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Chapter Ten

London—October 1814

Christopher had deliberately turned up unannounced at the imposing house which occupied a prime site on London’s Cavendish Square. Though he dreaded the forthcoming interview and fervently wished that he had not come into possession of the document which had led him here, he desperately needed answers. Whatever the truth turned out to be, no matter how earth-shattering, he simply had to know.

‘His lordship is not at home to callers lacking a prior appointment,’ the butler informed him, eyeing Christopher’s plain black coat and simply tied cravat with some disdain. ‘He is an important and extremely busy man.’

‘No doubt, but I think you will find that he will be most eager to receive me when you show him this,’ Christopher said coolly, handing the man his business card.

The butler hesitated, but he was no fool. Perhaps it was the quiet authority in Christopher’s voice, it most certainly wasn’t his unostentatious attire, but for whatever reason the servant acquiesced. ‘Very well, if you will be so good as to wait here a moment, sir, I will ascertain whether your confidence is well placed.’

Less than a minute later, Christopher was shown into a study on the ground floor. The scent of beeswax polish mingled with the slightly musty smell emanating from the myriad tomes and ledgers which filled the serried ranks of bookcases lining the walls. From the empty grate a faint trace of smoke and coal ash added to the range of prosperously genteel odours.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he approached the middle-aged man seated behind the imposing walnut desk. Lord Henry Armstrong was distinguished rather than handsome, dressed with simple but expensive elegance. His grey hair was sparse on top, there were deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth and a fretwork of lines across his brow, but beneath heavy lids, his eyes were alert and piercing, his gaze assessing. His reputation as one of the most astute diplomats in government ranks was obviously well deserved. Those eyes met Christopher’s for the very first time, making his stomach lurch in a sickening manner. A distinctive deep blue rimmed with grey, they were his lordship’s most striking feature and were now widening in disbelief. ‘Christopher Fordyce,’ he said faintly, getting to his feet. ‘Is it truly you?’

Ignoring the proffered hand, Christopher sat down, while his lordship made for the side table, pouring himself a large brandy from the crystal decanter. ‘Would you care to join me? No? So be it, but you will excuse me if I avail myself. I find I have need of a stiffener.’ He took a large gulp before sinking back on his chair behind the desk. ‘Excuse me. If you had given me any prior warning—though I doubt it would have lessened the shock. I confess, I never expected this day to arrive.’

Clearly shaken, Lord Armstrong took another draught of brandy before picking up the business card which the butler had delivered. ‘Christopher. So those worthy people retained the name. It was my father’s, God rest him.’ He stared down at the business card again. ‘“Land Surveyor, Mineral and Ore Specialist”,’ he read. ‘You followed Fordyce’s vocation. I trust he is well?’

‘Not particularly. He died two weeks ago.’

‘Ah. My sincere condolences.’ Lord Armstrong mopped his brow. ‘And Mrs Fordyce?’

‘Passed away twelve years ago.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. They were good people. Your business, sir, does it prosper?’

‘I did not come here to exchange pleasantries, but instead to demand some answers from you.’

Lord Armstrong’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Demand?’

‘You heard me correctly,’ Christopher said, pleased to note that his steady and calm tone did not betray his emotions. ‘For a start, will you confirm that you recognise this document? Is it written in your own hand?’

Christopher pushed the thick parchment across the blotter. The aristocrat’s face tightened momentarily before, with an almost imperceptible exhalation of breath, he snatched it up, tugging at the knot on the faded red ribbon which bound it. Lord Armstrong perused the document, his mouth set, his pale complexion turning slowly ashen. When he finally replaced it on the desk, his hands were shaking.

‘There seems little point in indulging in obfuscation. I did indeed write it, under instruction from a trusted legal adviser, now long dead. May I ask how long you have been aware of its existence?’

‘I found it in my—among Mr Fordyce’s private papers while going through his personal effects after the funeral.’

Lord Armstrong imbibed another snifter of brandy. ‘You must excuse me. It has been so long, nearly thirty years. A lifetime ago. But those eyes.’ His smile was grisly. ‘I am afraid there is no denying the provenance of your eyes.’

