Royal Spy

by Valerie Parv

  The doctor tidied away his instruments. "I still don't understand why you don't simply tell your father what you're doing here. Sheik Ahmed should approve of you doing charity work with orphans."

  Nadia began to help him restore order in the infirmary. "I don't want my father's approval. I want this work to be my own, independent of my royal status. If my father found out, he'd expect me to come here as Princess Nadia, with the full entourage. As plain old Addie, I can relax and be myself, get my hands dirty without someone rushing to take over and let the children rush up to me without a minder going into guard-dog mode."

  The doctor's expression softened. "You could never be described as plain or old. And I can understand your guards wanting to protect you."

  His tone made Nadia look at him in astonishment. "You aren't getting soft on me, are you, Warren?"

  "Me, soft? You know me better than that."

  His quick denial sounded unconvincing, and for the first time Nadia asked herself if she was doing the right thing working so closely with Warren when she had no interest in him romantically. She had thought he felt the same, but now she began to wonder.

  "Don't worry, I'm not terminally lovesick yet," he assured her, as if reading her mind. "As long as you know I'm here for you anytime."

  "I know," she agreed, her conscience troubled. Warren was a good man. After qualifying as a doctor, he had left his native Australia to work in parts of the world where his skill could make a difference. He had come to Tamir on holiday and fallen in love with the island kingdom, he had told her when they were introduced at an art gallery two years ago.

  Hiking around the hills, he had stumbled upon a group of children living by themselves in the ruined fort and had contacted the princess to see what could be done for them. With her help and money from her private allowance, they had made the fort into a comfortable facility that now housed more than a dozen children at a time until homes were found for them. Warren had recruited a team of women from Marhaba to take care of the children on a roster system.

  "You should be proud of what you've done here," Warren said.

  "Not as much as you should be."

  "I don't have to deal with the same restrictions that you do."

  Of course not, he was a man. She didn't want Warren to know, but he was the main reason she couldn't tell her father what she did here. The sheik would be furious if he knew his eldest daughter was working side by side with a man, not to mention an unmarried one. He would probably forbid her to set foot in the orphanage again.

  She gave a deep sigh. "I wish I could do more. By now I should be running my own show, not living at the palace like a dutiful daughter, having to sneak around in my maid's clothes to have the freedom to pursue my own interests. If I was a man, I'd be a minister in my father's cabinet by now."

  Warren squeezed her shoulder. "The government's loss is the children's gain."

  "I suppose so. When I was twenty-five and approached my father about a real job, he said my time would come. I never dreamed I'd still be waiting around a decade later."

  "You haven't exactly been waiting around," Warren pointed out. "Between the sculptures you created for the royal palaces and your paintings, you have a body of work any artist would envy."

  "Try telling my father that." She had tried many times, but the sheik seemed unable or unwilling to understand the importance of her art in her life. He tolerated her activities as a hobby, even allowing her to exhibit her work to raise money for charity, but plainly didn't regard her the way she saw herself, as a serious artist.

  "Your father probably thought you'd be married by now, and the question would have resolved itself," Warren said.

  With a savage gesture, she shook out a clean sheet for the examination table. "He tried hard enough, until I told him if he paraded one more minor royal in front of me like cattle at a livestock sale, I was going to throw a tantrum right in the middle of the Grand Ballroom. I wouldn't marry a princeling if he was the last man on earth."

  Warren laughed. "Why ever not?"

  "The only reason any of them want to marry me is because of who I am."

  With the ease of long practice, Warren returned instruments to their respective trays. "You underestimate yourself, Addie. You're one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom, also one of the most intelligent."

  "That's my problem. Most of the marriage prospects my father has dredged up don't want intelligence. They want compliance. Can you imagine me, compliant?"

  Warren masked his smile. "It is rather difficult."

  She felt her temper reach boiling point. "I'd sooner marry that.. .that British diplomat who can't even keep his car on a perfectly straight road."

  "Gage Weston? He hardly seems your type."

  "Precisely my point. He'd be the sort of man I could manage, instead of having him manage me."

  Warren closed the instrument cabinet. "Are you sure about that? When I was checking him over, he didn't strike me as the manageable type."

  Nadia had to concede that Gage hadn't seemed especially compliant to her, either. His accident had been foolish, but then, he had admitted to being exhausted. He hadn't told her where he'd flown in from before Tamir, so he could easily have been suffering from jet lag.

  As the doctor had observed, Gage Weston was in superb physical condition. Helping him out of the car had made her aware of how lean and muscular he was, a rarity among diplomats, who spent much of their time behind a desk or socializing after dark. She had a feeling that socializing wasn't what Gage preferred doing after dark. What he might prefer, she didn't want to think about.

  He had compassion, too, also rare in her experience. Most men wouldn't have bothered trying to win Sammy's trust, but Gage had taken the trouble. And on the way to Marhaba, he had said he believed in equality between men and women. Accepting her help proved he wasn't just paying lip service to the belief.

  Altogether a formidable man.

  Why was she letting him disturb her so? If she saw him again, it would be from a distance, at some royal function with hundreds of other members of the diplomatic community. She didn't even have to talk to him if she didn't want to.

