Slowly he pulled her to him and kissed her on the lips. It was as gentle as his touch and as shocking. There was nothing insistent about his kiss. His lips brushed hers before opening gently and caressing hers. It was like no other kiss she’d ever had. Her whole being was concentrated in that one touch. And her whole being was devastated as the touch withdrew.
“Now, go, see to my nephew.”
Anna stepped away as if forced back by his words. He was wooing her and it was working. But it was all based on an untruth—one that she couldn’t continue to live with.
CHAPTER FIVE
Fatima stood back and appraised Anna’s reflection in the mirror critically. “No. We need more foundation. Anna! You Americans are so pale!”
“Enough!” Anna brought her hands to her face and pushed herself up out of the chair around which the women clustered. She couldn’t take it any more. Three hours of fussing and she looked like an orange-tinted Barbie doll.
Fatima exchanged looks with the others and dismissed them from the room.
“What is wrong Anna?”
Anna stared at herself in the mirror. “Look at me. I don’t even look like me any more.” She picked up a wad of cotton wool and began wiping the heavy make-up off her face.
“It’s tradition, it’s—”
“Everything’s tradition. I’m sick of tradition. Fatima! It’s not me. I’m sorry, I know you’ve been working hard but I’ve had enough.”
It was Fatima’s turn to be angry. “Then you should have said something before instead of sitting there like some kind of frozen mannequin.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Saying it three times won’t make it any better.”
Anna looked up into Fatima’s eyes, reflected back at her in the mirror, and realized that she’d really hurt her. She groped for her hand behind her. “I’m your younger sister, right? And sometimes younger sisters can be stupid.”
“You are my elder sister don’t forget. Which, according to your logic, makes me the stupid one.” Fatima squeezed Anna’s hand. “Now tell me what this is really about.” Fatima drew up a seat beside Anna.
Anna rested her elbows on the dressing table in front of the mirror and rubbed the heels of her palms into her eyes, smudging the black make-up all around her eyes.
“I can’t help thinking of Abduallah.”
“Ahh,” Fatima sat down then as if all had been explained. “Abduallah. He was such a fun boy, always getting up to mischief and so beautiful.”
Anna’s eyes dropped. “Not so beautiful at the end.” She was going to continue until she saw Fatima’s hurt frown. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m being silly. Perhaps I just need a little time to myself.”
Fatima nodded, her thoughts obviously still lingering over Anna’s words. “You have five minutes and then we will be back.”
Anna smiled. “Just five minutes and then I promise I’ll behave, but no foundation.”
Fatima shrugged. “You want to look as pale as a lily on your wedding day, that’s up to you.”
Anna nodded. “It is.”
Fatima’s smile was different to most people’s, Anna thought. It started in the eyes and spread down her rounded cheeks and made her lips curl last of all. It was like Zahir’s, except that Zahir’s smile stayed in his eyes and went nowhere else. He’d spent too long keeping an impassive face to the world to allow the sweet lip curl that Fatima displayed.
As the door closed quietly shut, Anna slipped to the cool floor and leant against the wall. She closed her eyes and let the memories that wouldn’t stay put, wouldn’t do as they were told, flood her mind.
Memories of Abduallah, the last time she’d seen him, as he’d drifted into a stupor from which he couldn’t be roused. If Fatima thought she looked pale, then she wouldn’t have recognized Abduallah. His skin had turned a grey parchment color and had sunk dryly into his skull. She couldn’t even remember his eyes because he always kept them closed to her. Closed to life.
She forced herself to remember the real Abduallah, the one she’d met at a party, so charming and kind, so handsome and, she’d thought, so honest. It was only after the brief registry office wedding that he’d told her the truth—that he needed Anna to show to his family that he was straight. Except he wasn’t.
She’d swiftly organized a divorce but her affection for him hadn’t faded and she agreed to present a united front to meet his brother. And afterwards, when Abduallah had seen the baby he’d never asked her who the father was—although she suspected he knew—and he had been thrilled, adored the boy.
