The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin (9 page)

A smile flickered and died, but even that tiny gesture gave Kalila some hope. Hope of what—? She wouldn’t answer that question, but she knew she was glad for whatever link had been forged between them.

‘Poirot, of course,’ Aarif said. Again the smile, like sunlight breaking through the shadows. He paused. ‘And you?’

‘Poirot. I always thought Miss Marple a bit stuffy.’

He chuckled, little more than a breath of sound, and then the smiles died on both of their faces as the silence between them stretched into tension, memories. Aarif glanced away.

‘Is there something I can help you with, Princess?’

‘Are you going to take that tone with me all the time?’ Kalila demanded, and Aarif turned back to her with a cool smile, his eyebrows raised.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘That indifferent tone, like you don’t know or care about me,’ Kalila snapped, goaded into more honesty than she wished to reveal.

Aarif hesitated. ‘I think, perhaps,’ he said quietly, ‘it is better for both of us. Safer.’

Now it was her turn to challenge him with a cool smile of her own. ‘I think the time for safety has come and gone.’

Aarif’s expression hardened. ‘Perhaps, but just because I made one mistake does not mean I wish to repeat it. I think it is wiser for us to maintain our separate existences in the palace, Kalila. At least until my brother returns.’

Kalila pursed her lips. ‘And what shall I do for the next two weeks?’

For a moment—a second—Aarif looked discomfited. ‘Do…?’ he began, and Kalila cut him off with a sharp laugh.

‘Other than languish in my bedroom, eating bonbons,’ she filled in for him. ‘There’s no one here, Aarif. I’m alone, and I’m sure there are things I should do before my wedding. You
told my father there were preparations, it was why I had to leave so suddenly! Yet now I’m supposed to wander this palace like Bluebeard’s bride?’

Aarif’s mouth twitched in an involuntary smile even though the rest of his expression remained obdurate. ‘It is not my job to entertain you.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she challenged. ‘What would your brother say if he knew you were ignoring me? Didn’t he instruct you to take care of me?’

‘He instructed me,’ Aarif bit out, ‘to protect you, and I failed. I prefer not to do so again.’

Kalila took a step back at the savagery of his words, his tone. She’d been enjoying their verbal sparring for a moment, had found a freedom in words. She was restless, edgy, unfulfilled, yet release would not come this way.

‘Where are you brothers and sisters?’ she asked after a moment, and Aarif shrugged.

‘Busy.’

‘Will they return for the wedding?’

‘Undoubtedly.’ He did not sound concerned.

Kalila sank into a chair across from him, gazing blankly around the room, a library she realised distantly, taking in the shelves of leather-spined books, the comfortable chairs. It was a room to curl up, to lose yourself, in, amidst many of the stories housed here.

Her gaze found its way back to Aarif, his face still hard, unyielding, and she felt a stab of wounded disbelief that she’d held this man in her arms, had kissed him, touched him. It seemed so incredible now, as if the entire episode were a dream.

Perhaps it was, or as good as.

‘I didn’t expect it to be like this,’ she confessed quietly.

‘Nor did I,’ Aarif returned, and she thought she heard a current of sorrow in his voice, underneath his carefully neutral tone.

She sighed. ‘Aarif, I know—considering what has happened between us—things are difficult, but couldn’t you
at least extend your hand to me these next weeks? I would like to see this island, the city.’ She swallowed, feeling vulnerable and needy and not liking it. ‘I want to know the country where I am to be queen, and I can’t explore it on my own.’

Aarif was silent, but she saw the reluctance in his eyes, in the tightening of his mouth. She knew the battle warring within him: the desire to serve his brother best, and the duty to stay away from her. And perhaps, with that, a desire to spend time with her? To get to know her, the real her, whoever that was?

She wasn’t sure herself; she only knew she’d felt more real and sure and right when she’d been in Aarif’s arms.

‘Yes, I could do that,’ he finally agreed, the reluctance pronounced now, the words drawn slowly out of him. ‘I could take you round Serapolis tomorrow if you like.’

