Their Impossible Desert Match

by Clare Connelly

  ‘Malik is right. We have to show the people of Ishkana that we value this peace accord,’ she said with quiet resolve. ‘For our people, we must appear to be moving forward. We have to lead the way. How can we expect them to find peace in their hearts if we don’t demonstrate it? I will go to Ishkana as a guest of the palace. I will attend state dinners and speak to the parliament. I will tour their ancient ruins and libraries and smile for the cameras. Is that what you want, Mal?’

  He made a small noise of agreement. ‘You know how I hate to ask it of you.’

  She waved a hand through the air. ‘If you hadn’t asked, I would have suggested it. It’s the best thing for everyone.’

  ‘No, Johara. You will be exposed—’

  ‘I’ll be a guest of their King, will I not?’

  Malik dipped his head forward in silent agreement.

  ‘And staying in the palace?’

  Another nod.

  ‘So I presume His Majesty will vouch for my safety?’

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Paris responded dubiously.

  At that, Malik held up a hand. ‘I believe Amir is a man of honour.’ The words were dark, troubled. ‘He is a Haddad, so naturally I mistrust him, but I believe that, having invited you to the palace, he will go out of his way to ensure your safety.’

  Johara’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Sheikh Amir invited me?’

  Malik’s smile was dismissive. ‘A figure of speech. The suggestion came through diplomatic channels and no specific guest was mentioned. It was my idea that you should attend.’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned away again quickly, hoping she’d hid the look of disappointment she knew must be on her face. What had she expected? That he’d roll out the red carpet for her eight weeks after they’d last seen each other? He’d made his feelings perfectly clear that night.

  It was a mistake. Her heart skipped another beat. It wasn’t a mistake. It was the single greatest moment of her life and she wouldn’t let him take that away from her. Oh, she desperately wished that they weren’t who they were—the Haddads and Qadirs had hated each other for too long to allow it to be forgotten. But in that moment, it had been too perfect so even now she struggled to care.

  ‘So you’ll go?’

  What would it be like to enter his kingdom? His palace? She’d never been to Ishkana. It wouldn’t have been safe until recently. She’d seen photographs and knew much of its history, but to see it for herself? Curiosity sparked inside her, and she told herself the rushing of her pulse was owing to that alone.

  ‘Yes, Mal. I’ll go to Ishkana.’

  * * *

  In many ways, it was just like Taquul. The sand was the same colour, the heat was the same, the trees innately familiar. But as the limousine approached the palace she felt a flash of anticipation warm her skin. The approach to the palace was lined with palm trees, and on one side, a colourful market had been set up. The limousine was obliged to slow down as pedestrians meandered across the road, in no hurry to clear the way for the car. It gave her time to observe. An old woman sat in the shade cast from her brightly coloured market tent, an ancient spinning wheel before her. She moved effortlessly, each shift of the wheel an act she’d obviously repeated millions of times in her long lifetime. A vibrant red wool was being formed at one side. Another woman sat beside her, talking and cackling with laughter. The next stall showed spices, piled high in pyramids, just as vendors did at home, the next sold sweets—she recognised many of the same illicit delicacies she’d been introduced to by the gardening staff who’d tended the maze.

  As the car neared the palace gates, she saw something that broke her heart. Several people stood in a cluster, shaded by a large, old umbrella. Their clothes were poor, their faces grubby and bodies frail. She turned to the driver, leaning forward. ‘Stop the car.’

  He pressed the brakes, looking over his shoulder. ‘Madam?’

  ‘A moment.’ She spoke with all the authority she could conjure, unlocking her door and stepping out. The sun beat down on her relentlessly, causing a bead of perspiration to break out on her brow. She wiped at it but continued to walk to the group. There were perhaps eighteen people. She was conscious of one of the palace guards stepping out of the car and following behind her—she resented his intrusion, and the suggestion that these people must be dangerous because they happened to be poor.

  Fixing him with a cool stare, she turned back to the people at the gate and smiled. ‘It’s warm,’ she said to a woman in perhaps her early thirties, nursing an infant on her hip. The child looked at Johara with enormous brown eyes.

  ‘Very hot, yes.’

  ‘You need some lemonade from the markets,’ Johara said with a smile. The mother’s eyes widened but she shook her head almost instantly.

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘Here.’ Johara reached into the folds of her linen dress, removing enough bank notes to pay rent for a month. She handed them to the mother, who shook her head.

  ‘Please, take it. Buy some food and drink.’ She gestured to the group behind her. ‘For all of you.’

  ‘But...it’s very generous...’

  Johara’s heart turned over, and simultaneously she felt a blade of anger pierce her. How could Amir sit in his palace and allow this kind of poverty to exist on his doorstep? True, Taquul wasn’t perfect but this was so blatant! So heart-wrenching.

  ‘I insist.’ She leaned out and tousled the little boy’s hair. He didn’t react at first but then he giggled, so Johara did it again.

  ‘He likes you,’ the woman said wistfully. ‘It’s the first time he’s smiled in days.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Johara murmured truthfully. ‘He has a beautiful smile.’