But not enough to stop the slow downward spiral. She’d tried to save him, to tell him not to give up, that there was a life for him. But the image of his unforgiving world was deeply ingrained and he did give up.
And that was the image before her now: his face, ravaged by drugs and despair. And it was not one she was able to share with his family.
She hadn’t noticed Fatima enter until she felt her light touch on her shoulder.
“Don’t cry, Anna. It will be all right. Abduallah wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”
Anna shakily brought her hand up to her eyes, trying to hide her grief from Fatima. She’d kept it hidden for so long; tied up tight within her so that Matta wouldn’t see, so that no-one would see. But Fatima pulled Anna’s hand down. “Don’t hide from me, Anna. Your sadness is my sadness. We are family.”
But for some reason that made Anna cry more. Fatima knelt down to face Anna and drew her to her, bringing her arms around her and let Anna sob into her shoulder.
After a few minutes, when the sobbing had subsided, Fatima pushed Anna away and looked at her critically. She pulled her to standing and sat her down in front of the mirror.
Anna smiled—a watery kind of smile—at Fatima.
“Thank you.”
“So you should,” Fatima joked as she opened the door for the others to re-enter. “Ladies,” she sighed heavily and theatrically, “I’m afraid we’ll have to start again.”
Anna had been inside the palace mosque before but not when it was full of people dressed in their most extravagant clothes and jewels, not when all the attention was focussed on one person: her.
Her eyes rose above the people and forest-like complexity of pillars, fixing on the multitude of ornate lamps and candles under which the room seemed to shimmer with an unsteady light.
From under the slight protection of the filmy lace veil, Anna searched for Zahir and found him. His eyes, like those of everyone else, were focused on her, just like he said they’d be. The roomful of people seemed to fade under the shimmering light and there was only her and Zahir, only one way to go—an effect that was reinforced by the stone herringbone pattern on the floor that led her to him.
She became aware then, of the drag of the long, ornate train that fell behind her; the stiffness of the crystal-encrusted bodice that sparkled under the shifting lights and the glow and shimmer of the pale grey satin and lace veil.
Slowly the murmurs of the hundreds of people assembled in the mosque and the soaring music faded from her ears. She simply focussed on him, almost communicated across the open space with him. It was the only way she’d get through this. He was also dressed in exquisite robes, his eyes lighter than she’d seen them, a smile softly hovering on his lips. Almost, she thought, as if he were happy.
He took her hand when she reached him and they sat side by side on ornately gilded chairs.
“You look beautiful.” He whispered into her ear. But it was the squeeze of his hand from which she derived most comfort. She took a deep breath and allowed the world back in again.
He continued to hold her hand as he turned to the assembled people and nodded. One simple nod, Anna thought, was enough to start proceedings. Person after person came up to them with gifts and speeches, paying homage to their sheikh and celebrating with him his long-awaited marriage. Despite Zahir’s reassurances, she felt like a fraud. None of these pe
ople knew that the marriage was a sham and would be over once Zahir had had enough of her.
The mosque descended into respectful silence as the Imam delivered his speech. Anna could make out only a little of it but knew that it was about honor and that he was calling on Zahir to heed his words. Zahir dipped his head in dignified agreement. The Iman turned to Anna and, standing in place of the father she never knew, gave her hand to Zahir. Two elder Bedu signed the marriage contract and it was only when the crowd collectively cheered that Anna knew that she was married—for the second time.
It was a farce. It was all she could think as congratulatory shouts rang through the air. The whole thing was a farce. She was here for as long as it took Zahir to tire of her. And that was the truth.
She felt something drain from her then.
Zahir inclined his head and whispered in her ear.
“Keep strong, Anna. We are married now. We only have a reception and then you will be free.”
She closed her eyes briefly at the irony of his words.
He offered his hand to her. “Come.”
