Desert Fantasies. Barbara McMahon

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      ‘That one is ours, Princess,’ he said, pulling open her door and offering her his hand to climb from the car. ‘It would not do to let everyone know the true state of our marriage.’

      ‘But I told you …’

      He found it hard not to grind his teeth together. So she had—how many times already? Did she think he wanted to be reminded how much she did not want to lie with him? ‘I am sure you will be more than satisfied with the sleeping arrangements.’

      She looked down at his hand, as if assessing whether he was telling the truth. ‘Fine,’ she said, finally accepting his offer of assistance. ‘But, if not, then I will not be held accountable for the bruise on your ego.’

      ‘I’m sure my ego can take it, Princess. It is the damage you do to the monarchy that is my more immediate concern, and indeed the damage you could do to your own father’s. So perhaps you might keep that in mind.’

      Her face closed, as if she’d pulled all the shutters down to retreat into herself.

      So be it.

      She might be used to having things all her way when she was at home leading her sheltered spoilt-princess life, but she was here now, she was his wife, and she would start doing her duty and acting like his wife before they left and before the coronation. Nothing was surer.

      Still, for what it was worth, he let her lead the way into their tent to inspect the sleeping arrangements, to check out the large sofa that could double for a bed if needed, and the large bed he was hoping would be the only sleeping arrangement required.

      Besides, following her was hardly a hardship. Not when he had the chance to check out the rhythmic sway of her hips under the coral-coloured abaya she wore today.

      As he followed her he could not work out whether he liked her dressed more like this—in a cool cotton robe that only hinted at the shape beneath, but did so seductively and unexpectedly when a helpful on-shore breeze ventured along and pushed the fabric against her shape—or in trousers, like she’d worn that first day at the palace, that fitted her shape and accentuated her curves.

      Then again, he hadn’t yet seen her without her clothes. And, while he’d felt the firmness of her flesh under his hands, and felt the delicious curve of her belly and roundness of her bottom hard against him, there was still that delicious pleasure to come.

      Now, there was something to think about.

      She turned, her hand on the tent flap, just about to enter. ‘Did you say something?’

      ‘No,’ he said, struggling to adjust to the conscious world. ‘Why do you ask?’

      ‘Because I thought you said something. Though, now I think of it, it sounded more like a groan. Are you sure you’re all right?’

      But before he could find the words to answer, she had angled her head to the notes being carried intermittently on the breeze. ‘What’s that?’

      Never had he been more grateful for a change of topic as he strained his ears to listen. The knowledge that she had made him so oblivious to his own reactions was a cold wake-up call. He could not afford to let such lapses happen, not if he was to be King.

      And suddenly the notes made sense on the breeze and reminded him of something he’d been told. ‘There is a camp of wandering tribes people nearby. A few families, nothing more. They will shortly move on, as they do.’

      ‘They are safe, then, these tribes people?’

      And he realised that even to ask that question showed she wasn’t as unconcerned at the thought of being recaptured by Mustafa as she wanted him to think.

      ‘They would not be here if they were not. But they have been advised of our coming and they value their privacy too. So rest assured, Princess, they will keep their distance and they will not harm you.’

      She’d only been here an hour and already she loved it. Being on the coast meant on-shore breezes that took the sting from the heat of the day and made being on sand a pleasure, rather than torture—at least if you had taken off your sandals to paddle your feet in the shallows.

      And she hadn’t minded a bit when Zoltan had had to excuse himself to take care of ‘business’, whatever that meant. Because it gave her the chance to truly relax. Despite all the beauty of this place, the endless sapphire waters, the calming sway of palm trees and the eternal, soothing whoosh of tide, there was no relaxing with that man about.

      But still, she was glad she had come. Already, without the overwhelming weight of the palace and the duty it carried, she felt lighter of spirit. She knew there was no way of evading that duty for long. She knew she could not forever evade the chore that life had thrown her way.

      But for now the long beach had beckoned her, drawing her to the point at the end of the peninsula, and she was thinking it was time to return when she heard it, the cry of a child in distress.

      It came on the breeze, and disappeared just as quickly, and for a moment she thought she’d imagined it or misread the cry of a sea bird, and already she’d turned for the walk back when she heard it again. Her feet stilled in the shallows. A child was definitely crying nearby and there was no hint of any soothing reply to tell her anyone had heard or was taking any notice.

      She swivelled in the shallows, picked up the hem of her abaya in one hand and ran down the beach towards the headland as fast as she could.

      It was only when she rounded the rocky outcrop at the end she found the child sitting in the sand and wailing. She looked around and saw no-one, only this young girl squealing and clutching at her foot. Her bleeding foot.

      ‘Hello,’ she said tentatively as the girl looked up at her with dark, suspicious eyes, her sobs momentarily stopping on a hiccup. ‘What’s wrong?’

      The young girl sniffed and looked down at her foot, saw the blood and wailed again.

      Aisha kneeled down beside her. ‘Let me look,’ she said. She took her foot gently in her hands and saw a gash seeping blood, a broken shell nearby, dagger sharp, that she must have trod on with her bare feet.

      ‘Ow! It hurts!’ the young girl cried, and Aisha put a hand behind her head, stroking her hair to soothe her.

      ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to wrap this up and it might hurt a little bit.’ She looked around, wishing for someone—anyone—to appear. Surely someone must realise their child was missing and take charge so she didn’t have to? Because she had nothing with her that might help, and the swaying palm trees offered no assistance, no rescue.

      ‘Where is your mother?’ she asked, once again scanning the palms for any hint of the girl’s family as she ripped the hem of her abaya, tearing a long strip from the bottom and yanking it off at the seam. She folded the fabric until it formed a bandage she could wrap around the child’s foot.

      ‘Katif was crying. And Mama ran back to the camp and told me to follow.’ And then she shrieked and Aisha felt guilty for tying the bandage so tight, even when she knew the girl was upset about not being able to follow her mother and her mother not coming back.

      ‘Your mother knows you are okay,’ she soothed, sensing it was what the child needed to hear. ‘Your mother СКАЧАТЬ