The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin(6)

‘Of course.’ Kalila stared down at her untouched plate. At that moment she had trouble believing Zakari was eager for anything but another diamond in his crown.

The rest of the evening passed with more ease, and Bahir made sure the wine and conversation flowed smoothly.

‘I have heard that many of the Al’Farisi princes have been educated at Oxford,’ he said as dessert, roasted plums seasoned with cardamom and nutmeg, was served. ‘I went to Sandhurst myself, which is how I happened to meet my late wife, Queen Amelia, God rest her soul. Her brother was one of my best friends.’ Bahir smiled in inquiry. ‘Did you attend Oxford, Aarif?’

‘I did, and then returned to Calista to oversee our diamond industry.’

‘You are a man of business.’

‘Indeed.’

And he looked like one, Kalila thought. All about hard facts and figures, details and prices. Even his eyes had the hardness of diamonds.

‘Kalila went to Cambridge,’ Bahir continued. ‘As I’m sure you, or at least your brother, knows. She studied history, and enjoyed her years there, didn’t you, my dear?’

‘Yes, very much.’ Kalila smiled stiffly, disliking the way her father trotted out her accomplishments as if she were a show pony. A brood mare.

‘An education is important for any ruler, don’t you think?’ Bahir continued, and Aarif swivelled slightly to rest that harsh and unyielding gaze on Kalila.

She stilled under it, felt again that strange warmth bloom in her cheeks and her belly at his scrutiny. Strange, when his expression was so ungenerous, his eyes so dark and obdurate. She should quell under that unyielding gaze, yet she didn’t. She flourished. She wanted more, yet more of what? What more could a man like Aarif give?

‘Yes,’ he said flatly, and then looked away.

Finally the meal was over, and Bahir invited Aarif to take a cigar and port in his private study. It was a male tradition, one that took different guises all around the world, and all it took was for her father to raise his eyebrows at her for Kalila to know she’d been excused. It usually annoyed her, this arrogant dismissal of women from what was seen as the truly important matters, but tonight she was glad.

She wanted to be alone. She needed to think.

She waited until Bahir and Aarif were ensconced in the study before she slipped outside to the palace’s private gardens, an oasis of verdant calm. She loved these gardens, the cool shade provided by a hundred different varieties of shrub and flower, the twisting paths that would suddenly lead to a fountain or sculpture or garden bench, something pleasant and lovely.

She breathed in deeply the surprising scents of lavender and rose, imported from England by Bahir for the pleasure of his homesick wife.

The air was damp and fresh from the sprinkler system Bahir had installed, although Kalila could still feel the dry, creeping chill of the night-time desert air. She wished she’d thought to bring a wrap; her arms crept around her body instead.

She didn’t want to marry Zakari. She acknowledged this starkly, peeled away the layers of self-deceit and foolish hope to reveal the plain and unpleasant truth underneath. She didn’t want to travel to a foreign country, even one as close as Calista, to be a queen. She didn’t want to live the life that had been carefully chosen for her too many years ago.

She didn’t want to do her duty.

Funny, that she would realise this now. Now, when it was too late, far too late, when the wedding was imminent, the invitations already sent out even. Or were they? Funny, too, that she had no idea of the details of her own wedding, her own marriage, not even about the groom.

Kalila sighed. The path she’d been walking on opened onto a sheltered curve bound by hedgerows, set with a small fountain, its waters gleaming blackly in the darkness, the newly risen moon reflected on its still surface. She sank onto a bench by the fountain, curling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees, a position from childhood, a position of comfort.

From the ground she scooped up a handful of smooth pebbles and let them trickle through her fingers, each one making a tiny scuffling sound on the dirt below. She hadn’t realised the truth of her situation until now, she knew, because she hadn’t separated it from herself before.

Since she was a child of twelve—half of her life—she’d known she was going to marry King Zakari. She’d had a picture of him—from a newspaper—in her underwear drawer, although she made sure no one saw it. When she was alone, she’d taken it out and smoothed the paper, stared at the blurred image—it wasn’t even a very good shot—and wondered about the man in the picture. The man who would be her husband, the father of her children, her life partner.

