lifted her golden head. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to bed but thanks for making our wedding night almost as dreadful as the first we had,’ she murmured with stinging scorn.
And she saw right then in his lean darkly handsome face that he had forgotten it was their wedding night. And really that said it all, didn’t it? She had already travelled from being the object of intense desire to being the pregnant wife, apparently shorn of attraction.
Zahir gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to talk back to her in a similar vein. Had she really thought he would stage their wedding night on a plane when she was exhausted and already under strain from all the challenges of the past weeks? He suffered a hollow sensation of horror even recalling that first catastrophic wedding night, her sickness, fear and distress, his own incomprehension and sense of defeat. She had been too young, far too young and naïve at eighteen, he knew that now. Guilt assailed him as Saffy ducked into the cabin, her lovely face taut and pale awakening memories he would have done anything to avoid. So much for honesty, so much for trying to clear the air, he reflected bitterly.
That last comment of hers had been a low blow, Saffy conceded in shame. It wasn’t either of their faults that their first wedding night had been catastrophic and he had been incredibly kind and patient and understanding even though she knew he didn’t understand any more than she did then what was wrong with her. Hitting out at him like that had been unjust, a mean retaliation to the reality that Zahir had made her feel small and stupid with his talk of security concerns and queens. She didn’t look much like a queen, she thought wretchedly, studying herself with wet pink eyes in the mirror, noting the mascara and eyeliner smudged from tears. She had panicked when he mentioned that because she was so terrified of not meeting his expectations again. Hadn’t she already done that to him once? She didn’t want to let him down or embarrass him but what did she know about being royal? Certainly she had learned absolutely nothing during their last marriage when only the servants knew she existed and she was virtually the invisible woman.
He didn’t love her, didn’t want her, probably had no faith in her ability to act like a royal wife either, Saffy thought painfully, tears streaming down her cheeks as she forced her convulsed face into a pillow. Why did she care so much about what he thought of her? Why did it hurt so much that she felt she couldn’t stand it? And why more than anything in the world did she now want him to come in and put his arms round her to comfort her the way he had once done without even thinking about it? She had married him to give their baby a better start in life. That was the only reason and she didn’t know why she was getting so worked up, sobs shuddering through her body like a storm unleashed on her without warning.
I am not in love with him. I am so not in love with him, she told herself urgently. That is not why I’m suddenly looking for more from him than he ever promised to deliver. And in that guarded state of mind she finally fell asleep.
The stewardess wakened her with breakfast and the announcement that the plane would be landing in an hour. Noting that she had slept alone in the bed, Saffy lifted her chin, knowing he had spent the night in one of the reclining seats. Why was she wondering whether he had been unfaithful to her when they had last been married? What did it matter? How was that relevant? The last thing she needed was to get bound up in the problems of a long-dead past. They weren’t the same people any more. Showered and elegantly attired in a print dress and a fine cashmere cardigan, she emerged from the sleeping compartment, feeling as brittle as bone china.
Zahir, sheathed in the beige and white pristine desert robes that accentuated his height and undeniably exotic attributes, gave her a smile that was a masterpiece of civility while wishing her good morning. She almost laughed but, once again, their shared past rattled like a skeleton locked in a cupboard: Zahir was superb at plastering over the cracks and pretending nothing had happened and that last night’s divisive dispute had not occurred. Time and time again he had done that to her when they were first married when she tried to have serious talks with him and he shrugged them off, changed the subject, refused to be drawn. Stop it, stop it, she urged her disobedient brain, determined not to bring those memories of his evasiveness into the present when so much else had altered.
‘We had a row,’ she reminded him out of pure spite and resentment of his poise.
‘I should never tackle a serious conversation after midnight when we’re both tired.’ His eyes glittered with unexpected raw amusement and the sheer primal attraction of him in that instant sent a flock of butterflies dancing in her tummy and clenched her muscles tight somewhere a great deal more intimate. Pink flushed her cheeks as he sipped at his coffee, the very image of cool control and sophistication. ‘Coffee?’
Saffy served herself from the coffee pot on the table and sat down. ‘What you said—’
Zahir shifted a fluid brown hand in a silencing motion. ‘No, leave it. It was the wrong time and we have all the time in the world now.’
Saffy tried to steel herself to resist the command note in that assurance and then wondered if perhaps he was right. In any case, did she want confessions if what she suspected was true? Did she really want to stir up the past and perhaps damage the future relationship they might have before this marriage even got off the ground? Such patience, such careful concern felt unfamiliar to her in Zahir’s presence, for once she had said whatever she liked to him with absolutely no lock on her tongue. And she wanted that freedom back, she recognised dimly, wanted it back almost more than she wanted anything.
‘It’s not like you to be so quiet.’
‘The Queenie bit pulverised me,’ she muttered tightly.
‘You’re more than up to the challenge,’ Zahir asserted smoothly. ‘You’re accustomed to being in the public eye and right now you look…wonderful.’
‘Do I?’ Saffy hated the sound of that question, her gaze welded to his in search of falsehood, fake flattery, the smallest hint of insincerity.
‘You always did and still do. And sadly, although it shouldn’t matter, such beauty does impress people,’ Zahir murmured ruefully. ‘I’ve never understood why you’re not vain.’
‘Other people work and train to do much more important and necessary things than I do but I got where I am because of my face and figure, not my brain or my skills,’ Saffy pointed out flatly. ‘It’s not something to boast about.’
‘But you’re so much more—you always were,’ Zahir declared, reaching for her fingers where they curled in discomfiture on the table top and enclosing them in his warm hand. ‘And in Maraban, you will be able to show how much more you are capable of.’
‘What does that mean?’ Saffy prompted, touched by that hand round hers, energised by the conviction with which he spoke.
‘That the woman who gives most of her earnings to an orphanage in Africa will have free rein to raise funds for good works in my country. Yes, I found out about that fact, quite accidentally through your crooked solicitor,’ Zahir admitted. ‘It made me feel very proud of you.’
Saffy tensed and reddened, wary of praise on the score of one of her biggest secrets. ‘The children had so little and I wanted to help them. It made my career seem less superficial when I could feel that I had a worthwhile cause to work for.’
A wary sense of peace had settled over her by the time the plane landed at Maraban’s splendid new airport. But when she stepped out of the plane to the music being played by a military band, and a smiling older man stepped up to bow and address Zahir while a little girl in a fancy dress stepped nervously forward to present a bouquet of flowers to Saffy, she realised that he had been right to warn her that her life would radically change.