Revolted, Christopher would have given anything to be able to contradict him but it was inescapably true that his own distinctive blue-grey eyes were an exact match with his lordship’s. That was one unspoken question answered. He forced himself to raise the next sensitive topic. ‘No mention is made in that document of my...’ He cleared his throat. ‘My mother.’

‘No, for one very pertinent reason.’ Lord Armstrong mopped his face again. ‘She died giving birth to you,’ he said heavily. ‘A rather tragic complication.’

‘Tragic for her, and an added complication for you, since it left you saddled with me,’ Christopher said bitterly. ‘Which must have been most inconvenient.’

‘Inconvenient for your mother’s parents, had she lived, since they would have been saddled with you, to use your own terminology.’ His lordship frowned. ‘There was no question of her keeping you, even if she had wanted to—though I can’t imagine why she would have willingly destroyed her marriage prospects. She’d have had no future worthy of the name. However,’ he continued brusquely, ‘it is a moot point—it simply wasn’t an option. You couldn’t have imagined that—no, no, stupid question, of course not, it’s a preposterous notion.’

The truth was that Christopher had indeed clung to that erroneous assumption. Confirmation that he had been summarily rejected by both his parents was a body blow. This man—yes, he had no difficulty in understanding his instinctive rejection, but his mother—had she lived, would she really have been so compliant? Every feeling rebelled. If he had a child, he’d have moved heaven and earth to keep it.

Lord Armstrong however, took his silence for tacit acceptance. ‘So, as you’ll have surmised, there were plans in place long before your birth for your—for your...’

‘Disposal is the word you’re fumbling for,’ Christopher interjected icily. Though he knew in his heart the answer to the next question, he steeled himself to ask it. ‘You did not offer to do the honourable thing and marry her then?’

Lord Armstrong’s look of astonishment was answer enough. To betrayal and rejection he must now add the shame of his bastard blood. ‘You need not answer that,’ Christopher said.

But Lord Armstrong igrnored him. ‘You wish to know the circumstances?’ he asked haughtily. ‘Why not, it is a common enough tale, I fear. I was very young, and barely had my foot on the bottom rung of the ladder at the Foreign Office. Your mother was no servant girl. If she had been, her condition would have been of much less consequence, but even as a callow youth, my tastes were refined. She was well born, and a great beauty.’

‘And no doubt an innocent, until you got your grubby hands on her.’

His lordship permitted himself a slightly lascivious smile, which Christopher found utterly repellent. ‘A catch, no doubt about it. Marriage would have been no hardship, but she was destined for greater things. And no wonder. I’ll be the first to admit, I simply wasn’t in her league back then and so...’

He made a helpless gesture. ‘Damage limitation. The merest whiff of scandal would have put paid to her family’s ambitions for her, and indeed to my own ambitions too. It was imperative that the matter be hushed up. She was closeted away in the country for the duration of her—her—for the duration. Had things gone to plan, I would not even have been party to the arrangements. Scarlet fever, they told the world it was, which saw her off. As I said, it was a very tragic inconvenience for all concerned. When I learned she had given birth to a son, I personally stepped into the breach, as it were. Quite a responsibility for a young man, but I think you’ll agree I did well by you.’

Lord Armstrong looked expectantly at him. The man had the audacity to expect praise for his callous and self-serving behaviour! The room was spinning. Christopher gripped the arms of the wooden chair so tightly that his knuckles showed white. This was not some nightmare from which he would awake. His mother was not his mother. His father was not his father. His life, his whole life, had been built on sand. He had no idea who he was.

‘You stepped into the breach?’ Christopher said, struggling to assimilate what he was hearing.

‘Indeed I did. I believe your mother’s family intended to place you in the hands of some wet nurse. Such women cannot be relied upon to give a child the best of care.’ Lord Armstrong gave a short, breathy laugh. ‘Indeed, that is their very attraction in some extreme cases. Fair enough for a daughter, but a son—well, that is a different matter, even if he is from the wrong side of the—that is—aye, well, what I’m trying to say is that I could not acknowledge you, but you are my progeny after all. And so I secured the services of the Fordyces, a steady, childless couple of good reputation, he with a reliable occupation, I thought—’

‘Your thoughts are made very clear in that document,’ Christopher said harshly. ‘The transaction, the terms of payment, the conditions under which ownership of the goods were transferred’

‘You make it sound as if you were a piece of ornamental furniture, my dear boy.’

