Читать книгу Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Two nights later, Constance stood next to the low parapet on the roof terrace, watching the sun sinking over the port of Murimon, evoking the completion of the daily journey of the mythical Greek Titan Helios and his sun chariot, returning to the east in preparation for the morning. The spectacle of night falling over the Arabian Sea filled her with awe. The colours of the last rays streaking the sky, reflected in the sea, were so blazingly vibrant they deserved new names. Existing colours could not do them full justice. The night fell so quickly too, dusk was over in a heartbeat. One minute the sky was blue. Then multi-hued. And then indigo. The stars did not emerge hesitantly like a gaggle of shy debutantes as they did at home, they exploded into the sky, huge discs of silver and gold, not cautiously twinkling, but with all the confidence and bravado of the most celebrated of courtesans.

She left the parapet to make her way over to the heap of cushions she had set out by the telescope. Lying back, she gazed up at the sky, accustoming her eyes to the dark. Above her, the nightly parade of stars had begun in earnest. The moon was on the wane, a mere sliver of a crescent. The moon god Anningan had been so busy chasing his love, the sun, that he had not eaten. In a day or so, he would disappear from the sky for three days while he came down to earth to hunt. When he returned he would grow fatter, waxing from a crescent to his full, buttery pomp. And then once again, he’d become distracted by his lady love, and forget to eat. This tale was Constance’s favourite of the many depictions of the moon’s phases, though she pitied poor Anningan, tied to the flighty sun, forced to do her bidding, without a will of his own. He might as well be a wife.

She wriggled more deeply into the mound of cushions and reminded herself that it was destructive to think such negative thoughts. Her mother had given her a list of positives, a litany she had recited over and over to her daughter, as if repetition would give them veracity. They were all variations on the same theme. Constance’s marriage would be carefree because Constance’s husband was rich. Constance would be happy because her husband was happy, because how could a rich man not be happy, when he wanted for nothing. At a stroke, Constance could both secure her own future, and rescue Mama’s.

Her mother’s logic was fatally flawed, but she could not be persuaded that replenishing Papa’s coffers would secure nothing, save a hiatus while he invested it recklessly with his usual flair for picking those schemes most unlikely to succeed. As for Constance’s future—that logic had more holes than a sieve. Mr Edgbaston’s money was his own to do with as he wished, as was his wife. Having paid such a large sum for her, rather than increase her value to him, wasn’t it likely that he’d expect a great deal in return, whatever the devil that turned out to be!

Far from attaining any sort of independence, as Mama had repeatedly claimed she would, for she knew her daughter almost as well as her daughter knew her, Constance would be entirely beholden. Papa had dismissed her pleas to include any personal allowance in the betrothal contract or even any widow’s jointure, as a matter of detail, not wishing to risk asking for anything that might endanger the deal. Constance was effectively penniless. Worse in fact, because now that her trousseau was at the bottom of the sea, she was going to be starting out married life in debt to her husband for the very clothes on her back.

Just thinking about it made her anxious. What if she didn’t please this stranger she was to marry? What if he disliked her? What if she disliked him? The very idea of pretending made her skin crawl. The fact that she would have to, that she would be expected to, that she would have no choice—that was the worst, the very worst part of it. She was twenty-five years old. She knew her own mind. She didn’t want to get married. She never had. It was quite simple. She didn’t want to do it. She really didn’t want to do it.

But she had to, so there was no point in working herself up into a state. It had to be done. Though not quite yet, thank goodness. There would be no ship for months. Two months, perhaps three. Plenty of time for her to come up with a strategy to make the best of a bad lot. More than enough time. In fact, so much time she would be best putting it out of her mind entirely and turn her thoughts to more immediate concerns.

Such as the fascinating and enigmatic Prince of Murimon and the revelation that he wanted to kiss her. That he, Kadar, was engaged to be married. Constance could still not decide what to make of either fact. Or which was the most interesting to learn.

She knew absolutely nothing more than these stark facts, and since he had communicated with her only through brief dispatches since, she had had no opportunity to press him further. Mind you, she doubted very much that tactic would be successful. If he didn’t want to talk about it, he would give her one of his looks. She had labelled them in her head. Number one, the Haughty Prince. Number two, the Mind Reader. Number three, the Sphynx. And then her two favourites. Number four, the Bone-Melter. And Number five, the Blood-Heater.

