The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns: The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin / The Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess / The Future King's Love-Child

The air was damp and fresh from the sprinkler system Bahir had installed, although Kalila could still feel the dry, creeping chill of the night-time desert air. She wished she’d thought to bring a wrap; her arms crept around her body instead.

She didn’t want to marry Zakari. She acknowledged this starkly, peeled away the layers of self-deceit and foolish hope to reveal the plain and unpleasant truth underneath. She didn’t want to travel to a foreign country, even one as close as Calista, to be a queen. She didn’t want to live the life that had been carefully chosen for her too many years ago.

She didn’t want to do her duty.

Funny, that she would realise this now. Now, when it was too late, far too late, when the wedding was imminent, the invitations already sent out even. Or were they? Funny, too, that she had no idea of the details of her own wedding, her own marriage, not even about the groom.

Kalila sighed. The path she’d been walking on opened onto a sheltered curve bound by hedgerows, set with a small fountain, its waters gleaming blackly in the darkness, the newly risen moon reflected on its still surface. She sank onto a bench by the fountain, curling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees, a position from childhood, a position of comfort.

From the ground she scooped up a handful of smooth pebbles and let them trickle through her fingers, each one making a tiny scuffling sound on the dirt below. She hadn’t realised the truth of her situation until now, she knew, because she hadn’t separated it from herself before.

Since she was a child of twelve—half of her life—she’d known she was going to marry King Zakari. She’d had a picture of him—from a newspaper—in her underwear drawer, although she made sure no one saw it. When she was alone, she’d taken it out and smoothed the paper, stared at the blurred image—it wasn’t even a very good shot—and wondered about the man in the picture. The man who would be her husband, the father of her children, her life partner.

In those early years she’d embroidered delicate daydreams about him, his beauty and bravery, intelligence and humour. She’d built him up to be a king even before a crown rested on his head. Of course, that youthful naiveté hadn’t lasted too long; by the time she went to Cambridge, she’d realised Zakari could not possibly be the man of her daydreams. No man could.

And even when she’d thought she was being realistic, nobly doing her duty, accepting the greater aims of her country, she’d still clung to those old daydreams. They’d hidden in the corner of her heart, dusty and determined, and only when Aarif had shown himself in the throne room had she realised their existence at all.

She still believed. She still wanted. She wanted that man…impossible, wonderful, somehow real.

Because that man loved her…whoever he was.

For a strange, surprised moment, Aarif’s implacable features flashed through her mind, and she shook her head as if to deny what a secret part of her brain was telling her. The only reason she thought of Aarif at all, she told herself, was because Zakari wasn’t here.

Yet she couldn’t quite rid herself of the lingering sense of his presence, that faint flicker of his smile. You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.

Such a simple statement, and yet there had been a strange intimacy in that memory, in its revelation.

‘Excuse me.’

The voice, sharp and sudden, caused Kalila to stiffen in surprise. Aarif stood by the fountain, no more than a shadowy form in the darkness. They stared at each other, the only sound the rustling of leaves and, in the distance, the gentle churring of a nightjar.

‘I didn’t realise,’ Aarif said after a moment, his voice stiff and formal, ‘that anyone was here.’

Kalila swallowed. ‘I thought you’d still be with my father.’

‘We finished, and he wished to go to bed.’

More time must have passed than she’d realised, lost in her own unhappy reflections.

‘I’ll go,’ Aarif said, and began to turn.

‘Please. Don’t.’ The words came out in a rush, surprising her. Kalila didn’t know what she wanted from this man, so hard and strange and ungiving. Yet she knew she didn’t want him to go; she didn’t want to be alone any more. She wanted, she realised, to be with him. To know more about him, even if there was no point. No purpose.

Aarif hesitated, still half-turned, and then as Kalila held her breath he slowly swivelled back to her. In the darkness she couldn’t see his expression. ‘Is there something I can help you with, Princess?’

Kalila patted the empty seat next to her. ‘Please sit.’

Another long moment passed, and in the darkness Kalila thought she could see Aarif gazing thoughtfully at that empty space before he moved slowly—reluctantly—and sat down next to her, yet still far enough apart so his body did not touch hers at all.

The constraint of his behaviour, Kalila realised, was revealing in itself. Was he aware of the tension Kalila felt, that heady sense of something unfurling within her, something she’d never felt before?

Did he feel it too?

