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She didn’t want to be alone with the intimidating Kaman. The very idea made her stomach ache. She took a step closer to the throne. “Surely, sir, our getting to know one another would be better served by actually spending time together?”
Khalid regarded her with a slow smile. “Perhaps you are right, Emira.”
Kaman spoke brusquely, “And yet protocol dictates this step is taken first.” He fixed Sally with a look of cold contempt. “It would be wise to avoid taking up any more of the Sheikh’s time now.”
His meaning was clear.
Stop arguing.
Stop being objectionable.
Stop being
Medouzan.
Sally compressed her lips. “Fine,” she nodded, nervousness overtaking every other sensation in her body as she imagined being alone with this man.
She turned to say something to the Sheikh, but he was already absorbed in conversation with another of his black-clad servants.
And so she fell into step beside the powerful figure of Kaman as he walked out of the throne room, and deeper into the palace of Tari’ell.
Sally knew she would regret not paying closer attention to the stunning details of the sixteenth century building. As a lover of art and history, and all things cultural, this building was a testament to a period of rich prosperity and enlightenment. In that moment of intense confusion, all she caught was a glimpse of highly polished white marble, gold leaf columns and windows that revealed a view of the jagged topped Allani mountains to the East.
Beyond them – the province of Medouzan. Her home.
Her step faltered as the sun crested like a golden ball of fire over the range, shooting arrows of warmth through the windows.
Kaman caught her gaze and stopped walking. “The border of our land,” he murmured, moving back a step so that he was right beside her.
She nodded. “I haven’t been here for so long. I’d almost forgotten …” Her breath caught in her throat for the second time that afternoon. She risked flicking a glance at him. The sun was dousing him in golden flecks of light; they danced over his breathtaking face like pixies in the breeze. She swallowed and returned her attention to the natural delineation of the Kingdom. “It’s so beautiful.”
He had thought so for a long time. As a child he’d marvelled at the almost mystical seeming size of the snow-capped peaks. But for many years, they’d simply formed a fact of life. Incontrovertible and ever present, much like the hatred he’d been taught to feel for this woman and her destabilising family. His lips compressed in disapproval. Not of the marriage, which had been his idea. But of her.
Her attention was rapt, completely captivated by the dusk-lit vista, and so he was able to observe her privately. She was not what he’d expected. Far different to her cousin, who had been obviously perfect for the part of Sheikha. He suppressed a sad smile as he thought of Tashana Ibarra, the woman who had been hand-picked for the likelihood she might bring stability to the troubled lands.
Stability the region, perhaps, was not ready for, if her suspected assassination was anything to go by.
So how could this woman – tiny, breakable and mousey – hope to handle the rigours of what would be expected of her?
It was his personal opinion that she wouldn’t. Royal life was not for the faint of heart, and she was most definitely that. Far better to show her now that she wasn’t up to the task, rather than after a disastrous marriage.
“Come,” he commanded, a new sense of purpose in his tone. “Let us begin.”
For the sooner they began, the sooner it would all be over, and she would be out of the palace for good.
CHAPTER TWO
A light wind scampered off the desert in the distance, bringing with it a hint of warmth and sunshine. It rustled Sally’s chestnut brown hair, lifting it across her cheek. She dashed it away and settled back in the timber seat.
Her companion had not yet spoken. His dark eyes were scrutinising her. She wondered what information he was gleaning – if any – from her appearance? Two weeks ago, she’d looked like a normal twenty one year old. A rigorous beauty regimen had seen her transformed into a twenty one year old princess wannabe. Hair that had come to her waist had been left long, but trimmed into a neater style. Some layers had been shaped to flatter her angular face. Her brows had been threaded, her skin exfoliated and waxed, and her nails had been buffed until they shone like glass. The superficial changes gave her a little confidence, though not much, when faced with such obvious disapproval.
A servant appeared as if from nowhere and set a tray on the table between them. A pot of tea was poured, and a delicate plate loaded with Turkish delights uncovered.
“Eat something,” he murmured, crossing one ankle over his knee.
“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” she said, regretting the note of apology in her voice.
“These are a special delicacy of the region. They’re made using crumbed pistachio and orange rind.”
