Читать книгу Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4 - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 20
ОглавлениеIndecisive was one of the last words Christopher would have used to describe himself, but for the last two days, since saying goodbye to Tahira for ever, he’d been unable to make a single decision. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had decided to leave Nessarah any number of times, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to act on it.
He couldn’t understand it. His quest was over, his amulet buried, his dark and shameful past put firmly behind him, but the long-anticipated sense of relief continued to elude him. He felt unsettled, unprepared for the future he had been longing for, more haunted than ever by thoughts of the past.
Dredging it all up, reliving it in order to make Tahira understand, that’s what had brought it so vividly back. He had been so very clear in his mind that ridding himself of the amulet was the key to wiping the slate clean. He’d expected her to agree, but instead she had questioned him. And her questions, infuriatingly, would not go away.
Why hadn’t Andrew Fordyce sold the amulet? Had the man Christopher had always called father simply been too guilty to profit from blood money? Looking back—and Christopher had done a lot of that over the last two sleepless nights—he could conjure only happy memories, not only of his childhood, but of the close working relationship he’d had with his fa—with Fordyce. What’s more, despite the fact that they hadn’t sold the bloody amulet, Christopher had wanted for nothing. What sacrifices had the Fordyces made? Christopher’s schooling, now he thought about it—wasn’t hindsight a wonderful thing!—had been far superior to the children of the Fordyce’s friends and relations. He’d always believed himself loved, had always loved the people he thought his parents deeply in return. Which is why it had been so painful to discover the damning evidence that he had been duped. Though Tahira didn’t believe he had.
Christopher threw open the door of his abode and strode out into the early morning. ‘She’s wrong,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I will not allow her to fill my mind with doubts.’
But was she wrong? Thanks to the Fordyces he had a name—for Tahira was right, no one save himself and Armstrong knew any different. He’d had a happy childhood—there, he could admit that too—and he had been taught a very profitable profession, again thanks to Andrew Fordyce.
None of which changed the fact that Henry Armstrong was a vile seducer, a manipulative conniver, who had walked away from the mess of his own making without a backward glance. Were it not for Armstrong, Christopher’s mother would still be alive. Mind you, were it not for Armstrong, Christopher would not exist. Which brought him to another thing Tahira questioned, his idea that his mother might have kept him, against the odds. Unlikely, Tahira thought, though she hadn’t actually said so. Not wanting to hurt him? Which forced him to wonder whether she was right about that too. Most likely Tahira understood his mother’s situation better than he did. Were she in a similar predicament, she would...
She would never be in a similar predicament, because she was getting married. Christopher cursed long and furiously in a mixture of English and Arabic. He looked out at the beauty of the desert dawn. A distant sandstorm gave a dark golden tinge to the normal palette of pink and orange. It would not hinder his travel plans, for he was heading due north. Today. Though there was the camel race he’d heard about when visiting the bazaar yesterday for supplies. He’d like to see that, it was reckoned to be quite a spectacle. So perhaps he’d leave his journey until tomorrow.
Today, Tahira’s betrothal was to be finalised. Would there be a celebration of some sort? For her sake, he hoped she would be able to like the man chosen for her. For his own—he didn’t want to think about it. What was she doing at this moment? Was she taking breakfast with her sisters? Or was there some elaborate ritual she would take part in prior to the ceremony—if there was a ceremony? Bathing. Oiling. Those henna designs, the women here painted them on their hands and feet, didn’t they, for special occasions.
Tahira. Christopher groaned. Tahira, Tahira, Tahira. He missed her. He’d never see her again. Another thing that didn’t bear thinking of. The sun had risen. The sky was a perfect pale blue. Ideal conditions for a camel race? He had no idea, but what the hell, he was kidding himself, thinking he was leaving today. Why not head into the city and find out what all the fuss was about?
* * *
The crowds had gathered in the outskirts of the city for the occasion, lining the course in their multitudes. A long row of tents stood off to one side. Various mouth-watering aromas, of roasted goat, delicious concoctions of fruit and yoghurt, toasted coffee beans, and the ubiquitous mint tea wafted from the open fronts of each tent as Christopher wandered through the milling hordes.
Women stood in huddles gossiping and giggling behind their veils, while their menfolk engaged in heated debates over recent form and likely favourites. Children screamed with joy as they ran between the flag poles which marked out the course, some in pairs with silk scarves for reins, mimicking the contest to come. The camels would race around a track which was roughly oblong in shape, which meant that for each lap there would be four tight corners to negotiate.
