that his body language was deliberately forbidding. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since that uncomfortable showdown after they’d made love. He had kept busy with the practicalities of preparing to return. And then he had turned on her and hissed that she was nothing but a temptation, silencing her protests with an angry wave of his hand before phoning ahead to let the Sultan’s staff know that they were on their way.
Sara looked up at the wide blue bowl of the desert sky as another band of fear gripped her. If ever she had thought she’d felt trapped before—she was quickly discovering a whole new meaning to the word. Here was one hostile man taking her to confront another—and she had no idea of what the outcome would be.
Her instinct was to turn and head in the opposite direction—but during the ride she had thought about what Suleiman had said.
You’ve spent your whole life running away?
Had she? It was weird seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. She’d always thought that she was an intrepid sort of person. That she had shown true backbone by setting up on her own in London, far away from her pampered life. It was disturbing to think that maybe there was a kernel of truth in Suleiman’s accusation.
Their approach had obviously been observed from within the palace complex, for the tall gates silently opened and they walked their horses through onto the gravelled forecourt. Sara became aware of the massed blooms of white flowers and their powerful scent which pervaded the air. A white-robed servant came towards them, briefly bowing to her before turning to Suleiman and speaking to him in Qurhahian.
‘The Sultan wishes to extend his warmest greeting, Suleiman Abd al-Aziz. He has instructed me to tell you that your chambers are fully prepared—and that you will both rest and recuperate before joining him for dinner later.’
‘No.’
Suleiman’s denial rang out so emphatically that Sara was startled, for she knew that the language of the desert was couched in much more formal—sometimes flowery—tones. She saw the look of surprise on the servant’s face.
‘The princess may wish to avail herself of the Sultan’s hospitality,’ said Suleiman. ‘But it is imperative that I speak to His Imperial Majesty without further delay. Please take me to him now.’
Sara could see the servant’s confusion but such was the force of Suleiman’s personality that the man merely nodded in bewildered consent. He led them through the huge carved doors, speaking rapidly into an incongruously modern walkie-talkie handset which he pulled from his white robes.
Once inside, where several female servants had gathered together in a small group, Suleiman turned to her, his features shadowed and unreadable. ‘You will go with these women and they will bathe you,’ he instructed.
‘But—’
‘No buts, Sara. I mean it. This is my territory, not yours. Let me deal with it.’
Sara opened her mouth, then shut it again as she felt a wave of relief wash over her. Was it cowardly of her to want to lean on Suleiman and him to take over? ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’ he questioned in English, his sudden switch of language seeming to emphasise the bitterness of his tone. ‘For taking what was never mine to take? Just go. Go.’
He stood perfectly still as she turned away, watching her retreat across the wide, marble entrance hall—his feelings in turmoil; his heart sick with dread. He found himself taking in the unruliness of her hair and the crumpled disorder of her robes. He swallowed. If the Sultan had seen her flushed face, then mightn’t he guess the cause of her untidy appearance?
He turned to follow the servant, his heart heavy.
How was he going to be able to tell Murat? How could he possibly admit what had been done? The worst betrayal in the world, from the two people who should have been most loyal to the sovereign.
He was ushered into one of the informal ante-rooms which he recognised from times past. He lifted his gaze to the high, arched ceiling with its intricate mosaic, before the Sultan swept in, alone—his black eyes inscrutable as he subjected his erstwhile emissary to a long, hard look.
‘So, Suleiman,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unconventional meeting. I was disturbed from playing backgammon at a crucial point in the game, to be told that you wished to see me immediately. Is this true?’
His eyes were questioning and Suleiman felt a terrible wave of sadness wash over him. Once their relationship had been so close that he might have made a joke about his supposed insubordination. And the Sultan would have laughed softly and made a retort in the same vein. But this was no laughing matter.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said heavily.
‘And may I ask what has provoked this extraordinary break with protocol?’
Suleiman swallowed. ‘I have come to tell you that the Princess Sara will not marry you,’ he said.
For a moment, the Sultan did not reply. His hawk-like features gave nothing away. ‘And should not the princess have told me this herself?’ he questioned softly.
Suleiman felt his heart clench as he realised that years of loyalty and friendship now lay threatened by his one stupid act of disloyalty and lust. He had accused Sara of being headstrong—but was not his own behaviour equally reprehensible?
‘Sire, I must tell you that I have—’
‘No!’ The word cracked from Murat’s mouth like the sound of a whip and he held up his palm for silence. ‘Hold your tongue, Suleiman. If you tell me something I should not hear, then I will have no option than to have you tried for treason.’
‘Then so be it!’ declared Suleiman, his heart pounding like a piston. ‘If that is to be my fate, then I will accept it like a man.’
The Sultan’s mouth hardened but he shook his head. ‘You think I would do that? You think that a woman—any woman—is worth destroying a rare friendship between two men? One which has endured the test of time and all the challenges of hierarchy?’
‘I will accept whatever punishment you see fit to bestow on me.’
‘You want to slug it out? Is that it?’
Suleiman stared at Murat and, for a moment, the years melted away. Suddenly they were no longer two powerful men with all the burdens and responsibilities which had come with age, but two eight-year-old boys squaring up to each other in the baked dust of the palace stables. It had been soon after Suleiman had been brought from Samahan and he had punched the young Sultan at the height of an argument which had long since been forgotten.
He remembered seeing the shock on Murat’s face. The realisation that here was someone who was prepared to take him on. Even to beat him. Murat had waved away the angry courtiers. But he had gone away and taken boxing lessons and, two weeks later, had fought again and soundly beaten Suleiman. After that, the fight victory rate had been spread out evenly.
Suleiman found himself wondering which of them would win, if they fought now. ‘No, I don’t want to fight you, Sire,’ he said. ‘But I am concerned about the fall-out, if this scheduled marriage doesn’t go ahead.’
‘As well you should be concerned!’ said Murat furiously. ‘For you know as well as I do that
