Defying her Desert Duty (7 page)

Even now the remembered scent of fear clogged her nostrils, vying with the rich scents of their superb meal.

‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ She cast Zahir a perfunctory smile and lifted a morsel of fish to her mouth. Yet her limbs still felt ridiculously shaky. As if she’d run for her life that day, not simply called the medics and corralled the toddler’s family while Zahir had saved his life.

She hadn’t even realised there
was
an emergency. She’d been so absorbed, thinking about Zahir, how he’d insulted her then apologised so gravely she’d had no choice but to believe he regretted it. Especially when his eyes mirrored her own deep confusion. She’d struggled to grasp what had happened even as Zahir hauled the boy from the creek and puffed air into his little lungs.

Her knife and fork clattered onto her plate.

‘Thank heaven you were there today. If you hadn’t been, if you hadn’t noticed he was missing—’

‘There’s no point dwelling on “what ifs”. The child is safe.’ Zahir reached across the table as if to take her hand where it clenched in a tense fist on the linen cloth. At the last moment he reached instead for his water.

Soraya knew she should be glad he didn’t invade her personal space. Yet that didn’t douse her longing for the comfort of his touch. Despite the long soak in her suite’s oversized bath, she still felt chilled by the afternoon’s events. Zahir’s hand would be warm, solid and real.

‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘I can’t help it. I keep going over it again and again in my head.’ She drew a shuddery breath and reached for her glass.

‘It was a shock. That’s a natural reaction.’ There was understanding in his voice.

‘
You
weren’t shocked.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound like an accusation.’

‘I understand.’ The ghost of a smile softened his mouth and that invisible thread of connection between them twanged tighter, dragging at her internal muscles. ‘Don’t worry, I was running on adrenalin too. It’s just that I’ve been in emergency situations before. Too often.’

That glimmer of a smile died, obliterated by a sudden harshness that transformed his features. It reminded her that she knew next to nothing about this man with whom she would spend the next few weeks—more, since he was the Emir’s right-hand man. In Bakhara their paths would cross regularly.

‘Tell me. Please.’ Her words escaped without conscious thought and she met his surprised gaze. ‘It’s none of my business I know. I just …’ Soraya bit her lip, not understanding her compulsion to know him. It had nothing to do with prurient curiosity and everything to do with the awareness that had shimmered so strongly between them this afternoon. From the first it had been there. He’d all but acknowledged it himself today.

She needed to know what it was.

‘I don’t
understand
you.’ The words tumbled from her lips. ‘And this afternoon … ‘

How did she explain something fundamental had shifted today when they’d shared laughter and she’d glimpsed a man who appealed far too much, when he’d apologised so sincerely she’d felt his shame and then when he’d saved that child? He wasn’t the cold, arrogant man she’d tried to cast him. He was so much more.

She sensed it was dangerous to like Zahir too much. She’d felt safe in her indignation. Yet she couldn’t keep pretending he was her unfeeling enemy. It just didn’t ring true.

‘If it had been left to his family he’d have drowned. They wouldn’t have realised till too late.’ The words burst out. ‘If I’d been there without you, as I said I wanted, I wouldn’t have been able to save him either. Only
you
—’

‘Don’t beat yourself up, Soraya.’ His voice was calm, mellow and reassuring. ‘You did wonderfully, keeping everyone in order till the medics came.’

Strong fingers covered hers and instantly heat seeped back along her veins.

She’d been right. There was magic in Zahir’s touch. This time she wasn’t going to question it or pull away.

A sense of wellbeing grew, a glow that wasn’t simply the
physical warmth of flesh touching flesh. She looked from their joined hands then up into eyes that had darkened to the colour of the encircling forest.

‘I want to understand.’ Though she wasn’t sure what exactly she needed to know. It was all tangled together—today’s events and the enigma of Zahir’s true personality. This …
something
between them. The unsettling realisation she didn’t understand herself as well as she’d thought.

Absently he rubbed his thumb over her hand and some of the tightness in her belly unravelled. Her rigid shoulders dropped a fraction.

