Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

CHAPTER SEVEN

Fayad's words were spoken with a finality that raised Violet's heartbeat.

'What conclusions? What are you saying?'

'My world is not like yours, Princess. Here marriages are arranged. It is a contract that unites families, matches two people who might never have met except perhaps as children. Whose qualities are known only by word of mouth. Through friends, family.'

'What about those career women? You can't work without meeting people.'

'There are not so many. Many families still cling to old traditions. Your own family, for instance, the Sayyid,' he said, with an impatient gesture, 'they fight change with every breath.'

It was something he clearly felt very strongly about.

'Sometimes you have to bite the bullet, break eggs, to get things done,' she said.

'The problem with that, Princess, is that sometimes more than the eggs will break.'

'I'm sorry. I'm a little out of my league here.' Then, because she couldn't keep her mouth shut, 'Can you

really trust the word of people who for politics, money, might have a vested interest in arranging a wedding?'

'Believe me, when a wedding is being arranged everyone has an opinion and everyone expresses it. Everything that you ever did will be dragged out and examined at length by grandmothers, sisters, cousins, brothers, aunts.' He smiled again. 'Especially aunts…' Then, 'It is too important to risk failure. Marriage is the glue of a civilised society and everyone has a stake in its success.' He watched her struggle with that, then, before she could ask the next question, he said, 'Yes, Violet. A girl can reject any potential groom.'

'But they do meet before the wedding? These couples?'

'Maybe. Not always. And not once the wedding preparations begin.' He smiled at her disbelief. 'A bride is a treasure to be closely guarded within the family while the dower is gathered and delivered. In that period she will only see those closest to her. Even when the contracts have been signed and the bride and groom are to all intents and purposes married.'

'What happens then?'

'Between the formal signing and the celebrations? First the engagement jewels are sent. Not just a ring, but a matching set of bracelets, necklace, earrings, in stones chosen by the groom's mother to perfectly complement his bride. At the same time the groom prepares a house for her, furnishing it with the best he can afford. And the dowry is gathered-gold, jewellery, bolts of every kind of cloth, carpets, money, all designed to demonstrate his ability to provide for her-ready to be delivered to the bride's home to be

displayed at the maksar, the formal gathering of women to celebrate the marriage. Although the bride herself will not take part in that.'

'Oh…'

Violet, who had been thinking it all sounded rather cold, began to see it from a different point of view. Began to imagine the trembling excitement of a secluded virgin bride as the day grew nearer. As her groom's dowry gifts arrived, proving to the world, to her family, to her, just how much he valued her, wanted her above all other women.

'There is more than one way to rouse the passions,' she said.

'Her weight in gold?'

Her eyes widened at the idea of just how much that would be worth, but then she shook her head. 'No. It's not the gold. It's what it represents,' she said. And Sheikh Fayad responded with a look of admiration for her understanding. A look that sent her own heart spinning up into her mouth, that suggested passion would not be in short supply for the woman who won his heart.

Drawn in, totally fascinated, she said, 'Tell me about the wedding.'

'When everything is ready, there will be a vast celebration. In the old days tribes would come in from the desert and set up camp. The feasting will go on for weeks, until finally the time comes for the groom to demand entrance to the bride's home, to fight his way through her family to claim his bride, who will be waiting, wrapped in layer upon layer of veils, sitting on a white sheet.'

Even as he described the scene her heart rate was spiralling out of control, and she only managed to hold back the exclamation that sprang to her lips by holding her hand over her mouth. Cold? No way…

'Is something wrong?' Sheikh Fayad asked.

'No,' she managed, resisting the urge to fan her cheeks at the thought of him removing layer after layer of veils, unwrapping her… 'I'm fine. Really,' she said, when he reached forward, poured her a glass of iced water that seemed to evaporate on her tongue. 'You did this? When you married?'

He didn't immediately answer and she backpedalled madly. 'Oh, Lord, please forget I asked that. I can't believe I was so rude. I didn't mean-'

'The bride is expected to fight, too. To bite and kick, protect her virtue with all her strength so that her husband will respect her.'

'And does he?'

Had Hasna fought? she wondered. Could she have looked at this beautiful man and not fallen instantly and whole-heartedly in love with him? Could any woman?

And if, because his respect would be something unbelievably precious, she'd fought him with ever fibre of her being, how had he overwhelmed her?

Even as the question welled up in her mind, she knew the answer. She'd lashed out at him this morning-angry, hurting-and he'd sat with her on her grandmother's bed, just holding her, taking the blows, whispering soft words of comfort, his lips against her hair, her temple, gentling her, calming her. In her head she saw how that scene might eventually unfold with his bride. There would be no force, but patience, a soft voice, quiet kisses, caresses that would open her to him as a flower opened to the light and warmth of the sun.

