Czytaj książkę: «The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns»

KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon romance novel on a trip to England when she was thirteen and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it, too. That story was one sentence long. Fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older. She has written plays, short stories and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit. After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children and the possibility of one day getting a dog. Kate loves to hear from readers; you can contact her through her website, www.kate-hewitt.com.

CHAPTER ONE

THE dream came to him again. It was an assault of the senses and of memory, a tangle of images, grasping hands, the choking sea. Aarif Al’Farisi slept with his eyes clenched shut, his hands fisted on his bed sheets, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.

‘Help me…help me…Aarif!’

The desperate cry of his name echoed endlessly, helplessly through the corridors of time and memory.

Aarif woke suddenly; his eyes opened and adjusted to the darkness of his bedroom. A pale sliver of moon cast a jagged swathe of light on the floor. He took a deep, shuddering breath and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

It took a moment to calm his racing heart. Each careful, measured breath steadied him and made the shadows retreat. For now. He ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, still damp with sweat, and rose from the bed.

From the balcony of the Calistan royal palace he could see an endless stretch of moonlit sand, arid desert, all the way to the Kordela river with its diamonds, Calista’s lifeblood, mixed treacherously in its silt. He kept his gaze on the undulating waves of sand and the promise of the river with its guarded treasure, and let his breathing return to normal as a dry desert wind cooled the sweat on his skin.

He hated his dreams. He hated that even now, twenty years later, they left him shaken, afraid, helpless. Weak. Instinctively Aarif shook his head, as if to deny the dream. The reality. For the truth, stark as it was, was that he’d failed his brother and his family all those years ago, and he was destined to relive those agonising moments in his mind whenever the dreams visited him.

He hadn’t had a dream like this for months, and the respite had lulled him into a false sense of security. Safety. Yet he would never have either, he knew. How could you be safe from yourself, secure from the endless repercussions of your own failures?

Letting out a sigh of frustrated exasperation, Aarif turned from the balcony and the inky night spangled with stars. He moved to the laptop he’d left on the desk by his bed, for he knew sleep was far off now. He would redeem the night through work.

He opened the computer and the machine hummed to life as he pulled on a pair of loose-fitting cotton trousers, his chest and feet still bare. In the mirror above the bureau he caught a glimpse of his reflection, saw the remembered fear still etched in harsh lines on his face, flared in his eyes, and he grimaced in self-disgust.

Afraid, after all these years. Still. He shook his head again, and turned to the computer. He checked his e-mail first; there were several clients he had appointments with in the next week who needed careful handling. Calista’s diamonds were precious, but the island did not possess the vast reserves of Africa or Australia, and clients needed to be counted—and treated—carefully.

Yet there were no e-mails from clients in his message inbox, he saw, just one from his brother, King Zakari of Calista. Aarif’s brows snapped together as he read his brother’s instructions.

I must follow a lead on the diamond. Go to Zaraq and fetch Kalila. Ever your brother, Zakari.

The diamond…the Stefani diamond, the jewel of the Adamas Crown, split in two when the islands’ rule had been divided. Aarif had never seen the diamond in its unified whole of course; the Calistan crown held only half of the gem. The other half, meant to be in the Aristan crown, was missing, and proving to be utterly elusive. By tradition, uniting the diamond was believed to be the key to uniting the kingdoms of Aristo and Calista for ever. Aarif had seen how determined Zakari was to retrieve that precious stone, and with it gain a kingdom.

So determined, in fact, that he now delegated this new responsibility to Aarif. Zakari’s e-mail message contained a simple directive, yet one fraught with decisions, details, and potential disaster. For Princess Kalila Zadar was Zakari’s betrothed and their wedding was in a fortnight.

The retrieval of a royal bride was a complex and cautious affair, one that rested on ceremony, courtesy, and tradition. Aarif knew he would have to play his hand—and his brother’s hand—very carefully so as not to offend Kalila, her father King Bahir, or the people of Zaraq. The alliance with Zaraq was important and influential, and could not be treated lightly.