‘And so this stranger who has been in our midst for some weeks is interested in our camels as well as our horses.’ The man who accosted Christopher was old, his wiry grey hair tied in the multitude of plaits favoured by some of the Bedouins. ‘I saw you at the horse fair some weeks ago,’ he said, in response to Christopher’s raised brows. ‘You are not a man easily forgotten.’
‘My colouring is not a common sight in Arabia, right enough.’
The old man shook his head. ‘It is your eyes. Not the colour, but you are like me, a man who sees what others do not.’ He smiled, revealing a sparkling gold front tooth. ‘Do you come to see our royal family today, Mr Foreigner? We will be granted a rare sighting of the princesses, I am told.’
‘Indeed, I wondered who that lavish construction would house.’ On the opposite side of the track, at the start-and-finish line, a large podium had been erected with benched seating strewn with cushions, a silk tasselled canopy covering the whole. ‘Will Prince Ghutrif be in attendance?’
‘Today is Prince Ghutrif’s gift to the people of Nessarah. Some significant announcement is expected,’ the old man said. ‘A new gold mine, perhaps. Not yet the birth of the long-awaited heir, for the guns would have been sounded from the palace. Have you attended a camel race before, Mr Foreigner?’
‘This is my first,’ Christopher said, wondering if the prince was celebrating the opening of his turquoise mine.
‘You will witness a spectacle rather than a race,’ the old man was saying. ‘Camels, as you will know, take a great deal of encouragement to get going, and once they do, they take a deal more encouragement to stop. Then there is the fact that it is not the most flexible of animals. Have you ever tried to turn a tight corner on camel back?’ When Christopher shook his head, the old man cackled. ‘I advise you to stay clear of the marker poles if you value your life.’
‘But I had heard racing camels were specially bred.’
‘You heard correctly. These beasts are fed on a diet of dates and honey, alfalfa and milk. They eat better than I! Such food makes for a smaller hump—reduced still further by depriving the animal of food and drink the day before the race, and so it is easier for the jockey to balance behind it without a saddle.’
‘No saddle? I would imagine that would be rather—painful,’ Christopher said, wincing.
The old man cackled again. ‘A pain eased by the gold given to the winner by our most venerable Prince Ghutrif. Look, he is arriving now.’
Sure enough, the crowd had dropped to their knees, the cries and laughter changing to hushed, reverential greetings. Following suit, Christopher watched furtively as the royal party arranged themselves on the seating under the canopy. Prince Ghutrif was a handsome man, much younger than Christopher had imagined, and slender under his rich robes of gold and scarlet. There was something familiar in his features, the fine arched brows, the brown eyes under heavy lids, explained no doubt by Prince Ghutrif being related to one or several of the other sheikh princes Christopher had encountered on his travels.
There was another man seated in state beside him. A brother? A fellow prince? Now that the prince was seated, the women who must be the princesses, judging from the richness of their robes and jewels, were taking their time to find their seats, their attendants fussing over the arrangement of their silks. Four this time, not the five he’d seen at the market place. The Crown Princess must be too near her time to attend. One, swathed in the colours of the setting sun, was being ordered to change places, to sit not at her brother’s side, but beside the stranger, and as she moved Christopher’s stomach lurched. Impossible, he chided himself. A trick of the eye, a case of his senses mistaking reality for what he most wanted to see. But his stomach lurched again as she reached up to adjust her veil and her long sleeve fell back to reveal her wrist. And on it, a distinctive turquoise bracelet.
At last, the other three princesses were seated, their maidservants ranged behind them, the guards posted. With a quick, formal farewell to his companion, Christopher made his way swiftly to the other side of the track, and a better view of the royal box. He was being ridiculous, but his pounding heart and dry mouth didn’t appear to agree. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, her averted sidelong gaze, were all painfully familiar. If only she were not veiled. If only he could get close enough—but a guard barred his way, and a drum began to beat loudly, and Prince Ghutrif got once again to his feet, the signal for everyone else to drop to their knees.
