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Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride
Marguerite Kaye
Shipwrecked with the Sheikh!Sailing to India to marry a stranger, Constance Montgomery is shipwrecked off the Arabian coast of Murimon. The world believes her lost at sea, and only the kingdom’s ruler, Kadar, knows the truth. She’s honour-bound to leave, but the brooding Prince tempts Constance to stay…Kadar knows that no matter how beautiful Constance is she is forbidden. But every moment with her seduces him, until temptation becomes torment! Kadar thinks he has no heart left to offer any woman…can Constance prove him wrong?


Hot Arabian Nights
Be seduced and swept away by these desert princes!
You won’t want to miss this new,
thrillingly exotic quartet from Marguerite Kaye!
First, exiled Prince Azhar must decide whether to
claim his kingdom and beautiful unconventional widow Julia Trevelyan!
Read
The Widow and the Sheikh Already available!
When Sheikh Kadar rescues shipwrecked mail-order
bride Constance Montgomery, can a convenient
marriage help him maintain peace in his kingdom?
Find out in
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride Available now!
And watch out for two more tantalising novels, coming soon …
To secure his kingdom’s safety, Sheikh Rafiq must win
Arabia’s most dangerous horse race. His secret weapon
is an English horse-whisperer … whom he does not expect to be an irresistibly attractive woman!
Daredevil Christopher Fordyce has always craved
adventure. When his travels lead him to the kingdom of
Nessarah he makes his most exciting discovery yet—
a desert princess!
Author Note (#ulink_5899e26e-0eb1-5985-8ad2-4dbba6bc07f4)
The notion of having an astronomer heroine first occurred to me when I was researching Julia, the botanist heroine of the first book in this series, and stumbled across Caroline Herschel, sister of William—who discovered Uranus—in Richard Holmes’s brilliant book The Age of Wonder. I share my heroine’s sense of awe when looking up at the sky on a clear night—although, unlike Constance, when I first started on this book I had no idea what I was actually looking at.
It struck me, as I read up on the history of astronomy, that although today we know exponentially more—not only about our own galaxy but about the billions of others in the far-flung reaches of the universe—that the feeling of our humbling insignificance in the grand scheme of things, and the excitement of knowing there must be as yet undiscovered wonders out there, would be very similar to what she would have felt two hundred years before. In this sense I felt a true affinity with my stargazing heroine.
Sadly, living in Argyll on the west coast of Scotland, I find clear nights are a rarity, but writing this book has ignited a new passion which finds me huddled up under blankets in the darkest spot of the garden with my guide to the night sky. I should say at this point that my enthusiasm still far exceeds my knowledge, so any errors I’ve made in Constance’s celestial observations are entirely my own.
I hope you enjoy escaping to this romantic fantasy kingdom as much as I did when writing about it.

Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
Marguerite Kaye


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com (http://margueritekaye.com).
For my nana, Mary Macfarlane Binnie,
who bestowed her love of historical romance
on my mum, who in turn imparted it to me.
I hope you approve of my own modest efforts.
Contents
Cover (#u7f9fe1a9-4167-5257-88d9-9807cd969b8e)
Introduction (#u72dfae18-399c-5e8a-ba3b-0bacbeea98c7)
Author Note (#ue9965769-34df-55e9-87ff-6d531abdb2e6)
Title Page (#u72639e17-6fe6-599b-9247-4e3c78d46757)
About the Author (#ub0730a27-1107-522e-b36c-c461f86875c8)
Dedication (#u8f26fae9-3fb5-5d68-a325-269fb809ebdb)
Chapter One (#u09f845b3-f01f-509a-81fe-56b540032505)
Chapter Two (#u7eb94f04-2b35-532c-9faf-58b2046435d5)
Chapter Three (#u28e6f609-aee3-5852-83c7-f1462b002d97)
Chapter Four (#u5e0e9855-d3f0-5f7b-9edf-d981ecfd00c0)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_5500eb9e-4a56-5d52-9362-4126ea623fa0)
Kingdom of Murimon, Arabia—May 1815
Daylight was just starting to fade as he neared his journey’s end. He guided his deliberately modest caravan, consisting of the camel on which he sat and two pack mules, through the broad sweep of the valley floor where the largest of Murimon’s oases fed the fields and orchards, sheltered from the fierce heat of the desert sun by the serried ranks of date palms laden with their ripening fruit. Towering above, the crags of the Murimon Mountains he had just traversed provided further shelter, the silver-grey rock streaked with ochre, gold and umber glinting in the sun’s rays.
The small town which served the oasis was built into the foothills of the mountains, consisting of a steep jumble of houses and rooftops which clung precariously to the hillside, leaving every precious scrap of level land free for cultivation. The delicious aroma of roasted goat meat wafted on the faint breeze, along with the soft murmur of voices. There was precious little chance of him being recognised for who he was. His recently ended seven years of self-imposed exile and the kingdom’s state of hibernation due to the current period of deep mourning saw to that. But he kept his gaze turned away all the same, leading his camel and his little train of pack mules past the town towards the final mountain pass he must negotiate, keffiyeh pulled over his face leaving only his eyes uncovered.
His brother would not have countenanced travelling in such a low-key manner. Butrus would have ridden in regal splendour at the head of a caravan of magnificent proportions designed to proclaim his majesty, to encourage his people to pay homage to their ruler, to marvel at and to revere him, to bask in the opulent glare of his princely person. But Butrus was dead. He, Kadar, was Prince of Murimon now. Ostentation sat uneasily with him, though he was beginning to realise that his personal views quite often differed from those of his subjects, and their expectations of him.
Three short months Kadar had reigned, and the full gamut and weight of responsibility he had been forced to assume were becoming clearer. Responsibilities that would never have been his, had fate not twisted and turned so cruelly. He had returned from his exile to attend his brother’s wedding as an honoured guest. Instead, he had attended his funeral. Kadar’s domain was no longer the palace library he had more or less inhabited while growing up here, but this entire nation. People and not books were his subjects. Instead of studying and interpreting the complex legal systems, both ancient and modern, of other lands, for other rulers, he must apply the laws of this land himself, sitting in judgement on a royal throne rather than interpreting dusty tomes in a seat of learning.
Emerging from the narrow pass onto the plateau, Kadar brought his camel to a halt. Below him lay the palace, the wide courtyard already lit by the lanterns hanging in the distinctive rows of palm trees which stood guard with military precision at the entrance to the palace itself. The serpentine road which wound down the cliffs to the port was also lit, lamps winking in the fast-fading light, like stars greeting the dusk. And below that, the two enveloping arms of the harbour, the dark mass of ships and the vast sweep of the Arabian Sea.
The sun was setting on the horizon, a golden orb casting streaks of vermilion, scarlet, orange and dusky pink into the sky. The rhythmic swish of the waves on the shore was like a whispered lullaby. It was the sea he had missed most in his years abroad. No other sea was so brightly blue, scenting the air with that unique combination of salt and heat. Kadar took several deep breaths. The relatively short journey to a neighbouring kingdom he had just completed, his first official state visit, had changed him irrevocably, forcing him to accept that his wishes, his desires, were no longer relevant. Or rather the outcome of this visit had done so. He was a prince first now, a man second. His unwanted inheritance must take priority over all else. Accepting custody of the kingdom he had always loved, he could reconcile himself to that. But as to the stranger he had inherited as a bride...
No! Every instinct rebelled. The echoes of the past, the dark, painful memories which he had travelled half the world to escape, still had the power to wrench at his heart. He could not endure it. Yet he must, and he could.
He must not draw comparisons between the past and the present. He must not dwell on the similarities, must focus on the differences. For a start, this particular woman had made her indifference to him very clear, a sentiment he reciprocated entirely, despite her beauty. It ought to make it easier. No need for pretence. No requirement for false declarations of emotions he was incapable of feeling. Not now. Not ever again.
It ought to make it easier, and yet still he struggled to reconcile himself to this passionless contract. He must steel himself. He must remember that this wedding was what his people demanded, his country required. To honour his brother’s memory by fulfilling his brother’s vision of a new royal dynasty and a suitable heir. And more importantly for Kadar, a large dowry, money with which he could transform Murimon, bring it into the nineteenth century, implement his own golden vision for his people’s future.
Yes, he could do that. It was a huge personal sacrifice, but it was one worth making.
Arabian Sea—three weeks earlier
The storm had been gathering ominously on the horizon for some time. Lady Constance Montgomery, standing in what had become her habitual position on the deck of the East Indiaman sailing ship Kent, watched as the grey clouds mustered, rolling onto the distant stage one after the other as if in response to some invisible cue.
They had been at sea for nine weeks. Captain Cobb reckoned it would be another three before they reached their destination, Bombay. Only three more weeks before Constance would meet, for the first time, the prominent East India merchant who was to be her husband. No matter how hard she tried, she was still unable to prevent that sickening little lurch in her stomach every time she was reminded of this call of duty that took her halfway around the world.
She had resisted this marriage which was convenient for all but herself. She had reasoned. She had come up with any number of alternatives. She had even, to her shame, resorted to tears. But when all her stratagems failed, when it became clear that her fate was sealed, she had resigned herself to it. Boarding the Kent at Plymouth, she had felt as if she was jumping off a cliff rather than stepping onto a ship, her eyes screwed shut to avoid the ground rushing up to meet her. The ground, in the form of this arranged match, was not rushing, but it was inching inexorably closer as the East Indiaman sailed across the ocean on fickle winds, edging ever nearer to Bombay. Constance had begun to dread their arrival. This marriage—or any marriage for that matter—ran counter to all her inclinations.
Oh, dear! She had promised herself not to pick over it all again. The deed was done, the deal had been made—for a business transaction by another name this marriage most certainly was. The exorbitant sum of money Papa required to save the estates had been despatched by Mr Gilmour Edgbaston. The goods, in the form of Constance, were in transit in the opposite direction. ‘And there’s no point in railing against your fate,’ the most expensive piece of cargo on the ship told herself firmly. ‘The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.’
An excellent resolution and one, she had persuaded herself before she sailed, which was quite achievable. But before she had sailed, she had been bolstered by Mama’s happy smiles and confident assertions that Constance was doing the right thing. Now, very far from home indeed, with far too much time to consider the reality of the situation, she was not at all sure that Mama’s simple philosophy that money was the root of all evils and the source of all happiness had any foundation at all. Not that she had ever believed it. She’d simply had no option but to pretend to do so, because Papa had given Mama no choice, and so Mama had been forced to demand this ultimate sacrifice of her daughter.
It hurt. It hurt a great deal more than Constance had ever permitted Mama to see. A great deal more than she cared to admit even to herself too, so she endeavoured not to think about it and she succeeded, mostly. Save that here she was again, dwelling on it most pointlessly. ‘When my time would be a great deal more productively spent dwelling on how I can make sure my marriage does not become a prison cell in which I must serve a life sentence,’ she told herself sternly.
Her heart sank. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to force herself to feel positive about something so very negative. She had three more weeks at sea. Three last weeks of freedom, and three more weeks to make the most of the spectacular stargazing opportunities the long sea journey had granted her as they travelled under unfamiliar skies, crossing the equator into the southern hemisphere before crossing back into the northern hemisphere again on this final part of the journey.