Kalila smiled, suddenly feeling light. It was silly to feel so hopeful, as if he’d given her far more than an unwilling tour of the town, yet she did. She had time with Aarif…only hours, and who knew what could happen?

What did she
want
to happen?

The question unsettled her, made her uneasy.

You’re thinking you’ve fallen in love with me
. Aarif’s warning, an ever present, insistent echo in her heart. She hadn’t, she knew she hadn’t.

But she could.

Kalila swallowed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and Aarif jerked his head in the semblance of a nod.

There was no reason to stay in the warm, lamp-lit intimacy of that room, the sound of cicadas a loud chorus through the open windows. Yet she wanted to. She wanted to curl up in a chair and tell Aarif things she’d not told anyone else.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t know who I am. I’m caught between two worlds, two lives, and I wonder if I chose the wrong one.

She bit her lip to keep from spilling such secrets, for she knew Aarif did not want to hear them. Worse, he would
think less of her if he knew she thought such things. Wouldn’t he? Or would he perhaps understand? She’d seen that flicker of compassion before, had felt it like a current between them.

She wanted that feeling again; she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to leave him.

‘Perhaps I’ll get a book,’ she said, and stood up, roaming the shelves. ‘Any more Agatha Christies here?’ she asked, trailing a finger along the well-worn spines.

Aarif sighed. ‘I’m afraid not.’

No, she saw, the shelves were filled with dusty old classics, and, like Aarif, she wanted something light. She wanted escape.

‘Ah, well,’ she said with a little smile and a shrug, and selected a volume at random.

She plopped down into a chair across from him and with a sunny smile opened the book.

It was in German. She stared blankly at the words, fixing a look of interest to her face, although why she was pretending she had no idea.

Aarif sighed, a smile lurking in his eyes even though his mouth was still no more than a hard line. ‘Can you read German, Kalila?’

She glanced up, the answering smile in her heart finding its way to her lips. ‘No, can you?’

‘No, but my father could. Most of these books were his.’ His lips twitched. ‘How long were you going to stare at that book, pretending you could read it?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Kalila closed the book with both reluctance and relief. ‘I don’t want to be alone,’ she said quietly, and saw Aarif stiffen.

‘It is not appropriate for—’

‘Oh, Aarif, hasn’t the time for such things passed?’ Kalila cut him off. ‘What harm can come of us sitting here, in a library?’ Yet even as she said the words she heard the answer in her own heart. The room was cast into pools of light and
shadow by the little lamp and the thick, velvety darkness outside. It was an intimate environment. A dangerous one, and as Kalila watched Aarif’s eyes flare with awareness she knew he realised it too.

She felt it herself, coiling around her heart, making her body tingle. It would be so easy, she thought, to rise from her chair and go to Aarif, to take the spectacles from his nose and the book from his hands, and—

‘Go to bed, Kalila,’ Aarif said quietly. ‘It is late.’

It wasn’t that late, only nine o’clock or so, but Kalila knew what he was really saying.
Stay away from me
.

And yet she couldn’t. She didn’t want to, even though it was dangerous. Even though it was wrong.

Aarif continued gazing at her, his expression steady and becoming cold, the warm, sensual atmosphere dissolving into arctic awkwardness. After a moment Kalila rose from the chair, trying to keep her dignity although it was hard. Aarif said nothing, just watched as she took a step backwards.

‘Goodnight,’ she finally whispered, and turned around and fled.

It took her a while to find her way back to the bedroom, and Kalila was glad. For a few minutes she lost herself in the darkened corridors, her footsteps a whispery slapping sound against the worn stone. She didn’t want to return to her bedroom, her prison.

This is my life now. All of this, my life.

She closed her eyes. How could she have not realised how this would feel? A loveless marriage, born of duty? Hadn’t she realised in Cambridge, back when she had had a choice or at least the semblance of one, how this would feel?

How miserable she would be?

And yet, it didn’t matter, because in the end, even when she’d found something different, deeper with Aarif—maybe—she would still do her duty, would have to, and so would he. That was what hurt most of all.