The term of affection made Christopher grit his teeth. ‘If you consult your bill of sale, you will find that is exactly how you did view me,’ he said. ‘It is also very clear that you considered the matter firmly closed, your duty fully discharged.’

His lordship’s cheeks turned a florid puce. He was clearly not accustomed to having his actions questioned. Christopher snatched up his glass and poured him another brandy. ‘Here, drink this. I have not done with you yet, an apoplexy would be extremely inconvenient at this juncture.’

Lord Armstrong drew him a furious look, but did as he was bid.

‘You said you were young at the time. How young, precisely?’ Christopher demanded.

‘I was barely twenty years old, had not even reached my majority.’

‘Still old enough to understand the consequences of your actions, I would have thought. And your—my—the woman who gave birth to me?’

His lordship straightened his blotter. ‘She was sixteen.’

‘Dear God, did she understand what she was doing? Did she know, as you must have, the risks you were taking? A man of twenty years old, seducing an innocent girl of sixteen and not even willing to give the resulting child your name—it is disgusting!’

‘You must understand...’

‘Oh, I understand perfectly. Both you and my mother’s aristocratic family abused their wealth and privilege. In life, and even in death, my mother’s fate was determined by others. Status confers the freedom to act in an utterly selfish and completely arrogant manner. I have no desire to hear your mealy-mouthed justifications.’

‘Christopher—Mr Fordyce,’ Lord Armstrong amended hastily, ‘your sudden arrival here has come as a great shock to my system. I have not had time to assimilate—you do understand, don’t you, that it is no more possible for me to acknowledge your existence now, than it was then? If it became known that you—dear God, it would ruin me, even more completely than it would have then. My position at the Foreign Office—I have a hard-won reputation for integrity, honesty...’

‘And are even more renowned for your naked self-interest and burning ambition, from what I have been able to establish since discovering the evidence of my unwanted lineage.’

‘So you admit you have enquired about me?’

‘Suffice to know that I want nothing whatsoever to do with you.’

‘You are angry,’ Lord Armstrong said. ‘That is perfectly understandable, in the circumstances.’

Christopher’s toes curled tight inside his boots. There was a rushing in his ears. More than anything, what he wanted to do was to slam his fist into that self-centred, self-satisfied, aristocratic countenance. To blacken both of those eyes, so damned distinctive and undeniably identical to his own. To destroy the evidence, obliterate the memory, and start afresh.

But that would have to wait. The document could not be unread. Violence and destruction were not the solution. ‘I am not angry,’ he said, with a pleasing calm in which only an edge of contempt was audible. ‘And as to the notion that I might wish to be part of your life...’ Now he did let his contempt show fully, in a bitter little laugh. ‘I have my own life, my lord, and I am very content with it. There is absolutely no place in it for you.’

‘Then why did you seek me out? What do you want of me, if not my name?’

The man looked puzzled rather than relieved. His arrogance knew no bounds. ‘Your name!’ Christopher exclaimed contemptuously. ‘The very last thing I would wish to own. As is this.’ Christopher laid the amulet on to the blotter. ‘I take it to be the item of jewellery referred to in the document. The payment for services rendered, though blood money might be a more accurate description.’

Lord Armstrong’s thin brows rose so high that they almost reached his receding hairline. ‘They didn’t sell it? How odd that they kept it all these years. That piece of jewellery was intended to help pay for your education, to provide the Fordyces with the means to raise you as a gentleman.’

‘I am eternally grateful they did not, if being a gentleman is defined as someone who is prepared to sell their own child to avoid social embarrassment. This amulet was payment for their co-operation and silence.’

‘It belonged to your mother. I was a man of modest means back in those days. Her family gave it to me along with some funds to facilitate the arrangements when she died. Don’t you even wish to know her name?’

