Читать книгу The Royal House Of Karedes Collection Books 1-12 - Кейт Хьюит, Шантель Шоу - Страница 26

THERE was no reason why a scorpion shouldn’t be lying dead on the ground—but not when Eleni had only just swept the yard. She stared down at its curved black shape and a certainty which defied logic whispered its way in a cold chill over her skin. It was an omen, surely. An evil portent—coming moments before her father’s mysterious guest arrived. She swallowed. For wasn’t desert legend full of signs as ominous as this?

‘Eleni!’

Her father’s shout echoed through the hot, still air and Eleni tensed as she tried to work out what kind of mood he was in. At least the tone was steady, which meant that he was sober, but it was impatient, too and her heart sank—for that could mean only one thing. That he was eager to begin his game of cards—and that his fellow players were growing impatient. Loud, laughing men who were stupid enough to gamble away everything they had worked for.

‘Eleni!’ The voice had now become a roar. ‘Where in the desert’s name are you?’

‘I am here, Papa!’ she said, quickly kicking the scorpion to a dusty grave in a small pile of sand outside the stables and then hurrying towards the house, where Gamal Lakis stood waiting in the doorway. His wizened and sunburnt face was sour as he looked her up and down.

‘What are you doing that keeps you away from the house and your duties?’ he criticised.

It was pointless telling him that she had just come from the stables, where she had been speaking softly to his beloved horses. And that such constant care and vigilance kept them in prized and peak condition—making Gamal Lakis one of the most envied men in this desert kingdom. She knew from experience that there was no explanation that would ever satisfy this most discontented of men.

‘I’m sorry, Papa,’ she said automatically, lowering her gaze to the ground before looking up once more to flash him a reassuring smile. ‘I will come and bring refreshment to your guests immediately.’

‘No, no. We cannot yet drink, nor eat the food which has been prepared,’ said her father unexpectedly. ‘For we await the arrival of our guest of honour.’ His faded eyes glinted and he gave a rare and crafty smile. ‘And do you know who this guest is, Eleni?’

She shook her head. The visit had been shrouded in mystery for days now, but Eleni knew that it was not her place to ask. Women were told when men deemed that the time was right and not before, especially in households like theirs. ‘No, Papa, I do not know.’

‘No less than one of the most important men in the whole of Calista!’ he boasted. ‘I wonder if you would like to make a guess just who that might be?’

Eleni took her cue, asking him the question he clearly wished to be asked, though his wild extravagance was now making her wonder whether her father was quite as sober as she had first thought.

‘Won’t you tell me who he is, Papa—so that I may wait on him with due deference when he arrives at our home?’

Gamal’s thin lips gave another wet and triumphant smile, pausing like a man who held the trump card in a high-bidding game. ‘What would you say, my daughter—if I told you that a royal prince was coming to the home of your father?’

She would say that he had been drinking, after all. But never to his face, of course. If Papa was having one of his frequent flights of fancy then it was always best to play along with it.

Eleni kept her face poker-straight. ‘A royal prince, Papa?’ she questioned gravely.

‘Yes, indeed!’ He pushed his face forward. ‘The Prince Kaliq Al’Farisi,’ he crowed, ‘is coming to my house to play cards with me!’

Her father had gone insane! These were ideas of grandeur run riot! And what was Eleni to do? What if he continued to make such idle boasts in front of the men who were sitting, waiting to begin the long night of card-playing? Surely that would make him a laughing stock and ruin what little reputation he had left.

‘Papa,’ she whispered urgently. ‘I beg you to think clearly. What place would a royal prince have here?’

But she was destined never to hear a reply, even though his mouth had opened like a puppet—for there came the sound of distant hooves. The steady, powerful thud of horses as they thundered over the parched sands. On the still, thick air the muffled beat grew closer and louder until it filled Eleni’s ears like the sound of the desert wolves which howled at the silver moon when it was at its fullest.

