Christopher threw open the door of his abode and strode out into the early morning. ‘She’s wrong,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I will not allow her to fill my mind with doubts.’
But was she wrong? Thanks to the Fordyces he had a name—for Tahira was right, no one save himself and Armstrong knew any different. He’d had a happy childhood—there, he could admit that too—and he had been taught a very profitable profession, again thanks to Andrew Fordyce.
None of which changed the fact that Henry Armstrong was a vile seducer, a manipulative conniver, who had walked away from the mess of his own making without a backward glance. Were it not for Armstrong, Christopher’s mother would still be alive. Mind you, were it not for Armstrong, Christopher would not exist. Which brought him to another thing Tahira questioned, his idea that his mother might have kept him, against the odds. Unlikely, Tahira thought, though she hadn’t actually said so. Not wanting to hurt him? Which forced him to wonder whether she was right about that too. Most likely Tahira understood his mother’s situation better than he did. Were she in a similar predicament, she would...
She would never be in a similar predicament, because she was getting married. Christopher cursed long and furiously in a mixture of English and Arabic. He looked out at the beauty of the desert dawn. A distant sandstorm gave a dark golden tinge to the normal palette of pink and orange. It would not hinder his travel plans, for he was heading due north. Today. Though there was the camel race he’d heard about when visiting the bazaar yesterday for supplies. He’d like to see that, it was reckoned to be quite a spectacle. So perhaps he’d leave his journey until tomorrow.
Today, Tahira’s betrothal was to be finalised. Would there be a celebration of some sort? For her sake, he hoped she would be able to like the man chosen for her. For his own—he didn’t want to think about it. What was she doing at this moment? Was she taking breakfast with her sisters? Or was there some elaborate ritual she would take part in prior to the ceremony—if there was a ceremony? Bathing. Oiling. Those henna designs, the women here painted them on their hands and feet, didn’t they, for special occasions.
Tahira. Christopher groaned. Tahira, Tahira, Tahira. He missed her. He’d never see her again. Another thing that didn’t bear thinking of. The sun had risen. The sky was a perfect pale blue. Ideal conditions for a camel race? He had no idea, but what the hell, he was kidding himself, thinking he was leaving today. Why not head into the city and find out what all the fuss was about?
* * *
The crowds had gathered in the outskirts of the city for the occasion, lining the course in their multitudes. A long row of tents stood off to one side. Various mouth-watering aromas, of roasted goat, delicious concoctions of fruit and yoghurt, toasted coffee beans, and the ubiquitous mint tea wafted from the open fronts of each tent as Christopher wandered through the milling hordes.
Women stood in huddles gossiping and giggling behind their veils, while their menfolk engaged in heated debates over recent form and likely favourites. Children screamed with joy as they ran between the flag poles which marked out the course, some in pairs with silk scarves for reins, mimicking the contest to come. The camels would race around a track which was roughly oblong in shape, which meant that for each lap there would be four tight corners to negotiate.
‘And so this stranger who has been in our midst for some weeks is interested in our camels as well as our horses.’ The man who accosted Christopher was old, his wiry grey hair tied in the multitude of plaits favoured by some of the Bedouins. ‘I saw you at the horse fair some weeks ago,’ he said, in response to Christopher’s raised brows. ‘You are not a man easily forgotten.’
‘My colouring is not a common sight in Arabia, right enough.’
The old man shook his head. ‘It is your eyes. Not the colour, but you are like me, a man who sees what others do not.’ He smiled, revealing a sparkling gold front tooth. ‘Do you come to see our royal family today, Mr Foreigner? We will be granted a rare sighting of the princesses, I am told.’
‘Indeed, I wondered who that lavish construction would house.’ On the opposite side of the track, at the start-and-finish line, a large podium had been erected with benched seating strewn with cushions, a silk tasselled canopy covering the whole. ‘Will Prince Ghutrif be in attendance?’
