I can see the crown prince considering my request, and his capitulation when he nods slowly. “No problem with that. Wait here.” His long robes swishing around him, he leaves the room. But my reprieve is brief; he returns almost immediately. He holds an official-looking document, which he places in my hands.
I take as much time as I can to peruse it, anxious to take in every word and to try to understand the implications. It’s relatively short and to the point, and covers the facts they’ve already told me. As far as I can see there’s nothing else hidden there. But even so the contents are sinister, outlining a marriage to Prince Nijad, which will last for at least a period of five years, or until I produce a male heir. At the end of five years, should no child or male child have been produced, the emir has the discretion to agree to a divorce, or ‘other alternatives as the ruler sees fit’. Any child of either sex is to remain in Amahad. There is a section for a settlement after the divorce that seems to be a more than generous six-figure sum per annum, but I can’t possibly think that far ahead. The money seems excessive, but doesn’t attract me. What use do I have for that kind of money? I don’t spend half of what I currently earn. I read through the contract thoroughly twice, making sure I take it all in, trying to find a way to escape this cruel fate, but I can see no way out. But while I’m reading, a kernel of a thought comes to me.
Kadar, looking regal like the ruler he will one day be, has not retaken his seat, so I am forced to look up at him. “I’d like to add a clause. Can I write it on here?”
He looks surprised, and I think he’s going to refuse, but just before I start to plead, he tells me: “I do not see what you might want to add that would have a bearing on the details of the marriage, but I will look at what you propose. So, yes, I’ll find you a pen.” He goes over to his desk and finds a piece of paper. Then, taking a pen from a holder, he comes back and holds it out to me, but when I reach out my hand to take it he brings it just too far away. “It is up to me whether I accept your amendment.”
Well, of course, it would be. He holds all the power here. Begrudgingly I nod, and he hands me the writing implements. I tap the pen against my teeth and then start writing. When I’ve written a few sentences, I put the top back on the pen and place it on top of the contract, which I then slide back across the table. Kadar picks it up and reads what I’ve written.
Clause X: If, in the period of the said five years, Miss Carson repays the amount of the bride price plus ten per cent interest per year then the marriage will be dissolved with immediate effect and the annual allowance (as noted in clause 19 below) will become payable. Any child of the marriage will remain with Miss Carson and there will be no restrictions on residence, whether within Amahad or elsewhere.
“But that will never happen!” He looks exasperated. “Why waste time adding anything like this? I don’t think you realise what living in the desert and being married means. You will not be able to work. Nijad won’t allow it.”
He passes the revision over to Jasim, who also looks incredulous. “Are you expecting a rich relative to die, or something?” he asks, presumably the only explanation he can think of.
I shake my head, sadly. “Unfortunately not; I have no relatives. But I’m an optimist.” I know I can’t explain, but it wasn’t completely beyond the realms of possibility that the plans I’d put in place would bear sufficient dividends. Of course, I won’t be there to manage my projects, but computers will keep ticking away following their original instructions if given no alternative course of action to follow. It crosses my mind to wonder whether coming clean now might save me from this marriage, but it’s a thought I quickly reject. If I was unable to prove my honest intent to their satisfaction, I have no doubt of the outcome. At least by signing this contract I’ll be staying alive – for the present, anyway.
Kadar picks up a pen and idly rubs the end against his mouth while he thinks. After a short while, he inclines his head towards his brother. “Take this to the lawyers and get the contract redrafted.” He turns to me. “You will sign the revised contract, and then Tahirah will come to look after you until it’s time to leave.”
****
The maidservant is no more communicable than she was earlier, but at least I’m left to await my fate in an ornately furnished sitting room, rather than being returned to my cell. I’m brought food for lunch, but I can’t consider eating. My guts are churning as I try to process everything that’s happened to me over the past twenty-four hours or so. I have no idea how I can evade what seems to be my destiny due to an accident of birth. There’s no phone in this room and the door, as I might have predicted, is locked. So I sit here, waiting, alone with my thoughts.