Towards them galloped a clutch of four horses, and as Eleni watched, one of them broke free and surged forwards like a black stream of oil gushing out of the arid sand. For a moment, she stood there, transfixed—for this was as beautiful and as reckless a piece of riding as she had ever witnessed.

Illuminated by the orange gold of the dying sun, a colossus of a man could be seen, with an ebony stallion between his thighs as he urged it on with a joyful shout. The man’s bare head was as dark as the horse he rode and his skin gleamed like some bright and burnished metal. Robes of pure silk clung to the hard sinews of his body and as he approached Eleni could see a face so forbidding that some deep-rooted fear made her wonder if he had the power to turn to dust all those who stood before him.

And a face so inherently beautiful that it was as if all the desert flowers had bloomed at once.

It was then that Eleni understood the full and daunting truth. Her father’s bragging had been true for riding towards their humble abode was indeed Prince Kaliq Al’Farisi. Kaliq the daredevil, the lover of women, the playboy, the gambler and irresponsible twin son of Prince Ashraf. The man, it was said, could make women moan with pleasure simply by looking at them.

She had not seen him since she was a young girl in the crowds watching the royal family pass by. Back then, he had been doing his military service and wearing the uniform of the Calistan Navy. And back then he had been an arresting young man—barely in his twenties. But now—a decade and a half on—he was at the most magnificent peak of his manhood, with a raw and beautiful masculinity which seemed to shimmer from his muscular frame.

‘By the wolves that howl!’ Eleni whimpered, and ran inside the house.

‘Highness!’ simpered Gamal, and as the Prince’s horse entered the battered gates he bent as low as his creaking bones would allow.

Kaliq dismounted with the same speed and grace as he would remove himself from the body of a woman he had just made love to. Jumping to the ground, his riding boots dusty beneath the fine, flowing robes which denoted his high status, he glanced around him, making no attempt to hide the faint curve of his lips as he took in his surroundings.

It was as he had thought—a hovel of a place! Lowly and rough—but a place which promised him something which he hungered for. Indeed, his heart’s delight. His gaze flickered over the stable door before returning to the grovelling figure before him.

‘Get up, Lakis,’ he ordered.

Gamal obeyed, rubbing at his back and wincing slightly. ‘May I say how honoured am I to have the most venerable prince partake of my—’

‘Cut the smarm,’ snapped Kaliq, with the arrogance he had learned at one of the many international schools he had attended. An arrogance which had been necessary to protect him from the greed and ambition of those who craved royal patronage. His eyes glittered as he tempered his curt reply with the silken charm which his sister Yasmine complained could lure the birds from the trees.

‘I have not come for your craven admiration, Lakis,’ he admonished softly. ‘But to play cards with a man—and this I have on good authority—a man who is unbeatable at cards. Are you that man, I wonder?’

Gamal smirked and puffed up his chest. ‘It has been said, Highness.’

Kaliq drummed an impatient finger on his riding crop. Was the fool not aware that a commoner should never boast of superiority to a royal prince? Idly, he tossed the crop to one of his bodyguards, who was only now just climbing down from his horse and looking a little shamefaced.

‘We shall see how unbeatable you are,’ Kaliq said carelessly. ‘And I am in the mood for good sport tonight—but first I wish to drink. Do you have nothing to offer to quench the parched throats of these travellers, Lakis—for we have ridden long and ridden hard across the desert from our royal palaces?’

‘Oh, forgive me, Highness, forgive me,’ stumbled Gamal. ‘You will please enter my humble abode and anything you desire shall be brought to you.’

The smoke-filled salon was lit by oil-lamps with a bright, spotlight glare over the poker table and Kaliq dipped his head as he entered the room, noting that one of his bodyguards had slipped in before him. The faint scent of incense mingled with the smell of tobacco and the deep voices grew silent as the assembled men sprang instantly to their feet.

Kaliq’s smile was wolfish as he waved at them to resume their seats. For wasn’t the number one rule of defeating the opposition to first give them a false sense of security? ‘No, no. Tonight you do not stand on ceremony; tonight we are as equals,’ he instructed softly. ‘For the cards cannot be played properly if one insists on hierarchy. Tonight I am not a prince of your land—I am simply a man, just like you, Lakis.’

