Читать книгу The Sheikh's Collection - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 39
ОглавлениеTHE SOUND OF the pistol firing echoed through the still air, bounced off the boulders and rippled the still waters of the oasis.
Dispassionately Khalil watched as the snake leapt and twisted in the air before falling a few feet away, dead.
He turned back to look at Elena and swore softly when he saw her sway, her face drained of colour, her pupils dilated with terror. Without even considering what he was doing, or why, he strode forward, caught her in his arms and drew her shuddering body to his chest.
‘I killed it, Elena,’ he said as he stroked her dark hair. ‘It’s dead. You don’t need to be afraid now.’
She pushed away from him, her whole body still trembling. ‘What’s dead?’
Khalil stared at her for several seconds as the meaning of her question penetrated. He swore again. ‘I shot the snake! Did you not see it, but three feet from you, and ready to strike?’
She just stared at him with wide, blank eyes, and forcibly he took her jaw in his hand and turned her head so she could see the dead viper. She blanched, drawing her breath in a ragged gasp.
‘I thought...’
‘You thought I was aiming at you?’ Khalil finished flatly. His stomach churned with a sour mix of guilt and anger. ‘How could you think such a thing?’ He didn’t wait for her answer, for he knew what it would be: because you kidnapped me. ‘I promised you I wouldn’t hurt you.’
‘And you also said you didn’t trust anyone’s promises. Neither do I, Khalil.’ She tried to move away from him but she stumbled, her body still shaking, and Khalil pulled her towards him once more. ‘Don’t—’
‘You’ve had a shock.’ He sat down on the rock, drawing her onto his lap. It was a jolt to his system, to feel a warm body against his, yet it also felt far too good, familiar in a way that made no sense, yet felt intrinsically right.
He felt the stiffness in her body, saw the way she angled her face away from him and knew that just as he was she was trying to keep herself apart, stand on pride. He saw so much of himself in her and it unnerved him. It touched him in a way he didn’t expect or even understand. From the moment he’d met Elena she’d done things to him. Not just to his body, but to his heart.
Gently he stroked her damp hair away from her face. She let out a shuddering breath and relaxed against him, her cheek against his chest. Something deep and fierce inside Khalil, some part of him he hadn’t thought still existed, let out a roar of both satisfaction and need.
He tucked a tendril behind her ear just as he’d wanted to yesterday. Her eyes were closed, her dark lashes sweeping her pale cheeks.
‘You pointed that gun at me,’ she whispered, her voice sounding distant and numb.
‘I pointed it at the snake,’ Khalil answered. He knew she was in shock, trying to process what had happened, but he still felt a flash of anger, a stirring of guilt. He should have made her feel safer. She should have been able to trust him.
This, when you trust no one?
‘A black snake,’ he continued, keeping his voice steady and calm. ‘They can be deadly.’
‘I didn’t even see it.’ He thought she was recovering from the shock but then she let out a little shuddering sob and pressed her face against his chest.
His whole body jolted with the fierce pleasure of having her curl into him, seek his comfort. When had anyone ever done that? When had anyone wanted something real and tender from him? And when had he felt it in response, this yearning and protectiveness?
He could not remember a time, and it forced him to acknowledge the stark emptiness of his life, the years of relentless and ruthless striving, utterly without comfort.
‘There, there, habiibii. You’re safe now. Safe.’ The words were strange to him, yet he spoke them without thinking, stroking her hair, his arms tight around her. He could feel her shoulders shake and he could tell from her ragged breathing she was doing her best to keep herself from crying. His throat tightened with emotion he hadn’t felt in decades.
After a moment she pushed away from him, her eyes still dry, her face pale but resolutely composed.
‘I’m sorry. You must think I’m being ridiculous.’ She sat stiffly in his lap now, her chin lifted at a queenly angle. Already Khalil missed the feel of her against him.