‘To what end? Even had she lived, her identity would have been kept from me. It is ironic that it was her premature death which ultimately allowed me to be privy to yours.’

‘I did my best by you, as I continue to do for all my children. I have five daughters, sir, who consider me a most dutiful father, acting always with their best interests at heart.’

Provided their best interests coincide with your own, Christopher thought cynically, before the import of the words hit him. Five daughters. Which meant he had five half-sisters, blissfully oblivious to his existence. And who would, if he had anything to do with it, remain so.

‘I hope,’ Lord Armstrong amended fearfully, ‘that my mention of the girls—I would not have them dragged into this.’

‘My illusions have been shattered, do you think I would wish that fate on five innocent girls?’

‘I confess, I am heartily relieved to hear you say that.’

Christopher wanted nothing more than this sordid interview to be over. ‘This,’ he said, indicating the amulet, ‘is Arabic in origin, if I’m not mistaken, and judging from the quality of the stones in it, almost certainly made for the ruling family of an ancient people. Do you know how my—how the woman who gave birth do me came to own it?’

‘I know nothing of its prior provenance. But since it was given to the Fordyces in a legally binding agreement, it is now yours to sell.’

‘Would it ease your conscience if I did so?’ Christopher laughed bitterly. ‘No, for you do not possess one. I, however, do and have no desire to benefit from blood money. I came here to return it to its rightful owner.’

‘Well, that ain’t me,’ Lord Armstrong said, looking quite appalled. ‘And I doubt very much that your mother’s family will wish to be reminded of what they have lost, so there’s no point in asking me to give it back to them. If you won’t sell it, put it in a museum, if what you say about it being an ancient artefact is true.’

And have the amulet, a potent symbol of the lie his life had been based on, on permanent public display! Christopher shuddered. Unthinkable. ‘No. That would not be appropriate. I have no choice but to return it the original owner.’

‘Original owner? What on earth do you mean by that?’

He had spoken on the spur of the moment, but as Christopher returned the amulet to its leather pouch, a plan began to take shape in his head, and he knew instinctively that this was the only possible course of action. ‘The descendants of the original owner,’ he said. ‘The quality of the diamonds, the colour of the turquoise, and the purity of the gold are all highly distinctive.’

‘How do you—ah, yes, of course.’ Lord Armstrong picked up the business card again. ‘You specialise in minerals and ores. You have then surveyed in Arabia?’

‘I have never been to Arabia. Locating the precise area, matching it with the source of gold and turquoise—as you say, that is my area of expertise. But in order to do so I will require assistance from you, in your own field of expertise.’

His lordship stilled. ‘How so?’

‘I will require papers to allow me freedom of movement,’ Christopher said, thinking rapidly. ‘Contacts who will be able to assist me with local information, and the means to extricate myself from—let’s say any tricky situations which may arise due to my incognito activities being viewed as suspicious or even hostile.’

His lordship looked aghast. ‘I can’t help you with any of that. The identities of our agents in Arabia are a carefully guarded secret. Not, mind, that I’m admitting such people exist.’ Lord Armstrong drummed his fingers on the blotter. ‘Even if I could put you in touch with such contacts, you’re asking me to obtain official papers...’

‘Secured through unofficial channels. And I’m paying you the compliment of assuming that you know exactly which strings to pull in order to facilitate that.’

More finger drumming set Christopher’s teeth on edge. ‘You deride my having abused my position for my own ends,’ Lord Armstrong said, ‘and yet isn’t that exactly what you’re asking me to do for you?’

Was it? The notion disgusted him. But, no, the man was twisting the situation to his own advantage, as he always did, trying to make him beholden, which was the last thing he ought to be feeling. ‘A different matter entirely,’ Christopher said. ‘You acted to cover up a wrong, to protect yourself. My motivation is restitution.’

‘Very noble,’ his lordship said, in a tone which contradicted his words. ‘Why should I do as you ask? You have made it very clear that you have no interest in exposing me. What is in it for me?’

His lordship spoke belligerently, but Christopher was not fooled. ‘You will do as I ask because, bluntly, you will do whatever it takes to be rid for ever of the living breathing evidence of your youthful folly,’ he responded coldly. ‘You are fortunate that I ask so little, and though I am not a gentleman like yourself, you may trust my word when I say it is all I will ever ask of you.’