‘Today is Prince Ghutrif’s gift to the people of Nessarah. Some significant announcement is expected,’ the old man said. ‘A new gold mine, perhaps. Not yet the birth of the long-awaited heir, for the guns would have been sounded from the palace. Have you attended a camel race before, Mr Foreigner?’
‘This is my first,’ Christopher said, wondering if the prince was celebrating the opening of his turquoise mine.
‘You will witness a spectacle rather than a race,’ the old man was saying. ‘Camels, as you will know, take a great deal of encouragement to get going, and once they do, they take a deal more encouragement to stop. Then there is the fact that it is not the most flexible of animals. Have you ever tried to turn a tight corner on camel back?’ When Christopher shook his head, the old man cackled. ‘I advise you to stay clear of the marker poles if you value your life.’
‘But I had heard racing camels were specially bred.’
‘You heard correctly. These beasts are fed on a diet of dates and honey, alfalfa and milk. They eat better than I! Such food makes for a smaller hump—reduced still further by depriving the animal of food and drink the day before the race, and so it is easier for the jockey to balance behind it without a saddle.’
‘No saddle? I would imagine that would be rather—painful,’ Christopher said, wincing.
The old man cackled again. ‘A pain eased by the gold given to the winner by our most venerable Prince Ghutrif. Look, he is arriving now.’
Sure enough, the crowd had dropped to their knees, the cries and laughter changing to hushed, reverential greetings. Following suit, Christopher watched furtively as the royal party arranged themselves on the seating under the canopy. Prince Ghutrif was a handsome man, much younger than Christopher had imagined, and slender under his rich robes of gold and scarlet. There was something familiar in his features, the fine arched brows, the brown eyes under heavy lids, explained no doubt by Prince Ghutrif being related to one or several of the other sheikh princes Christopher had encountered on his travels.
There was another man seated in state beside him. A brother? A fellow prince? Now that the prince was seated, the women who must be the princesses, judging from the richness of their robes and jewels, were taking their time to find their seats, their attendants fussing over the arrangement of their silks. Four this time, not the five he’d seen at the market place. The Crown Princess must be too near her time to attend. One, swathed in the colours of the setting sun, was being ordered to change places, to sit not at her brother’s side, but beside the stranger, and as she moved Christopher’s stomach lurched. Impossible, he chided himself. A trick of the eye, a case of his senses mistaking reality for what he most wanted to see. But his stomach lurched again as she reached up to adjust her veil and her long sleeve fell back to reveal her wrist. And on it, a distinctive turquoise bracelet.
At last, the other three princesses were seated, their maidservants ranged behind them, the guards posted. With a quick, formal farewell to his companion, Christopher made his way swiftly to the other side of the track, and a better view of the royal box. He was being ridiculous, but his pounding heart and dry mouth didn’t appear to agree. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, her averted sidelong gaze, were all painfully familiar. If only she were not veiled. If only he could get close enough—but a guard barred his way, and a drum began to beat loudly, and Prince Ghutrif got once again to his feet, the signal for everyone else to drop to their knees.
But Christopher did not, for the woman in the colours of the rising sun had lifted her eyes to look at the crowd. Dark brown eyes, almond-shape
d, under perfectly arched brows. Their gaze met and held, and those familiar eyes widened in horror, before the sharp tap of a guard’s lance brought Christopher to his knees. But he refused to drop his gaze. He watched her as her brother continued to pontificate, the things she had told him of her family, her life, her fate, sliding into place like the interconnected pieces of a puzzle. He had fantasised about seeing her in the daylight. Now his wish had been granted. Be careful what you wish for!
‘My people, we come together on this most happy of days to celebrate,’ the prince announced.
The crowd waited with bated breath to find out what was being celebrated but Christopher, with a sinking heart, already knew. Today was the day Tahira’s betrothal was to be formalised. Today was the day that...