Standing just outside the door and summoning up the courage to enter the room, Eleni wondered if her father knew what he was up against. Because as she listened to the prince’s drawled statement, it somehow didn’t ring quite true. As if this powerful prince would ever desire that these ruffians should be his equal!

‘Eleni!’

She was just about to call, ‘Yes, Papa,’ when she heard his next words.

‘My servant girl will bring us food and drink! Eleni—come now!’

In spite of her nerves, Eleni almost smiled. How wily her father was. Not only was he elevating his status in front of the prince by bringing in an extra, female servant—but by using his daughter he would guarantee absolute discretion. As well as not having to pay her anything!

Sucking in a deep breath, Eleni entered the room, keeping her eyes down and resisting the terrible overwhelming instinct which made her long to look at the prince again, which wasn’t easy since servants were never permitted eye-contact with a member of the ruling family of Calista. She knew too that protocol demanded she make a deep curtsey—not something she was used to doing.

‘Your Highness,’ she said softly, and, bending one knee behind the other, she made a sweeping kind of bow—glad that all her years of riding had given her a certain grace. ‘What does my master request that I should bring to his honoured guest?’ she added quietly.

Kaliq glanced over at her, his antennae automatically alerted by the sound of a woman’s voice. It was soft and soothing, he thought—like cool, running water running through this oppressive and stuffy room. And it was curiously fluent for a servant. His eyes narrowed, but he could not see whether she was plain or beautiful.

Her head was covered with a veil and the clothes she wore were drab and concealing—and while they were entirely appropriate for a woman of her class and status, he would have preferred to feast his eyes on something attractive. Some buxom young thing with her breasts half spilling out, who would pleasure him with the yearning in her eyes!

‘A drink,’ he ordered curtly, forcing his thoughts away from the subject because he was here tonight to play cards—not to lose himself in the delights of a woman.

‘You will drink some Zelyoniy with us?’ questioned Gamal hopefully.

Kaliq suppressed a shudder. As if he could bring himself to drink Zelyoniy! The potent green spirit made from cactus plants was banned in most of the country, though he knew that its use was still widespread in the rougher regions. But might it not assist his game if his partners were partial to hard liqueur? ‘Not for me,’ he answered silkily. ‘But the rest of you must drink what pleases you. Bring me pomegranate juice instead,’ he told the servant girl.

‘At once, Highness,’ said Eleni, and hurried off.

Kaliq leaned back in his chair as the dealer opened the new pack of cards and a familiar excitement began to steal over his skin. He wanted to win, yes, because he loved winning—but more important than victory was the risk involved. He shouldn’t really be here, associating with these low-life racehorse breeders and trainers—but that, of course, only added to the evening’s appeal. The sense of the unknown, the forbidden and the elicit.

Because sometimes Kaliq grew bored with his privileged life—a life which took him to cities all over the Western world. Cities where he could slip easily into the role of the playboy sheikh—as the international newspapers were so fond of calling him. Impossibly rich from the wealth of his country’s diamond mines, he could have anything he wanted—and mostly he did.

But sometimes he wanted harsh contrast and that was what brought him to places like this. Where the hardships and toughness of desert life made the flesh-pots of Europe fade into insignificance. As the cards began to be dealt around the table Kaliq felt the familiar thrill of expectation.

‘You will take food, Highness?’

Kaliq glanced up. The servant girl was standing before him and putting a goblet of pomegranate juice before him. He shook his dark head impatiently. As if he would eat with people such as these!

‘No. I have no appetite for food.’ And then he glanced at the drink. ‘But my thirst is great. Taste it,’ he instructed the girl.

Eleni’s heart raced in confusion. Surely the prince did not intend her to drink from his glass? ‘But—’

‘I said, taste it,’ he repeated softly. ‘Or I will begin to worry that you are trying to poison me.’