Aarif pressed his lips together in a hard line before touching his fingers to the computer keys. His reply was simple: I will do as you instruct. Your servant, Aarif.

There was never any possibility of questioning Zakari, or refusing his brother’s demand. Aarif did not even consider it for a moment. His sense of obedience and responsibility were absolute; his family and kingdom came first. Always.

Aarif glanced up from the screen. Dawn was beginning to streak across the sky, pale fingers of light that illuminated the mist-shrouded dunes below. In that eerie grey half-light Aarif caught another glimpse of his face in the mirror, and for a moment he was startled by his own reflection, still surprised even now by the puckered finger of scar tissue that ran from his brow to his jaw, for ever a reminder of how he’d once failed in his duty to his family and kingdom.

He would never do so again.

Kalila woke from a restless sleep as the sun slanted through the window of her bedroom in the Zaraquan palace, the gauzy curtains stirring lazily in the hot breeze.

Nerves jumped and writhed in her belly, and one hand stole to her middle and rested there, as if she could calm the thoughts and fears that raced through her.

Today she would meet her husband.

She swung her feet over the side of the bed and padded barefoot to the window. The sky was already hard and bright, an endless stretch of blue without a single cloud. Beneath the sky the desert rolled away to the sea, little more than a pale blue-green shimmering on the horizon, marked by the slim stretch of verdant fields by the water’s edge. The rest of Zaraq, a small kingdom, was desert. Dry, barren, and unproductive save for a few copper and nickel mines that now provided nearly all of the country’s revenue.

Kalila swallowed. And that, she reminded herself, was the reason she was marrying at all. Zaraq needed Calista. Her father needed the security of Calista’s diamond mines, and Calista needed Zaraq’s stability of over a hundred years of uninterrupted independent rule. It was simple, depressingly so. She was a pawn, a bargaining chip, and she’d always known it.

Kalila rested her forehead against the mellow, golden stone of the window frame, still cool with the memory of night, although the sun slanting onto her skin was hot.

What would Zakari look like after all these years? What would he think of her? She knew he wouldn’t love her. He hadn’t seen her since she was a child, skinny and awkward, with too much hair and a gap-toothed smile. She barely remembered him; her mind played with shadowed memories of someone tall, powerful, commanding. Charismatic. He’d smiled at her, patted her head, and that was all.

Until now…when the stranger would become the bridegroom.

Today she would see him at last, and would he be pleased with his intended spouse? Would she?

A light, perfunctory knock sounded on the door and then her childhood nurse, Juhanah, bustled into the room.

‘Good! You are awake. I’ve brought you breakfast, and then we must ready your beautiful self. His reverence could be here by noon, or so I’ve been told. We have much to do.’

Kalila suppressed a sigh as she turned from the window. Her father had told her yesterday just what kind of reception Sheikh Zakari must have.

‘He must see a traditional girl, well brought up and fit to be a royal bride. You need not speak or even look at him, it would be too bold,’ King Bahir warned, softening his words with a smile, although his eyes were still stern. ‘You understand, Kalila? Tomorrow’s meeting with Sheikh Zakari is important, and it is crucial that you present the right image. Juhanah will help you with the preparations.’

Not even speak? Every Western sensibility Kalila had ever possessed rose and rankled. ‘Why can’t Sheikh Zakari see me as I am?’ she protested, trying to keep a petulant note from entering her voice. She was twenty-four years old, a university educated woman, about to be married, yet in her father’s presence she still felt like an unruly child. She moderated her tone, striving for an answering smile. ‘Surely, Father, it is just as important that he knows who his bride really is. If we present the wrong impression—’

‘I know what the wrong impression is,’ Bahir cut her off, his tone ominously final. ‘And also what the right one is. There is time for him to know you, as you so wish, later,’ he added, and Kalila flinched at the blatant dismissal of her desire. Bahir lifted one hand as though he were bestowing a blessing, although it felt more like a warning, a scolding. ‘Tomorrow is not about you, Kalila. It is not even about your marriage. It is about tradition and ceremony, an alliance of countries, families. It has always been this way.’

