by Lynne Graham
‘Why?’ Ella asked baldly before tucking into a tiny delicious appetiser consisting of a mini pastry case and a mousse filling.
‘Because all this is happening so fast. It’s just not Zarif. He’s usually so cool and right now he’s acting all hot-headed and spontaneous.’
‘That is true.’ Betsy too was looking thoughtful.
Hanya intervened to tell Ella that it was time for her to get dressed. An elaborate kaftan was displayed to her along with a silk chemise composed of several voluminous layers while Hanya added that underwear was not traditionally worn.
Belle frowned when she saw Ella’s expression of dismay and stooped down to her collection of parcels to retrieve one and present it to Ella with a flourish. ‘One of my gifts is some pretty lingerie. The bride has to wear something new, Hanya. It’s one of our traditions and going naked beneath a petticoat isn’t.’
Ella vanished into the giant Victorian bathroom with the gift box and wrenched it open to pull out a handful of pristine white lace, the sort of fancy underpinnings she had never worn in her life but the prospect of wearing them was infinitely preferable to going bare, with large breasts that felt uncomfortable without support. She put them on in a rush, fearful that at any moment the door, which did not have a lock, would open because her tribe of watchful Vashiri companions did not seem to have much idea that a woman might want privacy from an audience. Pulling the robe back on, she returned to the huge bedroom.
Within the space of a minute the heavy kaftan was being swiftly dropped over her head, the hooks fastened and the satin ribbon ties tightened to fit. The elaborate hand-done embroidery on the sky-blue fabric was truly magnificent.
‘That doesn’t look half bad,’ Belle began in evident surprise.
‘It’s beautiful...especially with your colouring,’ Betsy cut in with an admiring smile.
Ella sat down in a chair while her hair was brushed. ‘I’ll do my own make-up,’ she told Hanya firmly when extravagant compacts of very brightly coloured eye shadows were unfurled threateningly in front of her. ‘Zarif doesn’t like a lot of make-up.’
And then she thought, Why am I thinking like that, as though I want to make myself more attractive for him? Where did that weird thought come from? Had it been born in the moment when with only a little elementary foreplay Zarif had sent her careening into an explosive climax, giving her more pleasure than she had ever dreamt was possible? Her cheeks burned with mortification.
Belle thrust a glass into her hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she urged. ‘Don’t let Hanya bully you.’
‘I’m not timid. I’m just very reluctant to do or say anything that might offend anyone,’ Ella confided wryly as she sipped and munched on another appetiser. ‘And she has to know the right way to do everything here because she was Azel’s cousin.’
‘And unless I’m very much mistaken, she was exceedingly hopeful that Zarif would marry her, not you. I sense a generous helping of the old green monster envy every time she looks at you,’ Belle spelt out in her ear.
Ella’s eyes rounded as she did her make-up. ‘But I won’t ever measure up to Azel,’ she muttered in rueful acceptance.
‘First wife still casting a big shadow in the present, is she?’ Betsy murmured. ‘You shouldn’t let that bother you. I mean, it’s not as if Zarif chose to marry her. He was told he would be marrying her when he was only a kid. It was set in stone, an arranged marriage—no romance there or any room to act on his own feelings in such a rigid set-up. You were the very first woman he went on a date with and he chose you...’
He chose you. It was a different take on Zarif’s history, which Ella had not previously considered, and she was grateful for it. Her shadowed eyes suddenly brightened and she laughed, unable to kill the smile creeping across her formerly tense mouth. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Very. Zarif was married at eighteen and he was a virgin when he got married. Nik and Cristo tried to persuade him to wait longer before tying the knot but Zarif followed his grandfather’s dictates and he always puts his duty to his country first. Let’s face it, all Zarif’s advisors were mad keen to marry him off to a suitable woman asap, particularly once he began connecting with his half-brothers from the West. When he met you three years ago, we were all really happy for him.’
Ella stiffened and wielded her mascara brush with great care. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘None of us understand why. It was so obvious you were mad about him when we first met,’ Belle told her bluntly. ‘You couldn’t take your eyes off him. It was kind of sweet.’