‘Not at all,’ he answered. He suppressed the clamour of his own feelings, forced it all back down again. ‘I realise that a great deal has happened to you in a short amount of time.’ He hesitated, choosing his words with care, wanting and even needing her to understand. To believe him. ‘I’m sorry for the fear and unhappiness I have caused you.’
For a second, no more, he thought she did. Her face softened, her lips parting, and then she gave a little shake of her head and scrambled off his lap. ‘Even though it was entirely preventable?’
Their moment of startling intimacy was over and Khalil, half-amazed at his own reaction, felt a sudden piercing of grief at its loss.
* * *
Elena stood on the rock, trying to calm her thundering heart—and ignore the ache Khalil’s touch had created in her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held so tenderly, spoken to so gently.
He’s your captor, she reminded herself grimly. He kidnapped you. But in that moment he’d been incredibly kind, and her body and heart had responded to it like a flower unfurling in the sunlight.
When had someone comforted her, touched her, understood her? She’d lived such a solitary existence, first as an only child, then as an orphan queen. The one person she’d let close had betrayed her utterly.
Just as Khalil will betray you. At least he was honest about his intentions.
Khalil gazed at her, his expression inscrutable, any remnant of tenderness erased completely from his harsh features. He glanced at her pathetic pile of plants and broken chair slats; the tiny flame she’d been kindling had gone out. ‘What on earth were you doing?’ he asked. He turned back to her, his mouth twisting with bemusement. ‘Were you building a fire?’ She didn’t answer and his mouth curved into a smile as he shook his head. She almost thought she heard admiration in his voice. ‘You were building a signal fire, weren’t you?’
Elena lifted her chin. ‘And if I was?’
‘It’s the most pathetic signal fire I’ve ever seen.’ Khalil smiled, inviting her to share the joke, his teasing gentle, compassion kindling in his eyes—a compassion she hadn’t seen before and hadn’t thought he possessed.
Elena felt an answering smile tug at her own mouth. It was pathetic. And it felt good to joke, to laugh, even with Khalil. Especially with Khalil. ‘I know. I realised it wasn’t going to work. It would be far too small if it had even caught at all. But I had to do something.’
Khalil nodded, his expression serious once more. ‘I understand that, Elena,’ he said quietly. ‘You know, we are a lot alike. We both fight against what we cannot change.’
‘It looks to me like you’re trying to change something,’ she retorted, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Yes, now. But there was a time when I couldn’t. When I was powerless and angry but determined to keep fighting, because at least it reminded me I was alive. That I had something to fight for.’
And, God help her, she knew how that felt. The last four years, she’d felt that every day. ‘If you know what that feels like,’ she asked in a raw voice, ‘then how can you keep me prisoner?’
For a second, no more, Khalil looked conflicted. Torn. Then his eyes veiled and his mouth firmed, everything about him hardening. ‘We are not as alike as all that,’ he said shortly. ‘You might be a prisoner, Elena, but you are treated with respect and courtesy. You have every comfort available.’
‘Does that really matter—?’
‘Trust me,’ he cut her off, his voice cold now, implacable. ‘It matters.’
‘When have you felt like a prisoner?’
He stared at her for a long moment then gave a little shake of his head. ‘We should return to the camp.’
She still wanted answers, even if she shouldn’t ask the questions, shouldn’t get to know this man any more. Yet she did, because he understood her in a way no one else did. She wanted, she realised, to understand him. ‘Why did you come looking for me?’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘That I’d escape?’
A tiny smile lightened his features. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I was worried you might encounter a snake, and I was very nearly right. They like to sun themselves on these rocks.’
‘You did warn me.’
‘Even so.’
She shook her head, her throat suddenly tight because everything about this was so strange. Khalil was her captor. Her enemy. But he’d also treated her with more gentleness than any other human being that she could remember, and if he had a legitimate claim to the throne...
‘What is it, Elena?’ he asked quietly.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t even know if I want to ask you.’
‘Ask me what?’
She took a breath, let it out slowly. ‘Your side of the story.’
