The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns: The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin / The Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess / The Future King's Love-Child. Кейт Хьюит
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before heading home to her stable and bag of oats every night. The unforgiving wind and rocky ground were terrifying to her, and she let it be known with every straining step.
Aarif had always been kind to animals; it was man’s sacred duty to provide for the beasts in his care, yet now his gloved hands clenched impatiently on the reins, and he fought the urge to scream at the animal, as if she could understand, as if that would help. As if anything would.
Where was Kalila? He forced himself to think rationally. She’d had a horse hidden behind the rocks, so someone had clearly helped her. She’d had a plan, a premeditated plan. The thought caused fresh rage to slice cleanly through him, but he pushed it away with grim resolution. He needed to think.
If she had a horse, she undoubtedly had some provisions. Not many, perhaps not more than he had, a bit of food, some water, a blanket. She was not an unintelligent woman, quite the contrary, so she must have a destination in mind, he reasoned. A safe place to shelter out the storm she knew about, the storm he’d told her about.
But where?
He drew the horse to a halt, scanning the horizon once more. Through the swirling sand he could just barely see the outlines of rocks, dunes, the ever-shifting shape of the desert. Nothing seemed like a probable resting place, yet he knew he would investigate every lone rock, every sheltered dune. It was his duty.
His duty. He wouldn’t fail his duty; he’d been telling himself that for years, yet now, starkly, Aarif wondered when he hadn’t failed. He shrugged impatiently, hating the weakness of his own melancholy, yet even now the memories sucked him under, taunted him viciously.
If you hadn’t gone…if you hadn’t said Zafir could come along…if you hadn’t slipped…
If. If. If. Damnable, dangerous ifs, would-have-beens that never existed, never happened, yet they taunted him still, always.
If…your brother would still be alive.
Aarif swore aloud, the words torn from his throat, lost on the wind. The horse neighed pitifully, pushed already beyond her limited endurance.
And then he saw it. A dark grey speck on the horizon, darker than the swirling sand, the clouds. Rock. Many rocks, clustered together, providing safety and shelter, more so than anywhere else he could see. He knew, knew deep in his gut, that Kalila was making her way towards those rocks. Perhaps she was already there; she must have known the way.
He imagined her setting up her little camp, thinking herself safe, smiling to herself that she’d fooled them all, fooled him, played with their lives, with his own responsibilities and code of honour—
Cursing again, Aarif raised the reins and headed for the horizon.
She hadn’t ridden so fast or furiously in months, years perhaps, and every muscle in Kalila’s body ached. Her mind and heart ached too, throbbed with a desperate misery that made her wonder why she’d ever taken this stupid, selfish risk. She pushed the thought away; she couldn’t afford doubt now. She couldn’t afford pity.
Aarif had been right. A storm was blowing, a sirocco, the wet winds of the Mediterranean clashing with the desert’s dry heat in an unholy cacophony of sound and fury. She had, Kalila guessed, maybe half an hour to set up shelter and get herself and her horse secure.
She murmured soothing endearments to her mare, As Sabr, and led her to where the huge boulder created a natural overhang, the small space under the shadow of stone enough for a tent, a horse.
Her father had taken her camping here when she was child; it was a no more than twelve kilometres from the palace, less even from Makaris, yet with the blowing sands it might have been a hundred.
Kalila set about her tasks, mindless, necessary. The tent was basic, with room only for two people.
Two people. Kalila’s mind snagged and then froze on the thought, the realisation. If Aarif came after her…if he found her…
But, no. He had no idea where she was going, had never been in this desert before, didn’t know the terrain, if he was out here at all. Surely in this storm he would turn back, he would wait. Any sensible man would do so, and yet…
Aarif did not seem a sensible man. He seemed, Kalila realised, remembering that hard look in his eyes, her heart beating sickly, a determined man.
What would she do if he found her? What would he do?
She pushed the thought, as she had a host of others, firmly away. No time to wonder, to fear. Now was the time for action only.
With the wind blowing more ferociously every second, it took Kalila longer to assemble the tent. She was furious with her own ineptitude, her soft hands and drumming heart. She’d as-sembled a tent like this—this tent even—a dozen, twenty times, yet now everything conspired against her; her hands cramped and slipped, her muscles ached, even her bones did. Her eyes stung and her mouth was desperately dry. Her heart throbbed.
Finally the tent was assembled and she took the saddlebags from As Sabr—food, blankets, water—and shoved them inside. She covered the horse with a blanket, drawing her closer against the rock for safety.
Then she turned to make her way into the tent, and her heart stopped. Her mouth dropped open. For there, only ten metres away, was a man. He was turbaned, robed, veiled except for his eyes, as she had been yesterday. He looked like a mythical creature, a hero—or perhaps a villain—from a fairy tale, an Arabian one.
It was, Kalila knew, Aarif.
He had found her.
Her mind froze, and so did her body. Kalila stood there, the winds buffeting her, the sand stinging her eyes, flying into her open mouth. She closed it, tasted grit, and wondered what would happen now. Her mind was beginning to thaw, and with it came a fearful flood of realisations, implications. Aarif looked furious. Yet with the realisation of his own anger was her own, treacherous sense of relief.
He had come.
Had she actually wanted him to find her? She was ashamed by the secret manipulations of her own heart, and she pushed the thought away as Aarif slid off his horse, leading the pathetic animal towards the shelter of the rock. His body was swathed in cloth, and she could only see his eyes, those dark, gleaming, angry eyes.
Kalila swallowed; more grit. Aarif came closer, the horse stumbling and neighing piteously behind him. Kalila still didn’t move. Where could she go? She’d already run away and he’d found her. He’d found her so very easily.
He dealt with the animal first. From the corner of her eye Kalila saw him soothe the horse, give her water and a feed bag. He patted her down with a blanket, his movements steady, assured, yet Kalila could see the taut fury in every line of his body; she could feel it in the air, humming and vibrating between them with the same electricity that fired the storm.
The horse dealt with, he turned, and his gaze levelled her, decimated her. She swallowed again, choking on sand, and forced herself to keep his gaze, even to challenge it. Yet after a long moment she couldn’t, and her gaze skittered nervously away.
The wind whistled around them with a high-pitched scream; in half an hour, less perhaps, the storm would be at its worst, yet still neither of them moved.
‘Look at me,’ Aarif said. His voice was low, throbbing, yet even with the shrieking wind Kalila heard it; she felt its demand deep in her bones, and she looked up.
Their eyes met, fought, and Kalila felt the onslaught of his accusation, his judgment. Aarif stared at her for a full minute, the dark fury of his gaze so much more than a glare, so much worse than anything she’d ever imagined.
She’d been so stupid.
And he knew. She knew.
Aarif muttered something—an expletive—and then in two quick strides he was in front of her, one hand stealing around her arm, the movement one of anger yet control.
‘What were you thinking, Princess?’ he