Czytaj książkę: «The Forced Bride Of Alazar»

CHAPTER ONE

‘I HAVE GOOD NEWS, HABIBTI.’

Johara Behwar gazed in surprise at her father striding towards her. She was standing in the garden of the family villa in Provence, the dusty-sweet smell of lavender scenting the air, the sun shining benevolently down on a world on the cusp of summer. Her father’s visits to their villa in France were precious and rare, and he’d only been there last week. To see him again was indeed unexpected. ‘Good news—’ She almost said again but then she thought better of it. Her father had not viewed the end of her engagement last week in the same shining light that she had.

‘Yes, I think you will be very pleased,’ Arif continued. ‘And I, of course, am pleased when you are pleased.’ He walked towards her, a smile creasing his weathered face, his hands outstretched. Johara smiled back, caught up in his cheerful mood.

‘I’m pleased simply to see you, Father. That alone is a treat.’

‘You are so kind, habibti. And in return here is a treat for you.’ He took a small velvet pouch from his breast pocket and handed it to Johara.

She drew a diamond pendant from within the blue velvet, the jewels winking in the bright sunlight. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you, Father.’ Obediently, because she knew her father expected it, she clasped it around her neck, the heart shape encrusted with diamonds nestling in the hollow of her throat. It was indeed lovely, but, considering how quiet her life was, she had little need or place to wear it. Still, she appreciated the thought he’d given.

‘What is this good news?’ she asked as Arif took hold of her hands.

‘I have renegotiated your marriage.’ Arif squeezed her hands as his smile widened, triumph glinting in his eyes. Johara stared at her father, confusion making her mind spin even as sudden dread seeped like acid into her stomach. The diamond pendant felt cold against her skin. This was not the good news he’d said it was. This wasn’t good news at all.

‘Renegotiated?’ she repeated faintly. Her hands felt icy encased in her father’s. ‘But you told me barely a week ago that Malik—I mean His Highness—had ended our engagement.’ She’d had six days first for that news to sink in—and then to revel in the glorious freedom she’d never thought to possess. The marriage she’d been trying not to think about and dreading at the same time would no longer happen. She’d felt as if the shackles she hadn’t realised she’d been wearing had suddenly fallen off, leaving her feeling light, as if she could fly. She was free—free to do as she liked, and in a heady moment she’d let herself think about an independent future, maybe even going to university. The whole world had beckoned, shining and wide open for the first time in her life.

And now... ‘How can it be renegotiated? You told me that His Highness was...was infertile.’ It seemed indelicate to mention such a thing, but her father had not spared her the details last week, when he’d flown to France to inform her that Malik al Bahjat, heir to the Sultanate of Alazar, had called off their wedding. He’d been furious on her behalf, storming and stomping around, and he had ignored Johara’s stammering attempts to placate him and explain that she really didn’t mind not getting married to Malik, or, in fact, not getting married at all. She hadn’t quite dared to tell her father that she preferred it. After a lifetime of being reminded where her duty lay that seemed a step too far, even as she’d told herself her father surely only wanted her happiness.

‘Yes, yes,’ Arif said now with a touch of impatience. ‘But Malik is no longer the heir, and we thank heaven that you did not marry him before this happened. That would have been a disaster.’

Johara agreed, but she doubted it was for the same reason as her father. A week of freedom had made her realise how unwelcome an arranged marriage was. Malik was a virtual stranger and a life bound in duty had lost any lustre it might have possessed. But she knew her father would not agree. So what was going on? If not Malik, then...?

Arif dropped her hands to rub his own together in obvious satisfaction. ‘It has all worked out so well for us, Jojo,’ he said, using the childhood nickname she hadn’t heard in years. ‘For you.’

An instant and instinctive disagreement was on the tip of her tongue, but Johara swallowed it down. She never disagreed with her father. She hated to see the smile fade from her father’s face, the shadows of disappointment enter his eyes.

Invoking her father’s displeasure always felt like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, a sudden chill entering the air and her heart. Her mother’s love had long since gone, and taking away her father’s attention was a further blow she knew she could not withstand. ‘Tell me what has happened, please,’ she said instead, trying to inject a note of interest in her voice that she was far from feeling.

‘Azim has returned!’ Arif spoke with a joy Johara didn’t understand. The name was familiar, and yet...

‘Azim...?’

‘The true heir of Alazar. He has returned from the dead, or so we all thought him.’ Arif shook his head in happy disbelief. ‘Truly it is a miracle.’

‘Azim.’ Of course, Azim al Bahjat, Malik’s older brother. Stupidly she had not made the association. Azim had been kidnapped twenty years ago, when Johara had only been two. There never had been a ransom note delivered or a body found, and so Azim had remained missing, presumed dead, for two decades. Malik had become the heir, had been the only heir in Johara’s mind. Until now.

‘Azim,’ she said again, the name sounding strange on her tongue. ‘What...what happened? How has he returned?’

