The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin (4 page)

‘Tell me about Calista,’ she finally said. ‘You know, I’ve never been there.’

Aarif was silent for so long Kalila wondered if he’d heard her. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he finally said. ‘Much like here.’ He paused, and Kalila waited. ‘Of course, not everyone sees the beauty of the desert. It is a harsh loveliness. Was it difficult for your mother to live here?’

‘Sometimes,’ Kalila acknowledged. ‘Although she took trips back to England—I spent my first holidays in Bournemouth.’

The moon glided out from behind a cloud, and in the pale light Kalila saw his teeth gleam, and she realised he was smiling. Faintly. The gesture surprised her; he hadn’t smiled properly since she’d met him. She wished she could see more of it. She wondered if the smile lit his eyes,
softened the hard planes of his face, and realised she wanted to know. ‘And she had the garden, of course,’ she finished after a moment, her voice sounding stilted. ‘She loved it here.’

‘And you?’ Aarif asked. ‘Will you miss your homeland?’

Kalila swallowed. ‘Yes…I think so.’ He said nothing, but she felt his silent censure like a physical thing, tautening the small space between them. And, of course, why shouldn’t he be surprised? Disappointed even? Here she was, admitting that she didn’t know if she’d miss her own country! She opened her mouth, wanting to explain the jumble of confused emotions and disappointed dreams to him, but nothing came out. What could she say, and what would this man want to hear?

Yet somehow, strangely, she felt as if he might understand. Or was that simply the wishful thinking of a woman with too many disappointed dreams?

‘I’ll miss Zaraq, of course,’ she said, after a moment, wanting, needing to explain. ‘And my father. And friends…’ She trailed off, unable to put words to the nameless longing for something else, something deeper and more instrinsically a part of herself, something that had no name. Something, she realised despondently, she wasn’t even sure she’d ever had.

‘It is a strange time,’ Aarif said after a moment. His voice was still neutral, yet in the shadowy darkness Kalila saw him lift his hand and drop it again—almost as if he’d been going to touch her. Her heart beat harder at the thought. ‘Once you are in Calista, you will feel more settled. The people will welcome you.’ He paused before adding, his voice still flat, ‘I’m sure they will love you.’

The people. Not Zakari. And what of him? What of Aarif? The question was ludicrous, so ridiculous and inappropriate that under the cover of darkness Kalila’s cheeks warmed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose I sound like I am full
of self-pity, but I hope—I know—’ she swallowed painfully ‘—that it will be better with time.’

‘Time heals most things,’ Aarif agreed, yet Kalila felt he was saying something else, something far from a platitude. Most things…but not all.

Aarif stirred on the bench and Kalila knew he wanted to leave. The night had grown quiet, their conversation too close. Yet the thought of his departure alarmed her, and she held out one hand, the moonlight bathing her skin in lambent silver. ‘Tell me about your brother.’

The words fell in the silence like the pebbles from her hand, disturbing the tranquil stillness. Kalila wished she hadn’t spoken. Why had she asked about Zakari? She didn’t want to know about him. She didn’t even want to
think
about him.

But you need to know. He is going to be your husband.

‘What kind of man is he?’ she asked, her voice trailing to a whisper. It shamed her that she had to ask. She felt as if she’d exposed something to Aarif without even realising it, as much as if she’d shown him that faded photograph in her lingerie drawer.

‘He is a good man,’ Aarif said after a long moment when he’d remained still and silent, his head half turned away from her. ‘A better man than I am. And a good king.’ Kalila started at his admission.
A better man than I am. Why? What kind of man are you?
She wanted to ask, but she was silent, and Aarif finished, ‘He will do his duty.’

His duty. Highest praise, no doubt, from a man like Aarif, but to Kalila it had the ring of condemnation. She wanted so much more than duty. Summoning her spirit, she tried for a laugh. ‘Can’t you tell me more than that?’ she asked, keeping her voice light.

Aarif turned to look at her, his eyes and face carefully expressionless. ‘I fear I cannot tell you the kinds of things a bride would like to know about her groom. And in truth, you will know soon enough.’

‘I thought he would have come. To see me.’ Kalila bit her lip, wishing the words back. Then she shrugged, a sudden spark of defiance firing through her. ‘He should have.’