‘There’s not much to understand. I’ve seen violence in my life, too often. I learned to react quickly. Even as a child.’

‘So young?’ At her query his mouth twisted and he looked down at their joined hands.

‘One of my first memories is of blood pooling across a stone floor and wondering why the man with the funny stare didn’t move before the red stained his clothes.’

‘Oh, Zahir.’ Her free hand closed over his as he held her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘It was no one I knew. Just one of my father’s cronies.’ He spoke with such matter-of-fact coolness it sent a tiny quiver through her. ‘He’d had too much to drink and was unsteady on his feet. When he fell, he cracked his skull.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Three, perhaps. Maybe four.’

‘That’s dreadful.’ Something deep inside twisted. He’d been so young. So vulnerable. What had his life been like that he’d come across such a scene?

‘I remember my father stumbling across the room, cursing about the mess. And making myself scarce. I was good at that.’ His mouth was a flat line, no trace of insouciance now.

Soraya felt him stiffen under her touch and wondered what he was remembering. The look on his face as much as his words told her it hadn’t been pleasant. What had his mother been doing while her son had watched that horrible scene?

‘There were other … incidents too. Enough to learn how swift and unpredictable violence can be.’ His gaze fixed on a point beyond her but she wondered if what he saw was far beyond the walls of the hotel. ‘It was useful training, in a way. It meant I was always half-prepared.’

Soraya blinked and stared. Zahir painted a picture that, despite the lack of detail, horrified her. A childhood where the most valuable lesson learned was a readiness to confront violence.

‘It sounds like your childhood was eventful.’

Swiftly he turned his gaze on her and she caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes. ‘Obviously Hussein knows what he’s doing, choosing you as his wife. That’s a diplomatic response if ever I heard one.’

He looked down and frowned as if registering for the first time their linked hands. Abruptly he drew his away, leaving her oddly bereft.

She laced her fingers together and slipped her hands into her lap. They still held the imprint of his, hard and comforting against hers.

‘My early childhood was a disaster, but I survived. Then I joined the royal household. I was safe, well-fed, educated, comfortable. But I trained with the warriors. I saw my share of accidents and wounds. I could diagnose a dislocation, a broken bone or sprain by the age of twelve.’

‘That must have been tough.’

‘I loved it.’ Zahir’s sudden grin took her by surprise and she sat back, her pulse thudding an uneven response to the sheer glory of it.

Oh my. Oh. My!

It was the second time she’d glimpsed the man behind the wall of steel. The first, when he’d threatened her with such fervour if she ever injured the Emir. And now a look of such unadulterated joy it was like swallowing sunshine, just seeing it. It took Soraya a moment to find her voice.

‘Why did you love it?’

He picked up his cutlery but didn’t move to eat. ‘I belonged,’ he said at last. ‘That became my world.’

Soraya frowned, more curious than ever for details. But she had no right to push for what was clearly private and difficult territory. As it was, she sensed Zahir had revealed more than he usually deigned to share.

‘Eventually I joined the Emir’s bodyguard, even led it. So you see I’ve had lots of opportunities to deal with crises.’ His smile now was more restrained, a polite curve of the lips only, not that blinding flash of pleasure that had thwacked her senses into overdrive.

‘But no one would want to harm the Emir.’ She, more than most of his subjects, had cause to know what a generous and honourable man he was.

Zahir shook his head. ‘There is always the possibility—from someone who seeks fame through a violent act, to someone disturbed or ruthless. There have been times when noticing a small detail, or sensing something amiss, made all the difference.’

Soraya slid her hands up to rub her arms. ‘Like noticing that boy wasn’t with his family.’

Zahir nodded. ‘I was trained to register the smallest details. To take note and act quickly when necessary.’

‘No one asked you to monitor them.’

His straight shoulders lifted. ‘You don’t entirely switch off even when you’re no longer on close personal protection duty. I haven’t done that for years but the skills stay with you.’

‘Just as well.’

He shot her a quick glance but she felt its intensity to the tips of her toes.

‘Eat, Soraya. It’s over. The child is safe and the family reunited. There’s nothing to worry about.’