Mind you, it was doubtful whether she’d see anything of value through her telescope tonight, Constance thought. The clouds had merged into one roiling mass now, an angry pewter colour, dense iron grey at the centre. Around her on the deck the crew were struggling with the rigging. The calm deep blue of the Arabian Sea, with its crystal-tipped waves, like the clouds, seemed to be forming into one foaming mass, a more sinister sea which moved in one great rolling motion, sending the Kent high above the horizon before plunging low, into the depths of the swell.
Constance retreated into the lea of the main mast in the middle of the ship, but spray soaked her face and travelling gown. Above her, terrifyingly high on the crow’s nest, a sailor signalled frantically to the crew.
‘Best get down below decks, your ladyship,’ one of the ship’s officers told her. ‘We’re going to head in towards the shelter of the coast, but I’m not sure we’ll be able to outrun the storm. It’s going to get a tad rough.’
‘A tad?’ Staggering as the Kent crested the swell like a rearing stallion, Constance laughed. ‘That sounds to me rather an understatement.’
‘Aye. So you’d best get below sharpish. If you thought the Bay of Biscay was rough, I assure you it was nothing to what’s heading our way. Now if you’ll excuse me.’
The ship listed again. Above her, the mast creaked alarmingly. Barefooted Jack Tars clung tenaciously to the sodden decks, going about the business of steering the huge three-master towards safer waters. Several of the soldiers of the Thirty-First Regiment of Foot, en route to a posting in India, were helping out, looking decidedly unsteady in comparison to the sailors, but Constance was the only civilian left on deck. The wives and children of the soldiers and the twenty other private passengers including Mrs Peacock, the returning merchant’s wife whom Papa had paid to act as companion and protect his daughter’s valuable reputation during the voyage, were all safe and dry below.
She really ought to join them. It was becoming treacherous on deck, but it was also incredibly invigorating. Here was a breath of true freedom. Constance found a more secure spot under the main mast, out of the way of the crew and mostly out of sight too. Though her stomach lurched with every climb and dip, she had discovered very early on in the voyage that she was an excellent sailor, and felt not remotely ill. Spray, heavy with salt, burned her skin. Her hair escaped from its rather haphazard coiffure, whipping her cheeks, blowing wildly about her face. The wind was up now, roaring and whistling through the rigging, making the sails crack. The ship too was protesting at the tempest, the timbers emitting an oddly human groan as they strained against the nails and caulking which bound them together.
The spray had become a thick mist through which Constance could make out only the very hazy outlines of scurrying sailors. The ship listed violently to port, throwing her from her hiding place, sending her sliding out of control across the deck, saved only when her flailing hands caught at a rope. The swell was transformed into terrifyingly high walls of water which broke over the decks. Clutching desperately at her rope, she was dimly aware of other bodies slipping and sliding around her. The ship listed again, this time to starboard. Men cried out, their voices sharp with fear. Below decks, women were screaming.
This time when the Kent tilted on her side, perilously close to the water, Constance didn’t think she could possibly be righted. By some miracle, the vessel came round, but a blistering sound preceded the sheering of the mizzenmast from the decking.
Chaos ensued. Screaming. Tearing canvas. Crashing timber. The hoarse, desperate cries of sailors trying to save their ship and their passengers and themselves. The thud and scramble of feet on decks. And above all the roaring and crashing of the sea as it fought for supremacy.
It was no easy battle. The Kent was built to ride such storms, and her captain was a man experienced in doing so. Staggering like a drunken sot, the ship careered towards the calmer waters of the Arabian coast. Women and children, soldiers and sailors, spilled out onto the top deck, scrambling up from below to cling to the remnants of the fallen mast, to the rigging, to the torn sails, to each other.
Constance, flung against the foremast, her skirts tangled in rope, saw it all through a sheen of spray, frozen with fear and at the same time fiercely determined to live. It was invigorating, this determination—proof that her spirit was neither tamed nor broken.
She would not allow herself to perish. On she clung, and on the ship tossed and dived, corkscrewing and listing, so that even Constance’s strong stomach protested, until finally land came into sight and with it the promise of safety, the force of the storm either spent or left behind them.
She was loosening her painful grip on the rope when the main mast suddenly went, taking the foremast with it. The Kent rolled onto her starboard side, hurling Constance overboard, throwing her high into the air before she plunged headlong into the Arabian Sea.
Kingdom of Murimon, Arabia
She had been marooned here in this remote Arabian fishing village for about three weeks when the authorities finally came for her. Constance watched from the shore as the large dhow moored at the mouth of the inlet which served as a harbour, dwarfing the little fishing boats which had returned with the day’s catch. The slim hull was glossily varnished and trimmed with gold, with an enclosed cabin built to the aft, the top deck of which formed another deck covered with a large awning. The lateen sail was scarlet.
The villagers crowded around her. They too knew that the arrival of this ship signalled her imminent departure. She didn’t want to leave, though she knew she must. It was impossible for her to remain here, becalmed for ever. The sea had temporarily washed all her responsibilities away, but the future she dreaded still loomed somewhere on the horizon. This sleek ship would be the first step of the journey she must resume.
Bashir, the village elder in whose home she had been cared for, made a formal greeting to the official-looking man who stepped from the boat almost before it was tied up. A tall angular man with piercing nut-brown eyes set beneath luxuriantly bushy brows, his beard was trimmed to a sharp point. His bony fingers were impeccably manicured. His pinched face and pained expression were at odds with his expensive-looking robes. Screwing up his face, he produced a piece of parchment and unrolled it with a flourish. ‘Lady Constance Montgomery?’
Her name sounded odd when spoken with his accent, but it was definitely her name. With a sinking heart, Constance made an awkward curtsy. The wound on her head began to throb. One of the women had removed the tiny stitches only that morning. The skin felt tight, but the stabbing pain behind her eyes had long since faded, and the resultant headaches were all but gone.
‘Welcome to the kingdom of Murimon. You will come with me.’
It was a command, not a request. Constance had time only to make swift and rather tearful farewells while the official took Bashir aside. A few minutes later, she clasped the elder’s hands, expressing her abject thanks as best she could, before being ushered aboard the dhow.
She spent the journey huddled in the cabin, unexpectedly overcome with fear as the ship set sail. It was ridiculous of her, for the sea was flat calm, the skies above perfectly clear, the wind a gentle zephyr, but as she placed her bare feet on the deck and felt the gentle sway of the boat, a cold, clammy sweat broke out on her skin. Her ears were filled once more with the roar of the waves, the crack of the masts, and the screams of the Kent’s passengers. Thankfully, the official who escorted her seemed content to leave her alone, though whether for reasons of propriety or simply because he was offended by her presence here, she had no idea.
* * *
The sun was going down when they arrived at the port. Constance staggered from the dhow and into a covered chair, caring nothing save that they were on dry land. The chairmen moved off swiftly. As she closed her eyes in an effort to compose herself, she was aware that they were climbing but of little else. Set down in a huge enclosed courtyard, she blinked in the glow of what seemed like a thousand candles, but the zealous official was already waving her on urgently, giving her no choice but to follow.
She padded in the wake of the man along the smooth, polished marble floors of endless corridors. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she must look, with her skin burning from the day’s sun, her wound like a brand on her forehead, her feet bare, and the rough brown tunic she wore big enough to encompass at least two of her.
As they came to a massive double door presided over by a hulking guard with a huge sabre, the reality of her situation dawned abruptly on her. She was in a foreign country, quite alone, and completely at the mercy of whoever was on the other side of this door. Captain Cobb? She presumed there must be other survivors of the shipwreck. It was too awful to contemplate that six hundred souls had perished and that miraculously she had not. An official equerry? A prison guard? A harem eunuch? The colour drained from her cheeks.
Constance shook out the copious folds of her borrowed tunic over her bare toes, and pushed her hair back from her face. Her heart was racing. Her legs were shaking. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly as the doors were flung open.
Chapter Two (#ulink_cce04d6a-c183-5bdc-a0c0-a90f1fb6011f)
Constance found herself in a huge room with a domed ceiling illuminated by three massive, glittering chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles so bright they dazzled her, making bright spots dance in front of her eyes. In the doorway beside her, two identical statues stood sentinel, some type of mythical sabre-toothed felines who looked as if they were about to pounce and devour her. She shivered.
A man stood at the far end of the salon gazing out of a row of tall windows into the darkness beyond. He was dressed from head to toe in white silk robes, his cloak woven with golden threads. Diamonds glittered in the band which held his headdress in place. He was both tall and lean, yet she had the distinct impression of a latent strength in the broad set of his shoulders.
‘Lady Constance Montgomery,’ the official announced in his thick accent, giving her a little push. ‘His Most Royal Highness, Prince Kadar of Murimon.’
The heavy wooden doors closed behind her with a resounding thud, the Prince turned around, and Constance’s heart skipped a beat, her mouth went dry, and the muscles in her belly clenched in a visceral surge of desire that took her entirely by surprise.
He was young, no more than thirty. His brow was high, his face long, his nose strong. Austere features, not handsome in the conventional sense, actually slightly forbidding, framed as they were by his headdress. Definitely not a man who needed his regal robes to underline his natural air of authority. It was evident in his demeanour, in that haughty expression, and in those remarkable eyes, which were almond-shaped and wide-set, a curious colour which was neither grey nor green. Like all the men in this land, he wore a beard, but his was trimmed very close, not much more than a dark shadow, drawing attention to the contrasting smoothness of his cheekbones, the disturbingly sensual curve of his mouth. Beneath her rustic tunic, Constance felt her skin flush as heat suffused her. Those lips were sinful.
‘Lady Constance.’
With a start, she dropped into a low, sweeping curtsy. She had been staring at the Prince like a ravening wolf. Her eyes lowered, she had the sense of a lithe grace as he crossed the room towards her, his feet clad in black slippers embroidered with gold, his robes fluttering around the long length of his legs. Dear heavens, she should not be looking at his legs. She raised her eyes. Slim hips. She oughtn’t to look at those either. A belt slung around his narrow waist, chased with gold and at the centre, an enormous jewel glowed red and luminous, like a diamond lit by fire.
‘Please, rise.’
His voice was husky. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. For goodness’ sake, Constance, pull yourself together! The hand he extended was slim, the long fingers artistic, the nails neatly trimmed. His skin was cool to the touch. Mortified, she realised her own palms were clammy, her skin most likely ruined beyond recognition by a combination of salt and sun. Which all paled into insignificance when compared to her windswept hair, which most likely looked as if it had birds nesting in it, her sack-like gown and her grubby bare feet. She felt like Cendrillon in Monsieur Perrault’s story. It was a shame this prince had no slippers to offer her. She curled her toes further under her tunic.
‘Your Highness, it is an honour,’ Constance said.
‘In the circumstances, I am not sure that “welcome” is the most appropriate epithet to use to describe your somewhat unconventional arrival in Murimon, but I hope you will allow me to welcome you to my kingdom nonetheless.’
Surprise made her forget protocol. ‘Oh, you speak English beautifully.’
‘Thank you. My childhood tutor would be most gratified to hear that.’
Colour flooded her cheeks, for his words were lightly ironic. ‘I did not mean to imply astonishment that you can speak my language, only delight. It is a pleasure, Your Highness, to make your acquaintance.’
‘I fear that sentiment may alter when you hear what I have to say. Please, won’t you sit down?’