His words hit the mark. Lord Armstrong resorted to bluster. ‘Aye, all very well, but it’s no simple matter to obtain such papers. It will take time. There are channels to be gone through, questions to be answered. For a start, how am I to explain the purpose of your visit?’

Christopher struggled to contain his impatience. He didn’t want to wait, not another minute, let alone days or weeks or months, before taking action. The sooner the amulet was returned, the sooner he could wipe the slate clean and start afresh. Years of negotiating with Egyptian pashas who, like Lord Armstrong, valued knowledge and power even over wealth, provided him with inspiration. ‘You ask what is in it for you. I will tell you. While I am in Arabia, I will carry out a survey for you.’

Lord Armstrong pursed his mouth. ‘What kind of survey?’

‘A survey of the commercial landscape of whichever parts of Arabia my quest to return the amulet compels me to visit. I will compile a dossier of which kingdoms are open to trade with the west, the valuable natural resources they possess, potential trade routes, who is allied to whom—information which I imagine would be very much welcomed by Lord Liverpool. Our Prime Minister is very eager to promote international trade and bolster Britain’s coffers, and would, I am certain, look favourably on anyone who can provide him with such intelligence. Do you really need me to spell out the potential benefits?’

Two thin eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘No, you most certainly do not. Now that Napoleon is safely confined on Elba, the opportunities for Britain to expand her influence in the east—’

The lord of the realm who was his father broke off, rubbing his hands together. Smiling for the first time since Christopher made his surprise entrance, he got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘I will not offend your sensibilities by saying you are a chip off the old block, but you have yourself a deal, sir.’

‘The only thing we have in common is a desire never to set eyes on each other again,’ Christopher said, pointedly ignoring the proffered handshake for the second time that day. ‘I have written my temporary London address on the back of my card, you may have all the relevant papers and contact information sent there. I do not expect we will have cause to meet again. I bid you farewell.’

Arabia—August 1815

‘The encounter I have just described took place nine months ago,’ Christopher concluded. ‘You understand now why it mattered so much to rid myself of the amulet. It was blood money. It symbolised the lie that my life had been, living with the people whose son I thought I was.’

‘Fordyce.’ Tahira furrowed her brow, trying to clear her mind. ‘The name of the man who was with you when you found the Roman coin we have just buried. The man who shared his own love of the past with you and his profession too, yet he hid the amulet away all those years. He didn’t sell it. I wonder why.’

‘Guilt, most likely. Or maybe he was afraid. An ordinary hard-working man, a priceless artefact—it would have raised suspicions. I don’t know why he didn’t sell it, and I don’t care. It’s buried now, back where it came from, and all those lies with it.’

Christopher had been distraught at the start of his story, shaken to the core by how close they had come to making love. So very close. Tahira shivered, appalled by her own utter abandon, appalled to discover that she was not as relieved as she should be that he had had the willpower to stop before it was too late. The desire to be one with him, to unite with him in the way only a husband and wife should be united, had been so instinctive that she hadn’t questioned her actions, driven only by that fierce need—no, it was not a need, it was a certainty. There was nothing more right than making love to him.

And nothing so wrong. Christopher knew that, even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. But his mood had changed during his confession, he had become angry. He still was. She could see it, a repressed fury, evident in the tense way he held himself, the rigidity of his shoulders, the tightly clasped hands, his set expression. Only his eyes were bleak, with hatred for the English aristocrat who had fathered him, and for the two people who had raised him. He was wrong, surely he was wrong, to think that they did so simply because they were paid? Those childhood memories, not just of the Roman coin but of the snow, the sledding—they had been happy times. It tugged on her heartstrings to see him so tortured, for it was clear that he had not permitted himself to mourn either his lost history or the loss of his putative father, the kind surveyor.

Christopher thought it was all buried and forgotten with his amulet. Did he truly believe that? He desperately wanted to, and they had so little time, a matter of hours, before they parted for ever. Though he resisted when she tried to take his hand, she determinedly twined her fingers with his, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles.