Kalila’s eyes flashed. ‘Even for my mother?’

Bahir’s lips compressed. ‘Yes, even for her. Your mother was modern, Kalila, but she was not stubborn.’ He sighed. ‘I gave you your years at Cambridge, your university degree. You have pursued your interests and had your turn. Now it is your family’s turn, your country’s turn, and after all this waiting, you must do your duty. It begins tomorrow.’ Despite the glimmer of compassion in his eyes, he spoke flatly, finally, and Kalila straightened, throwing her shoulders back with proud defiance.

‘I know it well, Father.’ Yet she couldn’t help but take note of his words. Pursue her interests, he’d said, but not her dreams. And what good were interests if they had to be laid down for the sake of duty? And what were her dreams?

Her mind wrapped itself seductively around the question, the possibility. Her dreams were shadowy, shapeless things, visions of joy, happiness, meaning and purpose. Love. The word slipped unbidden in her mind, a seed planted in the fertile soil of her imagination, already taking root.

Love…but there was no love involved in this union between two strangers. There was not even affection, and Kalila had no idea if there ever would be. Could Zakari love her? Would he? And, Kalila wondered now as Juhanah bustled around her bedroom, would she love him?

Could she?

‘Now eat.’ Juhanah prodded her towards the tray set with a bowl of labneh, thick, creamy yoghurt, and a cup of strong, sweet coffee. ‘You need your strength. We have much to do today.’

Kalila sat down at the table and took a bite. ‘Just what are we doing today, Juhanah?’

Juhanah’s chest swelled and she puffed out her already round cheeks. ‘Your father wants you to be prepared as a girl was in the old days, when tradition mattered.’ She frowned, and Kalila knew her nurse was thinking of her Western ways, inherited from her English mother and firmly rooted after four years of independent living in Cambridge.

When Kalila had discarded a pair of jeans on the floor of her bedroom Juhanah had pinched the offending garment between two plump fingers and held it away from her as if it were contaminated. Kalila grinned ruefully in memory.

‘His Eminence will want to see you as a proper bride,’ Juhanah said now, parroting her father’s words from yesterday.

Kalila smiled, mischief glinting in her eyes. ‘When shall I call him Zakari, do you think?’

‘When he is in your bed,’ Juhanah replied with an uncharacteristic frankness. ‘Do not be too bold beforehand, my love. Men don’t like a forward girl.’

‘Oh, Juhanah!’ Kalila shook her head. ‘You’ve never left Zaraq, you don’t know what it’s like out there. Zakari has been to university, he’s a man of the world—’ So she had read in the newspapers and tabloid magazines. So she hoped.

‘Pfft.’ Juhanah blew out her cheeks once more. ‘And so, do I need to know such things? What matters is here and now, my princess. King Zakari will want to see a royal princess today, not a modern girl with her fancy degree.’ This was said with rolled eyes; Kalila knew Juhanah thought very little of her years in England. And in truth, she reflected, sitting at the table with the breakfast tray before her, those years counted for very little now.

What counted was her pedigree, her breeding, her body. Zakari wanted an alliance, not an ally. He wasn’t looking for a lover, a partner. A soulmate.

Kalila’s mouth twisted in bitter acknowledgement. She knew all this; she’d reminded herself of it fiercely every day that she’d been waiting for her wedding, her husband. Yet now the waiting was over, she found her heart was anxious for more.

‘Aren’t you hungry, ya daanaya?’ Juhanah pressed, prodding the bowl of labneh as if she could induce Kalila to take a bit.

Kalila shook her head and pushed the bowl away. Her nerves, jumping and leaping, writhing and roiling, had returned, and she knew she would not manage another bite. ‘I’ll just have coffee,’ she said, smiling to appease her nurse, and took a sip of the thick, sweet liquid. It scalded her tongue and burned down to her belly, with the same fierce resolve that fired her heart.

