Читать книгу The Desert King's Housekeeper Bride - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 8

SHE could never go out there again.

Never!

Face-down on her bed, writhing with humiliation, sobbing in utter shame and fear, Effie considered her options.

Wander out now into the desert and disappear for ever?

Or put on a smile and make dinner?

The desert seemed the gentler option.

How could she possibly face him now? Yet how could she not?

Was that what Stavroula had meant by on call day and night?

Nothing was too much trouble for the King?

And he was furious with her too! Her rabid apologies had only made things worse!

Her job was over, except she couldn’t even leave…Effie wept at the hopelessness of it all—even her womb was weeping in sympathy, proving the impossibility of her plight. For even if she were of that sort, even if she did know how to pleasure not just a man, but the King, it was her monthly time and she couldn’t.

And she was stuck here for days!

‘Here!’

For the second time in an hour she froze.

Face-down in the pillow, she froze at the deep sound of his voice, felt his imposing presence in the room. Only this time it was without anger, his voice utterly calm and even when next he spoke.

‘I have made you a drink…Take it…’

The King had made her a drink!

Stunned, she turned over and looked at the tiny jewelled cup he offered. She took it, lifting the cup to her lips and tasting the thick sweet syrupy coffee, taking comfort from its warmth. Though the sugary drink wasn’t exactly helping her to recover from her shock. If anything she was more stunned than ever that Sheikh King Zakari was not just in her room, but actually talking to her without anger, her confusion increasing when finally she dared to look and saw that there was almost a smile on his face.

‘Can I know your name?’

“Effie.’ She struggled to get up, to remember her place. ‘Your Highness, I cannot tell you how sorr—’

‘Enough!’ He halted her stammering repeat of an apology with one word and after a moment’s consideration he actually sat down on the bed beside her and just stared at her for the longest time.

For an hour Zakari had heard her weeping.

As he had dressed, his initial anger had faded into wry amusement. Zakari didn’t do embarrassment—a flash of anger perhaps, for what she had thought she had found, but embarrassment—no.

He had heard her embarrassment, though.

And, once his anger and disappointment that Christobel had failed to arrive had faded, he had realised what had happened—and had also realised her fear.

And, given they had several days still to spend isolated in the desert, he had chosen, as he often did, to address the latest problem to arrive in his life directly.

‘I thought you were Christobel—she was due to arrive this afternoon and naturally when I saw her case come out of the helicopter…’

‘She left the palace this morning, Your Highness.’ Effie’s teeth were chattering; she was terrified of speaking directly with the King, yet she was grateful for the chance to explain herself. ‘I was chosen as a replacement at the last minute. There was no time for me to pack—I have to wear her things…’

Zakari glanced at her generous flesh, but didn’t comment.

‘I thought you were in the desert, that you wouldn’t return till sunset. I wanted to prepare your room for you.’ Effie gave a helpless shrug. ‘Stavroula did say that I am to be on call day and night, that nothing was to be too much trouble for you. She tried to make it clear to me what my duties would be and I was so eager in my acceptance, I truly didn’t understand…I don’t know about these things.’

‘Stavroula meant cleaning, preparing my meals—if I require a drink or conversation perhaps…’ Zakari explained. ‘What happened this afternoon—’ he dismissed the entire event with one flick of a manicured hand ‘—Christobel and I had our own private arrangement…’

‘Oh…’ Effie frowned, realising only now why the irresponsible, rather lazy Christobel held such an esteemed position!

‘So I’m not here for…I mean, you don’t expect me to…’

‘No.’ Zakari withered at the very thought, though he didn’t show it. He was used to reed-thin, groomed and skilled lovers—the thought of this plain, plump, blushing woman taking Christobel’s place made his response quite definite!

‘And you do need a housekeeper?’

He neither wanted nor needed a housekeeper, but as he stared down at her tear-streaked face something unfamiliar twisted inside him, the same twist that had responded to her cries, and the same twist that had sent a king to make a maid a drink.

‘Yes…’ He frowned at his own response—confused that he was actually placating her, when always, always it was the other way around. ‘I do need a housekeeper, but not tonight. Unpack your things and then rest. You will commence your duties tomorrow.’

He swept out then—leaving Effie blinking on the bed, reeling at the turn of events.

