The Sheikh's Destiny (21 page)

Brass lanterns and torches blazed everywhere, infusing the palace with a mystic ambiance. Every other decoration, from banners to veils to flowers, was color-coordinated with her gown and jewelry. Not that she could find any pleasure in her surroundings. Not when she couldn’t forget why Rashid had “rented” the palace for their wedding. Not so that she could reclaim that part of her heritage, as he’d claimed, but so he could rehearse being its liege.

Even in her previous obliviousness, it had pained her knowing so much would be missing on this day—her mother there for her, her father giving her away. Now she knew her groom didn’t really want to receive her, and this wedding was a charade, a sacrifice of her heart and dignity for the one thing that would mean more to her than her very life—her child...

Suddenly, her heartbeat drowned out the thundering music, and air, the world, disappeared.

Rashid stood alone at the wide-open gilded doors of the ballroom, shrouded in shadow even in the blazing illumination, as if he’d absorbed all light.

In spite of herself, her starving senses rushed to devour his grandeur.

His outfit matched hers, only in darker, muted shades. Another detail he’d orchestrated to perfection. A mahogany
abaya
hugged his Herculean shoulders, adorned in embroidery echoing her gown’s patterns, before cascading to his ankles like a cloak of enchantment. Underneath, burnt-sienna silk stretched across his formidable chest and abdomen, tucking into skintight same-color pants that gathered into darkest brown leather boots. A bronze metal belt hung around his powerful hips, anchoring a ceremonial dagger sheathed in a scabbard worked in bloodred and gold enamel.

This was a man whose legacy was rooted in fables, the embodiment of this harsh, magnificent land, a personification of its might and majesty, a shaper of the world around him.

He
was
born to be king.

If only he hadn’t used her to claim his destiny.

If only he’d come clean. She would have done anything for him. Would have still had her heart and illusions intact.

But he hadn’t. And she now only survived for their...
her
baby.

He stood there now, with those darkest-night eyes, searing her with his fake longing, his counterfeit entreaty.

“Laylah...”

The pure passion and anguish he made of her name nullified the din, quivered through her bones. How could it feel so real? How could she still want to throw herself into his arms?

Then those arms were coming around her. Feeling they’d singe her, she bolted. He let her stride ahead down the royal-red carpet that cut through the ballroom all the way to the
kooshah.
Intertwining gradations of red and gold chiffon veils undulated from Arabesque woodwork that embodied the gilded cage of matrimony, she guessed. He was beside her once more as she climbed a dozen crimson satin-covered steps to where they’d preside over the proceedings.

The
ma’zoon,
an imposing-looking cleric, was sitting in the middle of a pale gold sofa, with scrolls spread before him in triplicate. Haidar and Jalal flanked the sofa like bodyguards.

They would be
al shohood,
the witnesses of the marriage. She didn’t know how Rashid had gotten them to consent to this, let alone to plead his case with her, when they’d been mortal enemies till recently. But she wouldn’t put anything beyond his powers of manipulation. She’d refused her uncle’s and cousins’ offers to be her
wakeel,
her proxy. She wouldn’t let them take a bigger part in this sham. She’d gotten herself into this, and she’d shoulder the sticky parts to the end alone.

As soon as they reached the platform, the music stopped. Almost plopping down beside the
ma’zoon,
desperate to look anywhere but at Rashid, her gaze swept the ballroom, where a hundred tables were set in the luxury level only someone of Rashid’s means could attain. Around them sat a thousand of those who moved and shook the world. That was the kind of power Rashid wielded already. He probably wouldn’t wield more as king.

Then he was leaning nearer behind the
ma’zoon.
She preempted him. “Shall we get this over with already?”

After failing to capture her gaze, Rashid exhaled, directed the
ma’zoon
to proceed.

After a while, he murmured, “
Habibati,
give me your hand.”

Her gut wrenched. Her hand in his for the duration of the ritual was bad enough. But it was that
habibati
that scraped her nerves raw. Who was he still acting for?

