Oh for fuck’s sake, I need to get on and get this started. I take my freshly ironed gutra and put it over my head, checking in the mirror to make sure the crease is dead centre. I pick up my golden agal, looking at it for a moment in reflection. Then I put it over the gutra. Tonight I’m told I need to look my best, so double check that it’s properly in place, my thumbs smoothing out the material around my face. Finally, I throw the sides back, one over the other, so the material falls down my back. My reflection stares back at me, freshly shaven, except for the small beard I’ve allowed to grow on my chin, trimmed professionally for tonight of course. I give a mirthless chuckle then enjoy my final moments of solitude. I’m ready like a lamb for the slaughter.
As I leave the royal suite of the Palace of Amahad, the personal guard waiting outside dips his head, and then falls in behind me. Feeling more like he’s escorting me to my execution rather than to a banquet given in my honour, I walk unhurriedly down to the anteroom to the state banqueting suite, where guests are already assembled and waiting for me. I enter, and the crowd greets me with the proper protocol for my station.
As the assembled men and women bow low, I acknowledge their obeisance with a dip of my head. Pasting a false welcoming smile on my face, I move forwards. Let the farce begin.
Nijad comes to my side, Cara with him, looking weary which I put down to caring for a new-born. He throws me a sympathetic smile. My sister-in-law tosses me a look of disgust, to which I shrug ruefully, hoping nobody else in the room has caught sight of my action. Despite the fact that their successful relationship was a result of an arranged marriage, it doesn’t encourage me, and I know I haven’t managed to hide my misgivings from Cara in particular. She has strong suspicions about the depth of my feelings for a certain Englishwoman who’s conspicuous by her absence tonight. Cara’s unspoken reminder causes me to rub my temples. The evening hasn’t even begun, yet a pain has started throbbing in my head.
“Jasim?” I force myself to speak.
“He’s not coming.” It doesn’t surprise me. Jasim doesn’t agree with the outmoded traditions we continue to follow in Amahad, and I understand the statement he’s making with his absence. Nevertheless, however much sympathy I have for his views, it doesn’t ward off my responsibility to do my duty. To fulfil what was possibly a rash promise to the sheikhs on the day of my father’s funeral.
Drawing a deep breath and nodding to my youngest brother, I take another step into the room knowing this is it. The commitment I’m making tonight will last a lifetime. I have to make an effort, wear a mask that looks like I’m enjoying myself, and to show I’m taking the situation seriously. To do any less would be a mockery for both myself and my future life partner.
With that in mind and once again blocking thoughts of Zee from my mind, I start making my way around, getting my first glimpse of the hopefuls all done up to the nines. The main meet and greet has been arranged to take place with a formal receiving line after we consume what I expect will be, a tedious dinner, so, for now, I just acknowledge those who come up to me, knowing there’s no expectation for me stop and make lengthy conversation.
I have timed my entrance well, hardly having had a chance to speak to anyone before the gong sounds, and we make our way into the enormous dining room. The table set for fifty guests. Everyone stands behind their chairs, waiting for me to seat myself first. I do so quickly, not wanting the formality to hold anyone up. As the wait-staff commence setting out the first course, I take the opportunity to glance around the room. The desert sheikhs are all in attendance with, what I take to be their hopeful candidates, sitting by their sides as well as diplomats from other countries with various women sitting next to them. Names on paper now come to life but I don’t even feel the slightest glimmer of interest now I see the contenders in the flesh.
Ghalib seeks my attention, his age and rank mean he’s seated to my left. He engages me in the business of the proposed new government, and I welcome the diversion, which serves, for a short while, to take my mind off the purpose of tonight’s gathering. As the starters are eaten and plates removed my mind comes back to the reason we’re here, and my eyes flit around the table, noticing women in ball gowns in western fashion, and women in traditional robes, and one, seated far down the table with a full veil over her face.
