by Abby Green
Iseult let Nadim lead her out of the office and into his Jeep, parked just outside. All the way up to the castle silence hung around them like a cloak.
Once at the entrance to the castle he said, ‘Hisham will come for you in an hour…’
She turned to go and he called her back, his face unreadable but his eyes so black she felt breathless. ‘I’d like you to wear the gold dress…’
Before she could protest that she didn’t have a gold dress he’d turned to walk away, and it was only when she walked into her room and saw Lina amidst what looked like an explosion of glittering paper and bags and boxes that she recalled what he had said about getting her gifts. Lina’s face was uncovered, even though she still wore the veil, and she too seemed to be mesmerised enough to forget her new distance. Her eyes sparkled.
‘Look, Miss Iseult! All this for you!’
Iseult felt a little stunned and weak. She sat on the bed, and then had to jump up when she realised she’d sat on a pair of shoes. She picked them up. They were gorgeous. Dark green suede, with diamanté details on one side. Heels so high they looked lethal.
Lina was in officious mode, and had obviously been given instructions. She herded Iseult to the bathroom now, where Iseult saw a full bath, complete with floating rose petals and lighted candles. Iseult resisted, feeling as though she could only tarnish such a seductive picture. Somehow in the desert it had been easier to take—as if she had matched the rugged terrain.
But Lina, for all her petiteness and delicacy, was surprisingly strong, and had Iseult stripped and in the bath before she quite knew how it had happened. Lying in the bath, feeling totally unlike herself, Iseult could hear the rustle of paper outside, and the clang of hangers as Lina hung things up. Every now and then there’d be a silence, and then just a long deep sigh as Lina obviously came across something too beautiful to resist sighing over.
But this was no fairytale. She was the Sheikh of al Saqr’s mistress and he was just kitting her out.
If anything Iseult should be feeling insulted…angry… But when she walked back into her bedroom in just a towel, and saw Lina standing at the mirror holding up a vision of a golden dress, anger was all too elusive.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LINA turned and held out the dress with reverent hands. It was a tunic made in what looked like pure gold, with intricate embroidery around the hem in deep iridescent silver. When Lina brought it closer, the colour shimmered in the light, showing a whole range of different shades of gold running through it.
On the bed lay a couple of wisps of underwear, also gold in colour. Iseult felt sweaty, and fear prickled over her skin. ‘Lina, I can’t wear this… I’ll wear my jeans…’
But Lina whipped the towel off Iseult so fast that she yelped, and had no choice but to get into the underwear if she wanted to cover up. The bra looked minuscule, but it fitted like a glove. The pants were cut like French knickers. Lina handed her a pair of slim-fitting trousers in the same material as the dress and she put them on, followed by the dress.
It whispered down over her body and hips, cut with a daringly low V-neck, so that a tiny hint of lace from the bra could be seen in her shadowy cleavage.
‘It’s pure Indian silk, Miss Iseult.’
Lina sat her down and started to dry her hair, taking it back on one side and holding it in place with an ornate, antique-looking comb, leaving the rest to fall over her shoulder. Then she put some kohl on her eyes, and mascara, making Iseult look almost as mysterious as the women she’d seen in the streets that day she’d gone out with Jamilah to buy clothes. After a moment Lina stood back to admire her handiwork and said, ‘You are lovely, Miss Iseult.’
Iseult grimaced at her reflection. The truth was she almost didn’t recognise herself, and this whole experience was so close to a dream she’d buried deep within her that she wasn’t sure if she could stand without trembling all over.
Lina had disappeared, and now returned holding out a pair of kitten-heeled gold sandals. Iseult got up shakily and put them on, all fingers and thumbs on the delicate clasps until Lina bent down to help her.
Just then there was a knock on the outer door and Lina said, ‘That’ll be Hisham. He’ll escort you to Sheikh Nadim’s rooms.’
Iseult’s cheeks burned. Did absolutely everyone know what was going on? Lina all but pushed her out through the door, and Iseult followed the slightly wizened man who led the way.