The chamber was even bigger than she had realised when she first entered it. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the blaze of light cast by the extraordinary chandeliers, Constance could see it was almost the same proportions as the tea room in the Bath Assembly Halls, with the same style of double-columned balcony on the side opposite the windows. But there the similarities ended. Every available wall surface in this salon was tiled, row after row of rich gold and earth colours, separated by elaborately carved rococo dados. On the furthest wall was something which looked rather like a four-poster bed, and which Constance assumed must be the royal throne. Though the floor immediately in front of it was covered in thick silk rugs, there was, however, not a single other seat, cushion or chair to be found.
Prince Kadar seemed to realise this at the same time as Constance did. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said ruefully, ‘the Royal Saloon is designed to intimidate visitors, not offer them comfort. I had forgotten.’
‘Forgotten?’
‘I have used this room but once before. When I took my vows.’
‘Your vows,’ Constance repeated, wondering if she was being obtuse. ‘Ah, I see now. This room is used for royal weddings?’
‘I am not married.’ A flicker of something—pain? Sorrow? Regret?—passed over the Prince’s countenance, but it was gone so quickly Constance might well have imagined it. ‘The solemn vows I took when I assumed the crown,’ he said.
‘Oh, you mean your coronation.’
Another shake of the head. ‘No, that ceremony was postponed until after the period of national mourning for my elder brother, who died suddenly three months ago.’
‘I am so sorry, how dreadful. My most sincere condolences.’
She had reached out to touch him in an automatic gesture of sympathy. The Prince was staring at her grubby, tanned hand with its ragged nails, which contrasted starkly with the pristine sleeve of his tunic, as if fascinated. Or more likely repelled. Or simply appalled at her lack of deference. Constance snatched her hand away. ‘Were you close, you and your brother?’
He took so long to answer she wondered if he had heard her question. Or perhaps posing it had been another breach of protocol. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat. ‘I have been living abroad for the last seven years.’
Which was no answer, but his frosty expression made it clear the subject was closed. When he turned his back, Constance began to panic. She had offended him. The audience was over before it had begun, and she knew not a single fact more than when she had arrived. ‘Please, Your Highness, if you could...’
He held his hand out to silence her. ‘One moment.’ The throne or divan or whatever it was, was covered in scarlet cushions tasselled with gold. Prince Kadar began to strew them on the floor. ‘There,’ he said, when the throne lay bare and the floor contained two heaps of cushions, ‘now we may both be seated in comfort.’
He sank down with a fluidity she could not dream of imitating, crossing his legs with enviable ease, indicating that she sit opposite him. Considerably impeded by her voluminous tunic, Constance did as he bid her. The Prince tugged off his headdress, casting it carelessly, with its diamond-encrusted band, onto the stripped throne. His hair was black, silky, dishevelled, curling down over the collar of his tunic at the back, the contrast with his austere countenance adding another dimension to his allure. He really was a very, very attractive man.
‘You were saying?’
Constance started. ‘What?’ She blushed. ‘I mean, I beg your pardon.’ She pushed her wild tangle of hair away from her face. ‘I mean, yes, I was. I was wondering—that is—the other passengers on the Kent, the crew, Captain Cobb.’
‘Of course.’
Prince Kadar rested his chin on his steepled fingers. His eyes really were an extraordinary colour, like stone speckled with lichen. What was he thinking? She shifted uncomfortably on the cushions. She wished he would say something. ‘Your Highness? I cannot be the only survivor, surely?’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Another pause. ‘You are anxious. Forgive me, the situation is somewhat awkward, I was trying to think how best to explain it.’
‘I much prefer the unvarnished truth. I find it is less painful in the long run.’
This remark earned her another of those looks. Assessing, that was the word she had been searching for. ‘You speak as one who has experience of—er—painful truths?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘It is what you implied.’
‘Goodness,’ Constance retorted, ‘am I on trial?’
Prince Kadar flinched. Then he smiled ruefully. ‘I beg your pardon, of course not. I find you—interesting.’
Which was no compliment, she was sure, but she was blushing all the same. ‘Well,’ Constance said, flustered, ‘I find you interesting too.’ Could she find anything more fatuous to say! ‘I mean, I have never met a prince before.’ Or inane! ‘You were right.’ Deflated, she smiled at him awkwardly. ‘I have had a great deal of experience in painful truths of late, but if you are thinking that I am likely to dissolve into hysterics at whatever it is you have to tell me, then let me reassure you, I am not the hysterical type.’
‘After what you have been through, I am surprised that you have any equanimity at all,’ the Prince replied. ‘Your composure is admirable.’
‘Oh, it’s not. Trust me, beneath this stylish piece of clothing, which is the only one I possess, I am shaking like a jelly.’
The faintest trace of colour stained his cheeks in response to this remark. His gaze was fixed on the gaping neck of her tunic. She had embarrassed him. And now she had embarrassed herself again. Constance bit back her apology, realizing just in time that it would only make matters worse, deciding to take a leaf out of the Prince’s book, and hold her tongue. And stop fidgeting. And stop staring.
‘The sinking of the Kent,’ Prince Kadar pronounced finally, as if he were reading from Shakespeare. ‘First of all, I must apologise. I was out of the country on state business when the ship went down, and since my return I have been required to devote my time to dealing with the consequences of the shipwreck. I am afraid the message sent to the palace informing us of your survival was overlooked until yesterday. Be assured that I acted upon it immediately.’
‘The man you sent was certainly efficient,’ Constance replied, ‘though I confess I found the sea journey somewhat more of an ordeal than I anticipated. I fear I can no longer claim to be such an excellent sailor as I once was.’
‘I am sorry. It did not occur to me that another sea voyage so soon after your ordeal would be a fraught experience for you. I thought only to have you brought here by the fastest route possible.’
‘Please, think nothing of it.’ Constance repressed a shudder. ‘My only regret is that my expression of thanks to Bashir, the village elder whose family cared for me, were woefully inadequate.’
‘You need not fret about that. I instructed my Chief Adviser to ensure that the village was rewarded for the care which they took of you. I am sure that Abdul-Majid said and did everything that was appropriate. He is a most—a most conscientious servant of the crown.’
Though not a servant close to Prince Kadar’s heart, if she did not mistake that tiny little moue of distaste. ‘A Chief Adviser,’ Constance said, ‘implies that you have many others.’
‘A great many, all most anxious to air their opinions, none of which, I am fairly certain, coincide with mine.’
The words were spoken with some feeling. The Prince looked as if he would prefer them unsaid. Tempted as she was—very tempted—to pursue the matter, Constance decided not to risk a further retreat into that haughty shell of his. Her fingers strayed to her wound, which was beginning to throb.
‘Does it pain you? Will I call a physician? Has the journey exhausted you? Would you prefer to postpone this discussion until you are rested?’
‘No.’ She smiled reassuringly, for the Prince looked genuinely concerned. ‘No and no.’ Constance sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees as butterflies started up in her stomach again. ‘Please continue.’
‘Very well,’ he said brusquely. ‘First of all, I should inform you most regretfully that there were fatalities. Twenty-seven—twenty-six, now that we know you are not one of them, a small percentage from a ship’s complement of six hundred. The captain managed to steer close enough to our waters for our fishing dhows to rescue the vast majority of people on board, and to recover the bodies of all those unfortunate souls who perished. You are the only one who seems to have been swept so far from our main port. The piece of broken mast you were found clinging to in all likelihood saved your life.’
‘Is Captain Cobb among the survivors?’
‘Yes, it is from him that we gained some basic knowledge of you. Your name, your place of embarkation, your destination, and your companion for the journey. I am afraid, Lady Constance, that she was one of the souls who perished. Please accept my condolences for your loss.’
‘Oh, dear. Excuse me.’ Constance dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. ‘Mrs Peacock was returning to India to rejoin her husband after an extended visit with her family in England. Poor woman.’
‘We had assumed she was a relative.’
‘No, I met her only the day before we boarded, but I am truly sorry to hear that she has perished. My father paid her to play companion to me. We shared a cabin. It would not have been proper for me to have travelled alone.’
‘Your father is in England, then, and not in Bombay?’
‘Both my parents are in England. Why do you ask?’
Prince Kadar looked grave. ‘A full report of the fate of the Kent, its cargo, its passengers and crew, and the numerous steps my kingdom has taken to provide assistance, has already been sent to your Consul General in Cairo. I am not sure how long it will be before that report arrives in England, but I fear it will be before we can have an addendum sent.’
‘Addendum?’
‘Lady Constance, in my report you are listed as missing, presumed dead. Yours was the only body from the ship’s complement unaccounted for. As time passed it became ever more certain that you had perished, unfortunately.’
Constance stared at him in dismay. ‘You mean my mother will be informed that I have drowned?’
‘I am afraid so. And so too will whoever was to receive you in Bombay when Captain Cobb arrives to break the news.’
‘Captain Cobb? Arriving in Bombay? But...’ Her head was beginning to reel. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘We were most fortuitously able to provide the captain with a replacement ship. He was most anxious to reach his destination, and since all hope of finding you alive had been abandoned, there was no reason for them to delay their journey further. They set sail almost a week ago.’
‘A week! A whole week! Then there is no chance of my joining them?’
‘No chance whatsoever,’ the Prince replied with an air of finality. ‘May I ask, Lady Constance, why you were aboard the Kent? These East India ships have a very high attrition rate. Your parents must have been aware of the risks when they made arrangements for you to sail east.’
‘They were assured that I was in safe hands, since Captain Cobb enjoys an excellent reputation as one of the finest captains in the entire fleet and—and it seems it was deserved, for to only lose twenty-six lives from six hundred, when it could have been so much worse, is admirable seamanship.’
‘Assured by whom?’
‘The man who arranged my journey, who as a major shareholder is therefore extremely well versed in such matters.’
‘Ah, you mean this man is a merchant of the East India Company?’
‘Yes. Mr Gilmour Edgbaston.’
‘A relative?’
‘Not as such. Mr Edgbaston and I are— We are— The fact of the matter is that I was on my way to India to marry Mr Edgbaston,’ Constance said faintly. ‘And now when Captain Cobb arrives he will have the sad task of informing my future husband that his bride has drowned at sea.’ She swallowed a bubble of hysterical laughter. ‘You can have no idea, Your Highness, how convenient that would be if it were true.’
* * *
Having absolutely no idea at all what to make of this last remark, Kadar studied the Englishwoman in some consternation. When he had first spotted it on the list of those who had perished, Lady Constance Montgomery’s name had conjured up an image of a very proper middle-aged matron. He could not have been more wrong. The rough peasant’s tunic she wore was far too big for her slim figure. Her hair, a deep glossy brown, tumbled down over her shoulders in wild waves. There was a roundness to her cheeks, a fullness to her lips quite at odds with the rather fierce brows. Her brown eyes were wide-spaced, fringed with thick lashes. Her gaze was direct and intelligent, a striking contrast to the vulnerability of her softer features and one which Kadar found unexpectedly—and most inappropriately—beguiling.
‘You cannot mean that you wish yourself dead,’ he said, wondering if the raw pink scar on her forehead had deranged her mind.
She shook her head slowly. ‘No, no, of course I don’t mean that literally only—oh, I don’t suppose you will understand. Being a prince, I expect you are accustomed to arranging your life exactly as you wish it, but...’
