Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride

by Marguerite Kaye

  Kadar took a sip of mint tea, nodding his assent when Abdul-Majid offered to refill his glass from the chased silver pot which sat on the huge tray in the middle of the low marble table. This was his first visit to his chief adviser’s suite of rooms since his return to Murimon. The bookshelves lining the walls were perhaps a little fuller, the rugs which covered the marbled floor a little more worn, but they were the same bookshelves, the same rugs which had been here when Abdul-Majid had been his father’s chief adviser. This table—how many times had he drunk sherbet at this table as a boy, after lessons? How could he have forgotten those lessons in Ancient Greek and in Latin? The histories of the pharaohs and of the ancient Arabian tribes? Lessons learnt from scrolls so delicate that he had worn fine silk gloves to prevent the heat from his fingers damaging them. Abdul-Majid had been a patient and talented tutor. How could he have forgotten that?

  But nothing had actually changed, and that was the irony. The room was the same. No doubt Abdul-Majid’s determination to keep things as they were had not changed either. ‘I was thinking,’ Kadar said, ‘that instead of jewels, we could offer Nessarah what they would have gained through the marriage alliance. Access to our port,’ he clarified, seeing the confusion writ on the older man’s face. ‘Favourable trading terms for both exports and imports.’

  ‘It is the tradition to offer precious stones, Highness.’

  Kadar sighed. ‘Can you not see your way to break with tradition this once?’

  ‘As it transpires I think it a most excellent suggestion, Highness, and one which is likely to be well received. A proposition which I would be glad to broker on your behalf. From Nessarah’s perspective, such trade is of far more value than some shiny baubles, and from our perspective—well, who would not wish to increase their trade with such a wealthy kingdom?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Kadar said, trying not to sound as disconcerted as he felt.

  Abdul-Majid tugged at his beard, forming his mouth into what might have been a smile, but it was difficult to tell. ‘I am an old camel, but it is still possible for me to learn new tricks, Sire. Tragic as the circumstances surrounding your succession, for Murimon your arrival is most timely. If we do not rise to the challenge of this new century, then we will fade into obscurity.’

  ‘Are you saying that you approve of my plans?’

  ‘I am saying that I understand the need for them, Sire.’ Another tug of the beard, another slightly ingratiating smile. ‘My days of influence are over. It is time, as Candide says, for me to cultivate my garden. You do not need my approval, Highness, but if you ask do I think your plans are what Murimon needs, then my answer must be in the affirmative.’

  ‘When Butrus died, you told me that what Murimon needed was stability, a royal wedding, a new dynasty, yet you do not seem overly upset or indeed surprised at my decision to cancel the betrothal contract you negotiated for my brother.’

  ‘Prince Butrus was happy to rely on others to look after his best interests, Highness. You have always struck me as someone who prefers to make his own decisions, whether right or wrong.’

  As ever with Abdul-Majid, there were two conversations going on, two sets of meanings to be attributed to his words. It was precisely the kind of conversation which Kadar had presided over countless times on behalf of the great and the good. The seeds of his own diplomatic skills had in fact most likely been sown by the man sitting at the table with him, but Kadar decided the time had come for frankness, not finesse.

  ‘Was my brother happy in his marriage to your daughter? No, don’t shake your head and shrug your shoulders, Abdul-Majid, I want an honest answer.’

  But Abdul-Majid shook his head and shrugged his shoulders anyway. He took a sip of tea. And then another. And then he did something he rarely did. He met Kadar’s gaze square on. ‘He was content, as far as a man such as your brother could ever be happy with a woman who could not give him a son to succeed him. There were, as you would expect with Prince Butrus, other women, but he was discreet. I doubt my daughter suspected, else she would have confided her suspicions to me.’

  ‘Do you really think she would have spoken to you of such a thing?’

  ‘Yes.’ The affirmative was spoken with absolute certainty, but immediately Abdul-Majid’s voice gentled. ‘My daughter trusted me, Highness. I always knew what was in her heart.’