And she understood exactly what he'd meant when he'd said that he'd done "much more". It wasn't the fact that he'd kissed her. His kiss had been the least of it…

She swallowed, took another sip of water. In a desperate attempt to blot out what was happening in her head, she said, 'Having showered her with jewels, and fought her entire family, the groom then has to overcome his bride, too? He doesn't exactly get it easy, does he?'

Making light of it.

He smiled. 'Interesting. I had assumed your sympathies would be with the bride.'

'Oh, please,' she said quickly. 'It doesn't take a psychologist to work out that this is a well-thought-out strategy to overcome those initial awkward moments.' Then, 'I imagine any bride worth her weight in gold knows exactly the right moment to go all weak and swoony.'

To surrender to her groom's strength, his power, and in doing so claim it for her own.

Just as she had done. Fighting him, furious with him. Blaming him for what had happened one moment. Surrendering to the comfort he offered the next.

'Three generations has done nothing to dilute your understanding, Princess,' Sheikh Fayad said, apparently not making the connection-which should have been a relief but, oddly, was not-and merely amused at her perception. 'You are Arab to the bone.'

'It's just common sense,' she said, not in the least bit amused.

'Maybe,' he said, eyes suddenly thoughtful. 'So? Would you consider such an arrangement?'

'Me? Who's going to seek me out for an arranged marriage? What do I have to offer?' Then, as it clicked, as she realised what all that stuff about his grandfather, what all this had been leading up to, she said, ' Oh, no! No way!' And holding up a hand as if to fend him off, 'That's ridiculous. Really.'

So why, inside her head, was her subconscious saying, Oh, yes! How soon? Really!

'I assure you, Princess, that a marriage between us would make my grandfather the happiest man in the world. It has been his dearest wish that I remarry-he refuses to retire until I do. And you have every quality to recommend you.'

'I don't think so.'

'There is no need for concern, Princess. I was simply explaining why I will have to make an offer. Putting you on your guard against the expectations of my family.'

Oh, right. Well, that was plain enough. He would make the offer because he had no choice. And since, obviously, marriage was the furthest thing from his mind, her role was to get him off the hook and say no.

As if she'd say anything else. They'd only met that morning, for heaven's sake!

So why did she suddenly feel rejected, unwanted, just a little bit…hollow?

'I understand, Sheikh Fayad,' she said.

And she did. No matter that her great-great-grandmother had been Princess Fatima al Sayyid. They came from different worlds and this would never be hers. No matter that they'd already spent more time together than the average Ras al Kawi couple before they got down to business on the white sheet.

'Thank you for taking the time to explain it all so clearly. You need have no concerns.'

He frowned, looked as if he might say something more, but there was a ping, and the seatbelt lights came on, and instead he said, 'We are about to land.'

This time he did not sit with her, hold her hand. Instead Leila came to escort her to a small cabin at the rear of the plane, while he joined his staff in the forward cabin.

She told herself that she did not mind. She'd had the extraordinary privilege of spending time alone with the Sheikh and she would always cherish that. But now they were in Ras al Kawi things would be different.

How different she realised as soon as they'd landed, and she and Leila were left to cool their heels while a carpet was rolled up to the steps.

Sheikh Fayad and his party descended and approached the line of dignitaries waiting to greet him. Only then were Violet and Leila escorted down a separate set of steps that had been brought to the rear exit, where a limousine with tinted windows was waiting. Violet paused a few steps from the ground to take one last look across the tarmac at Sheikh Fayad who, every inch the Prince, was being greeted by the dignitaries. And she felt the strangest sensation of loss.

In London, on the aircraft, they could talk freely. Here, she realised, he was a man set apart. Out of reach.

As she hesitated, one of the men waiting to greet him turned and stared across the tarmac at her. His look was assessing, insolent, a little pleased, even, and for a moment she wished she had been wearing something anonymous, been draped head to foot in one of those black cloaks-an abaya-her face covered in a veil. She was glad that the car windows were tinted, so that as they sped away-no passport or immigration control for members of the Sheikh's party, obviously-she was…secluded.

Fayad faced his grandfather. Anger warred with the respect he owed him. Respect, marginally, won it. 'You cannot do this. The Princess is here as my guest…'

'She is their kin, Fayad. Their daughter. Ahmed al Sayyid is here, waiting to take her to their compound as soon as she has formally returned the Blood of Tariq.'

It was outrageous. 'Her home has been attacked twice already in an attempt to steal the khanjar, and I have no doubt that the Sayyid were behind that.'

'Fayad, please…'

His grandfather raised a hand. With a pang of remorse, he saw that it was shaking. In the short time that he'd been away the old man had deteriorated.

He reached out, took his grandfather's hand, held it.