The shame, the appallingness of what had taken place, dimmed by sheer bemusement.

The King had made her a drink and had consoled her in her shame.

King Zakari had made the impossible suddenly better.

On shaky legs she stood, unclipping the suitcase as he had instructed, and pulled back the lid, her hands shaking, her face darkening red as she went through the contents. Her head was tight with sinful curiosity as Christobel and the King’s private arrangement revealed itself further.

Apart from one token maid’s outfit that would be way too tight on Effie, it was silk stockings that slid through her fingers, silver-foil-wrapped condoms that glistened in the make-up bag, suspender belts and sheer bras that wouldn’t cover a pimple, that over and over mocked Effie’s innocence. Lotions and potions that Christobel must use to weave her magic had Effie wide-eyed with shock, and, pulling out a flimsy robe and the spare uniform that were the only remotely decent objects, she quickly slammed the case closed and tried to forget what she’d seen. She’d wear the same clothes all week rather than touch Christobel’s stuff! Having washed out her own underwear and dress to wear in the morning, Effie slipped between the cool sheets. The flimsy robe and uniform lay draped over the chair, should Zakari call her, and Effie willed herself to relax, only she couldn’t. She turned off the small bedside lamp and willed the rest Zakari too had instructed to come to her, but for the first time she defied the King’s orders.

Switching the lamp back on, she retrieved the case. Her eyes narrowed in curiosity this time as slowly she went through the contents, rubbing lipsticks on the backs of her hands, spraying perfume in the air, then, removing the lid on one of the containers, Effie inhaled the sickly sweet smell of depilatory cream. Oh, she might be naive but she wasn’t stupid. Effie knew there were no fancy waxing clinics in Calista as there were on Aristo, that for Christobel to be groomed, she would have to take care of that herself.

Staring down at her own body, Effie could see the coarse hair on her legs, the thick curls that hid her womanhood, and for the first time she cared—cared that they were there. Wishing her body were smooth and soft and beautiful enough…Then cursed herself for even daring to think such things. Ramming the lid back on the container, she angrily turned off the light, refusing to think about it, except her mind wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t give her the quiet she craved.

She had entered a different world today, seen things she’d never thought she would. Effie screwed her eyes tightly closed and willed sleep to come, only it wasn’t the King or the desert that worried her…Her wildest dreams were a pale version to today’s events.

Here in the desert Zakari liked to prepare his own simple breakfast—

But this morning he was greeted with a feast.

He returned to the aroma of fresh fatir, a sweet pancake pastry Effie had prepared. Tiny bowls with ground almonds in argan oil and honey waited on the table for him, along with cheeses, sweet syrupy fruits and the usual strong, sweet treacle of coffee, but she had also made a refreshing mint tea.

‘This is good,’ Zakari said with unexpected enthusiasm as he took a bite of the fatir. He had the best chefs, was used only to excellent food being served to him, yet fatir, properly prepared, well, there was little better.

‘It’s my mother’s recipe.’ Effie smiled.

‘She is a good cook!’

‘She was.’ He watched her smile falter. ‘She died two years ago. She was once a palace maid at Aristo. She used to make it—’

‘They would not have fatir there,’ Zakari interrupted with a sneer. ‘There it is all French pastries, and croissants. At least here on Calista we have tradition still!’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Effie duly agreed, ‘but my mother worked there many years ago, before I was born.’

‘When King Christos was alive.’ Zakari smiled at the memory of a man he had never met, then graciously conceded the point to Effie. ‘They would have had fatir in the palace then. And argan…’ He dipped the pastry in the rare oil, and offered it to her. Shocked, Effie refused.

‘Sit,’ Zakari ordered. ‘For days I have spoken to no one. As a housekeeper here in the desert you can speak with me when I choose.’ He held out the pastry dripping with oil and she took it. ‘However,’ Zakari reminded, ‘when we return to the palace I will ignore you.’

‘Of course!’ Effie demurred, stunned when he smiled, and lost, just lost, by the effect of that coveted smile when aimed at her.

‘That was a joke,’ Zakari said. ‘If I see you, of course, I will greet you. So how is the argan?’ he asked, as Effie glowed at the thought of the King acknowledging her back at the palace!