There’s a fluttering of butterflies in my stomach, and I’m ashamed to admit it’s in anticipation of something I never expected to experience: sex, intimacy. What man would want to touch me? What will it be like? I wonder what Sheikh Nijad will be like. Will I be able to fancy the man I’m being given to? Christ! If I don’t like him, if he doesn’t turn me on, it would be rape, wouldn’t it? I pick up a cushion and hug it to me. One thing’s for certain: he’s going to be very disappointed in his new bride. A sob escapes me. It won’t matter whether I’m attracted to him or not. There’s not a chance that he’ll find me appealing in any sense. Shit! What a complete fuck-up.
They come for me long before I’m ready. Tahirah enters alone. The maid has apparently not warmed to me since this morning, but now I suspect I know the reason. I, in lieu of my dead father, seem to be the most hated person in Amahad. She’s not rude, just not friendly. When she offers me some kind of headscarf and veil in a matter-of-fact way, I’m strangely comforted and accept her help to put it on. I’m not surprised they’ve decided to cover my face; they certainly didn’t hit the jackpot with me as their future princess. Only my eyes are visible, and it’s something of a relief to be able to hide.
A knock on the door announces the arrival of Kadar, who seems to have become my personal escort. Walking alongside the prince – again followed by the ever-present guard – I’m taken out of the palace and into the scorching sunshine which emphasises how far removed from home I am. Fuck! I’m an ordinary twenty-five-year-old Englishwoman. I work, eat, sleep the same as everyone else. I moan about the UK weather and watch the news with curiosity but with no real empathy for things happening at the other side of the world. So how the bloody hell have I ended up here? Caught up in a drama of my own, thousands of miles away from everything I know? This cannot be happening! But my eyes, ears and other senses assure me that it is. I won’t be waking up from this nightmare any time soon. Or for the next five years, for that matter.
Since the extraordinary meeting with the princes, I’ve been in a state of disbelief, almost managing to convince myself that someone, at some point, is going to leap out and shout ‘Candid Camera!’ at me, but now, as Kadar leads me across to a helicopter waiting on the helipad, everything starts to seem all too real. My eyes fill with tears. I falter and stop. What the hell am I thinking? I can’t do this. No way on earth can I marry a man I’ve never met in a country with customs I don’t understand. What’s going to happen to me? How am I going to be treated? My gut churns at the thought of being taken to the desert; the place conjures up no romantic fantasies for me. As a wave of nausea rises I turn, looking for somewhere to run.
Kadar places his hand on my arm, holding me firmly, as if he’s read my mind, preventing any escape. “Come,” he says, his voice rough. With a secure grip, he pulls me forwards to the transportation waiting to take me to my fate.
Before I can protest, he lifts me in his strong arms and I’m seated and belted up in the helicopter. Trapped. The pilot wastes no time in getting going. The strange sensation as we rise into the air makes my stomach heave, but once we’ve levelled out I’m slightly better, although unable to enjoy what turns out to be quite a long flight. With no watch or phone, I have no idea of how much time is passing. There’s nothing to do but stare out at the scenery below, which is simply miles
and miles of nothing. I see no beauty in the desolate desert we’re flying over. Like my thoughts, it resembles a sea of despair. The pilot has given me headphones, but I’m obviously not tuned into the same channel as the pilot and Kadar seated in front of me. They hold conversations that I cannot hear, and I’ve no opportunity to ask any more questions, or plead my case further. As we travel over the endless sand, I drift into a mindset of disbelief, completely unable to accept this is happening to me.
Eventually, I feel a slight change in our orientation, and see that we’re flying lower. There seems to be a kind of encampment ahead, and as much as I’ve found the journey monotonous and boring, I’ve now got no desire for it to end. My brain’s suspended animation comes crashing back to life with the thought that I don’t want to arrive at our destination, nor do I want to face what’s waiting for me there. As the decrease in altitude signals we’re coming into land, my nausea returns with a vengeance. The helicopter circles then hovers before finally coming gently to rest, allowing me, in those last few moments in flight, to see a small camp surrounded by an oasis. There’s water and a handful of palm trees. I’d expected somewhere bigger, certainly more than the thirty or so tents I count. Beyond, there’s nothing but sand in either direction. Jesus, is this my new home? Despite the space, it already makes me feel claustrophobic. So alien, so unlike anything I’ve ever known before. I want to beg them to turn the helicopter around. As my panic rises, I barely feel the jolt that signals we’ve touched down.