Kadar wanted to kiss her. Kadar would not kiss her because he was promised to another. And so was she. Was it sophistry to argue that such a kiss was permissible because it could mean nothing? Probably. Wouldn’t she make a better wife if she knew how to kiss? Perhaps, though she couldn’t pretend that she would be kissing Kadar for any other reason than that she wanted to kiss him. Which she did, despite knowing it was wrong of her, she really did. And he wanted to kiss her. If only he did not, it would be easier. She should be hoping that he had changed his mind. She would be fibbing if she told herself she hoped any such thing.

The sky above her was inky black, giving the brightest stars a bluish hue. With the moon so emaciated, and now that her vision was adjusted, she could see hundreds of distant pinpricks of light in addition to the main constellations. Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius were all clearly defined tonight. As ever, looking up at all this celestial beauty, Constance was filled with a sense of wonder. She was one tiny being, on one tiny planet in a nebulae spinning at unimaginable speed through a vast universe filled with a myriad of other nebulae. All of this had existed for countless thousands of years, and would endure for thousands more to come.

In comparison, her lifetime was the mere blink of an eye. Her three months here in Arabia was too tiny a period to even register. Constance began to set up the telescope, making the necessary adjustments, deciding tonight to point it due south. She had better not waste a single moment. With a growing sense of excitement mingled with anticipation, she looked through the eyepiece and was instantly transported to the spellbinding creation that surrounded this little world.

* * *

The invitation to accompany Kadar on his early morning ride had been in her suite when she returned from her stargazing. The outfit which she wore for the occasion was perfectly suited for the purpose, consisting of a soft white sleeveless tunic under a long dark-red cotton coat with matching trousers. Her boots came up over her knees, the brown kid soft on her skin, the long pointed toes decorated with red stitching.

He had been waiting for her in the stables, had chosen for her mount the most beautiful Arabian mare she had ever seen. She rode astride like a man, there being no side-saddle available. It was a perfect morning, and she could not have asked for a more even-tempered equine companion. Above them, in the celestial blue of the early morning sky streaked with wispy cloud, the sun was pale gold, the air tangy with salt. As they reached the furthest edge of the long beach Constance reined in her mount. Kadar was already there, waiting. The sea was like liquid turquoise, breaking white onto the hard-packed golden sands, foaming around the legs of the steaming horses and pooling around an outcrop of rock. The shoreline was a cliff formed of the same ochre rock, the first trees which she had seen in the kingdom growing in neat rows further inland.

‘Olive trees,’ Kadar said, in answer to her unspoken question. ‘They screen some of our precious crop-growing land from the salt and the winds coming in off the sea.’

‘It is so beautiful,’ Constance said. ‘And this horse, she is so perfectly behaved. Whoever trained her is most skilled.’

‘She was bred in Bharym, as was my stallion. Rafiq, the prince of that country has the best stables in Arabia. I am fortunate enough to be one of the few men to whom he will sell his prized bloodstock.’

‘Does he sell only to his friends?’

‘He sells only to those he deems worthy to own and enjoy his precious horseflesh,’ Kadar said, with a faint smile.

‘Ah.’ Constance laughed. ‘I can see why he deems you worthy. You ride as if you were born in the saddle. I am extremely privileged to ride this beautiful creature.’

Kadar smiled. ‘Rafiq would approve of your horsemanship. My instincts told me you would know how to handle her. I was right.’

‘Thank you.’

‘The tide is far enough out this morning for us to venture around the headland,’ Kadar said, ‘unless you have had enough?’

‘I don’t think I could ever have a surfeit of this,’ Constance replied. Sea, sky, sands, horse and man, any of it, she thought, following in his wake. Kadar’s riding dress was similar to hers, consisting of plain cotton trousers and a tunic of blue-and-grey stripes. He sported long riding boots of black-kid leather. He sat perfectly upright in the saddle, holding the highly strung stallion with the careless-seeming ease of a naturally gifted horseman. His head was bare, his black silky hair dishevelled by the wind. Sweat made his thin tunic cling to his back, revealing the rippling muscles of his shoulders. For such a lean man, he was very powerfully built. He and the stallion were a perfect match.

The sea was receding further as they followed the headland, where the olive trees gave way to scrub on the cliff top, and the regular rush of the waves onto the sand quieted to a sigh. The mountains which Constance had spotted from the rooftop terrace yesterday came into view on the horizon now, and the cliff tops became more rugged in appearance. They turned sharply around the headland, and she gasped with delight at the perfect crescent of sand completely enclosed by the steep cliffs, a natural harbour formed by the outcrop they had just traversed, and an almost identical one on the other side of the bay.

