The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

CHAPTER EIGHT

IN THE privacy of his office, Rashad watched the film footage for the third time. The camera, obviously wielded by a man hopelessly enthralled with Tilda’s exquisite face, followed her every move at a children’s concert. In front of a camera she was a natural and highly photogenic, and the Bakhari media industry had succumbed to their first bout of celebrity fever. When his sisters had taken Tilda shopping in Jumiah, the traffic had been brought to a standstill because interest in Tilda had been so great that drivers had abandoned their cars to try and catch a glimpse of her in the flesh.

Alarmed by the size of the crowds that had swiftly formed that morning, Rashad had wasted no time in tripling the size of Tilda’s protection team. He had also put a more experienced man in charge of her security. She was incredibly popular. He ran the footage of the concert again and absorbed the lingering shots of his wife’s radiant smile, her relaxed warmth with the children and the interest she showed in everyone she spoke to. Her intelligence and charisma attracted much admiring comment. Tilda might now look like a beautiful fashion queen, but when a toddler left a sandy handprint on her dress she just laughed and brushed herself down. In less than a month she had become the best-known face in Bakhar, next to his father’s and his own.

So, who was it who had said that the camera never lied? Was this the same woman who had once deceived him, extracted money from him and slept with other men? Was the fact that she still hadn’t slept with him ongoing evidence of the existence of that other unscrupulous persona? Was she simply a fantastic actress? Was she giving the people what they wanted, just as she had once played the innocent for his benefit? After all, he was willing to concede her innocence was what he had wanted most when he’d first met her. Then, he had been too idealistic to desire a succession of different women in his bed. What he had wanted most was a wife. Tilda had struck him as a pearl beyond price and he had put her on a pedestal.

Lean, powerful face grim, Rashad froze Tilda’s image on screen. The woman in the film was a more adult version of the girl he remembered and he was deeply disturbed by the fact. Second time round, armed with the knowledge of her greed and promiscuity, he had expected to easily detect her insincerity and her other flaws. But Tilda was contriving to keep her dark side remarkably well hidden from him and from the whole of Bakhar. Few people were all bad or all good, he reminded himself impatiently. Wasn’t it possible that she had seen the error of her ways and changed them? How could he doubt her guilt even for a moment? For wasn’t that what was really bothering him? He had so far failed to match the woman enchanting everyone with her charm with the greedy, scheming wanton she was supposed to be at heart.

In a sudden movement Rashad straightened to his full height and unlocked the safe. He had to go right to the back of it to find the slim security file he sought. Put together by a British private detective, it was written in English. Rashad remembered what a battle he had had to understand that language on the day he’d read it and shock had made his brain freeze. He still felt queasy just looking at the cover of the file with her name on it. He reminded himself that it had come to him direct from an impeccable source. He felt that he needed to read it again, but he believed it would be unduly disrespectful to Tilda to even open that unsavoury file now, two days before their wedding.

His tension eased, his brilliant gaze simmered gold. The day after tomorrow, Tilda would be one hundred per cent his. She would have no grounds to complain of medieval laws and customs. There could be no suggestion that their union was anything other than legal and above-board. A wolfish smile of satisfaction slashed his wide, sensual mouth. Aware that he needed her co-operation before their state wedding made them the most married couple in Bakhar, he had played a waiting game of restraint. But restraint had its limits: his bride would lie in his bed on their wedding night.

The phone rang to inform him that Tilda’s family were about to arrive. Rashad glanced at the file still in his hand and thrust it into his briefcase. Determined to award her mother and siblings every courtesy and frankly curious to meet them all again, Rashad left his office to be at Tilda’s side. He had not actually been invited to be so, but he was prepared to rise above that small slight.

Tilda wrapped her arms exuberantly round Katie and Megan and had she had a third arm she would have hugged her brother James, as well, who gave her hair an affectionate tug and stepped back out of reach with a laughing complaint when she tried to hug him. Aubrey was shaking his head over the astonishing splendour and size of the palace.

‘So much for the accounting job you mentioned!’ Katie teased. ‘Here you are decked out in designer gear, living in the lap of luxury and about to marry the love of your life. Obviously you took one look at each other and went overboard again. The only thing that stops it all being perfect is Mum not being here with us.’

Tilda sighed in agreement. ‘I know. She’s ecstatic that I’m getting married to Rashad but really sad she can’t be here with us.’

‘Mum is a lot happier and less nervy,’ the youthful blonde confided. ‘Aubrey thinks that having to miss your wedding might be just what it takes to push her into getting the professional help she needs.’

Having chatted to her parent regularly on the phone since leaving home, Tilda was well aware that Beth was in a much healthier and stronger frame of mind since she had been able to stop worrying about her debts. Stress, Tilda thought ruefully, might well have made her mother’s condition worse. An end to Scott’s threatening visits would also have helped.