‘He had amnesia, apparently, after the kidnapping. He’s been living in Italy for twenty years, not knowing who he was. But then he saw a mention of Alazar on the news and it all came flooding back. He has returned to claim his throne.’

‘But...’ A realisation was growing in her mind like a sandstorm kicking up in the desert, obliterating rational thought just as the sand blotted out the sky. Surely her father wouldn’t...to a complete stranger... ‘But what does that have to do with me?’ She was afraid she knew the answer.

Arif’s smile hardened at the edges. Johara knew that look. She quailed at that look.

‘Surely you have guessed, Jojo,’ he said, his voice jovial yet with a warning hint of underlying iron. ‘Azim is to be your husband.’

Johara’s stomach swooped. ‘But...but I have never even met him,’ she protested, her voice faltering.

‘He is the heir.’ Arif spoke as if it were obvious. ‘Since birth you have been pledged to the heir to the Sultanate. In fact you were meant for Azim before you were betrothed to Malik.’

Shock rippled through her in icy waves. Meant for Azim. ‘I didn’t know that. No one ever said.’

Arif shrugged. ‘Why would you know it? He disappeared when you were but a child. But now he has returned, and he shall claim you as his bride.’

It would have seemed romantic in a story or film, the kind of sweeping, fairy-tale gesture, a knight riding on his white steed, to make a girlish heart flutter. Johara’s heart felt as if it were made of lead, weighing her down. She didn’t want to be claimed, and certainly not by this stranger. Not when she’d had the whole world open to her moments ago, when she’d felt free for the first time in her life, able to make her own choices, live her own life.

‘This seems rather sudden,’ she said, trying not to sound quite as horrified as she felt, because she knew that would displease her father. ‘My engagement to Malik al Bahjat only ended a week ago. Perhaps we should wait a little.’

Her father shook his head. ‘Wait? Azim is determined to secure his throne, and that includes marriage as soon as possible. In fact he expects you in Alazar by tomorrow afternoon.’

Johara gazed at her father’s face, the fixed smile, his bushy eyebrows drawn together, and felt her spirits start a precipitous descent. She’d known where her duty lay as long as she could remember. She’d been told it again and again, reminded that she had been given so much, and this was the way—the only way—she could repay her family.

And she’d wanted to repay it, had longed to please the father she rarely saw. She’d been prepared to marry Malik, even if hadn’t quite felt real. She’d met him only twice, and spent only a handful of days in Alazar. And then for one brief and tantalising week, she’d imagined a different kind of life. One with choice and opportunity and freedom, where she could pursue her interests, dare to nurture her dreams.

Now, looking at her father’s stern face, she realised how foolish and naïve she’d been. Her father was never going to let his only daughter go unmarried. He was a traditional man from a traditional country, and he would see her wed...this time to a man she’d never so much as laid eyes on. A man she knew nothing about, that no one knew anything about, because he’d been gone for twenty years.

‘Johara?’ Arif’s voice had turned sharp. ‘This is not unwelcome, I trust?’

Johara gazed helplessly at the father she’d always adored. She’d lived a sheltered life, educated at home, her pursuits solitary save for some charitable works her father approved of. Her mother had been distant for years, beset by illness and unhappiness, and so it had been her father’s love, his sudden smile, his indulgent chuckle, that she had craved. She could not refuse him this even if she had the opportunity to do so, which she knew she did not.

‘No, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Of course not.’

* * *

Azim al Bahjat watched from a window as the sedan with blacked-out windows came up the curving drive of Alazar’s palace. The car contained his bride. He had not seen a picture of Johara Behwar, had told himself her looks were irrelevant. She was the intended bride of the future Sultan; the people of Alazar expected him to marry her. Any other choice would be less than second best, and therefore impossible. Nothing would prevent him from securing his inheritance and destiny, from proving himself to the people who had more than half forgotten that he was the real heir, the true Sultan.

A servant rushed forward to open the car door, and Azim leaned closer, curious in spite of himself for this first glimpse of his future bride, the next Sultana of Alazar. He saw a slippered foot first, small and dainty, and then a slim, golden ankle emerging from underneath traditional embroidered robes. Then the whole form appeared, willowy and enticing even beneath the shapeless garment, hair as dark as ink peeking from beneath a brightly coloured hijab.

Johara Behwar tilted her head to gaze up at the palace, and from the window Azim could see her whole face, and appreciate its striking beauty. Large, clear grey eyes framed by sooty lashes and gently arched brows. A pert nose, delicate cheekbones and full, pouty, kissable lips. He registered it only for an instant, for the delectable symmetry of her face was marred by its expression. Revulsion. Her eyes were wide and shadowed with it, her mouth thinning to a puckered line of distaste. As she gazed at the palace, a shudder went through her, her shoulders jerking, and for a second she wrapped her arms around herself, as if she needed to hold herself together in order to endure what was to come. Him. Then she straightened, steel entering her spine, and started towards the palace like a condemned woman ascending to the gallows.

