humour ‘—according to the laws of our royal house once you declared Tilda yours before witnesses, it was a marriage by declaration. The statute that saved your grandfather’s skin was never repealed.’
Rashad found it necessary to lean back against the wall for support. A marriage by declaration—a law hastily trotted out to clean up the scandal after his licentious grandfather had run off with his grandmother with not the slightest intention of doing anything other than bedding her. It was still legal? He felt as if the bars of a cage were closing round him.
‘My father.’ Rashad breathed in deep.
‘As if you would bring any woman other than your intended bride into Bakhar!’ the older man quipped. ‘No man of honour would sully a woman’s reputation. I had only to hear Tilda’s name spoken and at once I knew she was your bride and that we had a wonderful celebration to arrange. Was she not the woman who gained your heart five years ago?’
As the king waxed lyrical on the subjects of true love and lifelong matrimonial happiness Rashad grew a great deal grimmer at his end of the phone. There might be sunlight beyond the window, but a giant dark cloud was now obscuring his appreciation of it. He had broken the rules only once and now he was to pay the price with his freedom. What insanity had seized him when he had taken the risk of bringing Tilda into Bakhar? It had been an act of utter recklessness and, in retrospect, he could not fathom what had driven him to the point of such incredible folly.
Rashad went downstairs to greet the Prime Minister and his entourage. He accepted hearty congratulations, elaborate greetings and compliments for his bride and the news that a two-day public holiday had already been declared at the end of the month to mark the occasion of his state wedding. He did not even pale when he was informed that formal announcements had been made on the state television and radio services and that bridal good wishes were pouring in from every corner of Bakhar.
It was a full hour before he was in a position to return to Tilda. He was still suffering all the outrage and disbelief of a male who had never put a foot wrong in his life, but now had made one fatal error. He had no doubt whatsoever that Tilda would be ecstatic at the news that she was not a concubine but a wife, and that at the very least they would have to stay married for a year.
Fully dressed, Tilda was pacing the floor. Sporadic outbreaks of gunfire and the extraordinary amount of air traffic had frightened her into wondering if the palace was under attack. When silence had fallen, she had finally succumbed to the most sickening fear that Rashad had not reappeared because he had been taken prisoner, wounded or killed. Her response to that suspicion was much more emotional than she would have liked to admit and had informed her that her hatred ran only skin deep. While it was perfectly all right to loathe Rashad when he was in front of her and enjoying full health, when she was assailed by a vision of him lying somewhere hurt and unattended she felt sick and wanted to rush to his aid. For that reason, she was on the very brink of disobeying orders and leaving the room when the door opened.
‘Where on earth have you been all this time?’ she shot at Rashad in instant fury at his reappearance, when it became immediately obvious that her fears had been nonsensical: not a strand of his luxuriant black hair was out of place and his superb tailored suit was immaculate. ‘I’ve been frantic with worry!’
‘Why?’ Rashad asked, ebony brows pleating.
‘The gunfire … your instructions … all those jets and helicopters flying in and round about!’ Tilda slung at him shakily.
‘There is no cause for alarm. Natural caution urged me to ask you to stay here. But the outbreak of excitement was a celebration and the result of a misapprehension.’ Rashad shrugged a broad shoulder with something less than his usual cool. ‘The misunderstanding is entirely my fault. The whole country thinks that I have brought you back to Bakhar as my wife.’
Tilda was so taken aback by that information that she simply stared at him, noting that his lean, strong face was unusually pale and taut. ‘For goodness sake, why would anyone think something like that?’
‘Circumstances have conspired to make it the only acceptable interpretation of events,’ Rashad pronounced with great care. ‘I acknowledge that I did wrong in bringing you here. No woman has ever travelled home to Bakhar with me before. The intervention of the press in London and their awareness of our previous relationship only added strength to the rumour that you are, at the very least, my intended bride.’
Tilda blinked. ‘So what now?’
Rashad frowned. ‘According to my father we are already married in the eyes of the law, because I referred to you as my woman in front of witnesses.’
Puzzled by the first part of that explanation, Tilda easily picked up on the second part and slung him an angry look of disdain. ‘You called me that? When?’
‘Before we alighted from the jet. But I can put my hand on my heart and swear on my honour that I intended no insult to you.’
‘Of course you did—you described me as your woman as though I was a possession! It’s medieval!’
‘You feel as though you belong with me. I meant that you were part of my life,’ Rashad growled. ‘Now you are in truth a part.’
‘In the eyes of the law … we’re already married?’ Tilda parroted in sudden shock as his original meaning finally sank in on her. ‘How can that be?’
‘Many years ago, my grandfather abducted my grandmother and created a huge scandal. He always acted first and thought afterwards. To smooth matters over it was considered necessary to pass a law that allowed him to claim that she was his wife from the moment he said she was in the presence of witnesses. That law relates only to the royal family and it has not been repealed.’
‘But such behaviour and laws of that sort are still downright medieval! With relations like that, I’m amazed that you had the nerve to criticise my family.’ Tilda shook her head in a daze, her thoughts tumbling about in turmoil while she attempted to reason with clarity. ‘Well, the obvious solution to all this ridiculous confusion is that you just tell the truth. You are, after all, very fond of telling me that lies are always unacceptable to you.’
As that proposal was made, a tiny muscle pulled taut at the corner of Rashad’s unsmiling mouth. ‘The truth would now appear to be that, according to Bakhari law, we are legally married.’
‘If that is so, I really do think that it would serve you right,’ Tilda admitted helplessly. ‘But, as I wouldn’t stay married to you even if you had a gun to my head, the divorce can’t come quick enough!’
‘This is a serious matter.’
A bitter edge had already entered Tilda’s thoughts and coloured them. She was remembering how madly in love she had been five years earlier. In those days she would’ve made any sacrifice to marry her desert prince. Were they really and truly married? No doubt that fact explained why he was as grave as though he were attending a funeral. She was obviously the very last woman alive that he would have willingly chosen to be his wife.
‘I expect it is serious. But if I’m married to you, then I must have some rights.’ Her beautiful eyes concealed by her lashes, she turned her head away from him, determined not to reveal that she was upset. ‘Or have you got another list of threats to hold over me to ensure that I do exactly as you want me to do?’
That candid question hit Rashad like a bucket of icy water on hot skin. Until she had come back into his life, he had never threatened a woman, nor ever