‘Rashad!’ Megan suddenly yelled and tore across the room, only to fall still in sudden uncertainty several feet from the male she had once idolised.

Laughing at that noisy and enthusiastic welcome, Rashad strode straight up to the girl and bent down to speak to her.

‘He’s, like, totally the fairy-tale prince.’ Katie rolled admiring eyes and groaned. ‘So handsome, likes kids, always polite and charming. I mean, why the heck did you two ever break up? A silly row?’

‘Something like that.’

‘There’s something that you should know. Remember the reporters cornering you at the airport?’ Katie murmured uneasily. ‘That was James’s fault and he feels awful about it.’

‘How on earth could it have been James’s fault?’ Tilda questioned.

‘Dad-Scott.’ Katie grimaced. ‘James phones Scott sometimes, and James let drop about you and Rashad. It’s a fair bet that Scott passed on the news to someone, maybe made a bit of money out of it.’

Tilda was relieved to find out who had been responsible, but disturbed by the fact that her younger brother had been in contact with his father. She took a deep breath and told her sister that Scott had been taking money from their mother. Katie scolded Tilda for not telling her sooner and promised to warn James.

Tilda found her attention roaming back continually to Rashad. His arrival had bowled her over. It was a challenge to take her eyes off his lean, darkly beautiful features. But then, she had seen precious little of him over the past month. Her days had been filled with history, language and etiquette lessons, not to mention dress fittings, shopping trips, innumerable social meetings with Rashad’s extended family and several informal public appearances.

Every night she had fallen into bed exhausted and lain awake listening in vain for Rashad coming home, because his bedroom was so far from hers that she had no hope of hearing his return. Slowly but surely, his cool detachment had begun to infuriate her. A member of his staff had brought her a sealed envelope containing all the documents pertaining to the transfer of the family home back into her mother’s name and the writing off of the loan. She had sent him a very polite note of thanks.

But it had not achieved the desired response, for he had not come looking for her. She had more or less told him to leave her alone and Rashad, who had never, ever done what she told him to do before, was leaving her alone. Initially she had told herself that this proved that there had been no real substance to his assurance that their marriage did not have to be a charade. But it had soon dawned on her that demanding a separate bedroom had been a sure-fire way of ensuring that their relationship remained a sham. Though it galled her to admit it, she wanted much more from him.

Rashad’s working day began very early. A lie-in had become an unknown treat for Tilda because the minute Rashad left the building she raced down the corridor and across a courtyard to his room to check that his bed had actually been occupied the night before. Well aware that he had a very racy reputation as a womaniser, Tilda had developed a need to continually check that he wasn’t doing anything suspicious. She was now as well acquainted with Rashad’s daily schedule as any seasoned member of his staff.

He rose at five in the morning to go riding across the desert sands. He showered at six. He often breakfasted and dined with his father, or had a working meal with staff. He rarely ate lunch. He worked extremely hard. He had gone abroad on business twice and she hadn’t slept a wink while he was away for worrying that he might be making up for those weeks of celibacy. Every day he sent her flowers or, if he had seen little of her, he phoned her. If she was silent or sulky, he did the talking. His manners were outrageously good, his reserve impenetrable. She was convinced that he could hold a pleasant conversation with a brick wall. He remained breathtakingly impervious to her most tart remarks. At times, she had wanted to screech down the phone like a shrew to get a reaction from him but if that had happened she’d have felt horribly childish.

Now she watched him speaking to each of her siblings and receiving an overwhelmingly positive response from each of them. He was good with people, quick to set them at their ease, she acknowledged grudgingly. EvenAubrey was smiling and James, often silenced by teenaged awkwardness, was talking away happily.

‘Where is your mother?’ Rashad asked Tilda in a quiet aside a few minutes later. ‘Did the journey overtire her? Has she gone upstairs to lie down?’

Tilda went instantly into defensive mode. ‘She’s not here. She couldn’t come.’

Rashad shot her a perturbed glance. ‘Why not?’

Her turquoise eyes sparked. ‘I’m not going to tell you and risk being accused of telling sob stories.’

‘Tilda,’ Rashad chided, gleaming dark as midnight eyes resting on her in level enquiry.

Her face went pink, her mouth running dry. When he looked directly at her a thousand butterflies were set loose in her tummy and it seriously embarrassed her. ‘OK. Mum suffers from agoraphobia. It’s more than four years since she even went out of the front door of her home. She never goes out. She can’t.’

His ebony brows pleated in consternation. ‘Agoraphobia? You should have told me about this.’

‘Why? You were in the process of having my mother evicted. You didn’t want the human-interest tales then. It’s too late to talk like Mr Compassionate now,’ Tilda told him accusingly.