‘You are mistaken,’ Kadar answered with some feeling. ‘I had a great deal more freedom when I was not a prince.’
‘Oh?’
Her gaze was curious. He was oddly tempted to explain himself, which was of course ridiculous. Instead, he found himself contemplating Lady Constance’s feet. They looked vulnerable, her dainty little toes peeping out from her tunic. But he should not be looking at her toes, dainty or otherwise. ‘You were telling me why you wished yourself dead.’
‘I was telling you that I don’t truly wish that. Only that I wish— Oh, it sounds silly now. I wish I could have remained undiscovered. Missing presumed free, so to speak.’ She gave a wry little shrug. ‘My marriage was arranged by my parents. I’ve never met Mr Edgbaston, and know very little about him at all, save his name, age and circumstances. When I left England, I thought I had resigned myself to making the best of the situation but I’ve had the whole sea voyage to—to reconsider.’
‘And while you were—what did you call it?—undiscovered you could pretend that it would never happen, is that it?’
Lady Constance nodded. ‘As I said, it was silly of me, but...’
‘But understandable,’ Kadar said, with feeling. ‘Bad enough that you are being forced into a marriage to a man you have never met, but to have to travel halfway across the world, to leave behind all your friends, all your family, your most intimate acquaintance a woman you met for the first time on the day you boarded the ship, it is outrageous.’
‘When you put it like that, I rather think I would be better off dead.’
‘I apologise, I did not mean to upset you. It is merely that I—’ Kadar broke off, shaking his head. ‘My words were quite out of turn,’ he said stiffly. ‘I have no right at all to comment on your personal situation.’
None! And no right to express his own feelings on the matter. He was a prince. How many times must he remind himself of that fact? It did not matter what brought Lady Constance Montgomery here. He had more than enough troubles of his own without becoming embroiled in what amounted to a family matter, no matter how much sympathy he felt for this woman with her clear gaze and her wry smile, the wild curl of her hair trailing down her back over that peasant’s tunic, and her bare little toes. Now was not the time to be distracted by any of these completely irrelevant attributes, nor to delve further into the precise nature of her betrothal. The vast majority of marriages in the higher echelons of society were arranged, in both England and in Arabia. What he needed to do was to concentrate on resolving her sudden and frankly inconvenient reappearance.
‘The question now is,’ Kadar said, ‘to decide what is to be done for the best.’
‘There really is nothing to discuss,’ she replied flatly. ‘I too spoke out of turn. I have had my little idyll, and I rather enjoyed it, with no one knowing who I was or what I was or even knowing where I was. But it is over now. I am back from the dead, and must find a way of resuming my journey to India.’
Must? He did not like the implications of that word, but it was not his place to consider them. She was no child; she looked to be at least twenty-four or twenty-five, and she clearly knew her own mind. ‘I am afraid you don’t quite grasp the implications of what I have told you, Lady Constance,’ Kadar said. ‘When Captain Cobb reaches Bombay, this man to whom you are betrothed will be informed of your death. The missive which I have sent to the Consul General in Cairo will at some point in the near future result in your parents also being informed of your demise. I am very sorry to be so blunt, but you did say...’
‘I did, I said I wanted the unvarnished truth.’ Lady Constance winced. ‘I did not expect it to be quite so brutal, but in essence it changes nothing, save that it makes it even more important that I complete my journey as soon as possible. I do not wish Mr Edgbaston to acquire another bride to take my place.’
Kadar nodded slowly. ‘Very well, then I will have the matter investigated, but I should warn you that as things stand, the next ship heading east to Bombay is not expected in our port for at least two months.’
‘Two months!’ Lady Constance blanched. ‘Which means I would not arrive in Bombay for another three months. And in the meantime, Mr Edgbaston will continue under the illusion that I am dead.’
‘The alternative is to return to your family in England. Under the circumstances, the traumatic ordeal you have endured, no reasonable person could condemn you for wishing to do so.’
‘Unfortunately, my father is not a reasonable person, and would be more than likely to condemn me,’ she retorted. Her cheeks flamed. ‘I beg your pardon, I should not have said—but there can be no question of my going back to England. I should not have given voice to my doubts. I should not even have allowed them into my head. I beg you to ignore them. I am honour-bound to marry Mr Edgbaston, Your Highness. My father received, in advance, a rather substantial dowry in return for my—my promise to wed, you see.’ She summoned up a smile. ‘In effect, I am bought and paid for.’
‘You are not a piece of cargo, Lady Constance.’
‘Oh, but that is exactly what I am, Your Highness.’ Her fingers strayed to her wound. ‘Damaged goods at that, currently lost in transit.’
There was just a trace of bitterness in her tone. She obviously knew perfectly well that she was being used and abused, but was determined not to be diminished by the fact, or to show her hurt. Was this how his affianced bride felt? No, he must not allow his mind to travel down that path. The contract had been agreed. As it had been for Lady Constance and her East India merchant.
Kadar smiled faintly as the legal implications of this struck him. ‘You know, as things stand at present, your situation is a rather interesting conundrum. Since in your own words you have been—er—bought and paid for, from your father’s point of view, the contract has been fulfilled.’
‘Which is why I cannot return to England, and am duty-bound to marry Mr Edgbaston.’
Which meant, presumably, that her father had already spent his ill-gotten gains. ‘On the contrary,’ Kadar said through slightly gritted teeth. ‘Mr Edgbaston cannot marry a woman who has drowned. According to the English law of contract and the customs and conventions which govern international trade, loss which results from force majeure, in other words the storm which sank the Kent, frees both parties from either liability or obligation.’
Her smile was slow to come as she began to comprehend the meaning of his words, but it was worth waiting for. Her big brown eyes gleamed with humour. Her lips had a wicked curve to them. It lit up her face, that smile, quite transforming her hitherto serious expression, revealing a very different woman. Carefree. Captivating. Yes, that was the word. Under other circumstances, untrammelled by the burden she carried, she would be quite captivating. Kadar was certain, though he had absolutely no grounds to be so, that the faceless merchant she was to marry would not see this side of her. He wanted to set her free, which was impossible. He also wanted her. Which was unusual. And equally impossible.
‘So, provided I remain technically dead, the contract is void?’
Had he been staring at her? Kadar gave himself a little shake. ‘Precisely. At this moment in time your life is quite literally shipwrecked, cast adrift from both the past and the future. You can make of yourself anything you will.’
‘I could be reborn.’ Lady Constance sighed. Her smile faded. ‘It is an attractive conceit, but without the means to survive, I’m afraid I must remain in my current incarnation.’ She smothered a yawn. ‘I am so sorry, it has been a very long day.’
The journey she had just made under Abdul-Majid’s escort, the trauma she had so recently endured, was clearly taking its toll. Her skin was pale, the raw pink wound on her forehead angry in contrast. ‘You have been through a difficult ordeal,’ Kadar said. ‘We must not act precipitously. I will consider your situation carefully overnight. We will discuss it further tomorrow, when you are rested. In the meantime, you will be my honoured guest here at the palace.’
‘I don’t want to inconvenience you any further than I already have.’
‘Your company has been a very pleasant distraction, I assure you.’
He had spoken without thinking, but it was the truth. Her fingers had strayed again to her scar. Now he acted without thinking, reaching over to catch her hand. ‘You should think of it as a badge of honour,’ Kadar said. ‘Proof of your will to survive. You are a remarkable woman.’
A faint flush coloured her cheeks. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip. ‘Am I?’
He pushed her hair back from her forehead, his fingers feathering over the thin line of her wound. He felt her shiver at his touch, and realised, to his embarrassment that he was becoming aroused. ‘Remarkable.’
‘You have been much more understanding than I deserve.’
‘You deserve a great deal more than you expect.’ The neck of her tunic gaped, giving him an inadvertent glimpse of the generous swell of her breast, stirring his blood. Kadar turned his eyes resolutely away. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I will have a suite of rooms prepared for you.’
Chapter Three (#ulink_3baa8942-c2e6-56c3-af0a-f9aa4cffe51c)
As Kadar reined his horse in from a final breakneck gallop along the scimitar-like crescent of beach, the sun was well on the rise. The pure-bred Arabian stallion, flanks heaving and glistening with sweat, cooled his fetlocks in the shallow waters of the sea as Kadar watched the sky turn from pale grey, to pale pink, and then to gold, the colours reflected in the turquoise hue of the sea like a vast glittering mirror. He felt invigorated. His skin tingled with dried salt and sweat, his thigh muscles felt pleasantly tired, and his mind was as sharp as the air here on this, his favourite part of the coast.
His early morning ride was one of the very few things Kadar had not sacrificed since Butrus’s death had led to him assume power. This precious hour was often the only one he was granted in the space of a whole day to be alone, to gather his thoughts and to brace himself for the challenges of the day to come. But today, as he stared out at the sea, watching a little line of fishing dhows in the distance emerging from the port like ducklings paddling upriver, he was not thinking about his duties, he was thinking about Lady Constance Montgomery.
Almost from the moment she walked into the Royal Saloon, clad in that peasant tunic, with her wild hair, and those big hazelnut-brown eyes, he had been drawn to her. When he returned to the Royal Saloon last night he had found her asleep on the cushions, curled up like a little mouse, her hands tucked under her cheek. Her hair tumbled in waves over her shoulder. The softness of her flesh when he lifted her made his groin ache with desire. Her body was so pliant. The curve of her breast, the roundness of her rear, that sweetly female scent of her as he carried her to her quarters and laid her down on the bed. What man would not be aroused?
He did desire her, there was no point in denying it. It had been a long time since he’d felt that immediate tug of attraction, that frisson of awareness that was entirely physical, a primitive recognition that this particular woman, her particular body, was exactly suited to his.
Perhaps that was why he felt it so strongly? There had been women, over the years. His heart was closed and sealed, but his body was virile, his appetites healthy. He was careful in his choices. He had learned to recognise the women whose passions burned, like his, with a cool flame. But there had been no woman in his bed since he had departed the university at Athens en route to Murimon to attend Butrus’s wedding. And there had been no woman with the visceral allure of Lady Constance for a very long time.
Kadar closed his eyes, permitting himself a rare moment of indulgence to imagine how it would be to make love to her. He remembered that wicked smile, imagined those lips on his, teasing kisses, her hair a cloud of curls on her bare shoulders, and those generous breasts he had glimpsed, heavy in his hand. Pale-pink nipples? Dark pink? Or that shade of pink that was tinged with brown? Hard nipples. When he ran his thumbs over them, she would shiver, arch her back, thrusting her breasts higher. The curls which covered her sex would be the same burnished chestnut colour as her hair, perhaps a shade darker. She would sit astride him. She would slide onto him, slick and hot. When she rode him, her breasts would quiver, bounce. When he came...
Kadar swore long and viciously. He was fully aroused, painfully aroused, which was no state to be in while sitting on a hard leather saddle on a highly strung horse. He dismounted, leading the beast onto the dry sand. Now he was to be married, his desire must be reserved for his wife. He tried to conjure up her face, her body, but all he could recall were her eyes above the veil she wore, cool, distant, indifferent. He swore again as the blood ebbed from his manhood. It was to be hoped that this was not an ill omen.
