Читать книгу The Sheikh Who Married Her - Lynn Raye Harris - Страница 8

WALKING into the serene courtyard garden, where the air was heavily hypnotic with the perfume of drowsily alluring blossoms, Zahir saw his sister sitting on the long wooden bench beside the pretty ornamental pond. Her sad gaze was as far away as ever, in a land he couldn’t reach.

Beneath his black jalabiya, Zahir’s taut abdominal muscles clenched uneasily. They had always been close, but since Farida had lost her husband Azhar six months ago she had become withdrawn and uncommunicative, and all the joy had vanished from her almond-shaped dark eyes. Would he ever see it again? He hated to think he might not. There wasn’t anything he owned that he wouldn’t give to see her happy once more. With their parents gone all they had now was each other …

‘Farida?’

Her glance barely acknowledged him before returning to its dreamlike examination of the pond.

‘I am going into the city today on business, and I thought you might like to go with me? We could stay overnight at the apartment and have dinner at your favourite restaurant. What do you think?’

‘I would rather stay here, if you don’t mind, Zahir. I don’t feel like facing the city crowds today—even if it is only from behind the tinted windows of your car.’

Zahir’s responding sigh was heavy. Since he had lost his father and inherited rulership of Kabuyadir he was looked to—and indeed expected—to dispense wisdom, guidance and help to the people of his kingdom. But apparently not to his own sister. As far as that aspect of his rank and power was concerned he was all but useless.

‘What will you do with yourself here all day on your own?’ He tried hard, but couldn’t quite keep the frustration out of his voice.

She shook her head and would not look at him. ‘I will do what I usually do. I will sit here and remember how happy I was with Azhar, and know that I will never be happy again.’

‘You should have had your marriage arranged, as is the custom!’ Zahir flashed irritably, pacing the stone flags surrounding the pond. ‘Then it would not have been such a blow to you when you lost your husband. This—this marrying for love was a mistake. Has our tragic history not taught you that?’

Now Farida did look up at him. ‘How can you say such a terrible thing, Zahir? Our parents did not have an arranged marriage, and they knew the kind of joy and happiness that made them the envy of everyone. Have you forgotten how it was with them? Father told me once that loving our mother made him feel more complete and content than anything material this world could ever do.’

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Zahir came to a standstill beside her. ‘And he was a broken man when she died. So broken that he followed her soon after. Have you forgotten that?’

‘You have changed, Zahir, and it worries me just how much,’ Farida told him sadly. ‘Your rule of Kabuyadir is exemplary, and would have made Father proud, but your rigid rule over your heart has made you cold and a little bitter, I think. Remember the prophecy of the Heart of Courage that has been in our family for generations? It says that all the sons and daughters of the house of Kazeem Khan will marry for love—not for strategic or dynastic alliance. Remember?’

Knowing he had already set plans in motion for the sale of that cursed jewel, Zahir flinched a little. ‘Yes, yes—I remember. But I personally will not be adhering to that. In fact my business today involves preliminary negotiations with the Emir of Kajistan for the hand of his daughter in marriage. She has just turned eighteen, so is eligible. It is a good match, Farida … sensible.’

‘You plan to marry the dull-witted plain daughter of our neighbour? Are you mad? She will drive you crazy in a matter of hours, let alone days!’

Her brother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, but because it will be a marriage of convenience I am not bound to spend every waking hour with the lady. She will have her own interests and I mine.’

‘And what will they be, I wonder? Regularly visiting the beauty parlours in the big city in the hope that they will have some transformative elixir that will render her beautiful? I believe in the power of magic, brother, but I would have trouble believing in a magic as powerful as that. It would be like hoping for a powder to turn a mule into the most elegant of Bedouin thoroughbreds!’

‘Farida!’ Zahir was quick to show his displeasure at this insult to his potential bride, but underneath his admonishing glare his lips twitched in amusement. It reminded him of how mischievous and playful his sister could be. He threw her a final beseeching glance. ‘Won’t you come with me today? When my business meeting is over I would really welcome your company.’

