The Governess and the Sheikh (19 page)

As soon as he got back, he would talk to Halim about the cancelling of his current betrothal. It had been a mistake from the start. He should have known, from his own uncharacteristic prevarication, that it was wrong. It would be messy, and would cost him dearly, but he cared naught for that. He would not marry Princess Adira. Cassie or no, he doubted he would ever have married the Princess Adira. Thank the gods for Cassie.

Turning his horse for home, Jamil smiled to himself. For once his own desires and those of his kingdom were in harmony. He could hardly wait to claim her. Blood rushed to his groin at the thought of finally thrusting into Cassie's warm, yielding flesh. To spend himself inside her. To feel her velvet heat sheathing him. To plant his seed in her garden of delights. Such rapture, he was certain they would experience such untold rapture. His erection curved hard against his belly. Soon she would be his, and no one else's.

Spurring his horse into a gallop, Jamil headed back to Daar, his head full of delightful plans for Cassie's deflowering.

P
eregrine Finchley-Burke's journey by dhow down the Red Sea to A'Qadiz had provided blessed relief from the claustrophobic heat and dust of Cairo. He had enjoyed his time on board immensely. Watching the pretty coral reefs and the local boys diving for pretty coloured fish took his mind off the tribulations of his diplomatic career, which was also pretty. Pretty disastrous, that is. Lying in the back of the little craft under the shade of the canopy, idly trailing his hands in the water, with his neckcloth loosened and his waistcoat unbuttoned, Peregrine imagined himself as a pharaoh of ancient Egypt, waited upon by sultry-eyed slaves, who would bow and scrape at his feet and pander to his every whim. It was a beguiling fantasy, one with which he happily whiled away the hours as the dhow made its meandering way south, allowing him to forget all about the travails which undoubtedly lay ahead.

Until, that is, they joined the swarm of river traffic
that made negotiating their way into the ever-expanding port of A'Qadiz a most hazardous affair. Peregrine kept his eyes tight shut amid the chaotic bustle until a gentle prod from the boatman indicated that they were safely berthed. He stepped gingerly ashore into the fray of braying mules and bleating camels and gesticulating, sweaty stevedores and clawing, insistent hawkers offering him everything from a new camel to a new wife, most of which, fortunately, he did not understand. A tiny sand-cat kitten, its ringed tail twitching in terror, was placed into his hands. A small child held determinedly on to his cutaway coat, tugging at one of the decorative silver buttons in a most alarming way. Attempting to brush the child away, Peregrine dropped the kitten, which landed, claws out, on the left leg of his dove-coloured pantaloons. Peregrine shrieked. The kitten hissed. The small child laughed. A man selling incense took advantage of the pause in the procession to douse Peregrine liberally with something that smelled distinctively of old dog, and waited, hand extended expectantly, for payment.

With a sigh of resignation, Peregrine reached into his pocket for the inexhaustible supply of pennies he had learned, in Cairo, to keep there for just such occasions. His dream of himself as King Akhenaton vanished in the puff of noxious smoke emanating from the incense bowl. ‘Balyrma,' he announced, to no one in particular, followed by the very few words of the language he could command.
Camel. Tent. Guide.
Few words, but sufficient, for within an hour, after some haggling, entered into with gusto on the part of the would-be
guide, with resignation by his customer, Peregrine was seated uncomfortably upon a camel headed east.

 

Three hot dusty days later, he arrived at Balyrma to be greeted with some surprise by Prince Ramiz and his wife, Lady Celia, formerly Armstrong, now Princess al-Muhanna.

‘Mr Finchley-Burke,' Celia said, handing him a glass of iced tea, ‘what an unexpected pleasure, I hope you are well.'

Although he was used to the Eastern habit of sitting on the floor, it was not a position in which Peregrine was ever comfortable. The not-insubstantial bulk of his stomach made it difficult for him to do anything more dignified than loll, and he was—correctly, as it happened—rather horribly afraid that he looked more like a grounded walrus than a man of fashion. ‘Oh, tolerably well, thank you,' he said, wriggling his ample buttocks on to a large—but not quite large enough—satin cushion. ‘Can't complain, you know.'

‘And you are enjoying your new career at the Consulate?' Lady Celia continued politely, trying not to catch her husband's eye.

‘Absolutely,' Peregrine said, smiling bravely.

‘I'm sure you must have made yourself quite indispensible to Lord Wincester by now.'

Peregrine blushed. Despite having over a year of sound British diplomatic training under his belt, lying did not come naturally to him. ‘Well, as to that—well.' He took a sip of tea.

