The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin. Кейт Хьюит

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СКАЧАТЬ ran one finger along the gold thread. ‘But she wore this to her own engagement party—your father chose it as a wedding gift. She looked very beautiful.’

      Kalila tried to imagine her mother, tall, slender, blonde, wearing the outfit she had. Weighed down by its heaviness and expectations. She wondered how her mother had felt wearing it. Had she been as stifled and suppressed as Kalila had? Or had she seen it only as a costume, and a beautiful one at that?

      Her mother had chosen to marry Bahir, she knew. It had been, against all odds, a love match.

      So why, Kalila wondered as Juhanah quietly left the room and she stretched out restlessly on her bed, couldn’t she have the same?

      Surprisingly, she slept, although she’d felt too anxious and upset to even close her eyes at first. Somehow she fell into an uneasy sleep, where even her dreams were tinted with a vague unhappiness.

      When she awoke, the sun was low in the sky, and the breeze blowing in from the window was blessedly cool.

      Kalila pushed her hair away from her eyes and moved to the window. The sun was a fiery ball of orange, sending vivid streaks of light across a sky just darkening to dusk. It was a stark yet beautiful sight, and one she never tired of. She’d missed sunsets like these in England. She’d missed the purity of light and air, the violent brightness of the colours.

      A glance at the clock told her she needed to ready herself quickly. The woman Prince Aarif saw tonight would be nothing like the vision of traditional womanhood he’d seen this afternoon, Kalila would make sure of that. The time for pageantry and play-acting was over. And besides, she reminded herself as she stepped into a scalding shower, there was no one to impress. Zakari wasn’t even here.

      She scrubbed away the kohl and the red lipstick, the scents of jasmine and sandalwood. She scrubbed until her face was clean and bare and her skin smelled only of soap.

      She dressed in a simple cocktail dress, modest by Western standards, although glaringly different from her earlier outfit. It was a simple silk sheath in pale lavender, skimming her body and ending mid-calf. She slipped on a pair of matching pumps and pulled her hair up into a quick and careless chignon. The only nod to make-up was a bit of lip gloss.

      Taking a deep breath, wondering just why nerves had started their restless fluttering once more, Kalila headed downstairs.

      Prince Aarif was already in the palace’s smaller, less formal dining room, drink in hand, when she arrived. Kalila paused on the threshold, taking in the table set intimately for three, and then the prince standing by the window, his back half to her. Her father was nowhere in sight.

      She hadn’t given their unexpected guest more than a passing thought since she’d seen him that afternoon; it had been Zakari’s absence that had occupied her thoughts rather than Aarif’s presence.

      Yet now she found her gaze resting on him, sweeping over him in open curiosity. He wore a Western suit in charcoal grey and it fitted his long, lithe form with gracious ease. He looked so different in these clothes than in his bisht, Kalila realised, so much more approachable and human. She wondered if she did as well.

      Then, as if he sensed her presence, he turned to face her fully, and Kalila drew in a breath at the sight of his face, his eyes curiously blank although his lips were curved in a smile of greeting, the scar curving along his cheek. He looked formal, forbidding, almost angry even though he smiled.

      Kalila forced herself to smile back. ‘Good evening, Prince Aarif.’

      Aarif nodded once. ‘Princess.’

      She stepped into the room, strangely conscious of the fact that they were alone, although even that was a fantasy. Servants were within earshot and her father would undoubtedly arrive in a few minutes. ‘Did you have a good afternoon?’ she asked, and heard the bright falsity in her own voice.

      Aarif’s mouth flickered in something not quite a smile. ‘An enlightening one,’ he replied, and took a sip of his drink. He gestured to her own empty hand. ‘Would you like a drink?’

      As if on cue, a servant came forward and Kalila asked for a glass of fruit juice. She wanted to keep her head clear.

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember you,’ Kalila said, smiling ruefully. ‘You must be Zakari’s younger brother, but I know he has many, and sisters too…’

      ‘Yes, there are seven of us.’ Aarif’s hard gaze settled on her as he added, ‘I remember you. You were quite young at that engagement party, weren’t you? You wore a white dress, with a bow in your hair.’

      ‘I was twelve,’ Kalila replied, her voice coming out in almost a whisper before she cleared her throat. She was touched—and unsettled—that he remembered her dress, her hair.

      ‘You looked as if you were going to a birthday party.’ Aarif glanced away. ‘Perhaps it felt like that at the time.’

      Kalila nodded, surprised and unsettled again that he could understand just how she’d felt. ‘Yes, it did. And I was getting the best present of all.’ The trace of bitterness in her voice must have alerted him, for he glanced at her with faint censure now, the moment of unexpected closeness shattered by her own confession.

      ‘Marriage is an honour and a blessing.’

      He sounded so much like her father, Kalila thought. Like every man who lectured about a woman’s duty. ‘Are you married, Prince Aarif?’ she asked, a note of challenge in her voice.

      Aarif shook his head. ‘No,’ he said flatly, and any further discussion was put to an end by the arrival of her father.

      ‘Ah, Prince Aarif. And Kalila, you look well rested. I am glad.’ He came forward, rubbing his hands together, every inch the beneficent ruler. ‘I was telling PrinceAarif earlier that we do not rest on formality here, especially among family and friends.’

      Then what, Kalila wanted to ask, was the point of that spectacle today? Of course she knew: tradition, ceremony. Pride. She saw her father’s gaze move speculatively between her and Aarif and instinctively she took a step away from the prince. A new, hidden meaning to her father’s words making her uncomfortably aware of the potential impropriety of their brief conversation. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said with a perfunctory smile. ‘We are very glad to welcome you to Zaraq, Prince Aarif.’

      ‘And I am very glad to be here,’ he returned, his voice low, pleasant and smooth, yet somehow devoid of any true expression. Kalila glanced at his face and saw his eyes looked blank. He was wearing a mask, she thought, a veil, as much of one as she had worn this afternoon. She wondered what he was trying to hide.

      Bahir drew Kalila’s chair, before sitting down, and Aarif followed.

      ‘Earlier Aarif was explaining to me why King Zakari could not be here today,’ Bahir said as he poured them all wine. Kalila took a sip; it was light and refreshing and bubbled pleasantly through her.

      ‘Oh, yes?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

      ‘He is, of course, a busy man,’ Bahir continued. ‘With many royal duties. He is not, in fact, on Calista at the moment…’ He let his voice trail off in delicate inquiry, and Kalila watched with a flicker of interest as Aarif’s mouth tightened.

      ‘He is not?’ she asked. ‘Where is he, PrinceAarif?’

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