Читать книгу Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage: Virgin Seduction / Royal Spy - Kathleen Creighton - Страница 7

Chapter 1

From a balcony overlooking the palace gardens, Leila watched the man in the dove-gray cowboy hat stroll unhurried along tiled pathways. She’d watched many people traverse the garden that morning, but she particularly liked the way this man moved—confidently but without arrogance. The way he seemed to study everything around him—the flowers, the fountains, the colorful mosaics at his feet—with unselfconscious interest reminded her of a child at the zoo.

She laughed out loud as a brightly colored bird flitted across the man’s path, startling him. He lifted his head to follow the bird’s flight, revealing a deeply tanned, hard-boned face, cheeks creased, teeth bared in a smile. For several seconds he seemed to look right at Leila, and her breath caught, stifling the laughter. Oh, she knew he couldn’t really see her. She was well concealed behind the balcony’s intricately carved screen. It was just that he had such a nice smile.

“That one,” she said in a conspirator’s whisper to the woman beside her. “Who is he—the one in the hat? I saw him yesterday at the wedding. He must be an American.”

“Oh yes, Princess, he is—and not only that, but from Texas.” The servant Nargis threw a guilty glance toward the divan where her mistress, Leila’s sister Nadia, had her nose—and her attention—safely buried in her sketchbook. She lowered her voice anyway. “His name is Cade Gallagher. The princess—er…Mrs. Elena invited him. Salma heard her tell Madam Alima that he is her guardian.”

Leila made a derisive sound, forgetting to whisper. “Do not be silly. Elena is an American. In America women don’t have guardians.” She couldn’t keep a note of envy out of her voice. Her new sister-in-law was only four years older than Leila, but so smart and sophisticated, and the head of her own company! And still she had managed to attract and win the love of a handsome and powerful man like Hassan.

Nargis shrugged. “It is what I heard.”

“Perhaps Elena only wished to honor the customs of our country,” said Leila’s sister Samira in an appeasing tone, laying aside the needlepoint she’d been working on and coming to join them. “You know that since the death of her father, she has no family of her own. This man may be a distant relative, perhaps a friend or even a business associate. Anyway,” she added, gently chastising, “if Hassan has agreed to have him here as a guest, there can be nothing improper about it. You should not gossip, Leila.”

Leila hooked her arm through her sister’s, not in the least chastened. “Oh, but look at him, Sammi—do you not think he is handsome?” But at the same time she was thinking that the word “handsome” really did not suit the tall man in the gray suit and cowboy hat. It seemed too pale and feminine a word, somehow.

“He seems very…rugged,” said Samira after a moment’s consideration, voicing Leila’s very thoughts. “Quite imposing, really.” She tilted her head sideways as she thought about it. “It would be difficult not to be intimidated by such a man.”

“Oh, I know,” Leila teased, rolling her eyes, “you’d prefer someone more suave…someone smooth, someone sophisticated—” she pointed “—like that one there—the dark, beautiful one with the impossibly gorgeous eyes.” And much too aware of how gorgeous they are, she thought with disdain. She didn’t know quite why, but she found something about the man vaguely unpleasant. Rather like food that had been cooked in too much grease. “And…is he not the one I saw talking with you yesterday?”

“That is Desmond Caruso, Princess,” Nargis interrupted eagerly, pleased to be the bearer of information that would make her once more the center of attention. “He is one of the Sebastianis—you see, that is Duke Lorenzo with him. And the woman with the red hair is Duke Lorenzo’s new wife, Eliza. She is an American, too, you know.” Her voice dropped to a gleeful whisper. “A newspaper reporter.”

“Really?” As always, Leila’s interest perked up at the mention of America, and she did not stop then to wonder why Samira had suddenly gone so pale and silent.

“Really—you three are the worst gossips,” said Nadia, making a tsk-tsking sound. But she said it good-naturedly as she, too, came to join them at the screen.

There was a little silence while the four women watched the shifting patterns below in the gardens…people gathering, greeting, moving on. Sounds drifted up to them on the balcony…the tinkle of water in the fountains, snatches of laughter and the murmur of conversation.