Something flared in his eyes, something she couldn’t name, but it had her body responding, heat unfurling low in her belly. Then it died out and his expression hardened once more. ‘You don’t want to change your mind.’
‘You don’t know what this marriage means for me, Khalil.’
‘Then why don’t you tell me?’
‘What good would it do? Would you lose the chance of your crown so I can keep mine?’
He raised his eyebrows, his expression still uncompromising. ‘Are you in danger of losing it?’
She didn’t answer, because she’d already said too much and the last thing she wanted to do was admit to Khalil how shaky her throne really was. So far she’d managed to hide the threat Markos posed to her. If it became public, she knew it would just give him power. She could already imagine the newspaper headlines about the teenaged queen and the stupid mistake she’d made, trusting someone, thinking he loved her.
She wouldn’t do that again.
And certainly not with Khalil.
Yet even so part of her yearned to tell him the truth, to unburden herself, have someone understand, sympathise and even offer advice.
Like Paulo had?
Why on earth was she thinking of trusting Khalil when she knew to trust no one? What about this man made her want to break her own rules?
Because he understands you.
‘Like you said, we should return to the camp,’ she said and with her head held high she walked past him, back through the boulders.
As soon as she got back to her tent, Elena stripped off her swimming costume and dressed in the clothes she’d been given that morning. She felt more trapped now than she had since Khalil had first forced her into the car, but the prison this time was one of her own making. Her own mind. Her own heart.
She knew it was the coward’s way not to listen to Khalil, not to ask what his side of the story was. Would she really want to marry Aziz if he wasn’t the rightful Sheikh?
And yet he had to be, she told herself as she sat down on the bed. He had to be.
Because if he wasn’t...
It didn’t even matter, she reminded herself with a gusty sigh, dropping her head into her hands. She wasn’t going to marry Aziz. No matter how gentle and tender he’d been with her today, Khalil still intended keeping her until the six weeks were up. Soon Aziz would have no reason to marry her.
Whether she wanted to or not.
She looked up, her gaze unfocused as she recalled the way Khalil had held her; the soft words he had spoken; the way he’d stroked her hair; the thud of his heart against her cheek.
She felt deep in her bones that he’d been sincere, and the realisation both terrified and thrilled her. She didn’t have real relationships. She didn’t know how. She’d been shy as a child, her parents distant figures, her only company a nanny and then a governess. Even if she’d wanted, yearned, for such things, she hadn’t known how to go about getting them—and then Paulo had broken her trust and destroyed her faith in other people and, even worse, her faith in herself and her own judgement.
Was she misjudging Khalil now? Was it simply her pathetic inexperience with men and life that made her crave more of that moment, more tenderness, more contact?
Nothing about their relationship, if she could even use that word, was real.
Yet it felt real. She felt as if Khalil understood and even liked her for who she was. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but whatever her association with Khalil was she knew she needed to know the truth. To ask for his side of the story...and face the consequences of whatever he told her.
She let out a shuddering breath, the decision made.
* * *
A little while later Leila slipped into the tent, smiling and curtseying as she caught sight of Elena. ‘I’ve brought fresh clothes and water for washing. Sheikh Khalil has invited you to dine with him tonight.’
‘He has?’ Surprise, and a damning pleasure, rippled through her. ‘Why?’
Leila’s smile widened. ‘Why shouldn’t he, Your Highness?’
Why should he?
His reasons didn’t matter, she told herself. This could be her opportunity to ask Khalil about his claim to the throne. And if she felt a little flare of anticipation at seeing him, at spending time with him, then so be it.
‘Look at the dress he has brought you,’ Leila said and, opening a box, she withdrew a dress of silvery grey from folds of tissue paper.
It was both beautiful and modest, the material as delicate and silky as a spider’s web. Elena touched it before she could stop herself.
‘I’m not sure why I need to wear that,’ she said sharply, drawing her hand away as if the fragile material had burned her. The temptation to try it on, to feel feminine and beautiful, was overwhelming.
Leila’s face fell and she laid the dress down on the bed. ‘You would look beautiful in it, Your Highness.’
