can’t make up my mind whether or not that’s a compliment.’
‘It is,’ he said, looking for all the world as if he now regretted his choice of words. ‘It signals that you are accepting your fate—outwardly, at least. Are you hungry?’
She nodded. The sight of Suleiman was enough to make food seem inconsequential, but she could smell cooking. The familiar concoction of sweet herbs and spices drifting towards her was making her mouth water and it was a long time since she had eaten a feast in the desert. ‘Starving.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t they say that a hungry woman is a dangerous woman?’
‘And don’t they also say that some women remain dangerous even when their bellies are full?’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
She looked into his eyes. So black, she thought. So very black. ‘Which would you like it to be, Suleiman?’
There was a split second of a pause, when she thought he might respond in a similar, teasing style. But then something about his countenance changed and his face darkened. She could see him swallow—as if something jagged had lodged itself in his throat. And was it a terrible thing to admit that she found herself almost enjoying his obvious discomfort?
Well, it might be terrible, but it was also human nature—and right now, nothing else seemed to matter. She was achingly aware that beneath their supposedly polite banter thrummed the unmistakable tremor of sexual desire. She wanted to break down the walls that he had built around himself—to claw away at the bricks with her bare hands. She wanted to seduce him to guarantee her freedom, yes—but it was more than that. Because she wanted him.
She had never stopped wanting him.
But this could never be anything more than sex. She knew that. If she seduced Suleiman, then she needed to have the strength to walk away. Because no happy ending was possible. She knew that, too.
‘It’s dinner time,’ he said abruptly, glancing at the sun, which she knew he could read as accurately as any clock.
Sara said nothing as they walked over to the campfire, where a special dining area had been laid out for the two of them. She saw the fleeting disquiet which had darkened Suleiman’s face and realised that this faux-intimacy was probably the last thing he wanted. But protocol being what it was—there was really no alternative. Of course she would be expected to eat with him, rather than alone—while the servants ate their own rations out of sight.
It was a long time since she had enjoyed a meal in the desert and, inevitably, the experience had a story-book feel to it. The giant bulk of the camels was silhouetted against the darkening sky, where the first stars were beginning to glimmer. The crackling flames glowed golden and the smell of the traditional Qurhah stew was rich with the scent of oranges and cinnamon.
Sara sank down onto a pile of brocade cushions while Suleiman adopted a position on the opposite side of the low table, on which thick, creamy candles burned. It was as if an outdoor dining room had been erected in the middle of the sands and it looked spectacular. She’d forgotten how much could be loaded onto the backs of the camels and how it was a Qurhah custom to make every desert trip feel like a home-from-home.
She accepted a beaker of pomegranate juice and smiled her thanks at the servant who ladled out a portion of the stew onto each of the silver platters, before leaving the two of them alone.
The food was delicious and Sara ate several mouthfuls but her hunger soon began to ebb away. It was too distracting to think about eating when Suleiman was sitting opposite her, his face growing shadowed in the dying light. She noticed he was watching her closely—his intelligent eyes narrowed and gleaming—and she knew that she must approach this very carefully. He could not be played with and toyed with. If she went about her proposed seduction in a crass and obvious manner, then mightn’t he see through it?
So try to get underneath his skin—without him realising what you’re doing.
‘You do realise that I’ve known you for years and yet you’re still something of a mystery to me,’ she said conversationally.
‘Good. That’s the way I like it.’
‘I mean, I know practically nothing about your past,’ she continued, as if he hadn’t made that terse interruption.
‘How many times have I told you, Sara? My past is irrelevant.’
‘I don’t agree. Surely our past is what defines us. It makes us what we are today. And you’ve never told me how you first got to know the Sultan—or to be regarded so highly by him. When I was a child you said I wouldn’t understand—and when I became an adult, well...’ She shrugged, not wanting to spell it out. Not needing to say that once sexual attraction had reared its powerful head, any kind of intimacy had seemed too dangerous. She put her fork down and looked at him.
‘It isn’t relevant,’ he said.
‘Well, what else are we going to talk about? And if I am to be the Sultan’s wife...’ She hesitated as she noticed him flinch. ‘Then surely it must be relevant. Am I to know nothing about the background of the man who was my future husband’s aide for so long? You must admit that it is highly unusual for such a powerful man as the Sultan to entrust so much to someone who has no aristocratic blood of their own.’
‘I had no idea that you were such a snob, Sara,’ he mocked.
‘I’m not a snob,’ she corrected. ‘Just someone seeking the facts. That’s one of the side effects of having had a western education. I was taught to question things, rather than just to accept what I was told or be fobbed off with some bland reply designed to put me in my place.’
‘Then maybe your western education has not served you well,’ he said, before suddenly stilling. He shook his head. ‘What am I saying?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘How unforgivable of me to try to damn your education and in so doing—to damn knowledge itself. Forget that I ever said that.’
‘Does that mean you’ll answer my question?’
‘That is not what I meant at all.’
‘Please, Suleiman.’
He gave an exasperated sigh as he looked at her. But she thought she saw affection in his eyes too as he lowered his voice and began to speak in English, even though Sara was certain that none of the servants or bodyguards were within earshot.
‘You know that I was born into poverty?’ he said. ‘Real and abject poverty?’
‘I heard the rumours,’ Sara answered. ‘Though you’d never guess that from your general bearing and manner.’
‘I learn very quickly. Adaption is the first lesson of survival,’ he said drily. ‘And believe me, it’s easier to absorb the behaviour of the rich, than it is the other way round.’
‘So how did you—a boy from the wrong side of the tracks—ever come into contact with someone as important as the Sultan?’
There was silence for a moment. Sara thought she saw a sudden darkness cross his face. And there was bitterness, too.
‘I grew up in a place called Tymahan, a small area of Samahan, where the land is at its most desolate and people eke out what living