In chagrined silence, Ella swallowed more of her drink and Belle topped it up with a tall bottle that had come out of nowhere. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Vodka. I had it in my bag. I’m not swearing off drink at a wedding,’ Belle declared defiantly.
‘I shouldn’t have too much... I haven’t much of a head for alcohol,’ Ella admitted.
Her make-up done, Ella stayed still while an elaborate coin-hung headdress was anchored to her brow. Then it was time to gaze in a full-length mirror at the vision of exotic splendour she had become in her opulent royal regalia.
‘Now we go and view some ceremonial sword dance,’ Belle announced cheerfully, having had a discussion with a very disapproving Hanya while urging Ella towards the door and slotting her glass back in her hand. ‘Drink up. I haven’t yet given up hope that I can transform you into a happy bride.’
Guilt assailed Ella as she realised she had not been putting on a good enough show to make the expected impression. A happy bride? No indeed. But, these women were members of Zarif’s family and she should’ve been trying harder. ‘I’m sorry, I’m—’
‘No worries,’ tiny Betsy whispered, squeezing her arm comfortingly. ‘Weddings are ninety-nine per cent stress even without cultural differences involved.’
‘But thanks to our objections you’re not going to be sentenced to a female-only reception,’ Belle broke in with satisfaction. ‘For the first time ever, a palace wedding will be a mixed gathering. We talked Zarif into it last night and he admitted that many of his subjects have long since abandoned all this dated separating-the-sexes-stuff. If you ask me, you can blame his uncle for all the old-fashioned stuff around here. Nobody wants to tread on his toes.’
‘Hush...’ Ella urged, skimming concerned eyes at the forthright redhead while she rubbed her aching brow with a fleeting brush of her fingers because she was starting to get what she assumed to be a tension headache. ‘Zarif is very attached to his uncle Halim and he’s seriously ill.’
‘If you can’t say something nice, say nothing,’ Betsy advised. ‘Ella’s not used to you yet.’
‘But I do like and respect honesty,’ Ella admitted, following Hanya out onto a large stone balcony. A large group of men wielding swords and clad in white traditional robes were lined up in the courtyard below. Towards the rear she could see Nik and Cristo, Zarif’s brothers, standing in the shade to watch. Zarif was easiest of all to pick out of the crowd. He wore magnificent gold-coloured robes that glimmered in the brilliant sunshine. A belt with an ornate golden dagger thrust through it accentuated his narrow waist. His white kaffiyeh was bound with a double gold cord and, framed by that pale backdrop, his hard bronzed features were shockingly handsome. It was all very solemn and serious. A drum beat sounded and the lines of men shifted their feet at a rhythmic pace, roared something incomprehensible and lunged forward with their swords.
‘Could we have just five minutes alone with our sister?’ Belle asked Hanya pleadingly.
With a look of deep resentment, the young Vashiri woman backed into the corridor and Belle shut the door on her while heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Of course you can’t talk with her listening in!’
Ella drank from her glass. She felt incredibly thirsty, her mouth very dry as she watched Zarif leap across the central fire pit with astonishing at
hleticism and grace, his lean, muscular body soaring high above the flames. At that moment he simply took her breath away.
‘He’s so fit and he’s probably been doing that stuff since he was about five years old,’ Betsy commented admiringly. ‘Nik said he had a very traditional upbringing with his grandparents and his uncle.’
Belle was scanning Ella’s expressive face as she watched her handsome bridegroom bring down his sword with a metallic clash to meet the other men’s weapons in the inner circle. ‘Why on earth did you reject him three years ago?’
‘None of our business,’ Betsy slotted in uneasily.
‘He told me he would always love Azel and that she was irreplaceable,’ Ella heard herself admit before she could think better of it.
‘You’re kidding me,’ Belle breathed, her face stunned. ‘I can’t believe he was that stu—’
‘At least he was honest,’ Ella countered defensively. ‘It wasn’t what I wanted to hear but I was better off knowing.’