As the servants place the main course in front of us, I find my eyes being drawn time and time again by the one woman who isn’t flaunting her assets. I wonder who she is, and why she keeps her features hidden from my sight. The simple answer is probably due to her upbringing and religion, but that’s strange as veils are rarely worn in Amahad, or at least, not in Al Qar’ah. There’s something about her that keeps capturing my attention. Maybe it’s because she’s the only one who hides from me? Of course, I couldn’t take such a shy, devout woman for my wife; she’d be unlikely to be able to cope with the difficult life as the wife of an emir, conducted very much in public view. But she intrigues me. She’s sitting next to Rais, and I notice when her plate is taken away, she’s hardly touched her food.
The meal lasts a wearisome two hours; my chef has outdone himself judging by the comments from around the room. I couldn’t tell; everything I’ve eaten tastes like cardboard. Waiting until the last spoon is laid down on the plate, and the final coffee cup placed on its saucer, I heave a silent sigh of relief then give the signal the meal is at an end, and I rise, leading the way to the ballroom. It’s time to make my choice.
Music is already playing as we enter. The principle guests along with their suggested offerings for my consideration have eaten with us, another couple of hundred guests—foreign dignitaries, my advisors and senior staff, so called friends and officials from other countries far and wide—have been invited to join us for what is being described as a celebration tonight. For myself, it’s anything but.
The room is noisy as I take my place up on the dais, ready to be introduced to the women vying to become my wife. What kind of woman would give herself to a man she didn’t even know, except by reputation? One attracted only by the thought of wealth and power I would expect. Okay, you can do this, Kadar. You can do your fucking duty.
As the first is brought in front of me, I give myself a silent lecture and try to plaster something resembling a smile on my face. I’m the emir, and this is my pre-ordained life. I give my attention to the bubbly pretty enough thing who simpers and blushes when I take her hand. There’s no spark; my cock doesn’t even twitch. Schooling my features, carefully hiding my thoughts as the woman moves on, I glance up ready to greet the next.
Looking down the line, it’s shorter than I expected. Perhaps I won’t have as much choice as I hoped. Strangely I notice some of the women who’d accompanied the desert sheikhs aren’t lining up. Don’t they know what to do? I’ll need to ask Ma’mun, who’s bound to be hovering close by, to remind them to take their places when I see him.
I open my mouth and say something polite to the second girl who’s looking at me with a hopeful expression on her face. I’m civil, as I was to the first. I get into a routine, and the line passes along. My prick lies nestled in the V of my pubic bones devoid of all life. I’m hoping against hope that someone will wake him up.
The last girl is greeted and moves on. I’m full of dread. If this is the only selection, there’s been no spark, nothing at all. People watch, and I can see the surprise in their eyes. I haven’t even found one woman I’ve even wanted to talk for more than a few seconds let alone take to my bed, so the line has moved fast, the evening’s entertainment completed within only a few minutes. I start to panic. This isn’t right; this isn’t the way it should have gone. I notice Cara, the look on her face now one of sympathy as though she understands my plight.
Suddenly there’s noise to one side of me, a congregation of men. My head turns sharply, the memory of the uprising still fresh in my mind and I’m not comforted when I see that all ten of the desert sheikhs are moving towards me; an impressive and intimidating group of warriors ea
ch in the ceremonial robes of their tribes. Automatically my hand goes to the scimitar in my belt, tonight it’s for decoration, but despite the rubies and diamonds which decorate it, the blade is sharp and could separate a man’s head from his body just as well as any not so extravagantly adorned.
The sheikhs form a line in front of me. With the attempted coup so recent I feel a flicker of uncertainty looking at their grave faces. But then I notice Sheikh Rais following slightly behind, his hand gently resting on the back of the strangely veiled woman who’d captured my attention back in the dining room. Her head bowed so low I can’t even see her eyes.
