The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns. Кейт Хьюит
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he couldn’t read the expression in it.
‘I’m sorry, Prince Aarif,’ she said in a quiet, steady voice, ‘for any trouble I’ve caused you.’ She laid a hand on his arm, her fingers slender and cool, yet burning Aarif’s skin. Branding it, and he resisted the desire to cover her hand with his own, to feel her fingers twine with his once more. A simple, seductive touch.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise before managing a cool smile. ‘There has been no trouble, Princess.’ Carefully, deliberately, he moved his arm away from her touch.
Her hand dropped to her side, and she smiled back as if she didn’t believe him, going so far as to give her head a little shake, before she moved out of the cool church into the dusty heat of the crowded square.
The festivities were blessedly winding down by the time they found their way back to the royal party. Aarif was glad to see Kalila’s—and his—absence had not been noted, although Bahir gave them both a quick, sharp glance before indulging the crowd in a formal farewell of his daughter. He kissed both her cheeks and bestowed his blessing; while they went on to the national airport, he would return to the palace.
Kalila accepted his farewell with dignity, her head bowed, and then turned to enter her car. Everyone followed suit, the doors closed, and with a sigh of relief Aarif saw they were at last on their way. Surely nothing could go wrong now.
The cars moved slowly through the crowded streets of the Old Town, still chased by a merry crowd of well wishers, then back onto the main boulevard, a straight, flat road lined with dusty palm trees that led to the airport.
The airport was only ten kilometres away, but Aarif noted the darkening smudge on the horizon with some dismay. How long would it take to load all of the cases, make any arrangements? He knew well enough how these things could drag on.
As if to prove his point, the cars slowly drew to a halt. Aarif rolled down his window and peered ahead, but through the dust kicked up by the line of cars he could see nothing.
A minute passed and nothing moved. With another muttered oath, Aarif threw open his door and strode down the barren road to the princess’s car.
He rapped twice on the window and after a moment Kalila’s nurse, a plump woman with bright eyes and rounded cheeks, rolled down the window.
‘Prince Aarif!’
‘Is the princess well?’ Aarif asked. ‘Do you know why we are stopped?’
‘She felt ill,’ the nurse gabbled. ‘And asked to be given a moment…of privacy…’
A sudden shadow of foreboding fell over Aarif, far more ominous than the storm gathering on the horizon. He thought of his conversation with Kalila only moments ago in the church, her talk of independence, her apology for troubling him, and the shadow of foreboding intensified into a throbbing darkness.
‘Where is she?’ he asked, and heard the harsh grating of his own voice. The nurse looked both alarmed and offended, and drew back. Aarif gritted his teeth and tried for patience. ‘This is not a safe place, madam. I do not trust her security in such an inhospitable location.’ He glanced up; the smudge on the horizon was growing darker, wider. Makaris was at least five kilometres behind them, and rocky desert stretched in every direction, the flat landscape marked only by large, tumbled boulders, as if thrown by a giant, unseen hand.
The nurse hesitated, and Aarif felt his frustration growing. He wanted to shake the silly woman, to demand answers—
‘She’s over there.’ The woman pointed a shaking finger to a cluster of rocks about twenty metres away. A perfect hiding place.
Aarif strode towards them, his body taut with purpose and fury. He didn’t know why he felt so angry, so afraid. Perhaps Kalila did indeed need a moment of privacy. Perhaps she was ill. Perhaps this was all in his mind, paranoid, pathetic. Remembering.
Yet he couldn’t ignore his instinct; it was too strong, too insistent, a relentless drumming in his head, his heart.
Something had gone wrong. Something always went wrong.
Still, as he approached the rocks he hesitated. If Kalila was indeed in an indelicate position, it would not do to disturb her. Yet if she was in danger, or worse…
What was worse? What could be worse than danger?
Yet even as Aarif turned the corner of the rocky outcropping, he knew. He knew just what nameless fear had clutched at him since Kalila had apologised in the church, or perhaps even before then, when he’d heard her unhappy sigh in the garden.
For on the other side of the rocks, there was nothing, no princess. But on the horizon, riding towards the storm, was a lone figure on a horse.
Kalila, Aarif realised grimly, was running away.
KALILA knew where she was going. It was that thought that sustained her as the wind whipped the headscarf around her face and the gritty sand stung her eyes. She pictured the scene behind her, how quickly it would erupt into chaos, and felt a deep shaft of guilt pierce her.
How long would it take Aarif to realise she had gone? And what would he do? Even with her brief acquaintance of the man, Kalila knew instinctively what the desert prince would do. He would go after her.
The thought sent a shiver of apprehension straight through her, and she clenched her hands on the reins. Arranging her disappearance had not been easy; the plan had crystallised only that morning when she’d looked down at the courtyard, seen the dismantling of her life, and realised she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t ride like a sacrifice to Calista, to marry a man she didn’t love, didn’t even know. Not yet, anyway.
Yet even as she rode towards a grim horizon, an uncertain future, she knew this freedom couldn’t last for ever. She couldn’t live in the desert like a nomad; Aarif would find her, and if he didn’t someone else would.
Yet still she ran. That was what fear did to you, she supposed. It made you miserable, sick, dizzy. Desperate. Willing to do anything, try anything, no matter how risky or foolish, how thoughtless or selfish.
So she kept riding, heading for the one place she knew she’d be safe…at least for a little while.
Two kilometres behind her Aarif grimly wound a turban around his head to protect himself from the dust. Already the wind was kicking grit into his eyes, stinging his cheeks. What was she thinking, he wondered furiously, to ride out in weather like this? He’d warned her of the storm, and surely, as a child of a desert, she knew the dangers.
So was she stupid, he wondered with savage humour, or just desperate?
It didn’t matter. She had to be found. He’d already sent an aide back to fetch a horse and provisions from the city.
The aide had been appalled. ‘But King Bahir must be notified! He will send out a search party—’
Aarif gestured to the darkening sky. ‘There is no time for a search party. The princess must be found, and as soon as possible. I will go…alone.’ He watched the aide’s eyes widen at this suggestion of impropriety. ‘Circumstances are dire,’ he informed the man flatly. ‘If the princess is not found, it will be all of your necks on the line.’ And his. He thought of Zakari, of Bahir, of the countries and families depending on him bringing Kalila back to Calista, and another fresh wave of fury surged through him.
‘Prince Aarif!’ A man jogged up to his elbow. ‘There is a horse, and some water and bread and meat. We could not get anything else in such a hurry—’
‘Good.’ Aarif shrugged into the long, cotton thobe he wore to protect his clothes from the onslaught of the sun and sand. He’d exchanged his shoes for sturdy boots, and now he swung up onto the back of the horse, a capable if elderly mount.
‘Drive to the airport,’ he instructed the aide, ‘and shelter