‘I don’t need to look beautiful. I’m being held captive in a desert camp.’ And she needed to remember that. To stay strong.
She turned away abruptly, hating that she sounded petulant and childish, and hating even more that she was tempted to wear the dress and have dinner with Khalil.
Hear his side of the story.
Quietly Leila folded the dress and returned it to the box. Elena felt even worse. ‘Shall I tell Sheikh Khalil you wish to remain in your tent tonight?’
Conflicted, Elena turned back to Leila. ‘I don’t—’ She stopped, took a breath. She was being a coward, hiding in her tent. She needed to face her fears. Face Khalil. If she learned just what his side of the story was, she’d be able to make a more informed decision about her own future. She’d know all the facts. Know her enemy.
Even if he didn’t feel like her enemy any more.
‘You may tell Khalil I’ll eat with him,’ Elena said. ‘Thank you, Leila.’ She glanced down at the dress, an ache of longing rising in her. It was such a lovely gown. ‘And you may leave the dress.’
An hour later Leila escorted Elena to Khalil’s private tent. Her heart started thudding and her palms felt damp as she stepped inside the luxurious quarters.
She felt self-conscious in the dress Leila had brought, as if she were dressing up for a date, but she also enjoyed the feel of the silky fabric against her skin, the way it swirled around her ankles as she moved. And, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered, she liked the thought of Khalil seeing her in it.
Everything in her rebelled at the realisation. She shouldn’t want to please Khalil. She couldn’t start to feel something for him. It would be beyond stupid—it would be dangerous.
As she came into the tent, she saw candlelight flickering over the low table that had been set with a variety of dishes. Silk and satin pillows were scattered around it in the Arabic style of dining, rather than sitting in chairs as she was used to.
Khalil emerged from the shadows, dressed in a loose, white cotton shirt and dark trousers; he’d taken off the traditional thobe she’d seen him in before. With his golden eyes and midnight hair, his chiselled jaw glinting with dark stubble, he looked like a sexy and dangerous pirate. Dangerous, she told herself, being the operative word.
Elena swallowed audibly as Khalil’s heated gaze swept over her. ‘You look lovely, Your Highness.’
‘I’m not sure what the point of this dress is,’ Elena retorted. ‘Or this meal.’ She was feeling far too vulnerable already, and attack was her best defence. She’d learned that in the Council Room; it had helped keep the crown on her head for four years.
When Markos had mocked her plans for better childcare provision, saying how women didn’t need to work, Elena had come back with the percentages of women who did. When he’d belittled her idea for an arts festival, she’d pointed out the increased tourist revenues such events would bring. She’d refused to back down, and it was probably why he hated her. Why he wanted to end her rule.
Khalil had been walking towards her with graceful, predatory intent, but he stopped at her sharp words and raised an eyebrow. ‘You complained this morning about being kept in your tent like a prisoner. I thought you would enjoy having company, even if it is mine.’ A smile flickered over his face and died. ‘Likewise, I thought you might prefer a dress to the admittedly more suitable khakis. I’m sorry if I was wrong.’
Now she felt ridiculous and even a little ashamed, almost as if she’d hurt his feelings. Khalil waited, his expression ironed out to blandness. ‘This is all very civilised,’ Elena finally managed.
‘It’s meant to be civilised, Elena,’ he answered. ‘I have told you before, I am neither a terrorist nor a thug. Your stay here is, I’m afraid, a necessary—’
‘Evil,’ she filled in before she could help herself.
‘Measure,’ Khalil answered. Suddenly and surprisingly, he looked weary. ‘If you are going to fight me all evening, perhaps you would prefer to eat in your tent. Or will you try to set fire to this one?’
Elena knew then that she didn’t want to fight any more. What was the point? Khalil wasn’t going to let her go. And she was wearing a beautiful dress, about to eat a lovely meal with a very attractive man. Maybe she should just enjoy herself. It was a novel concept; so much of her life as queen, and even before she’d ascended the throne, had been about duty. Sacrifice. When had anything been about pleasure?
