The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin. Кейт Хьюит
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would be different,’ Kalila whispered. ‘I realised that last night. I don’t want to do it, Juhanah. I don’t care what he’s like. He doesn’t love me.’
‘In time—’
‘In time comes affection, understanding, kindness,’ Kalila cut her off. ‘Maybe. I’ve been telling myself that for years. But why should I settle for such things? My father was able to have a love match. Aarif’s father and stepmother—Anya and Ashraf—had a love match. Why not me?’
Juhanah released her, her mouth pursed thoughtfully. ‘Aarif’s father?’ she repeated, and Kalila flushed.
‘Zakari’s father as well. Why must I settle?’
‘You are doing a great thing for your country,’ Juhanah told her, and there was a warning note in her nurse’s voice that reminded Kalila of when she’d been caught stealing honey cakes from the kitchen. ‘You must act like the princess you are, Kalila, and do your duty.’
‘Yes. I know.’ She’d accepted that many years ago, had told herself it many times. Yet all those resolutions crumbled to dust in face of the harsh, present reality. ‘I know,’ she repeated, and if Juhanah heard the damning waver of doubt in Kalila’s voice, she did not comment on it.
‘Now, come. You must dress.’
‘I’m not wearing another costume,’ Kalila warned. ‘I won’t truss myself up like a harem girl so the people of Makaris can be satisfied.’
‘Of course not,’ Juhanah soothed. ‘Besides, it wouldn’t be sensible for travel.’
Kalila gave a little laugh, and Juhanah smiled encouragingly. She was wound so tightly, so desperately, she realised, and that little laugh reminded her of who she was. Who she used to be. She was a girl who laughed, who loved life, who embraced each opportunity with pleasure, abandon.
She was not this skittish, frightened, desperate creature. She would not let herself be.
In the end she chose a pair of loose cotton trousers and a matching tunic in palest green, embroidered with silver thread. She plaited her hair once more, and wore silver hoops on her ears, a silver locket that had been her mother’s around her neck.
Juhanah went to supervise the packing, and Kalila was left alone in her childhood bedroom. In a few moments she would say goodbye to the palace, the staff, and then her father. Bahir would fly to Calista for the wedding, but it wouldn’t be the same. When she walked out of the palace, she would be leaving this life for ever.
The thought saddened her. She’d grown up here, explored the echoing, shadowy corridors, curled up in a sunny window seat, sneaked into her father’s library or the palace kitchen. The first time she’d been away from home for any length of time had been when she’d gone to Cambridge.
And what a different life she’d had there! A shared flat with a few other girls, nights out at the pub or takeaway pizza and a bottle of wine, everything casual and messy and fun.
She felt as if she were two people, the princess and the person. The queen-in-waiting and the modern girl who just wanted to be loved.
Yet you couldn’t be two people and still be happy. Still be yourself. So how would she survive in the coming months and years, when she took on the mantle that was so foreign to her, queen, wife? How could she be happy?
Again Aarif’s image flittered through her mind, tempting, treacherous. She’d been happy in his presence. She shook her head as if to deny herself that forbidden truth, and left her bedroom. From the window in the upstairs corridor she saw a motorcade assembled in the palace courtyard. There was a van for her cases, a car for Aarif, another for her father, a car for her and Juhanah, and another for the palace staff accompanying them to the airport.
It was a parade, and she was the centrepiece. Kalila closed her eyes. Her fingers curled around the sun-warmed stone of the window sill, and she held onto it like an anchor.
‘I can’t do it,’ she whispered aloud, though there was no one to hear. Her own heart heard, and answered. I won’t.
The sun beat down on Aarif as he stood in the palace courtyard, waiting for Kalila to arrive. A light wind blowing from the desert eased his discomfort, and he was grateful for the refreshment. He’d been up since dawn, seeing to arrangements; he wanted nothing left to chance or circumstance, no more mistakes to be made.
The first one had been bad enough.
Aarif’s mouth twisted in a grimace as he recalled his private interview with King Bahir last night, after dinner. The king was too shrewd and politic to be overt about his displeasure, but he’d made his disappointment over Zakari’s absence known.
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