Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride Page 9

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I should not have...’

  ‘No. Now I know what it’s like for you, to be on the listening end of my raw thoughts. I’m just surprised that you—you normally weigh every word before you utter a sentence.’

  ‘I’m not exactly thinking straight, Constance.’ Kadar groaned. ‘I wasn’t thinking at all.’

  ‘Nor was I, and it was rather refreshing. I’m tired of thinking. It changes nothing. Must we really spend the rest of the night berating ourselves for one lapse in judgement, one moment of weakness?’ she asked wistfully.

  She was right. One moment of weakness, that was all it was. Kadar helped her to her feet, smoothing down her hair. ‘One kiss, which only the stars witnessed. I think we can forgive ourselves that.’

  ‘Provided our friends up there don’t tell,’ Constance said. ‘You don’t really think we’ve made it worse, do you? You were teasing, weren’t you, when you said that now you would think...’

  ‘I was teasing,’ he lied. ‘It was—it was cathartic.’

  ‘Cathartic,’ Constance repeated, with a faint smile. ‘I earnestly hope you’re right.’

  Chapter Six

  Constance would never have found the entrance to the souk by herself. It was tucked away at the end of one of the narrow streets which zigzagged down to the port, an innocuous-looking arch hewn into the rock face. Yasamin, the wife of one of Kadar’s advisers, the same woman who had selected Constance’s clothes, urged her forward with another shy smile. She had smiled coyly when Constance had somewhat ineptly gesticulated her thanks for the outfits, and now Constance was beginning to regret that she had not made more of an effort to learn the language. She resolved to bring the matter up with Kadar when she saw him later, in the library. Perhaps there was a book there she could borrow to help her learn, though if it was written in Arabic, she couldn’t imagine it would be of much use.

  Come, Yasamin indicated, and Constance followed, stepping into a world she could not have imagined would exist beyond that simple stone arch. The souk was hewn into the mountain. A cavernous warren which was obviously formed from natural caves, it was lit by a series of oil lamps hanging from the simple vaulted ceiling which cast dancing shadows on the walls. Underfoot, the cobblestones formed a slightly convex but straight road, with individual shops cut into the rock on either side.

  The air was cool but quite dry. The musty smell of the rock was overlaid with that difficult-to-capture smell of new fabric, oily wool and leather which momentarily took Constance straight back to London, to the linen drapers at Bedford House. There were linens for sale here too, from the plain to the exotic, set out in alluring heaps of scarlet and emerald, emblazoned with beading or bright embroidery. Heavy damasks were draped in the opening of one shop. Yet another was a mercer, displaying cards of thread in a rainbow of colours, wheels of satin and velvet ribbons, buttons of horn and of wood and of brass and silver. One shop was devoted to needles and hooks and some very complicated fastenings, while still another specialised in every conceivable kind of basket, from raffia bowls to cane linen chests and a huge lidded container, rather like a Roman amphora, that looked as if it just might house a genie.

  Yasamin was very patient and more than happy to allow Constance to drink her fill at every little shop, encouraging her to touch, to marvel, clearly delighted by Constance’s miming of her pleasure. Finally though, at the furthest end of the souk, they came to the silk merchants, and to business. There were several shops, but Constance was drawn to the smallest, where a very old man sat with a flexibility which belied his years, cross-legged on a silk rug in front of his wares. The little cave was lined with wooden shelves. The silks were organised in columns of colours, the deepest shades on the bottom shelves, rising to the lightest at the very top. Mahogany became garnet, segued to vermilion, became scarlet then cherry then rose. There were forest-greens and moss-greens and emerald-greens, sage and mint and pistachio-green. There were more shades of blue than Constance could describe. There were gold and yellow silks, pink and orange silks, there were silks the shades of desert sands and silks the hues of every sky she had ever seen. There were sea-coloured silks and storm-coloured silks, there was chiffon and crepe and georgette and gauze, and silks to which Constance could put no name at all.

  Dragging her eyes away from this galaxy of the fabric world, Constance made her formal greeting, aware of Yasamin’s dismay, waving her at the other vendors, obviously eager that she make a more informed choice, but Constance had taken an immediate and probably irrational liking to this shop and this wizened tailor. He reminded her of her maternal grandfather, not so much in his appearance but in his expression, his kind eyes and gentle smile.

  She touched Yasamin’s arm, trying to reassure her, and the old man, getting lithely to his feet, did the same. Yasamin put her hand to her heart, then touched the old man’s chest, and Constance finally realised that she had picked the shop belonging to Yasamin’s grandfather—or another close relative, at any rate. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, hoping her expression would convey a little of her meaning, ‘I will tell Prince Kadar this was my choice, I will tell him that you showed no bias.’ The old man smiled and nodded and more arms were patted. Then a woman appeared from behind a curtain bearing a salver with glasses of mint tea, and the greetings and the patting and nodding and smiling began again. By the time she sank onto the carpet to take her tea, Constance’s smile was somewhat fixed.