With nervous fingers Eleni lifted the heavy cup—her father’s best—to her lips and sipped at the sweet, tangy juice, the tip of her tongue automatically removing its sticky trace from her lips. How horrible for the prince to have to live with such terrible fears, she thought, her heart giving an automatic little tug of compassion. Did he have to watch his back, wherever he went, she wondered—afraid that some unknown assassin was lurking in the shadows?

Aware that his piercing black eyes were fixed on her, she felt as if she had been turned to stone. What was she supposed to do now? And how long did they have to wait to see if she had been poisoned?

‘Well?’ Kaliq shot the word out.

Eleni swallowed as she stared down at the goblet. ‘I think the drink will please you, Highness.’

‘Then give it to me,’ he ordered silkily.

At this, she was forced to lift her gaze upwards as she held the juice towards him and as Kaliq stared into her face he felt the first shimmering of astonishment. For she had green eyes—pale green and glittering! The fabled green eyes of Calista—a throwback to warriors from Persia who had briefly conquered this land and its women many centuries ago, before being defeated by one of his ancestors. Legendary eyes—rare and lovely and spoken of in the palaces and tea rooms—but he had never seen them before now.

‘By the desert storm,’ he murmured beneath his breath, a strange wild beating in his heart as he sipped some of the juice and stared into them. ‘Such beautiful eyes.’

But then the cards began to fly from the dealer’s hands and Kaliq turned his attention to the game, the servant dismissed from his mind, her eyes forgotten.

There was a lot of money at stake, but it soon became clear to Kaliq that he and Gamal were playing to a different agenda from the other men, and soon their natural aggression ensured that there were only two of them left in the game. But Gamal was drinking too much alcohol—and Kaliq knew that there was one place in the world where you could not afford to be drunk, and that was at the poker table.

As the dealer skimmed them each two cards he saw Gamal try and fail to hide his smile of triumph and Kaliq sensed that his moment was drawing near. He looked up to find that the green eyes of the servant girl were fixed on the table with a look of terror. Was she perhaps worried that her master would gamble away all his livelihood, and her job into the bargain?

Glancing down at his own cards, Kaliq leaned forward. ‘A thousand to play,’ he said softly to the soft gasp of one of the onlookers.

Gamal immediately pushed a pile of hyakim notes into the pot. ‘Three thousand,’ he croaked, licking his lips.

Kaliq leaned back in his chair, sensing the man’s greed and certainty that he was going to win and the prince smiled with the confidence of a man who held an unbeatable pair of cards in his hand. ‘You look as if you’d like to bet more, Lakis,’ he said silkily. ‘Shall we raise the stakes? I’ll allow you to make a larger bet if you wish.’

Gamal’s eyes gleamed. ‘How much?’

Kaliq shrugged. ‘Well, as you know, I have no use for money—but if you want to sweeten the pot with that Arab stallion of yours that I’ve heard so much about, then I’ll put in a million. What do you say to that, old man?’

Unable to believe what she was seeing, Eleni dropped a spoon in an attempt to bring her father to his senses but the atmosphere in the room was so tense that nobody even noticed it clattering to the ground. This was like a bad, bad dream—her drunken brute of a father threatening to use his prize stallion as a wager. Her own beloved horse and just about the only thing which kept her sane in the harsh environment in which she lived.

‘A million, you say?’ questioned Gamal greedily.

‘A million,’ agreed Kaliq.

Eleni wanted to scream at her father not to persist with this foolishness—for even she could see from the prince’s demeanour that he must hold the winning cards. But how could she possibly boldly assert herself in this company of men, and in front of their royal guest? Why, Kaliq would probably have one of his bodyguards carry her from the room and slapped into the jailhouse in Serapolis!

‘Would… would you care for another drink, Highness?’ she questioned desperately, hoping to shatter the mood with her inappropriate question.

‘Do not dare speak to me when we are engaged in play,’ snapped Kaliq.

‘Yes, yes. I’ll wager the stallion!’ butted in Gamal wildly, triumphantly slapping two kings down on the table.