‘Men!’ Belle exclaimed in a tone of lingering disbelief as Ella opened the door to invite Hanya back in to join them. Ella was annoyed with herself for speaking so freely and reckoned that Hanya’s deflating presence would, at least, make her guard her tongue.
When the dance was finished, Ella’s mind was stuffed with exotic imagery of Zarif as she had never seen him before. Hanya led them downstairs into an ornately tiled room where Zarif was waiting with his brothers, the imam and an older man in a wheelchair with a nurse hovering over him. Halim al-Rastani’s poor state of health was obvious in his sunken dark eyes and pallor but he smiled warmly at Ella and he lifted a frail hand to urge her to come closer.
Lean, strong face grave, Zarif moved forward to join her and perform a formal introduction.
‘You are indeed very beautiful,’ Zarif’s uncle told her kindly. ‘It is a joy for me to meet you at last. May you and my nephew be blessed with many children and a long life.’
Momentarily colliding with Zarif’s warning golden gaze and feeling rather as though she had run into a brick wall, Ella swallowed hard and lowered her lashes. Quite ridiculously she felt guilty about the reality that she had no intention of having any children with Zarif and indeed was currently taking medication that should prevent pregnancy. Her head was also beginning to swim a little. It had to be the heat getting to her, she thought ruefully, perspiration dampening her upper lip. The palace had ceiling fans everywhere but no proper air conditioning and she was sweltering in the heavy kaftan layered with petticoats.
The imam stepped forward and began to speak while Betsy’s husband, Nik, stationed himself to Ella’s left side and quietly and smoothly translated every word of the Arabic ceremony for her benefit. A guiding hand resting in the shallow indentation of her spine, Zarif led her over to the table where a document awaited their signatures.
‘The marriage contract,’ Zarif explained as the witnesses followed suit. He lifted a large and ornate wooden box from the table and extended it to Ella.
‘What’s this?’ she whispered, leaning slightly sideways at the sheer weight of the box.
‘It’s the mahr...your dowry,’ Nik translated with some amusement.
Hamid darted forward to remove the box from Ella’s hold and bestow it on Hanya, who was waiting outside the door.
‘I have a dowry?’ Ella muttered to Zarif, her disbelief at the explanation unconcealed.
One hand cupping her elbow, Zarif drew her into an alcove off the corridor. His lean, extravagantly handsome face was forbidding in its uninformative stillness. ‘It is traditional that I give my bride the royal jewel collection.’
‘But you’ve already given my family so much,’ Ella muttered in growing discomfiture.
‘That is our private business. I sincerely doubt that you want that fact spread round my entire family,’ Zarif spelt out very drily. ‘I’m sure I need not add that you must surrender the jewels when we part.’
Her face flamed hotter than a fire in embarrassment and she tore her discomfited gaze from his lean, darkly handsome features, embarrassment and resentment creating a heady tempest of reaction inside her. ‘I’m not stupid,’ she declared, wrenching her arm free of his and leaving the alcove to join Hanya where she waited with the box several feet away.
‘Your Majesty.’ Hanya curtsied to her for the first time and ushered Ella into another room. ‘You will want to put on some jewellery before you meet your guests.’
In actuality there was nothing Ella wanted to do less than don any piece of jewellery that was only on loan to her until Zarif took a real wife and which had previously been worn by Azel. How dared he assume that she would have the cheek to try and retain valuables that did not belong to her after their fake marriage ended? Pride brought her chin up but she thought better of protest and compressed her lips, leaving Hanya to the task of selecting items from the overflowing casket of glittering gold-encased gems.
Decked out, in her own opinion, like a Christmas tree, Ella followed Hanya slowly into the vast reception room where all the guests were gathered. Hanya left her hovering just inside the doorway and approached Zarif. Ella watched the dainty brunette speak to her tall, powerfully built husband and wondered what Azel’s cousin was saying to stamp such a look of brooding dissatisfaction on Zarif’s lean, strong face. Ella joined Belle, who admired the collar of flawless sapphires encircling Ella’s elegant neck and the superb matching pendant earrings reaching almost to her shoulder.
