by Lisa Torquay
With a quick look at the cheval mirror to check her ocean-green day dress and her hair tied in a low bun on the nape of her neck, she decided it should be enough to face whatever lay ahead.
At the study door, Lucinda knocked softly. At her father’s word she opened the door. And froze, like lightning had struck fast. Her worst nightmare and her most fantastic reveries stood in the middle of the austerely decorated room. Tariq.
His attire impeccable and he, magnificent in it. His face turned to her father’s massive desk, he didn’t acknowledge her. She came in, shutting the door, realising that her mother sat on one corner. What the deuce was he up to, she wondered irritably. Her parents and he had met that one occasion at Duchess of Gosforth’s ball. Why would the darned man call on them now? She posted herself the farthest possible from him, in front of the desk.
“My dear,” her father started without preamble, “this gentleman claims he has compromised you.” Lord Lancefield didn’t look at her in the eye as he became visibly shocked by what he’d heard.
Lucinda’s temper bubbled as if it a volcano expelled bitter fire through her. She flushed and stared at Tariq, who stood impassible in the middle of the room. She’d fusilladed him with her fiery green eyes. She’d do more than that if one of his muzzles was at hand. What did he expect to achieve with this? “He lies!” She affirmed stonily.
Tariq then snapped his head towards her and darted his reproaching cognac eyes to her. It was not like she told a falsehood. The very word ‘compromise’ implied she’d be treated as a manipulated, inanimate doll. Passive, incapable of making her own choices. And if there had been a conscious decision she’d made in her entire life, it was to give herself to him.
“I compromised her.” He said in a flat tone. “Thoroughly and repeatedly.” This brought a crimson colour to her already flushed face.
“You ravished her!” Lady Lancefield accused haughtily.
“With all due respect, my lady, it was quite the opposite on occasion.” He said with a drop of amusement.
Her mother’s eyes widened, agape, totally astounded. “Lucinda!” Came her mother’s horrified voice.
Lucinda’s and Tariq’s eyes clashed again and she remembered exactly to which occasions he referred. When she bathed him in one of the desert villages; their interlude in his bath in Tunis, the night in the manor. A hot shower of sensation crossed her body.
“He is the man who abducted me.” She disclosed, and even her father shot his gaze at her now.
“Is that so, Mr Al-Fadih?” Her contemporizing father asked.
“Yes.” Tariq voiced unwavering. “We travelled across the desert with my caravan.” Naturally, news that he descended from a dynasty of wealthy merchants had hit the ton, being this one of his many qualities.
“He did not—” She tried again.
"Oh, yes, I did. And quite recently, by the way. She might be with child.” He crossed his arms on his broad chest, legs apart in that typically autocratic posture of his. He wasn’t the slightest sorry to interrupt her
Lady Lancefield covered her agape mouth with her hands and gasped.
“What I mean to say,” Lucinda imposed, “is that he didn’t compromise me!” She rose her chin in defiance to whoever dared contradict her. “I’ve had a choice in every action I took.” A diamond hard tone.
A bomb not even Tariq could disarm. He had to accept he’d never be the owner of her destiny, the manipulative rogue. He threw the dices with absolute certainty he’d win the game this time.
“This is curious indeed.” Her father interjected. “These lines are switched. Usually, the gentleman denies everything.” He lowered his head pensively.
“What are we going to do now, Alfred?” A distressed Lady Lancefield asked.
“Well, I suppose there’s only Gretna Green on which to count.” He answered matter-of-factly.
“Gretna Green?” Lucinda questioned confused. “But they don’t accept couples from different backgrounds!” Her brows pleated, eyes narrowed, lips apart.
“That’s where you’re mistaken, my dear daughter.” Came Lord Lancefield. “They marry any couple who will pledge themselves to each other.
Her legs gave as she sat on a robust armchair in front of her father’s desk. They could get married after all, despite her fears. Her eyes ventured to Tariq, and he glared at her with a triumphant expression on his cognac-against-fire magnificent eyes.
Lucinda did not deem herself happy with this, despite the good news. Not at all! So the possibility of marrying the love of her life stood within reach. Except he didn’t love her and would shun her aside as soon as he’d got his fill. And she’d be in a strange country, without all her familiar settings about her.
“I refuse to marry him!” She stated without a shadow of uncertainty.
“I beg your pardon?” Her indignant mother interposed, angry brows furred.
“Of course you’ll marry me!” Tariq commanded. When he designed this strategy to lead her into his life forever, he’d pondered carefully about British customs, usages and laws. He’d even counted on her expected rebelliousness. Here he stood, on the verge of marrying the one woman he would never forget. Profound happiness and satisfaction overtook him. But she wouldn’t make it easy for him, would she?
“I don’t think you have much choice at this point, Lucinda.” Her father tried.
Why the deuce should a woman marry after she had…lain with a man while men did not marry all the women with whom they were intimate? A question she would not voice or her mother might come down with apoplexy.
She stood up from the chair, her body prepared for battle. “I will not marry him!”
The rebellious minx! Tariq’s temper began to boil.