Aarif stiffened, or at least Kalila felt as if he had. Perhaps he hadn’t moved at all. Yet she knew she’d gone too far; she’d almost insulted King Zakari. Her husband. She closed her eyes, opening them once more when Aarif spoke.

‘It was my fault that you were expecting King Zakari,’ he told her flatly. ‘I should have explained the arrangements before my arrival.’

Kalila glanced at him, curiosity flaring within her. Aarif held himself rigidly now, and although he was still unmoving she felt his tension emanating from him in forceful waves. He was not the kind of man to make such a mistake, she reflected, so what had happened? Why was he taking the blame?

‘It is no matter,’ she said after a moment. She could hardly explain how much it had mattered, or why. ‘King Zakari will be waiting for me in Calista. The wedding has already been delayed several times—what is a few more days?’

‘It seems,’ Aarif replied, his voice carefully neutral, ‘that it matters to you.’

Kalila looked away. That afternoon, it had mattered. She had been disappointed, hurt, like the child at a birthday party Aarif had thought her, waiting for a present only to find it empty inside. Yet now she felt worse; she was numb, indifferent. She’d finally realised there had never been a present, or even a façade of a present. There had only been an empty box.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

‘Princess Kalila, I should go.’ Aarif rose from the bench. ‘It is not seemly for us to be like this.’

‘Why not? We shall be as brother and sister in a matter of weeks,’ Kalila replied, raising her eyebrows in challenge.

Aarif paused. ‘True, but you know as well as I do that in countries such as ours men and women who are unattached do not spend time alone together, unchaperoned.’

‘Are you unattached?’ The question slipped out without much thought, yet Kalila realised she wanted to know. He wasn’t married, but was there a woman? A girlfriend, a mistress, a lover?

She shouldn’t ask; she didn’t need to know. Yet she wanted to. Something about that still, considering gaze, the carefully neutral tone, made her want to know the man that must be hidden underneath.

‘Yes.’ Aarif made to turn. ‘And now I must bid you goodnight. I trust you can find your way safely back to the palace?’

‘Yes—’ Half-turned as he was, the moonlight bathing his cheek in silver, illuminating that livid line from brow to jaw, Kalila found another question slipping out. ‘How did you get that scar?’

Aarif jerked in surprise, and then he turned slowly to face her. From the surprised—almost trapped—look on his face Kalila realised it was not a question she should have asked. It was not one Aarif wanted to answer. Still, she waited, her breath caught in her throat, her mind a flurry of questions.

‘A foolish accident,’ Aarif finally said, stiffly, as if he were not used to explaining. Perhaps he wasn’t.

‘It must have been.’ She regarded him solemnly, longing to lighten the moment, to make him smile again—somehow. ‘You look as if someone came at you with a scimitar,’ she added, letting a teasing note enter her voice. ‘Did you win?’ She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.

After an endless moment Aarif’s mouth curved in a tiny, reluctant smile. That hint of humour caused Kalila’s heart to lurch, her insides to roil in a confused jumble, for suddenly he did not seem like the man he’d been before. Suddenly he seemed like someone else entirely. Someone she wanted to know, the man underneath she’d wondered about coming to the fore.

‘Would you believe me,’ he asked, ‘if I told you I took on three camel rustlers by myself?’

His gaze was steady on hers, his mouth still curved. Kalila smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I would.’

And suddenly the moment of levity took on a deeper, disquieting meaning; suddenly something was stretching between them, winding around them, drawing them closer though neither of them moved.

Aarif’s eyes held hers and she didn’t look away. She reached one hand out in farewell, and to her surprise Aarif clasped it, his fingers, dry and cool, wrapping around hers, sending a jolt of startling awareness along her arm and through her whole body.

Her fingers tightened on his, and as the moment stretched on—too long—neither one of them let go. Neither of them, Kalila felt, wanted to. She should have pulled her hand away. Aarif should have loosened his grip.

Yet neither of them did, and the moment stretched on suspended and endless, as they remained, linked by their clasped fingers, holding each other’s gaze with a silent, suppressed longing. Kalila felt a clamour of different emotions rise within her: the need to be understood, cherished. Loved. The idea, strange and impossible, that this man could be the one who would.