‘His Royal Highness, Prince Zayn al-Farid, has pledged to marry my sister. I hope you will join with us in celebrating this most joyful and momentous occasion. Please rise, and let the festivities begin.’
Christopher rose, and so did his bile, and his fury, fuelled by the fact that Tahira’s brother had not even seen fit to give her name. Fists clenched, he stared at her, willing her to meet his eyes. And she did. As the man she was to marry took her hand and kissed her fingers, Tahira looked up, her free hand stretching towards him, and instinctively Christopher took a step towards her, heedless of anything but the sorrow in her eyes. But a guard barred his way, and he came to his senses, and anger returned full-force as he cursed, turning away from the woman who had lied to him, betrayed his trust, played him for the fool that he was.
He strode across the track, where the camels and their riders were milling, and kept on walking. He couldn’t wait to shake the sand from this cursed place out of his cloak for ever.
* * *
Tahira thought the day would never end. Seeing Christopher at the camel race, her poor heart had leapt pathetically in her breast, and for a fleeting, foolish moment, she thought he had come to save her from her fate. Why he would do so, why he was still here in Nessarah at all, she had no time to consider, for one glance at his equally shocked expression told her that she was the last person he had expected to see, and she tumbled back down to earth as she saw her betrayal written large on his face.
As the crowd roared, and her brother and husband-to-be dispensed ribbons, trophies and gold, and her sisters relished the spectacle, Tahira’s mind raced in quite another direction, out across the desert towards Christopher. She felt quite sick imagining what he must be thinking of her. She had not lied to him, but she knew that the truths she had concealed were tantamount to the same thing.
* * *
The races over, back at the palace Juwan held one of her interminable dinners as Tahira’s future husband dined in separate state with the menfolk. She gave him barely a thought. Shock had given way to a fierce determination to explain herself to Christopher, but the risks were enormous. She belonged to another now, it would be wrong of her to seek him out, but when she tried to reconcile herself to silence, every feeling rebelled. She had to see him. She had to explain. She had to.
And so she waited, growing more and more tense through dinner, finally claiming to be overwhelmed by the momentousness of the day, to have a headache, to require utter solitude, retiring to her divan long before the meal was finished. Locking her door and making her escape long before the harem lay silent for the night, she was far beyond counting the risk, the possible costs, ignoring Farah’s astounded pleas, caring only to reach Christopher, praying to the night stars which lit her way as she careered over the sands at a speed which would have won her first prize this afternoon, that he would still be there.
* * *
He was, standing outside the well house, arms crossed, as she approached. He wore his customary tunic and boots, his scimitar hanging at his side, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. The breeze ruffled his hair, but as Tahira neared, there was no welcoming smile, and as she drew her camel to a halt, his expression was blank, his eyes hard, the utter lack of emotion more intimidating than any show of anger.
‘You shouldn’t be here. Not tonight of all nights. Are you mad?’
It took all her courage to command her camel to its knees and to dismount, her knees trembling, her fingers too, as she fumbled over the simple task of tethering the beast, conscious all the time of Christopher watching her, unmoving. ‘I had to try to explain,’ Tahira said, turning to face him.
‘That you have been lying to me from the first moment we met? Poor little rich princess, forced to loll about in the lap of luxury, with her jewels and her silks and her sweetmeats, pretending that all she wants is to get her manicured hands dirty digging up the past.’
‘I have never pretended, Christopher, I...’
‘And my amulet. Did you know from the start that it belonged here in Nessarah? The diamonds which I went to such lengths to compare, were you laughing up your sleeve at me, knowing full well that they matched the crown jewels? Then there’s the turquoise from the mine which your brother owns. You had it on your wrist today and yet you let me risk life and limb to obtain a sample. Are you still wearing it?’
He grabbed her arm, and there was the bracelet she had in her haste forgotten to remove. ‘My brother had it made for me, from the first of the ore. I wore it for the first time today and only to remind me of you.’
