CHAPTER SEVEN

      THE SUN WAS low in the sky when Sara and Suleiman brought their horses to a dusty halt outside the gates of the Sultan’s summer residence. Before them, the vast palace towered majestically—its golden hues reflecting the endless desert sands which surrounded it. It was the first time Sara had ever seen the fabled building, and on any other occasion she might have taken time to admire the magnificent architecture with all its soaring turrets and domes. But today her heart was full of dread as she thought of what lay ahead.

      What on earth was she going to say to the man she had now spurned in the most dramatic way possible? She had never loved the Sultan, nor wanted him—but never in a million years had she wanted it to turn out this way. She didn’t want to hurt him, or—which was much more likely—hurt his pride.

      Would he want to punish her? Punish her brother and his kingdom?

      The reality began to soak into her skin, which was still glowing after her passionate encounter with the man who had ridden by her side. No matter what happened next—she wasn’t going to regret what had just taken place. It might have been wrong, but the words she had whispered to Suleiman just before he had thrust into her had been true. It had felt so right.

      She shot a glance at him as he brought his horse to a halt but his stony profile gave nothing away and she suspected that his body language was deliberately forbidding. He hadn’t spoken a word to her since that uncomfortable showdown after they’d made love. He had kept busy with the practicalities of preparing to return. And then he had turned on her and hissed that she was nothing but a temptation, silencing her protests with an angry wave of his hand before phoning ahead to let the Sultan’s staff know that they were on their way.

      Sara looked up at the wide blue bowl of the desert sky as another band of fear gripped her. If ever she had thought she’d felt trapped before—she was quickly discovering a whole new meaning to the word. Here was one hostile man taking her to confront another—and she had no idea of what the outcome would be.

      Her instinct was to turn and head in the opposite direction—but during the ride she had thought about what Suleiman had said.

      You’ve spent your whole life running away?

      Had she? It was weird seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. She’d always thought that she was an intrepid sort of person. That she had shown true backbone by setting up on her own in London, far away from her pampered life. It was disturbing to think that maybe there was a kernel of truth in Suleiman’s accusation.

      Their approach had obviously been observed from within the palace complex, for the tall gates silently opened and they walked their horses through onto the gravelled forecourt. Sara became aware of the massed blooms of white flowers and their powerful scent which pervaded the air. A white-robed servant came towards them, briefly bowing to her before turning to Suleiman and speaking to him in Qurhahian.

      ‘The Sultan wishes to extend his warmest greeting, Suleiman Abd al-Aziz. He has instructed me to tell you that your chambers are fully prepared—and that you will both rest and recuperate before joining him for dinner later.’

      ‘No.’

      Suleiman’s denial rang out so emphatically that Sara was startled, for she knew that the language of the desert was couched in much more formal—sometimes flowery—tones. She saw the look of surprise on the servant’s face.

      ‘The princess may wish to avail herself of the Sultan’s hospitality,’ said Suleiman. ‘But it is imperative that I speak to His Imperial Majesty without further delay. Please take me to him now.’

      Sara could see the servant’s confusion but such was the force of Suleiman’s personality that the man merely nodded in bewildered consent. He led them through the huge carved doors, speaking rapidly into an incongruously modern walkie-talkie handset which he pulled from his white robes.

      Once inside, where several female servants had gathered together in a small group, Suleiman turned to her, his features shadowed and unreadable. ‘You will go with these women and they will bathe you,’ he instructed.

      ‘But—’

      ‘No buts, Sara. I mean it. This is my territory, not yours. Let me deal with it.’

      Sara opened her mouth, then shut it again as she felt a wave of relief wash over her. Was it cowardly of her to want to lean on Suleiman and him to take over? ‘Thank you,’ she said.

      ‘For what?’ he questioned in English, his sudden switch of language seeming to emphasise the bitterness of his tone. ‘For taking what was never mine to take? Just go. Go.’

      He stood perfectly still as she turned away, watching her retreat across the wide, marble entrance hall—his feelings in turmoil; his heart sick with dread. He found himself taking in the unruliness of her hair and the crumpled disorder of her robes. He swallowed. If the Sultan had seen her flushed face, then mightn’t he guess the cause of her untidy appearance?

      He turned to follow the servant, his heart heavy.

      How was he going to be able to tell Murat? How could he possibly admit what had been done? The worst betrayal in the world, from the two people who should have been most loyal to the sovereign.

      He was ushered into one of the informal ante-rooms which he recognised from times past. He lifted his gaze to the high, arched ceiling with its intricate mosaic, before the Sultan swept in, alone—his black eyes inscrutable as he subjected his erstwhile emissary to a long, hard look.

      ‘So, Suleiman,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unconventional meeting. I was disturbed from playing backgammon at a crucial point in the game, to be told that you wished to see me immediately. Is this true?’

      His eyes were questioning and Suleiman felt a terrible wave of sadness wash over him. Once their relationship had been so close that he might have made a joke about his supposed insubordination. And the Sultan would have laughed softly and made a retort in the same vein. But this was no laughing matter.

      ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said heavily.

      ‘And may I ask what has