Gaz settled beside her, closer to the fire.
‘We must have coffee first,’ he said, lifting one of the ornate pots and taking two tiny handle-less cups from the top of the basket. He poured the strong, thick brew easily into the tiny cups, passing her one before setting the pot back by the fire.
‘Traditionally you should drink three cups, but it’s definitely an acquired taste so you may stop at one.’
His smile teased at her senses and in an attempt to settle herself she gulped the drink, tasting the gritty lees but not finding them distasteful.
‘And now we eat,’ he said, and she wanted to protest—to ask what they were doing there, apart from picnicking, of course. To question the betrothal stuff and try to sort out what was happening. But he was producing bread, and cold meats, salad vegetables and fruit, serving her this time, piling goodies on a silver platter, handing it to her and urging her to eat.
Looking at the food, varied and enticing, she realised how hungry she was, and, not having much option now he’d handed her the plate, she ate.
Gaz watched her while he ate, wondering about this woman fate had thrust into his life. She was using her bread as cutlery, in the local way, and managing to do it without too much spillage. And as she ate she smiled, or muttered little sounds of appreciation, looking up from time to time to ask what a particular morsel might be.
She fascinated him, and not just in a physical way, although the physical attraction was extremely strong. Could this extraordinary idea work?
It was certainly worth a try.
He thought back to the night he’d first kissed her on the balcony outside the restaurant and remembered the surge of desire he’d felt—a surge that had almost led to his suggesting they take it further…
A betrothal would put that off limits. He could hardly be seen sneaking in and out of her room, or sneaking her in and out of the palace, although…
There was no although, but what if the betrothal led to marriage?
It needn’t be a long betrothal, and if the marriage didn’t work he would make sure she was amply compensated—these things were understood in his country…
Marriage was the logical answer. His body tightened at the thought, but she hadn’t actually said yes to the betrothal, had she? He’d have to start there, he realised as she set aside her plate, all but empty, and wiped the damp, scented towel he handed her, across her lips.
‘That was amazing,’ Marni told him as she put her plate down on another mat. ‘Just amazing!’
He turned to her, and reached out to touch her chin, tilting her head so he could look into her face.
‘I’m glad,’ he said, ‘and now we’re both fed, perhaps we can get back to the conversation.’
‘The job?’
‘The job!’ he confirmed. ‘Actually, endless entertaining is more time-consuming than difficult. I’m concerned that it might bore you to death.’
He had moved towards her as he spoke and now he leant forward and kissed her on the lips.
Thankfully, the shock of what he’d said lingered long enough to prevent Marni from responding to the kiss.
‘Won’t bore me to death?’ she shrieked. ‘Why on earth would it bore me to death?’
Now he frowned, and his eyes seemed darker than ever, though could black be any blacker?
‘You think you’d enjoy it?’ he asked. and it was her turn to frown.
‘Why should I enjoy it, or be bored by it?’ she demanded.
His answer was a smile, and if she’d managed to squelch her reaction to the kiss, she failed with the smile.
‘Because, as my betrothed, you’ll be by my side a lot of the time. I know that’s an imposition, but I have women who’ll help you all the way. The harem will be back in the palace next week, and I’ve sisters and nieces and cousins, even aunts, who’ll be only too happy to shop with you for suitable clothes, to set you up with anything you need, and make sure you know the protocols.’
It would have been confusing if once again Marni’s mind hadn’t balked at the ‘harem’ word. Although if it was only a pretend betrothal, did the harem really matter?
Yes!
‘This harem?’ she asked, then stopped as she really didn’t think she could mention belly-dancing females in see-through trousers.
‘The harem?’ Gaz repeated, making it exotic again with his pronunciation.
He looked puzzled then suddenly began to chuckle.
‘You weren’t imagining a seraglio, where you?’
‘I’ve no idea what a seraglio is,’ Marni said crossly, ‘but if it’s scantily clad women, lounging around limpid pools eating grapes and belly dancing then, yes—that’s how everyone I know imagines a harem.’