Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (7 page)

My mouth’s gone dry, and I can’t speak or prevent a shudder going through me. I look round to see how my brothers are taking it and notice Kadar shifting awkwardly in his chair. As heir to the throne, I realise he’s in an awkward position. His role should be to support the ruler, but it seems even he cannot hold back on voicing his concerns in this instance.

“She won’t come voluntarily. I’ve already tried that route. I don’t know whether she realises the link with her father but she turned down the invitation to visit.” Kadar narrows his eyes. “By all accounts, she’s a very clever woman.”

Sheikh Rushdi dismisses his objection with a wave of his hand. “Then the next step is to bring her here whether she wants to come or not.”

“Do we understand that we are talking about kidnapping? The possible political ramifications must be considered,” Kadar says pointedly. “Our relationship with the British government is cordial at best.”

Our father shoots him an incredulous look. “I’m the monarch of Amahad. International concerns are not my priority. I care about our tribes and maintaining the delicate balance between them. The last thing we desire is a conflict between them. If the tribes fight among themselves, or against the Crown, they will not be united in protecting the southern borders.”

His voice carries authority, as he emphasises the point. “Once jihadists start crossing over in significant numbers Amahad could be in a full-scale war. We cannot afford to have our way of life, our freedoms, threatened. There cannot be too high a price to pay to retain peace in our country.”

As he breaks off, his eyes become hooded. “I leave it to you to manage this in such a way as to avoid any unnecessary complications, Kadar.” As if to show the utmost confidence in his eldest, he stands up to leave. But before he does so, he looks across to me. “Nijad, this is your duty. I will not rescind the terms of your banishment. You will remain in the desert and your punishment becomes the woman’s.” With that parting shot, he moves towards the door.

“Your Highness,” I call out, asking him to wait, and he swings back around. “Are the tribes looking for further punishment? Is marriage to me sufficient?”

He nods, slowly. “I have their word on that. But,” – a pregnant pause follows, drawing emphasis to his next words, and his voice drops to an almost menacing level – “you must control her, Nijad. She must not disrespect the country, the Crown or the tribespeople. They’ll be looking for signs, and the first would be for her to disrespect
you.
There could be danger for her, for
us
, if you cannot control your wife. Your violent reputation, of course, gives the tribes the confidence that you will have no difficulty with this task.” He pauses again, and then continues. “Her life, or death, is in your hands, Nijad. The tribes will be satisfied either way. They expect you to discipline her. You can be your true self with her.”

Again he makes to leave, and this time, I don’t stop him. He turns quickly, but not fast enough to hide the wave of sadness that crosses his face, and at that moment I get a rare glimpse of the man behind the throne.

Bile rises in my throat.
My true self?
And what’s that exactly? The fucking tribespeople expect me to hurt this woman? She’s being forced to marry me because of my reputation, not in spite of it? But I have no choice in this matter. No damn choice at all.

I’m only vaguely aware of the conversation still going on around me as I consider my options. Shit, I’m to be an instrument of retribution. I’m going to be married, and to someone who’s unlikely to come to my bed willingly. I’ll be expected to force her – there’s another word for it, but I can’t stomach even thinking it. If she doesn’t comply she will pay the ultimate price. I take a deep breath. The last three years have changed me, have stripped away my civilised veneer. If it weren't for my reputation, her sentence would have been death. How benevolent of the tribes to accept the penance of a life with the savage sheikh as an alternative to public execution. Punishment on the dead man is to be the mating of his daughter to a known vicious and violent man. I can’t refuse, even if the thought of taking a wife for the archaic reason of revenge makes me feel sick to my stomach. Like it or not I’m Amahadian, and what the emir says carries weight. We must preserve peace at all costs. The woman and I are simply pawns. Putting my head in my hands, I breathe deeply.