  She turned to leave but before she’d gone three steps, the woman arrested her. ‘What is your name, miss?’

  Johara paused, aware that it was a turning point. She’d come to this country to spread word of the alliance and reverse people’s opinions; now was as good a time to start as any.

  ‘Johara Qadir,’ she said without inflection—not anger, not cynicism, not apology.

  A rippled murmur travelled the group but the woman spoke over it. ‘Thank you, Your Highness.’ And she bowed low, but with a smile on her face, so Johara was glad the people knew who she was.

  The security guard followed her back to the car, and as he opened the door he said firmly, ‘You should not have done that, madam.’

  Johara’s surprise was obvious. In Taquul, a servant would never speak to a guest in such a manner! ‘I beg your pardon, why exactly not?’

  ‘Because it is dangerous and the Sheikh gave your brother his word you would be safe here. That means he will want to control every aspect of your safety. If you display a tendency to make such poor decisions he’ll likely confine you to the palace.’

  She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Confine me...me...to the palace?’

  The guard lifted his shoulders. ‘We should go. He will be waiting.’

  Emotions flooded Johara’s body. He will be waiting. The idea of Amir waiting for her did unreasonable things to her pulse.

  She slid into the car, waving at her newfound friend as the car drove through the palace gates, trying to work out why her nerves wouldn’t settle.

  This wasn’t about him. He’d made it very clear that he regretted what had happened between them and she had no choice but to accept that, to feel as he did.

  Johara held her breath, marvelling at all the many ways in which the palace differed from the photographs she’d seen. Oh, it was enormous and impossibly grand, she knew parts of it had been constructed in the fifth century—the old stone foundations and underground tunnels and caverns rumoured to run all the way to the mountains—but the rest had been completed in the sixteen hundreds; enormous white stone walls with gold details formed an impressive façade. The windows were arched, the r
oofs shaped to match with colours of gold, turquoise and copper. Around the entire palace there was a moat of the most iridescent water, such a glorious pale blue it reminded her of the clearest seas of the Mediterranean.

  She peered at it as they drove over the moat, then fixed her attention on the palace. The car stopped at a large golden door. Servants and guards stood to the ready and at the top of the stairs, him.

  Amir.

  His Majesty, Sheikh of Ishkana. Nerves fired through her but she refused to let them show, especially to the bossy security agent who’d told her she shouldn’t have stopped to speak to the poor people at the gate. Since when was compassion forbidden?

  The security agent opened the door without meeting her eyes and she stepped from the car, conscious of everything in that moment. Her dress, her hair, the fact he was staring at her and that everyone was watching them. Conscious of the photographer who stood poised to take an official photograph that would be printed in all the newspapers in both countries and around the world the following morning.

  Most conscious of all though of Amir as he moved down the stairs towards her, his eyes not leaving her face, his face so familiar, so achingly familiar, that she could barely remember to act impassive.

  It took all her self-control to stay where she was, a look of polite calm on her face. He extended a hand in greeting; she placed hers in it. The world stopped spinning all over again. Arrows drove through her skin. Her mouth was dry, breathing painful. She stared at him in bewilderment—she hadn’t thought he’d still be able to affect her like that. She’d thought knowing who he was and how he felt about her might have changed...something.

  She pulled her hand away as though he’d burned her, with no idea if the photographer had succeeded in capturing a suitably friendly photograph—and not particularly caring.

  ‘Welcome, Princess,’ he murmured, and, though it was a perfectly acceptable thing to say, she felt her skin crawl, as though he were condemning her title just as he had her name on that last night. ‘Johara.’ He’d spat it at her and she felt that again now.

  ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t flinch.

  ‘Smile for the camera,’ he said quietly, leaning down so only she caught the words. She looked in the direction he’d nodded, eyeing off the photographer and lifting her lips in a practised smile. They stood there for a moment before the Sheikh put his hand to the small of her back, to guide her to the palace. It was too much. She wanted to jerk herself away from the simple contact, or she wanted to throw herself at his feet and beg him to do so much more.

  She did neither.

  Her upbringing and training kicked in; she put one foot in front of the other until she reached the top of the steps and then beyond them, into the cool corridor of the palace. Then, and only then, when out of sight of photographers, did she casually step beyond his reach.

  If he noticed, or cared, he didn’t show it. ‘How was your flight?’

  Like you care. The acerbic rejoinder died on the tip of her tongue. This would never work if she went out of her way to spar with him. ‘Fine. Easy.’

  ‘Easier still when we can repair and reopen the mountain roads; the drive will take a matter of hours.’

  Johara looked towards him. ‘That’s what you intend?’

  He began to move deeper into the palace and she followed after him. ‘Why not? There were always easy links between our people. It’s only as a result of the conflict that these have been shut down.’

  ‘And trade?’ she prompted.

  ‘Naturally.’

  She nodded, considering this. ‘Even as the peace seems so tenuous?’

  ‘I expected it would.’ He shrugged. ‘Surely you didn’t truly believe it would be smooth sailing simply because Malik and I signed an accord?’

