.

‘When trouble flies in, when people are running and shouting, you, Zakari, must stop the chaos with calm. Do not give in to the first response that comes to mind—do not run and chase along with the crowd. As a king, you must sit a while and observe. See how the palace that is so big to us is tiny and confining to him—see how he struggles to be free, but soon he will give in.’ So they sat and waited till the tiny bird had found its resting place behind some books and slowly Anya parted them.

‘He is there, Zakari. He is scared and petrified of you, yet he is still, so now you can help him.’

The bird was weightless in his thirteen-year-old palm. The ugly grey bird, when he looked closer, was actually many shades of silver, and as he held its terrified body he could feel its helpless fear, the flutter of its tiny heart in his hand.

He took it to the garden, placed it beneath a tree and watched for twenty minutes as it sat stunned, and then it flew.

Zakari could feel her pulse beneath his fingers, fluttering just as the bird had, and though she was still, though Effie was outwardly unruffled, he knew she was terrified, could feel now the beats of her excitement—and suddenly Zakari wanted her to soar.

He felt the cool space as she reclaimed her hand and turned and smiled, her voice friendly and even, as with calm demeanour she denied what they both knew.

‘I will prepare some refreshments.’

Her face was on fire as she fled into the kitchen area. Her wrist felt as if it had been scalded where Zakari had touched her and she was tempted to run it under cool water, only that wouldn’t soothe the dangerous heat elsewhere…

The vast tent seemed tiny now, as if it were under a magnifying glass, as if the heat of the sun were concentrated on this one minute scrap of the desert.

Effie wanted her old job back. Wanted the familiar palace walls, her usual routines and the anonymity they brought. Wanted to be back where a maid wouldn’t hold the spotlight of the king’s gaze.

The desert played tricks on one’s mind, Effie told herself, loading the tray as she willed herself calm—made you see things that weren’t there …caused mirages to appear. That was what had just occurred, she insisted to herself as she carried the heavy tray through. Zakari hadn’t been looking at her in that way.

Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi would never look at her with want in his eyes.

It was entirely irrelevant that she wanted him.

Kneeling down, she poured iced mint tea. Christobel’s uniform on her was clearly way too small, the fabric straining over her curves, the top button impossible to do up, and as she bent forward she gave him a brief glimpse of her cleavage. Zakari’s jaw tightened as he saw a flash of a chain around her neck, the weight of its pendant dragging it down, clasping it between her creamy breasts, and he wished his finger were that lucky stone, nestled in that sweet warmth, or his tongue, Zakari thought, flaring with lust. He was tempted to put his hand out, to stroke the back of her neck, to capture her cheek in his palm, only he knew then what her reaction would be…

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