Studying my reflection in the mirror while picking up my make-up case, I start to apply a thick base of foundation, disguising my black eye as best I can, and reducing the redness around my nose. Touching my face is painful, but I make myself do it. Close up I look like a battered woman whose gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson; from a distance, I think I’ll pass muster. I’ve no doubt once Ethan finds that I’m gone I’ll be the most wanted woman in England.
Having done as much as I can to hide my beaten features, I gaze at my reflection again, remembering how he warned me, “There’s no place you can run to, no place where you would be able to hide. Nowhere that’s out of my reach.” I shiver even though the room is warm and take a deep breath. You can do this. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of it spurring me on, I know I’ve got no alternative. It’s past time to break out of this prison.
Dressed, and prepared as well as I’m able, I lift the edge of the expensive and luxurious bedroom carpet and take up the loose floorboard I’d found by accident soon after moving in. One hundred and ten pounds is a pitiful amount, but it’s all I’ve managed to save from the meagre spending money Ethan gives me. Taking out the banknotes I put them in my purse.
Standing up straight, I briefly close my eyes and breathe in deeply. This is it! The next step will commit me to my escape; I have to steal from him. Exhaling the air from my lungs, I start towards the bedroom door without a backward glance, taking nothing with me but my handbag.
Cautiously I step out into the corridor, pause and listen. Hearing no sounds, I continue through the vast house, making my way down the staircase and to his home office. It’s not worth looking for the keys to my car; Ethan will have taken them, or he’ll have programmed the gates so my remote won’t work. It’s one of the ways he keeps me, prisoner, here. But the garage is full of his collection of luxury cars, and I’ve spied on him enough to have seen he holds the keys in his locked desk drawer in his study.
I’m trembling so much it’s hard to use the heavy antique letter opener to jemmy the drawer open, particularly being able to use only one hand, but failure isn’t an option. I try harder, desperate, and when at last the lock springs open, slivers of wood fall to the floor. No going back now, not with such damage clearly visible. I suppress a shudder as I imagine what the ‘correction’ for that could conceivably be, but spare no remorse for the damage I’ve caused to the valuable eighteenth-century desk. Step One —getting a means to escape—is complete, and I allow myself a small smile of victory. Standing back with the keys to the BMW in my hand I take another deep breath to fortify myself.
Taking one last look around his study, I flinch, remembering the punishments that have dolled out here, far too many to mention. Then, my horrified eyes land on a business card on the desktop; it’s the one the mechanic gave me yesterday. I can’t leave it behind in case Ethan decides to visit him, so I pick it up, hoping he hasn’t already memorised the information, remembering anyone who comes to my aid is in danger. Turning the card between my fingers, I recall Josh offering his help should I ever need it, well, perhaps today’s the day I’ll take him up on that. Along with my nervousness, I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, this time, I can succeed.
I take nothing else with me except a photo of my mother and myself, together with her husband of the time—I forget which number he was—and it joins Josh’s business card in the pocket of my jeans. It’s a shame I haven’t a clue how to open the safe; Ethan had confiscated all my personal documents from me after my first attempt to escape. But as I’ll be assuming a new identity, what does it matter I’m leaving everything that identifies me as Zoe Baker behind; my birth certificate, driving licence and passport? I’m going to become someone new.
After checking the coast is clear I leave the main house and make my way to the garage, entering by the side entrance. Pressing the button on the remote, I jump guiltily as the doors of the smart BMW unlock with an overloud beep but recovering quickly, slide into the driving seat. It’s an automatic, part of the reason I choose it, but however easy to drive I won’t be using it for long. As soon as he knows I’m missing, Ethan will activate the locator on the tracker or will be tapping into the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system used by the police. Highly illegal, but then Ethan plays by no one else’s rules. Adjusting the seat, I feel a wave of dizziness, a combination of fear and pain, and I have to wait for a moment, willing it to pass.
At last, with a small tingling thrill of elation, I drive towards the garage doors, waiting for them to automatically rise at such a painstakingly slow rate they seem to take forever to open. As soon as there’s sufficient room I go through and out onto the long driveway. Resisting the urge to put my foot down, not wanting to draw unwanted attention, I drive sedately across the gravel track down towards the massive iron gates protecting the property. As I head for them, I’m holding my breath, but the car’s remote works and they start to open when I’m just a few metres away. Step Two—escaping the house—is accomplished.
Chapter 4
Kadar
During the weeks following my meeting with Rais, other desert sheikhs had come to the palace, mainly to try and discern how my rule was going to be different to that of my father’s. More than one had expressed the view that change was to be avoided. This early on in my reign, however, I wasn’t ready to share much more than what was already known but the fact that I’d agreed to marriage for political expediency seemed to be welcomed universally. The meetings were cautious on both sides; the sheikhs and I wanting to find out each other’s views, while not giving too much away. I was left with a cautious confidence that they would give me at least some time to prove myself, although no particular period was specified or even hinted at. But of course, not all the sheikhs came to meet me.