But Christopher did not, for the woman in the colours of the rising sun had lifted her eyes to look at the crowd. Dark brown eyes, almond-shaped, under perfectly arched brows. Their gaze met and held, and those familiar eyes widened in horror, before the sharp tap of a guard’s lance brought Christopher to his knees. But he refused to drop his gaze. He watched her as her brother continued to pontificate, the things she had told him of her family, her life, her fate, sliding into place like the interconnected pieces of a puzzle. He had fantasised about seeing her in the daylight. Now his wish had been granted. Be careful what you wish for!
‘My people, we come together on this most happy of days to celebrate,’ the prince announced.
The crowd waited with bated breath to find out what was being celebrated but Christopher, with a sinking heart, already knew. Today was the day Tahira’s betrothal was to be formalised. Today was the day that...
‘His Royal Highness, Prince Zayn al-Farid, has pledged to marry my sister. I hope you will join with us in celebrating this most joyful and momentous occasion. Please rise, and let the festivities begin.’
Christopher rose, and so did his bile, and his fury, fuelled by the fact that Tahira’s brother had not even seen fit to give her name. Fists clenched, he stared at her, willing her to meet his eyes. And she did. As the man she was to marry took her hand and kissed her fingers, Tahira looked up, her free hand stretching towards him, and instinctively Christopher took a step towards her, heedless of anything but the sorrow in her eyes. But a guard barred his way, and he came to his senses, and anger returned full-force as he cursed, turning away from the woman who had lied to him, betrayed his trust, played him for the fool that he was.
He strode across the track, where the camels and their riders were milling, and kept on walking. He couldn’t wait to shake the sand from this cursed place out of his cloak for ever.
* * *
Tahira thought the day would never end. Seeing Christopher at the camel race, her poor heart had leapt pathetically in her breast, and for a fleeting, foolish moment, she thought he had come to save her from her fate. Why he would do so, why he was still here in Nessarah at all, she had no time to consider, for one glance at his equally shocked expression told her that she was the last person he had expected to see, and she tumbled back down to earth as she saw her betrayal written large on his face.
As the crowd roared, and her brother and husband-to-be dispensed ribbons, trophies and gold, and her sisters relished the spectacle, Tahira’s mind raced in quite another direction, out across the desert towards Christopher. She felt quite sick imagining what he must be thinking of her. She had not lied to him, but she knew that the truths she had concealed were tantamount to the same thing.
* * *
The races over, back at the palace Juwan held one of her interminable dinners as Tahira’s future husband dined in separate state with the menfolk. She gave him barely a thought. Shock had given way to a fierce determination to explain herself to Christopher, but the risks were enormous. She belonged to another now, it would be wrong of her to seek him out, but when she tried to reconcile herself to silence, every feeling rebelled. She had to see him. She had to explain. She had to.
And so she waited, growing more and more tense through dinner, finally claiming to be overwhelmed by the momentousness of the day, to have a headache, to require utter solitude, retiring to her divan long before the meal was finished. Locking her door and making her escape long before the harem lay silent for the night, she was far beyond counting the risk, the possible costs, ignoring Farah’s astounded pleas, caring only to reach Christopher, praying to the night stars which lit her way as she careered over the sands at a speed which would have won her first prize this afternoon, that he would still be there.
* * *
He was, standing outside the well house, arms crossed, as she approached. He wore his customary tunic and boots, his scimitar hanging at his side, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. The breeze ruffled his hair, but as Tahira neared, there was no welcoming smile, and as she drew her camel to a halt, his expression was blank, his eyes hard, the utter lack of emotion more intimidating than any show of anger.
‘You shouldn’t be here. Not tonight of all nights. Are you mad?’
It took all her courage to command her camel to its knees and to dismount, her knees trembling, her fingers too, as she fumbled over the simple task of tethering the beast, conscious all the time of Christopher watching her, unmoving. ‘I had to try to explain,’ Tahira said, turning to face him.
‘That you have been lying to me from the first moment we met? Poor little rich princess, forced to loll about in the lap of luxury, with her jewels and her silks and her sweetmeats, pretending that all she wants is to get her manicured hands dirty digging up the past.’
‘I have never pretended, Christopher, I...’
‘And my amulet. Did you know from the start that it belonged here in Nessarah? The diamonds which I went to such lengths to compare, were you laughing up your sleeve at me, knowing full well that they matched the crown jewels? Then there’s the turquoise from the mine which your brother owns. You had it on your wrist today and yet you let me risk life and limb to obtain a sample. Are you still wearing it?’