* * *
Constance clambered back to consciousness, resisting the impulse to snuggle back under the thick blanket of drowsiness which enveloped her. Awareness came slowly. First of the bed she lay in, of the softness of the mattress, the pillows like clouds of feathers, the light, sensual flutter of the cool cotton sheets on her limbs. She was wearing something silky that caressed her skin, quite unlike the rough material of the tunic Bashir’s daughter had given her. She stretched luxuriously, from her toes all the way up to her fingertips, rolling her shoulders, arching her back. She felt as if she had been asleep for a very long time.
Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the ceiling. It was domed, painted a dazzling pristine white. The room was suffused with sunlight. The window through which it streamed was set high in the wall opposite, covered by some sort of carved wooden grille. Beautiful colours adorned that wall and all the others. Tiles. Red and yellow and blue and green, in an unfamiliar pattern that repeated every fourth row. There was a small table set beside her bed. On it sat a silver pitcher frosted with condensation. She was very, very thirsty. She poured herself a glass from the jug and took a tentative sip. Sharp lemon, sweet sugar flavours burst onto her tongue. It was refreshing and delicious. She drained the glass and poured another.
The nightgown she wore was cream, embroidered with tiny white flowers. She had never owned anything so pretty. How long had she been sleeping? Who had put her to bed? The whisper of women’s voices, the gentle hands massaging something soothing into her forehead, she had thought that a dream. The fog in her head began to slowly clear. She recalled the journey from Bashir’s village. The boat. She shuddered. Don’t think of the boat. And then the sedan chair. And then...
Prince Kadar.
Constance gave a little shiver, then frowned at her reaction. She was twenty-five years old and not immune to the appeal of a handsome man, but this was different, no passing fancy but a shocking pang of—of base desire. She had never felt such a very primal attraction before. She wasn’t at all sure that she liked it.
She smiled. No, that was a lie. She did like it, very much. She liked this tingling feeling she felt, and she liked the fluttering low in her belly, and she liked the little shiver—there it was again, that delicious little shiver, of feeling something she was pretty sure no lady should, and of wanting to do something no lady should either. That a man like Prince Kadar would ever—that she would ever—no, no, no, she never would. But goodness, the sheer impossibility of it was part of the allure.
She stretched again, enjoying the caress of silk and sheets of the softest cotton on her skin. Sinful, sinful, sinful. And decadent. Sinfully decadent. Decadently sinful. Constance laughed. It was not like her to be so frivolous. Then again, it was hardly commonplace for her to be lying in a bed in a suite in a royal palace, the guest of an Arabian prince. It was fantastical, a dream. Or the continuation of a dream, for nothing had seemed real to her since she had awoken in Bashir’s cottage. It was as if time was suspended, and her life too.
How was it that Prince Kadar had described it last night? ‘Cast adrift,’ that was it. Cast adrift from both the past and the future. She liked the idea of that, it was an alluring conceit. The Prince had a way with words. And his command of English was extremely impressive. He had told her he had lived abroad, but he had not told her where. Or why. Seven years, he had said. Through choice? What had he been doing, wherever it was he had been? And why had he come back to Arabia? She didn’t even know how his brother had met his fate—an accident, an illness? Constance frowned. Now she came to think it over, he had given away remarkably little, while she—she had revealed far too much.
She pulled the sheet over her head. Far, far too much. She had aired thoughts she shouldn’t ever have. So she would not permit herself to have them now. Instead, she would think of the Prince. Never mind all the things she didn’t know about him, what did she know? There had been moments when he let his guard down, but they had been very rare. Prince Kadar considered his words very carefully. He was one of those men who made good use of silences too. Deliberately, she was sure of it. He’d be the type of man to whom secrets would be blurted out, crimes confessed.
I am not married. One very interesting piece of information he had let slip. There had been something in his expression when he said those words, but she couldn’t articulate what it was. Why on earth was a man so—so fascinating and so tempting as Prince Kadar not married? It could certainly not be for lack of opportunity. Even without an Arabian kingdom and all its trappings, even if Prince Kadar were not a prince but a footman, or a groom, she could not imagine he would lack opportunity. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine him taking orders either. So perhaps not a footman. Or a groom. Or any sort of servant.
Oh, for goodness’ sake! To return to the point. Why wasn’t he married, when surely he could have his choice of any woman? Save women like her, of course, who would never choose to marry. Constance groaned, casting off the sheet. Except that was precisely what she was going to do just as soon as she could board a ship heading east. Provided she could force herself to actually board the ship. Which she would have to do, no matter how terrifying the idea was, because Mr Edgbaston had paid for her in good faith, and much as she’d like him to continue to believe her lost at sea, she was not lost at sea.
Her mood spoilt, her sense of impending doom returned, Constance dangled her legs over the edge of the high divan bed. She felt decidedly shaky. The floor was marble, cool on the soles of her feet. Pulling on a robe which had been helpfully draped at the bottom of the bed, she made her way carefully to the double doors set in the far wall. They were wooden, ornately carved, similar to the grille covering the window above. Pulling them wide, she found herself in a sitting room with a view out to a courtyard. Dropping onto a huge cushion beside the tall window, she leaned her cheek against the glass. What if she really could decide not to return from the dead? Who would miss her, truly? Mama...
A lump rose in her throat. Tears burned in her eyes. She had come all this way at Mama’s behest, even though she was pretty sure—no, she was absolutely certain—that what Mama wanted was not in her best interests. What would Mama want her to do now? The answer to that had not changed. She certainly would not want her to return to England. Constance sighed, her breath misting the glass. It was rather dispiriting to discover that whether one was dead or alive didn’t much matter to anyone. Save herself, of course.
A gentle rap on the door preceded the entrance of a small procession of servants, which diverted her from her melancholy introspection. One after another, they clasped their hands and bowed slightly before her in formal greeting. One maid set out breakfast. Two others began to lay out a selection of clothes in the most delightfully cool materials, and yet another maid presented her with a note, written in English. Prince Kadar requested her presence.
Constance gazed around her at the flurry of activity, which included two more maids setting out a huge bath in the bedchamber. Honestly, she had no cause at all to be downhearted. She had days, perhaps even weeks of respite ahead of her here as a guest in this fabulous royal palace. Days in which to enjoy being becalmed, cast adrift, shipwrecked. She was going to savour every one of them.
* * *
Constance learned that it took an inordinately long time to prepare one for an audience with a prince. First she was bathed in water delicately perfumed with rose petals. Her freshly washed hair was tamed into something resembling submission thanks to some scented oil. The clothes, which she had eventually allowed the collection of maids to select for her, were also unlike anything she had ever worn. Loose pantaloons, gathered tightly at her ankles and cinched at her waist, made from a creamy gossamer-fine fabric that clung revealingly to her legs. A thin-strapped camisole was her only undergarment. Over this, a simple tunic in cream muslin which stopped at her thighs, and on top of that, a sort of sleeveless half-dress in apricot silk which fastened with tiny pearl buttons, leaving the slip beneath, and the bottom of those shocking pantaloons, exposed. Soft kid slippers adorned her feet.
Studying her reflection, quite unrecognizable to herself, Constance thought she resembled something between a milkmaid and a concubine. Not that she’d ever actually seen, far less met, a concubine. It felt decidedly odd, being fully dressed without being laced into a corset. Though the overdress was buttoned tightly at her waist, the neckline skimmed the top of her breasts, which were confined only by the thin muslin of the tunic—or rather cradled rather than confined. Staring critically at the swell of her bosom, she supposed she was at least more decently covered than if she had been wearing a ball gown in the latest fashion.
And the posse who had created this vision seemed to be happy with the effect. She was, finally, fit to be seen by the Prince. Smiling and miming her thanks, Constance trailed in the wake of another servant through a warren of corridors before being ushered up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. She paused for a moment at the top, her eyes dazzled by the brightness of the sun. Blinking, shielding her eyes while she became accustomed to the glare, she found herself on a large rooftop terrace.
The floor was laid out in mosaic, white with swirling patters of green and yellow and red, like the floor of a Roman villa. A parapet of red stone bounded the terrace, and tall terracotta pots filled with exotic ferns stood sentry at each corner. In the centre a large angular object shrouded in canvas took up much of the available space, and over in one corner an awning had been set up, under which a desk strewn with papers, scrolls and stacks of leather-bound books had been placed. Seated behind it was Prince Kadar.
‘Lady Constance.’
His hair was damp, slicked back over his head, though it was already beginning to curl rebelliously. He wore a long tunic in broad grey-and-white stripes, grey trousers, black slippers. She still couldn’t decide whether his eyes were grey or green, but she had been right about his mouth. Sensual. There was no other word for it. Except perhaps sinful. And if she didn’t want to appear like a blushing idiot, she had better stop thinking about it.
‘Good morning.’ The Prince bowed over her hand, in the European style. ‘I trust you are feeling better? You look quite—quite transformed.’
‘I have certainly never worn exotic garments such as these,’ Constance replied, flustered by her thoughts, and by his touch, and by that gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, which she must have imagined.
‘I regret our markets were unable to provide the kind of clothing you are accustomed to—or so I was informed by the female who selected these. The wife of one of my Council members.’
‘Please thank her. And please believe me when I tell you that I like these clothes much better. They are infinitely more suitable to this climate. In my own clothes, I would be far too hot. All those petticoats and...’ stays was not a word one said to a gentleman, never mind a prince ‘...and things,’ Constance finished lately. ‘What I mean is, thank you, Your Highness, for being so thoughtful. I am afraid that I have no means to pay you back for these, but...’
‘Do not, I pray, insult me.’
His manner changed so abruptly that Constance flinched, only then realizing how informal he had been moments before. She bit her lip. She dropped into something that could be construed as a curtsy. ‘I assure you, no insult was intended.’
Silence. A nod. More silence. Constance stared down at her feet. ‘I expect you’ve brought me up here to tell me I’m to be packed off on a ship at first light,’ she said resignedly.
Prince Kadar pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘It is, unfortunately, uncommon for trading vessels from the west to call in at our port. Most sail straight for India once they have navigated the Cape of Good Hope. I have confirmed that the next ship is not expected until August.’
‘August! But this is only May.’
‘Unfortunately we have no other ship here at Murimon which is fit for the voyage. Apparently my brother commissioned a schooner to be built. A three-master. Ocean going.’ Prince Kadar shook his head. ‘Why Butrus imagined he needed such a thing, I have no idea, but it is beside the point. It is not completed, and will not be until July at the earliest.’
‘So I am effectively stranded here for two months,’ Constance said.
‘Possibly three.’
‘I’m terribly sorry.’
Prince Kadar gave her one of those assessing looks. ‘For what?’
‘I shall be inconveniencing you. Three months is a long time for an uninvited guest to stay.’
The Prince smiled. ‘But I did invite you, last night, to stay for as long as you wish.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘Lady Constance, I repeat, your presence here is most welcome.’
Goodness, but when he smiled she quite lost track of her thoughts. It was like the dazzle of a faraway star captured in the lens of her telescope, temporarily blinding her to everything else. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, blinking. ‘If there is anything I can do while I am here to work my passage, so to speak, then I would be delighted to help. I’m afraid I’m not a very good needlewoman, but I’m very good with accounts. Though I can’t imagine why you would need a bookkeeper when you most likely have a treasurer.’
‘And an assistant treasurer and any number of scribes,’ the Prince said. ‘There are any number of needlewomen here at the palace too, I expect. Your time will be your own.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with it. I like to be busy.’