“I’m sorry, Lucinda. But the deed is done and you have to follow through with it.” She’d always admire her father for keeping calm in straining situations.
A father always had the final word in an unmarried daughter’s life. At this Lucinda had nothing more to do, but acquiesce. Against her will. She’d not defy her own father, the man who’d taught her so much. Hurt her as it might, she’d not hurt him.
A deeply sad expression covered her face, she lowered her head. “As you wish, papa.” Tears stung her eyes and she swallowed hard. Her greatest wish granted, she’d marry him, promising a stretch of bitter rejection in the end.
It might look like she behaved as a spoilt chit, but no. Tariq would take her far. To his country, its laws and customs. Ones she must follow and obey. The other option would be to stay and choose a ‘milk-sop’, as the man referred to the ton’s gentlemen. With her parents learning of her…situation concerning Tariq, marriage with an Englishman diminished visibly. Not that she was sorry for it, but still…
Tariq, though, never mentioned love. Neither did she, for that matter. She still believed he would tire of her and she would have no chance of coming back home when it happened. A married woman belonged with her husband. In England and in Tunisia. But Tunisia lay in another continent, far from everything familiar to her. In short, wedlock
With a disheartened sigh, she spoke. “May I ask for one thing?”
“You certainly may.” Lord Lancefield half-smiled at his daughter.
She looked at her dear father pleadingly. “As my dowry, I’d like a house in Syracuse.” When Tariq tired of her, maybe he’d allow her to go live there, as a discarded concubine. An escape route, so to say.
“You don’t need to ask your father.” Tariq intervened before Lord Lancefield could answer. “I’ll buy you a villa if you want!” He talked to her bent head.
Alfred and Alice exchanged a meaningful glance. This did not list as a match they’d dreamed for Lucinda. But the foreigner appeared besotted enough with her. Seemingly, he’d provide for her and protect her, they fathomed. More than that, their beloved daughter would have the chance to travel as she so much enjoyed. She seemed as taken with this Mr Al-Fadih as he with her.
Tariq found himself utterly intrigued
by the sadness in her beautiful eyes. She’d never said she didn’t want to marry him, she’d affirmed the laws in their countries would make it difficult. Now they’d encountered a way, so why all the sadness? He’d ask to talk to her in private and try to procure an answer.
“Thank you.” Her weak murmur grateful for his offer. She needed to get out of here as soon as possible or else the tears would start falling. Unwilling to give Lord and Lady Lancefield the worry of seeing her miserable, she uttered. “If you excuse me, I have to begin preparations.” With a curtsy, she left, without waiting for permission.
What a frustrating woman! He needed to talk to her, damn it! An inward curse bloomed as he watched her leave the study in a hurry. He turned back to his future father-in-law, at a loss what to think. Lord Lancefield just shrugged, as if used to his daughter’s attitudes.
Her parents and Tariq proceeded to plan the details of what would come.
Lucinda barely had time to shut her bedroom door as her tears rolled down her face abundant and regretful. She sat on her bed, face on her hands. The tears streaked her cheeks until they slowed. No! Stop it, Lucinda! She banned her tears from her face with trembling hands. The match figured as much more than she’d expected. She did not need to conform to a lukewarm life, after all. Not with him. Not if she married the man she loved with an intensity she never knew to be inside her. She’d try to be happy with him for as long as he’d have her. Then, and only then, she’d shed her tears, wash her sadness in them and move on, she decided. Had she his children, she’d find contentment in them, because they’d remind her of her joyful days.
Tariq’s carriage rattled through a road which looked more like a country lane around Carlisle. They’d been travelling for three days. The weather had varied from warm sun, to grey, to rainy. Right at this minute, a cool watery sun shone just past midday.
Lucinda’s parents agreed it’d be better if they travelled alone, as if they’d eloped. It’d make for a more plausible tale. Thus, they had set out from London the day after Tariq called on the Lancefield town house.
Tariq observed Lucinda, opposite to him. She sat attention glued to the scenery out her window. As she’d done most of their journey, hands folded on her lap. They’d talked too little since the trip started. They’d taken one room in the inns on the way, but her aloof countenance made him take a distance from her. He woke up holding her, nonetheless. During the cold nights they’d ended up snuggling, and he drank in the scarce physical contact with her. He got up before she awoke to avoid the temptation of taking her. He predicted she wouldn’t deny him since she showed the same inexorable attraction. But he didn’t wish to cover up eventual problems with it. He held his passion forcefully.
“Lucinda.” She snapped her eyes, wide and green, on him as if startled. “What’s the matter, you’ve been too quiet all this time.” His velvety voice filled the carriage.
Lucinda didn’t have a clue how to answer, or how to begin. Assuming they’d be bound by marriage, it was better to be honest with him. “I don’t know how many wives you’re taking,” she eyed him evenly, trying not to act like a drama queen, “or how many concubines for that matter.” One hand came to her bosom. “I haven’t got the slightest idea how to deal with it.”
A wave of relief flooded him at her answer. He’d very much feared she’d changed her mind about staying with him. In a liquid movement he shifted seats, coming next to her. He gently took her shoulders. “Lucinda.” Her eyes downcast. “Look at me!”