She slipped into her bedroom, a cool evening breeze blowing in the scent of jasmine from the gardens.

Kalila went to the window seat and curled up there, her flushed cheek pressed against the cool stone. She gazed down at the shadowy tangle of bushes and shrubs below, and it reminded her so much of her garden at home—a garden she’d loved, a garden she didn’t know when she’d see again—that she let out an involuntary choked cry of despair.

I don’t want to be here.

A tear trickled down her cheek, and a knock sounded on the door.

Kalila slid from the window seat, dashing that one treacherous tear from her face, and went to open the door. Aarif stood there, his face drawn, as ever, into harsh lines, his eyes dark and almost angry, his mouth pursed tightly.

‘Is something wrong…?’ Kalila asked and Aarif thrust something at her.

‘Here.’

Kalila’s hands closed around the object as a matter of instinct and she glanced down at it. It was a book, a mystery by Agatha Christie, one she hadn’t read. Her lips curved into an incredulous, hopeful smile and she glanced up at Aarif.

‘Thank you.’

‘I thought you might want something to read, and I had some in my room.’ Then, as if he’d said too much, he shut his mouth, his lips pressed tightly together once more.

Yet Kalila could not keep from smiling, couldn’t keep the knowledge from blooming inside her. Somewhere, somehow, deep inside, Aarif cared. About her. Maybe just a little bit, a tiny bit, but—

It was there.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, her voice dropping to a whisper, and Aarif looked as if he might say something. He raised his hand, and Kalila tensed for his touch, wanting it, needing it—but he dropped it again and gave her a small, sorrowful smile.

‘Goodnight, Kalila,’ he said, and turned and walked slowly down the darkened hallway.

He needed to stay away from her. Aarif knew that, knew it with every instinct he possessed, and yet he denied what his mind relentlessly told him, denied and failed.

Failed his brother, failed himself, failed Kalila. Was there any test he would not fail? he wondered cynically, his mouth twisting in bitter acknowledgement of his own weakness. Was there anything—anyone—he could be trusted with?

The last time he’d been entrusted with another’s care, his brother had died.

Take care of him
.

He hadn’t.

This time, he’d stolen a princess’s innocence, her purity. He had, Aarif acknowledged with stark clarity, ruined her life. For even if Zakari could forgive his bride, the chances of Kalila gaining what she so wanted with him—love, happiness—were slim. How could those be built on a basis of betrayal?

It was with a rare irony that Aarif acknowledged how this tragedy had sprung from the first. If he hadn’t had his old nightmare, Kalila wouldn’t have comforted him. He wouldn’t have found a moment’s peace, a moment’s sanctuary in her arms, and sought more.

More.

He’d denied himself for so long, kept himself apart from life and love, and yet for a moment he’d given in, he’d allowed himself to feast at a table where he was not even a guest.

And he wanted more.

Even now, he wanted to feel her in his arms, breathe in the sweet scent of her hair, watch the impish smile play about her mouth before he kissed her—

He strode into his bedroom, his fingers threading through his hair, fists clenched, feeling pain—

How could he make this right? How could he make anything right?

Or was he condemned to the hell of living with his mistakes and their endless repercussions, without any chance for healing or salvation?

Outside the cicadas continued their relentless chorus and the moon rose in the inky sky. He was condemned, Aarif decided grimly, and he deserved to be.

T
HE
next day dawned bright and clear, with a refreshingly cool breeze blowing in from the sea. A perfect day for sightseeing, Kalila decided happily as she dressed in loose trousers and a tunic top in a pale mint green.

‘What shall we do today?’ Juhanah asked, bustling in just as Kalila began plaiting her hair.

Kalila’s heart sank. In all her vague imaginings of the day ahead, she had not considered Juhanah, but of course her nurse would expect to accompany her into town, and of course Aarif would demand such a chaperone. Suddenly the day took on a whole new complexion, as Kalila envisioned the many ways Aarif could keep from engaging with her at all.