  Like Kadar, Abdul-Majid was a man who chose his words carefully. Was this an admission of guilt? ‘You must have known then that she loved me,’ Kadar said, although what had been a statement of certainty for so long was now most definitely posed as a question.

  His answer was painfully slow in coming. Once again, Abdul-Majid chose his words with care. ‘She did love you, Highness, but Zeinab was— My daughter was accustomed from a very young age to the knowledge that one day she would be crowned Princess of Murimon. She could not help but be attracted to the influence and the riches that position would provide.’

  ‘The lemon does not fall far from the tree,’ Kadar said drily.

  Abdul-Majid acknowledged this with a shrug and a nod. ‘She was my daughter. We were more alike than perhaps you realised. But you must not think her guilty of deceit, Highness. Her feelings for you were genuine, if not as strong as yours for her. Nor was her resolve as resolute as yours in the face of opposition.’

  ‘I would never have tried to make her do anything she didn’t want to do. Quite the contrary,’ Kadar said, recalling his conversation with Constance. ‘So many times I begged her to allow me to speak to my father, but she would have none of it and I acceded to her wishes.’

  ‘For which I am glad. Sire, I am truly sorry to have to say so, but what you wanted could never be permitted to happen. You would only have succeeded in making things worse for both of you.’

  ‘I asked her to elope with me, did you know that?’

  ‘I did, and that would have been another huge mistake on both your parts. I told my daughter as much. Zeinab was a delicate desert flower who could only flourish in the cossetted confines of the palace. She was born and bred for court life, not living a nomadic life with you, surviving on your wits. She knew that in her heart, which was why she chose to marry Prince Butrus. Highness, the stark truth is that you were not capable of making each other happy.’

  ‘A delicate desert flower,’ Kadar said, with a twisted smile, remembering his own thoughts.

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘And did she bloom under my brother’s tender care?’

  The older man sighed, dropping his eyes to his empty glass. ‘The lack of a son and heir was a tragedy which affected them both, but she was as content as it was possible for a wife to be, under such circumstances.’ He looked up, his eyes damp. ‘It has been a great source of regret to me that this has caused a rift between us, but I am, despite what you may think, first and foremost a father, even before I am a loyal servant of the crown. My intervention was with my daughter’s best interests at heart. I would do so again, Highness.’

  ‘I would like to think you would,’ Kadar said, getting to his feet. ‘If we could have had this conversation seven years ago—ah, no, that is unfair of me. I doubt very much I would have listened. I would more likely have acted in the mistaken belief that I was playing the knight errant, and I suspect the repercussions would have been as you said. Unhappiness. For all parties. I thank you for your honesty.’

  ‘And I must humbly thank you for your gracious understanding, Highness, and beg your forgiveness.’

  ‘Even though you would do it again?’ Kadar laughed shortly. ‘Let us, as the English say, draw a line under the matter. It is done, and I am done with it. The future is what matters. Will you draw up the necessary papers, setting out the terms of our offer to Nessarah?’

  ‘I will do more than that. I will personally deliver them and obtain their agreement, Highness. After which I think it is best that I retire from this
positon. You will wish a younger man, a man you have chosen yourself, to be your trusted adviser.’

  ‘So you’ll go and cultivate your garden, just like Candide?’

  ‘It is as Cicero said, Highness. If you have a garden, and a library,’ Abdul-Majid said, indicating the bulging shelves, ‘a man has everything he needs.’

  ‘Except your daughter to share it,’ Kadar said sadly.

  ‘But she does, Highness. She is here with me, every day in my heart.’

  * * *

  Constance spent the night as usual working on her star maps, but for once the heavens could not hold her attention. Time and again, her mind strayed from tracking constellations to Kadar’s decision to track down the truth of his past. Had he spoken to Abdul-Majid? Was he now avoiding her because it had been an unsatisfactory meeting, because it had changed nothing, or changed too much, or because there had been no meeting at all? Perhaps he had thought better of it. That might be best. She had been so certain that she was doing the right thing in forcing him to confront the past, but now she was terrified that the only thing it would do was cause him more pain.