Kadar comes to the door. He tries to undo my harness but I grasp it tightly, not wanting to leave the last piece of the twenty-first century that’s in sight. I shake my head, words failing me as I see the determination in his eyes. He’s not going to save me. His job is to deliver me, and plainly he takes his job seriously. Firmly prising my fingers from the safety belt surrounding me, he undoes the harness, frees me, and then offers his hand to steady me and help me out. Fighting back tears and taking a deep breath, I realise I have no option but to step down on to the baking sand.
Taking my eyes away from Kadar, I turn to face the crude-looking camp, unable to miss the reception party of half a dozen robed men and, behind them, a small group of women. In my fear of what is going to happen to me, I’d forgotten Kadar’s high status in this country. But I get a stark reminder as the assembled crowd all bow deeply from the waist when he turns to face them – all except one man waiting behind the others, tall and upstanding in his white robes, who merely dips his head briefly in a subdued mark of respect for the crown prince.
Wasting no time, Kadar leads me forward to the man standing apart from the others.
“Sheikh Nijad.” Kadar nods to his brother, seemingly using the two words succinctly to serve as both acknowledgement and my introduction.
Just like that, I’m presented to my husband-to-be. The desert air is hot and dry, but that’s not what’s preventing me breathing; it’s the man in front of me. He is wearing a headdress which obscures most of his face, but my gaze is drawn to his dark eyes examining me, and then to his mouth where his lips are compressed. His face is lean, much like his brother’s, and while his features favour those of the friendlier Jasim, his expression mirrors Kadar’s, stern and almost cruel. He is just as tall as his brothers; I barely reach to his shoulder. Feeling thoroughly intimidated, goosebumps rise on my skin, even though the sun is blazing down. Nervously I wait. He continues his lazy appraisal, but makes no immediate move to welcome me or to put me at my ease. I take a step closer to Kadar before I realise what I’ve done, unconsciously seeking the comfort of the known, scared of the formidable sheikh staring so intently at me.
Chapter 7
Nijad
So this is the woman. My future wife. She looks so slight and frail, as if the desert wind could blow her over. Not that I can see very much at all; her veil covers all but her eyes, which are a pretty enough blue, but clearly show her fear and apprehension, wide open, with dilated pupils. I scowl, having to force the pity for the woman standing in front of me to the back of my mind and remember the reason she is here. She’s here for vengeance. This is the woman I’m expected to break and bend to my will, as the only way to keep her alive. This fucking marriage has to go ahead whatever her feelings about it or, for that matter, my own. I realise my thoughts have made my face grow fierce as she steps back, seeking the protection of Kadar, as if I’d struck her. Her wary movement brings me to my senses. Even if I can’t muster any particular feeling of empathy for the woman I’m going to be forced to live with, I’ve no wish to frighten her more than she is already. Fear is a tool but, like any other, there’s a right time and place to use it. I make an effort to sound sociable and friendly, something I’ve not had much practice in over the past three years. My voice is low and rumbling, and as non-threatening as I can make it, as I tell her “Welcome”. I accompany my words with a slight bow of my head.
After only a second’s hesitation, she returns a matching bow and stutters out a quick “Thank you”. Her response pleases me. I could have expected her to rail against her fate, but my brothers appear to have cowed her sufficiently; she seems to have no fight left in her.
The brief exchange of courtesies is the signal Kadar’s been waiting for. He claps his hand on my shoulder, gaining my attention. “Nijad, I need to talk to you.” He raises his eyebrows, awaiting my response. I nod, knowing there are formalities to complete.
“Indeed brother. You will take refreshment?” As he indicates his agreement, I turn my attention back to the woman. I wave my hand towards the small group waiting patiently behind me. “Go with the women,” I tell her. “You will be brought to me later.”