She gave him a small smile and glanced consideringly at the creamy candles in their bronze holders. ‘That would make a big enough signal fire.’
Khalil chuckled softly. ‘Don’t even think of it, Elena.’
‘I wasn’t,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve come to realise that setting a fire won’t do me much good.’
‘You have another idea?’ he asked and walked forward to take her hand, the slide of his fingers across hers shooting sparks all the way up to her elbow.
‘Well, I was thinking of trying to charm you into letting me go,’ Elena answered lightly. She did a little twirl in her dress. ‘The dress might help.’
Khalil’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’d tempt a saint, but I’m afraid I’m made of sterner stuff. Flirting won’t get you very far.’
She drew back, a blush scorching her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t flirting.’
‘No?’ Khalil arched his eyebrows as he drew her down to the table. ‘Pity.’
Even more disconcerted by his response, Elena fussed with positioning herself on the silken pillows, arranging the folds of her dress around her. Khalil sat opposite her, reclining on one elbow, every inch the relaxed and confident sheikh.
Sheikh. Yes, lying on the pillows, the candlelight glinting on his dark hair, he looked every inch the sheikh.
‘Let me serve you,’ Khalil said, and lifted the lids on several silver chafing dishes. He ladled some lamb stewed in fragrant spices onto her plate, along with couscous mixed with vegetables.
‘It smells delicious,’ Elena murmured. ‘Thank you.’ Khalil raised an eyebrow.
‘So polite,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘I’m waiting for the sting.’
‘I’m hungry,’ she answered, which was no answer at all because she didn’t know what she was doing. What she felt.
‘Then you must eat up,’ Khalil said lightly. ‘You are too thin, at least by Kadaran standards.’
She was thin, mainly because constant stress and anxiety kept her from eating properly. ‘And you are familiar with Kadaran standards?’ she asked. ‘You said something about living in America before, didn’t you?’
‘I spent my adolescence in the United States,’ he answered, his tone rather flat. He handed her a platter of bread, his expression shuttered, and Elena felt a surge of curiosity about this man and his experience.
‘Is that why your English is so good?’
A smile flickered across his face, banishing the frown that had settled between his brows when she’d asked about where he had lived. ‘Thank you. And, yes, I suppose it is.’
Elena sat back, taking dainty bites of the delicious lamb. ‘How long have you been back in Kadar?’
‘Six months. Is this an inquisition, Elena?’ That smile now deepened, revealing the dimple Elena had seen before. ‘“Know your enemies and know yourself, and you can win a hundred battles”.’
‘You are quite familiar with The Art of War.’
‘As are you,’ he observed.
‘How come you know it so well?’
‘Because my life has been one of preparing for battle.’
‘To become Sheikh of Kadar.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re already a sheikh, aren’t you? Leila told me...’
He shrugged. ‘Of a small tribe in the northern desert. My mother’s people.’
He was silent and so was she, the only sounds the wind ruffling the sides of the tent, the gentle clink of their dishes. Elena gazed at him, the harsh planes of his face, the sculpted fullness of his lips. Hard and soft, a mass of contradictions, this gentle kidnapper of hers. Her stomach twisted. What was she doing? How stupid was she being, to actually consider believing this man, trusting him?
She could tell herself she was here because she needed to know her enemy, needed to make an informed decision about her future, but Elena knew she was fooling herself. She was here because she wanted to be here. And she wanted to trust Khalil because she liked him. As a person. As a man.
‘I want to hear the other side of the story,’ she said quietly, and Khalil glanced up at her, his expression watchful, even wary.
‘Do you,’ he said, not a question, and she nodded and swallowed.
‘Everyone around you is so sure, Khalil, of your right to the throne. I don’t think they’re brainwashed or deluded, so...’ She spread her hands, tried for a smile. ‘There must be some reason why people think you are the rightful sheikh. Tell me what it is.’
