Читать книгу The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns: The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin / The Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess / The Future King's Love-Child - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 12

THE plane left the barren desert of Zaraq to glide over a smooth expanse of jewel-toned sea, the sky cloudless, blue, and perfect, the water calmed after the storm that had ravaged both land and sea in its ferocious grip.

Kalila leaned her head against the window and feigned sleep. She was weary—exhausted—yet the sanctuary of sleep eluded her. Still, she wished to avoid questions, and next to her Juhanah seemed poised to ask them.

Only Juhanah, herself, and Aarif were on the plane, as the other staff had returned to the palace with their own version of events. Kalila wondered what her father would think of her mad escape, yet even the thought of his anger failed to rouse her from her numb lethargy. She was beyond his reach now. The person to fear now was Zakari, and yet she couldn’t quite summon the energy. He was not in Calista yet; she was safe. For a while.

Once she glanced back at Aarif, seated in a deep leather seat behind her, papers spread out on his lap. A pair of spectacles perched on his aquiline nose, and for some reason that little sign of human frailty touched her, made her remember the man who had reached out to her, who had buried his head in her shoulder. The man who had needed her.

Juhanah glanced at her, sharply, and Kalila realised she’d let her gaze linger too long. She turned back to the window and was about to close her eyes again when a stretch of land—desert once more—came into view.

Calista.

Her home.

Kalila craned her neck to take it in, the stretch of sand so similar to Zaraq, the winding blue-green of a river, twisting through rocky hills, where she knew Calista’s famous diamonds were mined. Then, the Old Town, similar to Makaris yet somehow imposing in its unfamiliarity. She glimpsed a huddle of buildings, flat roofed, with a wide market square in the middle.

And finally, the palace. Made of a similar mellow, golden stone as the Zaraquan palace, its simple and elegant design speaking of centuries of rule, of royalty.

The plane glided past the palace and approached the airport, and Kalila sat back in her seat once more.

Aarif did not speak to her as they disembarked from the plane. A black sedan from the palace met them and again Aarif avoided her, sitting in the front with the driver while she and Juhanah shared the back.

Kalila was barely aware of the passing scenery, more desert, scattered palm trees, and then, closer to the city, the island’s polo club, and the newer part of town with a sign for Jaladhar, the island’s resort.

Exhaustion, emotional and physical, was crashing over her in wave after merciless wave and all she wanted was to sleep. To forget…if only for a few minutes or hours.

The car pulled up to the palace on the edge of the Old Town, and a servant dressed in official livery came out to greet them. The man’s bland expression faltered for a moment as he took in Kalila’s appearance, for, though she’d repaired some of the damage, she was hardly the royal presence he’d expected.

She smiled and he swept a bow, launching into a formal speech of obsequious flattery that Kalila barely registered.

‘The Princess Kalila is much fatigued,’ Aarif said, not looking at her, and the servant straightened. ‘Please show her and her nurse to their rooms and afford them every comfort.’

And then, without a backward glance, he swept into the palace. Kalila watched his back disappear behind the ornate wooden doors and wondered when she would see him again. She had a feeling that Aarif would make every effort to avoid her.

She followed the servant into the palace, and a waiting maid led them up a sweeping staircase to the second floor, a narrow corridor of ancient stone with open windows, their Moorish arches framing a view of azure sky and endless sand.

Although the palace was situated in the island’s main city, Serapolis, on the edge of the Old Town, the women’s quarters faced the private gardens, a verdant oasis much like the one back in Zaraq, although, Kalila reflected from the window of her bedroom, not as familiar.

Everything was strange. Even she felt strange, a stranger to herself. She’d acted in ways she’d never imagined herself acting in the last twenty-four hours, and she had no idea what the repercussions would be, only that they would be severe and long lasting.

She sighed, a sound that came from the depths of her soul, and Juhanah looked at her in concern. ‘You must be tired. Let me run you a bath.’

Kalila nodded, grateful for her nurse’s tender concern. ‘Thank you, Juhanah.’

While Juhanah padded into the en suite bathroom, Kalila glanced around the bedroom that had been assigned her. It was a simple room, yet no less sumptuous for it. A wide bed with a white linen duvet, a cedar chest at its foot. A matching bureau and framed mirror, and two arched windows that framed the view of the gardens outside.

