Claiming His Desert Princess. Marguerite Kaye

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СКАЧАТЬ so too will I.’ He watched her as she pulled on her cloak and headdress, securing her leather satchel to the camel’s saddle. A click of the tongue, and the beast was on its knees waiting for her to mount. Christopher took her hand, pressing it lightly before she clambered into the saddle. ‘Until tomorrow.’

      A quick wave, and she headed off, urging the languid beast into a trot. She didn’t look back, but she sensed him watching her fading into the desert landscape.

      * * *

      Later, as she lay exhausted on her divan, she wondered if he had been a mirage, a figment of her imagination conjured up by the desert sands, a beguiling vision who would melt away in the harsh light of day, never to return. Burying her head under the pillow to block out the light filtering through the high oriel window, Tahira smiled to herself. She would have her answer soon enough.

      * * *

      The next evening, Christopher closed his notebook, placing it first in a waxed cover before concealing it behind a loose stone in the wall of the abandoned house which had been his temporary home for the last few weeks. It was highly unlikely that anyone would happen across it and if they did, impossible to imagine that they could break his ingenious code, but its very existence, the fact that his work was encoded, would give rise to suspicion, even without the incriminating sketches and maps.

      The contents of his notebook went well beyond the remit of the dossier he had offered to compile for Lord Henry Armstrong, payment for the official strings the diplomat had pulled to expedite Christopher’s journey, and the local contacts he had provided. Thankfully, their bargain could be concluded without another face-to-face meeting. Christopher was determined never to set eyes on that loathsome countenance again. When he was done here, the shameful personal tie which neither of them welcomed, the existence of which Christopher had been oblivious almost his whole life, would be severed for ever. That dark past would be obliterated, the slate wiped clean. He would be master of his own destiny, free to embrace the future on his own terms.

      A very lucrative future it could be too, if he chose to remain here in Arabia. Ironically, during the last six months, while seeking the owner of the amulet and collating the contents of Lord Armstrong’s dossier, Christopher had also discovered a plethora of hitherto untapped natural resources. The so-called Midas Touch which made him highly sought after as a surveyor was proving every bit as effective here in the Arabian landscape as it had proved in Britain and in Egypt. There was a wealth of ores and minerals just waiting to be exploited. He could easily make his fortune, or facilitate the making of others’ fortunes, if he were so inclined.

      He was most emphatically not so inclined, though his meticulous habits dictated that he record every potential location, regardless. In the wrong hands, his very comprehensive findings could prove to be politically explosive.

      Reminded of the hands his dossier was due to be delivered into—white, long-fingered, aristocratic, atavistic hands that he never wished to lay eyes on again—he shuddered with revulsion. He would make damned sure he provided only what he had agreed and no more. Bad enough that his lordship would benefit even to the degree Christopher had promised. It would be some consolation to deprive that peer of untold and as yet undiscovered riches. He could think of no man less deserving than that particular man, who had stolen his family, laid waste to his history. A man who placed his ruthless ambition before all else, who cared naught when others bore the consequences of his vile actions, and who bought silence with blood money. Recalling their one and only meeting, Christopher’s hand curled into a tight, painful fist, his mouth set into a vicious snarl. The day he rid himself of the connection could not come a moment too soon.

      And it would come. For the first time since he set out on this long journey, he believed the end might be in sight. Unfurling his fist, firmly confining Lord Armstrong to the dark recesses of his mind, Christopher rolled his shoulders, stiff from hours hunched over his makeshift desk. Heading for the outbuilding containing the well, he hauled up a fresh supply of water, stripped himself of his dusty tunic, and made his toilette. The underground spring which fed the well was deep, the water icy as he doused himself with it, stinging his freshly shaved chin. His spare tunic was almost as threadbare as the one he had taken off, but at least it was clean.

      Pulling his boots back on, he sat down at the entrance of his temporary dwelling, staring up at the sky as it segued from pale blue to indigo. It was going to be a clear night. A propitious beginning to their exploration of the mine’s environs? Finally, after all this time, he must surely be on the right track. Closing his eyes, he could almost see his future, wavering like a mirage on the edge of his mind, so tantalisingly close.

      Perhaps even closer than he imagined, with Tahira’s assistance. Christopher smiled slowly to himself. He was looking forward to seeing her again. Draping his cloak around him, and fastening the igal which held his headdress in place, he closed the door of his makeshift abode and went out to saddle his camel. Who would have thought that a chance meeting would bring about this collision of two people from such impossibly different worlds? He could not have dreamt of encountering a more beautiful, intriguing, exotic companion. That she not only shared his love of the past, but would, with luck, help him close the door on his own shameful history—fate, she had called it, and he had disagreed. But perhaps he had been wrong to do so. It might be that, every now and then, the stars did indeed align.

      * * *

      The third and innermost courtyard of the Royal Palace of Nessarah was a vast enclosed space, surrounded on all sides by a colonnade of twenty-two marble columns, the walls of which were set with huge mirrors interspersed with elaborate plasterwork covered in gold leaf, the pattern repeated on the ceiling. Divans covered in crimson velvet, tasselled with gold, lined the colonnade at regular intervals, the overall impression being one of lush, shaded opulence. In contrast, the central square of the courtyard was flooded with light.

      The high domed ceiling was painted in ultramarine and studded with gold stars. The lower walls were covered in blue and white tiles, the higher ones painted a soft dove-grey, and the arched windows, deliberately set far too high for anyone to peer either in or out, allowed light to dapple the rich silk carpets and terracotta floor tiles. The inner courtyard was, like every other room in the harem complex, beautiful, luxurious, and utterly closed off to the outside world. Or so King Haydar and his only son, Prince Ghutrif, believed. Tahira, the eldest of the royal princesses, knew better.

      The crystal chandelier which hung from the central point of the dome held exactly one-hundred-and-twenty-two candles. Tahira knew this for certain, for she had counted them numerous times in an attempt to pass the hours until darkness fell, forcing herself to lie still on the divan, refusing to consult her little jewelled timepiece yet again. She could feel it ticking now where it nestled, concealed beneath her clothing, marking out the hours, minutes, seconds, until she was once more free.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother’s wife, Juwan, enter the courtyard from the door which led to the Crown Princess’s official quarters. Heavy with her second child, which she determinedly proclaimed to all would this time prove to be a prized son, Juwan scanned the room, a frown drawing her finely arched brows together, which cleared as her gaze alighted on her prey.

      Quickly closing her eyes, Tahira feigned sleep, but as Juwan sank on to the divan beside her with small sigh, she accepted the inevitable and sat up.

      ‘Juwan, you look fatigued, don’t you think you should rest, given your condition? It would be better if I left you in peace to do so.’ She stood, arranging a number of silk and velvet cushions invitingly, but although her sister-in-law lowered herself slowly down, rubbing the small of her back, she shook her head when Tahira made to leave.

      ‘No, stay with me a while. I wish to have a little talk with you.’

      Tahira’s СКАЧАТЬ