‘I am sorry, Zahir. But I have given you my answer and prefer to be left here alone. However, I pray that you come to your senses and forget about making such a soulless marriage with the Emir’s daughter. Have you never wanted to fall in love like our father did? Like our ancestors did … like I did, too?’

A pair of incandescent long-lashed blue eyes flashed in Zahir’s mind, instigating such a powerful longing inside him to see their owner again that he fought to contain it and return to cold, hard reality instead. Icy reason told him that even to entertain such a hurtful memory was to go down a road made impassable by bitterness and disillusionment. The woman had rejected his entreaty to return to Kabuyadir and his arms outright. Never again would he risk his heart that way, or give his trust to a woman.

When he finally spoke his voice was gruff. ‘The premise is pointless, and I am not a masochist willing to experience more pain and anguish than I have endured already. No, that is not a path for me. Now, can I bring you anything back from the city?’

‘No, thank you. Just go safely and return home soon.’ With the barest glimmer of a filial smile, his sister returned to her lonely musing over the clear still pond at her feet.

Gina had fought hard in her case to win the right to travel to Kabuyadir and examine the jewel she and her colleagues had been researching these past few weeks, and she’d won the battle. Still, it was a double-edged sword to go back to the place where she’d experienced her greatest joy and deepest pleasure and know that she’d foolishly trampled the chance she’d had to be with the man she loved into the dirt.

Now, as her colleague Jake Rivers drove them to the airport, she stared out of the passenger window of his small Fiat in silence, reflecting on returning to the place where she had lost her heart to a handsome, enigmatic stranger—a stranger she had dreamt about almost every night for the past three years. The dreams endlessly replayed that incredible night they had spent together under the desert stars.

‘Zahir.’ She murmured the name softly.

Not for the first time she wondered where he was and what he was doing. Was he married to a girl from his own land now? Was he father to a child that played happily at his feet and made him ache with pride? Did he ever think of Gina and remember the incredible instant connection they had shared? Or had he relegated it to a moment of madness he regretted because she’d callously rejected his invitation to return in preference to forging ahead with her career?

Chewing down hard on her lip, she felt her insides flip in anguish. She’d wanted to make her father proud and honour her mother’s memory, but in doing so she’d sacrificed perhaps the one real chance of happiness she would ever have. Bad enough that she hadn’t seen Zahir again after that one night, but to think that he might despise her for the choice she’d made was a psychological blow beyond cruel. Please, God, no …

‘What did you say?’

Realising she had spoken out loud, Gina glanced round at her erudite bespectacled colleague, her face hot. ‘Nothing … just thinking aloud for a moment.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve been to Kabuyadir before. What was it like?’ Jake asked conversationally as he negotiated the route to the long-term car park.

Shutting her eyes for an instant, Gina felt it all come flooding back—the scent of exotic spices and incense, the sound of languages with their origins in ancient Persian and Byzantine empires, the vibrant glowing colours of the wares in the marketplace, and the fragrant perfume of the Husseins’ garden that was hypnotically carried on the sultry wind.

Most of all she recalled Zahir’s strong-boned face, and eyes so chocolate-dark that one arresting glance had been enough to steal her heart and keep it his for ever …

‘Whatever description my words could give you wouldn’t do it justice. Why not just see for yourself when we get there?’

He sent her a smile as he parked. ‘All right, then. I will. By the way, how’s Professor Collins doing? What’s he working on at the moment?’

Jake’s tone had both admiration and curiosity in it, and Gina kept her expression as neutral as possible. Usually she tried to stick to a policy of keeping her personal life well out of her professional one, but she supposed it was inevitable that her ambitious young colleague would be curious. He had confessed to her from the very first that he was Jeremy Collins’s ‘greatest admirer’ because of what he had achieved in his long and distinguished career.

‘I have no idea what he’s working on, but he’s been a bit under the weather lately, to tell you the truth. Thankfully I found him a new housekeeper, who seems very thoughtful and caring, so I’m trusting he’ll be okay while I’m abroad.’

She hoped she didn’t sound as anxious as she felt. Suddenly her father seemed worryingly forgetful and fragile, and her heart bumped a little beneath her ribs when she thought of him struggling with the daily chores most people found easy.