‘Then you must see some of our country, explore its delights. Which brings me to the reason I asked you up here, to my private terrace. Come.’ Prince Kadar ushered her over to the waist-high parapet. ‘There, take a look at Murimon.’
The view which confronted her was quite stunning. Sea and sky met on the horizon, both brilliant azure blue, the sky streaked with wispy white cloud, the sea sparkling with little white-crested waves. A line of fishing boats was strung out in the distance, too far away for her to make out more than the distinctive shallow hulls and single lateen sails. The wide sweep of the coastline to her left consisted of a number of little bays and fishing villages similar to Bashir’s village, with white strips of sand, the houses huddled together on the narrow shoreline. Behind the nearer villages, narrow strips of green cultivated land could be made out. On the right, the terrain was more mountainous, rolling red-and-ochre hills guarding much steeper, jagged peaks. Here, there were few vestiges of green, and even fewer villages.
The port of Murimon sat proudly in the centre, directly below the palace. The harbour was formed by two long curves of rock embracing the sea. At the end of each arm stood a lighthouse. On the furthest-away point, buildings covered every inch of available space, some three or four storeys high, some squat and low. Presumably wharves, their huge doorways opened directly onto the jetties which sat at right angles to the shoreline. The nearer harbour wall was higher and rockier, housing a small defensive fortress. The port was nothing like the size of Plymouth, where she had embarked on the Kent, but it looked to have a similar sense of bustle. Ships of all shapes and sizes sat at anchor in the middle of the bay or were moored to the jetty. Dhows, much bigger than the fishing boats of Bashir’s village, darted in and out between the statelier vessels.
The town attached to the port lay spread out below them. Constance leaned over the parapet to get a closer look. The path she must have followed in her chair last night zigzagged up the hillside below, past houses, tall and narrow, and tinkling fountains set in small squares.
She leaned over further. The roof terrace seemed to be at the highest point of the palace, in the very centre of the building. There looked to be three or even four storeys below the huge central edifice on which they were perched, with two low terraced wings on either side. A vast piazza, tiled with marble and bordered by two straight sentry-like lines of palm trees, formed the entrance to the palace itself, with a sweeping staircase on either side of an arched portal meeting on the first floor. It was exotic and absurdly impractical and utterly foreign and completely overwhelming.
‘Well, what do you think of my humble domain?’
Constance turned too suddenly, snatching at the edge of the parapet as the heat and the glare of the sea and the sky and the sun all combined to make her dizzy.
A strong arm caught her as she staggered. ‘Careful. I would hate to have to report your untimely death for a second time.’
She laughed weakly. Her cheek rested against the Prince’s shoulder. She closed her eyes to combat the dizziness and breathed in the clean scent of cotton dried in the sunshine, warm skin and soap, and the slight tang of salt from the sea. Her senses swam. She put her hand onto his chest to right herself. Hard muscle over bone. Which she had no right to be touching.
‘Thank you, I’m perfectly fine now.’ Constance turned back to the view, shading her eyes. ‘Your humble domain is absolutely spectacular. I’ve never seen anything remotely like it. How far from the harbour was the Kent when she went down?’
‘You see that dhow out there?’ He stood directly behind her, his arm pointing over her shoulder at a distant boat. ‘She lies not far from there. Almost all of her passengers and crew were rescued by the boats which were harboured at the port. A few of those who perished were found in the next bay, over there. The bay where you were washed up is beyond that outcrop, as you can see, a fair distance away. The piece of broken mast you clung to must have drifted with the tide and carried you there before depositing you on the beach.’
The sea looked so calm, she could hardly credit that it could have been so violent. ‘I don’t remember anything,’ Constance said with a shudder, ‘save being thrown overboard. Absolutely nothing after that.’
‘It is as well.’ Kadar stepped back. ‘I think you have more than enough terrible memories of the storm to keep you awake at night.’
‘Not last night,’ Constance said. ‘I slept like the dead, rather appropriately.’
Prince Kadar set his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘But on previous nights, you have had nightmares, yes?’
His touch unsettled her. ‘Sometimes,’ Constance said, slipping from his grasp. ‘It was one of the reasons I spent so many hours stargazing. It was a distraction from the prospect of torrid dreams.’
‘Stargazing!’
‘The study of the cosmos, the stars and the planets,’ Constance elaborated.
‘You are an astronomer?’
‘You seem astonished. Is it because I have a passion for studying the night sky, or is because I am a woman with a passion for stargazing?’ Constance turned away, absurdly disappointed. ‘My father too, finds it inexplicable. He can see no practical purpose to it, and if there is no prospect of him profiting from something he is utterly uninterested.’
‘I don’t think it’s inexplicable, and I most certainly do not think the fact that you are a woman should disbar you from scientific study. Quite the contrary. It is to your credit and to be commended.’
‘Oh.’ She turned back to face him, her cheeks hot once again. ‘I’m terribly sorry. You sounded so— And then I assumed— And I ought not to have— Only my father— And I should not have spoken to you as I did, but I keep forgetting that you are a prince. I mean I don’t forget, exactly, especially not when you give me that assessing look and I wish that I was thinking something a little more interesting for you to assess, but I fear that you would think my mind rather boring if you could read it, which you can’t, obviously, though truly you do give one the impression that you can, and—and—oh, dear, that is another thing you do. Those silences. They make me want to fill them, and I start babbling and here I am, doing it again.’
Her face, she was sure, was bright scarlet. ‘You’re probably now wishing there was a ship for Bombay due tomorrow after all,’ Constance said, once again failing to keep to her resolve to stop talking.
‘Actually, quite the reverse. I was thinking that I have the perfect solution to occupy you for the three months you will be here.’
‘Ah, you have a vacancy for a court jester?’
Smiling faintly, the Prince took her hand, leading her over to the covered object which stood in the middle of the terrace. ‘Lady Constance,’ he said, tugging at the knot which held the tarpaulin in place, ‘I have no need of a court jester, but I do have a vacancy for a court astronomer.’
* * *
Kadar pulled the tarpaulin away, and Lady Constance’s mouth fell open. ‘A telescope! And such a telescope!’ She ran her hands along the polished wooden barrel. She touched the little stool which was contained in the instrument’s mounting box. She stroked her fingers along the system of pulleys and the brass handle which allowed the unwieldy tube of the telescope to pivot and rotate on its axis. She peered into the eyepiece. Finally, she ran her hands once more along the barrel. ‘I have never seen anything so beautiful,’ she said, her voice hushed with awe. ‘How did you come by such a sophisticated instrument?’
She was staring at it as if it were made of gold. ‘I share your passion for studying the stars. You have no idea how rare it is to meet a fellow astronomer. This particular instrument is a seven-foot reflector,’ Kadar said. ‘It was built in Mr Herschel’s workshop. I purchased it five years ago, when I spent some time at Oxford. It has travelled with me ever since.’
‘This actually comes from William Herschel’s own workshop?’ Her big brown eyes glowed. Her smile was soft, almost tender, as her fingers strayed compulsively to the telescope again. Captivating, he had thought she could be last night, and she was. There was a sensuality in the way she touched the instrument, mingling reverence and passion. And he was once again becoming aroused!
‘I met the great man himself,’ Kadar said, dragging his eyes away. ‘Mr Herschel, I mean. I went to see the forty-foot reflector that he had constructed in Slough. A most impractical instrument, I thought, far too cumbersome to be of much use. Mr Herschel himself admitted as much. He, however, was fascinating. The telescope with which he discovered the new planet is very similar to this one.’
‘Georgium Sidus, he named it, in honour of the King,’ Lady Constance said. ‘I like Uranus much better though, after Urania, the goddess of astronomy. Is it wrong for a court astronomer to confess that she prefers mythology to science as an explanation for the construction of the constellations?’
‘You are a romantic, then?’ Kadar asked, in some surprise.
‘Who can deny the romance of the stars? Aside from my father, that is,’ Lady Constance added wryly. The mention of her parent seemed to visibly deflate her. ‘How long will it take, do you think, for a letter to reach England? I must write to Mama.’
‘Weeks, perhaps a month or so. The securest and quickest route is to send it by way of the Red Sea to Cairo, where it can be handed over to your Consul General. I will ensure it is given priority.’
‘Thank you, once again I am indebted to you. You know, this morning I thought about what you said last night. The fact that I am legally dead, the notion that I could choose to remain so. It was only for a few brief moments, but I did think about it, though I know it would be very wrong of me. It was rather a sobering experience, for the sad fact is that the only person who will be truly mourning me will be Mama, and in a way, she has already mourned my passing. When I sailed, though we neither of us could admit it, it was pretty certain that I’d never see her again.’ She blinked furiously. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, please ignore me. It is not like me to be so morbid. Nor to feel sorry for myself.’
Kadar thought the feeling justified, but could see no point in saying so. ‘Come into the shade of the awning, and let me pour you a cool drink.’
‘I’ve embarrassed you again.’
‘No.’
‘You must think me a very volatile creature, one minute letting my tongue run away with me, the next falling into a swoon over a telescope, and the next bubbling like a—a stream.’
‘I think you are a very brave creature, and a very honourable one.’
‘You do?’
‘Constance—Lady Constance—I never say what I do not mean.’
‘Constance. I like the way you say my name. You make it sound quite exotic, and quite unlike me.’
‘At this moment you look quite exotic but I believe you are very loyal, as your name implies.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Reliable. Dutiful. Why not say dull?’
‘Because that would not be true. Come out of the sun.’ He motioned her to a bundle of cushions, pouring them both a glass of lemon sherbet before sitting opposite her.
She took a long drink. ‘Thank you. And my apologies again. I assure you I am usually perfectly even tempered. Perhaps I have had too much sun. I have certainly taken up too much of your time, Your Highness. I can see that you are very busy,’ she said, waving at his paper-strewn desk.
‘Lady Constance...’
‘Please do just call me Constance. It sounds so much nicer.’
‘Constance. Then you must call me Kadar.’
‘Oh, no, that would be quite wrong.’
‘While we are alone, then. When I am not the Prince, and you are not the Court Astronomer.’
‘I did not take your suggestion seriously. I assumed it was said in jest.’
‘I think it’s an excellent idea.’ Kadar topped her glass of sherbet up. ‘It solves several problems. First and most important, as Court Astronomer, you will have a legitimate role in the palace, so there can be no suggestion of your presence here being open to conjecture. A few months ago, another Englishwoman, a botanist, caused a great deal of speculation when she visited the court in the kingdom of Qaryma. I wish to avoid that.’
‘A female botanist? That sounds interesting. Is this kingdom far away? Do you think I would be able to meet her?’
‘I heard that she has since returned to England,’ Kadar said, wondering fleetingly how his childhood friend, now crowned King of Qaryma, felt about his botanist leaving. Azhar had been most defensive when challenged about her position at court. All the more reason to make sure that he had no need to defend Constance.
‘To return to your own position. You told me yourself that you prefer to have an occupation. By coincidence, we have no accurate star maps of this region. It was my ambition to remedy that, but I now realise that, as Prince, I will not have the time to devote to it. Anything you can do to update the charts I have would be most welcome.’
He was pleased to see the sparkle return to her eyes. ‘You really mean it?’
‘I told you, I never say what I do not mean.’