‘To remind you of the man who had bared his soul to you, on the day you became betrothed to another,’ Christopher snapped, releasing her with a sneer of distaste. ‘As my amulet would forever remind me of you, if I still had it. “A connection,” you claimed. How disappointed you must have been when I decided not to return it to your family. An apt double symbol of the trust you betrayed. I am doubly glad I buried it.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Tahira said, covering her face.
‘It is the truth.’ He yanked her hands away, forcing her to meet his cold, judgemental gaze. ‘I bared my very soul to you, trusted you with the sordid truth of my origins, and all the while you were concealing yours.’
‘I had to, Christopher...’
‘It is ironic, isn’t it, that the first person I place my trust in after these nine months living in Hades proved to be yet another person who was not who I thought she was. If I had not stumbled upon that amulet and the document with it, I’d still be quite oblivious of who I am. If I had not stumbled across you today, at the camel race, I’d have been forever oblivious of who you are. A painful parallel I’d rather not have been forced to draw, your Royal Highness.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Why not, it’s your name.’
‘My name is Tahira.’
‘Princess Tahira. You duped me, just as the Fordyces did, and Lord Armstrong too. And I had never thought of myself as gullible either.’
‘Stop it!’ His voice dripped with sarcasm that ripped at her flesh. ‘I didn’t dupe you, I didn’t betray your trust, and I didn’t lie to you.’
‘That very first night...’
Tahira stamped her foot in frustration. ‘I didn’t tell you the truth the first night because if I had, I’d never have seen you again. And then, having started the subterfuge, the next night I had even more to lose. And the next night, and the next—the more I knew you, the more you knew me—with you, I could be myself, Christopher, not a princess, not—’
‘Defined by your blood,’ he cut in viciously. ‘“Whatever blood flows in your veins, it does not change the man you are.” That is what you said to me. But the blood that flows in your veins does define you, doesn’t it?’
She flinched. ‘Yes, it does. And if you’d known who I was, my blood would have put an end to our nights together. While you thought me some ordinary woman, you were happy to consort with me.’
‘I have never thought you ordinary.’
‘I wish I was,’ Tahira said wearily. ‘You are angry with me, and I don’t blame y
ou. I tried to find the courage to tell you the truth on several occasions, but we had so little time, and I could not bear to risk losing you, the one person who couldn’t care less about my bloodline, my pedigree, my connections. All the things you are thinking now, Christopher. Perhaps it was selfish of me to keep the truth from you, but—oh, I have said it all. I didn’t want our acquaintance to end, it is as simple as that.’
‘Acquaintance! If I had known you were a princess, do you think I would have—?’
‘I am certain that you would not have!’ Tahira interrupted vehemently. ‘That’s exactly my point. If you had known I was a princess, you would have run a thousand miles across the desert in another direction, and while you may wish that you had done so, I do not. Whatever you feel now, I cannot regret that we have been—that we have...’
She was trembling. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried desperately to get her emotions under control. ‘I cannot regret a minute of the time I have spent with you. Choose to believe me or not, Christopher, it is the truth.’
His momentary flash of anger was gone. He had himself completely under control again, his expression inscrutable. ‘How did you get here?’
‘My camel...’
‘How do you escape from the harem? I have always imagined you climbing out of a window, but today, I took a good look at that quaint little cottage of yours, otherwise known as the Royal Palace of Nessarah. It’s like a fortress, guards everywhere. So how do you do it—wear a cloak of invisibility?’
‘There’s a tunnel.’ He was still angry, she could see the betraying tic in his throat. At least anger was better than indifference. ‘A door hidden in the wall of the courtyard which my divan looks on to,’ Tahira continued quietly, ‘leading down to a tunnel that goes under the palace and emerges in what used to be the old slave market. You can guess its previous use. I came upon the original plans for the palace in the library some years ago, and when I realised what they could mean, I asked to move my quarters.’
Claiming His Desert Princess Page 20