The bridal preparations took all morning. Kalila had expected it, and of course she wanted to look her best. Yet amidst all the ministrations, the lotions and creams and paints and powders, she couldn’t help but feel like a chicken being trussed and seasoned for the cooking pot.

There was only Juhanah and a kitchen maid to act as her negaffa, the women who prepared the bride; the Zaraquan palace had a small staff since her mother had died.

First, she had a milk bath in the women’s bathing quarters, an ancient tradition that Kalila wasn’t sure she liked. Supposedly the milk of goats was good for the skin, yet it also had a peculiar smell.

‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of bath foam from the chemists’,’ she muttered, not loud enough for Juhanah or the kitchen maid to hear. They wouldn’t understand, anyway.

As Juhanah towelled her dry and rubbed sweet-smelling lotion into her skin Kalila felt a sudden pang of sorrow and grief for her mother, who had died when Kalila had been only seventeen. Her mother Amelia had been English, cool and lovely, and it would have been her loving duty to prepare Kalila for this meeting with her bridegroom.

She, Kalila acknowledged with a rueful sorrow, would have understood about bath foam. They could have teased, laughed, enjoyed themselves even with the pall of duty hanging over her, the knowledge of what was to come.

Still, she reminded herself, she could be modern later. She could be herself later, when she and Zakari were alone. The thought of such an occurrence turned her mouth dry and set her nerves leaping once more.

Yet they would not be alone today. Today was for the formal meeting of a royal king and his bride, a piece of theatre elaborately staged and played, and she was merely a prop…one of many.

‘No frowns,’ Juhanah chided her gently. ‘Only smiles today, my princess!’

Kalila forced a smile but she felt a pall of gloom settle over her like a shroud. The future loomed dark and unknowable ahead of her, a twisting road with an uncertain destination.

She hadn’t seen or spoken to Zakari since she was little more than a child. There had been letters, birthday presents, polite and impersonal inquiries. Tradition demanded there be no more, and yet today she would meet him. In two weeks she would marry him.

It was absurd, archaic, and yet it was her life. The rest of it, anyway. Kalila swallowed the acidic taste of fear.

‘Look.’ Juhanah steered her towards the mirror, and even after the hours of preparation Kalila wasn’t expecting the change. She looked…like a stranger.

The red and gold kaftan swallowed her slight figure, and her hair had been twisted back into an elaborate plait. Heavy gold jewellery settled at her wrists and throat, and her face…

Kalila didn’t recognise the full red lips, or the wide, dark eyes outlined in kohl. She looked exotic, unfamiliar. Ridiculous, she thought with a sudden surge of bitterness. Like a male fantasy come to life.

‘Beautiful, yes?’ Juhanah said happily, and the kitchen maid nodded in agreement. Kalila could only stare. ‘And now, the final touch…’ Juhanah slipped the veil over her head, the garment of feminine pride, the hijab. It covered her hair and a diaphanous veil spangled with gold and silver coins covered her face, leaving nothing but those wide, blank, kohl-lined eyes. ‘There,’ Juhanah sighed in satisfaction.

Gazing at her exotic reflection, it seemed impossible that only eight months ago she’d been in Cambridge, debating phi-losophy and eating pizza with friends on the floor of her student flat. Wearing jeans, completely unchaperoned, living a life of freedom and opportunity, intellectual pursuit and joy.

Joy. She felt utterly joyless now, standing, staring there, utterly alien. Who was she? Was she the girl in Cambridge, laughing and flirting and talking politics, or was she this girl in the mirror, with her dark eyes and hidden face?

Eight months ago her father had come to England, taken her out for a meal and listened to her girlish chatter. She’d thought—deceived herself—that he was merely visiting her. That he missed her. Of course there had been a greater plan, a deeper need. There always had been.