She didn’t want to di his bidding. Because her stomach would tighten, and the need she’d had for him these past days would overflow. He waited; she had no choice. Slowly, she lifted her enormous pepper-mint eyes to his cognac-against-fire ones. She identified sincerity in them, boldness. The midday sun lit them to a luminous colour, highlighting the golden rim around them. She’d always love his beautiful eyes.
“The moment I decided to ride to Greta Green with you, I made a choice.” He bent his head lower and their eyes got closer. “I chose to abide by your marriage laws!”
Utter surprise covered her expression, she hadn’t thought about it. The vows at Gretna Green stood with unshakable validity everywhere; they’d have the certificate that’d say they had married under European laws. “Oh.” She managed to breathe. “But in Tunis—”
“It doesn’t matter!” He interrupted her. “This is the way I want it!” He wouldn’t be able to touch another woman in a thousand years! His body, his mind, his heart craved only her. How could she not realise that?
Lucinda nodded with an abrupt movement. At least she didn’t have to worry about this if she was to take his word. His word was worth something, she reckoned. His statement made her much better. But she still believed she’d be lonely in love, while he never spoke of his feelings. He might hold none for her after all.
Mid-afternoon their carriage entered the village of Gretna Green. Tariq found an inn for them to stay and requested a blacksmith for their wedding, which would take place in the inn’s hall. Traditionally blacksmiths performed weddings for the elopers and provided witnesses for the occasion.
The inn keeper took them to their room upstairs, cosy and small. Tariq left her to go care for his horses. Alone in the unknown room, Lucinda, sat on the large bed, mind absent. About to take one of the greatest steps of her life. And how different she imagined it’d be. She motioned to her bags and took fresh clothes to dress. The enormity of this hit her full in the face, making her edgy about it. She accepted it for love. She’d take whatever came her way without regrets. Her life would change completely, new home, new country, new culture. It’d be a challenge to take it on fearless. Excitement and a sense of awe took her. Her mood improved with the prospect. She undressed her dusty travel garment and folded it on a chair. Refreshed, she dressed the one she had brought for the ceremony.
A while later a knock on the door brought the inn keeper’s wife to call her to the hall. Tariq would wash and dress downstairs. She climbed down, heart pounding in expectation. In the hall, her heart stopped. Tariq stood there, in his white kaftan and sirwaal, ghoutra and igal on his head. Which made him taller and more magnificent than ever. She’d missed him in his country’s attire, she realised.
Tariq’s attention followed her into the room in amazement. She wore the red embroidered tunic he’d given her in the desert. With the veil wrapped as a bride in her country, held by hair pins. The mixed fashions made her dazzling. He couldn’t help smiling as he absorbed her beauty. They hadn’t talked about what they’d wear for the special event, it simply happened. It showed how bonded they’d become. He extended his hand to take hers.
The blacksmith, the witnesses, the innkeeper and his wife stared at them in surprise. As if people right out from the Crusades had passed through the threshold; strange and appealing at the same time. They formed a fetching couple, they concluded.
Lucinda took the hand he offered and came to stand by his side. They stood through the wedding in solemn composure listening and speaking their vows with utter seriousness, eyes locked together. Papers written, signed, copies delivered, the deed was done. It would not be undone. Ever.
Much later, bath taken, clothes changed, Tariq and Lucinda sat in the inn’s dining room eating the delicious roast duck prepared by the cook. A candle burned on their table and few other people ate in the room.
Lucinda admired as the candle played in his eyes, giving it a more intense colour. Those eyes intent on her did not leave a shred of doubt as to what went behind them. She shivered with anticipation.
Up in their room, the fire cracked in the fireplace and the flames tinted the room in warm shades. Lucinda sat by the window, in her chemise, looking at the night in the hills. Light passing clouds veiled the starred sky now and then in a cosmic dance. Husband. The word rolled in her mind. Her husband walked around in black breeches and white shirt in their wedding night room. There would never be a more impressive man in this entire universe.
Said impressive
man had just finished arranging something in his baggage. He turned and cast a careful glance at her. Here, in their wedding night, he walked on thin ice, not knowing how to deal with this quiet, distant woman who had just become his wife. Mrs Al-Fadih as the blacksmith had referred to her. He strode to where she sat.
“You’ve been this moody since we left London.” He stopped just inches from her. “Why is that?” Maybe this came a little too harsh, he admitted to himself. He didn’t want to give an impression of hostility, but she pushed him to the edge, for pity’s sake!
Her pepper-mint enormous green eyes lifted to him, and she abruptly stood up. The fire lent a hot glow to her eyes and a copper hue to her loose hair. She glared at him, her temper rising. Much better, he praised silently. He preferred her rebellious and full of life.
The tension and the doubt of the last few days took their toll on her. Her self-control cracked and frustration blew high. “Because you don't love me, because you'll discard me when you've had your fill!” Voice harsh, eyes hard, uneven breath. “That's why!” Her upper body slightly bent forward, hands on her waist. She was fury incarnated.