His Queen by Desert Decree(27)

‘Haifa oversees the household. She will show you to your room,’ Azrael advanced. ‘She speaks a little English.’

Molly followed Haifa up a curving turret staircase and then along a stone corridor. She was beginning to realise that the castle was considerably larger than first impressions had suggested and had evidently been much altered and extended over the years. She was shown into a room furnished with faded grandeur and some rather exotic pearl inlaid furniture that included a massive bed hung with regal blue draperies. An adjoining room contained bathroom facilities that were newly installed but unfinished. A shower cabinet sat in pieces in one corner, plumbing equipment filling it but the other facilities appeared intact and functional.

‘We bring food,’ Haifa assured her, showing her across the corridor to a sitting room that was bare but for a beautiful rug and a low table. ‘Please wait, Your Highness.’

Your Highness? Molly’s eyes widened. Who did this woman think she was? Or was it simply her lack of English at fault? Maybe the poor woman had assumed she was some visiting royal dignitary. Reluctant to embarrass or confuse Haifa by trying to correct her, Molly folded down on her knees by the table. A mere minute later a procession of servants filed in bearing dishes and enough food to supply a banquet. Without speaking, Molly indicated her choices and received selections and finally sat back to eat, although it was not a very comfortable experience with all the servants stationed by the wall, clearly intent on watching her every move and springing to attend to any request she might have. She ate quickly and returned to her room but even there it wasn’t possible to be alone. Haifa arrived with two young smiling women and laid out dress after dress on the bed for her examination. If she liked nothing, more would be forthcoming, Haifa assured her in dumbshow.

Molly quickly picked one of the silk, heavily embroidered dresses to forestall a further parade of fashion options. She was desperately in need of a change of clothes and too well aware of the fact to be choosy. Underwear was brought next in a choice of sizes. It was lingerie from some very fancy provider, each piece beribboned, lacy or embroidered and generally very flimsy, Molly registered, unimpressed. But, keen to replace the bra that had vanished in the cave, she went into the bathroom to try some stuff on and returned with the items that fitted her. Nightwear and summer sandals were produced for her examination then and she had to suppress an impatient sigh while wondering if there was some assumption that she would be staying in Djalia for months without luggage or clothing of her own. Garments accepted and duly admired, she was still not left in peace. Only when one of the women had been allowed to run her a bath was she finally left alone to sink into the warm, rose-scented water and relax.

Azrael, however, had never been further from relaxation. He was in shock and struggling to hide it while asking all the relevant questions of his very long-winded legal expert.

‘Marriage by declaration has been on our statute books for hundreds of years,’ Professor Abdi had declared. ‘But it has not been used since your great-grandfather ran off with Sheikh Hussein’s daughter in the nineteen twenties. He wanted the law retained so that nobody could ever accuse him of not being legally married.’

Azrael had no interest in his rackety great-grandfather’s history. All he remembered about him was that he had caused an enormous scandal by kidnapping a woman on the morning of her wedding to another man. That he had married her had been the least of his sins.

‘To recap, you’re telling me,’ Azrael breathed tautly, ‘that, even today in Djalia, a man can marry a woman simply by declaring that she is his wife?’

‘In front of witnesses. The marriage contract is verbal and complete as long as there are witnesses—’

‘But what about the bride’s consent?’ Azrael demanded. ‘In such a situation the woman has not given her consent.’

‘In law she does not have to give consent for the union   to be binding and legal,’ the professor assured him. ‘You must appreciate that such arrangements were common hundreds of years ago when women were viewed as property.’

‘Hundreds of years ago in a different world,’ Azrael groaned through gritted teeth.

‘Even so, such a marriage is, while unusual, very traditional,’ Djalia’s most senior judge told him, as if that might constitute good news. ‘Naturally, however, everyone expects a more formal ceremony to follow.’

‘I will be honest with you, Emir,’ Azrael murmured, drawing himself up to his full imposing height. ‘I declared that Miss Carlisle was my wife to protect her reputation and, if asked, I intended to say that I had married her in London at the Djalian Embassy last year, which would have been impossible to disprove.’