by Nora Roberts
“Honesty.” She started to smile when she saw his expression. The look in his eyes had her mouth drying up. “Philip—”
“He did this to you?” He spoke as if each word might break if not handled with care. “He struck you?”
“It’s nothing.” Panic had her grabbing for him as he rose from the bed. “Philip, it is nothing. He has the right—”
“No.” He pulled away from her hands. “No, by God, he doesn’t.”
“Here he does.” She was speaking quickly, blocking his way to the door. Passion threaded through the voice she didn’t dare raise. “His rules, remember? It’s just as you said yourself.”
“Not when they include putting marks on you.”
“Bruises fade, Philip, but if you walk out that door and do what I see in your eyes you intend to do, it’s over for both of us. There are better ways to avenge your honor, and mine. Please.” She lifted a hand to touch his face, but he turned away.
“Give me a minute.” She was right. He knew she was right. He’d always been able to think of the game logically, but he’d never experienced this surge of violence. He hadn’t known until this moment that he had the capacity to kill. Or that he might enjoy it.
He turned to see her standing in a pool of candlelight, her hands clenched together, her eyes wide and dark. “He won’t hurt you again.”
The air she’d been holding tumbled out between her lips. He was Philip again. “He can’t. Not where it matters.”
He crossed to her to run a thumb lightly over the bruise. “Not in any way.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead, then one on her lips. “I love you, Addy.”
“Philip.” She held on to him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. “You mean more to me than anyone ever has.”
He ran a hand down her hair and tried to take it lightly. It was the closest she’d come to giving him the three small words he’d discovered he needed. “I’ve been into the vault room.” When she started to pull back, he just held her tighter. “Don’t harangue me, Addy. It’s boring. The setup’s precisely as we discussed, but I think we’d be better off if we both could take a close look. As to the key—”
“The dummy key I had made up will have to do. It can be filed and adjusted once we need it.”
“I’d feel better if we took care of that ahead of time.” He stepped back, knowing that with Adrianne, this would be tricky ground. “If you’ll let me have it, I can take it in, say tomorrow night, and deal with that end.”
She thought about it. “We’ll go in tomorrow night and deal with that end.”
“There’s no need for both of us to be there.”
“Fine. I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re being hardheaded, Addy.”
“Yes. There’s no part of this job I intend to be excluded from. Adjusting the key ahead of time makes sense. At least the preliminary adjustments. We do it together, or I do it alone.”
“Your way, then.” He touched a fingertip to the mark on her cheek again. “There’ll come a time when you won’t always have things your way.”
“Maybe. In the meantime, I’ve given some thought to our wedding night.”
“Have you?” With a grin he hooked a finger in the top of her nightshirt and pulled her to him.
“There’s that, too, but I have my priorities.”
“Which are?”
“As it works out, there couldn’t be a more perfect night to take the necklace.”
“Business before pleasure? You trample my ego, Addy.”
“You have no idea how long, how tiring, or how boring wedding ceremonies are here. It’ll take hours, and everyone will eat themselves into a stupor. Then we’ll be given total privacy. No one would think of disturbing us. Within a day, two at the most, we can leave without anyone being offended.”
“I’d say it’s a pity you’re not more romantic, but it makes sense. And I suppose it’s fitting that two thieves spend their first night of marriage stealing.”
“Not just stealing, Philip. Stealing a legend.” She kissed him quickly, then started for the door. “Now, you’ve got to go. It’s dangerous for you here. If everything goes well, I’ll meet you in the vault room at three-thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Shall we synchronize our watches?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“This is.” Before she could open the door to check the hallways, he swept her into his arms. “If I’m going to risk my head, it’s going to be for more than talk.” He carried her back to the bed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“You will be a beautiful bride,” Dagmar, the couturiere who had been flown in from Paris, draped white satin over Adrianne’s shoulders. “Few women can wear pure white well. More lace here.” She pinned, hunching down, as she was a half foot taller than Adrianne. Her hands were ugly, but quick and clever. She smelled of the fragrance that bore her name and which she had just begun to market. “So that it flows down the throat to the bodice.”
Adrianne stared at the reflection in the mirror. Her father worked quickly. It would cost a great deal to have a dress by one of Paris’ top designers put together in a week. Again a matter of honor, she thought. King Abdu could hardly send his daughter to her husband in less than the best.
Her fingers began to ache. Slowly, deliberately, she relaxed them. “I prefer it simple.”
Dagmar tightened the long sleeves. “Trust me. It will be simple but not plain, elegant but not opulent. Too much this, too much that makes people notice only the gown and not the woman.” She glanced up as two assistants entered carrying more dresses. “For the bridal party. We were given a list.” She pulled a pin out of the pincushion at her wrist and tucked in the waist.
“I see. And how many will there be in the bridal party?”
Dagmar glanced up for only a moment, surprised the bride-to-be would have to ask. “Twelve. The teal is an excellent color. Very rich.” She gestured for an assistant to hold up a gown. It had a festive off-the-shoulder neckline and a full tea-length skirt overlaid with lace. “The choice was left to me. I hope you approve.”
“I’m sure all the dresses will be fine.”