The time for hesitation had gone and she took his hand. He led her through the mosque, the crowds of people following them in a procession that led to the reception room. Here they once more sat on two chairs raised above the others, as if they were royalty which, she realized, she was now.
One ceremony merged into another. The toasts, the swapping of the rings from the right to left index fingers, the speeches, the dances, the tributes, she kept her smile on her face through it all and remembered Abduallah. He should have been here and he would have been if he hadn’t believed that the very culture that he loved so much would reject him if it knew the truth about him. She couldn’t help believe that he was wrong and that such a warm and vibrant culture with a reputation for hospitality and kindness would be inclusive and welcoming of everyone—especially one of their most vulnerable people, especially Abduallah.
It was late into the evening before Zahir bent to her and spoke loudly over the music.
“We can go now. It is expected.”
He rose and everyone stopped what they were doing and bowed.
Zahir had been watching her all day and knew there was something happening behind the polite, smiling façade. He could see it in her eyes. But he said nothing. There was time for that later.
Zahir held her hand and led her away, the music from the stringed instruments following them eerily through the flame-lit corridors to his suite of rooms.
She halted, momentarily, before she entered the room. He felt her hesitancy, her unease.
He watched her look around his room. She’d not been there before and he also looked around, trying to see it through her eyes. It was larger than her own and, while not as luxuriously detailed, it was just as sensuous with the richly-woven rugs on the stone floor, the silk curtains that shivered in the warm breeze and the soft scent of jasmine that filled the air.
Conscious of every nuance of her mood and emotion he heard her exhale the stress of the wedding and she revealed in a quick glance that she had shed the public image she’d been showing all day. This was the Anna only he knew: sensitive, vulnerable and warm. But she was also tired. His fingers involuntarily stroked the darkened shadows under eyes. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to make love to her but he couldn’t. She wasn’t ready yet.
“You look very tired. Your face is strained.”
“Not surprising. I feel like I’ve been on a stage, playing the role of my life, for the last eight hours.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not used to acting. I’ve seen you assume a role, I’ve seen you act a part.”
“I have to get by somehow.”
“But you don’t any more. Those days are gone, Anna. Come.” He touched her face, closed his eyes at the silkiness of her skin and let his finger trail down to her jaw line where he traced it to her ear. She was truly exquisite. He sighed and drew her to a seat.
He sat opposite her to admire her beauty.
“What do you mean over? Aren’t I still acting? Don’t pretend this is a real marriage because it isn’t. You’ve always made that very clear.”
“I want it to be as real as it can be. The Imam spoke of the need to honor each other and I believe in that. I will do that. But for honor we need truth.”
Anna sighed. “The truth. I want to tell you the truth but I don’t think you want to listen.”
“Ridiculous, of course I do.”
“About Abduallah?”
He shifted in his seat, brushed off a speck of imaginary dust. “Abduallah? I know the truth of Abduallah. He was my brother.”
“Zahir, you were away for much of the time when he was growing up.”
He rose abruptly and walked towards the window that overlooked the plains, seeking reassurance from the dark emptiness that surrounded them, just as he had learned to gain strength from the desert as a boy at war. Slowly he turned to face her. “Anna, he was my brother and I knew him. He was all that was good about my family, about my people—full of life and charm.”
“Not towards the end he wasn’t. Yes, he was charming. He had a kind and gentle heart, but it wasn’t one that was at ease with the world.”
He gripped the rounded stone of the wall that surrounded the window. “No,” he shook his head. “You are wrong.”
She had to be wrong. He felt her hand on his shoulder, tentative at first, as if she wasn’t sure if she should. But then she gripped him with an urgency, a sureness of purpose that made him realize she believed what she was saying and was trying to convince him. He didn’t turn around. She had to be wrong.
“I don’t think I am wrong, Zahir. I’m sorry, but there were two Abduallahs—the laughing, charming, warm and funny one—and the—”
“No!”
“And the one that couldn’t find his way in the world.”