She picked up her cutlery and made a show of eating her meal, as he did. But her niggle of anxiety grew rather than faded with the knowledge she’d gained.

It had all been easier when she could write Zahir off as bossy, arrogant and interfering. Before he’d revealed a humanity
and tenderness that made a mockery of her easy assumptions. He’d thought badly of her, but his apology had been genuine and his contrition real. She’d seen the shame and regret in his eyes. And at least he’d been up-front with her.

She recalled him, his clothes plastered to his tall body, cradling the toddler and crooning to him once he had begun to breathe again. He hadn’t turned a hair when the child vomited comprehensively and begun to cry. He’d been patience itself with both the boy and his distraught mother, managing to calm them both and monitoring them till professional help had arrived.

The sight of the small child held so easily and safely against Zahir’s powerful frame ignited a blast of emotions Soraya couldn’t label, but felt to her core.

Nor had he been eager for acknowledgement. As soon as the child was with medical staff he’d taken Soraya’s trembling hand, offered his best wishes to the group and led her away for a restorative coffee. He hadn’t turned a hair at the stares he’d received with his muddied trousers and his wet shirt clinging to his powerful torso. He’d been solicitous of
her
, as if she’d been the one injured.

Zahir was quietly competent, caring, strong when she was weak.

And he … appealed to her.

He appealed too much for a woman who wasn’t interested in men. Who’d seen the pitfalls of romance and decided early not to go there. That had been one of the reasons she’d agreed to her royal betrothal—the belief that an arranged marriage to an honourable man was safer than a so-called love match.

She’d never been romantically interested in any man. Given her background, maybe she’d even worked a little too hard to avoid such temptation.

Why then did Zahir fascinate her so? Why did she need to understand him?

Because she wasn’t as self-sufficient as she’d thought?

Because, perhaps, she was susceptible to the charm of a strong, handsome man? A man who hid surprising gentleness and a mile-wide streak of heroism behind a cool façade?

T
WO DAYS
later Soraya and Zahir returned to the hotel to find a familiar family group in the car park.

‘Mademoiselle Karim!’ a teenage girl called out. Soraya remembered her; she’d been pale and distraught, blaming herself for her little brother’s accident.

‘Lucie, how are you? How is your brother?’ Soraya smiled as she neared the group, pleasure filling her as she saw the little boy safe in his mother’s arms.

‘Recovered fully, as you see.’ The older woman smiled tentatively before glancing at her husband, clearly uncomfortable beside her. ‘We came to thank you both.’ Her gaze rested on Zahir. ‘Without you … ‘

‘Without them he would have died,’ her husband said, his voice harsh. ‘Because you couldn’t watch him.’

Soraya stiffened, stunned at the venom in his tone.

‘In my experience,’ said a firm baritone beside her, ‘a man casts blame when he holds himself responsible but hasn’t the guts to acknowledge it.’ Zahir stood so close she felt the fury emanating from him. ‘It’s a father’s duty to protect his family.’

The bristling man before them seemed to deflate. Enough to reveal the hollowed eyes and pallor of a man still working through shock.

‘It’s very hot out here,’ Soraya said quickly. ‘Why don’t we go inside for a cool drink?’ She smiled at the children. ‘Or ice-cream? They have terrific ice-cream here.’

It was a relief to escape outside again with the children. Despite Soraya’s calming presence and his own tight control, Zahir could barely stomach being with a man who refused to accept responsibility for his son’s safety and blamed his womenfolk for his shortcomings.

‘Well done!’ Zahir congratulated one of the girls on her archery skills. ‘You hit the target this time. Now, try it again, but don’t forget to hold the bow this way.’ He leaned in to demonstrate.

He glanced at the window where Soraya sat with their older guests, her smile warm. The mother had relaxed enough to relinquish the toddler into Soraya’s arms and she bounced him on her knees. Even the woman’s husband had unwound enough to nod at something she said.

Zahir’s dislike for the man would have stifled the atmosphere. The child’s father had struck his personal sore spot: neglectful fathers topped his list of dislikes.

He shook his head as he helped one of the children aim her bow.

