unless Zayed did something drastic and definitive. Fakhir Malouf would continue to set his country back decades, oppressing his people with his hopelessly backward schemes. Zayed had to act. And this had been the only option open to him.
There were worse things than a rushed wedding. He was honouring his betrothal vow, that was all. Halina would learn to accept it. Shrugging out of his dusty garments, Zayed prepared to meet his bride.
Half an hour later, freshly bathed and shaven, he ducked into the tent where he had ordered Suma to bring Halina to wait. His eyes adjusting to the flickering candlelight, he saw that she sat on a silken pillow with her back to him, narrow and slender, her hair streaming down it in a dark, damp river. She wore a loose robe of deep blue embroidered with silver thread that engulfed her slender figure but still reminded him of how she’d felt in his arms, slender and light. A surprising surge of desire arrowed through him. This marriage was about politics, nothing more, but it had been a long time since he’d lain with a woman.
Zayed let the tent flap fall closed behind him with a rustle and she turned, scrambling to a standing position, her eyes wide. She had incredible eyes, a deep, stormy blue, fringed extravagantly with sooty lashes. He hadn’t expected those eyes, somehow.
Of course, he’d never seen a proper photograph of his bride, merely a few blurry images taken from a distance, since she’d been raised in virtual seclusion. They’d been betrothed when he was twenty and she ten, although it had been done formally, with a proxy, so they’d never met. Now did not seem like the most auspicious of introductions, but there was nothing to be done for it. Zayed squared his shoulders.
‘You have been made comfortable, I trust?’
She hesitated, her gaze searching his face, looking for answers. After a pause, she finally answered. ‘Yes...’ Her voice was both soft and husky, pleasant. That was good. So far he liked her eyes and her hair, and he knew her body was both slender and curvaceous from being nestled against it on horseback for several uncomfortable hours. Three things that he could be thankful for. He had not expected so much. Rumours had painted Halina as a melodramatic and slightly spoiled princess. The woman in front of him did not seem so.
‘But...’ Her throat worked convulsively, the words coming in stumbling snatches. ‘I don’t... I don’t...understand why you’ve...’
From behind them the tent flap rustled again and Zayed met the subtly questioning gaze of the imam he’d chosen to perform the ceremony. He would have preferred a civil service, but Malouf would dismiss a marriage that was conducted by a notary, and the last thing he could do was have Malouf dismiss this, the most important diplomatic manoeuvre he’d ever make.
‘We’re ready,’ he said to the imam, who gave a brief nod. Halina’s confused gaze moved from him to the man who would marry them.
‘What...what are you...?’
‘All you need to say is yes,’ Zayed informed her shortly. He did not have time for her questions, her concerns, and certainly not her protestations. They could talk after the vows were performed, the marriage finalised. Not before. He would allow nothing to dissuade him. Halina’s eyes had widened and darkened to the colour of a storm-tossed sea, her lips, rosy-pink and plump, parting soundlessly.
‘Yes,’ she repeated, searching his face, looking for answers. Did she not understand what she was doing here? It seemed obvious to Zayed, and it would soon be so to Halina when she made her vows. He could not afford to explain why he’d taken her, why they had to marry with such haste. Although his desert camp was well hidden, already Sultan Hassan could be sending his troops to take back his daughter. Zayed intended to have the marriage performed well before then.
Sensing his urgency, the imam moved forward and began the ceremony, speaking with quick fluidity. Zayed took Halina by her arm, firmly but with gentleness. She looked dazed, but Zayed hoped she’d adjust quickly. She knew they were engaged, after all. His methods might be unorthodox, but the end result would be the same as if they’d been surrounded by pomp and circumstance.
A silence descended in the tent and Zayed realised it was Halina’s turn to speak. ‘Say yes,’ he hissed and she blinked at him, still seeming confused.
‘Yes,’ she said after a second’s pause.
The imam continued twice more, and twice more Zayed had to instruct Halina to speak. ‘Say yes.’
Each time she murmured yes—naaam—her lips forming the word hesitantly.
The imam turned to him and Zayed bit out his three replies. Yes, yes, yes.
Then, with a little bow, the imam stepped back. Zayed’s breath rushed out in a sigh of satisfaction and relief. It was done. They were wed.
‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he told Halina, who blinked at him.
‘Alone?’
‘For a few moments, to ready yourself.’ Zayed hesitated, and then decided he would not explain things further. Not now, with the imam listening and Halina seeming so dazed. Later, when they could talk, relax even, he would explain more. There would be food and wine and conversation—a little, at least. Then he would tell her. Tonight was not merely the marriage ceremony but its consummation.
OLIVIA FELT AS if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole into some awful, alternative reality. She had no idea what was going on; in the tent she’d only understood one word of Arabic out of three, if that. It had seemed as if some official kind of ceremony had been performed, but Olivia had no idea what it could be. And the man had insisted she keep saying yes—but to what? Perhaps he was preparing a ransom demand to the royal family, and wanted her to proclaim she was unharmed.
And she was unharmed, but she was also confused and more than a little scared. Who was the man with the terse manner and the gentle eyes? What did he want from her? And what was going to happen next?
The woman who had helped her to bathe and dress earlier, Suma, fetched her from the tent and led her to another, this one luxurious in every detail. Suma handed her some gauzy fabric and Olivia took it uncomprehendingly. Judging by the way Suma mimed her actions, she was meant to change once again. Olivia glanced down at the garment she held, a nightgown of near-diaphanous silk embroidered with gold thread. She had no idea why she had been given such a revealing and exquisite garment but she was afraid to think too much about it.
She couldn’t ask Suma; the older woman spoke a dialect of Arabic that was virtually incomprehensible to Olivia. They’d communicated by hand gestures, clumsy miming and the occasional understood word; there was no way she could ask the smiling, round-faced woman what was going on, or why she’d been given this nightgown. Not that Suma would tell her, anyway.
The tent she’d been led to was both sumptuous and spacious, with a mattress on a dais that was spread with hand-woven quilts of silk and satin and scattered with pillows. Candles flickered in torches and the desert wind made the tent rustle quietly. In the distance Olivia could hear the nickering of horses, the occasional low voice.
Suma left her alone to change and Olivia stood there, clutching the nightgown to her, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do now. Escape seemed unwise in the dark; she couldn’t ride and they were hours from anywhere. Putting on a slinky, near-transparent nightgown also seemed unwise; the last thing she wanted was to be less dressed.
She