‘Oh, my goodness, I could kiss you!’ Constance’s cheeks flamed. ‘Not that I meant— That is I would not dare— I mean, it would be highly inappropriate, given that I hardly know you. And even if I did know you, I am not in the habit of bestowing kisses on any man—and even if I was, well, I ought not to kiss you now that I am betrothed. So there’s no need to look as if you...’
‘As if I want you to kiss me,’ Kadar said.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know what my expression was, but what I was thinking was that I would, notwithstanding all the perfectly valid reasons you have given why you shouldn’t, like you to kiss me. And would very much like to kiss you back.’
Constance looked every bit as surprised as he by this admission. He should not have said it, but he had, and it was true. He wanted to do a great deal more than kiss her, and he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about just what that entailed, in all its delicious detail, since her arrival last night. But if she was going to be here at the palace for the next three months, he’d have to find a way of ensuring that he did not kiss her, so Kadar said the one thing he was certain would make it impossible for either of them to act on their impulses.
‘But I can’t kiss you. It would be, in your own words, highly inappropriate since I too am betrothed.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_ea273dec-ee28-518a-8d2c-df2b8b3c6423)
Two nights later, Constance stood next to the low parapet on the roof terrace, watching the sun sinking over the port of Murimon, evoking the completion of the daily journey of the mythical Greek Titan Helios and his sun chariot, returning to the east in preparation for the morning. The spectacle of night falling over the Arabian Sea filled her with awe. The colours of the last rays streaking the sky, reflected in the sea, were so blazingly vibrant they deserved new names. Existing colours could not do them full justice. The night fell so quickly too, dusk was over in a heartbeat. One minute the sky was blue. Then multi-hued. And then indigo. The stars did not emerge hesitantly like a gaggle of shy debutantes as they did at home, they exploded into the sky, huge discs of silver and gold, not cautiously twinkling, but with all the confidence and bravado of the most celebrated of courtesans.
She left the parapet to make her way over to the heap of cushions she had set out by the telescope. Lying back, she gazed up at the sky, accustoming her eyes to the dark. Above her, the nightly parade of stars had begun in earnest. The moon was on the wane, a mere sliver of a crescent. The moon god Anningan had been so busy chasing his love, the sun, that he had not eaten. In a day or so, he would disappear from the sky for three days while he came down to earth to hunt. When he returned he would grow fatter, waxing from a crescent to his full, buttery pomp. And then once again, he’d become distracted by his lady love, and forget to eat. This tale was Constance’s favourite of the many depictions of the moon’s phases, though she pitied poor Anningan, tied to the flighty sun, forced to do her bidding, without a will of his own. He might as well be a wife.
She wriggled more deeply into the mound of cushions and reminded herself that it was destructive to think such negative thoughts. Her mother had given her a list of positives, a litany she had recited over and over to her daughter, as if repetition would give them veracity. They were all variations on the same theme. Constance’s marriage would be carefree because Constance’s husband was rich. Constance would be happy because her husband was happy, because how could a rich man not be happy, when he wanted for nothing. At a stroke, Constance could both secure her own future, and rescue Mama’s.
Her mother’s logic was fatally flawed, but she could not be persuaded that replenishing Papa’s coffers would secure nothing, save a hiatus while he invested it recklessly with his usual flair for picking those schemes most unlikely to succeed. As for Constance’s future—that logic had more holes than a sieve. Mr Edgbaston’s money was his own to do with as he wished, as was his wife. Having paid such a large sum for her, rather than increase her value to him, wasn’t it likely that he’d expect a great deal in return, whatever the devil that turned out to be!
Far from attaining any sort of independence, as Mama had repeatedly claimed she would, for she knew her daughter almost as well as her daughter knew her, Constance would be entirely beholden. Papa had dismissed her pleas to include any personal allowance in the betrothal contract or even any widow’s jointure, as a matter of detail, not wishing to risk asking for anything that might endanger the deal. Constance was effectively penniless. Worse in fact, because now that her trousseau was at the bottom of the sea, she was going to be starting out married life in debt to her husband for the very clothes on her back.
Just thinking about it made her anxious. What if she didn’t please this stranger she was to marry? What if he disliked her? What if she disliked him? The very idea of pretending made her skin crawl. The fact that she would have to, that she would be expected to, that she would have no choice—that was the worst, the very worst part of it. She was twenty-five years old. She knew her own mind. She didn’t want to get married. She never had. It was quite simple. She didn’t want to do it. She really didn’t want to do it.
But she had to, so there was no point in working herself up into a state. It had to be done. Though not quite yet, thank goodness. There would be no ship for months. Two months, perhaps three. Plenty of time for her to come up with a strategy to make the best of a bad lot. More than enough time. In fact, so much time she would be best putting it out of her mind entirely and turn her thoughts to more immediate concerns.
Such as the fascinating and enigmatic Prince of Murimon and the revelation that he wanted to kiss her. That he, Kadar, was engaged to be married. Constance could still not decide what to make of either fact. Or which was the most interesting to learn.
She knew absolutely nothing more than these stark facts, and since he had communicated with her only through brief dispatches since, she had had no opportunity to press him further. Mind you, she doubted very much that tactic would be successful. If he didn’t want to talk about it, he would give her one of his looks. She had labelled them in her head. Number one, the Haughty Prince. Number two, the Mind Reader. Number three, the Sphynx. And then her two favourites. Number four, the Bone-Melter. And Number five, the Blood-Heater.
Kadar wanted to kiss her. Kadar would not kiss her because he was promised to another. And so was she. Was it sophistry to argue that such a kiss was permissible because it could mean nothing? Probably. Wouldn’t she make a better wife if she knew how to kiss? Perhaps, though she couldn’t pretend that she would be kissing Kadar for any other reason than that she wanted to kiss him. Which she did, despite knowing it was wrong of her, she really did. And he wanted to kiss her. If only he did not, it would be easier. She should be hoping that he had changed his mind. She would be fibbing if she told herself she hoped any such thing.
The sky above her was inky black, giving the brightest stars a bluish hue. With the moon so emaciated, and now that her vision was adjusted, she could see hundreds of distant pinpricks of light in addition to the main constellations. Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius were all clearly defined tonight. As ever, looking up at all this celestial beauty, Constance was filled with a sense of wonder. She was one tiny being, on one tiny planet in a nebulae spinning at unimaginable speed through a vast universe filled with a myriad of other nebulae. All of this had existed for countless thousands of years, and would endure for thousands more to come.
In comparison, her lifetime was the mere blink of an eye. Her three months here in Arabia was too tiny a period to even register. Constance began to set up the telescope, making the necessary adjustments, deciding tonight to point it due south. She had better not waste a single moment. With a growing sense of excitement mingled with anticipation, she looked through the eyepiece and was instantly transported to the spellbinding creation that surrounded this little world.
* * *
The invitation to accompany Kadar on his early morning ride had been in her suite when she returned from her stargazing. The outfit which she wore for the occasion was perfectly suited for the purpose, consisting of a soft white sleeveless tunic under a long dark-red cotton coat with matching trousers. Her boots came up over her knees, the brown kid soft on her skin, the long pointed toes decorated with red stitching.
He had been waiting for her in the stables, had chosen for her mount the most beautiful Arabian mare she had ever seen. She rode astride like a man, there being no side-saddle available. It was a perfect morning, and she could not have asked for a more even-tempered equine companion. Above them, in the celestial blue of the early morning sky streaked with wispy cloud, the sun was pale gold, the air tangy with salt. As they reached the furthest edge of the long beach Constance reined in her mount. Kadar was already there, waiting. The sea was like liquid turquoise, breaking white onto the hard-packed golden sands, foaming around the legs of the steaming horses and pooling around an outcrop of rock. The shoreline was a cliff formed of the same ochre rock, the first trees which she had seen in the kingdom growing in neat rows further inland.
‘Olive trees,’ Kadar said, in answer to her unspoken question. ‘They screen some of our precious crop-growing land from the salt and the winds coming in off the sea.’
‘It is so beautiful,’ Constance said. ‘And this horse, she is so perfectly behaved. Whoever trained her is most skilled.’
‘She was bred in Bharym, as was my stallion. Rafiq, the prince of that country has the best stables in Arabia. I am fortunate enough to be one of the few men to whom he will sell his prized bloodstock.’
‘Does he sell only to his friends?’
‘He sells only to those he deems worthy to own and enjoy his precious horseflesh,’ Kadar said, with a faint smile.
‘Ah.’ Constance laughed. ‘I can see why he deems you worthy. You ride as if you were born in the saddle. I am extremely privileged to ride this beautiful creature.’
Kadar smiled. ‘Rafiq would approve of your horsemanship. My instincts told me you would know how to handle her. I was right.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The tide is far enough out this morning for us to venture around the headland,’ Kadar said, ‘unless you have had enough?’
‘I don’t think I could ever have a surfeit of this,’ Constance replied. Sea, sky, sands, horse and man, any of it, she thought, following in his wake. Kadar’s riding dress was similar to hers, consisting of plain cotton trousers and a tunic of blue-and-grey stripes. He sported long riding boots of black-kid leather. He sat perfectly upright in the saddle, holding the highly strung stallion with the careless-seeming ease of a naturally gifted horseman. His head was bare, his black silky hair dishevelled by the wind. Sweat made his thin tunic cling to his back, revealing the rippling muscles of his shoulders. For such a lean man, he was very powerfully built. He and the stallion were a perfect match.
The sea was receding further as they followed the headland, where the olive trees gave way to scrub on the cliff top, and the regular rush of the waves onto the sand quieted to a sigh. The mountains which Constance had spotted from the rooftop terrace yesterday came into view on the horizon now, and the cliff tops became more rugged in appearance. They turned sharply around the headland, and she gasped with delight at the perfect crescent of sand completely enclosed by the steep cliffs, a natural harbour formed by the outcrop they had just traversed, and an almost identical one on the other side of the bay.
‘What do you think of my special retreat?’
‘I am lost for words. Your country is so very, very beautiful. The light is magical. The blue sky, the azure sea, it is like living in a perfect picture. Everything here is so vivid, the colours so vibrant. So different from the muffled shades of grey so typical of England. It does something to the soul. Lifts the spirits.’ She laughed, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what it does save that it makes me feel as if I am full of bubbles. I expect you think that is fanciful.’
‘I think that you reflect the scenery here,’ Kadar replied. ‘Bright. Vivid. Alive.’
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks heated. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, both flustered and ridiculously pleased.
He helped her down from the saddle, his hands light on her waist. She watched him as he hobbled the horses, seating herself in the shade of the cliffs which ringed the bay. Her boots were extremely comfortable, but her feet were hot inside them. She pulled them off, wriggling her toes into the deliciously cool damp sand, leaning back on her hands to enjoy the breeze on her face. When she opened her eyes, Kadar was standing over her, looking down at her bare toes. ‘I was hot,’ she said, embarrassed, for she would never have dreamed of removing her shoes in company at home.
‘Yes,’ he said, giving her his Sphynx look, and dropping onto the sand beside her, prepared to follow her lead.
His boots were much longer than hers. His calves rippled as he removed them. His skin was the colour of the golden sands darkened by the sea. His feet had a very high arch, like her own.
‘Tell me how your stargazing is coming along.’
A subject even more distracting than Kadar’s feet! ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Constance said, smiling. ‘You’re probably going to regret doing so.’
