Duty and the Beast(4)

Her own gowns and robes met her gaze, her own shoes, slippers and  purses. She gazed around the walls of the room, at the shelves and the  mirrored recesses where her jewellery box sat in pride of place. Even  Honey-the tiny teddy bear she'd had as a child, its ears shiny and bare  after years of stroking them with her thumb as she fell asleep-sat  jauntily winking at her with his one remaining eye from on top of a  chest of drawers. She picked up the worn, well-loved toy and held it to  her breast, wishing for the comfort it had always lent as a child before  dropping to a sofa, confusion scrambling her brain.

'What does it mean, Honey?' she whispered quietly to her toy, just as  she had done as a child when she could not understand what was going on  in the grown-up world around her. Just as she had done when her father  had told her that her mother was never coming home from the hospital  where she had gone to have a baby. 'Why?'

Part of her wanted to run like that child had run, find the girl called  Rani and ask her, demand to know this instant, what was happening, what  it was she wasn't telling her. But she was an adult now, and a princess,  and could hardly go running around a palace in a dressing gown.

No, that way was not her way, no matter how confused she felt, no matter  how much she needed answers to her questions. Besides, there had to be a  logical explanation for why all her things had been shipped to a palace  somewhere in Al-Jirad. There had to be.

So she would not make a spectacle of herself. She would choose something  from her own clothes, get dressed, and only then, when she looked like  the princess she was, would she go looking for answers.

And she intended to find them!

A man calling himself Hamzah came for her one interminable hour later.  The Sheikh's vizier, he had told her, bowing deeply, and when she had  started to question him he had promised that the Sheikh would answer all  her questions. So she duly followed the wiry old man along the shaded  cloister she had seen from her window, her impatience building by the  minute.

The sun was lower now, turning the golden stone of the palace to a  burnished red, though it was still almost too hot for the white linen  trouser suit she had selected from her wardrobe.                       
       
           



       

She didn't care. She had chosen smart travelling clothes over one of her  cooler silk abayas for a reason: she wanted it to be clear that she  intended travelling home to Jemeya the first chance she got, today if it  was at all possible. They could pack up and send her clothes after her.

The merest hint of a breeze, cooled by the fountains and the garden,  tickled the patch of bare skin behind her neck, making her thankful  she'd knotted her hair behind her head. Cool serenity she had been  aiming for in her look, which was what she most needed. Along with  confidence. Which she had for the most part, she felt, until she thought  about the mystery of the clothes so neatly filling the dressing room  and the absence of any kind of answers to her questions.

The strangeness of it all once again sent skitters down her spine. No  matter how much she had tried to find a logical reason, to try to  explain what possible reason they had sent her entire wardrobe here, it  made no sense at all.

She shivered despite the warmth of the day, the relief she'd felt at  escaping Mustafa's desert camp rapidly dissipating in the wake of all of  her unanswered questions.

And in the shadow of a growing suspicion.

Something was wrong.

The vizier led her deeper into the palace, through a maze of corridors;  between walls lined with beautiful mosaics set with gemstones, the  colours leaping out at her; past rich wall-hangings and tapestries of  animals frolicking on the banks of rivers. And water, water was always a  theme-in the murals, mosaics and in the tiny fountains, trickling from  stone jars in every corner over rocks, making music with water.

It was beautiful.

No doubt designed to be quite restful.

If you weren't already seething with impatience, turning every watery  tinkle, every babbling and burbling rivulet, into the sound of someone  scraping their nails down a blackboard.

By the time they came to a set of carved doors that rose imposing and  ominous before them, she was ready to scrape her nails down anything.

Strange; she wasn't normally a violent person or prone to biting or scratching.

'Can you run as hard as you bite?'

She remembered the laughter in his words and she wished she'd bitten  down harder. Then Hamzah beckoned her to follow, and she promised to put  that man out of her mind once and for all. He was gone, probably busy  blowing his reward at the nearest casino or flesh-pot.