  * * *

  Finally, as dawn broke, her patience snapped. Quickly changing into her riding clothes, Constance saddled up her lovely mare and headed for the beach.

  She found Kadar seated on the sands nearest the port. It was obvious that he too had been up all night. Her heart ached when she saw him. Hearts did really ache, who would have thought it? And arms ached too, when they were prevented from throwing themselves around a beloved, and lips too, when they were not permitted to say that they would make everything better. ‘I was worried,’ she said. ‘I am sorry, I know if you’d wanted to talk to me you would have found me, but—should I leave you to your musings?’

  He shook his head, patting the sand beside him. ‘I have grown weary of solitary contemplation. Your presence is most welcome.’

  Thoroughly relieved, for she wasn’t at all certain she’d have been able to leave him, Constance tied her horse up alongside Kadar’s and joined him on the sand.

  He picked up a stone and held it out for her inspection. ‘Flint,’ he said, ‘and perfectly flat, see? Ideal for skimming, something Butrus could always do with much more skill than I. I’d forgotten.’ He threw the stone, smiling faintly when it sank after four skips. ‘Butrus would have managed six or seven. He did twelve once. A record neither of us ever surpassed. Here, try.’

  He handed Constance a stone, showing her how to hold it. ‘Two,’ she said, ‘pathetic.’

  ‘Try again.’

  This time Kadar guided her arm, and the stone skipped three times, earning her another faint smile before he returned his gaze to the sea, or, more likely from the distant look in his eyes, towards the past, seemingly unaware of her presence at his side. Constance bit her lip, determined not to resist the urge to fire a barrage of questions at him.

  After what felt like an eternity, he turned back to face her. ‘Butrus was genuinely delighted when I came back to Murimon. So full of joie de vivre, so pleased to have me home, looking forward so much to his future with his new princess and hopefully, at some point, a son and heir. Thank the stars he had never, ever had any idea of the feelings which existed between Zeinab and I. Or rather,’ he added with a grimace, ‘the feelings I thought existed.’

  For once, he made no effort to hide his emotions. There was sorrow in his eyes, and regret, but overall, what Constance discerned was something more akin to shock. Her heart in her mouth for fear she would say the wrong thing and cause his defences to reform, she instead squeezed his hand tightly.

  Kadar picked up another stone and threw it. Four hops. Another. Six this time. ‘Your questions served to make me doubt my previous certainty,’ he said. ‘When I saw Abdul-Majid yesterday I was prepared to hear a slightly different version of events. But what he told me—well, I will tell you exactly what he told me.’

  Constance listened as he recounted the conversation, alternating between outrage and pity and sorrow, and fighting with all her might to keep every emotion from her face. ‘Oh, Kadar, I am not surprised you needed to be on your own,’ she said when he finished, ‘you must feel as if your world has been turned upside down.’

  ‘You’d think I would, wouldn’t you, but the strange thing is that I feel as if it’s actually been put to rights,’ he replied with an odd little laugh. ‘I deeply regret the time I could have spent with Butrus, I regret the seven almost silent years of my self-imposed exile, but very little else.’

  ‘Because you didn’t waste those years?’ she hazarded.

  He kissed her hand. His mouth was cold on her skin. ‘Clever Constance. Yes, because they made me who I am now, and because they also prepared me for the challenges of being the type of prince I want to be. But that is not to say that I think Abdul-Majid did me a favour.’

  ‘Far from it,’ she said indignantly. ‘It is one thing to understand his motives, quite another to endorse them.’

  ‘Constant Constance.’ Kadar threw another stone, not skimming it, but hurling it as far out into the waves as he could. ‘I can always rely on you to be on my side.’