Kadar’s watching me carefully, shaking his head, obviously unhappy. “We have to plan carefully to avoid causing an international outcry. That’s the part that worries me most.” He’s moved on to the practicality of how to achieve the ruler’s aims. Reaching for a cup of coffee, as if it could perhaps help calm him, he turns to my brother.

“I’m sorry, Jasim.” At last, he allows his sympathy to show. “The emir will not listen to any other solution.”

Finally, he addresses me. “Nijad …” he starts.

I hold my hand up to stop him. “I don’t fucking like it, Kadar, but what can I do? I hate to say it, but it will satisfy the tribes and the alternative, bringing her here to carry out a death sentence, is unthinkable.”

“But that may still be the ultimate end. The marriage is simply a reprieve, giving her a chance.” My eldest brother looks at me pointedly.

I stare down at my hands, imagining them red with her blood, and my stomach rolls in revolt. I see them holding her down, forcing her to accept my attentions, compelling her to submit to my dominance as the only way to keep her alive
.
How the hell has it come to this? I close my eyes briefly as I answer my own question. The tribal leaders see me as the only man violent enough to control her, to subdue her so that her subjugation by this marriage satisfies the desire for vengeance. If she fights me, will it bring out my inner beast? Is she destined to be hurt by my vicious hand in a repeat of Paris? If I’m provoked and black out again, what am I capable off? My hands clench tightly into fists. When I relax them, I have red marks on my palms from my nails.

Kadar is still watching me closely, giving me the seconds I need to gather myself. Then he turns his attention to Jasim. “What do we know about her?”

I see Jasim is trying to rein in his anger as he realises the futility of further protest. His darkened face looks between us and then, with a hefty exhalation of air, he glances down at the private investigator’s report he had probably been hoping he wouldn’t need to open, and takes a moment to summarise the pertinent points.

“Not a fucking lot. She’s self-employed as a forensic accountant. She does a lot of work for Scotland Yard, and for large organisations in the city. Nothing about a personal life or boyfriend. No family; her mother died some years ago. She seems to be a very private person. There’s no trace of any photographs, nothing to show what she looks like.”

That doesn’t matter. Crone or beauty, the outcome will be the same.

“Did we get the report from Grade A?” Kadar asks, concerned, referring to the organisation we exclusively use for the provision of bodyguards when we need them, and for the majority of our security arrangements.

“Of course not!” Jasim replies indignantly. “The fewer people who know about our interest in her the better. I agree we probably would’ve got more detail from Grade A, but I kept Amahad and any of our names out of my request for information about her. That assistant of your, Kadar. What’s his name?”

“Richard.”

“Yes, Richard posed as a potential employer, and tried to find out her background. I’m sorry the info is so trivial. But the main point seems to be if she disappears there’s no one to miss her. No family, no friends and no employer.”

“Well, that makes it simpler.” Kadar nods in satisfaction.

Brushing his dark hair back over his forehead, Jasim looks incredulous. “Is that all you’ve got to say, brother? Let’s understand what we’re doing here. We’re taking this woman out of her life and dumping her in the desert. All because the tribes think they can take revenge on a dead man by forcing his daughter into a marriage with the savage sheikh?”

I butt in. “It’s the way they think. The old ways are that the sins of the father are carried by the children. If the father is not there to take the punishment his children will bear it in his stead.”

“I suppose we’re lucky they agreed not to stone her,” Jasim snaps.

Rolling his shoulders to try to relieve the tension and looking somewhat exasperated, Kadar sighs.

“Brother, I would’ve avoided this at all costs if I could,” he replied. “But although
we
might live in the modern world, the tribes are still living in the past. And I even sometimes question which century our father is living in! Revenge is what the tribes are looking for, and you know how volatile they can be; the merest thing can set off fighting between them. But at least they’re united in this; as far as they’re concerned, now Benting is dead, vengeance on his daughter will suffice.”

He lifts his chin and looks down his nose at us, an autocratic pose momentarily showing the signs of the ruler he will eventually become. It’s clear he wants to put an end to the talk and move to action.