  She had allowed her imagination to run wild in her design for the court astronomer’s coronation robes, carried away with the notion of imbuing the outfit with some of the magic of the stars. Though she had brought a drawing depicting this, she had also brought something more prosaic, and it was this which she handed over. Though Yasamin and her grandmother seemed to approve however, the old man did not, and pointed at the other scroll.

  Expecting gales of laughter to greet her design, Constance was astonished when the man clapped his hands and leapt to his feet. With an energy which was quite exhausting, he began to pull bolt after bolt of silk from the shelves, throwing them at his wife and his granddaughter with orders to lay them out on the carpet, then snatching them up again and setting them out in a different way. Several times he stopped to puzzle over Constance’s design, took some bales away, replaced them with others. She stood, quite bewildered, watching this flurry of activity, but when it was done, she was utterly entranced by the result.

  Behind the curtain, Yasamin and her grandmother took over the business of measuring. Then there was another glass of mint tea, another round of exaggerated gestures of thanks, and it was over. The court astronomer’s coronation robes were duly commissioned.

  * * *

  The business of the day had left her little time to dwell on what had happened out on the terrace under the stars last night. Now, in the full heat of the day when everyone but the most foolhardy retired out of the sun, Constance sat in the shade watching the tinkling fountain, and examined her conscience.

  Last night, she had lain awake for a long time, trying to summon up the guilt she ought to be feeling, but she had failed signally. It was not the fact that her intended husband would never know that she had kissed Kadar, it was that she simply couldn’t bring herself to believe that she intended to take the man as a husband. Though her marriage was, in a manner of speaking, looming closer with every passing day, paradoxically, every day that passed made it seem like a more and more remote event.

  Kadar was unique. The time she was spending here in his kingdom with him was a unique experience, but it had a defined ending, whether she sailed for India, England or some other land where she could melt anonymously into the background. Kadar was no threat to her freedom. Quite the contrary in fact, for it was his appointing her court astronomer which had given her a taste of what true freedom could be like. So it was partly due to him that she was edging ever more closely toward
s a decision not to go through with this marriage.

  Definitely nothing to do with his kisses. No, she didn’t feel guilty about those kisses. Though there could be no question of her enjoying any more of them. Kadar must reserve his kisses for the wife he did not want but was determined to take. Duty and honour were his motives for marrying the woman his brother had chosen. Though he hadn’t said it outright, he required an heir, the future prince which his poor dead sister-in-law had been unable to provide.

  Constance pursed her lips, frowning deeply over the memory of that conversation. There had been something odd about it. Kadar had been— Yes, she remembered now. She had thought him turned to ice. Was it his brother’s lack of an heir, the missing piece in the family tree which had changed Kadar’s life for ever? That certainly made most sense, but it did not explain Kadar’s reaction when she had asked him, quite naturally, if he had known his brother’s wife.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Constance, it is probably quite simply a case that they disliked each other.’ Yes, she thought, nodding slowly to herself. That would explain it. Given how unalike he and Prince Butrus had been, to use Kadar’s own word, it was very unlikely that their taste in women would coincide. Which also explained Kadar’s animosity to the Princess Tahira. He really did seem very set against her. Given this much clearer picture, it made it even odder that he was also very set upon making her his wife.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when Kadar had a servant bring Constance to his library. She was dressed in pantaloons and a tunic in matching mint green sprigged with darker green-and-lemon flowers, with a dark green half dress over the top and a pair of silk slippers on her feet. Her hair, burnished by the sun, had streaks of colour in it that made her think of autumn leaves. Her skin, which Mama would say was tanned beyond repair, Constance thought rather glowed with health. She still thought she looked like a cross between a concubine and a milkmaid, but it was a combination she rather liked.

  The room to which the servant delivered her was not in the main body of the palace, but in one of the terraced wings. The usual tiled-and-marbled corridor led to the usual style of arched wooden door in line with the rest of the palace, but the room revealed when this was flung open was wholly different. Kadar’s library was completely lined with glass-fronted bookcases on all save one wall, where a set of tall windows looked out onto the great piazza with its sentry guard of palm trees which formed the main entrance to the palace. In front of this, there was a small reading table and two comfortable-looking and rather battered wing-back chairs. Another set of low bookcases set back-to-back sat in the middle of the room, the surfaces stacked with books. There were several crates placed seemingly randomly, some opened and spilling books, others still sealed.

  Kadar was sitting behind an enormous mahogany desk at the far end of the room, but he dropped his pen and got to his feet when she was announced. His tunic and trousers were charcoal-grey silk, the edges worked with elaborate black embroidery. He looked very much the Prince today. Haughty. Remote. His mouth set, his eyes dark, the faint trace of a frown making him even more forbidding.

  ‘I’m afraid state business took up a great deal more of my time than I anticipated,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘If you’re too busy then I can see your library another time, Kadar,’ Constance said, dropping into a half curtsy. It was a struggle not to call him Your Highness.

  ‘No.’ He smoothed his hand over his face, as if he were trying to erase his cares, and managed a faint smile. ‘My business did not only concern Murimon. I had a visit from a man who served with Napoleon in Egypt. He had sailed all the way down the Red Sea in search of me. Flattering, but frustrating for us both, since the problem he has is complex, and while extremely interesting, unfortunately I don’t have the time to advise him.’

