‘No,’ he’d denied. ‘But I learn my lessons the first time they are taught to me, and by leaving only Asim to take care of you at my apartment I devalued your importance to me in the eyes of those who gauge worth by the strength of its protection.’
‘The Arab mentality, you mean.’
‘If you wish to call it that,’ he’d conceded, refusing to take up the provoking derision pitched into the remark. ‘But it is an impression that has now been rectified. No one will ever dare to approach you again in threat.’
‘Does that mean I have my eunuch at last, sneaking up to guard my bedroom door every night after I’ve retired?’ Again the remark had been sharp with acid.
‘Quite obsessed with this eunuch thing, aren’t you?’ he’d drawled, a sleek black eyebrow arching in amused mockery at that suggestion. ‘Could it be you have been weaving secret fantasies in your lonely bed at night? Maybe as a punishment to me because I refuse to share it?’
His determined abstinence in this area of their lives was just another form of protection he imposed on her that Evie found worrying. In all their two years he had never been able to resist her—she only had to remember that brief episode in her bedroom at Beverley Castle to prove that point!
But now, suddenly, Raschid rarely even laid a finger on her. Why? What could he possibly hope to gain by his abstinence now, when the damage of their loving had already been done with the conception of their baby?
He had, until now, avoided the question whenever she had challenged him with it. And it was just another worry she was having to contend with as she stood here staring at herself in the mirror.
‘If you were me, Julian,’ she burst out suddenly, spinning round to look anxiously at her beautifully tanned brother who had not long been back home from his monthlong honeymoon sailing round the Caribbean, ‘would you be marrying yourself to an Arab who lives in a Muslim state?’
‘I thought true love could conquer all,’ he replied with a teasing grin.
But Evie was in no mood to be teased. ‘His family don’t want me to be his wife,’ she explained tautly. ‘His people don’t want me! For all I know, I may be walking myself straight into purdah!’
‘Or simply suffering from a bad case of wedding nerves,’ Julian suggested. ‘Oh, come on, Evie!’ he sighed. ‘Since everyone knows exactly what Raschid feels for you, I can’t see purdah being much of a problem when it would most definitely necessitate him having to share it with you!’
Then why does it feel as if I’m doing the wrong thing? she asked herself tautly as she turned back to the mirror.
What she saw standing there was a woman who was anxiously attempting to respect the traditions of two completely different cultures.
Her outfit had been made for her in-house by a top designer who had been drafted in at enormous expense by Raschid and instructed to create something incomparable, and what he had come up with was both startlingly simplistic and breathtakingly effective.
The dress was really nothing more than a long and narrow tunic with a simple high neck and long loose sleeves designed very much on Middle Eastern lines. Made of a fabulously rich antique-gold silk, its only decoration was the narrow band of delicate seed-pearls sewn down the front seam and around the tiny stand-up collar.
But it was the addition of a fine gold mesh skullcap dotted with yet more seed-pearls that gave it that special touch of glamour. On the advice of the designer, Evie had left her hair loose so the long silken mass tumbled down her spine in fine gold tendrils.
‘Medieval England meets mysterious East.’ Christina had softly described the effect just before she’d left for the registry office with Lucinda, putting in a nutshell exactly what it was that the designer had been trying to achieve when he’d created this look for Evie.
But what would Raschid see when he looked at her? A woman who was trying just a bit too hard to bridge the gap between two cultures?
Outside a long white limousine stood gleaming in the summer sunshine that hadn’t eased its grip on England for more than two months now.
‘Cheer up,’ Julian gently admonished her as they drove away. ‘You are supposed to be going to your wedding, not your funeral.’
Too true, Evie thought, but still couldn’t shake off the chilling feeling that a dark presence was casting its shadow over the car as they drove towards Hertford.
A shadow which had a definite shape to it—Raschid’s father. His family. His Arabian people. None of whom were to be present today. Oh, the reasons for that had come thick and fast enough. His father was not well enough to travel great distances. His sister could not come because one of her children had been taken ill. His Embassy people were, unfortunately, involved in important matters of state that could not be rearranged to accommodate their rushed marriage.
But Evie wasn’t stupid; she could recognise denunciation when she was being fed it so blatantly.
Westhaven Town Hall was a rather elegant red-brick building that took pride of place in the old town square where a small crowd had gathered to watch—including the expected clutch of reporters.
As the car drew to a stop at the bottom of the steps, Evie could see Raschid waiting for her at the top of them. He was wearing a dark silk suit, bright white shirt and dark tie, she noted, and wondered heavily if the lack of his traditional Arab dress was just another statement she should take grim note of.
Yet her eyes clung to him as he came lightly down the steps towards the car. So tall, lean, so painfully handsome, this Arab lover of hers, she thought helplessly.
And Julian is right; I can’t live without him.
After opening the limousine door for her, his eyes blazed with possessive approval as he helped her to alight. ‘Beautiful,’ he murmured softly.
Flash bulbs exploded, people called out. Evie plastered a social smile on her face, and let Raschid escort her to their wedding.
The civil ceremony itself was to take place in front of only a few chosen witnesses. Then they were to return to Westhaven where the rest of their guests would be waiting to watch the Christian blessing Raschid had arranged to take place there.
There was to be a Muslim blessing, too, but not here in England, and not until Raschid’s father was well enough to attend it.
Or when he was ready to accept Evie as his son’s wife, she suspected was the truth.
Her mother, Christina and Asim were waiting for them inside the foyer. At least Asim was wearing traditional Arab robes, Evie noted wryly.
The service was short, over almost before it had begun. Evie stood beside Raschid and repeated her vows in a frail voice that had their few witnesses straining to hear them. Raschid’s voice was stronger, but slightly constricted, as if he was finding this more of a strain than he had expected it to be.
Evie felt the ring slide on to her finger, looked down to see a band of delicate gold twining around the Al Kadah family crest.
Did this ring make her one of them now? she wondered.
‘You may now kiss the bride, sir.’
