she had no option. If she was to have a chance of success she must be as committed to her purpose as Ra’id was to his.
‘Your mother’s room?’ he prompted.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE COULD feel Antonia’s suppressed excitement as he led the way down gilded corridors to the east wing of the palace, where the shutters had remained drawn for years, and the rooms were neglected and cast in shade. He could feel her fear and apprehension too. He could feel everything Antonia was feeling in the same unspoken transfer of energy he’d felt between them on the desert island, when he had been Saif and Antonia had gone by the name he’d given her. But there had been a change in Antonia since then. She had matured. She might have trembled at her first sight of him, but the flame of purpose had returned to her gaze. This wasn’t the adolescent who had ransacked his yacht to claim her piece of bread and cheese, but a woman who would not easily be dismissed. Perhaps the sight of her mother’s room would change that, he mused as they reached the door.
Antonia could hardly believe she was really here, within touching distance of her mother’s room. It was hard to catch her breath when Ra’id halted outside the golden door. The workmanship on the jewel-studded panelling was more fabulous than anything she could have imagined. ‘Is it real gold?’ she asked naively as she admired the intricate workmanship.
‘Everything you see that looks like gold is gold,’ Ra’id informed her with no emotion in his voice. ‘Shall we go in?’
‘Oh, yes please!’ she exclaimed, hardly daring to blink in case she missed anything. Her sense of anticipation was indescribable, and she put all thoughts of Ra’id knowing something she didn’t—something unpleasant, maybe—out of her mind.
‘Could we turn on a light?’ she asked, hesitating on the threshold.
‘Certainly.’ Reaching past her, Ra’id switched on a cobweb-strewn chandelier. Even now he made her tingle, Antonia felt, touching her cheek as she walked deeper into the room.
Whatever she had expected after seeing that golden door, it was not this shadowy interior, with sheets draped over the furniture and dust motes floating in stagnant air. But what affected her most was the atmosphere of abandonment, she realised, slowly turning full circle. It was as if the walls were soaked through with loneliness and sadness. Her first impression was that this was not the happy nest of a pretty girl, but a prison, a cage—a gilded cage for the discarded mistress of a ruler who had tired of her and moved on. But her mother hadn’t moved on, Antonia thought sadly as she trailed her fingertips across the yellowing cover of a fashion magazine. She thought that the saddest artefact of all. ‘It doesn’t look as if this room has been touched since my mother left for Italy,’ she said, rallying determinedly as she turned to speak to Ra’id.
She thought he seemed surprised she was holding it together. She raised an eyebrow, as if to say that nothing would shake her from her path—and that if anything this clearer picture of the young woman who had been her mother had only strengthened her resolve.
He watched her closely. Knowing Antonia’s background, he had been half-expecting this indulged child of a fabulously wealthy father to cross straight to her mother’s dressing table, where a tumble of priceless jewellery still lay in a careless heap. The valuable gems were awaiting collection and a detailed inventory by his team of assessors, and would have attracted most people’s interest. But Antonia had stood in silence when she’d entered the room as if she were battling some emotion greater than he could grasp. It was an emotion that made her shudder and clamp her jaw so hard a muscle jumped in her cheek.
The seconds ticked by while both of them remained quite still, and then, instead of crossing to the dressing table, she went to the wall of windows and started sliding bolts back on the shutters. ‘Can you help me?’ she called to him, as if this was just an ordinary task. ‘No need; I’ve done it,’ she said, spinning round in triumph when he was halfway across the room. She opened every window to its fullest extent and light streamed in; with it came the warm, scented air. ‘That’s better!’ she exclaimed, turning back to face the room.
She stood quite still for a moment and then proceeded to examine everything in orderly sequence. Having apparently satisfied herself, she made for the large double bed on its plinth in the centre, walking past the jewels flashing fire on the dressing table and on across the room. She ignored a silk gown glinting with rubies, that drooped sadly from a padded hanger, until she reached the bed, where she stared down for a moment until inch by inch she sank into a heap on the floor, as if the bones were slowly melting in her legs.
He was a hard man, who had made many hard decisions since taking the throne, and had seen many things in his lifetime that should have affected him but had left his factual mind largely untroubled. Yet when he saw Antonia weeping by her mother’s bedside he had to turn and leave the room.
He was showing respect, Ra’id reasoned, leaning back against the door. He drew breath to steady his emotions, but however hard a face he turned to Antonia he could not stand by and see her broken. Her defiance was so much easier to deal with, he reasoned, knowing deep down he had hoped she would exclaim with pleasure when she saw all the pretty things in her mother’s room. But instead she had got to the heart of the matter.
The heart of the matter …
Yes; the heart of the matter was the searing sense of loneliness and rejection Helena must have felt before Antonio Ruggiero had arrived and rescued her. He could see that now, thanks to Antonia.
But he could not hark back to a happier time on the desert island, because that was stolen time, time he still regretted. His life, every moment of his existence, was devoted to a country and its people, and that was where his duty lay; on that there could be no compromise. Antonia was not simply a girl he was attracted to, she was a threat to his people’s future happiness, with those documents granting her land in Sinnebar. He would not allow chaos to return to his country. He would bury the past, whatever it took.
Pulling away from the door, he opened it and stepped inside the room again. Whatever he had expected it was not this—Antonia seated at the dressing table, calmly reading letters.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about these letters, Ra’id?’ she asked him in a voice that was calmer than he might have expected.
Had he anticipated hysteria—a broken woman, crushed beneath the weight of grief? Had he forgotten the virago who had confronted him on the yacht with a knife? This was no girl to be easily dismissed, but a strong and determined woman, even if that woman resided in a young girl’s body.
‘I had no idea my mother even had a maidservant in whom she confided,’ she said, flourishing the bundle of letters she’d found. ‘No letters were ever forwarded to Rome.’
‘That might be because your mother wrote to her maidservant in English.’
‘And the maidservant could only read Sinnebalese,’ Antonia murmured, understanding. Then her face hardened. ‘The maidservant might not have been able to read English, but she would have understood these.’
She was looking at photographs of herself as a baby in her mother’s arms.
‘I imagine so,’ he agreed.
‘You imagine?’ Antonia bit out, springing to her feet. ‘So why didn’t I receive them?’
‘They were overlooked,