He couldn’t, Kalila decided, or if he did, he was not showing it. He sat rigidly, his hands resting on his thighs, unmoving, and it amazed her how still and controlled he was, giving nothing away by either sound or movement.

‘This is a beautiful garden,’ Aarif said after a moment, and Kalila was glad he’d spoken.

‘I have always loved it,’ she agreed quietly. ‘My father designed it for my mother—a taste of her homeland.’

‘Like the Gardens of Babylon, built by Nebuchadnezzar for Amytis.’

‘Yes.’ Kalila smiled, pleased he’d recognised the connection. ‘My father used to call my mother Amytis, as an endearment.’ She heard the wistful note in her voice and bit her lip.

‘I’m sorry for her death,’ Aarif said, his voice still formal and somehow remote. ‘The loss of a parent is a hard thing to bear.’

‘Yes.’

‘When did she die?’

‘When I was seventeen. Cancer.’ Kalila swallowed. It had been so unexpected, so swift. There had only been a few, precious, painful weeks between diagnosis and death, and then the raging emptiness afterwards. Going to Cambridge had been a relief, a new beginning, and yet Kalila knew the ache of her mother’s loss would never fully heal. It was something you carried with you, always.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aarif said quietly, and Kalila knew he meant it. Above them the nightjar began its steady churring once more.

‘I know you lost your father and stepmother a few years ago,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I…I heard of it. I’m sorry.’ She’d written to Zakari, she remembered, expressing her condolences, and she’d received a formal letter back. Now she wondered if he’d even written it.

‘Thank you. It was…difficult.’ Aarif said nothing more, and Kalila did not feel she could brave the intimacy of asking. He shifted slightly, and she wondered if he was uncomfortable. There was a strange, quiet intimacy provided by the cloak of darkness, the sounds of the night gentle and hypnotic around them. She wished she could see his face, but the moon had gone beyond a cloud and she could see no more than the shadowy outline of his shoulder, his jaw, his cheek.

‘Tell me about Calista,’ she finally said. ‘You know, I’ve never been there.’

Aarif was silent for so long Kalila wondered if he’d heard her. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he finally said. ‘Much like here.’ He paused, and Kalila waited. ‘Of course, not everyone sees the beauty of the desert. It is a harsh loveliness. Was it difficult for your mother to live here?’

‘Sometimes,’ Kalila acknowledged. ‘Although she took trips back to England—I spent my first holidays in Bournemouth.’

The moon glided out from behind a cloud, and in the pale light Kalila saw his teeth gleam, and she realised he was smiling. Faintly. The gesture surprised her; he hadn’t smiled properly since she’d met him. She wished she could see more of it. She wondered if the smile lit his eyes, softened the hard planes of his face, and realised she wanted to know. ‘And she had the garden, of course,’ she finished after a moment, her voice sounding stilted. ‘She loved it here.’

‘And you?’ Aarif asked. ‘Will you miss your homeland?’

Kalila swallowed. ‘Yes…I think so.’ He said nothing, but she felt his silent censure like a physical thing, tautening the small space between them. And, of course, why shouldn’t he be surprised? Disappointed even? Here she was, admitting that she didn’t know if she’d miss her own country! She opened her mouth, wanting to explain the jumble of confused emotions and disappointed dreams to him, but nothing came out. What could she say, and what would this man want to hear?

Yet somehow, strangely, she felt as if he might understand. Or was that simply the wishful thinking of a woman with too many disappointed dreams?

‘I’ll miss Zaraq, of course,’ she said, after a moment, wanting, needing to explain. ‘And my father. And friends…’ She trailed off, unable to put words to the nameless longing for something else, something deeper and more instrinsically a part of herself, something that had no name. Something, she realised despondently, she wasn’t even sure she’d ever had.

‘It is a strange time,’ Aarif said after a moment. His voice was still neutral, yet in the shadowy darkness Kalila saw him lift his hand and drop it again—almost as if he’d been going to touch her. Her heart beat harder at the thought. ‘Once you are in Calista, you will feel more settled. The people will welcome you.’ He paused before adding, his voice still flat, ‘I’m sure they will love you.’

The people. Not Zakari. And what of him? What of Aarif? The question was ludicrous, so ridiculous and inappropriate that under the cover of darkness Kalila’s cheeks warmed. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose I sound like I am full of self-pity, but I hope—I know—’ she swallowed painfully ‘—that it will be better with time.’

‘Time heals most things,’ Aarif agreed, yet Kalila felt he was saying something else, something far from a platitude. Most things…but not all.