remain here, becalmed for ever. The sea had temporarily washed all her responsibilities away, but the future she dreaded still loomed somewhere on the horizon. This sleek ship would be the first step of the journey she must resume.
Bashir, the village elder in whose home she had been cared for, made a formal greeting to the official-looking man who stepped from the boat almost before it was tied up. A tall angular man with piercing nut-brown eyes set beneath luxuriantly bushy brows, his beard was trimmed to a sharp point. His bony fingers were impeccably manicured. His pinched face and pained expression were at odds with his expensive-looking robes. Screwing up his face, he produced a piece of parchment and unrolled it with a flourish. ‘Lady Constance Montgomery?’
Her name sounded odd when spoken with his accent, but it was definitely her name. With a sinking heart, Constance made an awkward curtsy. The wound on her head began to throb. One of the women had removed the tiny stitches only that morning. The skin felt tight, but the stabbing pain behind her eyes had long since faded, and the resultant headaches were all but gone.
‘Welcome to the kingdom of Murimon. You will come with me.’
It was a command, not a request. Constance had time only to make swift and rather tearful farewells while the official took Bashir aside. A few minutes later, she clasped the elder’s hands, expressing her abject thanks as best she could, before being ushered aboard the dhow.
She spent the journey huddled in the cabin, unexpectedly overcome with fear as the ship set sail. It was ridiculous of her, for the sea was flat calm, the skies above perfectly clear, the wind a gentle zephyr, but as she placed her bare feet on the deck and felt the gentle sway of the boat, a cold, clammy sweat broke out on her skin. Her ears were filled once more with the roar of the waves, the crack of the masts, and the screams of the Kent’s passengers. Thankfully, the official who escorted her seemed content to leave her alone, though whether for reasons of propriety or simply because he was offended by her presence here, she had no idea.
* * *
The sun was going down when they arrived at the port. Constance staggered from the dhow and into a covered chair, caring nothing save that they were on dry land. The chairmen moved off swiftly. As she closed her eyes in an effort to compose herself, she was aware that they were climbing but of little else. Set down in a huge enclosed courtyard, she blinked in the glow of what seemed like a thousand candles, but the zealous official was already waving her on urgently, giving her no choice but to follow.
She padded in the wake of the man along the smooth, polished marble floors of endless corridors. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she must look, with her skin burning from the day’s sun, her wound like a brand on her forehead, her feet bare, and the rough brown tunic she wore big enough to encompass at least two of her.
As they came to a massive double door presided over by a hulking guard with a huge sabre, the reality of her situation dawned abruptly on her. She was in a foreign country, quite alone, and completely at the mercy of whoever was on the other side of this door. Captain Cobb? She presumed there must be other survivors of the shipwreck. It was too awful to contemplate that six hundred souls had perished and that miraculously she had not. An official equerry? A prison guard? A harem eunuch? The colour drained from her cheeks.
Constance shook out the copious folds of her borrowed tunic over her bare toes, and pushed her hair back from her face. Her heart was racing. Her legs were shaking. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly as the doors were flung open.
Constance found herself in a huge room with a domed ceiling illuminated by three massive, glittering chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles so bright they dazzled her, making bright spots dance in front of her eyes. In the doorway beside her, two identical statues stood sentinel, some type of mythical sabre-toothed felines who looked as if they were about to pounce and devour her. She shivered.
A man stood at the far end of the salon gazing out of a row of tall windows into the darkness beyond. He was dressed from head to toe in white silk robes, his cloak woven with golden threads. Diamonds glittered in the band which held his headdress in place. He was both tall and lean, yet she had the distinct impression of a latent strength in the broad set of his shoulders.
‘Lady Constance Montgomery,’ the official announced in his thick accent, giving her a little push. ‘His Most Royal Highness, Prince Kadar of Murimon.’
The heavy wooden doors closed behind her with a resounding thud, the Prince turned around, and Constance’s heart skipped a beat, her mouth went dry, and the muscles in her belly clenched in a visceral surge of desire that took her entirely by surprise.
He was young, no more than thirty. His brow was high, his face long, his nose strong. Austere features, not handsome in the conventional sense, actually slightly forbidding, framed as they were by his headdress. Definitely not a man who needed his regal robes to underline his natural air of authority. It was evident in his demeanour, in that haughty expression, and in those remarkable eyes, which were almond-shaped and wide-set, a curious colour which was neither grey nor green. Like all the men in this land, he wore a beard, but his was trimmed very close, not much more than a dark shadow, drawing attention to the contrasting smoothness of his cheekbones, the disturbingly sensual curve of his mouth. Beneath her rustic tunic, Constance felt her skin flush as heat suffused her. Those lips were sinful.
‘Lady Constance.’
With a start, she dropped into a low, sweeping curtsy. She had been staring at the Prince like a ravening wolf. Her eyes lowered, she had the sense of a lithe grace as he crossed the room towards her, his feet clad in black slippers embroidered with gold, his robes fluttering around the long length of his legs. Dear heavens, she should not be looking at his legs. She raised her eyes. Slim hips. She oughtn’t to look at those either. A belt slung around his narrow waist, chased with gold and at the centre, an enormous jewel glowed red and luminous, like a diamond lit by fire.
‘Please, rise.’
His voice was husky. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. For goodness’ sake, Constance, pull yourself together! The hand he extended was slim, the long fingers artistic, the nails neatly trimmed. His skin was cool to the touch. Mortified, she realised her own palms were clammy, her skin most likely ruined beyond recognition by a combination of salt and sun. Which all paled into insignificance when compared to her windswept hair, which most likely looked as if it had birds nesting in it, her sack-like gown and her grubby bare feet. She felt like Cendrillon in Monsieur Perrault’s story. It was a shame this prince had no slippers to offer her. She curled her toes further under her tunic.
‘Your Highness, it is an honour,’ Constance said.
‘In the circumstances, I am not sure that “welcome” is the most appropriate epithet to use to describe your somewhat unconventional arrival in Murimon, but I hope you will allow me to welcome you to my kingdom nonetheless.’
Surprise made her forget protocol. ‘Oh, you speak English beautifully.’
‘Thank you. My childhood tutor would be most gratified to hear that.’
Colour flooded her cheeks, for his words were lightly ironic. ‘I did not mean to imply astonishment that you can speak my language, only delight. It is a pleasure, Your Highness, to make your acquaintance.’
‘I fear that sentiment may alter when you hear what I have to say. Please, won’t you sit down?’
The