  ‘You miss your old life, don’t you?’

  Kadar shrugged. ‘It is easier when I am not confronted with it. It is looking likely, incidentally, that Napoleon and your Duke of Wellington will do battle very soon. It is to be hoped that the outcome is definitive. Europe will benefit from an extended peace.’

  ‘And your visitor today, is he in the vanguard of wishing to be one of those beneficiaries?’ Constance hazarded.

  She was rewarded with a proper smile and a look of approval. ‘You are both perceptive and correct. But enough of my travails. Please, sit down,’ Kadar said, ushering her to one of the wing chairs at the window. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy your visit to the souk?’

  ‘Oh, it was wonderful. I ordered my robes from Yasamin’s grandfather. I think she was worried that the other shop owners would accuse her of exploiting her connections, for I did not even look at their shops, but I just— You will think this silly, but her grandfather reminded me of my own grandfather. My mother’s father that is, who first taught me to look through a telescope when I was a little girl.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘It was he who told me the story of Anningan, the moon god. I miss him.’

  ‘He died?’

  ‘About eight years ago, but I had not seen him for some time. My mother is from a very wealthy family. When she married Papa she brought with her a substantial dowry. When I was little, we were, as far as I can remember, comfortably off. But her dowry ran out, and then our visits to Grandfather’s became fraught because Papa expected him—or rather expected Mama to ask him, and it became all about the money, and eventually my grandfather told Papa that he was no longer welcome, and Mama—’ Constance broke off with a sigh. ‘Mama chose Papa, as she always does,’ she concluded wearily, ‘and this is very old history.’

  ‘Then tell me about the souk, if that is what you would prefer.’

  She smiled gratefully at him, launching into an enthusiastic description of her day, recounting every detail of her visit. Kadar’s questions and smiles were somewhat mechanical, his mind clearly still dwelling on his own day. It hadn’t occurred to her until now just how radical a change this must be for him. ‘You know,’ Constance said, interrupting herself, ‘you are very much to be admired.’

  ‘Because I have not once interrupted your extremely colourful story?’

  ‘Do you mean boring? I was only trying to distract you.’

  ‘You think I need distracting?’

  A faint lift of his brow, but it was clearly a warning. Should she swallow her words? But if she did, then who else would say them? They deserved to be said. ‘It struck me only just now,’ Constance said, ‘that you have given up a great deal to be here. People think that being a prince is an honour, which it is of course, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s an honour you would have chosen.’

  She waited, but Kadar said nothing. ‘They don’t appreciate you as they ought. I mean, they don’t appreciate that you’ve been forced to give up the life you really love, to surrender a position that was highly influential, not so say extremely powerful, even if it was played out very much behind the scenes, so to speak. And now you are forced to take centre stage, and not just to wield power of a very different nature, but to be seen to do so, which is something that doesn’t come naturally to you, because you’re not your brother. And the thing is, Kadar—the thing is—well, as I said, I think you are very, very much to be admired, and instead of feeling so—so crushed by not being able to help this man who called, you should be feeling proud of the fact that you’ve put honour and duty before what you really want and—and there,’ she concluded, crossing her arms, ‘that is all I wanted to say.’

  Still he said nothing, though there was that tiny flicker in his right eye which she’d noticed when he talked of his brother. Was he angry? Had she been outrageously presumptuous? ‘I’ve said too much. Should I leave?’

  He shook his head. ‘Constance.’ Kadar got to his feet and took her hand between his. ‘I am not often at a loss for words. It is most reassuring to know that I am...that my struggle to come to terms with the changes
in my life is not without justification. Thank you for recognizing that.’

  He kissed her palm. His mouth lingered for a few seconds, his lips warm on her skin. It was a mere nothing of a kiss, yet it snatched her breath away. Their eyes held for a moment. And then he released her and sat back down again, and Constance, foolishly clasping her hand to her breast, was once more at a loss as to what was going on behind that enigmatic expression of his.

  ‘Your library is quite wonderful,’ she said, desperate to prevent the silence from becoming strained. ‘Not at all what I expected and so very different to every other room and salon in this palace.’

  ‘The furniture as well as the books are mine. I had them shipped from Naples. As you can see, I have not yet finished unpacking them.’

  ‘Is there a catalogue? I could help...’

  ‘Naturally, there is a catalogue. I have many thousands of books.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Constance got to her feet and began to prowl around the room. She peered through the glass cabinets at the stacked shelves of books, folio, octavo and quarto, most bound, some in their raw state. Kadar’s interests seemed to be as diverse as the languages in which he was clearly fluent, though there were a preponderance of legal tomes, including Napoleon’s Code Civil in French and Justinian’s Corpus Juris Civilis. On the next shelf, which contained maps, she found Saxton’s Atlas of England and Wales and Seller’s Atlas Maritimus, and exclaimed in surprise. ‘Oh, these are exactly like the editions which my father owned. The Saxton is very old and rare, I think.’

  Kadar joined her, taking the fragile book from the shelf and setting it down with care on one of the reading tables. ‘Sixteenth century.’