'The responsibilities of a ruler are to his country, my son, not to an individual. The Sayyid will invoke tradition, and you know they will have support.'

'They have a medieval attitude to women. Their wives are kept behind high walls, their daughters are not allowed to go to school…'

'That is their way. I cannot defy them in this.'

But Fayad could, and would when the time came.

'Violet is giving up something of great value and asking for nothing in return except my protection. And I will protect her. It is a matter of honour.'

'We both know that there is only one way you can do that. But I warn you, if they believe you are attached to this woman, their dowry demands will put her beyond price.'

'They will dare ask for the Blood of Tariq?' Even as he said it, he knew that was their aim. They had not managed to steal the khanjar, but their spies would have informed them of every move he'd made in London. What had happened between him and Violet. Their outrage at their kinswoman's ruined honour would know no bounds. They did not care about her, but they would demand marriage, knowing that he could not refuse. And they would demand the Blood of Tariq as dowry.

His grandfather sighed. 'I'm sorry, Fayad. My hands are tied. Since they demand it, I have no choice but to surrender her to her family.'

He understood. He might rail against it, but to undermine the claim of family would be to deny the law, and his assurance, so confidently asserted, that a bride was free to choose now rang hollow in his ears.

Neither of them would have a choice.

To refuse the Sayyid terms would leave her a virtual prisoner in their compound. Beyond his reach.

He could not, would not, allow that to happen- even for a day.

There was no time to wonder, to marvel at the beauty of the palace, the exquisite arches, decorative tiling. No time to wonder at its size, spreading across the broad hilltop.

Below them lay the city, where wind towers, domes, delicate minarets sprawled down to a wide sweeping bay. Leila had pointed out landmarks.

The recently completed air-conditioned shopping mall. A new hotel with a glass atrium. The gold souk…

'What is that?' Violet had asked, as they'd climbed higher and she'd seen the remains of a cliff-top fortress.

'That?' Leila had shrugged. 'It's the Portuguese tower. It's just a ruin. There's nothing there,' she'd said, dismissing history with a careless gesture.

'It's all so much greener than I expected.'

'We have many parks. There-that is the souk. The market…' Parks were clearly not Leila's idea of a good time, either.

And then they'd driven through gates set in a high wall, guarded by armed men, and "green" had taken on an entirely new meaning.

Unlike European palaces, it was not one huge building but a series of small arched and domed buildings, grouped around colonnaded courtyards, each with a garden, trees. Formal pools were connected by a narrow continuous rill. Everywhere was shaded, scented by roses, jasmine, flowering shrubs that she had never seen before.

As they stepped from the air-conditioned car, the warmth, the intensity of the evening scents, wrapped themselves about her, and she felt like a flower opening to the sun. She turned slowly, taking in the exquisite tiled arches, the clear sky, now turning a darker blue as the sun sank behind distant mountains.

'It's so beautiful,' she said, but as she took a step towards the pool Leila restrained her.

'There's no time. You have to get ready to meet the Emir.'

They walked up marble steps into a vestibule spread with fine carpets. Leila kicked off her shoes and nodded approvingly when Violet followed her example.

'This is to be your house,' she said, hurrying her through a series of ornate reception rooms until they reached a private suite of sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. 'Make yourself comfortable, then I will prepare you for the Emir's majlis.'

'Majlis?'

'It is where he sits so that people can come and talk to him. Drink coffee. Appeal for his help. All the tribal leaders and heads of important families will be there today, to see the Blood of Tariq.'

Violet felt a sudden qualm. A surge of something rather more heavy-footed than butterflies stampeding through her stomach. A nervousness that was not eased when, having persisted in her determination to apply more make-up, Leila lifted a loose outer robe over her head and let it drop to the floor over her clothes.

It was cut from dark blue silk, embroidered in gold thread at hem and wrist, slit at the side. Ornate. Simple.

'This is a thaub. A traditional outer garment.'

'It's exquisite.'

'You will wear a scarf?' Without waiting for an answer, Leila loosely draped a long matching scarf over her head. It was woven from a silk so fine that it appeared to defy gravity, almost to float as the air was stirred by a slowly turning ceiling fan.

'Beautiful,' Leila said.

'It's lovely,' Violet agreed. She knew cloth, and understood that this was something rare, beyond anything she could ever afford.

'Not the scarf. You, Princess.' She fiddled with the tail of a comb until Violet's face was framed in a dark curve of hair. 'You are beautiful.'

'No…'

Unusual. Dramatic. That was the kindest thing anyone had ever said about her looks. Even her grandmother.

Her nose was too big, her brows too strong, and her eyes were the wrong colour… And yet made up this way, her hair shining like polished ebony, her face gently framed in the soft folds of the scarf, it seemed as if suddenly everything had fallen into place. Everything…fitted.

'Good. Hurry. The car is waiting…'