A few minutes later Kalila entered the bathroom, outfitted with every luxury from the sunken marble tub to the thick, fluffy towels, and sank into the hot, foaming water with a little sigh of relief. From behind the closed door she could hear Juhanah moving around, and realised her bags had arrived.

It felt good to wash the dirt and sand away, yet no amount of washing would make her feel clean again. Whole. Even now a pall of misery settled over her, into her bones, so that she wondered numbly if she would ever be apart from it—be herself—again.

Yet who was she? Caught between two worlds, two lives, two dreams. Duty. Desire. It had only been in Aarif’s arms, under his caress, that she’d felt whole. One. With him.

Juhanah knocked on the door. ‘All right, ya daanaya?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she called. Her nurse’s maternal worrying was sweet, yet it also made Kalila feel guilty. She didn’t deserve Juhanah’s concern. What would her nurse say if she told her…?

Kalila closed her eyes. She wouldn’t tell her, wouldn’t tell anyone. And yet Aarif would tell someone. He’d said as much. He would tell his brother.

What had she been expecting to happen? she wondered. Had she thought Aarif would tell her he loved her, that everything had changed? Had she actually believed, even for a moment, that an hour or two of passion changed everything? Anything?

Yet it had seemed so much more than that. When she’d held him in her arms, felt his heart beating against hers, felt that they were one…

That was what she wanted, she realised. That was why her heart and mind resisted marriage to Calista’s king. She wanted love, and for a few moments it had felt as if she’d found it with Aarif.

You’re thinking you’ve fallen in love with me. His words that morning mocked her. How could she believe it was love when she barely knew him? And what she knew, she wasn’t entirely sure she liked.

He was hard, unrelenting, grim-faced, determined. Yet she’d seen flickers of humour, tenderness, need.

No, she didn’t love him, Kalila knew. Yet she wondered if she could.

She also wondered about the dream that had tormented him so, what horrible memory still held him in its grip. Understanding that memory, Kalila felt, would be a key to understanding Aarif.

Yet how could she understand him when he would spend the next few weeks avoiding her at all costs? And, she reminded herself bleakly, when she was still engaged to his brother?

The water had grown cold and Kalila soaped herself quickly, her hands suddenly stilling on her flat belly. Yet another repercussion of those few moments with Aarif occurred to her with icy shock.

Pregnancy. A baby.

Aarif’s child.

Yet even as her lips curved in a helpless smile at that thought, her mind recognised the disastrous consequences of such a possibility. A royal bastard, conceived before she’d even been married.

Of course, Kalila knew, Zakari could think the baby was his, conceived on their still-to-be wedding night, but if Aarif told him—

She closed her eyes again. This was such a mess. A mess, a mistake, and she had no idea how to fix it or where to begin. She thrust the thoughts away, all of them, to untangle later. It was too much to deal with now, and Kalila had a feeling it would always be too much.

The bath had made her sleepy, and when Kalila emerged from the bathroom swathed in a robe and saw the wide, comfortable bed with the duvet turned down, it seemed only natural to slip between the crisp, clean sheets and let herself be lulled to sleep by the lazy whirring of the ceiling fan. The last sound she heard was the gentle click of the door as Juhanah let herself out.

When she awoke to the sound of a knock on the door, the sun was low in the sky, the room cast in shadow, the air sultry and still. Kalila pushed the hair out of her eyes and called, ‘Juhanah?’

‘Yes, Princess,’ Juhanah replied, and entered. Kalila watched her nurse bustle around the room, a fixed smile on her face, yet something had clearly ruffled her.

Kalila sat up in bed. ‘What time is it?’

‘Past five o’clock,’ Juhanah replied.

‘When are we to dine?’

Juhanah pursed her lips briefly before replying, ‘Prince Aarif has suggested we eat privately tonight, here in your rooms. He said the journey will have fatigued you too much to bear a formal meal.’

Kalila’s lips twitched at Juhanah’s barely disguised expression of outrage at this perceived slight. ‘How very thoughtful of him,’ she said dryly, knowing full well why Aarif would issue such a suggestion.

‘Indeed,’ Juhanah agreed huffily, ‘although hardly a fitting reception for a royal princess!’