She gave him a hand as stiff and cold as a corpse’s, and tried not to flinch as that big, calloused hand that had taught her what passion and pleasure meant enfolded it. She kept her eyes fixed as he opposed their thumbs and the
ma’zoon
covered their hands in a pristine white handkerchief and placed his on top, then as she droned back the marriage vows the man recited.

After Rashid had, too, the
ma’zoon
addressed him, “Name your
mahr
and
mo’akh’khar al suddaag,
Sheikh Rashid.”

The so-called “price of the bride,” or as revisionists called it, the “bride’s worth.” That was paid in two installments. The
mahr,
at signing the contract, and the
mo’akh’khar,
“latter portion of the agreed-upon”—or in reality a severance payment—at termination of the marriage.

“My
mahr
is this.” Rashid produced a box, gave it to her.

She took the scarlet velvet box, opened it.

A simple gold brooch lay against darkest red satin. Another rendering of his house’s emblem. Very precise and delicate but by no means worth much in terms of cash value.

“It was my mother’s.” Rashid’s voice numbed her with its fathomless magic. “It was my earliest memory. I was four when she told me it was my father’s first gift to her. He was only eighteen when he bought it with his first pay. I slipped into her room the night she died. I kicked and screamed, but they wouldn’t let me see her. All I could do was grab something of hers as they dragged me out of her room. It was this brooch. It is all I have left of her. It is the one possession I care about. Just as you are the one person, the one thing, I care about in this life.”

“You...bastard.”

The
ma’zoon
started at her viciousness.

Rashid’s eyes only gentled. “Call me anything, think me a monster, but
arjooki ya roh galbi,
don’t make it final. Leave the door ajar. Please, Laylah, take this.”

When she only glared at him, her blood boiling, her heart splintering, he took out the brooch, and with trembling hands, he pinned it over her heart. It felt as if he’d pierced it.

Fighting the urge to rip it off and hurl it away, she didn’t give him the satisfaction. At any emotional display, he’d only soothe her, appear as the loving, forbearing groom even more.

She glared at him as he signaled to Haidar and Jalal. “And my
mo’akh’khar
is this.”

Haidar handed the
ma’zoon
a thick dossier. He opened it, read the first page before raising stupefied eyes to Rashid.

“Do I understand this correctly, Sheikh Rashid?”

Rashid nodded. “Yes. That is all my assets.”

She gaped at him.

Then she finally asked, “What are you playing at now?”

“I never played at anything to start with
, ya habibati.
I am all yours, heart and soul. My assets are the least part of me.”

“And I don’t want them, like I don’t want any part of you.”

Rashid only exhaled, turned to the
ma’zoon.
“Document this.”

The man did as asked, and an oppressive silence descended on them all. Then he invited her and Rashid to sign the three copies, and for Haidar and Jalal to stamp them with their seals.

On leaving the
kooshah,
the
ma’zoon
shot her a puzzled, disapproving glance. Haidar and Jalal gave her an entreating one. On Rashid’s behalf. He
had
put them back in his pocket again.

The guests rose as one, toasted them with glasses filled with ruby-red
sharbaat ward,
rose-essence traditional wedding nectar.

As everyone resumed sitting, live Azmahrian music rose with their chatter, leaving bride and groom to their own conversation.

Talking with Rashid had once been all she’d wanted from life, something she’d reveled in and treasured until a few weeks ago. Now, she had nothing to say to him that wasn’t bitter. She was done with bitterness. Which meant she wouldn’t talk to him.

Suddenly she felt as if her left side had been set on fire. Rashid had slid across the sofa, almost touching her.

He met her cold glance with his soft and coaxing one. “You will have to talk to me at some point. Might as well start now.”

She ignored him, pretended to wave to her
waseefat,
matrons of honor. They only shooed her away, urging her to respond to Rashid.

Fuming, she reached for her
sharbaat
and felt she’d touched a live wire. His hand. He’d beat her to the crystal glass.

When she wouldn’t take it, he whispered, “Throw it in my face. I deserve far more for even considering my moronic plan.”

Refusing to give him the outburst he was after, she took the glass, downed it, still not looking at him.

“Anger makes you thirsty? But this will only dehydrate you more. Also a sugar rush combined with adrenaline isn’t advisable.”