‘I don’t want your pity, Tahira.’

‘I am shocked, and I am angry on your behalf, and very sorry indeed for your poor mother, but what I feel for you is not pity. Why would I pity a man who has for the last six months faced untold dangers, taken breathtaking risks, to do what he thought was right? A man who could easily have taken advantage of the connections which the likes of this Lord Armstrong could have given him? A man with such courage, such integrity, such honour, who has taken so much trouble to make our nights together so perfect. I don’t pity you, I feel...’

Overwhelmed she blinked furiously, bending her head to press another, more passionate kiss on Christopher’s hand. What she felt for him made her heart lurch. What she felt—no, she couldn’t let herself feel that. The ultimate taboo. The intensity of this night had whipped her emotions into a shape she mistook for something utterly inappropriate, which would unravel in the cold light of day. ‘I don’t pity you, Christopher Fordyce,’ Tahira said.

‘I don’t have the right to that name,’ he retorted curtly, though his expression had softened, and he no longer tried to escape her touch. ‘And as a bastard, I have no right to that other—nor any desire to claim it.’

‘What about your mother’s name? You chose not to ask it, Christopher, but...’

‘I already know more than enough of my mother to torture myself. She was sixteen,’ he said. ‘The same age as our princess. And he, Lord Henry Armstrong, was four years older, a man of experience, a man who should have known better. If you could see him, Tahira, so full of himself, so utterly callous, so completely untainted by his sin.’

‘But didn’t you say that it was he who arranged for these kind people to raise you as their own?’

‘And buy their silence. If my mother had not died, how different might things have been!’

‘What can you mean?’

‘You understand now why I compare you with her, surely? Her father and mine, arranging her life for her, forcing her to comply. Would she have surrendered me, had she lived? Are not the feelings of a mother so powerful, the duty of a mother to a child more vital than her duty to her family?’

‘As an unmarried mother,’ Tahira said gently, ‘she would have been cast out of the society in which she had been raised, and her shame visited on you.’

‘The shame was not hers. It was her seducer who should have been shamed,’ Christopher said tightly. ‘The man who bequeathed me my bastard blood.’

‘You must know that whatever blood flows in your veins, it does not change the man you are.’

He jumped to his feet, his face set. ‘I thought that knowing how I came into this world would ensure that I would never, ever act as my father did.’

‘You did not seduce me!’ Tahira exclaimed despairingly. ‘Despite every encouragement from me, you did not seduce me!’ She too got to her feet. Though she wanted to weep, to throw her arms around him, she dared not touch him. His logic was skewed by his misplaced anger, his interpretation of his history so tangled—but how to help him untangle it now, when the sands of their time together were down to the last few grains? If Christopher wished to imagine a better life, a different life with his mother, who was she to disillusion him? Hadn’t she fallen into the very same trap herself? And didn’t she know how painful it was, to realise that even a mother would not put her child’s wishes over her duty?

‘This is the last time we will be together, my last night free in the desert, your last night here in Nessarah,’ Tahira said helplessly. ‘I am afraid that whatever I say to you now will be the wrong thing, Christopher, but I can’t allow you to carry the burden of guilt for what happened between us—what so nearly happened, but did not.’

His arms were crossed across his chest. A light breeze ruffled his hair, blowing the soft, worn cotton of his tunic against the muscled contours of his body. His gaze was averted, fixed on the undulating contours of the desert sands as they formed and re-formed in an endless, shifting pattern of dunes. A dangerous man, she had thought him, from the first moment they met, and a wildly attractive man too. But she knew now that he was also a vulnerable man, a man who felt betrayed, rejected, and lost. A man desperate to wipe the slate of his history clean, yet a man who was set on dedicating his life to uncovering the history of others. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed, watching him. She felt—she felt far too much. It was not safe to feel so much for a man she was about to say goodbye to, but from the moment she met him, Christopher had made her want to cast caution to the winds. Right now, safe was the last thing she wanted to feel.

‘Over there is where you took me sledding,’ Tahira said, stumbling over the English word, slipping her arm through his. ‘And over there, in the other direction, the oasis where we went swimming—though I never did swim.’