He turned to her then, his own hand clasping hers, keeping it pressed firmly against his body.
He knew Abduallah. Anna didn’t.
“Don’t tell me about him. Tell me about you and him. Tell me why you married him.” He rose and took her hand. “Come outside and tell me.”
The dark night was what he needed after so much light and noise. The peace of the desert. There was no moon now, nothing to dim the brilliance of the stars overhead. He sat down beside her and pulled her to him, held her in his arms. He felt her sigh gently.
“Abduallah. Well, he was so different to the other boys I’d known growing up.”
“I’m sure. But not everyone seeks something different. Was what you knew so bad?”
She nodded and closed her eyes. “Imagine, Pittsburgh, winter, I was fourteen and wearing my mother’s clothes out on a date.” She half-laughed. “I had no idea how I looked but my boyfriend did. I pretended to laugh, to understand when he took me to the railway yards. It was only when he pushed me to the ground that I began to panic. It was cold, the ground was frozen and covered with the sharp stones. I thought he was playing at first.” She shook her head in despair and the despair ground its way into his own body.
“God, I didn’t even understand enough to know that when he forced me to have sex that he’d raped me. I believed him when he said I’d led him on; I believed him when he said that I shouldn’t tell anyone because no-one would accept the word of a cheap slut. But I didn’t believe him when he said I had no future.”
She shivered. “It was so cold.” He followed her gaze up into the indigo desert sky where the stars shone with an intensity that made them swirl. “There were no stars in Pittsburgh that night. City lights obscured them I suppose. Or perhaps I just couldn’t see them. I had to imagine them while I lay pinned down, looking up at the black sky.”
He groaned and closed his eyes tight. He realized that she’d probably never told anyone her story before. He could tell by the way her words came out in a quiet stream as if she’d been holding back the flood of hurt for too long. If she’d found healing by telling him—and he hoped she
had—then he’d found the opposite. Never had he felt such anger and pain and been unable to do anything about it. He felt the pain physically throughout his body. His hands hurt as he pulled her to him, holding her gently in arms that felt stiff with restraint.
“And then?”
“I stopped borrowing my mum’s clothes that’s for certain, avoided boys, avoided standing out at all and just studied hard. I learnt how to blend into the background.”
“The uniform of jeans and t shirt; the uniform of Bedu robes. “
“Yeh.”
“And you gained a scholarship to Cornell where you met Abduallah.”
“Abduallah didn’t try to put his hand up my skirt; he listened to me and I fell in love.”
“You did love him then.”
“When he asked me to marry him I said yes. I had never imagined that I would find someone so caring. And then, after we married, I came to know him better, to understand him and I realized I loved him like a brother. He was my best friend.” She stopped suddenly.
He frowned. “Like a brother? But—”
“Yes, Zahir?”
“But that was much later? Your love changed.”
He tried to find the answer in her eyes but she looked away as if not sure how to reply. He wanted her not to have been disloyal but the pieces didn’t add up.
“Yes, my love changed. By the time I met you we were simply best friends.”
He felt relieved but still a shadow of doubt dwelt in the back of his mind—a shadow he banished without further thought. There was no room in his life for doubt.
“I wanted you the moment I first saw you looking at me.” His voice was rough with remembered lust.
“I thought I recognized you, thought I’d seen you somewhere else but perhaps it was the resemblance to Abduallah. Perhaps not…”
He turned her in his arms until she was looking up at him. The trust in her face melted his anger and dissipated the pain he felt at her story. He dipped his head, needing to physically connect with the woman to whom he was drawn like a parched man to water. It had been that way since their first meeting. But he couldn’t kiss her immediately. He was close, so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips, so close that there was nothing between them except the communication between their eyes. He couldn’t kiss her because he wanted to know that it was something she wanted. The Imam didn’t need to tell him to honor her because he already did.
The Sheikh's Bargain Bride (Desert Kings) Page 6