‘It’s wonderful.’ She had eaten fatir before, but hers was always sweetened just with honey. The argan oil was a luxury, liquid gold, produced from trees that grew only in Southwest Morocco. It was a delicacy and it tasted divine.

‘It is good for energy,’ Zakari explained. ‘It is also considered…’ he hesitated when he saw a dull flush spread on her cheeks, realising that after yesterday’s goings-on an aphrodisiac perhaps wasn’t required at breakfast this morning ‘… to have many medicinal benefits,’ he offered instead, and as Effie watched that handsome, unscrupulous face again soften with a smile it was easy for her to smile too. ‘My mother too always insisted on fatir.’

‘Your real mother or Queen Anya?’

It was an innocent question, the easiness of their chatter, the informality he had engineered all serving to knock her off guard, but seeing his eyes narrow, the sudden rigidity of his features, Effie could have bitten off her tongue, inwardly cursing herself for forgetting Stavroula’s stern warning, because once again she was in trouble.

‘Your job is to listen!’ Zakari snapped. ‘Not to question.’

‘Of course, Your Highness…’ Effie stood, cheeks flaming, busying herself with clearing dishes away, rueing that she had mentioned a subject that was clearly out of bounds. But as she turned for the staff area Zakari’s words halted her.

‘My first mother.’ His voice was softer now, his eyes kinder, when finally Effie turned around. ‘My first mother insisted we eat fatir in the morning.’

Scared of saying the wrong thing again, Effie nodded.

‘I have enjoyed my breakfast this morning. Tomorrow, though,’ Zakari said, ‘I just want coffee. I like to live simply during my time here.’

‘You can’t go out to the desert without eating!’ Effie snapped her mouth closed, terrified she’d gone too far again, only breathing again when instead of scolding her he took another bite of the fatir she had so skilfully made and again compromised. ‘Coffee and fatir…’ he relented. ‘But that is to be all.’

The winds of yesterday had wreaked change.

As Zakari set off into the desert he surveyed the endlessly shifting landscape.

If lost, the rocks—the constants—would guide him, were guiding him now, Zakari reminded himself, even if he felt abandoned. His search for the missing half of the diamond had taken many twists and turns. Since Aegeus’s death, when he had discovered that the stone had been replaced with a fake, his search had been relentless, taking him to Egypt, to America and to London. Some small Aristan pieces of jewellery had turned up at the most exclusive of auctions, and Zakari had purchased them back anonymously, positive now that Aegeus had kept a lover whom he had showered with gifts—and, Zakari concluded, perhaps even the stone.

But who?

Every lead he had followed seemed to take him further from the truth, every jewel that turned up confused the picture more. There had been rumours she had been a maid, but that search had proved fruitless; rumours too of a mistress during the early years of Aegeus’s marriage, but if there had been, then Aegeus had been more than discreet.

At every turn, there was nothing

That was why he was here, why he had chosen to retreat to the desert. The craziness of the past few months, Aegeus’s death, his son Sebastian relinquishing his right to the throne, his own brothers’ weddings, his pursuit of the stone…Zakari had chosen to clear his head, to come to the rich land and humbly ask for its help.

He wandered, only aimlessly now.

Effie speaking of his mother, daring to speak of his mother, had kindled something…First a flicker of a memory of a time when life was uncomplicated, running through their palace, in another land, another time, the sound of laughter from his mother.

His real mother.

He had not been born to be King of Calista and for a while that had troubled his mind and no doubt the people of Calista too.

His mother had died while giving birth to her seventh child, Zafir. His father, Sheikh Ashraf Al’Farisi, the third son of the ruling family of the Sheikhdom of Hadiya, had, after a period of grieving, fallen in love with Queen Anya, the ruler of Calista.

Unable to have children herself, she had raised and loved Ashraf’s children as her own, and had groomed Zakari to one day be King. A day that still should not have happened, that should still be in the distance, except Ashraf and Anya had been killed in a helicopter crash and the weight of the grieving island had fallen onto his shoulders.

Now, five years on, and at thirty-seven years of age, he felt the weight of responsibility had never been greater, or so willingly carried.

Power was everything to Zakari.

Finding the jewel his sole mission now.

So why, Zakari demanded of himself, couldn’t he concentrate on doing just that?