‘You are too modest,' Celia said with a smile. ‘Why
else would Lord Wincester send you here to us on what I am sure must be most important business?'

‘Yes, just what exactly is this mission of yours?' Ramiz asked pointedly. ‘I was not informed of your impending visit.'

‘Ah.' Peregrine took another sip of tea. ‘Thing is, not actually an affair of state. At least, not strictly…'

Intrigued, Celia set down her own glass and cast her husband an enquiring look. ‘You have come here, perhaps, on business of your own?'

‘No, no. Lord, no. Don't get me wrong,' Peregrine said, flustered, ‘I mean lovely to be here and all, lovely to see you both again, but—no. Fact is,' he blurted out, diplomacy forgotten, ‘it's about your sister.'

‘My sister!' Celia paled, and sought her husband's hand. ‘Which one? Has there been an illness at home? Why has not my aunt, or my father—? Peregrine, please tell me you are not here to inform me that there has been a tragedy.'

‘No, no. Nothing like that. Not involving one of
those
sisters any road. I'm talking about the one here in Arabia. Lady Cassandra.'

‘Cassie! What has happened to Cassie?'

‘I beg you to be calm, Lady Celia. Didn't mean to alarm you.'

‘Then you will tell us, if you please, exactly what it is you have come here to discuss, and you will tell us quickly without further prevarication,' Ramiz said in clipped tones, all amusement gone as he pulled his wife protectively towards him. ‘Don't worry,' he said to Celia, ‘if Cassandra had come to any harm, we would
have heard it direct from Prince Jamil before now. I am sure of it.'

‘Of course. Of course,' Celia said. ‘Silly of me.' She turned her attention once more to Peregrine. ‘Please explain, Mr Finchley-Burke, you have my full attention.'

But when Peregrine finished his halting and somewhat expurgated explanation, Celia was more confused than enlightened. ‘But I don't understand—why is my father is so keen to have Cassie return to England forthwith?' she asked.

Peregrine shrugged embarrassedly. ‘Mine is not to reason why. I suspect he is concerned for her—ahem—safety.'

‘But that doesn't make any sense. I wrote to Papa when Cassie left for Daar to inform him that she was taking up the role of governess there with my full approval, but he must have sent his communiqué to Cairo before that. How, then, did he know of Cassie's presence there? And more to the point,
what
precisely does he think she is doing there?'

‘Ah,' Peregrine said, shuffling uncomfortably on his cushions.

‘Ah?'

‘Suspect he thinks it's a little less above board than—you know how these rumours fly at the Foreign Office, Lady Celia.'

‘I do indeed, Mr Finchley-Burke,' Celia replied acerbically. ‘Let me assure you, my sister and I have been in regular correspondence since she went to Daar, and she is not only perfectly happy there, she is very well thought of, and is making an excellent fist of her role
as governess. Prince Jamil is her employer, nothing more.'

‘I'm sure, I'm sure. But regardless of that, I'm still under strict instructions to facilitate her immediate return to England,' Peregrine said despondently, ‘whether the young lady wishes it or not. It is not a task I relish, I can tell you, but there you have it, needs must. I will rest here tonight, with your permission, then set off for Daar tomorrow.'

Celia turned to her husband. ‘Perhaps it is for the best if I accompany him, dearest? I am overdue a visit to see Cassie, and Bashirah is weaned now. I'm sure there is nothing at all wrong, but I would rather see that for myself, just to make sure.'

Ramiz nodded. ‘It would make sense.'

‘Then it is settled. I will accompany you to Daar, Mr Finchley-Burke, if you have no objection.'

‘Objection? My dear Lady Celia,' Peregrine said with enormous relief, ‘that is a most capital idea, a most capital idea indeed. Your assistance in this matter would be most gratefully received.'

Clearly buoyed, Peregrine left for ‘a bit of a wash and a brush up' as he put it, and Celia turned to her husband. ‘I just need to make sure this ridiculous man doesn't upset Cassie unduly, that's all. She is still recuperating emotionally from this Augustus business. I don't want a combination of Papa and Mr Finchley-Burke setting her back. I'll only be gone a few days.'

‘One day is too many,' he replied, kissing her deeply. ‘I will have the caravan readied for the morning. Hurry back, my beloved.'

‘Don't worry, I won't be away from you a day more
than I have to,' Celia replied, melting into his arms. ‘Anyway, I am already looking forward to you welcoming my return.'