‘You floated very beautifully though. I won’t forget that image of you, with your hair streaming out behind you, the moonlight on the water, and you...’

Christopher pulled her into his arms, holding her breathlessly tight. ‘I have never wanted anyone so much as I wanted you tonight. The other times, the dune, the oasis, though you were temptation personified, I was always—I never once lost control of my desire for you. I was so sure, Tahira, so very much aware of that line my father crossed in begetting me, so certain that I never would allow history to repeat itself. Yet tonight—it was the fact that I didn’t think at all which frightened me.’

‘But it was the same for me, Christopher.’

‘No,’ he said gently but firmly, ‘it is not the same. The consequences are so completely, unfairly disproportionate. My loss of control would have been your downfall, just as my father’s was my mother’s.’ He shuddered, his hold on her tightening painfully. ‘If we had made love, what would have become of us, do you think? All very well for me to tell myself that I would do what they call the honourable thing, in England—marry you—but I will not tell myself that pathetic lie. We are from different worlds. I am a bastard with no name to call my own, certainly none to give to a wife or a child, while you, Tahira, whatever your name, it is obviously a good one. Your brother would never accept me, and you cannot marry a man unacceptable to your family.’

He let her go, only to clench his fists, his mouth curled into a self-deprecating sneer. ‘The parallels are painfully obvious. When that man explained the circumstances of my mother’s downfall, I thought he too easily dismissed the option of marriage, but though it makes my bile rise to admit it, by understanding how intractable your own family are in the matter of making a good match for you—which brings me back to my point. My act of selfishness would be paid for by you. What would you do, Tahira? What could you possibly do, save proceed with the marriage arranged for you, make a cuckold of your husband before you have even said your vows, and live for ever with the lie, or bring dishonour to your family with the truth?’

His words cut her to the quick, for they were the stark, brutal truth. It terrified her to see how close she had come to the precipice he depicted. ‘You are right,’ Tahira whispered, shamed. Her future husband was not her choice, but everything she had heard implied he was a good man. He did not deserve a marriage based on lies, a wife who deceived him about the one commodity she brought to the alliance. Yet she still could not bring herself to regret a moment spent with Christopher. ‘You are quite right,’ she repeated, in an effort to persuade herself it was so.

‘Thankfully, it is not a choice you will have to make.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Tonight I proved that I can be every bit as selfish, as vile, as the man whose blood runs in my veins—because that’s the point, you see. I did not ultimately lose control, but I wanted to. The moral high ground I have claimed is no longer mine.’

‘Nor mine.’

‘I won’t have you say that. You are sacrificing your freedom to do your duty.’

‘And am therefore granted the moral leeway you will not grant yourself?’ Tahira exclaimed bitterly. ‘You deride my brother for imposing his will on me, but aren’t you doing the same, by denying me the right to claim some responsibility for my own actions?’ Too late, she realised how inflammatory her words were. Too late she remembered that they were amongst her last words to Christopher. But they were said now, and part of her could not regret them.

‘I am, as you have pointed out, quite powerless to dictate the course of my life,’ Tahira continued, thinking fatalistically that she might as well finish what she started. ‘When I’m with you, you allow me to be myself. Can’t you see that’s the most important thing to me in all of this? You have given me a taste of true freedom, and I used that freedom to choose, tonight, to make love to you. A foolish—far beyond foolish—choice, but my choice all the same. You did not coerce me. And as to the consequences—they are my responsibility as much as yours.’

He did not speak for some moments, but she could see from the way his throat worked that he was struggling with some strong emotion. Anger?

But when he did speak, he sounded shaken. ‘Forgive me, I have been thinking only of myself.’

‘Christopher, it has been—what you have told me tonight—I cannot imagine what you must have suffered, these last nine months. I am honoured that you have chosen to confide in me, that you trusted me.’ Guilt swooped down on her, reminding her that she had not reciprocated that trust. But it was too late for that too.

‘I doubt I would, had not we—but enough of my guilty conscience.’ Christopher held out his arms, and she stepped gratefully into the comfort of them. ‘We have a little time left,’ he said, looking anxiously up at the stars. ‘Let us sit here together, on our magic carpet, and waste no more time fighting to prove which of us is more culpable.’