“Well,” Leila said flatly, “I do not trust a man who is that handsome.” A small, involuntary shiver surprised her. Funny—the same thing had happened to her when she had seen him talking with Samira yesterday in the corridor near the great hall. Something about the man was definitely off, but Leila did not mention it. No one would take her seriously anyway. She smiled with lowered lashes and added in a voice like a purr, “I much prefer the tall American. Do you not think he looks like a cowboy? Even dressed in a business suit?”

Samira smiled indulgently. “Oh, Leila, you just like Americans. You have a fascination with that country.”

“Why not?” said Leila, tossing back her long, black hair. “America is fascinating.”

“How do you know?” Samira asked with a trill of laughter.

Leila could feel her cheeks growing warm. “Hassan evidently thinks so. And Elena has told me about America—especially Texas. Since Elena is from there, it must be a very wonderful place, must it not? She is so smart, so…” She caught herself before she could say the word in her mind—free!—and instead turned her back on Samira and addressed the sister on her other side. “Nadia? Wouldn’t you like to visit America?”

Nadia gave an indifferent shrug. “What is so special about America? It is just…very, very big.” “But,” said Leila eagerly, “that is what makes it special.” She threw her arms wide. “It is so big. And Tamir—” she brought her hands almost together “—is so small.” She finished with a sigh. “It is hard to imagine a place so enormous.”

Oh, but Leila could imagine it. If she closed her eyes she could see herself mounted on one of her brother Rashid’s polo ponies, riding like the wind across the green-gold fields of his farm on the outer island of Siraj, with the wind blowing back her hair and the sky cloudless and blue above and all around her and the land seeming to go on and on forever.

Only it did not go on forever, of course—how could it, on Siraj or even Tamir? Very quickly the land ended and there were the cliffs, and below them the white sand beaches and blue-green water. Someday, she thought with a sudden and intense yearning, I want to go to a place where the land does not stop.

“Where would you like to go in America, little sister? What would you want to do there?” Nadia was looking at her, smiling in that tolerant, affectionate way she had, as if Leila were a particularly appealing, perhaps even moderately amusing child. “Shopping, I’m sure. Perhaps…New York City?”

Leila had shopped in London boutiques and Paris salons; her shoes were custom-made in Italy. What, she thought, would New York City have to offer her that those fashion centers did not? But she only said with a shrug and a superior smile, “I was thinking more of Hollywood. Maybe…Rodeo Drive?” But images of endless desert vistas and ranges of snowcapped mountains remained wistful and golden in her mind. Like memories, except—how could she have memories of places she had never seen?

Nadia laughed. “Hollywood? Oh, Leila, you are a dreamer.”

Stung, Leila said, “Why is it so impossible to think of going to America?”

“You have no reason to go,” Samira answered in her matter-of-fact way. “Father would never allow you to make such a trip just for fun, and what other reason would you have, when Europe is so much closer?”

Leila had to bite her lip to keep from mentioning the fact that Hassan had attended college in America. Her own education had been restricted to an all-female boarding school in Switzerland, capped off by a year in England, and her brother’s engineering degree from M.I.T. was a source of envy to her.

“What about business?” she said after a moment. “Now that Hassan has married Elena, and she is head of an oil company—”

“But that is Hassan’s business. It has nothing to do with you. No, Leila, dear—” Samira gave her arm a not unsympathetic squeeze as she turned away from the screen “—I am afraid the only hope you would have of visiting America is if, like Hassan, you were to marry an American.” She and Nadia exchanged laughing glances. “And for that, you must first wait until Nadia and I have found husbands.”

“I will be old and ugly before that happens,” Leila grumbled.

Never one to entertain a dark mood for long, she straightened, dimpling wickedly as she peered through the screen. “Speaking of prospective husbands—guess who has just arrived. Look, Nadia, it is Butrus Dabir.” She slid her eyes toward her oldest sister, lips curving in an innocent smile. “Is it true he has asked Father if he may marry you?”

Her teasing was rewarded by a most satisfactory gasp of dismay from Nadia. “Where did you hear that?” Hands on her hips, she rounded on her servant. “Nargis? How many times—”

Nargis was already making a hasty retreat, after sneaking Leila a delighted wink. “Yes, Princess—I am going to prepare your bath now. Did you wish the jasmine scent, or the rose? Or perhaps that new one from Paris…” She ducked through the draperies and disappeared into the princesses’ sitting room.