Then, as if rousing himself from a dream, Aarif shook his head, the light in his eyes replaced by an even more disquieting bleakness, his mouth returning to its familiar, compressed line. He dropped her hand so suddenly Kalila’s arm swung down helplessly in the darkness, landing in her lap with a thud. She curled her fingers, now burning with the memory of his touch, against her thigh as Aarif turned away.

‘Goodnight, Princess,’ he said, and disappeared silently into the darkness of the garden.

B
Y THE
time Kalila awoke the next morning the city was alive with excitement and activity. She could sense it from the window of her dressing room, which faced east towards Makaris. She smelled it on the wind carried from the city, the scents of frying meat and spices, felt it in the air as if it were a tangible thing.

Kalila felt an answering excitement in herself, although her mind skittered away from its source. She was not looking forward to her marriage, yet she found herself eagerly anticipating the journey to Calista. With Aarif.

Stop.
She shouldn’t think like this, want like this. Yet the desires she felt were formless, nameless, and Kalila knew it was better for them to stay that way. Safer. In a fortnight, she would marry Zakari. There was no escaping that fate. Yet if she could afford herself a few brief, harmless moments of pleasure before then—

Stop.

‘Kalila! It is time you dressed!’ Juhanah bustled in, clapping her hands as she beamed in excitement. She would be accompanying her to Calista, and would stay for as long as it took for Kalila to settle.

And how long would that be? Kalila wondered, feeling the familiar despair settle over her once more. Days, months, years? Ever?

‘Kalila, my princess.’ Juhanah knelt by her side as Kalila sat on the window seat, one shoulder propped against the stone frame. ‘It is time. Prince Aarif wishes your bags to be loaded, everything is prepared.’

‘Already?’ She turned away from the window. Her clothes and personal items had already been packed; many of them she’d left in boxes, shipped from England. She did not have too much to bring, clothes, a few books and photographs, nothing more. They felt like scraps being brought to a feast, a humble and pathetic offering.

‘Juhanah, I don’t want to go.’ The words tumbled from her and her lips trembled. She pressed them together tightly, willed herself not to cry. Tears, now, would do no good. Still, she had to speak. She needed to give voices to the nameless terrors clamouring within her. ‘I don’t want to marry him,’ she whispered.

Juhanah was silent for a moment. Kalila couldn’t look at her; she felt too ashamed. ‘Oh,
ya daanaya
,’ Juhanah finally said, and rose to put her arms around Kalila. Kalila rested her head against Juhanah’s pillowy bosom, let herself be comforted like a child. ‘Of course you are afraid now. If King Zakari had come, perhaps it would be different. It is a hard thing, to travel to a strange country and wed a strange man.’

‘But I don’t think it
would
be different,’ Kalila whispered. ‘I realised that last night. I don’t want to do it, Juhanah. I don’t care what he’s like. He doesn’t love me.’

‘In time—’

‘In time comes affection, understanding, kindness,’ Kalila cut her off. ‘
Maybe
. I’ve been telling myself that for years. But why should I settle for such things? My father was able to have a love match. Aarif’s father and stepmother—Anya and Ashraf—had a love match. Why not me?’

Juhanah released her, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. ‘
Aarif’s
father?’ she repeated, and Kalila flushed.

‘Zakari’s father as well. Why must I settle?’

‘You are doing a great thing for your country,’ Juhanah told
her, and there was a warning note in her nurse’s voice that reminded Kalila of when she’d been caught stealing honey cakes from the kitchen. ‘You must act like the princess you are, Kalila, and do your duty.’

‘Yes. I know.’ She’d accepted that many years ago, had told herself it many times. Yet all those resolutions crumbled to dust in face of the harsh, present reality. ‘I know,’ she repeated, and if Juhanah heard the damning waver of doubt in Kalila’s voice, she did not comment on it.

‘Now, come. You must dress.’

‘I’m not wearing another costume,’ Kalila warned. ‘I won’t truss myself up like a harem girl so the people of Makaris can be satisfied.’

‘Of course not,’ Juhanah soothed. ‘Besides, it wouldn’t be sensible for travel.’

Kalila gave a little laugh, and Juhanah smiled encouragingly. She was wound so tightly, so desperately, she realised, and that little laugh reminded her of who she was. Who she used to be. She was a girl who laughed, who loved life, who embraced each opportunity with pleasure, abandon.

She was not this skittish, frightened, desperate creature. She would not let herself be.