  The thought was oddly bothersome.

  "If you're so against marriage, why did you agree to your father's wish that you marry Butrus Dabir?" the doctor asked. "Surely he couldn't force you?"

  She wasn't fooled by his casual tone. Now that she knew Warren was attracted to her, she resolved to be careful not to hurt his feelings. "I'm not in love with him, if that's what you're asking. And he doesn't love me. We respect one another, and his position as my father's closest adviser makes him a suitable match."

  "It sounds a bit coldhearted."

  "Royal marriages are frequently arranged for reasons other than love. If I must marry, I'd rather it be to a man like Butrus, who doesn't dress up his reasons for proposing."

  The doctor looked surprised. "He actually told you he doesn't love you?"

  "Not in so many words, but I've known him for many years. He's more interested in money and power than in love. Marrying me guarantees him both. Don't worry," she assured the doctor, who looked more and more unhappy, "as a married woman, I also gain independence from my father."

  "Surely any husband could have freed you from your father."

  She nodded. "Unlike Butrus, most men aren't traveling much of the time. While he's away, I'll have the freedom to do as I please."

  She straightened. "I'd better round up the children for their lunch. I have to return to the palace early today. Father wants to see me about something."

  "Tahani will be disappointed. I gather she likes taking your place and dabbling in art while you're here."

  Nadia frowned. "Sometimes I wish I could be in two places at once. Then I could spend more time painting, as well as looking after the children."

  "Beats me how you get so much done as it is. I saw your new show at the Alcamira Gallery and the work is wonderful."

  Nadia bit her lip. S
he was her own toughest critic and knew Warren's praise wasn't empty flattery. She did have talent. She only wished she could have attended one of the world's fine art schools, instead of studying subjects her father considered more appropriate. Like her siblings, she had been sent abroad, carefully chaperoned, to complete her education. In between her approved courses, she had studied art as best she could by visiting galleries, talking to the artists and convincing her father that attending hobby classes was a harmless indulgence.

  Some hobby, she thought and grimaced. "I work twice as hard when I do get time to paint."

  "As long as you don't burn yourself out."

  "I won't." Her patience would give out before her energy.

  "While I was at the gallery, I was tempted to buy one of your watercolors of the hills near here. They're wonderful," Warren said.

  "I'll arrange for you to have one as a gift," Nadia said, glad that there was something she could do for Warren, since she couldn't give him what he plainly wanted.

  His face flushed. "I'll treasure it, both for artistic excellence and because you painted it."

  "You always know how to cheer me up." She wished she could do the same for him, but knew she could never feel more for the doctor than friendship.

  "I'll live, you know," he said quietly.

  She stared at him. Had he been reading her mind? "I'm glad, because you're very special to me," she said. "You're the first man I've met with whom I can simply be myself."

  Gage Weston had also treated her like a normal person, came the unexpected thought. But he'd believed she was Tahani Kadil, the maid. He was bound to behave differently if he knew she was Princess Nadia. All the same, she found herself wishing she could meet him again, if only to see his reaction when he found out who she was.

  Nadia should have remembered the saying about being careful what you wish for. She had barely returned to her apartments in the royal palace and changed into a gold-embroidered galabiya, when she received a summons from her father.

  Anxiety rippled through her. Had he somehow discovered where she'd been? She lifted her head. If he had, she would deal with it. She was a woman, not a child to be dragged over the carpet for some misdemeanor.

  In this rebellious frame of mind, she stalked past the guard holding open the massive door for her and into her father's study. Actually, "study" was a misnomer. The room was larger than the living rooms in most ordinary households. The sheik's long mahogany desk stood at the far end of a vast, hand-woven carpet that depicted aspects of Tamir's history.

  She stared at him. Had he been reading her mind? "I'm glad, because you're very special to me," she said. "You're the first man I've met with whom I can simply be myself."

  Gage Weston had also treated her like a normal person, came the unexpected thought. But he'd believed she was Tahani Kadil, the maid. He was bound to behave differently if he knew she was Princess Nadia. All the same, she found herself wishing she could meet him again, if only to see his reaction when he found out who she was.

  Nadia should have remembered the saying about being careful what you wish for. She had barely returned to her apartments in the royal palace and changed into a gold-embroidered galabiya, when she received a summons from her father.

  Anxiety rippled through her. Had he somehow discovered where she'd been? She lifted her head. If he had, she would deal with it. She was a woman, not a child to be dragged over the carpet for some misdemeanor.

  In this rebellious frame of mind, she stalked past the guard holding open the massive door for her and into her father's study. Actually, "study" was a misnomer. The room was larger than the living rooms in most ordinary households. The sheik's long mahogany desk stood at the far end of a vast, hand-woven carpet that depicted aspects of Tamir's history.

  Automatically Nadia's glance went to the chair next to the sheik's desk, where her mother frequently sat, silently supportive as she worked at her embroidery. Alima would never be so indiscreet as to disagree with her husband overtly, but her gentle smile was always encouraging, and she held strong opinions of her own that she shared with the sheik in private. Today the padded chair by the tall arched window was empty and Nadia was on her own.