I’m surprised and not a little concerned when I receive a request from Abdul-Muhsi for a personal audience with the emir, but I clearly have no option other than to agree to it, while making sure I’ll have my most senior guards present. I don’t trust the man as far as I could throw him, and given the excess weight he carries, that wouldn’t be far at all. I’m suspicious over the reasons for this meeting, but doubt he’ll come straight out with a challenge for my throne. Even he’s not so stupid to do that, is he?
The Kassis royal family have had good reasons not to trust him for years now, but recently his insolent behaviour has been escalating, culminating a few months ago in a confrontation with Nijad. If Abdul-Muhsi had has his way, Cara’s head would no longer be on her shoulders. Even my father, a staunch supporter of most of the desert sheikhs and their methods of rule, had been wary of the leader of the Qaiquw tribe and Abdul-Muhsi’s opinion that as a second cousin, his right of succession should be given serious consideration. Apparently Emir Rushdi’s sons, with their extensive international education in the west, were worse placed to rule than a sheikh who’d never stepped outside the Arab nations.
So expecting this morning’s meeting is set to be difficult, I only hope to glean useful information about how Abdul-Muhsi would go about his challenge as, eventually, challenge for my position there will surely be.
When ten o’clock comes around, punctual as always, my personal assistant, Richard, allows the desert sheikh into my office. Abdul-Muhsi enters with his customary arrogant swagger, and I take a second to view him. A scar, from a wound my father gave him, stretches from eye to mouth. Their fencing bout, some thirty years ago, had been billed as a friendly one, but even then the tribal leader wanted his rival out of the way. Rushdi, however, was the better swordsman and hadn’t been fooled by Abdul-Muhsi’s sudden feint then parry; a thinly veiled attempt to get in a fatal blow. The clash of sabre’s forced my father’s blade up, slicing across his opponent’s face earning another black mark against the Kassis family.
Younger than Emir Rushdi by about ten years, the desert sheikh is a shadow of his former self. His belt, now empty of weapons due to the diligence of my guards, sits high over his fat belly, and I feel a shudder of disgu
st. Not at his excess weight, but the thought that a man in his position should let himself go to such an extent, a vast contrast to the other tribal leaders who are still able to stand and fight with their men.
He’s scowling, but whether to express his feelings or a permanent feature as a result of the scar, it’s impossible to tell.
“Kadar,” he greets me, dipping his head in an almost imperceptible movement. He might be insulting me, or claiming his relationship with the royal family by addressing me so informally, but I don’t deign to sink to his level.
“Sheikh Abdul-Muhsi,” I respond, with a more polite bow. “I’m honoured you’ve come all this way to meet with me. Please be seated.” I indicate the chair the opposite side of my desk. When he takes it, I sit down. I don’t offer refreshment; not seeing any reason to extend what I’m certain will be an unpleasant meeting.
My open manner at least draws some civility from him.
“I was sorry to hear about your father. It was a shock to us all.”
I know he’s lying through his teeth. He’d probably dance on Rushdi’s grave if he knew where it was, but I incline my head, accepting the platitude.
“What can I do for you, Sheikh?” I want to move this meeting along.
He looks down as if examining his hands, and then raises his narrowed eyes to meet mine. There’s a shifty expression in them. “It must be very difficult for you, Kadar, to be thrust so unprepared into this role. I have every sympathy for you. And,” he adds, staring at me intently, “I offer you my every support and guidance.”
His condescension astounds me. “I expect support from all the sheikhs,” I tell him, not wanting him to forget I’m the emir of Amahad, and he answers to me. Unless he wants to lose his status.
There’s a flash of anger in his eyes, and his olive-skinned cheeks grow darker, but he attempts to hide his irritation at my reminder, “You misunderstand, I intend to offer you my services. I am prepared to relocate here to the palace to help you begin your rule.”
Which interpreted means he wants to get in on the seat of government. “I can’t ask you to do that,” I reply, keeping my expression impassive, successfully shrouding my revulsion at this snake of a man, one of the cruellest and most ruthless of any of the tribal leaders. I’d heard murmurings of attempts to replace him as the head of his tribe, but any contenders seem mysteriously to disappear before they can enact a challenge.
“It would be no problem,” he hastily seeks to reassure me, every word coming out of his mouth making me inwardly shudder. “You’ve spent so much time abroad your knowledge of Amahad―particularly the southern desert is limited… ”
“My understanding of my country and of my duties as ruler are not in question.” Not for the first time in my life when faced with this bastard, I wish my father’s blade had struck a few inches lower and removed him permanently from our lives.
“I only meant to suggest… ” he blusters.
“That you know the needs of the desert tribes better than I do myself?” Again I’ve interrupted him. There may well be some truth in what he’s saying, but he’s certainly not the person I’d go to for advice.
Once more his eyes narrow. He seems to be considering how to continue this conversation. I just want him gone.
“The desert sheikhs have concerns about your ability to rule them,” he continues, not knowing when to give up, “With me by your side you’d offer them the confidence you have their best interests at heart.”
Close enough by my side to put a blade through my ribs?
“I was not aware you speak for all the tribes?”