Soraya had marshalled the group before he’d even got a grip on his anger. She’d charmed them all, reassured them and acted as hostess as if born to it. He remembered how she’d organised the crowd at the accident. Without her it would have been mayhem.

Her skills would make her perfect in the role of Hussein’s queen. She was gracious, charming and able to put people at ease in difficult circumstances.

Hussein had chosen his bride well. Socially accomplished, quick thinking and feisty enough to hint at a passionate nature. She would make a fine wife: an asset in public and the sort of spouse a man rejoiced to come home to at the end of a long day.

The realisation should have reassured him that his mission to return her to Bakhara was important. But it brought no pleasure.

Just a twist in his gut that felt horribly like envy.

‘You’ve got an ice-cream addiction, Soraya.’

‘
I
have?’ She looked at the remains of the double-scoop pistachio-and-coffee ice-cream he held and shook her head. ‘I don’t hear you complaining.’

Zahir shrugged and she averted her eyes lest they cling too long to the movement of his broad shoulders. She’d discovered a weakness for Zahir’s wide, straight shoulders and rare, spectacular smile.

She looked instead around the stone-built town. Its square was hung with flags for Bastille Day and lights in the plane trees had just been turned on. In the background a small but enthusiastic band entertained onlookers.

‘I’m just keeping you company.’ Zahir’s deep voice tickled her senses. ‘Being a good companion.’

As he had been ever since Amboise. It was as if his accusation and apology, not to mention the crisis there, had cleared the air between them. No word of reproach or disapproval passed his lips. Nor—and she told herself she was relieved by it—did he refer to the shimmering attraction between them.

She’d begun to wonder if, after all, it was one-sided. Who wouldn’t be star-struck by a man like Zahir? Even if his attention was for her as bride to his mentor.

‘Watch out!’ She saw the football before Zahir yet he managed to whip around and stop its wayward trajectory. He kicked it up, bouncing it easily off his knees and feet as he scanned the playing field beside the river.

A grinning boy waved and Zahir kicked the ball straight to him.

‘You play football?’

‘I used to. When I was young.’

‘Me too.’

‘Why aren’t I surprised?’ A slow grin spread across his face and Soraya wondered if she’d ever be able to see it without her pulse stuttering out of control.

‘What else did you do when you were young?’ They’d been
careful to avoid personal topics. They discussed France and the places they saw, or politics and books.

The one subject they never touched on was Bakhara.

‘I rode. I discovered chess. I learned to fight.’

Soraya laughed. ‘Of course. You sound like a traditional Bakhari male.’

‘I
am
a traditional Bakhari male.’

She shook her head. A traditionalist wouldn’t have let her drive his precious car, or listen attentively to a woman explaining the principles of geothermal power.

‘What did you do when you were young?’

‘Learn to cook, keep house and embroider.’ She sighed, remembering hours of dutiful boredom. ‘And sneaked out to play football.’

‘And dreamed of marrying a handsome prince?’

‘No!’ The word shot out sharply. ‘Never that.’

Zahir watched her intently. ‘Marrying Hussein isn’t the fulfilment of a lifelong ambition? I thought little girls fixated on a glamorous marriage.’

Soraya lifted her ice-cream, hoping the cherry flavour would counteract the sour tang on her tongue. ‘Other little girls maybe. Marriage was never my dream.’

‘But things are different now.’

‘Oh yes, they’re different now.’ Bitterness welled, and with it anger at the limitations placed on her life by her engagement. ‘Can we not talk about it now? I’d rather concentrate on this.’ She waved a hand to encompass the crowd and the holiday atmosphere.

‘Besides—’ she nodded in the direction of the playing field ‘—I think you’re wanted.’

The football sailed through the air to land near Zahir. The same grinning teenager waved for him to join the impromptu game.

Zahir shook his head. ‘I can’t leave you.’

‘Of course you can. I’m perfectly fine.’ She reached to pull his jacket off one shoulder then stopped as a sizzle of fire shot
through her fingertips. Beneath her touch his muscles stiffened. His eyes darkened and her breath snagged as heat pulsed between them.