“She is such a terrible gossip,” Nadia said crossly, snatching up her sketchbook from the settee and preparing to follow. In the doorway she paused to give her sisters a piercing glance. “I have not said I will marry Butrus.”

“She will, though,” said Samira with a shrug when Nadia had gone. “I am almost sure of it.”

Still gazing intently into the garden, Leila could not repress a shiver. “I wish she would not. Even if it means we both must wait longer before we can marry.”

“You do not like Butrus?” Samira looked at her in surprise. “He is very handsome, in his way. And he has been almost a member of the family for so many years. Father trusts him.”

“It is just that…he seems so cold. I do not see how Nadia can possibly love him.”

“Perhaps,” said Samira thoughtfully, “there are other reasons to marry besides love. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I would ever do such a thing. But…who knows what is in another person’s heart? Nadia’s, after all, has been broken once already. Perhaps she does not wish to risk such pain again. And I suppose if the other reasons were important enough…”

Leila said nothing. Once again she was watching the man in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat stroll along the tiled pathways. This time she did not take her eyes off of him until he had disappeared from view beyond a stone archway thickly entwined with climbing roses.

In the shaded promenade beyond a rose-covered archway, Cade Gallagher paused to light a cheroot—a small sin, and one of the few vices he allowed himself. He was alone, for the moment, in this secluded part of the palace grounds, and he relished the solitude and the quiet, pulled it into himself along with the honey-sweet smoke of the cigar. As he exhaled, the chatter of strangers’ conversation receded to background noise. Nearby he could hear the twitter of birdsong, and the musical ripple of water. The air was cool and fragrant, misty with breeze-blown spray from distant fountains.

Not quite the juniper and live oak-covered vistas of his Hill Country ranch retreat back home in Texas, he thought, but not at all bad.

Admittedly, he hadn’t seen much of Tamir so far, save for the mosque and the royal palace and gardens. Thanks to the usual flight delays, he’d arrived late yesterday afternoon, just barely in time for the marriage ceremony. He found it all interesting, though frankly he was already beginning to feel cooped up and restless. He was more than ready for all this partying and celebrating to be over with so he could get on to his real reason for flying halfway around the world to this remote little island kingdom—business.

More specifically, oil business. In the beginning he’d resisted Elena’s invitation to attend the wedding as her honored guest, and to stand up for her as her guardian—ridiculous idea, he knew of no one on earth less in need of guardianship than Elena Rahman—in place of nonexistent family. At first. Until she’d mentioned that Sheik Ahmed Kamal, her father-in-law to be, was interested in refitting his country’s oil refineries, perhaps even building new ones. Cade was in the business of building and refitting oil refineries. The opportunities had seemed too promising to pass up.

There was very little in this world that impressed him, certainly nothing having to do with wealth or title or positions of power. But the old sheik—Sheik Ahmed—he’d made one hell of an impression on Cade, even after only one brief meeting. He was sharp, that one. Silver-haired and carrying the weight of a little too much good living, but still crafty as they come. Surprisingly unpretentious, too. The man was the absolute monarch of his country, yet he’d elected to use the title of sheik—a general all-purpose title of respect, was the way Cade understood it—rather than king. Cade liked that.

He liked the sheik’s son, Hassan, too, though he wasn’t ready to admit as much to Elena. Cade was beginning to think Elena hadn’t completely lost her mind after all, marrying into a Middle Eastern royal family. Hassan seemed westernized enough, and Elena was just hardheaded enough, as he well knew from personal experience, that they might actually make a go of it.

All at once he was remembering the unheralded softness in Elena’s voice on the telephone when she’d called to tell him of her plans to marry Hassan. He was remembering last night, and the way her eyes had shone when she’d lifted them to her new husband’s face as he’d drawn aside her veils… Twinges of unfamiliar emotions stirred in his chest—envy and longing were the only two he recognized. Annoyed, he drew deeply on the cheroot, his motions momentarily jerky and disconcerted.