Eleni bunched her fist into her mouth. ‘No!’ she whimpered, but nobody heard. She could hardly bear to watch, but it was as inevitable as watching the sun sink down over the distant mountains. Her father was going to lose, or rather, the prince was going to win—that much had been apparent from the moment he had first galloped up on his own magnificent stallion.

Slowly, Kaliq laid down his two aces—the only hand which could beat Gamal’s—and there was a collective gasp in the room. ‘My game, I think,’ he said softly.

Eleni honestly thought that she might faint, and on shaky knees she staggered to the door, not caring if it was discourteous to their royal guest to leave without being dismissed, not caring about anything—because to all intents and purposes her life was over.

She took one last look at Kaliq’s beautiful hard face and the cruel smile which curved his lips—and her fingers itched to pick up the heavy spoon she had dropped and to hurl it at his arrogant royal head. How dared he try to rob them of the one thing in their lives which brought them income and prosperity?

Half stumbling out into the now-dark night, Eleni ran to the stable block before letting herself into the stall of her beloved Nabat, who whinnied with pleased recognition when he saw her and came nuzzling around her hand for a piece of sugar.

‘Oh, Nabat,’ she whispered as she put her arms around his sleek neck and buried her face in his sweet-smelling fur. ‘Darling, darling Nabat—how will I ever be able to cope without you?’ She pulled her face back to look deep into the horse’s face, seeming to see bewilderment written in the creature’s eyes. Or was she doing that age-old thing of animal lovers and transferring her feelings onto Nabat?

This was the horse who had arrived as a long-legged young foal and even then she had seen the beauty, strength and potential inherent in the animal. But it had been an unhappy horse. She didn’t know how her father had managed to acquire the fine Arabian stallion and she hadn’t wanted to know—all she did know was that it had been badly in need of some tender loving care.

In those early days when Nabat had been fretful and rearing and baring his teeth whenever anyone went near him, it had been Eleni who had soothed him, who had taken the time to coax him to eat.

‘The animal is too highly strung!’ Gamal had complained on more than one occasion, his hand straying towards the large whip he loved to carry. ‘Maybe we should beat some manners into it!’

But Eleni had sprung to the helpless creature’s defence. ‘No, Papa!’ she had pleaded. ‘Let me try to school him for you, to settle him down so that he’s happy here.’

‘He had better be happy soon enough! ‘her father had snarled. ‘Or he will find himself for sale on a kebab stand in Aquila!’

So by nights Eleni had slept in the straw at the other end of the stable—like a mother attending to a fretful newborn—and in the end she and her father had both been rewarded. For her had come the kind of unconditional love she had never been shown by a human since her mother had died. And for her father—well, he began to revel in the riches which came as a result of the horse blossoming into a soon-legendary winner of every race he was entered into.

Was that why the prince wanted him? To reap some of Nabat’s athletic glory onto his worthless and spoilt royal head?

Her arms tightened around the Arab’s neck. ‘Well, I will not leave you, Nabat,’ she said fiercely. ‘That I promise you. I’ll stow away in the very straw that transports you away from me. And when I get the opportunity, we will escape together—to find a life of peace and quiet.’

She wondered when the sheikh would come to claim his spoils. Presumably, he would need time to arrange for Nabat to be taken to the royal palace. Which gave her time to arrange how best to hide herself and the few meagre belongings she would need to take with her.

But at that moment she heard the sound of men talking—and in particular the arrogant and autocratic drawl of the sheikh’s voice carrying across the yard. And it was heading this way!

Her heart racing, she sprang away from the horse’s neck but it was too late—for the soft light of an oil-lamp spilled its light across the stable, illuminating her in its golden glow.

She could see little of the man holding the lamp—save for the hard glitter of his eyes and the pale shimmer of his silken robes—and Eleni stood there, frozen with all kinds of conflicting emotions, feeling as guilty as if she had been found in the arms of a lover.

‘You,’ said Kaliq damningly as his eyes swept over her. ‘What in the falcon’s name are you doing here?’