And wasn’t that really the right thing to do? Kalila’s conscience suffered yet another pang. If she had any sense of honour or duty, any sense at all, she would keep her distance from Aarif, just as he was determined to keep it from her. Surely learning more about him—growing closer, if such a thing were possible—would only lead to complications. Disappointment. Danger.

And yet. And yet…she still wanted to know him, wanted to discover what drove him, as well as what made him smile or laugh. Wanted to feel that closeness, that connection again. Right now it felt like the only pale ray of hope and happiness in an otherwise dull and disappointing existence.

‘Prince Aarif is taking us into Serapolis,’ Kalila said, finally answering her nurse. She kept her gaze on her own reflection in the mirror, although she was conscious of Juhanah stilling behind her. ‘He realised he has certain duties as host, especially considering there is no one else here at the moment.’

Juhanah gave a small grunt of satisfaction. ‘Did you speak to him?’

Kalila hesitated, and in the mirror she saw Juhanah’s eyes narrow. ‘He gave me a book last night,’ she finally said lightly. ‘An Agatha Christie, actually. You know how I like mysteries.’

Juhanah still looked suspicious, but she set about folding clothes and rustling the bed sheets, although Kalila was sure there was a palace maid who could see to such things. ‘Did he tell you when King Zakari will be returning?’

‘No, we didn’t speak of it,’ Kalila replied, then bit her lip at that unintentional admission. Juhanah’s eyes narrowed speculatively once more.

‘Didn’t you?’ she said, but left it at that.

Aarif met them in the palace courtyard. He looked fresh and cool, dressed in a cream-coloured shirt, open at the throat, and dark, belted trousers.

‘We can take a car into the Old Town,’ Aarif said, ‘which will be comfortable and more private. Or, if you prefer, we can walk. Serapolis is a small city, and we do not have many formal customs here.’

‘Let’s walk,’ Kalila said immediately, and the corner of Aarif’s hard mouth twitched upward in a tiny smile.

‘I thought you’d say that,’ he murmured, and just from his look Kalila felt a dart of electricity shoot straight through her belly, tingling upwards and outwards to every finger, toe, fibre and sinew. She smiled back, but Aarif had already turned away and began to address Juhanah.

That was how the first hour passed as they walked down the narrow, winding street from the palace into the heart of the Old Town. Aarif pointed out various landmarks on the
way, but as this was more for the benefit of Juhanah than her, Kalila found her mind drifting.

This was her town, her country. Her life. Her mind skittered away from that thought, although it was difficult to ignore the admiring gazes and bows of passers-by who recognised Aarif, some also guessing who Kalila must be. Within a short while she had collected a handful of ragged posies, and the edge of her tunic was grimy from the hands of children who had come begging for a blessing, some speaking in Arabic, some in Greek, some even in English.

Something softened and warmed inside her at the genuine goodwill of the Calistan people, and she smiled and touched the children’s heads, grateful for their spontaneous affection. If she couldn’t have the love of her husband, perhaps she would satisfy herself with the love of her people. Many a queen had done the same.

But I want more
. The protest rose within her, unbidden, desperate. More.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Aarif watching her, and there was a strange, arrested look in his eyes, something she didn’t understand. She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or appreciative of that look, yet it warmed her to know he was looking at her, thinking of her. Conscious of her eyes upon him, he jerked his own gaze away, focusing on the view of the market square ahead of them.

The market was lined with stalls and filled with the raucous shrieks of the peddlers determined or perhaps desperate to sell their wares. Kalila walked along the stalls, revelling in the variety of sights, smells and sounds. It had only been two days ago that she’d been in Makaris, enjoying a sight just like this one, and yet it felt an age, a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes—for surely she was not the same woman she had been then.

She knew she wasn’t.

Juhanah was already exclaiming over a bolt of red damask threaded with gold, and Kalila paused before a display of
lavender silk, threaded with a rainbow of shades of blue and purple. It looked and felt like water, clean and cool.

‘You like that?’ Aarif asked, coming up behind her, and Kalila smiled.

‘It’s very pretty.’