The day was long. Zakari had disappeared after breakfast and Effie had set about cleaning, happy to be busy so that she didn’t have to think about the events of yesterday!

There was a lot to be done.

He might make his own food and drinks but he didn’t wash a plate or cup. Clothes and towels littered the carpeted floors, and Effie set about picking up and washing and cleaning, indulging in a teeny fantasy of doing such a good job, of being so unobtrusive, yet so breathtakingly efficient, that Zakari might, on return to the palace, select her to replace Christobel as his personal housekeeper—for housekeeping duties only, though, Effie amended, her face suddenly on fire!

Only late in the day did she summon the nerve to prepare his sleeping area, her blush returning as she entered his room.

She set about sweeping the floor and dusting the dark ornate furniture, before finally pulling the endless pillows and cushions from his vast bed and changing the silk sheets. No matter how she tried not to think about it—in fact, the more she tried not to think about it—over and over she did. She just couldn’t banish that image of King Zakari from her mind.

Effie knew her place and, unlike many, there wasn’t a resentful bone in her body. Her mother had raised her to adore the royals. They had been generous to her, Lydia had explained. Her hard work at the palace when she was younger had been rewarded by a generous package when she had left, and with wise investment it had meant they had a home and a moderate income despite Lydia never working.

Effie had never questioned it.

Just as she didn’t question why some should have everything, while others had nothing. She felt privileged to work in the palace. Even if she only got to clean the fineries, still she could gaze upon them. Even if she only polished the silver and jewels, still she got to hold them in her hands.

It could never be hers.

She accepted that.

Just as the man she had glimpsed in naked, sensual beauty could never, would never, lavish his attention on her.

Yet there was this unfamiliar thrill in the pit of her stomach as she recalled what she had witnessed. She bit on her lip as she dragged off the sheet. The flurry of the silk had his masculine scent lingering in the air, and, just for a moment, for a tiny daring, fleeting moment…Effie wished.

For the first time ever, she wished it could be that the treasure she had surveyed might be hers for even a little while. Burying her face in the sheets he had graced, she inhaled him to her very soul.

Wished she were as slim and as beautiful as Christobel.

Wished the King had been waiting for her.

Wished she didn’t disappoint.

Still, she wasn’t being paid to dream, so Effie got on with her work, and over the next couple of days an easy routine developed between them.

Zakari rose at sunrise as Effie prepared breakfast. He usually ate in silence in the morning. Occasionally he might ask if she’d slept well, or murmur a brief thank you, but generally he was sullen, pensive and silent. In fact, for Effie it was almost a relief, really, when he wandered off to the desert, to return after sunset.

Only it was a different Zakari that returned.

He would bathe and change, then eat the meal she had prepared alone. Afterwards, when he sat on the low cushions and drank his coffee as Effie cleared away his meal, he would start talking to her.

Mindful of Stavroula’s harsh warning and the mistakes she had already made, Effie tried to hold on to her tongue, but Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi was such engaging company in the evenings that it was all too easy to unbend, to talk about her family, to chatter and linger for a little while longer. Her reward—that unscrupulous face broke into his heart-stopping smile when she offered a silly joke, and, most surprisingly of all, he didn’t silence her when occasionally she bantered with him.

Sheikh King Zakari despised the Aristan royals, yet Effie adored them, and refused to bend to his thinking.

‘The Aristan royals looked after my mother well,’ Effie said stoutly one night as she stacked some plates. ‘I’m saving up my money to go to Aristo for Prince Alex’s coronation in January.’

There would be no coronation for Prince Alex in January if he found the jewel, Zakari thought darkly. Not that Effie would know about such things. The only thing the two royal families did agree on was that the fact the jewel was missing must remain a fiercely guarded secret.

‘You really think that Alex will make a good king?’ Zakari poured scorn on her words. ‘His brother Sebastian was the one raised to be king, yet he denounced the throne to marry a woman who wasn’t suitable.’

‘But that’s lovely,’ Effie insisted.

‘That is weak!’ Zakari dismissed her sentiment. ‘The people of Aristo are worried by this behaviour. They know that Alex and his new wife do not really want to take the role and all that it will entail.’

‘Well, I’m not worried.’

‘You live in Calista,’ Zakari pointed out, ‘so you have no need to be. Their turmoil does not affect you—you have a strong king.’

