‘Since when has the truth been a hanging offence?’ Haroun argued. ‘We won the war yet you’re being bartered off to a bunch of boundary thieves, who were still herding sheep when our great-great-grandfather, Rashid, was a king!’
Conscious that many Najaris would agree with his sibling, for the war had sown deep enmity and prejudice between the people of both countries, Raja merely dealt the younger man an impatient appraisal. ‘I expect a more balanced outlook from a young man as well educated as you are.’
At the royal palace, the grey-haired and excessively precise Ashuri court advisor awaited Raja’s arrival with an assistant and both men were, indeed, wreathed in smiles.
‘My apologies if our timing has proved inconvenient, Your Royal Highness. Thank you for seeing us at such short notice.’ Bowing very low, Wajid wasted no time in making small talk. A man on a mission, he spread open a file on the polished table between them. ‘We have discovered that the only legal and marriageable female heir to the Ashuri throne is the daughter of the late King Anwar and a British citizen—’
‘A British citizen?’ Haroun repeated, intrigued. ‘Anwar was ruler before Princess Bariah’s father, King Tamim, wasn’t he?’
‘He was Tamim’s elder brother. I recall that King Anwar made more than one marriage,’ Raja remarked. ‘Who was the lady’s mother?’
The older man’s mouth compressed. ‘His first wife was an Englishwoman. The alliance was brief and she returned with the child to England after the divorce.’
‘And what age is Anwar’s daughter now?’ Haroun was full of lively curiosity.
‘Twenty-one years old. She has never been married.’
‘Half English,’ Prince Raja mused. ‘And still very young. Of good character?’
Wajid stiffened. ‘Of course.’
Raja was not so easily impressed. In his experience women who coveted the attentions of a prince were only looking for a good time and something sparkly to sweeten the deal. ‘Why did King Anwar divorce her mother?’
‘She was unable to have more children. It was a love match and short-lived,’ the older man commented with a scornful compression of his lips. ‘The king had two sons with his second wife, both of whom were killed during the war.’
Although Wajid was repeating information he was already well acquainted with, Raja dipped his head in respectful acknowledgement for a generation of young men who had been decimated by the conflict that had raged for so long. As far as he was concerned if his marriage could persuade bitter enemies to live together in peace, it was a small sacrifice in comparison to the endless funerals he had once been forced to attend.
‘The name of Anwar’s daughter?’
‘The princess’s name is Ruby. As her mother chose to leave Ashur, the royal family took no further interest in either mother or daughter. Unfortunately Princess Ruby has had no training or preparation for a royal role.’
Raja frowned. ‘In which case she would find the lifestyle and the expectations very challenging.’
‘The princess is young enough to learn quickly.’ The court advisor rubbed his hands together with unfeigned enthusiasm. ‘Our advisors believe she can be easily moulded.’
‘Have you a photograph to show my brother?’ Haroun questioned eagerly.
Wajid leafed through the file and extracted a small photo. ‘I’m afraid this is several years old but the most recent photograph we have.’
Raja studied the slender blonde in the miniskirt and T-shirt, captured outside the Ashuri cathedral in their capital city. It was a tourist snap and the girl still had the legginess and slightly chubby and unformed features of adolescence. Her pale colouring was very unusual in his culture and that long blonde hair was exceptionally attractive and he immediately felt guilty for that shallow reflection with his former fiancée, Bariah, so recently laid to rest. But in truth he had only met Bariah briefly on one formal occasion and she had remained a stranger to him.
Less guarded than his elder brother, Haroun studied Princess Ruby and loosed a long low whistle of boyish approval.
‘That is enough,’ Raja rebuked the younger man in exasperation. ‘When can I hope to meet her?’
‘As soon as we can arrange it, Your Royal Highness.’ Not displeased by the compliment entailed in Haroun’s whistle of admiration, Wajid beamed, relieved by Raja’s practical response to the offer of another bride. Not for the first time, Wajid felt that Prince Raja would be a king he could do business with. The Najari regent accepted his responsibilities without fuss and if there was one thing he knew inside out, it was how to be royal. A young woman blessed with his support and guidance would soon learn the ropes.
* * *
‘PLEASE, RUBY,’ STEVE PLEADED, gripping Ruby’s small waist with possessive hands.
‘No!’ Ruby told her boyfriend without hesitation. She pushed his hands from below her sweater. Although it didn’t appear to bother him she felt foolish grappling with him in broad daylight in a car parked in the shadiest corner of the pub car park.
Steve dealt her a sulky look of resentment before finally retreating back into the driver’s seat. Ruby, with her big brown eyes, blonde hair and fabulous figure, was a trophy and he was the envy of all his friends, but when she dug her heels in, she was as immovable as a granite rock. ‘Can I come over tonight?’
‘I’m tired,’ Ruby lied. ‘I should get back to work. I don’t want to be late.’
Steve dropped her back at the busy legal practice where she was a receptionist. They lived in the same Yorkshire market town. A salesman in an estate agency, Steve worked across the street from her and he was fighting a last-ditch battle to persuade Ruby that sex was a desirable activity. She had wondered if Steve might be the one to change her mind on that score for she had initially thought him very attractive. He had the blond hair and blue eyes she had always admired in men, but his kisses were wet and his roving hands squeezed her as if she were a piece of ripening fruit for sale on a stall. Steve had taught her that a man could be good-looking without being sexy.
‘You’re ten minutes late, Ruby,’ the office manager, a thin, bespectacled woman in her thirties, remarked sourly. ‘You need to watch your timekeeping.’
Ruby apologised and got back to work, letting her mind drift to escape the boredom of the routine tasks that made up her working day. When she had first started working at Collins, Jones & Fowler, she had been eighteen years old, her mother had just died and she had badly needed a job. Her colleagues were all female and older and the middle-aged trio of solicitors they worked for were an equally uninteresting bunch. Conversations were about elderly parents, children and the evening meal, never gossip, fashion or men. Ruby enjoyed the familiar faces of the regular clients and the brief snatches of friendly chatter they exchanged with her but continually wished that life offered more variety and excitement.
In comparison, her late mother, Vanessa, had had more than a taste of excitement while she was still young enough to enjoy it, Ruby recalled affectionately. As a youthful catwalk model in London, Vanessa had caught the eye of an Arab prince, who had married her after a whirlwind romance. Ruby’s birthplace was the country of Ashur in the Persian