‘What do you think of my special retreat?’

‘I am lost for words. Your country is so very, very beautiful. The light is magical. The blue sky, the azure sea, it is like living in a perfect picture. Everything here is so vivid, the colours so vibrant. So different from the muffled shades of grey so typical of England. It does something to the soul. Lifts the spirits.’ She laughed, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what it does save that it makes me feel as if I am full of bubbles. I expect you think that is fanciful.’

‘I think that you reflect the scenery here,’ Kadar replied. ‘Bright. Vivid. Alive.’

‘Oh.’ Her cheeks heated. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, both flustered and ridiculously pleased.

He helped her down from the saddle, his hands light on her waist. She watched him as he hobbled the horses, seating herself in the shade of the cliffs which ringed the bay. Her boots were extremely comfortable, but her feet were hot inside them. She pulled them off, wriggling her toes into the deliciously cool damp sand, leaning back on her hands to enjoy the breeze on her face. When she opened her eyes, Kadar was standing over her, looking down at her bare toes. ‘I was hot,’ she said, embarrassed, for she would never have dreamed of removing her shoes in company at home.

‘Yes,’ he said, giving her his Sphynx look, and dropping onto the sand beside her, prepared to follow her lead.

His boots were much longer than hers. His calves rippled as he removed them. His skin was the colour of the golden sands darkened by the sea. His feet had a very high arch, like her own.

‘Tell me how your stargazing is coming along.’

A subject even more distracting than Kadar’s feet! ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Constance said, smiling. ‘You’re probably going to regret doing so.’

It was easy to be transported to the heavens, especially in the company of a man who shared her passion, and could plug several gaps in her knowledge. Finally, she forced herself to stop talking not because she had run out of words but because her mouth had run dry. ‘I did warn you,’ she said.

Kadar was leaning back on his elbows. His hair was tousled by the wind. And he was smiling that special bone-melting smile. ‘I could not ask for a more diligent or enthusiastic court astronomer.’

‘You could, I suspect, easily obtain a far more learned one.’

‘Who would number the stars and plot their positions with mathematical precision. I much prefer your way of mapping the heavens. A night sky teeming with legends and mythological creatures. A romantic cosmos full of passion and wonder. I am very happy with my choice of court astronomer, thank you very much.’

He smiled again. Their gazes locked. He reached over to tuck her hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed the line of her scar. Her heart began to hammer. His fingers fluttered down her cheek, her neck, to rest at the pulse at the base of her throat. She surrendered to the urge to lean just a fraction closer, and he did the same. Shoulders touching. Legs. His breath on her cheek. She lifted her hand to his face, mirroring his touch, flattening her palm over the smoothness of his cheek, the roughness of his chin.

He dipped his head towards her. His lips were soft. His kiss was gentle. He tasted salty. She felt as if she was melting. Her fingers curled into the silky softness of his hair. She parted her lips for him, returning the pressure tentatively. Then he sighed. Lifted his head. Their hands dropped. Their bodies separated.

What had happened? Was that a kiss or wasn’t it? How had it happened, when they had both been so clear that it could not? Constance stared out to sea, completely at a loss. ‘I don’t understand it. I knew that I shouldn’t, my mind knew it was wrong, but my body wanted...’

Kadar muttered something under his breath in his own language. She risked a fleeting glance. ‘Your habit of speaking your thoughts quite unedited is sometimes dangerously enlightening.’

‘What do you mean?’

He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Constance, it took considerable willpower to break that kiss. Telling me that your body wanted—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘I don’t want to think about what your body wanted, or my body will—will wish to do something it must not.’

‘Oh.’ Her inclination was, shockingly, to wish that Kadar had not exerted his considerable willpower, but had instead continued to kiss her. That kiss, which was only really the beginning of a kiss, had been so deliciously arousing that it was very hard indeed to think of anything at this moment save what might have been. Save what still might be, if she put that considerable willpower of his further to the test, and reached over and touched her lips to his again, and—and then she would discover what it was that his body wanted to do to hers.

Kadar was pensively picking up handfuls of sand and letting it trickle slowly through his fingers so that it formed a mound, like the contents of an hourglass. He didn’t look like a man struggling to regain his self-control. ‘My lack of experience has disappointed you,’ Constance said, because of course that’s what it was. ‘It’s fine, you don’t have to pretend that you enjoyed my inexpert kissing.’