Kalila still remembered the moment she’d seen her father’s face turn sombre, one hand coming to rest lightly on hers so the spill of silly talk died on her lips, and her mouth went dry. ‘What…?’ she’d whispered, yet she’d known. Of course she’d known. She’d always known, since she had been twelve, when she’d had her engagement party.

She and Zakari had exchanged rings, although she barely remembered the ceremony. It was a blur of images and sensations, the cloying scent of jasmine, the heavy weight of the ring, a Calistan diamond, that Zakari had slipped on her finger. It had been far too big, and she’d put it in her jewellery box, where it had remained ever since.

Perhaps, Kalila thought distantly, she should wear it again.

‘I know the wedding has been put off many times,’ Bahir said, his voice surprisingly gentle. It made Kalila’s eyes sting, and she stared down at her plate. ‘Family obligations on both sides have made it so. But finally King Zakari is ready to wed. He has set a date…May the twenty-fifth.’

Kalila swallowed. It was the end of September, the leaves just starting to turn gold, flooding the Cambridge backs with colour, and the start of her term. ‘But…’ she began, and Bahir shook his head.

‘Kalila, we always knew this was your destiny. Your duty. I have already spoken to the registrar. Your course has been cancelled.’

She jerked her head up, her eyes meeting his, seeing the implacable insistence there. ‘You had no right—’

‘I had every right,’ Bahir replied, and now she heard the hard implacability, felt it. ‘I am your father and your king. You have received your degree—the post-graduate course was merely a way to pass the time.’

Kalila swallowed. Her throat ached so much the instinctive movement hurt. ‘It was more than that to me,’ she whispered.

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Bahir allowed, his shoulders moving in a tiny shrug, ‘but you always knew what the future held. Your mother and I never kept it from you.’

No, they hadn’t. They’d spoken to her before that wretched party, explained what it meant to be a princess, the joy that lay in fulfilling one’s duty. Propaganda, and Kalila had believed it with all her childish heart. She’d been dazzled by the crown prince of Calista, although now she didn’t remember much of Zakari, no more than a tall, charismatic presence, a patient—or had it been patronising?—smile. She’d only been twelve, after all.

‘You will come home with me,’ Bahir finished, beckoning to the waiter to clear their plates. ‘You have a day to say goodbye to your friends and pack what you need.’

‘A day?’ Kalila repeated in disbelief. Her life was being dismantled in an instant, as if it had been meaningless, trivial—

And to her father, it had.

‘I want you home,’ Bahir said. ‘Where you belong.’

‘But if I’m not getting married until May—’

‘Your presence is needed in your country, Kalila.’ Bahir’s voice turned stern; she’d worn his patience too thin with her desperate, fruitless resistance. ‘Your people need to see you. You have been away nearly four years. It is time to come home.’

That evening, packing up her paltry possessions, Kalila had considered the impossible. The unthinkable. She could defy her father, run away from her so-called destiny. Stay in Cambridge, live her own life, find her own husband or lover…

Yet even as these thoughts, desperate and treacherous, flitted through her mind, she discarded them. Where could she run? With what money? And what would she do?

Besides, she acknowledged starkly, too much of her life—her blood—was bound up in this country, this world. Zaraq’s future was bound with Calista’s; to risk her country’s wellbeing for her own selfish, feminine desires was contemptible. She could never betray her father, her country in such a manner. It would be a betrayal of herself.

So she’d returned home with her father on his private plane, had settled back into life in the empty palace with its skeleton staff. She drifted from day to day, room to room, at first trying to keep up with her studies in history and then discarding them in depression.

She’d attended to her civic responsibilities, visiting sick children, new businesses, shaking hands and cutting ribbons, smiling and nodding. She enjoyed the interactions with the people of Zaraq, but at times it felt like only so much busy work, a lifetime of busy work, for that was her duty.

Her destiny.

Now, gazing into the mirror, she wished—even wondered if—her destiny lay elsewhere. Surely she’d been made for, meant to do, more than this. Be more than this.