Tahira reached up to smooth his hair back from his furrowed brow. ‘We are equal,’ she said. ‘Equally right, equally wrong, equally reckless, and I hope, during the time we have been together, equally happy.’

His fingers warm and gentle on the back of her neck. ‘I hope that you will find happiness in the future. You deserve to.’

She put her finger over his mouth. ‘No past, no future. Just the present. That’s all I’m interested in. Here and now. You and I. Just us.’

With a groan, he kissed her, and with a soft sigh, she melted into his kiss. Lips clinging, hands smoothing and stroking, they sank on to the carpet together. There was an aching sweetness in this kiss that had not been there before, a tenderness in their touch, as if they were made of glass and might shatter.

When it ended they did not break apart but curled into each other, lying on their backs, gazing up at the stars spread across the night sky just for them. More kisses, equally tender, but as the sky turned from indigo to violet and the stars began to fade, their lips and hands became desperate. Passion not spent, but forever suspended, the sense of an ending finally forced them apart.

In silence, Tahira pulled on her cloak and fixed her headdress. Her throat was clogged, her heart heavy, but she was beyond tears. One final kiss before she clicked her tongue for her camel to drop to his knees. Tearing herself from Christopher’s embrace was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. ‘I will think of you tomorrow, flying back to Egypt on our carpet,’ she said.

‘Tahira...’ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

‘And you, Christopher. For everything.’ She could not bear it any longer. Throwing herself on to the saddle, she kicked the camel into motion. For once the beast heeded her, turning and charging into a fast trot in a jerky movement that almost threw her on to the sands. By the time she had control again, she was so far from Christopher’s camp that there was no point in looking back, but she did all the same. He was still there, standing quite motionless.

‘Goodbye, my love,’ Tahira whispered, unable to deny her heart any longer. ‘Goodbye, my own true love.’

She loved him. Now that she would never see him again, she was forced to admit it. She loved him, and it was quite hopeless. Sand flew into her eyes as she made her way back to the palace. She had forgotten to fasten her headdress over her face, but Tahira relished the sting of it on her skin, for it gave credence to her pain. She was in love with Christopher, whatever his name was, and tomorrow her beloved would leave Arabia for Egypt, and two days after that, she would be betrothed to a complete stranger.

As she crossed the desert away from him, every single step her camel took made her heart ache more. Tahira slumped in the saddle, trusting to the animal’s instinct for home to guide them back to the stables. Oblivious of the beauty of the fading stars, the changing palette of the sky on this, her last night of freedom, she saw only Christopher. The reckless adventurer she had first encountered. Those eyes, ardent and passionate, tortured and haunted, laughing, serious, furious, sated. Christopher in his shabby desert garb armed to the teeth. Christopher naked. Christopher laughing. Christopher’s kisses. Christopher’s arms around her, holding her so tightly she could feel his heart beating, delude herself that he would never let her go.

And tonight he had, for the very last time. Misery made her slump further in the saddle. She would have given everything, anything, to be able to turn back, to spend one more night with him.

But there were no more nights, no more hours, not even another minute. It was over, and instead of wishing for more, she should be thanking the stars that it ended before they surrendered to the ultimate temptation. No wonder making love felt so right. No wonder her conscience had not intervened.

The outskirts of Nessarah were coming into view. What was he doing? Was he asleep? Was he thinking of her? He wanted her to be happy, he had said. His self-control had ensured that her marriage would not be predicated on a lie. She could not imagine being happy with any man other than Christopher, but there had never been any question of her having any sort of life with Christopher. Did he care for her? She knew in her bones that he did. Did he love her? No. And even if he did, what difference would it make?

But she loved him and she could not regret it. As she neared Farah’s stables and the camel slowed to a walk, Tahira smiled tenderly to herself. ‘I love you, Christopher,’ she whispered. Her last night of freedom was not yet over. Alone in her divan, she would hold her secret safe, devote herself to thinking only of her love. Time enough tomorrow to try to come to terms with what the future would hold.