will leave immediately,’ he murmured without expression.
His sisters flew back to Jumiah with them. The Great Palace where the royal family lived was situated several miles outside the flourishing capital city. As soon as the helicopter landed, Durra and Tibah parted from Rashad and Tilda to return to their apartments within the palace complex. A vast carved stone building enhanced by formal gardens and fountains, it was a much newer property than Tilda had expected to see and she made a surprised comment.
‘The old palace was badly damaged during the war. It had also taken on unfortunate associations after two decades of my great-uncle’s misrule,’ Rashad explained. ‘This new palace was built as a symbol of hope for the future.’
‘It’s colossal but very impressive.’ Tilda shot him a strained glance and suddenly abandoned the stilted conversation in favour of honesty. ‘Is there no way I can avoid having to meet your father?’
His stubborn jaw line clenched hard. ‘In wishing to admit you so immediately to his presence, the king seeks to honour you.’
Tilda went pink with discomfiture. ‘You misunderstood my meaning. Oh, never mind.’
‘My father is a kind man. Not unreasonably, he has assumed that there is honest affection between us.’
The backs of Tilda’s eyes stung in receipt of that sardonic reminder but she lifted her chin. To add insult to injury, Rashad proceeded to give her several tips on how to be polite and respectful in the presence of Bakhari royalty. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my manners,’ she told him tightly. ‘I’m not going to be rude.’
‘I did not intend to cause offence.’ Rashad was merely annoyed that she should have to enter such a crucial meeting without any preparation whatsoever.
Feeling wretchedly unsuitable for the honour being extended to her, Tilda was ushered into the audience room. King Hazar was a tall, spare man in his sixties, garbed in traditional robes that added to his quiet aura of dignity.
The kindliness of his unexpectedly friendly smile took her aback and instantly released the worst of her tension. He welcomed her to Bakhar in slow, careful English, embraced his son with enthusiasm and informed Tilda that he would be happy to regard her as another daughter. Very polite conversation ensued about the sights of Oxford, as well as the vagaries of the English climate. It dawned on Tilda that, far from being aghast at or even worried by his son’s sudden marriage to an Englishwoman, the older man seemed genuinely delighted.
Under cover of this gentle dialogue, she studied Rashad from below her lashes. His lean bronzed profile was lit by the sunshine piercing the window behind him. As if aware of her attention, he turned his arrogant dark head. His tawny gaze met hers and her tummy performed an instant somersault of response. Colouring, she dragged her attention from him again. Goodness, he was gorgeous, she thought helplessly, and she was married to him. Really and truly married. The shock of that was still sinking in. With difficulty she returned her concentration to the conversation.
Rashad was wondering to himself exactly why his royal parent was so overjoyed by his supposed marriage. Had the older man feared that his son would remain single for the rest of his days? Was almost any wife better than no wife on his father’s terms? Was that why not a single awkward question had yet been asked of either of them?
The king said that it was of great importance that Tilda receive support and guidance to enable her to feel at home within the royal household and in the country beyond the palace walls. ‘Unlike your late mother, your wife will lead a life in the public eye,’ his father remarked gravely. ‘It is only sensible that Tilda should be helped to prepare for that role in advance of your wedding.’
What wedding? Tilda almost asked, just managing to bite back the startled query, for she was very much afraid of saying the wrong thing. She stole another covert glance at Rashad and noted that he seemed quite unfazed by that same reference. She suspected that he might be rationing information on a strict need-to-know basis and resentment stirred in her.
‘I’m not convinced that Tilda should take on a public role,’ Rashad countered.
Tilda tried to ignore Rashad’s lack of enthusiasm for her taking on the responsibilities that went with being his wife. Naturally he felt like that, she told herself impatiently. There was no need whatsoever for her to take that personally. Unhappily this common-sense conviction did not prevent her from feeling cut to the bone and deemed a loser before she even got to run the race.
His father looked amused. ‘My son, you cannot marry an educated and accomplished young lady and hope to keep her all to yourself. Why, the crown office has already had a request for your wife to open the new surgical wing of the hospital next month! All such matters will be more easily dealt with if Tilda has had the opportunity to study our history, etiquette and language, so that she may be comfortable wherever she travels within our borders.’
In the aftermath of the revealing meeting, Tilda was in a tense and unhappy daze. It appeared that some big fancy wedding was in the offing to satisfy convention. The very idea of that made her feel uncomfortable, because she was no actress. What was more, pretending to be Rashad’s wife promised to be a serious challenge. Evidently it was regarded as something of a full-time occupation if she was to be put in training for the role. But, worst of all, Rashad was expecting her to take part in a massive pretence and enact a cruelly deceptive masquerade to fool people who were trustingly offering her sincere affection and acceptance. His family all seemed so nice! In her opinion only a truly horrid and insensitive person could feel anything other than guilt-stricken.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘YOU did very well with my father. He was most impressed,’ Rashad commented, resting a lean hand at the base of Tilda’s spine to guide her in the direction of his wing of the palace.
‘I was so nervous I hardly said a word,’ Tilda confided anxiously. ‘I know next to nothing about you and your family and I was terrified of saying something that would reveal that. Your sisters are older than I expected. Why did you never talk about your family when you were a student?’
‘Five years ago, my father and my sisters still felt like strangers to me.’
‘But why?’ Tilda questioned in bewilderment.
‘My three sisters are the children of my father’s first wife, who died of a fever after Kalila’s birth. I am the son of his second marriage. When I was four years old my father was badly hurt in a riding accident,’ Rashad explained. ‘His uncle Sadiq stepped in as Regent and then used the opportunity to take the throne by force. My father was still bedridden when Sadiq took me from my family and held me as a hostage.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until I was an adult. Sadiq had no son of his own and he named me as his heir to keep certain factions happy. I was sent to a military academy and then I went into the army. My family’s safety was dependent on Sadiq’s goodwill.’
Tilda was appalled. ‘My goodness, why did you never tell me any of this before? I mean, I knew about Sadiq and the war, but I didn’t realise you’d been separated from your family when you were only a little boy.’
‘I have never seen the wisdom of dwelling on misfortunes.’
‘Your mother must have been devastated.’
‘I believe so. I never saw her again. She fell ill when I was a teenager but I was