 

Upon his return to the palace later that same morning, Jamil wasted no time in summoning Halim and informing him briskly of his decision to terminate his betrothal to the Princess Adira. ‘I want you to work out suitable terms,' he said, glancing through the stack of papers that Halim had left for him to sign. ‘Be generous, I don't want her father to bear us any ill will.'

‘Not bear us any—but, Highness,' Halim exclaimed, aghast, ‘you cannot have considered the consequences of such a rash course of action.'

‘Of course I have,' Jamil replied impatiently. ‘It will be a tricky challenge, but one I am sure you are more than capable of meeting. I have every faith that you will be able to redraw the marriage agreement in the form of an alliance treaty, and…'

Under any other circumstances, Halim would have blossomed under the rays of such warm praise, but these were not any other circumstances. Never before, to his knowledge, had a betrothal been broken without a war resulting. ‘Prince Jamil, I beg you to reconsider…'

‘I have considered. I'm sick of considering. I have never, as you perfectly well know, wanted to marry Princess Adira, and I have decided now that I shall not do so. Come, my friend, you underestimate your powers of negotiation.'

Jamil smiled, one of his rare smiles, but Halim was too distraught to respond, rocking back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘Yes, yes, I am flattered you have
such faith in me—but no amount of negotiating on my part can produce an heir for Daar-el-Abbah, Highness.'

‘An heir. Yes, I know how much you are worried about my heir, but there's no need to.'

Halim stilled. ‘You have another bride in mind?'

‘I do.'

‘Another from the Council list?' It was said hopefully, but Halim was experiencing a rather horrible sensation. He felt as if his stomach was creeping slowly towards his knees.

‘No. It is Lady Cassandra.'

Halim crumpled to the floor and began to beat his breast. ‘No, Jamil—Prince Jamil, I beg of you.'

‘Get up. For the sake of the gods, Halim, get up and stop sobbing like a woman. I know you don't approve of Cassie, but—'

‘Don't approve! She has no royal blood, she brings with her no lands. She is not even one of us.'

Jamil had taken Halim's understanding for granted, just as he had taken for granted his support. Now he realised that his man of business was in his own way just as blinkered as the Council. So, mustering his patience, he explained at some length just why it was that his marriage to Lady Cassandra would be even more advantageous for Daar-el-Abbah than his marriage to Princess Adira or any other of the Arabian princesses on the Council's list.

Halim remained deeply skeptical, but neither his rational counter-arguments, nor his pointing out that tradition decreed the prince's marriage to be subject always and completely to the Council's approval, made any difference. The prince merely reiterated his own
point of view again with renewed force. Nothing he said would persuade him to change his mind. Prince Jamil, Halim realised with sudden clarity, though he did not know it, had completely fallen under the spell of a pair of blue eyes. This was not about breaking tradition or advantageous alliances, this was about a young English governess. Halim sighed. He did not like to see his prince brought low by a mere woman like this, but the only course of action open to him now was damage limitation. ‘If you were to visit the Princess Adira's family yourself, Highness, inform them in person of the change in your plans, it would be less of an insult,' he suggested tentatively.

‘There is no insult to the Princess Adira. You yourself told me that I was one of five men being considered for her. She did not choose me, any more than I chose her.' Jamil ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging his head dress.
Why was nothing simple in his life?

‘You would not wish Daar-el-Abbah to go to war over a mere woman,' Halim said, playing his last card.

Jamil gave a growl of exasperation. ‘Summon the Council now. I want this over, and I want it over now. But be assured, I will not permit Princess Adira to be the cause of us going to war.'

‘She is not the woman I was referring to,' Halim muttered to himself as he bowed and slowly backed out of the room.

 

Cassie endured a horrid night. No matter that she returned to the schoolroom apartment determined to leave just as soon as arrangements could be made, no matter that her head told her quite unequivocally that
to do so was the one and only sensible course open to her, her heart refused to listen.

The idea of being married to Jamil, of being his wife, of sharing his bed, if not his heart—oh, it was so very tempting. She loved him. Of course she wanted to marry him. To bear his children. To share his life.

But he did not love her. Perhaps if she loved him enough, then surely he would come to love her, too? But it did not work that way, even the poets agreed on that topic. He would not come to love her and when his passion for her faded—what then?

No, love for her had to be not just unequivocal, but utterly reciprocal. And love was an integral part of marriage. So in the end, it was simple. She could not marry Jamil, no matter how tempting the compensations. And since she loved him and only him, it meant she would never marry anyone and was doomed to remain childless.