“Turn, please.” It was rare to meet a bride so solemn, or so indifferent. Dagmar knew of Princess Adrianne, had hoped to have an opportunity to dress her, but she’d never expected to do so in Jaquir for a wedding so hastily put together. If the bride was pregnant, Adrianne’s narrow waist and flat stomach gave no sign. In any case, Dagmar was too discreet to gossip about her clients—particularly when a job could lead to others. She was French; she was practical.
“The train will be attached here.” She indicated a spot beneath Adrianne’s shoulders. “It will pour out of the dress like a river. Sweep down.” With her narrow, ugly hands she gestured. “Very royal. N’est-ce pas?”
For the first time, Adrianne smiled. The woman was doing her best. “It sounds lovely.”
Encouraged, Dagmar walked back around to fuss with the line. Over the years she had dressed the wealthy and the celebrated, cleverly camouflaging flaws and bulges. The princess had a lovely body, small and beautifully formed. Whatever she designed for a body like this would be noticed and envied. She thought it was a pity a trousseau hadn’t been commissioned.
“Your hair. How do you wear it? Up, down?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought.”
“You must think. It must flatter my dress.” After patting Adrianne’s hair she stepped back. She was a stringy woman with thin, homely features and beautiful green eyes. “In a braid I think. Very French, very subtle, like the dress. But not severe. Soft here.” Satisfied, she turned her critical eye on the dress. “You will wear jewelry, something special?”
She thought of The Sun and the Moon gleaming against her mother’s wedding gown. “No, nothing on the dress.” They both heard the laughter and noise outside the door.
“The wedding party.” Dagmar rolled her beautiful eyes. “We will be crazy in a week, but everyt
hing will be perfect.”
“Madame, how much do you charge for this dress?”
“Your Highness—”
“I prefer to know the price of what’s mine.”
Dagmar shrugged and twitched at the skirt of the dress. “Perhaps two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
With a nod Adrianne touched the lace at her throat. She’d earned more than that on her commission from the St. John job. It seemed fitting, if ironic, that it be put to use here. “You will bill me, not the king.”
“But, Your Highness—”
“You will bill me,” Adrianne repeated. She wouldn’t wear something he had paid for.
“As you wish.”
“The wedding’s in Jaquir, Madame.” Adrianne smiled again. “But I’m an American. Old habits are hard to break.” In dismissal she turned as the door opened. There was more than the wedding party, but at least another dozen women who had come to watch, to drink tea, to talk of weddings and fashion. Adrianne estimated that Dagmar would have commissions for at least another six gowns before the afternoon fittings were done.
Women stripped down to their underwear. Since lingerie was as much a passion for them as jewelry, it ranged from the gorgeous to the embarrassing. Red garter belts and black lace, white satin and transparent silk. Over the babble of voices gowns were tried on and exclaimed over. There were questions about flowers, about gifts, about the honeymoon. It might have been amusing, even touching, Adrianne thought, except for the headache that was drumming behind her eyes. Perhaps the wedding would be a farce, a temporary measure, even a convenience, but the preparation was very real.
She watched her young sister being basted into a dress suitable for a woman twice her age. “No.” Adrianne waved a hand at the woman who was pinning the hem. “That won’t do for her.”
Yasmin took a handful of the wide skirt. “I like it. Keri and the others are wearing it.”
“It makes you look like a child playing grown-up.” At Yasmin’s rebellious expression, Adrianne gestured to Dagmar. “I want something special for my sister, something more suitable.”
“Your father instructed that the wedding party have identical dresses.”
Adrianne’s eyes met the dressmaker’s in the long mirror. “I’m telling you that my sister won’t wear this. I want something softer, more—” She caught herself before she said youthful. “More contemporary. In rose perhaps, so she’ll stand out among the others.”
Yasmin’s eyes lit up. “In red.”
“Rose,” Adrianne repeated.
Because she agreed, and because she was more likely to receive further business from Adrianne than from the king, Dagmar decided to cooperate. “There is perhaps something in the salon I could send for.”
“Then do so. Bill this to me as well.” She touched a hand to Yasmin’s cheek. “You’ll look beautiful. Special. Like a rose among ferns.”
“I look beautiful in this.”
Adrianne turned so that they both faced the mirrors. “More beautiful. It’s a tradition for one member of the wedding party, the maid of honor, to wear a gown of a different style or a different color than the rest, so she’ll be noticed.”
Yasmin considered and approved. She would accept the veil happily when the time came, but whenever possible, she preferred to be noticed. “In silk?”
She had once been a young girl who had yearned for a silk dress. “In silk, then.”
Satisfied, Yasmin studied their reflections. “When I marry I will wear a dress like yours.”
“You may wear this one if you like.”
Yasmin’s brows shot up. “Wear a dress already worn?”
“It’s another tradition to wear the wedding dress of your mother, or your sister or your friend.”
While she considered, Yasmin ran a finger down the satin of Adrianne’s skirt. It was an odd custom, she thought, but one—if the dress was right—worth thinking about. “I wouldn’t wear my mother’s dress. It could not be as beautiful as this. She was a second wife. Why don’t you wear your mother’s dress?”