He studied her face, a faint frown drawing his brows together. ‘Constance, I never pretend. I enjoyed kissing you more than I ought, if the truth be told. When I first set eyes on you I had a feeling that our lovemaking would be memorable, our bodies and desires perfectly matched. What just happened proved that I was right. We would be wise to heed the warning contained in that knowledge.’

‘You mean it would be more difficult to stop the next time?’

Kadar winced. ‘I mean we would be wise not to contemplate a next time.’

Resisting the temptation to kiss him again was one thing, but to deny herself the pleasure of imagining it—no, she wasn’t sure she could do that, so Constance remained silent.

Kadar measured out another handful of sand. ‘My coronation takes place in two weeks.’

She accepted the change of subject gratefully. ‘You will be King of Murimon.’

‘Prince of Murimon. We do not adopt the title of King here. The ruler is Prince, and his heir has the title of Crown Prince. You will of course attend the ceremony in your official capacity. You will require robes. We’ve never had a court astronomer before, so you can have them designed to your own specifications.’

‘That sounds wonderful, but rather wasteful, since the position is temporary.’

‘Temporary, but nonetheless legitimate. I have already announced your appointment to my council. I do not wish your reputation to be compromised by speculation, nor do I wish to dishonour my future bride. The marriage will be onerous enough for both parties. I do not wish to start the journey on a note of resentment.’

‘Onerous? Don’t you wish to be married, Kadar?’

‘No more than you do.’ Another measure of sand trickled down. ‘But like you, my personal preferences are of little consequence. My fate, like yours, has been defined for me, my bride chosen for me. Duty, honour, obligation are my motivation, though we differ in one fundamental way, you and I. The beneficiary of your marriage is your father. The beneficiary of mine will be my kingdom.’

Constance stared at him open-mouthed. So much, contained in those few clipped words uttered in that expressionless tone. ‘Your bride—did you say she was chosen for you?’

‘Actually, that’s not strictly accurate. She was in fact chosen for my brother,’ Kadar said drily. ‘I inherited her, along with his kingdom.’

‘No, no, you can’t possibly be serious.’ But one look at Kadar’s expression told her he was perfectly serious. ‘Goodness,’ Constance said, ‘that is very—odd to say the least. Don’t you object to having a hand-me-down bride?’

‘There you go again with your unedited, albeit truthful observations. As I said, my personal preferences...’

‘...are of no consequence. But you are a prince!’

Another of those harsh little laughs. ‘Exactly, and as a prince I must put my kingdom first, my own desires—last. My people were anticipating a royal wedding, the dawning of a new era. The date was set for a mere two weeks after my brother was tragically killed.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘A riding accident.’

There was the tiniest flicker, not quite a blink, of his right eye. She had noticed it before, when he mentioned his brother. She had asked if they were close, and he had not answered. She decided to try a more roundabout approach. ‘Was he much older than you?’

‘Two years.’

‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ Constance said. ‘I’ve always wished—’

‘We were not particularly close,’ Kadar interrupted, ‘if that is what you want to know. It was one of the first things you asked me about Butrus the night you arrived.’

‘You didn’t answer me.’

‘Until I returned for his wedding, I had not seen him for seven years. We are very—unalike. Butrus found my love of scholarly pursuits simply incomprehensible. As did our father, who was for ever grateful that I was the second son and not the first born. I was temperamentally, intellectually and in many ways ethically unsuited to life in the palace, while Butrus...’ Kadar shrugged. ‘Oh, Butrus was cast in our father’s image. The only thing we had in common latterly was a love of horses. Unfortunately, he had a rather higher opinion of his ability to ride than was warranted. Even more unfortunately, he was not a man who learned from experience. I found it easier, in the end, simply to refuse to race him.’

‘It was not—dear heavens—it was not in a race with you that he died, was it?’

‘No.’ That tiny flicker of the eye again. Kadar stared out at the sea. Constance waited, holding her breath to prevent herself from speaking, and her patience was eventually rewarded. ‘He had a new horse. A wedding present, ironically. A wilful brute of an animal which most certainly did not come from the stables at Bharym, though that is what Butrus had been told. I advised him at once that he should not attempt to master it. Perhaps if I had held my tongue, he would not have felt the need to prove himself to me. It threw him. He hit his head on a boulder, he was dead before I reached him.’

‘Kadar, I am so sorry. How very, very terrible for you.’