It was at that moment when a low murmur of voices reached him from beyond the rose-covered archway. Glad of the distraction, he hurriedly composed himself, preparing to make polite small talk with intruders on his private corner of Eden. Instead, the newcomers—two of them, from their conversation—halted just on the other side of the arch. About to step through and join them, Cade hesitated. Something—the sneering quality of the speaker, perhaps—made him go still and alert and stay right where he was, hidden from view by a lush bank of hibiscus.

“…joyous occasion!” Suddenly raised, the voice was sharp, sarcastic and clear. That was followed by a distinct snort.

“You seem less than pleased, Desmond,” the second voice remarked in a mildly surprised tone. “Lucas is our cousin. Even if he were not family, I would have thought King Marcus’s joy would be reason enough for us to celebrate. After all, he had all but given his son up—”

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” the first speaker broke in hastily, his voice now smooth as oil. “I’m as thankful as anyone that Prince Lucas has turned up alive and…apparently none the worse for wear.” There was a pause, and then in a decidedly unctuous voice, “I’m thinking of you, Lorenzo.”

“What do you mean?” The question was curt, a little wary.

“Oh, come now—don’t pretend you don’t know that in the crown prince’s absence, King Marcus had been grooming you as his heir. Now that Lucas is back in the picture, your position in the royal court can hardly be the same.”

There was an ambiguous sound that could have been amusement or reproof. “It’s never been my ambition to govern a country, Desmond. I’m happy with the position I have, thank you.” And after a pause… “In any case, I really don’t think it’s my position you’re concerned about.”

The reply was blustering. “Look, I’m thinking of my own future, too—sure I am. I’m not going to deny having ambitions.”

“My God, Desmond, are you that mercenary? That you’d wish Lucas had not returned, for the sake of your own—”

“How can you think such a thing of me, your own brother?” Whoever he was, Cade thought, this Desmond had apparently really stepped in it, and was now backpedaling so fast he was almost sputtering. “I only meant—I was referring to our future in service to King Marcus. My only ambition is to serve His Highness, in any way I can, as he sees fit…”

As the voice babbled on, Cade almost snorted out loud. This Desmond guy was slippery as a snake oil salesman.

Apparently his companion was starting to have some doubts about the man’s character, too, brother or not. There was a formidable chill in his voice when, after a marked silence, he suddenly said, “I see my wife is looking for me. Excuse me.”

Footsteps quickly retreated. A moment later Cade heard the hiss of an exhalation followed by some mutterings that sounded mostly like swearing, and then a second set of footsteps moved off aimlessly along a tiled path, fading finally into the general noise of mingling guests and whispering water.

Cade released a breath he’d not been aware of holding, then took a quick drag on the cheroot he’d all but forgotten. Cautiously, casually, he stepped around the clump of hibiscus. Interesting, he thought as he watched two men in white dinner jackets move off in different directions. Apparently all was not entirely rosy after all in this Garden of Eden.

Back in the crowded main courtyard, he snagged a waiter, resplendent in white brocade and saffron yellow turban.

“Excuse me—uh, do you speak English?”

Balancing a tray of fruits carved to look like flowers, the waiter dipped his head respectfully. “Of course. How may I help you, sir?”

Cade smiled in mild chagrin. The man sounded as if he’d stepped right off the campus at Oxford—or wherever it was those British lords went to school.

“Uh…yeah, I was wondering if you could tell me who that gentleman is—the one with the lady with red hair. I was just talking with him, and didn’t catch his name.”

“That would be his lordship, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani of Montebello, sir. The lady is his wife—an American. I believe her name is Eliza.”

“Ah—of course. And that gentleman over there—the dark one? I think he said his name was Desmond….”

“Yes sir—that is Duke Lorenzo’s brother, Desmond Caruso, an advisor to King Marcus.”

“Ah,” said Cade. “Yes…thank you.”

“I am happy to be of service, sir.” The waiter bowed and went on his way.

Interesting, Cade thought again. But, since it didn’t have anything to do with Tamir or Elena or her new in-laws, it didn’t concern him, either.

He winced as a piercing “Yoo-hoo!” rose above the pleasant chuckle of a nearby fountain. “Cade—oh, Cade!”