In those early years she’d embroidered delicate daydreams about him, his beauty and bravery, intelligence and humour. She’d built him up to be a king even before a crown rested on his head. Of course, that youthful naiveté hadn’t lasted too long; by the time she went to Cambridge, she’d realised Zakari could not possibly be the man of her daydreams. No man could.

And even when she’d thought she was being realistic, nobly doing her duty, accepting the greater aims of her country, she’d still clung to those old daydreams. They’d hidden in the corner of her heart, dusty and determined, and only when Aarif had shown himself in the throne room had she realised their existence at all.

She still believed. She still wanted. She wanted that man…impossible, wonderful, somehow real.

Because that man loved her…whoever he was.

For a strange, surprised moment, Aarif’s implacable features flashed through her mind, and she shook her head as if to deny what a secret part of her brain was telling her. The only reason she thought of Aarif at all, she told herself, was because Zakari wasn’t here.

Yet she couldn’t quite rid herself of the lingering sense of his presence, that faint flicker of his smile. You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.

Such a simple statement, and yet there had been a strange intimacy in that memory, in its revelation.

‘Excuse me.’

The voice, sharp and sudden, caused Kalila to stiffen in surprise. Aarif stood by the fountain, no more than a shadowy form in the darkness. They stared at each other, the only sound the rustling of leaves and, in the distance, the gentle churring of a nightjar.

‘I didn’t realise,’ Aarif said after a moment, his voice stiff and formal, ‘that anyone was here.’

Kalila swallowed. ‘I thought you’d still be with my father.’

‘We finished, and he wished to go to bed.’

More time must have passed than she’d realised, lost in her own unhappy reflections.

‘I’ll go,’ Aarif said, and began to turn.

‘Please. Don’t.’ The words came out in a rush, surprising her. Kalila didn’t know what she wanted from this man, so hard and strange and ungiving. Yet she knew she didn’t want him to go; she didn’t want to be alone any more. She wanted, she realised, to be with him. To know more about him, even if there was no point. No purpose.

Aarif hesitated, still half-turned, and then as Kalila held her breath he slowly swivelled back to her. In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Princess?’

Kalila patted the empty seat next to her. ‘Please sit.’

Another long moment passed, and in the darkness Kalila thought she could see Aarif gazing thoughtfully at that empty space before he moved slowly—reluctantly—and sat down next to her, yet still far enough apart so his body did not touch hers at all.

The constraint of his behaviour, Kalila realised, was revealing in itself. Was he aware of the tension Kalila felt, that heady sense of something unfurling within her, something she’d never felt before?

Did he feel it too?

He couldn’t, Kalila decided, or if he did, he was not showing it. He sat rigidly, his hands resting on his thighs, unmoving, and it amazed her how still and controlled he was, giving nothing away by either sound or movement.

‘This is a beautiful garden,’ Aarif said after a moment, and Kalila was glad he’d spoken.

‘I have always loved it,’ she agreed quietly. ‘My father designed it for my mother—a taste of her homeland.’

‘Like the Gardens of Babylon, built by Nebuchadnezzar for Amytis.’

‘Yes.’ Kalila smiled, pleased he’d recognised the connection. ‘My father used to call my mother Amytis, as an endearment.’ She heard the wistful note in her voice and bit her lip.

‘I’m sorry for her death,’ Aarif said, his voice still formal and somehow remote. ‘The loss of a parent is a hard thing to bear.’

‘Yes.’

‘When did she die?’

‘When I was seventeen. Cancer.’ Kalila swallowed. It had been so unexpected, so swift. There had only been a few, precious, painful weeks between diagnosis and death, and then the raging emptiness afterwards. Going to Cambridge had been a relief, a new beginning, and yet Kalila knew the ache of her mother’s loss would never fully heal. It was something you carried with you, always.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aarif said quietly, and Kalila knew he meant it. Above them the nightjar began its steady churring once more.

‘I know you lost your father and stepmother a few years ago,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I…I heard of it. I’m sorry.’ She’d written to Zakari, she remembered, expressing her condolences, and she’d received a formal letter back. Now she wondered if he’d even written it.