‘I do!’ Effie flushed. ‘I have a wonderful king, who I am proud to serve, but I still care about Aristo and I think, under Queen Tia’s guidance, that Prince Alex will make a wonderful king!’

Effie remained adamant, and Zakari could only admire her loyalty as instead of backing down she gave him a brief smile, and wished him goodnight before heading out to the staff area.

She had made a good point too, Zakari reflected, lying back on the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. His body was exhausted from his long day, but his mind was still alert. Queen Tia was, as far as he was concerned, Aristo’s only saving grace. An elegant, dignified woman, she had stood loyal and demure by Aegeus’s side and had poured herself into her children and charities and had, Zakari reluctantly admitted, raised her children well. Zakari had always admired Prince Sebastian, at least until he had turned his back on his people for a woman.

Effie was interesting to talk to, though, and with the night stretching ahead of him Zakari considered calling her back. He actually missed her when she retired, missed those sparkling, lively blue eyes, and the way she blushed just a little when she laughed, but he stopped himself. Maybe it was cabin fever that was causing it, but Zakari was starting to realise that he spoke too much when she was around. Under her steady gaze, it was all too easy to forget the rules, to forget the discretion, the distance that was usually carved into every shred of his DNA.

So, instead of calling her, he retired too, not to his luxurious bed, but outside, preparing a fire, then stretching out beneath the stars and listening to the call of the desert, remembering Effie’s place, because he could never, ever forget his.

Yet on the sixth night, as he sat on the low cushions and the table was cleared and there was no reason for her to remain, he asked her to join him.

‘You do not live in the palace?’

‘I have a small cottage.’ Effie nodded, colour roaring up her cheeks as she tentatively took a seat on the cushion beside him. ‘Well, it was my mother’s.’

‘You said she was a palace maid, though—how could she afford it?’

‘She was a maid before I was born,’ Effie said, ‘but she saved her money well and invested it wisely. It’s only a tiny cottage, but with her savings, well, they lasted almost till she died. She never had to work again.’

She was so naive. Zakari smothered a smile. The only single mothers who owned real estate in Calista worked extremely hard for their money! Still, it was sweet, Zakari reflected, that she genuinely didn’t seem to know that she believed the lies her mother must have fed her.

‘You miss her a lot?’

‘Terribly.’ He saw a sparkle of tears in her eyes that she rapidly blinked back. ‘You must miss your mother too,’ Effie said. ‘Or, rather, mothers.’ He didn’t scold her this time, just gave a curt nod at her observation. Losing his mother at the age of eleven had been hard, but losing Anya five years ago had been just as bad. Zakari had never been particularly close to his father; they had respected each other, but there had never been any real conversation, let alone affection. With Anya it had been different. She had doted on him as if he were her own flesh and blood, had helped him navigate the terrifying prospect that one day he would be ruler and King, as well as confiding in him as to her own fears and pain. Zakari was only half listening as Effie chatted on, but he frowned her to silence when next she spoke. ‘…and with what happened to your youngest brother too…’

‘That is not for discussion.’ This time Zakari did speak sternly. He wanted to hear about her, not to discuss how he might feel about things. ‘So, it is nice that you have your own home…’ But she wasn’t so receptive now. No matter how he tried to cajole her to freely talk, the easiness between them had gone as Effie answered with only the minimum of responses.

Naive and sweet she might be, Zakari thought, but there was much more to her than just that. There was this intelligence in her eyes, this stubbornness within her, that over the days had entranced him—and never more so than now. Though she remained eternally polite, still she wouldn’t relent, refused to play the court jester just to amuse him. What was more, Zakari realised, after yet another monotone answer, Effie wouldn’t reveal anything more of herself if he did not grace her with the same.

Without a word she demanded from him something he rarely bestowed.

Real conversation.

‘You would make an excellent chess player…’ The edge of his mouth lifted into a smile at another monotone, polite answer as she forced him to ponder his next move. Zakari wondered whether opening up would box him in, or somehow release him.

‘I doubt it.’ Effie smiled softly. ‘I don’t play games.’

After the longest hesitation, weighing up her kind, sympathetic face through narrow, mistrusting eyes, Zakari chose the latter.

