The Desert King's Captive Bride. Annie West
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ONE
THE STEWARDESS STOOD ASIDE, inviting her to leave the plane. Ghizlan stood, smoothing her moss-green tailored skirt and jacket with a hand that barely trembled.
She’d had days to prepare herself. Days to learn to mask the shock and, yes, grief. She’d never been close to her father, a distant man, more interested in his country than his daughters, yet his sudden death at fifty-three from a brain aneurism had rocked the foundations of her world.
Ghizlan drew herself up, donning the polite smile her father had deemed appropriate for a princess, and, with a murmur of thanks to the staff, stepped out of the aircraft.
A cool evening wind whipped down off the mountains, eddying around her stockinged legs. Briefly she pondered how nice it must be to travel in comfortable, casual clothes, before letting the idle thought tear free on a gust of air. She was the daughter of a royal sheikh. She didn’t have that freedom.
Setting her shoulders, she gripped the rail and descended the stairs to the tarmac, aware that her legs were unsteady.
Falling flat on her face wasn’t an option. Clumsiness had never been allowed and now, more than ever, it was imperative she look calm. Until her father’s heir was named she was the country’s figurehead, a face the people knew. They would rely on her, eldest daughter of their revered Sheikh, to ensure the smooth running of matters while his successor was confirmed.
Who that would be, Ghizlan didn’t know. Her father had been negotiating a new marriage when he died, still hoping to get that all-important male heir.
She reached the tarmac and paused. On three sides rose the mountains, purple in the late afternoon, surrounding the capital on its plateau. Behind her on the fourth side the mountain dropped abruptly to the Great Sand Desert.
Ghizlan breathed deeply. Despite the grave circumstances of her arrival in Jeirut, her heart leapt at the familiar scents of clear mountain air and spices that even airline fuel couldn’t quite eradicate.
‘My lady.’ Azim, her father’s chamberlain, hurried towards her, face drawn and hands twisting.
Ghizlan quickly crossed to the old man. If anyone could claim intimacy with her father it was Azim, his right-hand man for years.
‘Welcome, my lady. It’s a relief to have you back.’
‘It’s good to see you, Azim.’ Ignoring custom, Ghizlan reached for his hands, holding them in hers. Neither of them would ever admit it but she had been closer to Azim than to her father.
‘Highness!’ He darted a worried look to one side where soldiers guarded the perimeter of the airstrip.
Ghizlan ignored them. ‘Azim? How are you?’ She knew her father’s death must have been a terrible blow to him. Together they’d made it their lives’ work to bring Jeirut into the new millennium by a combination of savvy negotiation, insightful reform and sheer iron will.
‘I’m well, my lady. But it’s I who should be asking...’ He paused, gathering himself. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Your father wasn’t merely a visionary leader, he was the mainstay of our democracy and a protector to you and your sister.’
Ghizlan nodded, releasing Azim’s hands and moving towards the terminal. Her father had been all those things, but her country’s democratic constitution would continue after his death. As for her and Mina, they’d learned long ago not to expect personal support from their father. Instead they were used to being paraded as role models for education, the rights of women and other causes. He might have been a visionary who’d be remembered as a great man, but the sad truth was neither she nor her younger sister could be heartbroken at his passing.
She shivered, knowing she should feel more.
As they approached the terminal Azim spoke again. ‘My lady, I have to tell you...’ He paused as some soldiers marched forward.
‘Wait. My lady.’ His voice was barely above a whisper and Ghizlan stopped, attuned to the urgency radiating from him. ‘I need to warn you—’
‘My lady.’ A uniformed officer bowed before her. ‘I’m here to escort you to the Palace of the Winds.’
Ghizlan didn’t recognise him, a tough-looking man in his thirties, though he wore the uniform of the Palace Guard. But then she’d been away more than a month and military transfers happened all the time.
‘Thank you, but my own bodyguard is sufficient.’ She turned but to her surprise couldn’t see her close personal protection officers.
As if reading her mind the captain spoke again. ‘I believe your men are still busy at the plane. There are new regulations regarding baggage checks. But that needn’t delay you.’ He bowed again. ‘My men can escort you. No doubt you are eager to see the Princess Mina.’
Ghizlan blinked. No palace employee would dream of commenting on the intentions of a member of the royal family. This man was new. But he was right. She’d fretted over how long it had taken to get back to Jeirut. She hated the idea of Mina all alone.
Again she turned but couldn’t see her staff. It went against every instinct to leave them, but now, finally in Jeirut, her worry over Mina had grown to something like panic. Ghizlan hadn’t been able to reach her by phone since yesterday. Her sister was only seventeen, just finished school. How had she coped with their father’s death?
Only men attended Jeiruti funerals, even state funerals, but Ghizlan had wanted to be here to take the burden of the other formalities, receiving the respects of provincial sheikhs and the royal court. But tradition had prevailed and her father had been interred within the requisite three days while Ghizlan had been stuck on another continent.
‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ She turned to Azim. ‘Would you mind explaining that I’ve gone on to the palace and that I’m in safe hands?’
‘But, my lady...’ Azim darted a glance towards the guards surrounding them. ‘I need to speak with you in private. It’s crucial.’
‘Of course. There are urgent matters to discuss.’ Her father’s death was a constitutional nightmare. With no clear heir to the sheikhdom, it could take weeks to decide his successor. Ghizlan felt the weight of responsibility crush down on her shoulders. She, as a woman, couldn’t succeed, but she’d have a key role in maintaining stability until the succession was finalised. ‘Give me two hours then we’ll meet.’
She nodded to the captain of the guards to proceed.
‘But, my lady—’ Azim fell silent as the captain stepped towards him, deliberately invading the old man’s space, expression stern and body language belligerent.
Ghizlan fixed the officer with a stare she’d learned from her father. ‘If you’re going to work for the palace you need to learn the difference between attentiveness and intimidation.’ The guard’s eyes met hers, widening in surprise. ‘This man is a valued aide. I expect him, and everyone else approaching me, to be treated with respect. Is that understood?’
The officer nodded and stepped away. ‘Of course, my lady.’
Ghizlan wanted to take Azim’s hands once more. He looked old and frail. But she desperately needed to see Mina. Instead she smiled gently. ‘I’ll see you soon and we can discuss everything.’
* * *
‘Thank you for your escort.’ Ghizlan stopped in the vast palace atrium. ‘However, in future, there’s no need for you or your men to come within the palace itself.’ The security arrangements didn’t include armed men in the corridors.
The captain bowed, the slightest of inclines. ‘I’m afraid I have orders to the contrary, my lady. If you’ll come with me?’
‘Orders?’ Ghizlan stared. The man might be new but he overstepped the mark. ‘Until my father’s successor is announced I give the orders in the palace.’
The man’s expression didn’t alter.
Ghizlan