  Her brow furrowed as she considered that. ‘I...had hoped.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word was delivered enigmatically. ‘You had hoped.’

  ‘You’re still cynical about this?’

  They reached a pair of thick, dark wood doors, at which four guards stood sentinel. He gestured for her to precede him. She did so, without looking where she was going, so when she stepped into the space she was completely unprepared for what awaited her. She drew in a sharp breath, wonderment filling her gaze. She hadn’t been paying attention; it had felt as though they were moving deeper into the palace, yet this room was a sanctuary of green. A stream ran in front of them, covered by dark timber bridges. The walls were dark wood, but filled with greenery. Vines had tentacles that reached across everything. Johara reached out and ran her fingers over the velvety surface of one of the plants.

  Amir watched Johara.

  ‘What is this?’ She turned to face him, a smile unknowingly lifting her lips. It was impossible to feel anything but uplifted in this room.

  ‘A private hall, now just for my use. It’s one of the oldest spaces in the palace.’

  She nodded, looking upwards, where several openings showed views of the sky. She could only imagine how stunning it would be in the evening.

  ‘I’d never heard of it. It’s not in any of the information we have.’ Her cheeks grew hot. ‘The texts, I mean.’

  He lifted a brow. ‘You’ve been studying my country?’

  ‘As children, my brother and I were taught much about Ishkana.’

  ‘And how to hate us?’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘As you were taught to hate us.’

  ‘A lesson that I never really understood until I was twelve years old.’

  She stared at him blankly.

  Amir moved deeper into the room. ‘The age I was when my parents were assassinated.’

  Her heart squeezed for the boy he’d been. She wanted to offer condolences, to tell him how sorry she was, but both sentiments seemed disingenuous, given the strained nature of their relationship. So instead, she said, ‘That must have been very difficult.’

  He didn’t respond. His profile was autocratic, his features tight. Where was the man she’d made love to in the maze? It felt like such a long time ago. Then, she’d had no inhibitions, no barriers. To him she would have known exactly what to say, without second-guessing herself.

  ‘This room is completely private—for my use only, and for those guests I choose to invite here with me.’ He tilted a gaze at her. ‘I’m sure you are aware of how difficult it is to have true privacy in a palace.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, looking around. The more she looked, the more she saw and loved. In the far corner, an old rug had been spread, gold and burgundy in colour, and against it, sumptuous pillows were spread. ‘Thank you for showing it to me.’

  He turned to face her, his eyes glittering like onyx in his handsome face.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you. Alone.’

  Her body went into overdrive. Blood hummed just beneath her skin, her heart slammed into her ribs and her knees began to feel as though they were two distinct magnetic poles. She walked slowly and deliberately towards the centre of the room, where an enormous fiddle leaf fig was the centrepiece. ‘Did you, Amir?’

  Using his name felt like both a rebellion and a comfort. She didn’t look at him to see his reaction.

  ‘It’s been two and a half months since the masquerade.’

  She studied the detailed, intricate veins in the leaves of the fig tree, her eyes tracing their patterns, every fibre of her being focussing on not reacting visibly to his statement.

  ‘So you would know by now.’

  ‘Know?’

  ‘If there were any consequences to that night.’

  Consequences? Her brain was sluggish. The heat, and having seen him again, made her feel a thousand things and none of them was mentally acute, so it took a few seconds for his meaning to make sense. Her breath snagged in her throat as she contemplated what he meant—something which hadn’t, until that moment, even occurred to her. ‘Yo
u mean to ask if I’m pregnant?’

  The room seemed to hush. The gentle vines no longer whispered, the water beneath them ceased to flow, even the sun overhead felt as though it grew dim.

  ‘Are you?’

  Something painful shifted in her belly. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, turning to face him slowly. ‘And if I were, Amir?’ This time, when she said his name, she was conscious of the way he reacted, heat simmering in his eyes.

  ‘I will not speak in hypotheticals.’

  It was so like him. She felt a ridiculous burst of anger at his refusal to enter into a ‘what if?’. ‘No, that’s not fair. You asked the question, I’m entitled to ask mine back. What would you do if I were pregnant?’

  His face became shuttered, impossible to read, unfamiliar and intimidating. ‘What would you have me do?’

  She should have expected that. ‘No, I’m asking what you would want to do.’

  ‘Are you hoping I’ll say something romantic, Johara? Do you wish me to tell you that I would put aside our ancient feud and marry you, for the sake of our child’s future?’

  Her lips parted. The image he painted was painful and somehow impossible to ignore. She shook her head even when she wasn’t sure what she felt or wanted.

  ‘Even for the sake of our child, I would not marry you. I couldn’t. As much as I hate your family, you deserve better than that.’

  Curiosity barbed inside her. ‘You think marriage to you would be a punishment?’

  ‘Yes. For both of us.’

  ‘Why, Amir?’

  He moved closer, and she held her breath, waiting, wanting, needing. ‘Because I would never forgive you, Johara.’ It was just like the first time he’d said her name. An invocation, a curse, a whip lashing the air in the room and crashing finally against the base of her spine.

  ‘For what? What exactly have I done that requires forgiveness?’