Aarif barked a few instructions in Arabic to the peddler, who, giving him a rather toothless smile, said something back. They were speaking too fast for Kalila to catch what they were saying, and her Arabic wasn’t very good anyway, but she knew they were haggling, and she enjoyed seeing the glint of amused determination in Aarif’s eyes, the way the simple exchange lightened his countenance.

Finally they reached an agreed price, and Kalila couldn’t help but murmur, ‘Did you get a good deal?’

Aarif turned to her with a smile and a shrug. ‘He would have been offended if I hadn’t haggled.’

‘Of course.’ She paused, watching as the peddler bundled the silk up and Aarif gave instructions to deliver it to the palace. ‘You didn’t have to buy it for me,’ she said quietly.

He shrugged, yet this time the movement lacked the easy familiarity of a moment before. Instead it was tense, straining towards indifference, and his gaze did not meet hers. ‘It will look lovely on you. Besides, it is custom in Calista to offer a wedding gift for the bride.’

‘Shouldn’t that be Zakari’s providence?’ Kalila asked, then wished she hadn’t when Aarif’s expression closed up.

‘Perhaps, but he is not here to do it,’ he replied, and there was a surprising note of acerbity to his voice. For a second Kalila wondered if Aarif was actually criticising his brother.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and dared to lay a hand on his arm. Aarif stilled, glancing down at her hand, and Kalila was conscious of the warmth of his skin on her fingers, the awareness that surged through her from the simple touch. Would he always affect her this way? she wondered. It was a wonderful and yet frightening thought.

‘You’re welcome,’ Aarif replied, and he raised his gaze so his eyes were steady on hers, like a rebuke. Blushing a little, Kalila removed her hand.

They moved on, past the cloth and fabric stalls with their bolts of silks and satins, as well as the cheaper and more serviceable cotton and corduroy, and onto the spice stalls, with their exotic scents and deep colours of ochre and umber, canisters full of cinnamon, cardamom, paprika and the precious saffron.

There were more stalls, some selling postcards, some cheap American knock-offs and dodgy-looking electronics.

Kalila enjoyed the shouting and shrieking, the bargaining and haggling, the pulsing sense of energy and excitement that a crowded market created. She felt alive, part of something bigger than herself, and it was a blessed escape from the prison of her bedroom and, worse, of her own mind.

Aarif suggested they have lunch at a highbrow-looking restaurant with private rooms and deep, plush chairs, but Kalila refused, wanting to stay out in the noise and tumult of the market. She had a sudden fear that she would lose him in the oppressive formality of such a place; out here, in the market, he was more accessible, more free, and so was she.

They ate greasy, succulent kebabs at a food stall, licking their fingers and washing it down with bottles of warm Orangina, and yet Kalila found it to be one of the best meals she’d ever eaten, with the sun warm on her head, Aarif’s eyes warm on her face.

He didn’t smile, didn’t even unbend, and yet she felt something had changed, shifted imperceptibly between them, and she was glad. It reminded her of how his skin had felt against hers, his lips on hers, and with an inward shiver she knew she wanted to feel that again.

To feel the intimacy of touch, and yet a deeper intimacy too, one of spirit. It amazed her even now that she’d felt that with Aarif…Aarif, who was so hard and dark and harsh. And yet she had; she knew she had, and it felt like something precious, something sacred.

After lunch they wandered around the other side of the market square, where the common hucksters performed their stunts to a half-indifferent, half-enchanted crowd: snake charmers, with the dozy cobras coiled in their baskets, weaving their heads sleepily upwards, the flame-throwers and fire-eaters, and a grinning ‘dentist’, armed as he was with a basket of pulled, yellowed teeth and a pair of rusty pliers.

‘He’s just there to scare what tourists come our way,’ Aarif murmured in her ear. ‘We have a national health service, and I can assure you he is not employed by it.’

Kalila smothered a laugh. ‘You mean you haven’t used his services yourself?’

Aarif’s smile gleamed, white and whole. ‘Most assuredly not.’

His hand came around her elbow, guiding her to the edge of the market square. ‘Your nurse is flagging,’ he remarked quietly. ‘I think it might be time to sit down. She looks as if her feet are killing her.’