It’s impossible to miss the flash of panic in her eyes which flick quickly between the women waiting to my rear and me, but I’ve told her what I want her to do. Forgetting she’s a woman from Western society, I expect her to obey me without question. I’m already following Kadar when I feel her hand on my arm, stopping me. I can’t help it: I go rigid making me realise I’ve been in the desert too long as the contact takes me by surprise. Here the accepted protocols mean that no one touches a prince without invitation. Her hand drops away as she grasps she shouldn’t have tried to attract my attention in that way. I know I'm a bastard. It’s not her fault that she’s here, or that she doesn’t know our ways. I turn back, giving her the opportunity to speak, tilting my head to show I’m listening.
She stares into my eyes. I see her eyes flit back and forth showing there’s a myriad of questions she wants to ask me, but as the intelligent woman her reputation suggests she is, she dismisses most of them. There’s no point in further protestation; what will be, will be. Both of us have to accept that. When she, at last, selects the question she wants to ask, her voice is soft, melodious, but shaking. She’s scared of me. She has to swallow before asking, “When will the wedding be?”
My eyes narrow. She’s expecting time to prepare. Time neither of us has. I give a short, mirthless laugh when I reply with the answer that’s as distasteful to me as it is to her. “You have already signed the marriage contract. I’m going to add my signature now. In a few minutes, we will be man and wife. There is no need for a celebration. In the circumstances, festivities are, perhaps, inappropriate.” I raise my eyebrows as I look down at her, daring her to disagree.
Glancing around at the group of women, I wave towards the one who I know has a good command of English. “Go with Lamis now,” I tell her, and then pause. My voice low and commanding I add, to ensure this time she obeys, “Go with the women. They will prepare you for your sheikh.”
Walking away, without bothering to make sure she’s complied with my instruction, I go to the tent where Kadar is waiting for me. Without invitation, he’s folded himself down so he’s half-lying on the cushions and has spread out a document on the low table in front of him. As I take my place opposite, I watch him smooth the paper out with his hands and turn it so the writing is towards me. Looking up into my face, he takes out a pen and passes it ove
r. I shut my eyes briefly before picking it up, wishing I could avoid this situation but knowing there is nothing I can do but my duty. It isn’t just that the emir has decreed it; I see for myself, daily, the volatility of the tribes and I know they would be out for blood were I not to take the woman for my wife. I pick up the pen and scrawl my signature. There: it’s done. We are now man and wife. Sheikh and Sheikha.
“It’s well done, brother.”
With my head still bowed over the contract I glance up at my oldest brother through my eyelashes. “It keeps the peace.” Suddenly I’m curious. “What do you make of her, Kadar?”
Rubbing his hand over his short beard, he takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “She’s out of her depth, as we knew she would be, but she has an inner strength.” He gives a short laugh. “She preferred marriage over death.”
Personally, I don’t think that’s an alternative at all, but then she doesn’t know me. I want to find out. “Did you tell her about me?”
He shakes his head. “No, she’s scared enough already without informing her of your reputation. The story’s long buried now; she didn’t recognise your name.” He shuffles his robe around him. “You have to control her, Nijad. We can’t afford a loose cannon. I don’t care how you do it, but you must make sure she toes the line.”
I feel sick to the depths of my stomach. Yes, I’ve proved I can be violent towards a woman, but I still resent the fact that’s how people know me nowadays, and that the tribes think marriage to the savage sheikh is a punishment worse than death. And it galls me that this woman is in a bad enough place already, without adding the threat of a potentially violent man into the mix. “I’ll do what I have to do,” I answer. It’s all I can promise.
The flap of the tent is pulled open and in steps a man I’ve not seen for three years. It’s Jon Tharpe, my ex-bodyguard from Grade A. I hadn’t taken notice of who’d been piloting the helicopter today, but I gather now it had been him. I stand to greet him, my arms hanging loosely by my sides. In another time, we’d have exchanged man hugs or, at the very least, shaken hands. I realise from the look on his face he hasn’t forgiven me; he is frowning as if this meeting is distasteful.
Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) Page 11