He doesn’t. I know that, and he knows that. His eyes narrow, and his brow furrows. His hands clench in his lap. This man wants power and doesn’t care how he gets it. Unable to tell me that he’s got the backing of even the majority of the tribes, he tries to stare me down, but I don’t give an inch, meeting his gaze with a reciprocally arrogant one of my own. In the background, I can hear my usually stoic guards shifting on their feet, as though getting ready for my instruction to throw him out of my office. But however attractive that option might be, it’s a route I’ll have to avoid the temptation to take. He might not speak for all the tribes, but I have to bear in mind that he might speak for some.
He’s the first to look away, breathing heavily, seeming to force himself to relax. After a brief pause, he starts again, his voice now almost friendly, “I hear you’ve agreed to take a wife?”
He’s surprised me with the abrupt change in topic, and the transformation in his approach. I become wary of his motive. But I play the game.
“I have,” I agree, “From a selection prepared for me by my advisors. The daughters of the desert sheikhs, if they wish, will be on the list.”
Now Abdul-Muhsi sits forwards, the palms of his hands resting flat on my desk. At his movement towards me, I see my guards stiffen, their hands going to the weapons in their belts showing me I’m not alone in my concerns about this man, though I doubt he’d be so stupid as to attack me in my own office.
“I have no daughter,” he states.
Ah, so that’s it. I’d forgotten that he has only sons. If I marry into one of the other tribes, he’ll have even less power. I suppress my grin.
“You must look outside the country for a wife. Perhaps from Alair,” he offers.
This time, I don’t point out the daughter of King Asad is young enough for me to have sired her, I just nod diplomatically as though considering the option.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” he states with a leer on his face, “I’ve considered her for myself.”
By Allah! Completely shocked I take in a sharp breath, “I thought you were already married?” Had his wife died? I hadn’t heard of it.
“As a second wife,” the repulsive excuse for a man explains, “But I’ll make no move until you decide on your choice.”
While Muslims are permitted to take up to four wives, polygamy is not nowadays practised in Amahad or Alair, and his suggestion shows the extent he’s wedded to the old ways. Asad, I know, would have an apoplectic fit were Abdul-Muhsi to ask for his teenage daughter’s hand, so I have no fears such a mating would go ahead. But the thought he can even think of it gives me further insight as to what kind of man he is.
The bastard’s watching me, as though waiting for me to thank him. Having to say something, I say, “I will, of course, consider your suggestion.” I don’t add that I wouldn’t contemplate going down that road for a moment. “Now, you will have to excuse me, I have another meeting.”
Making no immediate move to take the hint and go, he sits back again. “My offer to assist you stands, Kadar. I am willing to give up my home and move to the palace to aid you. My knowledge of the ways of the southern desert is unsurpassable.”
And it’s precisely those ways he’s talking about that are the ones I wish most to change.
But I have to be polite, not wanting to give him further excuse to malign me, “Thank you, Sheikh. I will give thought to the matter.”
He hasn’t finished, “You are threatening our way of life, Kadar. With your changes to the judicial system, you are taking away our ability to govern the southern desert as we need to. You have lived in England too long and do not understand that to tie our hands in how we deal with those who break the law will result in chaos. In the desert, retribution must be swift, and punishment must fit the crime.”
I could explain to him that progress and modernisation are essential. I could speak to him of the wealth that will come from the oil field and of the foreign nationals who will be working in the desert, using their expertise to extract the liquid gold that will be for the benefit of us all. I could elucidate the importance of international relations and spell out that seeing a man flogged for eyeing up his neighbour’s wife in the wrong way or having a hand chopped off for stealing a goat would gain us a poor reputation, and threaten the exploitation of our new found riches. But it’s not worth the breath I’d use in doing so.
> He can’t read the look of derision on my face, or doesn’t interpret it correctly as he continues, “Your father understood us. Emir Rushdi assured us shortly before his death he abhorred the heathen ways of Al Qur’ah and the northern cities, and that he was going to ensure a return to the Muslim religion being the only one tolerated in Amahad. You need to make sure to see his visions come to fruition, Kadar. We must rid this country of the infidels.”
Sadly, I shake my head, knowing my father lived for peace between the cities and the desert, but would never have threatened the freedoms of the north in such a way. We’ve been multi-cultural and religion tolerant for centuries. I grow tense and am hard put to keep a tight rein on my temper, knowing Abdul-Muhsi is lying, but not wanting to call him out on it and show my hand. Not just yet.
It annoys me that this one man seems to believe he speaks for all the desert sheikhs as though he’s above them all; as if he’s already emir. And that will never happen. Unless it’s over my dead body.
To my relief, his time’s up. A buzz from my intercom and Richard informs me the participants for my next meeting have arrived.
As he realises I’m not going to respond, he stiffens and then pulls himself to his feet. Again he leans over my desk, his face taut, his eyes narrowed, his mouth sneering, “Take care, Kadar, there are those who think you not suitable to be their ruler, and who might rise up against you. You should consider your position. A young man such as yourself, educated as you are could go anywhere in the world and make something of yourself―just like your brother, Jasim. If you stay here as emir, your future, and your life, might be shorter than you would wish.”
My guards were not employed for their inattention, and both take a step forward at the same time, a low growl audible from their direction.
Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Page 5