“The emir has spoken; we have no choice but to obey.” He pauses, waiting for our reluctant nods of acquiescence. “It’s a shame she didn’t come of her own volition. I thought the contract we gave her was genuine enough to persuade her everything was above board.”

“Could you have alerted her by dealing with her personally? She may well have recognised your name. Why didn’t you let Basheer handle it?”

Kadar takes a few seconds to consider it. “I didn’t use my title. And I wasn’t comfortable involving anyone else, even the Minister of Finance, at this time. The more people we bring into it, the more chance of failure.” He rises to his feet. “Which is why, Jasim, you and I will go personally and bring her here tomorrow. We’ll need to use our diplomatic immunity; we cannot have anyone else compromised.”

Jasim lowers his head into his hands. “So that was why you summoned me here? Fuck!” He throws a glare my way. “Why can’t Nijad go with you?”

“The emir forbids it. He revoked Nijad’s passport as part of his punishment. It has to be you, Jasim. I like it as little as you do, but only we can take responsibility for the task. It may be down to us to avoid a war in the southern desert.

“Lucky us!” Jasim sneers as he realises he has no option. “I’ve always fancied a career as a fucking kidnapper.”

Kadar ignores his protest, simply stating, “I’ll sort the final details. Let’s face it: we knew this was going to be the likely outcome, and plans are in place. We leave tonight; the Kassis jet is fuelled and waiting.” Before leaving, he hesitates. “Are you OK, Nijad?”

I snort in disgust. “In two days I’ll be married to a complete stranger who my brothers kidnapped. Who I’ll need to fuck and keep under control. I’m fucking brilliant.” I tell him. Placing his hand on my shoulder, Kadar gives a quick squeeze of support. “The emir is right, Nijad. You
need
to subdue her.”

My response is scathing. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

“Tie her to your bed with a slave chain?” Jasim suggests, with a snort.

Both Kadar and I dismiss his input with the derision it deserves, though I can’t deny that an image of a beautiful woman chained captive to my bed flits momentarily through my head. I must be going mad! But I raise my eyes to meet Jasim’s and, despite the seriousness of the situation, we exchange grins. It’s the first time in three years that he’s looked at me with anything other than contempt. Notwithstanding the circumstances, my heart lifts.

Shaking his head at the two of us, and removing his hand from my shoulder, Kadar leaves the room. He offers no final words of comfort as he leaves me alone with Jasim.

Staring across at my brother is like looking into a mirror, the resemblance between us almost scary. But the easy smile I’m used to seeing seems to have disappeared in the last three years. Suddenly Jasim stands. He looks down.

“What the fuck happened in Paris, Ni?”

I’m startled, not expecting the question. Frowning, I shake my head. “I don’t remember.” He looks incredulous. He still doesn’t believe me. I shrug. “It’s a total blank.” I glare at him. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to remember? Don’t you think I want to fucking know?” I rise to my feet to meet his eyes, waiting to see him acknowledge the truth of what I’m saying. I can see when my vehemence convinces him, as he relaxes.

He’s still staring at me; I can almost see the cogs turning in his head. At last, the penny drops. “PTSD?”

Post-traumatic stress disorder; yes, that’s what they called it – the violence triggered in Paris and the subsequent black hole in my mind, possibly linked back to the horrors of my military service. A name, but no answer. I nod.

“Have you seen anyone for help?”

Again, I nod. For the first year, I did nothing, but I couldn’t live with the black hole in my memory.

“Therapists, hypnotists, brain doctors. I flew them all in, Jas, but what I did is buried too deep.” What I’d done shocked even me; my subconscious refuses to allow me to remember. I want to change the subject. “What happened to the apartment?”

“I sold it.” He glowers at me as if expecting me to argue about it, but I don’t give a fuck. There is no way in hell that I’d want to go back there. Putting his hands on the back of the chair he’s just vacated he leans on it. “I had the Agusta shipped back here.”