In the end she chose a pair of loose cotton trousers and a matching tunic in palest green, embroidered with silver thread. She plaited her hair once more, and wore silver hoops on her ears, a silver locket that had been her mother’s around her neck.

Juhanah went to supervise the packing, and Kalila was left alone in her childhood bedroom. In a few moments she would say goodbye to the palace, the staff, and then her father. Bahir would fly to Calista for the wedding, but it wouldn’t be the same. When she walked out of the palace, she would be leaving this life for ever.

The thought saddened her. She’d grown up here, explored the echoing, shadowy corridors, curled up in a sunny window
seat, sneaked into her father’s library or the palace kitchen. The first time she’d been away from home for any length of time had been when she’d gone to Cambridge.

And what a different life she’d had there! A shared flat with a few other girls, nights out at the pub or takeaway pizza and a bottle of wine, everything casual and messy and fun.

She felt as if she were two people, the princess and the person. The queen-in-waiting and the modern girl who just wanted to be loved.

Yet you couldn’t be two people and still be happy. Still be yourself. So how would she survive in the coming months and years, when she took on the mantle that was so foreign to her, queen, wife? How could she be happy?

Again Aarif’s image flittered through her mind, tempting, treacherous. She’d been happy in his presence. She shook her head as if to deny herself that forbidden truth, and left her bedroom. From the window in the upstairs corridor she saw a motorcade assembled in the palace courtyard. There was a van for her cases, a car for Aarif, another for her father, a car for her and Juhanah, and another for the palace staff accompanying them to the airport.

It was a parade, and she was the centrepiece. Kalila closed her eyes. Her fingers curled around the sun-warmed stone of the window sill, and she held onto it like an anchor.

‘I can’t do it,’ she whispered aloud, though there was no one to hear. Her own heart heard, and answered.
I won’t
.

The sun beat down on Aarif as he stood in the palace courtyard, waiting for Kalila to arrive. A light wind blowing from the desert eased his discomfort, and he was grateful for the refreshment. He’d been up since dawn, seeing to arrangements; he wanted nothing left to chance or circumstance, no more mistakes to be made.

The first one had been bad enough.

Aarif’s mouth twisted in a grimace as he recalled his private
interview with King Bahir last night, after dinner. The king was too shrewd and politic to be overt about his displeasure, but he’d made his disappointment over Zakari’s absence known.

Aarif had done his best to be apologetic without weakening his own position, or that of his brother. He half-wondered if Bahir was making a bigger to-do about Zakari’s absence than perhaps was warranted; it could be, in future, a necessary bargaining chip.

And what of Kalila? His mind drifted back to the evening in the garden, the scent of roses mixed with a heady scent that he felt—feared—was the princess herself. He’d watched her out of the corner of his eye as he’d sat on the bench, less than a foot away from her. He’d seen how the moonlight had gleamed on her heavy, dark hair; he’d found his eyes drawn to the bare, graceful curve of her neck.

He’d felt her fingers in his, and he had not wanted to stop touching her. It had been a balm, that gentle touch, as if she’d understood him. As if she’d wanted to.

Yet even more than her appearance or touch had been her words, her smile.
You look as if someone came at you with a scimitar
. No one talked about his scar, no one asked him to remember. No one made him smile.

Except, somehow, inexplicably, she had. She’d slipped under his defences without even knowing she’d done so, and it made him both uneasy and strangely glad.

Stop
. His mind clamped down on these wandering thoughts with the precision and power of a steel trap. He had no business thinking of Kalila’s neck or hair, wondering what she smelled like, remembering the feel of her fingers. He had no business thinking of her at all.

She was to be his brother’s wife. He was here as a proxy, a servant, and he would do his job, fulfil his task.

He wouldn’t fail.

There was a flurry of movement at the palace doors, and Aarif saw Kalila come out into the courtyard. Her father was
behind her, dressed simply as Aarif was, in a white cotton shirt and tan chinos.

It was too hot, Aarif acknowledged, for formal dress. And his sense of the festival in Makaris was that it was a fun, lighthearted affair, a celebration rather than a ceremony.

Kalila approached him, looking fresh and cool, her eyes bright and clear, her smile firmly in place. As she came closer he saw shadows under her eyes, and her smile started to look a little fixed. She was bound to be a bit nervous, he supposed, a bit uncertain.

‘Good morning, Princess.’