Mercenaries would be like that, she figured. In it for the money. The thrill of the hunt. The quick buck.

They entered a library, the floor and columns of the massive room decked  in marble, smooth and cool, the occasional chairs and tables gilt and  inlaid with precious stones, the walls lined with books and manuscripts.  And there, in one far corner of the room, sat a man behind a computer,  his hair shining blue-black under the lights.

He looked up as they approached, his eyes narrowing as he sat back in  his chair. A secretary, she assumed with a sigh, wondering how long it  would be and how many more layers of bureaucracy she would encounter  until finally she found this mysterious sheikh and maybe even someone  who could answer her questions.

'Princess Aisha.'

She stepped forward, her patience having reached its limit. 'Can you  answer my questions? Or can you at least point me in the direction of  someone who can? Because, as much as I am grateful for your hospitality,  I need to know why I am not already on my way home to Jemeya but  instead find the wardrobe in my room stuffed full of my clothes.'

The older man reared back as if he'd been physically struck. 'Excellency, I am sorry.'

Her eyes snapped around to the vizier. Excellency?

'Thank you, Hamzah. I'll handle this now.' And something in his voice  made her turn back to the man in the chair, even while the older man  withdrew. Almost in slow motion, it seemed, he pushed back his chair and  rose to his full height.

Tall, she registered. Broad-shouldered.

And there was something about that voice  …

Her mouth went dry.

It could not be him! She must be going mad if she imagined this man to  be her rescuer. That man was a mercenary, sent by her father to rescue  her. And this man was some kind of  …  royalty?

'Why did he call you Excellency? Surely that term is reserved for King Hamra, the ruler of Al-Jirad?'

She swallowed as he rounded the desk, long-limbed and lean, before  propping himself against it, crossing his arms over his broad chest as  he coolly surveyed her with dark, unreadable eyes. His hard face was  constructed of too many harsh angles and too many dark places to be  considered conventionally handsome. And, with the dark blue-black shadow  of his beard, he looked-dangerous.

'So, who are you?' she asked, raising her chin in defiance, willing her  voice not to crack. 'Why is it so impossible to get answers to my  questions?'                       
       
           



       

'You are impatient, Princess. I was not warned of that particular trait.  But then, I suppose you have been through an ordeal and we can excuse  it this once. Did you sleep well?'

She was impatient but he could excuse it just this once. Who the hell  did he think he was? What was it about Al-Jirad and the men here that  brought out the worst in them? 'And I am expected to answer your  questions while you choose not to answer mine?'

He smiled then, and for a moment he almost looked human. Almost. Before  his face reverted to dark, shadowed planes and grim eyes. 'Touché.' He  gave just the merest inclination of his head. 'I am Sheikh Zoltan Al  Farouk bin Shamal, but of course you may call me Zoltan.'

'And I am Princess Aisha of the royal Peshwah family of Jemeya, and you may address me as Princess Aisha.'

This time he laughed, a rich, deep sound that sounded far too good to  come from someone like him, a man she wanted to dislike everything  about.

'Where is my father?' she demanded, cutting his laughter short. 'Why is  he not here to greet me? I was promised he would know I was safe, but  instead I find myself still here in Al-Jirad, instead of already being  on my way home to Jemeya.'

He spread his arms out wide. 'You have an issue with your suite? Have we  not made you comfortable here? Is there anything you lack?'

'I was assured my father would know I was safe.'

'And he knows, Princess Aisha. As he has known since you were plucked  from that desert encampment last night. I spoke to him again once you  were safe within this palace's walls. He is overjoyed beyond measure. He  wanted me to tell you that.'

She blew out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. At least  something made sense. They were the exact words she would expect her  father to use. 'So he's still in Jemeya, then, waiting for me to return  home.' It still didn't explain why he would send her entire  wardrobe-surely her lady in waiting could have selected a few likely  outfits for her to choose from? But maybe he panicked.