* * *
Tell me what it is. A simple request, yet one that felt like peeling back his skin, exposing his heart. Admitting his shame.
Khalil glanced away from Elena, his gaze distant, unfocused. He’d said before he’d tell her his side of the story when she was ready to listen, and here she was—ready.
The trouble was, he wasn’t.
‘Khalil,’ Elena said softly. His name sounded right on her lips in a way that made everything in Khalil both want and rebel.
What was he doing? How had he got to this place, with this woman? It had started, perhaps, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. When, in what could be considered courage or folly or both, she’d attempted to escape. When he’d seen both fear and pride in her eyes and known exactly how she’d felt.
When he’d held her in his arms and she’d curled into him, seeking the solace that he’d freely, gladly, given.
And now she wanted more. Now she wanted the truth, which he’d told her he would tell her, except now that she’d actually asked he felt wary, reluctant. Afraid.
What if she didn’t believe him? What if she did?
Finally Khalil spoke. ‘My mother,’ he said slowly, ‘was Sheikh Hashem’s first wife.’
Elena’s eyes widened, although with disbelief, confusion or simply surprise he couldn’t tell. ‘What—who was your father?’
He bared his teeth in a smile that was a sign of his pain rather than any humour or happiness. ‘Sheikh Hashem, of course.’
A hand flew to her throat. ‘You mean you are Aziz’s brother?’
‘Half-brother, to be precise. Older half-brother.’
‘But...’ She shook her head, and now she definitely seemed disbelieving. Khalil felt something that had started to unfurl inside him begin to wither. Good. It was better this way. She wouldn’t believe him, and he wouldn’t care. It would be easy then. Painful, but easy. ‘How can that be?’ she asked. ‘There’s no mention of you anywhere, not even in that book!’
He laughed, the sound hard and bitter, revealing. ‘So you read the book?’
‘A bit.’
‘There wouldn’t be a mention of me in it. My father did his best to erase my existence from the world. But the Bedouin tribes, my mother’s people, they have not forgotten me.’ He hated how defensive he sounded. As if he needed to prove himself, as if he wanted her to believe him.
She didn’t matter. Her opinion didn’t matter. Why had he even asked her to dinner? Why had he given her that dress?
Because you wanted to please her. Because you wanted to see her again, touch her again...
Fool.
‘Why would your father wish to erase your existence, Khalil?’
He gave her a glittering, challenging stare. ‘Do you know who Aziz’s mother is?’
Elena shrugged. ‘Hashem’s wife. Her name, I believe, is Hamidyah. She died a few years ago, Aziz told me.’
‘Yes, she did. And, before she was my father’s second wife, she was his mistress. She bore him a bastard, and my father claimed him as one. Aziz.’ He let out a slow breath, one hand clenching involuntarily against his thigh. ‘Then my father tired of my mother, his first wife, but Kadaran law has always dictated that the reigning monarch take only one wife.’ He gave her the semblance of a smile. ‘Not a moral stance, mind you, simply a pragmatic one: fewer contenders for the throne. I suspect it’s why Kadar has enjoyed so many years of peace.’
‘So you’re saying he got rid of his wife? And—and of you? So he could marry Hamidyah?’ Elena was gazing at him with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. Was it confusion, disbelief or, God help him, pity? Did she think he was deluded?
‘You don’t believe me,’ Khalil stated flatly. His stomach felt like a stone. He wasn’t angry with her, he realised with a flash of fury he could only direct at himself; he was hurt.
‘It seems incredible,’ Elena said slowly. ‘Surely someone would have known...?’
‘The desert tribes know.’
‘Does Aziz?’
‘Of course he does.’ The words came fast, spiked with bitterness. ‘We met, you know, as boys.’ Just weeks before he’d been torn from his family. ‘Never since, although I’ve seen his photograph in the gossip magazines.’
Elena shook her head slowly. ‘But if he knows you are the rightful heir...’
‘Ah, but you see, my father is cleverer than that. He charged my mother with adultery and claimed I was not his son. He banished me from the palace when I was seven years old.’