That was why she was so thankful that she’d found Lizzie Eldridge. As his new housekeeper she would be just perfect. A forty-something single mum of an eleven-year-old, she was down to earth and immensely practical, as well as kind. She and Gina’s father had hit if off straight away. He was in safe hands, she thought as she wheeled her suitcase across the concrete to the dropping-off point for the bus that would take them to the airport entrance.

‘I can’t wait to see the jewel “in the flesh” as it were,’ her companion enthused as he walked beside her. ‘That central diamond—or Almas, as they call it—is quite something. The owner can’t be short of a few quid, seeing that he’s the local Sheikh an’ all, so I wonder what’s made him think of selling it?’

‘That is surely none of our business?’ Gina responded with an arch of her brow. ‘All I know is that it’s a tremendous privilege to study the history of such a jewel … a jewel that research had corroborated hails from seventh-century Persia.’

‘Hmm …’ Unrepentant, Jake grinned. ‘I wonder what he’s like, this “Sheikh of Sheikhs” as he’s known? Can you believe we’ve been invited to stay at his palace instead of some local flea-bitten hotel?’

‘I’d be careful about coming out with things like that when we’re in Kabuyadir, Jake. It might be construed as disrespectful … which it is.’

‘Have you always been such a good girl, Gina?’ The hazel eyes behind the fashionable ebony glass frames were definitely speculative as well as teasing. ‘Don’t you ever let your hair down and just, well … misbehave?’

It was such an outrageous comment that Gina sensed herself flushing hotly. She had ‘misbehaved’ once—in Kabuyadir, as a matter of fact—but at the time it hadn’t seemed at all as if she was doing wrong. Under the circumstances it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world, because it had been purely instinctive and right. She certainly didn’t regret what others might regard as her moment of madness if they knew about it. Not even once.

Running her hand over her tidy French pleat, she felt the leap of intense longing to see Zahir again almost overcome her. ‘I’m not perfect, Jake. I have my foibles just like anyone else. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

There were moments in a person’s life when the sheer wonder of a sight left an imprint on the heart and mind that would never be erased. Stepping into the vast mosaic and marble courtyard of Sheikh Kazeem Khan’s ornately gilded palace was one of them.

Shielding her gaze against the dazzling sunlight that rendered the tall golden turrets almost impossible to look at for long, even with her sunglasses on, Gina glanced over at an equally mesmerised Jake and shook her head. Words seemed unnecessary.

Lifting her face up to the skyline again, she noted the impressive stone-built watchtower, hovering even higher than the golden pinnacle of the roof. Once upon a time this palace must have been the most intimidating and impenetrable fortress. It wasn’t hard to imagine what it must have been like then. From the outside it appeared as if twenty-first century modernity had barely touched it at all.

A slim-built young man with watchful amber eyes, dressed traditionally in a jalabiya and a headdress with a colourful agal rope securing it round his head, stood waiting patiently as the two Europeans ogled a sight that for him was no doubt commonplace. His name was Jamal, and he was proud to call himself a servant of Sheikh Kazeem Khan, he told them. He had met them at the foothills of the city, where the taxi that had waited for them at the airport had left them, and had then accompanied them up the mountain in a cable car. From there, a comfortable horse-drawn buggy, with ravishing silk curtains and cushions, had transported them to the palace.

Gina was tired, travel-worn and melting in the heat, yet an undeniable excitement thrummed in her veins, making her not want to miss anything if she could help it.

‘We must not linger here in the afternoon heat. We should go inside now. This way.’ Jamal made a sweeping motion towards a vaulted sandstone passageway. ‘Another servant will show you to your rooms, where you can rest for a while. Then, later, you will make preparations to meet with His Highness.’