  ‘You know you can, Kadar.’ Even though she could not be by his side for much longer. Her love for him was so huge she felt as if she could hardly contain it, and for the briefest of moments she made no attempt to, allowing her feelings to show in her eyes as she reached over to smooth his rebellious hair from his brow. ‘You know you can,’ she repeated softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  Kadar leaned towards her. He touched her cheek. Her lips parted for his kiss, but at the last moment he pulled back, picking up yet another stone from the pile he had amassed by his side. ‘The most surprising thing I learned,’ he said, his tone bright but brittle, ‘is that Abdul-Majid is, as he claimed, a father first and foremost. A very loving father, though I am not sure that he understood his daughter as well as he thinks. Zeinab could easily have told Abdul-Majid what he wanted to hear, just as she told me what I wanted to hear, and no doubt her husband too.’

  This latest stone followed the other into the sea, and Kadar let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Am I being unfair?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘Were my own motives really as pure as I thought them? I loved her, or I believed it was love, but how much of that attraction was the illicit thrill of the forbidden?’ His gaze had returned to the sea and inwards. ‘Were my feelings for Zeinab a figment of my youthful imagination, built on sand with no firm foundation?’

  His tone was questioning, as if he were debating some legal matter rather than one of the heart. ‘What on earth did Abdul-Majid say to lead you to that conclusion?’ Constance asked.

  ‘Nothing at all. If you must know it is you who has led me to that conclusion,’ he answered, turning around to face her. ‘You see, I had no difficulty in restraining my passion for Zeinab and yet I have enormous difficulty in restraining my passion for you.’

  Her heart began to thump very hard. What was she to make of this startling revelation? Dear heavens, what she mustn’t do was make too much of it. For her, passion was an expression of love, but for Kadar—no, she must not make too much of it. ‘Passion is not love,’ she said, somewhat disingenuously, for she longed to be contradicted.

  ‘No, it is not,’ Kadar said, unwittingly twisting a dagger into her poor heart. He lobbed yet another stone, this time half-heartedly. It landed with a plop in the shallows. ‘Enough,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I have wasted a whole night on speculation. To continue would not only be pointless but destructive too. Zeinab has gone, and with her the opportunity to know with any certainty.’

  He held out his hand to help her up. ‘In my heart I am relieved Abdul-Majid intervened as he did. It gave me the impetus I needed to leave Murimon, to broaden my horizons. To make me the man I am today, as I said. In the end, Butrus remained blissfully ignorant and Zeina
b—well, I can only hope that she was content with her decision. My story is not tragic, Constance. The true tragedy lies in the untimely deaths of both my brother and his wife. But those too are in the past, and their version of my story lies buried with them. What matters to me now is to deal with the consequences, and to take charge of my future.’

  The relief was overwhelming, though her joy must be bittersweet, for Kadar’s beginning must mark their ending. ‘I am so glad. I want you to be happy,’ Constance said, the words heartfelt. ‘It is all I want, but I was so afraid that I was wrong, that...’

  He touched her cheek. ‘You were right. I can finally be free of the past and look forward to whatever the future holds for me. Clever Constance.’

  ‘Considerably relieved Constance,’ she said with a weak smile.

  ‘Captivating Constance.’ Kadar slid his arm around her waist, pulling him towards him, his expression lightening. ‘Now we have both, in our own ways, found freedom, I think a celebration of this momentous event is warranted.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A short hiatus,’ Kadar said with a smile that was unmistakably sinful. ‘A break with the past, a suspension of time before we embrace our respective futures.’

  ‘We cannot suspend time,’ Constance said, trying and failing not to be beguiled.

  ‘We can suspend reality,’ Kadar said, tightening his hold on her. ‘Or at least escape from it. What do you think?’

  Her face was heating with what she was thinking. ‘I think that it would be unwise,’ Constance said, because it was what she ought to say. ‘We have been at such pains to avoid speculation, to respect the proprieties, why now, when my time here is coming to an end...’

  ‘Precisely because your time here is coming to an end, as is my betrothal. Because I have the rest of my life to behave with propriety, but I have very little time left with you to behave with abandon.’