By the time they’d reached Nadim’s room, which they’d climbed up another level to reach, Iseult’s heart was thumping and she was dry-mouthed with fear. All she could imagine was that either Nadim wouldn’t be there—it had all been some huge mistake—or that he’d take one look and laugh at her efforts to try and be…beautiful.
But Hisham was knocking, and the door was opening, and…there was Nadim. All Iseult’s doubts fled in a flood of heat. He was dressed formally in a white shirt and black trousers, shirt open at the neck. He’d obviously not long showered, as his hair was still damp and curling slightly.
He said something indecipherable to Hisham, who melted away, and then he was reaching out a hand for Iseult and drawing her into his rooms. With her hand in his, she could only gape at the sheer magnificence of his suite. Gold and cream brocade, abundant fresh flowers…doors open and leading out onto a private patio that overlooked the entire complex, and the lights of Merkazad glittering in the distance against the dusky sky.
He let her go briefly, but Iseult hardly noticed she was so mesmerised by the view. Eventually she turned around and saw Nadim pouring a honey-coloured sparkling drink into two crystal glasses. She walked back in and Nadim handed her a glass. ‘A toast,’ he said.
Iseult held her glass up to his and Nadim said throatily, ‘To you, Iseult. You are beautiful tonight.’
Immediately, despite his words, Iseult felt self-conscious and awkward. She blushed and took a sip of the sparkling liquid, nearly coughing when the bubbles fizzed effervescently down her throat. Nadim smiled and quirked a brow. ‘Have you had champagne before?’
A little of Iseult’s fire returned. ‘Of course. I’m not a complete hick.’ She smiled then too. ‘But I’d wager that the champagne I’ve tasted isn’t exactly of the same vintage as this.’
Nadim was transfixed by the smile curving Iseult’s generous mouth. In truth he’d been transfixed since he’d seen her at his door with Hisham. He’d expected her to be lovely in the gold dress he’d picked out…but she was so much more than that. The material skimmed her curves, clung to the lush line of her breasts, her small waist, the surprisingly womanly flare of her hips.
Her hair shone like a glowing red flame against the gold and, just as he’d suspected they would, her eyes looked even tawnier. She walked away now, to look at something, and Nadim heard her ask, ‘Is this your wife?’
Iseult knew she shouldn’t have asked as soon as the words came out of her mouth and tension came into the room. She looked from the framed picture to Nadim warily, and then back again. The dark woman was incredibly pretty, and she was gazing up at a younger, softer-looking Nadim so adoringly that Iseult felt a physical pain pierce her heart.
‘Yes,’ he said briefly, curtly. ‘That’s Sara. I’m sorry. I should have put it away.’
Iseult disguised the dart of hurt. Despite everything he’d said, he had to have had some feelings for his wife—or else why would he keep such a memento close by? She turned away from it and said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Nadim, she was your wife. It’d be strange if you didn’t have pictures around.’
He looked incredibly harsh in the luxuriant gold light of the many dim lamps, but he just said, ‘The only ridiculous thing is how far away you are from me. Come over here.’
Iseult firmly shut the door on the pain that seeing the picture of his wife had engendered and walked over, saying lightly, ‘You’re so bossy. Has anyone ever told you that?’
He smiled then, a genuine smile, as if something had relaxed inside him, and reached for her hand as soon as she
was close enough. ‘No. Only you have the sheer audacity to insult the Sheikh of Merkazad.’
‘Good thing, too, I’d say. It must be unbearable with all that bowing and scraping going on.’
They smiled at each other, and Iseult felt an alien lightness unfurling inside her. Just then a discreet knock sounded at the door, and Nadim emitted a brief instruction in Arabic.
In an instant the room seemed to be full of a stream of staff, entering carrying steaming plates of the most mouth-watering food. Nadim led her back out to the terrace, where a table had been set with candles flickering gently in the warm breeze.
With speed and economy of movement, plates and platters were laid out, and Hisham stood patiently by, asking if they needed anything else.