Gina’s tiredness vanished completely when she was shown to her guest quarters. She’d been absolutely charmed by the comfortable adobe style house that she’d lived in when she’d stayed with the Husseins, but this … this was like walking into the sumptuous boudoir of an eastern princess. The furnishings were lush, with ravishing silk brocades of every imaginable hue and colour, and floor-to-ceiling voile drapes fell in a sensuous sunburst from two slim windows. An azure-coloured blind was partially unfolded behind the curtains, to keep out the heat and glare of the sun, and the floor was made from blissfully cool white marble. A generous-sized Persian rug picked out in sensuous gold and bronze threads was spread out at the foot of the bed … the bed.

If Gina had been inclined to write poetry she would have composed a veritable sonnet to such a bed. It was vast in every sense, with the broad-clawed feet of a sphinx and intricate Arabian carvings inlaid in a rosewood headboard that appeared magical and ancient at the same time. It practically drowned beneath a sea of silk and brocade cushions of every conceivable shape and colour.

Throwing herself down amongst them, she sighed with pleasure. A delicious if bittersweet daydream about Zahir drifted into her mind. Was there some way she could get to see him? she wondered. Was she crazy to even hope he might agree to a meeting?

She would have broached the subject to Mrs Hussein on that morning before she’d left for the airport to return home—asked her hostess if she could elaborate on who he was and where he lived. But Clothilde had seemed busy and preoccupied, and it just hadn’t felt right or proper to ask about the charismatic male guest that Gina knew simply as Zahir.

He’d left early the next morning, even before she’d risen to dress for the airport. His parting embrace had filled them both with intense longing all over again, but she’d given him her phone number and he’d promised to call her the very next day. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done to kiss him goodbye and then watch him walk away, with the only remaining evidence of his presence the scent of warm aroused male he’d left on her body and the tingling ache between her thighs. She had surrendered her innocence to him—surrendered it with full heart and a fervent pledge to love him for ever … no matter what.

It was said that a woman never forgot her first love. In Gina’s case her only love. That was why she could never give up her precious memories of that night. But she’d made sure all she would ever have was memory when, incredibly, she’d rejected Zahir’s invitation to go back to Kabuyadir and be with him. Even now she couldn’t believe she’d done it. Grief over her mother and worry over her father must have temporarily made her lose her mind. The thought of the pain and disbelief in Zahir’s proud voice had gone round and round in Gina’s head for three impossible years.

Turning her face into a plump silken pillow, she felt stinging tears of regret and longing wash into her eyes as she whispered his name … whispered it like a prayer …

At last Farida had retired to her quarters, and Zahir could safely entertain his guests from England. She would only become agitated and tearful if she knew of his intention to sell the Heart of Courage—the jewel that she seemed convinced was possessed of some kind of prophetic power when it came to their family’s marriages. But when sufficient time had passed and she was more like herself again he was certain he could persuade her that the sale was for the best.

They had had a tumultuous time of late. Their parents had left this world one after the other, and then Azhar—Farida’s husband—had lost his life in an automobile accident in Dubai. The only thing his beloved sister needed right now, Zahir believed, was peace and plenty of time to heal. The presence of a family heirloom that he privately thought of as a curse would not help her achieve that. And for him it would only act as a painful reminder of all he had lost. It mocked his once fervent belief in it himself. He’d rejected the prophecy when the woman he had fallen in love with callously turned down his plea for her to be with him.

The money he received from the sale of the jewel he would give to Farida, to do with what she willed, he decided. He certainly didn’t need it.

There was plenty of evidence in palace records to vouch for the authenticity of the jewel, but as he planned to sell it abroad he’d needed to have that evidence corroborated by a respected independent source. The auction house in Mayfair had an internationally respected reputation. His two guests were a male historian and his female colleague who specialised in the study of ancient artefacts. Zahir hadn’t seen their names—he’d left the details to his personal secretary and lifelong friend Masoud, who had now unfortunately been taken ill—but he had ensured that out of respect and deference the female would have one of the best staterooms in the palace.

Now, as he waited in the main salon where he received visitors, he didn’t know why but an odd sense of foreboding gripped him. Telling himself that he was becoming as bad as his sister, believing in all kinds of supernatural phenomena, he impatiently shook away the unwelcome frisson that shivered down his spine. Lifting the sleeve of his jalabiya, he glanced down at the linked gold watch circling his tanned wrist. The ornate twin doors at the end of the long stately room suddenly opened and his servant Jamal appeared.