And it’s Rais who steps up to address me. “Your Excellency, the most exalted Kadar, Emir of Amahad and Ruler of the Southern Desert.” My head goes back in confusion as he greets me with the outmoded title, the one that was used in times past to recognise the ancient division between desert and city. But before I can pull him up on it, he continues, “It is the tradition for each of the desert sheikhs to present the woman whom they would wish to be the one to be chosen as the emir’s wife. The woman to be by the side of the emir, supporting him in his role, caring for him and his country, giving her life for her ruler, her husband, and the lands over which he presides. Tonight,” he pauses his solemn speech, to indicate his compatriots behind him, “Tonight we stand united.”
Have they decided not to take part in the proceedings? Is this an indication that the southern desert tribes wish to split off from the cities of northern Amahad? Is this night going to end with the threat of civil war?
“We stand united,” Rais continues, a twinkle comes into his eye which I’m not totally sure puts me at ease, “United in the choice of the woman we propose to become your bride. We present not ten choices to you, Your Excellency, but just one.” He puts his arm around the woman, pulling her forwards. I notice she moves stiffly as if reluctant, unsure of her place here. I’d dismissed her as being an unlikely bride for the emir, but should I take her unseen just to keep the peace? If I reject their united choice there could be a rift in our country. What is it about this woman who has caused the sheikhs to band together for once? These fierce men who usually guard their independence so vigorously? Suddenly I’m curious to see what’s so special about this woman to have made her the desert sheikhs’ choice. Who is she, and what has she got that’s led to them singling her out as the favourite of them all?
She stands before me, her head still bowed. My hand reaches out, and I place my fingers under her chin, gently raising her face until I’m looking into steely blue eyes, eyes so deep I could easily drown in them. Eyes that I remember. My hand drops away to brush over my face. I’m hallucinating, I must be. I think I know those eyes, know who they belong to, but they can’t, can they?
Shaking, I replace my now not too steady hand, resting my palm against the side of her face, feeling reciprocal trembling as I touch her skin. With mixed feelings of dread, the expectation that I’m going to be disappointed, a sense of intense joy and with the desperate hope my eyes are not deceiving me, I start to take hold of the veil. She makes no protest as I unclip one side, and then the other. Then I brush back her hijad, setting her sleek blond hair free.
I’m speechless. Blood rushes through my body, the sound almost deafening in my ears, heading south so fast it makes me feel faint and dizzy. My cock jumps to attention, throbbing hard in the confines of my clothes.
She stares at me, the joy in her eyes fading as I can’t seem to regain my ability to speak. I realise she doesn’t know what I’m thinking, doesn’t understand she’s the most precious thing in the world to me, doesn’t know that she’s my life. And she’s going to be my wife. My future. There’ll be no more running from me now. She’s mine! Together we’ll heal each other. We’ll take this second chance together. As I see her fear of rejection increase, worry lines deepening on her forehead, I can wait no longer. My arms go out to her, pulling her to me, holding her tight, so fast to me, I must be crushing her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to move away and I don’t give a fuck that her tears are causing her makeup to run, quite possibly ruining my new robes.
“We need to talk.” I hope she heard my words, my voice now found still isn’t working too well, and I refuse to lift my head from its resting place on top of her head. But I raise my eyes, my gaze taking in the boyish grins on the ten faces in front of me. I shake my head in disbelief. A united front from the southern desert? It bodes well for the country. And my choice of bride is theirs? They are accepting an English woman to take her place by my side? Words are inadequate, so rather than struggling to find the right ones, I clear my throat and gasp out a simple, “Shukraan.” It seems insufficient when really I’m thanking them all from the bottom of my heart.
But they obviously understand. With nods and smiles, and a couple of rather crude suggestions that I’m glad were spoken in Amahadian rather than English for Zee’s sake, the sheikhs move back, giving us space.