Constance reached for his hand, pressing it between her own. He went quite still, allowing her to hold him for a few moments, before freeing himself. ‘Terrible for the people of Murimon. Butrus was a very popular prince. His betrothal was very favourably received by the people.’

Constance frowned. ‘How long was your brother Prince of Murimon?’

‘Seven years, why do you ask?’

‘You say he was popular, and you say that your people expect a prince to be married, yet your brother waited seven years to take a bride.’

Kadar seemed to—to freeze, there was no other word for it. What on earth had she said? When he spoke, his tone was icy enough to make Constance shiver. ‘Butrus was married on the day of his coronation. The Princess Tahira would have been his second wife.’

‘Second!’ Was that it, was he affronted because she had mentioned the forbidden subject of polygamy?

‘My brother was a widower,’ Kadar said, obviously still capable of reading her thoughts despite his frozen state. ‘His first wife died just over a year ago.’

Mortified, Constance dug her toes deeper into the sand. ‘I’m so sorry. How dreadful. Was she very young? Were there no children?’

‘She was three years younger than me. No, there were no children.’

What was she missing? Constance wondered, for Kadar had curled his fists into the sand. Her brow cleared. It was obvious! ‘If there had been a child, you would not now be Prince,’ she said gently.

His eyes were bleak. ‘She died trying to give him an heir. Who knows what difference it would have made if she had? But it was not to be.’

Poor woman, Constance thought, her heart touched by this tragedy. And poor Kadar, the only one in this sad little story left alive, to bear the consequences. ‘Your brother left no heir, but he did bequeath you a bride. Is that why you feel obliged to honour the betrothal?’

He did not answer for a long moment, but she was becoming more accustomed to his silences. ‘It has been made very clear to me that it is what the kingdom needs and wants, but I am taking a bride because I consider it the right thing to do for Murimon, not to court popularity by giving the people the spectacle of a royal wedding. I will not be the kind of ruler my brother was.’

Had he answered her question? She couldn’t help but feel there was more to this story than Kadar had admitted, but it was a very sad story, and she was happy to move on from it. ‘What kind of ruler was he?’ Constance asked.

She was pleased to see Kadar’s expression lightening a little. ‘Butrus was like your Prince Regent before he ate too much and spent too much,’ he replied with a trace of a smile. ‘You know, the epitome of what people expected of their Prince, charming and hospitable, ebullient, gregarious, and always more than happy to put on a display of pomp and ceremony.’

‘And the other side of that coin?’

Kadar’s smile broadened. ‘You’re quite right. He was thoughtless, quite selfish. It came of growing up knowing that the crown would be his. He had an air about him, of...’

‘Entitlement! My father is just such a one, though he had but two subjects to command.’ Kadar raised his brows, but Constance shook her head impatiently. ‘We were talking of your brother.’

‘I need not say any more. It sounds as if you have his measure perfectly.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll make a very different prince.’

Kadar laughed. ‘Then that makes two of us.’

‘Only two?’

His laughter died. Constance was treated to his Sphynx look. ‘People do not know me as they did Butrus, and my father before him.’

‘But you said you had only been abroad for seven years, and you are—thirty?’

‘I am twenty-nine. My inclinations have always been scholarly. Butrus and my father thought I preferred books to people. It was not true, but sadly there were very few people who shared my interests here in Murimon. We are a seafaring kingdom, and have not a tradition of learning.’

‘You must have been very lonely,’ Constance said. ‘Though I have often dreamed of being locked away in a huge library for ever, I think I would very quickly become one of those people who mutter to themselves under their breath all the time. “Now, Constance, where did you put that book?” “Oh, Constance, surely we read that tome just the other day.” “For goodness’ sake, Constance, you’ve got crumbs in Dr Johnson’s dictionary, and you’ve forgotten to feed the cat.” Though I suppose if I had a cat in the library with me, I could talk to it instead. Dr Johnson had a cat, you know. Its name was Hodge. It is mentioned in Mr Boswell’s Life.’

‘I know. I’m familiar with the work.’

She made a face. ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I? What did you call it, let you have my thoughts unedited. You’re looking at me as if— Actually, I’m not sure I can tell what you’re thinking.’

‘I was thinking that I have never met anyone like you. You like to read, then?’

‘Anything. Everything. We did have a huge library once, at Montgomery House, but Papa sold all the books. Some of them were very valuable. So now the library is home to a collection of cobwebs.’