‘Princess?’ Juhanah said softly. ‘Beautiful, n’am?’

Kalila had a desperate, intense urge to rip the veil from her face. She’d never been veiled before—her mother had refused, wearing only Western clothes, her nod to old-fashioned propriety no more than a scrap of head covering on formal occasions. Her father hadn’t minded. He’d married his English rose as part of an attempt to Westernise his country. Yet now, Kalila thought with renewed bitterness, she looked like something out of the Arabian Nights. Like a harem girl. The coins tinkled when she moved.

‘Lovely,’ Juhanah murmured. Kalila’s fingers bunched on the gauzy material of her kaftan and a fingernail snagged on a bit of gold thread.

Juhanah tutted and batted her hand away. Just then a knock sounded on the door of the bedroom, and Juhanah went to answer it while Kalila continued to stare.

What would Zakari think of her like this? Was this what he wanted? Was this what her future looked like?

She swallowed, forcing the fears and doubts back. It was too late now, far too late. She understood her duty.

She just hadn’t known how it would feel.

Juhanah padded back into the bedroom and flitted around Kalila, tugging a bit of material here, smoothing it there. ‘You are radiant,’ she said and beneath the veil Kalila’s lips twisted sardonically. Was Juhanah blind, or just blinded by her own happiness? Her nurse was thrilled Kalila was fulfilling her duty and destiny as a crown princess. A queen. ‘And it is time,’ she continued, her eyes lighting, her plump cheeks flushed with excitement. ‘The sheikh has just arrived. He’s coming directly from the plane.’ And as if she didn’t understand already, her heart already beginning to hammer a frantic, desperate beat, Juhanah added in satisfaction, ‘Finally, he is here.’

Aarif was hot, dusty, and tired. The short ride in an open Jeep from the royal airstrip to the palace itself was enough to nearly cover him in dust. He’d been met by a palace official who would take him to the palace’s throne room, where he would extend Zakari’s formal greetings to his bride and her father.

Aarif swallowed and the dust caught grittily in his throat and stung his eyes. Already he’d seen the official sweep a cautious gaze over his face, linger on that damnable line from forehead to jaw. His scar. His reminder, and everyone else’s, of his flaws, his failures.

The palace emerged in the distance, long and low, of mellow golden stone, with towers on either end. In every other direction the desert stretched to an empty horizon, although Aarif thought he glimpsed a huddle of clay and stone buildings to the west—Makaris, the nation’s capital.

The Jeep pulled up to the front entrance, a pair of intricately carved wooden doors under a stone canopy.

‘I will take you to wash and prepare yourself, Your Highness,’ the official said, bowing. ‘King Bahir awaits you in the throne room.’

Aarif nodded, and followed the man into the palace, down a cool, stone corridor and to a waiting chamber with benches and a table. There was a pitcher of lemon water, and Aarif poured a glass and drank thirstily before he changed into his bisht, the long, formal robe worn for ceremonies such as this. In the adjoining bathroom he washed the dust from his face, his eyes sliding away from his reflection in the mirror before returning resolutely to stare at his face, as he always did.

A light, inquiring knock sounded on the door, and, turning from that grim reminder, Aarif left the bathroom and went to fulfil his brother’s bidding, and express his greetings to his bride.

The official led him to the double doors of the throne room; inside an expectant hush fell like a curtain being dropped into place, or perhaps pulled up.

‘Your Eminence,’ the official said in French, the national language of Zaraq, his voice low and unctuous, ‘may I present His Royal Highness, King Zakari.’

Aarif choked; the sound was lost amidst a ripple of murmurings from the palace staff that had assembled for this honoured occasion. It would only take King Bahir one glance to realise it was not the king who graced his throne room today, but rather the king’s brother, a lowly prince.

Aarif felt a flash of rage—directed at himself. A mistake had been made in the correspondence, he supposed. He’d delegated the task to an aide when he should have written himself and explained that he would be coming rather than his brother.