“Come, Zee. I need to be alone with you.” Glancing round I see Nijad and Ma’mun already have my back and are clearing the way for our exit. Ma’mun’s indicating a curtained doorway, his wide grin showing he had a hand to play in tonight’s affairs. I should bawl him out for his deception, but instead, I’ll give him a pay rise. Without wasting one second more, I pull Zee with me, behind the curtain, and through the doorway. We end up in a small room, obviously one used by the staff, but now empty except for us. A small table, cushions, a bottle of champagne and two glasses have been set out.
Suddenly as my earlier tension of the evening evaporates I start to laugh, “What if I’d preferred someone else?” I’m joking, of course, there could never be anyone else.
She’s giggling, “That would have been awkward!” Her mirth fades, “Actually, Rais wanted me to be presented to you first, but I asked to go last. Just in case another caught your fancy…”
“Habiti! Stop right there. There could never be anyone else for me!” I cup both my hands around her beautiful face. “Every day apart has been torture. I’ve wanted you more, loved you more, every fucking day. You’ve never been out of my mind.”
“You love me?”
How can she doubt it? I stroke her cheeks, running my fingers over her lips. “I fucking love you. And now I’ll be able to show you how much until the end of my days.”
She covers my hands with her own, leaning into my touch. “I love you too, Kadar.” Then she looks down and away as if there’s something on her mind. But whatever it is can wait.
I start to reach for the bottle. “If there was ever a time for a toast then this is it!”
Her hand touches my arm; she stops me. I’m so attuned to this woman I feel the change in the atmosphere immediately. There’s a grave expression on her face, so solemn it worries me. I can’t think why. If she didn’t want me, she wouldn’t have taken part in the charade.
“No champagne.”
“No worries, habiti. If you don’t want to drink, I’m sure we’ll find some other way to celebrate.” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively, wanting to make her giggle again. It was such a lovely sound, and well appreciated by my dick.
A tremulous smile comes and goes in recognition at my comment. She’s starting to worry me now. She licks her lips and swallows as if trying to summon the courage to speak. Whatever the fuck it is she wants to tell me I’m not going to let it ruin the best day of my entire fucking life! I still can’t believe she is really going to be mine! I give her time to gather her thoughts, to say what she needs to say. We’ve got time. We’ve got the whole of our fucking lives now. I can’t believe it! Once she’s said her piece and I’ve accepted her apology for a transgression she certainly hasn’t committed or anything else that might be on her mind, I’ll scoop her up, and we can get on with the evening’s celebrations. Our own personal way.
“Kadar, I…I don’t know how to say this any other way than how it is.”
“Just say it, Zee.” Nothing she can say can faze me at this moment.
“You have to tell me now, Kadar.” She speaks with determination. “I need to know now what you feel for me. Do you really want to marry me? This, this is what this evening’s been about, but am I just the best of a bad lot? Would you have chosen me, if you had the choice? I know how pressured you must feel to accept the choice of the sheikhs.”
How could she doubt it for one fucking minute? Closing my eyes for a second, I realise what I need to do to convince her. Sinking to my knees I take her hand. “Zee, the moment you came into my life I was attracted to you. I fought my feelings all the way until I no longer had any fight in me. I don’t know when I fell in love with you, only that I did so somewhere along the way. When I thought I’d lost you, I thought I would die along with you. When you left me I thought I could live without you, but every day was a struggle, and I was doing nothing but just existing. You took my heart with you when you went. Now you’re back, finally I feel whole again. Our marriage was meant to be. It’s our destiny; we cannot fight it. Zee, Zoe, habiti. Will you do me the immense honour of agreeing to be my wife?”
For a second she says nothing then slowly she folds herself down and kneels in front of me, enclosing my large hands with her small ones. It should be the other way round, but at this moment, she holds all the control as tightly as her physical grip. I find it hard to breathe, waiting for her to speak. She’s going to say yes, isn’t she?
“Kadar, oh my love, Kadar. I want to marry you more than anything I ever wanted in my life. I want to be by your side, helping and supporting you.” Then she looks at me with a glint in her eyes. “Just don’t make me take too many bullets for you.”
Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Page 39