‘Wow,’ Belle breathed in reverent admiration. ‘I’ve seen loads of jewels but in all my life I’ve never seen anything to equal the size and clarity of those.’
Zarif studied his bride, whose gait was almost imperceptibly unsteady. His expressive mouth tightened. While the famous sapphires certainly enhanced the breathtaking gentian blue of her eyes, the feverish colour highlighting her cheekbones and the pallor of her porcelain skin beyond it were equally obvious to him. Most probably the large amount of alcohol she had consumed was having an effect, he thought derisively, furious that she could have been so foolish as to indulge in such a dangerous practice when their behaviour was the focus of every person present.
One hand on her elbow as guidance, he escorted her round the room to introduce her to local dignitaries and then he took her through to the banqueting room where the wedding meal was being staged.
Ella was feeling very hot, literally as though she were burning up below the kaftan. There was a sensation of tightness across her chest and her breath was wheezing and catching a little in her throat. The jewellery was as heavy as the dress and she felt dizzy and slightly nauseous. ‘I think I need to sit down,’ she told Zarif before he could make her talk to any more strangers.
A pair of throne-like chairs sat below a canopy and he settled her down in one with great care. ‘Food will be brought to us,’ he informed her, taking a seat by her side.
Ella had never felt less hungry in her life. Indeed the prospect of food turned her stomach. There was a metallic taste in her mouth and her throat felt funny. Strong black coffee was served to her by a kneeling servant.
‘Coffee will sober you up,’ Zarif pronounced with lethal derision.
‘I’m not drunk...I only had one drink,’ Ella whispered back at him, staring at him in consternation and surprise. ‘And I don’t feel like coffee.’
‘Drink it,’ Zarif instructed in a raw aside.
Ella felt more like throwing it at him but, conscious that they were the cynosure of attention, she sipped doggedly at the bitter brew, hoping it would ease her tight throat. Unfortunately the coffee seemed to exacerbate her nausea and before very long she flew upright without a word to Zarif and headed off in urgent search of the nearest cloakroom.
‘Where are you going?’ he demanded, catching her hand in his to still her in her tracks.
‘Cloakroom...sick!’ she gasped in desperation.
He urged her out through a side door with a scantily leashed curse. ‘In there...’ he told her grimly.
In merciful privacy, Ella lost the meagre contents of her stomach and then hung on the edge of the vanity unit to stay upright while she tried to freshen her mouth. Cramping pains continued to course across her abdomen. She was feeling really ill and she staggered slightly as she reeled dizzily back to Zarif’s side. ‘I’m not well,’ she muttered shakily, feeling hot and cold and dreadful, black spots appearing in her vision.
‘You will have to control it,’ Zarif informed her unsympathetically.
Her head swimming, her legs hollow and weak, Ella gave him an incredulous glance from heavily lidded eyes and then she dropped like a stone to the tiled floor at his feet.
CHAPTER SIX
ZARIF STUDIED HIS BRIDE, his stern gaze welded to the still slight figure in the big bed. Recent events had made certain facts painfully clear: Ella was his wife and his to protect. His responsibility alone. And he had almost lost her, indeed come within minutes of doing so and he was still in shock from the experience.
Had he known what he was doing when he married her? Had he really believed he could shrug off all sense of obligation and sidestep the commitment? So what if, once, she had played games with him and hurt his pride? She had only been a girl, a fickle, lively girl playing with fire without knowing she could get burned. And yet he had intended to burn her, had intended to punish her.
His wide sensual mouth compressed on the acknowledgement that everything had changed in the space of a moment, the same moment in which Ella had collapsed at his feet. He had made a grievous error of judgement and it could have cost Ella her life. He did not want to picture a world in which Ella no longer walked. His bitterness was not so deep, his pride not so high. He still wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman and he could not let her go, he would not let her go until he was free of his craving for her. Only then could he move on and remarry, awarding his next wife the full unquestioning commitment that was her due.