So. He’d given up the fiercely tender facade and was trying on the bedeviling one. She said nothing.

“That degree of self-control is admirable. I wonder—would it hold if I kissed you?” At her continued silence, he slipped an arm around her waist. “Shall we find out?”

Staring ahead, she said, “Being funny doesn’t suit you.”

“Talk to me, and I’ll spare you my failed attempts at humor.”

She flicked him a condescending glance. “You need your high-ranking guests to think we’re having a great time? Afraid they’d realize your bride is sitting here under duress?”

“I care nothing about what anyone thinks. Test my claim.”

“You’re counting that I won’t, so I won’t upset my family.”

His response got drowned out by the first part of the night’s entertainment, an ingeniously choreographed and composed medley of beloved folk songs and dances.

As the guests were swept up in the energy of the performance, he pulled her closer. “Those songs are all for you.”

She slid him a cool glance. “Thanks.”

Tenderness filled his eyes again, poignancy, too. “Even if you say it’s not real, I’m now your husband...”

“Only for a while, until the baby is born, max.”

The indulgence in his eyes flooded her. “That’s seven months from now. Remember what once happened in seven hours?”

“When I was a needy, self-deceiving twit? In vivid detail. What do you think the odds are of my falling for your manipulations again?”

“Beating impossible odds is what I do. I’ve triumphed over death many times. I’m going to conquer your aversion, even if it takes the rest of my life.”

“It
will
take the rest of your life. Plus an hour.”

His arm tightened around her. “Take the pound of flesh I owe you,
ya habibati.
Take as many pounds as you wish. Do it here and now.” The feel of him against her, his consecutive blows of passion, entreaty and tenderness were chipping away at her control. “I dare you.”

She pulled away as a storm of applause greeted the end of the performance, then rose to her feet.

Everyone turned to look at her as she came to stand at the edge of the
kooshah.
“Now to another time-honored tradition that no celebration in our region is complete without. Poetry.”

A buzz rose. Her family consulted with each other if that was an arranged number.

“An ode to my new and loving groom,” she started, perfect acoustics carrying her voice to the farthest corners of the ballroom.

“Howah kat’tamaseeh, yathreffod’dam’a enda muddgh fareesatuhu

Fahtaresu menhu i’tha arradto’l najjata

La ya’ghorannakom jamala mohayahu

Fama ajmal’l nomoor lakn korbuha ho’wal mammata.”

(Like crocodiles he sheds tears when he gnaws his prey

So beware of him if you want to stay alive

Don’t be fooled by the beauty of his visage

For how beautiful are tigers you’d never survive.)

Her quatrain was greeted by a shockwave of silence.

Suddenly a whistle pierced the hush, followed by a single pair of lazily clapping hands.

“
Thank
you, cousin. I was about to provoke an international incident to avoid watching another folklore number.”

That was Amjad. Of course.

She couldn’t pay him or anyone else attention. Rashid had gotten up to his feet, was approaching her like that stealthy predator she’d just likened him to.

He came to tower over her, his eyes the embodiment of adoration as he raised his voice. “An ode to the barren past when I could only look at my incomparable bride from afar:

Amorro ala’d dyari, dyari Laylah

Oqubbelo tha’l jeddara waa tha’l jeddari

Wama hobbo’l dyari shagafna qulbi,

Walaken hobbo man sakanna’d dyari.”

(I pass by those dwellings, those of Laylah.

And I kiss these walls and those walls

It’s not love of the place that has taken my heart

But of the One who dwelled in these halls.)

Silence again blanketed the vastness, raging inside her.

Instead of a defense, or an offense, he’d hit her with a quatrain from Qays Ibn Al Mulawah’s poetry, the ancient poet renowned as
Majnun
Laylah, or Laylah’s Madman.

And he’d used Qays’s verses to claim he’d only loved and valued this palace and Zohayd’s for her being in them.

Wow.
Who would have thought he’d have poetry in his arsenal. But then as an ultimate tactician, he must have an infinite range of weapons. Seemed even now she hadn’t realized the scope of his talent for subterfuge.