He groaned and glanced around in hope of finding cover. Seeing none, he rolled his eyes and fixed what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face as, with one last fortifying puff of his cigar, he went forth to greet Elena’s other guest, her loud and annoying friend, Kitty.

Leila was bored. The wedding banquet had been going on for more than three hours, and showed no signs of concluding any time soon. The parade of waiters bearing trays laden with an incredible variety of delicacies seemed endless, even though Leila—and, she was sure, most of the other guests—had already eaten as much as they could possibly hold. The food had been wonderful, of course, befitting a royal Walima—chicken simmered in pomegranate juice and rolled in grape leaves, veal sauteed with eggplant and onions and delicately spiced with tumeric and cardamoms. And for the main course, Leila’s favorite—whole lamb stuffed with dried fruits, almonds, pine nuts, cracked wheat and onions, seasoned with ginger and coriander and then baked in hot ashes until it was tender enough to be eaten with the fingers. Leila had eaten until she felt stuffed herself—which was, she supposed, one advantage in being forced to wear the gracefully draped but all-concealing gown that was Tamir’s traditional female costume. At least she didn’t have to hold her stomach in.

The trays now were offering a variety of fruits, as well as an amazing assortment of sweets—cakes, pastries and candies, even tiny baskets made of chocolate and filled with sugar-glazed flower petals. Ordinarily Leila had an insatiable sweet tooth, but tonight she was too full to do more than nibble at a chocolate-covered strawberry.

She had also drunk much more of her country’s traditional mildly fermented wine than she was accustomed to, and as a result was becoming both sleepy and cross. Not to mention frustrated. It was such a beautiful evening—stars were bright in the cloudless spring sky that canopied the palace’s Great Courtyard. The Walima was being held outdoors in order to accommodate the great number of guests, as, according to tradition, everyone in the immediate vicinity was invited to a marriage feast, rich and poor alike. Tiled in intricate geometric patterns and flanked on both sides by stone colonnades, the Great Courtyard was a formal rectangle that extended from the palace to the cliffs, where arched portals framed a spectacular view of the sea. Tables draped in linen and set with fine china and crystal had been set up on both sides of a chain of fountains and narrow pools that divided the courtyard down the middle and reflected the stars and hundreds of flickering torches. A light breeze blowing in from the sea was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. It was a beautiful night. It might also have been—should have been—a very romantic night.

Except that Leila had been trying all evening without success to catch the eye of the man she would very much have liked to share such an evening with—the man she had noticed that morning in the garden, the Texan in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat. As luck would have it, he was sitting at a table almost directly across the reflecting pool from hers. Tonight the hat was absent, and, like many of the other male guests present, particularly those from Montebello and America, he wore a white dinner jacket. Though in Leila’s opinion, none of the other guests looked so lean and fit and dangerous in theirs, or boasted such broad and powerful shoulders. She could see now that his hair was thick and wavy, a rich dark blond. It gleamed like gold in the flickering light of the torches. She would like to know what color his eyes were, but they were set deep in his rugged face, and masked in shadows.

If only we could dance like Americans do, she thought wistfully as she watched a line of professional performers of the traditional Tamari dances, faces veiled and torsos cleverly concealed, undulating their way down the length of the courtyard, weaving in and out among the tables to the rhythmic keening of native flutes and sitars. Jewels flashed from their ankles, wrists and hair as they performed the intricate hand movements and kept time to the music with tiny finger cymbals. Like most girls in her country, Leila had learned secretly as a child how to dance the traditional dances, though of course it would not have been proper for a princess to actually perform for anyone—except, perhaps, for her husband, in the privacy of their marriage chambers. If I ever have a husband, she thought moodily, as without her realizing it, her body began to move and sway in time to the music.

On her right, Samira nudged her and hissed, “Leila—stop that. Someone will see you.”

Leila rolled her eyes. So what? she wanted to say. It would not be the first time. Many people had seen her dance in Switzerland and England, and the world had not come to an end. When she was in boarding school she had learned to dance the western way, to rock and roll music, and in England she had even—and she was sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew—danced with boys the way westerners did. Touching one another. And nothing terrible had happened then, either. She was still, alas, very much a virgin. And likely to remain one for the foreseeable future.