Guiltily Kalila threw a look behind her, where Juhanah lagged back a few paces. Her nurse did look tired, and her pinched expression suggested that she would indeed prefer a rest.

‘Why don’t we take tea?’ Aarif suggested. ‘You might have preferred eating standing up in the street, but I don’t think your nurse did.’

‘I’m sorry, Juhanah,’ Kalila said, coming to take the older woman’s arm. ‘I’ve been so enjoying the sights, I haven’t thought enough of you.’

‘And enjoying more than the sights, it would seem,’ Juhanah huffed under her breath, and Kalila shot her a sharp look. Were her feelings for Aarif so obvious? She barely knew what they were herself.

Aarif guided them to a flat-roofed café on the north end of the square. Once inside they were greeted with a flurry of excited chatter interspersed with bows, and then they were taken up a narrow staircase to the roof, open to the sun and sky.

They sat down at a shaded table and a dark-coated waiter soon arrived with glasses of mint tea and a plate of salted pistachios.

They sipped and nibbled in silence for a moment, the sounds of the market below carried on the breeze.

‘Thank you,’ Kalila said at last, ‘for showing me Serapolis.’

‘There’s much more to see,’ Aarif replied with a tiny smile and a shrug. ‘Although nothing is quite as exciting as the central square on market day.’

‘I’m glad to have seen it.’

Aarif raised his eyebrows. ‘You must have seen similar sights back in Zaraq. Makaris’s market looked quite like ours.’

‘Yes,’ Kalila agreed slowly, ‘it is, and yet there is something different here.’ She looked around at the market below them, and then at the sea, a glinting jewel-green on three horizons. ‘There’s more of an international flavour here,’ she said at last, ‘an energy. In Zaraq, we are cut off from most of the world by mountains. It is what has kept us from being invaded, but it has also kept us isolated.’

‘Yet your country is very Western and progressive.’

‘On the surface,’ Kalila agreed after a moment, ‘if not in reality.’ She pressed her lips together and looked away, but she was still conscious of Aarif’s frown.

‘What are you speaking of?’ he asked after a moment. He rolled the tall glass of mint tea, beaded with moisture, between his palms as he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you referring to your marriage?’ he continued quietly, although Kalila thought she heard an edge to his voice. ‘Arranged as it has been?’

She shrugged. ‘Not very Western, that.’

‘But necessary.’

‘Yes.’

‘You could have refused your father,’ Aarif said after a moment. ‘When you were in Cambridge.’ He leaned forward, his expression suddenly intent. ‘You could have said no.’

Kalila glanced up from her drink, her eyes widening as she realised what he’d said. What he’d guessed. For that was exactly
the temptation that had assailed her in Cambridge, that forbidden, wonderful thought of what could be…but never would.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I could have, I suppose. But I knew I never would.’

‘Why not?’ Aarif demanded, and Kalila shrugged.

‘Because. I couldn’t betray my family, my heritage,’ she stated simply. ‘It would be the same as betraying myself.’

Aarif looked away again, yet Kalila had the strange sensation that her answer had somehow satisfied him. She glanced at Juhanah and saw that the older woman had succumbed to the pleasures of a drowsy afternoon in the sun, and was now dozing, her chin nodding against her chest. She turned back to Aarif, a smile glimmering in her eyes, playing around her mouth.

‘We wore her out.’

Aarif smiled faintly. ‘So it would seem.’

She couldn’t resist taking advantage of the privacy afforded by Juhanah’s momentary nap. Kalila leaned forward. ‘What about you, Aarif? What brought you back to Calista? Were you ever tempted to stay in Oxford, make a life there?’

His fingers flexed around his glass. ‘No.’

‘Not at all?’ Kalila persisted, trying to tease, yet sensing a deeper darkness to Aarif’s words, seeing it in his frown.

‘No, my duty has always been here. There was never any question of anything else.’ He spoke flatly, his eyes on the horizon, or perhaps lost in a memory.

‘You always wanted to manage Calista’s diamonds?’