He grabbed her arm, and there was the bracelet she had in her haste forgotten to remove. ‘My brother had it made for me, from the first of the ore. I wore it for the first time today and only to remind me of you.’
‘To remind you of the man who had bared his soul to you, on the day you became betrothed to another,’ Christopher snapped, releasing her with a sneer of distaste. ‘As my amulet would forever remind me of you, if I still had it. “A connection,” you claimed. How disappointed you must have been when I decided not to return it to your family. An apt double symbol of the trust you betrayed. I am doubly glad I buried it.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Tahira said, covering her face.
‘It is the truth.’ He yanked her hands away, forcing her to meet his cold, judgemental gaze. ‘I bared my very soul to you, trusted you with the sordid truth of my origins, and all the while you were concealing yours.’
‘I had to, Christopher...’
‘It is ironic, isn’t it, that the first person I place my trust in after these nine months living in Hades proved to be yet another person who was not who I thought she was. If I had not stumbled upon that amulet and the document with it, I’d still be quite oblivious of who I am. If I had not stumbled across you today, at the camel race, I’d have been forever oblivious of who you are. A painful parallel I’d rather not have been forced to draw, your Royal Highness.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Why not, it’s your name.’
‘My name is Tahira.’
‘Princess Tahira. You duped me, just as the Fordyces did, and Lord Armstrong too. And I had never thought of myself as gullible either.’
‘Stop it!’ His voice dripped with sarcasm that ripped at her flesh. ‘I didn’t dupe you, I didn’t betray your trust, and I didn’t lie to you.’
‘That very first night...’
Tahira stamped her foot in frustration. ‘I didn’t tell you the truth the first night because if I had, I’d never have seen you again. And then, having started the subterfuge, the next night I had even more to lose. And the next night, and the next—the more I knew you, the more you knew me—with you, I could be myself, Christopher, not a princess, not—’
‘Defined by your blood,’ he cut in viciously. ‘“Whatever blood flows in your veins, it does not change the man you are.” That is what you said to me. But the blood that flows in your veins does define you, doesn’t it?’
She flinched. ‘Yes, it does. And if you’d known who I was, my blood would have put an end to our nights together. While you thought me some ordinary woman, you were happy to consort with me.’
‘I have never thought you ordinary.’
‘I wish I was,’ Tahira said wearily. ‘You are angry with me, and I don’t blame you. I tried to find the courage to tell you the truth on several occasions, but we had so little time, and I could not bear to risk losing you, the one person who couldn’t care less about my bloodline, my pedigree, my connections. All the things you are thinking now, Christopher. Perhaps it was selfish of me to keep the truth from you, but—oh, I have said it all. I didn’t want our acquaintance to end, it is as simple as that.’
‘Acquaintance! If I had known you were a princess, do you think I would have—?’
‘I am certain that you would not have!’ Tahira interrupted vehemently. ‘That’s exactly my point. If you had known I was a princess, you would have run a thousand miles across the desert in another direction, and while you may wish that you had done so, I do not. Whatever you feel now, I cannot regret that we have been—that we have...’
She was trembling. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tried desperately to get her emotions under control. ‘I cannot regret a minute of the time I have spent with you. Choose to believe me or not, Christopher, it is the truth.’
His momentary flash of anger was gone. He had himself completely under control again, his expression inscrutable. ‘How did you get here?’
‘My camel...’
‘How do you escape from the harem? I have always imagined you climbing out of a window, but today, I took a good look at that quaint little cottage of yours, otherwise known as the Royal Palace of Nessarah. It’s like a fortress, guards everywhere. So how do you do it—wear a cloak of invisibility?’
‘There’s a tunnel.’ He was still angry, she could see the betraying tic in his throat. At least anger was better than indifference. ‘A door hidden in the wall of the courtyard which my divan looks on to,’ Tahira continued quietly, ‘leading down to a tunnel that goes under the palace and emerges in what used to be the old slave market. You can guess its previous use. I came upon the original plans for the palace in the library some years ago, and when I realised what they could mean, I asked to move my quarters.’
‘You escape through a tunnel which was once used to bring slaves—concubines into the palace?’ Christopher said with a bitter little smile. ‘Some would call that sweet vengeance.’
‘It was my first archaeological find.’ Despite the tension between them, she couldn’t help but smile at the memory. ‘You can’t imagine how excited I was, when I finally located...’
