had imagined, and slender under his rich robes of gold and scarlet. There was something familiar in his features, the fine arched brows, the brown eyes under heavy lids, explained no doubt by Prince Ghutrif being related to one or several of the other sheikh princes Christopher had encountered on his travels.
There was another man seated in state beside him. A brother? A fellow prince? Now that the prince was seated, the women who must be the princesses, judging from the richness of their robes and jewels, were taking their time to find their seats, their attendants fussing over the arrangement of their silks. Four this time, not the five he’d seen at the market place. The Crown Princess must be too near her time to attend. One, swathed in the colours of the setting sun, was being ordered to change places, to sit not at her brother’s side, but beside the stranger, and as she moved Christopher’s stomach lurched. Impossible, he chided himself. A trick of the eye, a case of his senses mistaking reality for what he most wanted to see. But his stomach lurched again as she reached up to adjust her veil and her long sleeve fell back to reveal her wrist. And on it, a distinctive turquoise bracelet.
At last, the other three princesses were seated, their maidservants ranged behind them, the guards posted. With a quick, formal farewell to his companion, Christopher made his way swiftly to the other side of the track, and a better view of the royal box. He was being ridiculous, but his pounding heart and dry mouth didn’t appear to agree. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, her averted sidelong gaze, were all painfully familiar. If only she were not veiled. If only he could get close enough—but a guard barred his way, and a drum began to beat loudly, and Prince Ghutrif got once again to his feet, the signal for everyone else to drop to their knees.
But Christopher did not, for the woman in the colours of the rising sun had lifted her eyes to look at the crowd. Dark brown eyes, almond-shaped, under perfectly arched brows. Their gaze met and held, and those familiar eyes widened in horror, before the sharp tap of a guard’s lance brought Christopher to his knees. But he refused to drop his gaze. He watched her as her brother continued to pontificate, the things she had told him of her family, her life, her fate, sliding into place like the interconnected pieces of a puzzle. He had fantasised about seeing her in the daylight. Now his wish had been granted. Be careful what you wish for!
‘My people, we come together on this most happy of days to celebrate,’ the prince announced.
The crowd waited with bated breath to find out what was being celebrated but Christopher, with a sinking heart, already knew. Today was the day Tahira’s betrothal was to be formalised. Today was the day that...
‘His Royal Highness, Prince Zayn al-Farid, has pledged to marry my sister. I hope you will join with us in celebrating this most joyful and momentous occasion. Please rise, and let the festivities begin.’
Christopher rose, and so did his bile, and his fury, fuelled by the fact that Tahira’s brother had not even seen fit to give her name. Fists clenched, he stared at her, willing her to meet his eyes. And she did. As the man she was to marry took her hand and kissed her fingers, Tahira looked up, her free hand stretching towards him, and instinctively Christopher took a step towards her, heedless of anything but the sorrow in her eyes. But a guard barred his way, and he came to his senses, and anger returned full-force as he cursed, turning away from the woman who had lied to him, betrayed his trust, played him for the fool that he was.
He strode across the track, where the camels and their riders were milling, and kept on walking. He couldn’t wait to shake the sand from this cursed place out of his cloak for ever.
* * *
Tahira thought the day would never end. Seeing Christopher at the camel race, her poor heart had leapt pathetically in her breast, and for a fleeting, foolish moment, she thought he had come to save her from her fate. Why he would do so, why he was still here in Nessarah at all, she had no time to consider, for one glance at his equally shocked expression told her that she was the last person he had expected to see, and she tumbled back down to earth as she saw her betrayal written large on his face.
As the crowd roared, and her brother and husband-to-be dispensed ribbons, trophies and gold, and her sisters relished the spectacle, Tahira’s mind raced in quite another direction, out across the desert towards Christopher. She felt quite sick imagining what he must be thinking of her. She had not lied to him, but she knew that the truths she had concealed were tantamount to the same thing.
* * *
The races over, back at the palace Juwan held one of her interminable dinners as Tahira’s future husband dined in separate state with the menfolk. She gave him barely a thought. Shock had given way to a fierce determination to explain herself to Christopher, but the risks were enormous. She belonged to another now, it would be wrong of her to seek him out, but when she tried to reconcile herself to silence, every feeling rebelled. She had to see him. She had to explain. She had to.
And so she waited, growing more and more tense through dinner, finally claiming to be overwhelmed by the momentousness of the day, to have a headache, to require utter solitude, retiring to her divan long before the meal was finished. Locking her door and making her escape long before the harem lay silent for the night, she was far beyond counting the risk, the possible costs, ignoring Farah’s astounded pleas, caring only to reach Christopher, praying to the night stars which lit her way as she careered over the sands at a speed which would have won her first prize this afternoon, that he would still be there.
* * *
He was, standing outside the well house, arms crossed, as she approached. He wore his customary tunic and boots, his scimitar hanging at his side, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. The breeze ruffled his hair, but as Tahira neared, there was no welcoming smile, and as she drew her camel to a halt, his expression was blank, his eyes hard, the utter lack of emotion more intimidating than any show of anger.
‘You shouldn’t be here. Not tonight of all nights. Are you mad?’
It took all her courage to command her camel to its knees and to dismount, her knees trembling, her fingers too, as she fumbled over the simple task of tethering the beast, conscious all the time of Christopher watching her, unmoving. ‘I had to try to explain,’ Tahira said, turning to face him.
‘That you have been lying to me from the first moment we met? Poor little rich princess, forced to loll about in the lap of luxury, with her jewels and her silks and her sweetmeats, pretending that all she wants is to get her manicured hands dirty digging up the past.’
‘I have never pretended, Christopher, I...’
‘And my amulet. Did you know from the start that it belonged here in Nessarah? The diamonds which I went to such lengths to compare, were you laughing up your sleeve at me, knowing full well that they matched the crown jewels? Then there’s the turquoise from the mine which your brother owns. You had it on your wrist today and yet you let me risk life and limb to obtain a sample. Are you still wearing it?’
He grabbed her arm, and there was the bracelet she had in her haste forgotten to remove. ‘My brother had it made for me, from the first of the ore. I wore it for the first time today and only to remind me of you.’
‘To remind you of the man who had bared his soul to you, on the day you became betrothed to another,’ Christopher snapped, releasing her with a sneer of distaste. ‘As my amulet would forever remind me of you, if I still had it. “A connection,” you claimed. How disappointed you must have been when I decided not to return it to your family. An apt double symbol of the trust you betrayed. I am doubly glad I buried it.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Tahira said, covering her face.
‘It