‘I was hard on you, but I would never be unjust,’ Rashad countered evenly. ‘Someone should have given me the true facts of the matter.’

Tilda was determined not to let him off the hook. ‘You wouldn’t have been interested.’

‘I had good reason for mistrust. Five years of inaction followed by a last-minute plea from you? But you must draw a line under that period because your family is now my family. I will do whatever is within my power to ensure that your mother receives the very best treatment available.’ Rashad gazed down at Tilda’s mutinous oval face. ‘The day after tomorrow is our wedding day.’

Tilda released a theatrical long-suffering sigh. ‘Like I could forget that!’

Rashad flung back his imperious dark head and laughed with genuine appreciation. The day could not come soon enough for him.

‘All I can say is…you look amazing,’ Katie said dreamily.

Tilda did a little twirl in front of the cheval-mirror. Her wedding gown was glorious: pristine white and cut to enhance her graceful figure, it had the deceptively simple designer elegance that came from style and sumptuous fabric. Her two sisters looked delightful in matching dresses the colour of burnished copper, which had been fitted in London. Rashad’s eldest sister, Durra, was acting as a matron of honour for the first ceremony which would be followed by the Bakhari ceremony, a few hours later.

The phone was brought to Tilda. It was her mother, Beth. The older woman’s happiness was patent in spite of the thousands of miles that separated mother and daughter. Beth explained that Rashad had arranged for a video link to be set up in her home so that Beth could watch the ceremonies. A lump formed in Tilda’s throat. His consideration where her family was concerned was surprising her yet again. Once he had realised that her siblings would be leaving directly after the wedding ceremony because both Aubrey and Katie had exams coming up, he had organised a fun sightseeing tour for them to enjoy the day before.

She rang Rashad to thank him for the video link.

‘It was nothing,’ he protested.

‘It means everything to Mum.’ Tilda went into the en suite bathroom for privacy and added, ‘She thinks this wedding is real, so it’s a really big deal for her.’

‘For me, as well, and for Bakhar,’ Rashad murmured coolly.

‘I didn’t mean it that way…oh, for goodness’ sake, just because you never say anything without thinking!’ Tilda groaned.

‘Tilda?’ Katie knocked on the door. ‘What are you doing?’

Tilda emerged with sparkling eyes, still talking on the phone. ‘Oh, I’m just arguing with Rashad, Katie. Nothing new there-’

‘Tilda,’ Rashad drawled huskily. ‘Make no mistake. This is a real wedding…’

Rashad, devastatingly handsome in a superb grey morning suit, worn with a silk waistcoat and striped trousers, awaited her in a beautifully decorated room filled with all his closest relatives. The Christian marriage service, conducted by a chaplain attached to the British embassy, was short and sweet, but the simple words of the ceremony had a familiarity that had a lingering resonance for Tilda. Rashad slid a platinum ring on her finger and she returned the favour with a matching band on his. For the first time she felt married, for the first time he felt like her husband and she felt like a wife.

‘You look fantastic in white,’ Rashad confided huskily.

Meeting his appreciative gaze, Tilda tingled. After the bride and groom had posed for formal photographs with King Hazar, Tilda was whisked off at speed to be prepared and presented afresh as a traditional Bakhari bride.

Assisted from her gown by half a dozen pairs of helpful hands, lost in a crowd of chattering women, Tilda was ushered into a palatial bathroom. A scented bath liberally sprinkled with rose petals awaited her. While she bathed, she heard music striking up in the room next door and smiled. There was a marvellous atmosphere of fun in the air. She emerged wrapped in a towel and learnt that she had only completed the first step of the all-important bridal preparations. She submitted to having her hair rinsed with what one of her sisters-in-law explained was an extract of amber and jasmine. It left her tresses silky smooth and deliciously perfumed.

After being placed on a couch, Tilda was gently massaged with aromatic oil and she relaxed for the first time that day. Durra asked her if she would mind having her hands and feet ornamented with henna. Acquiescing, Tilda looked on in fascination while, for the sake of speed, two women embarked on painting delicate lacelike ochre patterns on her slender hands and feet. Refreshing mint tea was served.

‘Men are not usually very good at waiting for what they want,’ Durra contended cheerfully, ‘but Rashad is an exceptional man. It is years since my brother first mentioned your name to us and here you are, his bride at last.’

Surprise made Tilda tense. ‘You knew about me then…I mean, Rashad told you about me?’

Durra gave her an anxious apologetic look. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

‘No, not at all,’ Tilda soothed, because she was pleased to learn that Rashad had considered her of sufficient importance in his life to have told his family about her. At the same time, though, it made her even more determined to find out what had so totally destroyed his faith in her. Had he seen her with a work colleague or another student that summer? Misinterpreted what he had seen? Did he have a problem with jealousy? Had someone lied about her?