‘You told me your first find was a piece of pottery. Another lie.’
Deflated, she found herself at a temporary loss for words. What had she expected, after all? That he would sweep her into his arms and forgive her?
‘Your broken betrothals,’ Christopher said, and her heart sank further at his tone. ‘I saw you once, the day after we met in fact, with your sisters, although I had no idea it was you. You were going shopping at the bazaar. I remembered then, that Prince Kadar was engaged to the eldest princess of Nessarah. He wasn’t long crowned when I met him. His brother was—’
‘Killed falling off his horse. Prince Butrus,’ Tahira interrupted flatly. ‘I was originally betrothed to him, and then Prince Kadar inherited me, along with the throne. A most flattering alliance, that would have been.’
‘Why did he break the betrothal?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care, I’m simply glad that he did.’
‘Murimon is a far more liberal kingdom than Nessarah. You wouldn’t have been locked away in a harem. No need to tunnel out at night, you could have...’
‘I don’t love him!’ Tahira flushed scarlet. ‘I did not choose him,’ she amended. ‘And he did not choose to marry his brother’s leavings.’
‘Do not talk of yourself in such terms,’ Christopher snapped.
‘Why not, it’s what we princesses are after all, commodities to be bought and sold.’
‘You did not seem to me to be particularly unhappy about that when I saw you this morning. You were holding his hand!’
‘He was holding mine!’ Anger was a relief. ‘What was I supposed to do, Christopher? He has just purchased me in a deal that my brother is very pleased with, what’s more. When we are married, he will be entitled to do a great deal more than simply hold my hand.’
‘I don’t want to know about that!’
‘Then why bring it up?’ she flashed back at him.
‘If he really is so repugnant to you, though I cannot imagine why...’
‘He is not repugnant. According to my sister—whose name, if your are interested, is Ishraq—no more perfect husband could exist. He is charming and he is kind and he is handsome and all manner of things, but none of them matter, because he is not you!’
The air around them seemed to still. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Tahira had nothing left to lose. Christopher would not forgive her, now that he knew the truth, so why not tell him the whole of it? ‘I mean that I’m in love with you,’ she said, though by her tone, it sounded more like a declaration of war than love.
Christopher looked first shocked and then horrified. ‘You cannot mean that. Princesses are not permitted to fall in love with bastards.’
It hurt. Later, when she thought it over, it would hurt a great deal. For now, Tahira glared at him defiantly. Permitted or not, that is exactly what she had done. More fool her. And more fool her for telling him too. She ought to be relieved that he hadn’t believed her.
‘Princesses are permitted to do very little,’ she said sadly. ‘We are, as you have pointed out, defined by our blood. That is the biggest difference between us. You can choose to allow the circumstances of your birth to blight your life, while I cannot escape mine. I searched for any mention of our princess in the palace library, you know. The records are very precise, quite complete, but it is as if she has been eradicated from history. I don’t know what heinous crime she may have committed, but I do know if I defy my family’s wishes, I too will be effectively eradicated. Ostracised. As if I have never existed. My one and only purpose in life, as a princess of the royal blood, is to marry. Your blood is bastard—yes, I can use that foul term too—but still, you are more fortunate than I. You are free to choose.’
‘Do you now expect my pity, for the life of luxury you have been forced to lead?’
‘I don’t expect anything from you. You have already given me more—you have done more for me, understood more of me, than anyone, and I want—all I can hope for now is that you will be happy.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Because you are deluded!’ The truth burst from her, making her wring her hands in despair. She had not come here to voice any of her doubts, but her doubts were all she could give him. ‘You think that all the blame must be placed at the door of the man who is your true father, but it is not so simple, Christopher. If your mother was of such excellent family, what were they thinking, to allow her to spend so much time alone with a man who could not aspire to her hand in marriage? Did she lie, connive to be in his company? And if she did, do you not think that she is in a little way culpable?’
‘You cannot know...’
‘I know a great deal more of such situations than you! I know the risks a woman will take to escape the shackles placed upon her by her family.’
‘The situations are not the same. You are twenty-four years old, she was sixteen.’
‘Exactly! Christopher, if she had lived, do you honestly think she would have been allowed to keep you? She was a mere child herself. She may not have found it easy to give you up, but she would have found it impossible not to do so.’ She paused, taking a steadying gulp of the salty night air. ‘Which brings me to your father.’