  She tried to moderate her stride to a more womanly walk as she crossed to his desk, then abandoned the attempt when the Sheik didn't look up.

  "You wanted to see me, Father?" she said to gain his attention.

  He signed a document with a flourish, added the royal seal and handed the paper to a hovering attendant with a few words of instruction. Naturally her father would finish whatever state business was on hand before attending to her. Ahmed had been on the throne of Tamir since he was twenty, and he put his country ahead of everything, even family concerns.

  He looked every inch a ruler, she thought with a contrary feeling of pride. Well into his sixties, his once-dark hair and beard now almost white, he still lived up to his nickname, the Lion of Tamir. Just sometimes, she wished he could be more father than monarch.

  Without waiting for an invitation, she seated herself in one of the leather armchairs opposite the desk. Sheik Ahmed looked up at last, a frown etching his forehead.

  She knew exactly why he was frowning. "Father, I like my hair this way. I think it suits me."

  "That is a matter of opinion, my daughter."

  "And yours is very clear on the subject."

  "Nadia," the Sheik said on a heavy sigh, "why does our slightest interaction have to involve confrontation?"

  Why couldn't she be more compliant like Samira and Leila? she read between the lines. "I am as I am," she said with a typically Tamir shrug.

  Ahmed's hawklike features softened. "And your mother and I cherish you as you are."

  She heard the "but," although he didn't say it. She also saw the deepening lines around his eyes, and the shadows under them. When he had spoken of giving up the throne in favor of Nadia's brother, Rashid, Nadia had thought it unlikely that the sheik would actually step down. Now she started to wonder if Rashid had interests of his own he wanted to pursue. That she might not be the only member of the family chafing at the restrictions of her position was food for thought.

  "Are you well, Father?" she asked.

  "Worried about me, Nadia?"

  "Of course. I love you."

  He looked pleased. "I know you do, in spite of our differences. And I love you, my daughter."

  She felt a momentary pang at the thought that he wouldn't always be there for her and had to blink away the moisture that sprang to her eyes. "I don't suppose you summoned me with an exciting project you want me to undertake," she said in an effort to lighten the moment.

  He massaged his eyes. "One day I might surprise you."

  She knew better than to take him seriously. "Is something wrong?"

  "Relations with our neighbors in Montebello aren't as smooth as I wish they could be, but as you would say, what else is new?"

  "I thought King Marcus's attitude toward Tamir had improved greatly since Hassan saved the life of the king's son and restored him to his home." On that occasion, her brother had been a true hero, she thought.

  The sheik nodded. "My sons possess great qualities of leadership. Having Rashid married to Marcus's daughter has also improved relations between our two countries, so there is hope yet." He smiled, some of his usual vigor infusing his strong features. "I actually want to discuss a more personal matter with you—Butrus has petitioned me to nominate your wedding date."

  "He asked you, instead of me?"

  "Butrus knows the value of following protocol."

  He would, she thought in annoyance. As an attorney, Butrus did most things by the book.

  She thought of her conversation with Warren, reminding herself that Butrus was handsome, worldly and intelligent. She subdued the voice insisting that love should come into the bargain somewhere. Once had been enough for that.

  His name was Gordon Perry. He was British, and five years younger than Nadia. Gordon had been an art teacher on s
abbatical in Tamir with a backpack filled with sketchbooks and pencils. Nadia remembered their meeting vividly. Six years ago she had decided to go to the seashore to sketch. Unbeknownst to her, Gordon had the same plan.

  With her bodyguard watching, she couldn't talk openly to a strange man, so they had started to exchange furtive notes. Like a couple of schoolchildren in class, she thought, feeling her mouth curve into a smile of nostalgia. She had no doubt that the enforced silence had added to his allure. A wealth of meaning could be contained in a look, she had found.

  Their friendship grew, starting with written notes about each other's work and blossoming into more personal matters. Lulled by the apparent innocence of the meetings, the bodyguard relaxed his vigilance enough that they could talk briefly. She still treasured the encouragement Gordon had given her, and the advice he had offered about her work.

  After several supposedly chance meetings outdoors, they had arranged to meet at her studio, in the guise of Gordon giving her and her sisters art lessons. With her father's approval, she had engaged Gordon to redesign the studio so they could spend more time together.

  No one had suspected that she was in love with the handsome art teacher until her father had surprised her by paying a rare visit to her studio and found them kissing. Gordon had been dismissed from the palace and she had endured long lectures about honor and duty. Instead of stemming her father's fury, telling him she wanted to marry Gordon had fired the sheik's wrath to new heights.

  She had been agonizing over how she could contact Gordon when she saw on the television news that he had drowned while swimming off a notoriously dangerous stretch of the coastline. She would never know whether the ending of their affair had affected his judgment, but it had certainly affected hers. His body had been flown home to his family in England for burial, leaving her no ritual way to assuage her grief.

  Instead, she had painted his portrait with all the love searing her soul. Then she had burned the painting as a symbol of the futility of someone in her position wanting to marry for love.