Elena gaped at him. ‘Banished...’
‘My mother as well, to a remote royal residence where she lived in isolation. She died just a few months later, although I didn’t know that for many years. From the day my father threw me from the palace, I never saw her again.’ He spoke dispassionately, even coldly, because if he didn’t he was afraid of how he might sound. What he might reveal. Already he felt a tightness in his throat and he took a sip of wine to ease it.
‘But that’s terrible,’ Elena whispered. She looked stricken, but her response didn’t gratify Khalil. He felt too exposed for that.
‘It’s all ancient history,’ he dismissed. ‘It hardly matters now.’
‘Doesn’t it? This is why you’re seeking the throne, as—’
‘As revenge?’ He filled in. ‘No, Elena, it’s not for revenge. It’s because it’s my right.’ His voice throbbed with conviction. ‘I am my father’s first-born. When he set my mother aside he created deep divisions in a country that has only known peace. If you’ve wondered why Aziz does not have the support of his whole country, it’s because too many people know he is not the rightful heir. He is popular in Siyad because he is cosmopolitan and charming, but the heart of this country is not his. It is mine.’ He stared at her, his chest heaving, willing her to believe him. Needing her to.
‘How can you be sure,’ she whispered, ‘that your mother didn’t have an affair?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ He heard his voice, as sharp as a blade. Disappointment dug deep. No, a feeling worse than disappointment, weaker—this damnable hurt. He took a steadying breath. ‘My mother knew the consequences of an affair: banishment, shame, a life cut off from everyone and everything she knew. It would not have been worth the risk.’
‘But you would have just been a boy. How could you have known?’
‘I knew everyone around her believed her to be innocent. I knew her serving maids cried out at the injustice of it. I knew no man ever stepped forward to claim her or me, and my father couldn’t even name the man who’d allegedly sired me. My father’s entire basis for banishing both my mother and me was the colour of my eyes.’
Elena stared at him, her own golden-grey eyes filled with not confusion or disbelief but with something that was nearly his undoing: compassion.
‘Oh, Khalil,’ she whispered.
He glanced away, afraid of revealing himself. His jaw worked but he could not form words. Finally he choked out, ‘People protested at the time. They said there wasn’t enough proof. But then my mother died before he actually married Hamidyah, so it was, in the end, all above board.’
‘And what about you?’
He couldn’t admit what had happened to him: those years in the desert, the awful shame, even though part of him wanted to, part of him wanted to bare himself to this woman, give her his secrets. To trust another person, and with more than he ever had before, even as a child. He suppressed that foolish impulse and lifted one shoulder in what he hoped passed as an indifferent shrug. ‘I was raised by my mother’s sister, Dimah, in America. I never saw my father again.’
‘And the people accepted it all?’ she said quietly, only half a question. ‘Aziz as the heir, even though they must have remembered you...’
‘My father was a dictator. No one possessed the courage to question his actions while he was alive.’
‘Why did Sheikh Hashem make such a strange will?’ Elena burst out. ‘Commanding Aziz to marry?’
‘I think he was torn. Perhaps he realised the mistake he’d made in banishing me, but did not want to admit it. He was a proud man.’ Khalil shrugged again. ‘Forcing Aziz to marry would make him commit to Kadar and give up his European ways. But calling a national referendum if he didn’t...’ Khalil smiled grimly. ‘My father must have known it was a chance for me to become Sheikh. Maybe that is just wishful thinking on my part, but I’d like to think he regretted, even if just in part, what he did to my mother and me.’
‘And do you think people would accept you, if you did become Sheikh?’
‘Some might have difficulty but, in time, yes. I believe they would.’
He stared at her then, willing her to tell him she believed him. Wanting, even needing, to hear it.
She looked away. Khalil’s insides clenched with a helpless, hopeless anger.
Then she turned back to him, her eyes as wide and clear as twin lakes. ‘Then we really are alike,’ she said quietly. ‘For we are both fighting for our crowns.’