Quickly Azim stepped away from the window. His stomach clenched and pain stabbed his head in two lightning-like slices. He pressed his fingers to his temples and tried to will it away even though he knew from far too much experience what a pointless exercise that was. So Johara Behwar was disgusted by the prospect of marrying him. It was not really a surprise, and yet...

No, he could not think like that. He had no use for sentiment of any kind, the naïve, youthful longings for some sort of connection with the woman who would be his Sultana. He’d made sure to live his life independently, needing no one. Being dependent on someone, much less actually caring, led to weakness and vulnerability. Shame and pain. He knew it too well and he had no intention of courting those awful emotions again.

This was a marriage of convenience and expediency, to secure an alliance and produce an heir. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

Taking a deep breath, Azim dropped his hands from his temples and turned to face the door—and to greet his bride.

* * *

Each step down the marble corridor felt like a step towards her doom. Johara told herself she was being fanciful, it couldn’t possibly be that bad, but her body disagreed. Nausea churned in her stomach and with a sudden lurch of alarm she turned to the attendant who was escorting her to meet His Royal Highness Azim al Bahjat. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

The attendant backed away from her as if she’d already thrown up onto his shoes.

‘Sick—’

She took a deep breath, doing her best to stay her stomach. She could not lose her breakfast moments before meeting her intended husband. Icy sweat prickled on her forehead and her palms were slick. She felt light-headed, as if the world around her were moving closer and then farther away. Another deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this.

She’d done it before, after all, although she’d been a child when she’d first met Malik, and hadn’t realised the import of what was happening. The subsequent few meetings had been brief and businesslike, and Johara had managed not to actually think about what they were discussing, and its lifelong consequences, a wilful ignorance that in hindsight seemed both childish and foolish.

Now she couldn’t keep from thinking of them. Azim was an utter stranger, and she’d been passed from one brother to the next like some sort of human parcel. The thought made her stomach churn again.

She’d spent the eight-hour flight from Nice telling herself that she and Azim could, perhaps, come to an amenable agreement. An arrangement, which was what all convenient marriages were. She would present him with a proposal, a sensible suggestion to live mainly separate lives that would, she hoped, be to both of their advantage. If she’d had the foresight and presence of mind, she would have done the same with Malik when they’d first discussed their engagement several years ago. Or perhaps she wouldn’t have...it was only since she’d tasted freedom that she’d acquired a desperate appetite for it.

‘Are you well, Sadiyyah Behwar?’ the attendant asked, all solicitude now that he’d ascertained she wasn’t really going to vomit.

Johara lifted her chin and forced a smile. ‘Yes, thank you. Please lead on.’

She followed the man down the hallway, her trailing robes whispering against the slick marble floor. Her father had insisted she wear traditional formal dress for the first meeting with Azim, although she had never stood on such ceremony with Malik. She found the garment, with its intricately embroidered and jewelled hem and cuffs, stiff, heavy and uncomfortable, the unfamiliar hijab hot on her head. One more element of this whole affair that felt alien and unwelcome.

The attendant paused before a set of double doors that looked as if they were made of solid gold. Johara had been in the palace a few times before, for her brief meetings with Malik, but they’d always taken place in a small, comfortable room. Azim had chosen far more opulent surroundings for this initial introduction.

‘His Highness, Azim al Bahjat,’ the attendant intoned, and, with fear coating her insides with ice, Johara stepped into the room.

Sunlight poured from several arched windows, nearly blinding her so she had to blink several times before she caught sight of the man she was meant to marry. He stood in the centre of the room, his body erect and still, his face grave and unsmiling. Even from across the room Johara could see how black and opaque his eyes were, like a starless night in the desert. His dark hair was cut so close she could see the powerful bones of his skull, and a scar snaked from the corner of his left eye to the curve of his mouth, clearly long since healed over although the wounded flesh still looked red and livid. He wore an embroidered linen thobe, the material emphasising his lean, muscular form, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long, powerful legs.

The whole effect was beyond intimidating. Terrifying was the word that came to mind, and she had to fight not to take an instinctive step back towards the doors, towards safety, away from this man whose face even in repose looked frightening. Looked cruel, although perhaps that was simply the darkness of his eyes, the livid red of the scar.

If she looked at his features reasonably, Johara told herself, fighting off the panic, she could see that he was an attractive man, his features even, his nose a straight slash, his mouth a mobile, sensual curve. Underneath his linen thobe his body was powerful and he moved with a graceful fluidity, taking a few steps towards her before stopping to survey her as she was surveying him, those dark eyes sweeping from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, giving away nothing of what he felt or thought.

Then Azim inclined his head in what Johara supposed was a greeting. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped, cold. ‘We will marry in one week’s time.’