Kalila shrugged. ‘I don’t—’

‘Of course you don’t mind,’ Juhanah cut her off, clearly too outraged to let her complaints go unspoken. ‘You are young and easily pleased. But I do not know what to think of a palace that is shut up like a box with no one inside, no one to greet you but a lowly servant—’

‘Actually, he looked quite important—’

‘Pfft!’ Juhanah made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘It is not right.’

‘You must remember there has been a great deal of upheaval in the royal family,’ Kalila replied, the words as much a reminder to herself as to Juhanah. ‘With King Aegeus of Aristo dying, and the rumours of the missing diamond—’

‘And is that where they all are? On a wild goose chase for some jewel?’ Hands on hips, Juhanah looked thoroughly disgruntled, and Kalila found herself smiling, her heart suddenly, surprisingly light.

She rose to embrace her nurse, who returned the hug with some surprise. Kalila had never been an overly affectionate child, yet now she felt a rush of gratitude, a need for touch. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Juhanah,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could bear this all alone.’

Juhanah patted her head, stroking the tangled curls. ‘And you shouldn’t have to. I shall stay in Calista as long as you want me, ya daanaya.’

‘Thank you,’ Kalila whispered, and felt a sudden wave of homesickness, followed by the sting of unexpected tears. She choked them both back down and moved away. ‘Even if we’re dining right here, I should dress,’ she said, and opened the bureau where Juhanah had already put away her clothes.

A short while later a servant wheeled in a domed trolley with a three-course meal set on porcelain plates. Even if most of the royal family was not in residence, the cook clearly was and after twenty-four hours of riding rations Kalila was grateful for the rich offerings: sweet peppers stuffed with lamb, a tangine of chickpeas and tomatoes, and semolina cakes made with dates and cinnamon.

After the meal had been cleared away, Kalila told Juhanah she was sleepy again and the nurse retired to her own room.

Yet sleep, for now, eluded her. Outside her window the moon hung like a silver sickle in the sky, and the gardens beckoned, fragrant and cool. Kalila thought of stealing out there, wandering along the winding stone paths, but she decided against it. The garden could be explored in the light of day.

Yet she refused to be shut up in her room like a prisoner. Aarif might prefer it, but at this point Kalila was not inclined to make things easier for him.

She checked her appearance in the wide mirror and then softly so as not to disturb—or alert—Juhanah in the next room, she opened the door and tiptoed down the hall.

The palace was quiet, deserted. Kalila remembered Juhanah’s words about it being ‘shut up like a box’ and thought now that was an apt description. Where was everyone? Aarif had brothers and sisters; were they all searching for treasure? Had she really been left alone for nearly two weeks to await her errant groom?

Kalila sighed, then shrugged. She didn’t mind being alone. In fact, considering everything that had happened, she actually preferred it.

Yet right now, in the darkness and the quiet, she felt just a little bit lonely.

She tiptoed gingerly down the main staircase into the front foyer. Even down here everything was quiet and dark. She peeked in a few ornate reception rooms; they all looked formal, unwelcoming. For receiving dignitaries, not for living.

She wandered down another corridor, towards the back of the palace, where the private quarters were more likely to be. It wasn’t until she saw the spill of lamplight from a half-open door that she admitted to herself she hadn’t just been exploring; she’d been looking for Aarif.

And as she peeked round the door she saw she had found him.

He sat in a comfortable, silk-patterned chair, his spectacles perched on his nose, his head bent over a book.

She took a step into the room, but Aarif was too engrossed in whatever he was reading to notice. What weighty tome was he perusing now? Kalila wondered with a wry smile. The current market prices for diamonds? Some boring business text? It wasn’t until she was only a few feet from him that he saw her, and by then she’d read the title of his book, a bubble of laughter rising in her throat and spilling out before she had a chance to suppress it.

‘Agatha Christie?’

Aarif closed the book, a look of guilty irritation flashing across his face. ‘Occasionally I enjoy a respite from the cares of work,’ he said stiffly. ‘And fiction provides it.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Kalila agreed, smiling. The fact that he read light mysteries made him seem more human, more real. Warm. ‘I like Agatha Christie too. Tell me, do you prefer Poirot or Miss Marple?’

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.