‘Every day I think of him.’ It was Zakari who broke the endless strained silence. He had never admitted such things—even to himself—could hear the unchecked words coming from his usually guarded lips, only he did nothing to halt them. ‘Still now, in my heart of hearts, I cannot accept that he is dead.’

‘So you cannot grieve…’ Hearing his pain on instinct, she touched him, her hand reaching for his forearm, but the moment contact was made she realised the inappropriateness, pulled her hand back and bunched it into a fist, yet she could feel the tingle in her fingers.

Zakari, in turn, was struggling. He had let her glimpse his pain, had shared enough that surely now she should continue, now she should talk, so that he might relax. Yet that brush on his arm, that mere hint of contact, had brought rare comfort. His black eyes pondered hers, acknowledging that lonely raw piece of his soul had, for just a fleeting second perhaps, been understood.

He had never grieved.

Had never been allowed to grieve.

A prince who would one day be king could not cry.

Anya had grieved. For a second his mind flashed back to Anya, sobbing on the bed. How he had wanted to weep with her, yet he had been sixteen—a king in training. As he stared at Effie, her sapphire eyes pooling with tears, his left shoulder tightened and he could feel again his father’s hand placed there.

‘Stay strong!’ His father, Sheikh Ashraf, had squeezed his son’s shoulder, when Zakari had wanted to be held. ‘It is not for us to demand answers.’

He had never questioned it, yet under her gentle presence he questioned it now.

‘Can I ask what happened?’

Her voice was as soft as his growling response. ‘You know what happened.’

‘I know what I read,’ Effie countered, ‘I know what I heard, but I don’t know.’

‘You know what you need to.’

‘It might help to talk.’

‘How?’ he asked, and Effie realised he truly didn’t know. Here before her was a man whose feelings had never come into things—who had been raised to act, rather than to feel.

‘It just might.’ She could have wept; not for his brother, but for the flicker of confusion in those guarded eyes. She could almost feel him relent and then recoil with every second that passed. What came so easily to her was unfathomable to him.

And then he gave her the sweetest gift of all. Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi, with painful words, invited her into his world and, Effie realised, she would love him for ever for it.

‘Emir, my brother, was sick, he had the flu…’ His strong voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper as he continued. ‘I never played with the younger children. I was raised to be king—it was not my place to do childish things…

‘Aarif and Kaliq, the twins, were creeping off to build a raft…They were teenage boys, they should have known better, but they were silly, planning this adventure that they would build a raft and sail out on it to sea. Zafir found out about their plans…’ His voice caught for a moment, but she calmly sat, just waited till he was ready to continue. ‘He begged to go with them. They lost control; they were swept to sea…’

She had heard bits about the tragedy that had happened when Effie was just four years old. She had seen for herself the scar on Prince Aarif’s face where he had been shot, and had read bits about it in the library, but hearing it from the King himself, from the brother who had lost so much, had the tears spilling from Effie’s eyes.

‘They were captured by diamond smugglers. Zafir was a proud little thing—he shouted to them who his father was. Of course, as soon as the smugglers realised just who it was they had captured they became greedy. They bound their wrists with ropes; Aarif and Kaliq still have the scars of the ropes that cut in as the smugglers debated the ransom they would demand…

‘On Calista, the palace was frantic. I remember the search going out, the helicopters and boats…’ Zakari shook his head. ‘It was Zafir that got free, he untied his elder brothers and they ran to the raft and set off. They almost got away, but they were spotted. Aarif was shot in the face; you can see the scars he bears…’

Effie nodded solemnly.

‘They are nothing to his pain inside.

‘Aarif fell into the sea; of course Kaliq jumped in to save his twin—they tried to get to the raft, but the sea pulled it away, with Zafir still on it. The smugglers recaptured the twins, beat them again and again…my father paid the ransom for his two sons …but Zafir…’ He couldn’t continue, so Effie did it for him.

‘He has never been heard of since.’

‘Had he lived, he would be turning twenty-seven this very week. Zafir would be a man.’

‘Maybe he is alive…’ Effie offered, but Zakari closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘My heart says that he is, my head tells me he is dead, that I must now let him rest, yet at my very core I cannot.’ He shook his head now—never had he revealed so much and it had utterly depleted him. Her comfort, the empathy in her eyes, seemed to be invading him now. ‘I will retire now.’