It was easy to be transported to the heavens, especially in the company of a man who shared her passion, and could plug several gaps in her knowledge. Finally, she forced herself to stop talking not because she had run out of words but because her mouth had run dry. ‘I did warn you,’ she said.
Kadar was leaning back on his elbows. His hair was tousled by the wind. And he was smiling that special bone-melting smile. ‘I could not ask for a more diligent or enthusiastic court astronomer.’
‘You could, I suspect, easily obtain a far more learned one.’
‘Who would number the stars and plot their positions with mathematical precision. I much prefer your way of mapping the heavens. A night sky teeming with legends and mythological creatures. A romantic cosmos full of passion and wonder. I am very happy with my choice of court astronomer, thank you very much.’
He smiled again. Their gazes locked. He reached over to tuck her hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed the line of her scar. Her heart began to hammer. His fingers fluttered down her cheek, her neck, to rest at the pulse at the base of her throat. She surrendered to the urge to lean just a fraction closer, and he did the same. Shoulders touching. Legs. His breath on her cheek. She lifted her hand to his face, mirroring his touch, flattening her palm over the smoothness of his cheek, the roughness of his chin.
He dipped his head towards her. His lips were soft. His kiss was gentle. He tasted salty. She felt as if she was melting. Her fingers curled into the silky softness of his hair. She parted her lips for him, returning the pressure tentatively. Then he sighed. Lifted his head. Their hands dropped. Their bodies separated.
What had happened? Was that a kiss or wasn’t it? How had it happened, when they had both been so clear that it could not? Constance stared out to sea, completely at a loss. ‘I don’t understand it. I knew that I shouldn’t, my mind knew it was wrong, but my body wanted...’
Kadar muttered something under his breath in his own language. She risked a fleeting glance. ‘Your habit of speaking your thoughts quite unedited is sometimes dangerously enlightening.’
‘What do you mean?’
He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Constance, it took considerable willpower to break that kiss. Telling me that your body wanted—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want to think about what your body wanted, or my body will—will wish to do something it must not.’
‘Oh.’ Her inclination was, shockingly, to wish that Kadar had not exerted his considerable willpower, but had instead continued to kiss her. That kiss, which was only really the beginning of a kiss, had been so deliciously arousing that it was very hard indeed to think of anything at this moment save what might have been. Save what still might be, if she put that considerable willpower of his further to the test, and reached over and touched her lips to his again, and—and then she would discover what it was that his body wanted to do to hers.
Kadar was pensively picking up handfuls of sand and letting it trickle slowly through his fingers so that it formed a mound, like the contents of an hourglass. He didn’t look like a man struggling to regain his self-control. ‘My lack of experience has disappointed you,’ Constance said, because of course that’s what it was. ‘It’s fine, you don’t have to pretend that you enjoyed my inexpert kissing.’
He studied her face, a faint frown drawing his brows together. ‘Constance, I never pretend. I enjoyed kissing you more than I ought, if the truth be told. When I first set eyes on you I had a feeling that our lovemaking would be memorable, our bodies and desires perfectly matched. What just happened proved that I was right. We would be wise to heed the warning contained in that knowledge.’
‘You mean it would be more difficult to stop the next time?’
Kadar winced. ‘I mean we would be wise not to contemplate a next time.’
Resisting the temptation to kiss him again was one thing, but to deny herself the pleasure of imagining it—no, she wasn’t sure she could do that, so Constance remained silent.
Kadar measured out another handful of sand. ‘My coronation takes place in two weeks.’
She accepted the change of subject gratefully. ‘You will be King of Murimon.’
‘Prince of Murimon. We do not adopt the title of King here. The ruler is Prince, and his heir has the title of Crown Prince. You will of course attend the ceremony in your official capacity. You will require robes. We’ve never had a court astronomer before, so you can have them designed to your own specifications.’
‘That sounds wonderful, but rather wasteful, since the position is temporary.’
‘Temporary, but nonetheless legitimate. I have already announced your appointment to my council. I do not wish your reputation to be compromised by speculation, nor do I wish to dishonour my future bride. The marriage will be onerous enough for both parties. I do not wish to start the journey on a note of resentment.’
‘Onerous? Don’t you wish to be married, Kadar?’
‘No more than you do.’ Another measure of sand trickled down. ‘But like you, my personal preferences are of little consequence. My fate, like yours, has been defined for me, my bride chosen for me. Duty, honour, obligation are my motivation, though we differ in one fundamental way, you and I. The beneficiary of your marriage is your father. The beneficiary of mine will be my kingdom.’
Constance stared at him open-mouthed. So much, contained in those few clipped words uttered in that expressionless tone. ‘Your bride—did you say she was chosen for you?’
‘Actually, that’s not strictly accurate. She was in fact chosen for my brother,’ Kadar said drily. ‘I inherited her, along with his kingdom.’
‘No, no, you can’t possibly be serious.’ But one look at Kadar’s expression told her he was perfectly serious. ‘Goodness,’ Constance said, ‘that is very—odd to say the least. Don’t you object to having a hand-me-down bride?’
‘There you go again with your unedited, albeit truthful observations. As I said, my personal preferences...’
‘...are of no consequence. But you are a prince!’
Another of those harsh little laughs. ‘Exactly, and as a prince I must put my kingdom first, my own desires—last. My people were anticipating a royal wedding, the dawning of a new era. The date was set for a mere two weeks after my brother was tragically killed.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘A riding accident.’
There was the tiniest flicker, not quite a blink, of his right eye. She had noticed it before, when he mentioned his brother. She had asked if they were close, and he had not answered. She decided to try a more roundabout approach. ‘Was he much older than you?’
‘Two years.’
‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ Constance said. ‘I’ve always wished—’
‘We were not particularly close,’ Kadar interrupted, ‘if that is what you want to know. It was one of the first things you asked me about Butrus the night you arrived.’
‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘Until I returned for his wedding, I had not seen him for seven years. We are very—unalike. Butrus found my love of scholarly pursuits simply incomprehensible. As did our father, who was for ever grateful that I was the second son and not the first born. I was temperamentally, intellectually and in many ways ethically unsuited to life in the palace, while Butrus...’ Kadar shrugged. ‘Oh, Butrus was cast in our father’s image. The only thing we had in common latterly was a love of horses. Unfortunately, he had a rather higher opinion of his ability to ride than was warranted. Even more unfortunately, he was not a man who learned from experience. I found it easier, in the end, simply to refuse to race him.’
‘It was not—dear heavens—it was not in a race with you that he died, was it?’
‘No.’ That tiny flicker of the eye again. Kadar stared out at the sea. Constance waited, holding her breath to prevent herself from speaking, and her patience was eventually rewarded. ‘He had a new horse. A wedding present, ironically. A wilful brute of an animal which most certainly did not come from the stables at Bharym, though that is what Butrus had been told. I advised him at once that he should not attempt to master it. Perhaps if I had held my tongue, he would not have felt the need to prove himself to me. It threw him. He hit his head on a boulder, he was dead before I reached him.’
‘Kadar, I am so sorry. How very, very terrible for you.’
Constance reached for his hand, pressing it between her own. He went quite still, allowing her to hold him for a few moments, before freeing himself. ‘Terrible for the people of Murimon. Butrus was a very popular prince. His betrothal was very favourably received by the people.’
Constance frowned. ‘How long was your brother Prince of Murimon?’
‘Seven years, why do you ask?’
‘You say he was popular, and you say that your people expect a prince to be married, yet your brother waited seven years to take a bride.’
Kadar seemed to—to freeze, there was no other word for it. What on earth had she said? When he spoke, his tone was icy enough to make Constance shiver. ‘Butrus was married on the day of his coronation. The Princess Tahira would have been his second wife.’
‘Second!’ Was that it, was he affronted because she had mentioned the forbidden subject of polygamy?
‘My brother was a widower,’ Kadar said, obviously still capable of reading her thoughts despite his frozen state. ‘His first wife died just over a year ago.’
Mortified, Constance dug her toes deeper into the sand. ‘I’m so sorry. How dreadful. Was she very young? Were there no children?’
‘She was three years younger than me. No, there were no children.’
What was she missing? Constance wondered, for Kadar had curled his fists into the sand. Her brow cleared. It was obvious! ‘If there had been a child, you would not now be Prince,’ she said gently.
His eyes were bleak. ‘She died trying to give him an heir. Who knows what difference it would have made if she had? But it was not to be.’
Poor woman, Constance thought, her heart touched by this tragedy. And poor Kadar, the only one in this sad little story left alive, to bear the consequences. ‘Your brother left no heir, but he did bequeath you a bride. Is that why you feel obliged to honour the betrothal?’
He did not answer for a long moment, but she was becoming more accustomed to his silences. ‘It has been made very clear to me that it is what the kingdom needs and wants, but I am taking a bride because I consider it the right thing to do for Murimon, not to court popularity by giving the people the spectacle of a royal wedding. I will not be the kind of ruler my brother was.’
Had he answered her question? She couldn’t help but feel there was more to this story than Kadar had admitted, but it was a very sad story, and she was happy to move on from it. ‘What kind of ruler was he?’ Constance asked.
She was pleased to see Kadar’s expression lightening a little. ‘Butrus was like your Prince Regent before he ate too much and spent too much,’ he replied with a trace of a smile. ‘You know, the epitome of what people expected of their Prince, charming and hospitable, ebullient, gregarious, and always more than happy to put on a display of pomp and ceremony.’
‘And the other side of that coin?’
Kadar’s smile broadened. ‘You’re quite right. He was thoughtless, quite selfish. It came of growing up knowing that the crown would be his. He had an air about him, of...’
‘Entitlement! My father is just such a one, though he had but two subjects to command.’ Kadar raised his brows, but Constance shook her head impatiently. ‘We were talking of your brother.’
‘I need not say any more. It sounds as if you have his measure perfectly.’
‘Well, I hope you’ll make a very different prince.’
Kadar laughed. ‘Then that makes two of us.’
‘Only two?’
His laughter died. Constance was treated to his Sphynx look. ‘People do not know me as they did Butrus, and my father before him.’
‘But you said you had only been abroad for seven years, and you are—thirty?’
‘I am twenty-nine. My inclinations have always been scholarly. Butrus and my father thought I preferred books to people. It was not true, but sadly there were very few people who shared my interests here in Murimon. We are a seafaring kingdom, and have not a tradition of learning.’
‘You must have been very lonely,’ Constance said. ‘Though I have often dreamed of being locked away in a huge library for ever, I think I would very quickly become one of those people who mutter to themselves under their breath all the time. “Now, Constance, where did you put that book?” “Oh, Constance, surely we read that tome just the other day.” “For goodness’ sake, Constance, you’ve got crumbs in Dr Johnson’s dictionary, and you’ve forgotten to feed the cat.” Though I suppose if I had a cat in the library with me, I could talk to it instead. Dr Johnson had a cat, you know. Its name was Hodge. It is mentioned in Mr Boswell’s Life.’
‘I know. I’m familiar with the work.’
She made a face. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I? What did you call it, let you have my thoughts unedited. You’re looking at me as if— Actually, I’m not sure I can tell what you’re thinking.’
‘I was thinking that I have never met anyone like you. You like to read, then?’
‘Anything. Everything. We did have a huge library once, at Montgomery House, but Papa sold all the books. Some of them were very valuable. So now the library is home to a collection of cobwebs.’

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