Nadim shook his head, and as the man turned to go Iseult said, ‘Shukran.’
When he’d left she turned to Nadim and saw the expression on his face. ‘What?’ she asked nervously.
‘You’ve been learning Arabic?’
Iseult shrugged, feeling self-conscious again. ‘Jamilah has been teaching me a few words.’
It was crazy for Nadim to feel suddenly jealous of Jamilah teaching Iseult Arabic, but he did. Feeling uncharacteristically out of control, he pulled out a chair for Iseult to sit down. When she moved her scent wrapped around him like a caress. He sat down opposite Iseult and poured them both some wine. He held up his glass, ‘Well, if you’ll permit me, perhaps this evening I can teach you a little about traditional Merkazadi food…’
A couple of hours later Iseult protested, putting up a hand. ‘Please, no more food. I’ve never eaten so much in my life.’
Nadim reluctantly put down a plump and succulent date. Watching Iseult taste and eat the array of dishes and then feast on the dates had him so tightly wound that he had to exert some control over his rogue hormones.
Iseult sat back and let a delicious languour invade her veins. She’d never thought eating dinner had erotic possibilities, but she knew after sharing dinner with Nadim this evening she’d never sit at another table with him and not blush.
He’d dismissed the use of knives and forks and had fed her himself. Balls of mashed rice infused with delicate spices. Morsels of Kingfish that broke apart on his fingers so she had to stick out her tongue to catch them. Wine…and dates…fat dates…oozing with illicit sticky sweetness, washed down with strong, tart coffee called khawa.
He sat back and looked at her for a long moment, and then said, ‘I thought you were too thin when I first met you.’
Iseult attempted humour to deflect the intensity that seemed to drench the air around them. ‘So you’re just trying to fatten me up?’
He sat forward. ‘It must have been hard for you, covering for your father and trying to keep things going.’
Iseult blinked, shocked out of the languid desire that had been sneaking through her veins. Instant shame came back—the shame of her father’s illness that they’d all done their best to cover up. Iseult’s mouth twisted, and she played with her empty coffee cup. ‘It wasn’t that bad really…’
Nadim caught her eye and raised a brow. ‘I know how hard Jamilah works, and she has a whole team under her. I know how hard it is to run even moderate-sized stables. And then to have to deal with an alcoholic parent…’
Iseult was defensive. ‘My father never got abusive or angry. He just…tried to drown his sorrows—literally.’ Iseult shrugged minutely and looked out to the glittering view of Merkazad in the far distance, with the distinctive minaret of the mosque standing out. ‘As for keeping things going…I never really had time to think about it.’
That bare explanation hid the sheer toil she’d endured on a daily basis, sometimes skipping school to work at home. Saying anything that might be construed as wanting sympathy had always been anathema to her.
Wanting to divert Nadim’s intense regard, she remembered something he’d said in Ireland. She looked back at him. ‘What did you mean when you said you knew what it was like to have everything you know jeopardised?’
Nadim was quiet for a long moment, and then stood from his chair, taking his glass of wine with him, and went to stand against the stone balustrade of the private balcony.
He spoke so quietly at first that Iseult had to strain to hear, and then silently she got up too and went to stand with her back to the view, just looking at Nadim’s proud profile.
‘It happened a couple of times. We’d always had an uneasy alliance with Al-Omar. We’d been gifted our independence many years before, but when the current Sultan’s great-grandfather took control he wanted Merkazad back under his control. He never managed to attack, but the intention went down the line. When I was twelve we were attacked by the Sultan’s father and taken by surprise as we hadn’t had to defend ourselves for many years…’
Iseult was mesmerised, leaning on one elbow to listen. What Nadim spoke of was utterly fantastical.
‘Salman and I were woken in the middle of the night by my mother and told to get out of bed and sneak down through secret passages, but we were caught.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were held prisoner in an ancient jail in the basement of the castle.’
Iseult gasped. ‘But you were the ruling family. Isn’t there some sort of protocol for that?’