“I don’t have it. I have a picture. Sometime you will visit me in America and I’ll show you.”
“Visit you?” She waved away impatiently, and imperiously, Adrianne thought, a cup of tea offered by a servant. “When?”
“When it’s permitted.”
“We will eat in a restaurant?”
“If you like.”
For a moment Yasmin looked like any young girl being offered a treat. “Some women in Jaquir eat in restaurants, but my father does not permit it for the family.”
Adrianne took her hand. “We’ll eat in restaurants every night.”
Philip saw little of the king, but he was treated well. Like a visiting diplomat, he thought, after his thorough guided tour of the palace. He was taken into every room, excluding the women’s quarters, while the crown prince gave him a long, often tedious history of Jaquir. While he listened, Philip took mental notes on windows, doorways, entrances, and exits. He watched guards and servants come and go with an eye to the timing and routine.
He asked questions. The book Adrianne had given him had briefed him well enough to know what comments or inquiries would be taken as criticism. So he didn’t ask about the women hidden behind garden walls and latticed windows—for their own good. He didn’t ask about the slave markets that were still in effect, though conducted in secret. Or the beheadings, which were not.
They lunched on caviar and quail eggs in a room that boasted its own rippling pool. Bright-feathered birds trilled in cages hung from the ceiling. Art and literature were discussed. The camel whippings in the suqs were not. Rahman joined them briefly. Once he’d battled back his shyness, he bombarded Philip with questions about London. His mind was like a sponge.
“There is a large Muslim population in London.”
Philip sipped the coffee and longed for good British tea. “I believe so.”
“I would like to see it, the buildings and museums, but in the winter when there is snow. I should like to see snow.”
He remembered how Adrianne had spoken of her first glimpse of snow. “Then you should come next year and stay with Adrianne and me.”
Rahman thought it would be wonderful, to see the great city, to spend time with his sister with the lovely eyes and smile. There would be so much to learn in London, and he wanted badly to learn. He shot a quick look at his brother. They both knew their father’s mind.
“You are very kind. One day I will come to London, if Allah wills. You will excuse me, I must go back to my studies.”
Later, in an air-conditioned limo, they drove through the city. Fahid pointed out the ships in port as he talked of the excellent trade agreements between Jaquir and Western countries.
There was great beauty here; Philip saw it in the dark distant hills, in the harsh blue of the sea. Despite the traffic and mad rush of taxis there was a sense of antiquity, and, more, of a stubborn resistance to change.
They passed a courtyard where less than five years before a minor princess and her lover had been executed for adultery. In the distance Philip could see the silver column of an office building topped with a satellite dish.
“We are a country of contrasts.” Fahid watched a member of the Committee for the Protection of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice grab an unescorted woman by the arm. “There has been much change in Jaquir in the last twenty-five years, yet we are, and will always be, a country of Islam.”
Since the opening had been given, Philip pried it a bit further. “Is it awkward for you, having been educated in the West?”
Fahid studied the matawain who shouted at the lone woman and shoved her roughly out of the suqs. He disapproved of such things, but he was not yet king. “It is sometimes difficult to find the balance between what is best in your world and what is best in my own. If Jaquir is to survive more progress, more compromise will be necessary. The laws of Islam cannot change, the traditions of men must.”
Philip, too, had see
n the exchange in the suq. “Traditions such as manhandling women?”
Fahid gave brief instructions to the driver, then settled back. “The religious police are dedicated, and it is religion which governs in Jaquir.”
“I’m not one to criticize another’s religion, Fahid. But it’s difficult for a man to sit by and watch a woman mistreated.” He was thinking beyond the woman in the suq to Adrianne, and to Phoebe. Fahid had no trouble following the trail.
“On some points you and I will never agree.”
“What will you change when you rule?”
“It is not so much what I will change, but what the people will allow to be changed. Like many Europeans, you believe it is the government that makes the people what they are. That oppresses or that frees. In many ways, perhaps in most, it is the people themselves who hold off change. They struggle against progress even as they rush to embrace it.” Fahid smiled. There was a jug of chilled juice which he poured into crystal goblets for both of them. “Would it surprise you that many women enjoy their veils? It is not the law. They became popularized by the elite many centuries ago. What became fashionable during Mohammed’s time has become tradition.”
When Philip drew out a cigarette, Fahid took a gold lighter and flicked on the flame. “You see that no woman is permitted to drive in Jaquir. This is not a law, but a tradition. It is not written that it is unseemly for a woman to operate a car, but it is … discouraged, because if she were to have a flat, no man could assist her. If she were to drive recklessly, the police could not detain her. So it is tradition that becomes more solid than the law itself.”
“Are your women content?”
“Who knows the mind of a woman?”
Philip grinned. “On that East and West can agree.”
“This is what I wanted to show you.” As the limo stopped, Fahid gestured out the window “Ahmand Memorial University. The woman’s college.”
The single building was constructed out of good American brick. The windows were latticed as much for protection against the sun as to discourage prying eyes. Philip saw three women dressed in traditional garb hurry up the steps and through the door. He also noted that beneath the abaaya the women wore Nikes and Reeboks.