A diversion was created by the arrival of a brassbound wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Tilda eased up the lid and displayed, to a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs,’ an intricate headdress of beaten golden coins and an incredible quantity of ornate turquoise jewellery. Evidently last worn by Rashad’s mother on the occasion of her marriage, the antique necklaces, earrings and bracelets had been passed down through many generations of brides.

Tilda sat while her hair was styled and her make-up done. Her sisters’ steadily widening eyes warned her that the end result was likely to be very different from what she was accustomed to. A wonderfully colourful hand-embroidered and beaded kaftan was extended for her admiration. Only when she was finally dressed was she allowed to see herself in the mirror.

‘Welcome to the sixteenth century!’ Katie whispered cheekily in Tilda’s ear.

From her kohl-lined, glittering turquoise-shadowed eyes to the silvery fairness of her hair, which fell like a gleaming sheet of silk below the bridal headdress, there was a dazzling barbaric splendour to her appearance. Tilda wondered if Rashad would go for the traditional Bakhari bride look and she rather thought he would.

She was led into a huge richly decorated room filled with people, but the only person she was truly aware of was Rashad. He wore an army dress uniform in royal blue and gold, a sword hanging by his side. Her heart skipped a beat as soon as she saw him. She let the inner wall of her pride soften for an instant and admitted to herself that she didn’t just find Rashad madly, insanely sexy and attractive. That was only a part of what drew her to him. The truth was that she had never got over the secret conviction that he was the love of her life. Although he had hurt and disappointed her, he had still awakened feelings stronger than any other man could hope to match. She still loved him. Perhaps, she reasoned ruefully, now that they were husband and wife, it really was time that she stopped fighting with him and gave him a second chance.

On cue, Rashad gripped her hand and murmured with flatteringly impressed conviction. ‘You look so beautiful-it is wrong of me to think it, but every man here must envy me.’

Delighted that she had been correct in assuming that the medieval theme would be a winning success, Tilda drifted dreamily through the ceremony that followed. Her heart open to her emotions and her love acknowledged, she felt curiously at peace with herself. The reception started with a lavish feast. She sat by Rashad’s side in their carved thronelike chairs and, with a calm smile on her lips, watched a ceremonial display of dancing with swords, whips and bloodthirsty shouts. After the folk dances came poetry readings and songs and the presentation of magnificent gifts. They went out onto a balcony to watch a camel race taking place beyond the walls.

In the noisy debate that took place at the end of the race, Rashad closed a hand over hers and tugged her back indoors and down a quiet staircase. ‘Now at last we can be alone.’

‘We can just vanish in the middle of it all?’

Rashad surveyed her with scorching golden eyes and brought his hungry mouth down on hers with passionate force. As an answer it was very effective. Her consciousness of the world around her went into a crazy tail-spin until he lifted his imperious dark head again.

‘You’ve spent virtually the whole of the last month ignoring me!’ Tilda recovered enough to splutter.

‘But you made it plain that you wanted to be left alone,’ Rashad reminded her darkly, walking her down the stairs at a pace she could manage in her long dress and high heels. ‘You said you wanted to sleep apart from me.’

As Tilda paused to look up at him a sensual frisson of awareness slivered through her body. ‘Not tonight, but-’

‘No conditions,’ Rashad slotted in.

‘Just one tiny one,’ Tilda told him winsomely, noting the way his devouring gaze was glued to her and feeling an intoxicating sense of her feminine power. ‘You have to tell me what really happened five years ago. I want to know what made you turn against me.’

Seriously disconcerted by that demand, Rashad breathed, ‘You want to rake up the past on our wedding night? Are you crazy?’

‘Don’t I have a right to know?’

‘Yes,’ he conceded, but with a reluctance she could feel, ‘but not tonight.’

Tilda supposed he had a point and his admission that she had a right to know mollified her a little. Even so, she did not want to drop the subject until she had received an answer that she could depend on. ‘What sort of evidence do you have?’

‘A security file,’ Rashad divulged, in the hope that revealing the source of his knowledge would persuade her into a diplomatic retreat. He could see no point in putting either of them through the discomfort of examining evidence that she would only find degrading.

Tilda was taken aback by that admission. ‘And how the heck did you get hold of a security file?’

‘It’s been in my possession for a while. No one else has seen it,’ he grated tightly. ‘Right now it’s in my briefcase.’

Satisfied by that admission, if a little spooked by the strength of his reaction, Tilda said nothing more; he’d listened to her request and acted on it. Tomorrow or the next day would be soon enough to resurrect the past. For the present, Tilda realised that she was more interested in making the most of her wedding day.