‘Your Highness.’ He bowed respectfully. ‘May I present Dr Rivers, and his colleague Dr Collins?’

Already walking forward with his hand outstretched, Zahir felt his footsteps come to a frozen standstill. Beside a slim-built man with sandy-coloured hair who wore glasses stood a woman with elegantly upswept blonde hair, her svelte figure dressed in a long, flowing silk kaftan in stunning aquamarine. But it was her beautiful face and riveting long-lashed blue eyes that made his heart almost stop.

Gina … Was he dreaming?

He could hardly believe it. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to speak, but just then to him that was akin to growing wings and flying. Clearing his throat, Zahir moved towards the man first. Even as he was shaking his hand his mouth dried and his chest tightened. He knew he would slip his hand into Gina’s next. She was clearly as shocked and startled as he was. Her cool, slim palm trembled slightly beneath his touch. Their gazes locked, and it was as though the room and everyone else in it apart from the two of them simply melted away.

‘Dr Collins,’ he heard himself intone gruffly, ‘I am honoured to meet you.’

Only too aware that they were being observed, Zahir withdrew his hand and gestured towards the rectangle of Arabian couches positioned round a carved dark wood Moroccan coffee table a few feet away.

‘We should sit and make ourselves comfortable. Jamal, you may serve coffee and refreshments now.’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’ The servant bowed and moved smoothly back towards the double doors, careful not to show his back to Zahir as he did so.

‘Your rooms are comfortable and to your liking?’ Moving his gaze from Jake Rivers to Gina, then back again to the man, Zahir settled himself on one of the longer couches and hoped the smile he’d arranged on his face was polite and relaxed—that it did not give rise to suspicion that he and Gina had met before and that the mere sight of her had all but undone him.

It was a most delicate predicament, and he would have to draw upon all his powers of diplomacy and tact to deal with it, he thought. But every time he found his glance returning to hers he wished they could be alone together, so that he could demand to know the real reason she had rejected him. Had it been because there was someone else waiting for her back home in England? How many times had he tortured himself with that thought over the years? Too many. One thing Zahir was certain of: before she left he would know everything.

‘The palace is truly amazing, and our quarters more than comfortable—thank you,’ Jake Rivers answered, linking his hands across his knees as he sat next to Gina. How old was he? Zahir wondered. He’d imagined that someone expert in their field, as he was supposed to be, would be older and more distinguished-looking. He could almost hear Farida teasing him. That’s because you watch too many old films where every English professor is a caricature, she’d say. A sigh escaped him.

‘That is good. As to the palace’s origin, we believe it was erected in the ninth century, when the Persian and Byzantine wars were over. For the people of this region it has always been a powerful stronghold, and a symbol of strength to see off any foe. They have always helped maintain it, and take a pride in its beauty as well.’

Helplessly and hungrily, his gaze moved back to Gina. What was she thinking? he wondered. Was she shocked to learn his true identity at last? Would she curse her folly in turning him down? It was a bitter straw he would willingly grasp—a salve to his wounded pride that he’d never thought he’d receive.

‘And your expertise is in antiquities, is it not, Dr Collins?’ he asked. He saw her take a breath in and out again, then briefly fold her hands in her lap as if to compose herself.

‘Classical antiquities and ancient artefacts. My colleague Dr Rivers is the historian in our team, Your Highness.’

‘So you are equally qualified?’

‘More or less.’ Jake shrugged, throwing Gina an easy smile.

A stab of jealousy seared through Zahir’s insides, his spine stiffening in protest at the envied familiarity. ‘So Dr Collins is not your assistant?’ he remarked, with a touch of mockery in his tone.

‘My assistant?’ Now the young man’s lips split into a wide grin. ‘I mean no disrespect, sir, but she is far too independent and bossy for that!’

‘Is that so?’ Zahir leant forward, his glance falling into a slow, leisurely examination of a pair of flawless china-blue eyes. ‘How interesting … how interesting indeed …’