“I am bored,” she whispered back. “I have eaten too much and I want to lie down. When is this going to be over?”

“Hush,” Samira scolded. “This is Hassan and Elena’s night. Remember your manners.”

“I wish we could at least mingle with the guests—talk to them,” Leila said, wistfully eyeing the golden-haired man across the reflecting pool. But his head was bowed as he listened, apparently with close attention, to the frizzy-haired woman seated next to him. Leila sighed. And before she could stop it, her mouth opened wide in a blatant, jaw-popping yawn.

“I’m sorry?” Cade politely lowered his head in order to hear what the woman at his side was saying above the discordant wailing these people called music.

Kitty repeated it in a loud, hoarse whisper. “I said, that girl across the way over there has been tryin’ her darndest all evenin’ long to catch your eye. I believe she’d like to flirt with you.”

Cade’s glance flicked upward reflexively. “Oh yeah? Which one?” Anything, he thought, to relieve the tedium. He wasn’t accustomed to spending three hours over dinner.

“That one—the real pretty one in the aqua blue dress…long black hair with gold thingies in it…looks like something out of The Arabian Nights. See her?”

Cade looked. He’d already noticed the girl, since she was drop-dead gorgeous and he was a man and only human. Now, though, he felt a shiver of silent laughter ripple through him. “You mean, the one who looks like she’s about to swallow herself?”

His amusement blossomed into an unabashed grin as the girl’s bright and restless glance collided suddenly with his. Her eyes went wide with horror and she slapped a long, graceful hand over her mouth in a belated and futile attempt to cover up the yawn. Next, he watched, fascinated, as a parade of expressions danced across her face like characters in a play: dismay, chagrin, vexation, arrogance, pride, irony…and finally, to his delight, a dimpled and utterly winsome smile.

Kitty gave a little crow of triumph. “There, you see? I told you she was flirtin’ with you.”

“Kind of young, don’t you think?” Cade drawled. “Not to mention,” he added, as the significance of that circlet of gold medallions on the girl’s head sank in, “if I’m not mistaken, she’s a princess.”

“Really?” Kitty gasped before she caught herself, then added with a lofty sniff, “Well, so what if she is? Hassan’s a prince. That didn’t stop Elena.” She gave an excited little squeal. “Oh—I just realized—that would make her Elena’s sister-in-law, wouldn’t it? I’ll bet she could introduce us—uh, you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cade said dryly. “Looks to me like they keep those princesses pretty tightly under wraps.”

Pretending disinterest, he watched out of the corner of his eye as an older woman flanked by a cadre of female servants suddenly appeared beside the princesses’ table across the way. This woman he knew. He’d been presented to Tamir’s first lady—Elena’s new mother-in-law—along with her husband, Sheik Ahmed, following the wedding ceremony last night. Alima Kamal—who, he’d been told, preferred not to use a royal title—was dressed in the same gracefully draped style of gown as were her daughters, this one deep royal blue liberally trimmed with gold. Like her daughters, she wore a circlet of gold medallions in her still-raven black hair. They glinted in the torchlight as she gracefully inclined her head. Without a word, all the occupants of the princesses’ table rose and were swallowed up by the royal entourage, which then moved away in the direction of the palace, veils fluttering, like a dense flock of brightly plumed birds.

“Wow,” breathed Kitty. “It really is like something out of The Arabian Nights. Do you think they keep them in a harem?”

Cade gave a snort of laughter. “I’m sure they don’t. For starters, the sheik only has one wife. And, if Hassan is any indication, they’re pretty westernized here. All this native costume stuff tonight—the turbans and veils—I’m sure is just for this occasion. Some kind of wedding tradition, probably.”

“Umm-hmm…” Kitty was thoughtfully chewing her lip. “Well, I’ll still bet Elena could introduce you to that cute little sister-in-law of hers, if you asked her to.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not? She’s very pretty, and she was definitely interested in you, Cade.”

“Not on your life.” Cade’s grin tilted with grim irony. A knockout she might be, but not really his type and way too young for him, anyway. Not to mention that the very last thing he needed was to get tangled up with some royal pain-in-the-ass princess, when what he was really hoping for was to close a nice, lucrative business deal with her father, the sheik.