Without another word he did just that, leaving Effie sitting blinking for a moment, before forcing herself to stand, to plump up the cushions and tidy the area ready for the morning. She laid the table for breakfast, then headed to her area, undressed and slipped into bed.

Effie had to force herself to do her duties and then to remain in bed, because with every step, with every movement, with every thought, she was resisting the urge to go to him, to curl up like a kitten on the bed beside him, to offer him some warmth, to hear that deep liquid voice pour into her ears.

To share this night, not with a king, but with the man Zakari.

Concentrate!

Zakari was having trouble doing just that! The sun was high in the clear blue sky, his shadow invisible at his feet—feet that, even though it was only midday, kept willing him to return to her.

At first her chatter had irritated him. Her anxious face peering around the tent each evening as she awaited his return had gnawed at him. Her clumsy ways as she prepared his bath, her tall tales of her mother’s time in the Aristo palace had, at first, irritated him. The way Effie described her mother, she sounded more like a princess than a mere maid.

Yes, at first it had irked him.

And yet, now…

He had come to look forward to it.

The day dragged on endlessly. It was still hours from sunset, and, though he tried to focus on the problems of the islands, his mind wandered. No matter how much he tried to clear his thoughts it was either his brother’s image that danced before his eyes, or it was her face that drifted into focus…Her scent that seemed to lead him back long before sunset.

‘You’re early!’

Christobel would have been lying on a low sofa, reading trashy magazines, drinking wine, Zakari thought…yet here was Effie, rehanging the coloured drapes around the low cushions on the floor.

‘I’m sorry you had to see the place like this, Your Highness.’

‘Carry on.’

‘I just took them outside to freshen them up,’ Effie explained.

‘It is no problem.’ He was frowning slightly, but not because she was working. There was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite place. She was on a small ladder and Zakari watched with more than idle interest as she stretched, her dress lifting, showing creamy, smooth white thighs, and Zakari felt his throat tighten a touch, could see the strain of the fabric over her large breasts, the curve of her round bottom as he stretched out on the cushions.

‘So, how was your day?’ She gave a little laugh as she hung the final drape. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

‘It was…’ Zakari pondered for a moment ‘…less than productive.’

‘Oh!’

Her cheeks were pink from exertion, those blue eyes bluer somehow, like two glittering jewels, and her mouth soft and pretty.

How, Zakari thought to himself, could he not have seen her beauty?

And then Zakari felt his heart still for a fraction. As she stretched to arrange the drape Christobel’s ill-fitting dress allowed a revealing glimpse of Effie’s smooth underarms. His eyes once again ran down her legs seeing again the smooth skin there, the sheen of moisturiser now clearly evident. Only now he realised she had been playing with Christobel’s things.

‘Can I ask why?’ Her question confused him; he was completely unable to recall what they had been discussing. ‘You said your day had been less than productive.’

‘Oh, that!’ Zakari gave a quick nod, relieved she had not sensed his distraction, embarrassed, had he but known it, at almost being caught staring. ‘I seem to be spending a lot of time thinking about my brother.’ He watched her pause, her kind, worried face turning around. Her hair was tumbling out of its tie and long snaky curls danced around her slender neck. ‘Thinking of the man he would be, had he lived.’

‘That’s because you spoke of him.’

‘It is nice to remember.’ Zakari gave a pale smile. ‘It hurts, but it is good.’

‘I’m so sorry for your pain,’ Effie said, and Zakari knew that she meant it, knew that she offered so much more than a platitude. ‘Does it ever lessen?’

He knew then she was asking for herself, about her own private pain, that she was so much newer on the path of grief than him.

‘You learn to live with it. It does not diminish, but you learn to carry the load. And you will too,’ he added.

‘Thank you.’ The small grateful smile she gave at his insight warmed him somewhere deep inside. Only Zakari didn’t smile back, just held her gaze for a moment, waiting for her blush to deepen, for her to lower her eyes, for that moment of connection that always came so easily with women—that awareness that told him he was wanted.

Except it didn’t happen. Instead she gave a wider smile and changed the subject. ‘I will just finish off these, then I’ll draw you a bath, but first I will get some refreshments…’

He gave a brief nod.