‘Prince Aarif.’ She gave a small, graceful nod. ‘Thank you for helping with these arrangements. You do me a great service.’

Aarif sketched a short bow back. ‘It is my honour and pleasure.’

The formalities dealt with, she lowered her voice. ‘Thank you for your conversation in the garden last night. It helped me immeasurably.’

Aarif felt himself grow cold, his formal smile turning rigid. He felt as if her simple thanks had cast a sordid, revealing light on that innocent conversation—for it hadn’t been innocent, had it? His thoughts hadn’t, his touch hadn’t.

He nodded brusquely, saw the flicker of disappointed hurt in her eyes before she nodded back, accepting. He turned to gaze at the line of shiny black cars. ‘The day grows old and the sun high. We should not delay, for the people of Makaris are eager, I am sure.’

Kalila folded her arms protectively across her middle before becoming aware of the defensive position and dropping them. ‘Tell me, will King Zakari be in Calista when I arrive?’ Aarif hesitated, and she met his gaze knowingly. ‘Will he be waiting at the airport with a bouquet of roses, do you think?’ He heard the thread of mockery in her voice and felt equal stabs of annoyance and alarm. Did the girl actually expect a love match? Was she that naive, or simply hopeful?

Didn’t she deserve one?

He made his voice non-committal. ‘I am sure King Zakari will be pleased to renew your acquaintance.’

‘If you ring him to tell him,’ Kalila said, and now he heard laughter in her voice, brittle and sharp, ‘tell him I don’t actually like roses. Irises are my favourite.’

Aarif did not answer, and she moved away, her body held with stiff dignity. He suppressed another prickle of irritation. The last thing he needed was a royal princess’s hurt feelings to deal with. Surely she’d known this was an alliance of countries, not some great romance! Yet apparently she’d been hoping for something of the sort, or so it had seemed last night, when he’d heard the aching disappointment in her voice…

Aarif turned his mind resolutely away from the memory of last night, the quiet, forbidden intimacy of the garden. He turned to one of the palace staff who waited patiently for orders.

‘Have the cases been loaded?’ he demanded, hearing his tone and knowing it was unnecessarily surly and abrupt.

The aide lowered his eyes. ‘Yes, Prince Aarif.’

‘Good.’ Aarif glanced at the sky, the endless blue smudged by a faint streak of grimy grey on the horizon. ‘It looks like a wind is kicking up. We should leave without delay.’

It was another half-hour before they actually began to drive the five kilometers to Makaris, as servants and staff hurried to and fro, remembering this, forgetting that, while Aarif waited and watched, curbing his irritation with effort.

He wanted this whole spectacle to be finished. He wanted to be back in Calista, in his offices, away from the distractions, the temptations—

Again his mind clamped down, and he shook his head. No, he wouldn’t think of it. Of her.

As the motorcade moved into Makaris people lined the road, and the cars slowed to a crawl. Ahead of him Aarif saw Kalila’s car window open, and a slender, golden arm emerge to accept ragged bouquets of flowers, scraps of paper printed
with blessings and prayers, and other well wishes. The crowd smiled, cheered, and called their blessings, children and dogs trailing the cars as they went under the main arch of the city into the Old Town, with its crumbling buildings of red clay, before emerging into a large square lined with food stalls and filled to near overflowing with a joyous throng.

The cars drew to a halt, and King Bahir emerged from the front car, smiling and waving while aides stayed close to his side. Aarif looked around the ragged crowd with a deepening unease.

It was crowded, dirty, impossible to keep track of Kalila. Anyone could accost her, anything could happen. Aarif knew how quickly it could all go desperately, dreadfully wrong. And he, Aarif, would be responsible. Again.

He threw open the door of his car, snapping to an aide behind him. ‘Stay close to the princess. Don’t let her out of your sight.’

The man nodded, scurrying off, and Aarif stood in the centre of the square, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun as people pressed close, desperate for a glimpse of the royals, a blessing from the princess.

A space had been cleared for dancing, and Aarif watched as some local women put on a little show, a band of men in colorful robes and turbans playing instruments, the bandir drum, the maqrunah, the garagab. Together the instruments made a reedy, dissonant, not unpleasing sound, yet with the crowds and the heavy, spicy smell of fried food from the stalls, Aarif found himself annoyed, tensing, on alert.