Nadim’s mouth twisted. He flicked her a glance. ‘Not in this world.’
Shakily Iseult asked, ‘How long were you kept prisoner for?’
Almost carelessly Nadim said, ‘Nearly three months. I think it affected my brother much more profoundly. For some reason our captors used to delight in tormenting him. They would take him out of the jail for hours on end, and when they returned him he wouldn’t say a word. I tried to make them take me…but they’d just beat me back.’
He continued briskly, ‘We were lucky. Our Bedu neighbours came to help us. Our invaders had grown complacent, thinking that we would just rot away in the dungeon…but we had powerful friends who were more interested in keeping us a sovereign state. And my father was a well-loved ruler. They attacked one night and we were freed. But everything was gone…the stables and stud were ransacked…they’d shot all the horses. The castle was looted of all but the murals on the walls…’
Iseult shook her head, trying to understand how it must have felt, first of all to be incarcerated and then to come out to find everything changed or gone.
He turned to face her, twirling the glass of wine between his long fingers. ‘And then my parents died in a plane crash when I was sixteen and Salman twelve. Instantly we were under threat again, but this time we were more prepared as my father had enlisted warriors to keep watch over every strategic weak point in the border, so the ruler of Al-Omar couldn’t attack again.’
‘The Sultan’s father died while I was in school in England, with Salman, and for the first time we knew we might be safe. Advisors ran the country while I finished my education, until I reached the age of twenty-one and could legally take over as Sheikh and ruler…’
Iseult realised something then. ‘Jamilah must have been so young when her parents died.’
‘Yes, she was only six. She stayed here and went to school in Merkazad. I made sure she was cared for by members of our extended family.’
‘But now there’s peace? You said that you’re friends with the current Sultan?’
Nadim nodded. ‘We went to school together in England.’ He smiled. ‘At first we hated each other, and used to get into fights at every opportunity. But then we discovered a mutual interest in peace and living in a democratic and progressive society and were bonded by our ideals. After his father died we vowed to forge an iron-clad alliance that would stand for many generations to come…’
Hearing this made Iseult feel humbled. From such an early age he’d been aware of responsibility and duty. In many ways they were similar, and yet…not. Iseult’s responsibilities had been confined to a much narrower world. And when she thought of that she was reminded of the great yawning chasm between Nadim’s
life and hers. Some day he would find a suitable bride and marry again, go on to have heirs to continue his legacy, and she— Her mind halted when Nadim put down his wine glass on the table and reached for her.
As if pulled by a magnet stronger than she could resist, she went into his arms and shook with emotion—emotion that he was effortlessly arousing.
Nadim trailed a finger down the silky smoothness of Iseult’s cheek. He felt slightly shell shocked. He’d just blithely spilled his entire life’s secrets to a woman when he’d never felt the desire to do so before. Lovers had tried to get him to tell what they thought were fantastic exotic tales, but he’d seen the manipulative glitter in their eyes, as if they’d thought it would inspire more intimacy.
The only other woman who had known everything had been his wife, Sara. And that was because she’d come from here and had lived through everything they had as the daughter of one of his father’s closest allies. He felt bitterness rise when he thought of it; it was one of the reasons she’d been deemed so perfect for him.
But Iseult… What was it about this woman and the effortless feeling of kinship she evoked within him? She was looking down…away. And he jealously wanted her eyes on him… He tipped up her chin with a finger and felt her clench her jaw slightly. What he saw in her eyes was something serious and deep. It sent tendrils of trepidation through him, even amidst a heady sweet feeling he’d never experienced before.
To drive away the regret that he’d said anything at all, and the fleeting panic because he recognised the look in her eyes, he bent his head and kissed her soft mouth, willing passion to come and obliterate any intellectual thought.
Hours later—her beautiful golden dress, underwear and hair-comb long gone—Iseult lay sprawled in inelegant abandon over Nadim’s equally naked body. She was pressing little kisses over his chest. His skin was still dewed with moisture and it tasted tangy and musky.