Lying back on the cushions, his tongue on the roof of his mouth as she worked just inches away from him, for the first time Zakari wondered about a woman.

Because till now he had always known the answer.

Always.

Always a woman wanted him, always there were signs; signs Zakari easily followed. He read women well—calm, neurotic, needy, wanton, he took pleasure in taming them all, interpreting involuntary signals, then homing in and claiming his triumphant prize. Rare was the woman who would refuse a king, yet they were the challenge Zakari relished the most. He loved the dance between a man and a woman, especially if she was unattainable, when he could use his sensuality, his prowess to reduce the most difficult woman to quivering jelly.

Only Effie was unreadable.

Was it curiosity that had had her toying with Christobel’s things, or had it been for him?

‘Done!’

As she came down the ladder for a second she was unsteady—well, not really, but it was excuse enough for Zakari to reach out his hand and steady her, to hold her as she took the last two steps.

‘Thank you.’

His hand was on her wrist, her skin soft beneath his fingers, this smell catching him—not a hint of fragrance, just the scent of her alone, combined with the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, and there was his answer.

Though she seemed outwardly unperturbed he could feel her pulse flickering rapidly beneath his fingers, knew the contact had unsettled her, troubled her, but in the most primal of ways.

A bird had flown into the palace.

An ugly, small grey bird that caused momentary chaos.

Little Zafir was whooping with delight as he chased it, the maids running with brooms as the tiny bird fluttered and panicked, its terrified flapping leading it to the study, where it banged hopelessly against the glass doors.

Anya shooed the staff away, and told Zafir to quietly sit and observe while she addressed her eldest son.

‘When trouble flies in, when people are running and shouting, you, Zakari, must stop the chaos with calm. Do not give in to the first response that comes to mind—do not run and chase along with the crowd. As a king, you must sit a while and observe. See how the palace that is so big to us is tiny and confining to him—see how he struggles to be free, but soon he will give in.’ So they sat and waited till the tiny bird had found its resting place behind some books and slowly Anya parted them.

‘He is there, Zakari. He is scared and petrified of you, yet he is still, so now you can help him.’

The bird was weightless in his thirteen-year-old palm. The ugly grey bird, when he looked closer, was actually many shades of silver, and as he held its terrified body he could feel its helpless fear, the flutter of its tiny heart in his hand.

He took it to the garden, placed it beneath a tree and watched for twenty minutes as it sat stunned, and then it flew.

Zakari could feel her pulse beneath his fingers, fluttering just as the bird had, and though she was still, though Effie was outwardly unruffled, he knew she was terrified, could feel now the beats of her excitement—and suddenly Zakari wanted her to soar.

He felt the cool space as she reclaimed her hand and turned and smiled, her voice friendly and even, as with calm demeanour she denied what they both knew.

‘I will prepare some refreshments.’

Her face was on fire as she fled into the kitchen area. Her wrist felt as if it had been scalded where Zakari had touched her and she was tempted to run it under cool water, only that wouldn’t soothe the dangerous heat elsewhere…

The vast tent seemed tiny now, as if it were under a magnifying glass, as if the heat of the sun were concentrated on this one minute scrap of the desert.

Effie wanted her old job back. Wanted the familiar palace walls, her usual routines and the anonymity they brought. Wanted to be back where a maid wouldn’t hold the spotlight of the king’s gaze.

The desert played tricks on one’s mind, Effie told herself, loading the tray as she willed herself calm—made you see things that weren’t there …caused mirages to appear. That was what had just occurred, she insisted to herself as she carried the heavy tray through. Zakari hadn’t been looking at her in that way.

Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi would never look at her with want in his eyes.

It was entirely irrelevant that she wanted him.

Kneeling down, she poured iced mint tea. Christobel’s uniform on her was clearly way too small, the fabric straining over her curves, the top button impossible to do up, and as she bent forward she gave him a brief glimpse of her cleavage. Zakari’s jaw tightened as he saw a flash of a chain around her neck, the weight of its pendant dragging it down, clasping it between her creamy breasts, and he wished his finger were that lucky stone, nestled in that sweet warmth, or his tongue, Zakari thought, flaring with lust. He was tempted to put his hand out, to stroke the back of her neck, to capture her cheek in his palm, only he knew then what her reaction would be…