‘I would rather you did not bring him into the conversation. I have heard enough of your misplaced opinions.’
‘Misplaced? Are you sure about that? Why have you not left for Egypt if you are so certain that you are done with the past now that your amulet is buried?’
‘That is none of your business.’
He glowered at her. Tahira glowered back, counting. One hundred, and still he did not speak. She girded her loins and broke the silence. ‘There is another part of the harem,’ she said, ‘where my father and my brother keep their concubines. These women have children. Brothers and sisters who share half my blood, though to say such a thing is not permitted, amounts almost to treason. I will never know them, any more than you will ever know the five sisters you have.’
‘Half-sisters, who are entirely unaware of my existence, and if I have anything to do with it, will remain forever so. I know their father for the despicable cur he is, but I will not destroy their love and respect for him.’
‘Even if it means depriving yourself of a family you could love and respect?’
‘I am not so naïve as to imagine those five females could either love or respect the proof of their father’s misspent youth.’
‘No, you are an honourable man. And a thoughtful one, and one who deserves better, Christopher. As to your father...’
‘If you’re going to tell me again that he did me a favour in having me adopted...’
‘If you had been his legal son, how much freedom would you have to choose how to live your life? Would you be permitted to leave England, to traipse around Egypt, living in caves and tents, and spending most of your waking hours digging up bones, to quote your own words? I doubt it.’
‘The point is a moot one. I’m not legitimate.’
‘Nor are the children from the other side of the harem, but like you, they are free of the chains of their birth, free to make their own lives. Like you, they have no shame attached to their name because, like you until nine months ago, they believe themselves to be the legitimate children of another family entirely.’
Christopher looked uncomfortable. ‘But they do not have the privileges their birth should entitle them to.’
‘No,’ Tahira agreed. ‘Which is why great pains are taken to ensure that the male children never find out who their true father is, lest they claim a share. Females, however—that is another matter. What female who has lived life outside the harem would fight to be allowed into it? I am accustomed to the life, but it would be cruel to imprison one who was not.’
‘Will it be the same—this man you are to marry, will he expect you—will you be confined as you are now?’
The very questions she had tried to ask today, eliciting only such vague answers that she must assume the worst. But she would not burden Christopher with it. ‘The world is changing all the time,’ she equivocated. ‘As you said, in Murimon...’
‘Tahira, you’re not going to be living in Murimon.’
‘Christopher, what difference does it make to you where I live?’
‘You ask that, after all we have—I told you. I want you to be happy.’
How could he imagine she could be when she had just confessed her love for him? Because he didn’t believe her, Tahira thought despairingly. And what difference would it make if he did? How many times must she ask herself that question! ‘I must go.’
‘You should not have come here in the first place,’ Christopher said harshly. ‘To have arrived here so early in the night, you must have taken a foolish risk.’
‘You sound like Farah.’
‘Then she is clearly a sensible woman. Does she know of this tunnel you use?’
‘Yes, though she would no more wish to return to the harem than...’ Flushing, she turned away. ‘I must go, Christopher. I am sorry that you believe I betrayed your trust. I am sorry that you think I lied to you, duped you, all the things you accuse me of—I’m very, very sorry, because all I ever ever wanted—well, I’ve said it all.’
‘Tahira.’ He caught her by her shoulders, turning her to him. His arms slid down her arms, but he made no attempt to pull her any closer. ‘Promise me you will at least try to be happy?’
A demand? A plea? Was she imagining the hint of desperation in his voice? No more lies. ‘I will be happy thinking of you being happy,’ she said, pushing the fall of his hair away from his brow.
‘You didn’t really mean it, did you? When you said—no one could endure to marry another man if they—you didn’t mean it, did you?’
She meant it. She would be enduring it. But he sounded so pained, so painfully eager for her denial. Though her heart was breaking, she managed a tiny shake of her head, keeping her fingers crossed behind her back, speaking the words to herself, even as she denied them. I love you. I love you. I love you.
Christopher groaned, pulling her tight against him. She tilted her face for his kiss. His lips hovered over hers, and then with a sigh he let her go. ‘Goodbye, Tahira.’
This time, it was final. ‘Goodbye, Christopher.’ My darling, she added to herself, for the last time, my love.