Just one touch did that.

‘Go,’ she said hoarsely, her hand dropping. ‘Please.’ She needed time alone to regroup. So much for her innocent belief that things were easier between them. On the surface their relationship was pleasant, friendly, even. But beneath the surface lurked emotions she didn’t want to stir.

‘If you wish.’ He stripped his jacket off and handed it to her. ‘Unless you’d prefer to play?’

That made her smile. ‘It’s you they want. Go.’ Studiously she ignored the warmth of his jacket over her arm. She made a production of waving him off then leaned against a tree, watching him lope down to the field.

It didn’t surprise her that he sided with the younger players who seemed outclassed by their more experienced rivals. Soraya had seen him with children before. He was a natural, treating them as equals, yet with a patience that made him a good teacher and role model.

She watched him sprint across the field, take the ball almost to the goal and deftly avoid several tackles till a boy of thirteen or so had time to join him. Zahir passed him the ball, then applauded as the boy’s shot at goal missed by a whisker.

Pride surfaced. She
liked
Zahir, admired him. She wondered what he’d be like with his own children. She guessed he’d be fiercely loyal and supportive, a true friend. He’d be the same with the woman he loved.

Soraya caught the direction of her thoughts and slammed them shut with a gasp of horror.

Fixing her gaze on the river glinting beyond the playing field, she focused on the last few licks of her ice-cream and the sound of music filling the dusk.

A tentative voice intruded. ‘Would you care to dance?’ The man’s smile was open and the hand he extended marked by
hard work. She guessed he was a farmer with his craggy, sun-bronzed face. The music beckoned.

Why not? She’d promised herself she’d make the most of these last precious days of freedom. Placing Zahir’s jacket and her bag of purchases on a nearby seat, Soraya took the stranger’s hand.

Zahir felt like a kid again, light-hearted and spontaneous. He was even showing off for the girl in the floaty, floral dress standing in the shade at the edge of the square, as if he had nothing more on his mind than making the most of the day.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way. As if life was simple and full of pleasure, rather than a complicated series of manoeuvres to be plotted carefully, a contest to be won. More and more he felt it, the infectious joy of being with Soraya. As if weighty matters of state weren’t the be-all and end-all of his existence. As if, imperceptibly, his priorities had changed.

The sensation was alluring. Like Soraya.

He glanced up, expecting to see her there, watching, but she’d gone. She was fine, he told himself. She’d be in the square, tasting local delicacies or chatting with someone. But a few minutes later he excused himself and jogged over to where he’d left her.

His jacket lay folded on a chair beside her cloth bag that was filled to the brim with her haul of goodies from the market stalls. He turned and surveyed the crowd. Sure enough, there she was, smiling as she danced with a husky young man. Her joy was infectious, even from this distance, and he wished it was him holding her as they danced over the cobblestones.

But discretion was the better part of valour. Holding Soraya would be inviting trouble. Instead he folded his arms and watched as the sky darkened and the woman who filled his thoughts moved from partner to partner.

‘Time to stop?’ Zahir’s words interrupted her partner’s thanks as the music ended. Soraya swung round, breathing heavily after that last mad polka. In the dim light Zahir loomed. Was that disapproval in his voice? His face was set in harsh lines she hadn’t seen in days.

Instantly resentment stirred. And disappointment. She’d thought they were past the disapproval.

‘Why?’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear then crossed her arms defensively. ‘Because I’m too boisterous? Because it’s not the behaviour of a soon-to-be-queen?’ His gaze bored into hers and, despite her annoyance, secret heat flared. The heat a woman felt for a man. ‘Surely you don’t think I’m flirting?’

‘Nothing like that. You’ve been dancing nonstop and I thought you needed a rest.’ His eyes skimmed the rapid rise of her breasts before he looked away.

‘Sorry.’ She ducked her head. ‘I thought you were taking me to task.’

‘Not surprising, given the way I jumped down your throat initially.’

Surprised, Soraya looked up. One thing about Zahir, he didn’t hide from the facts. Even reminders of his mistakes. He wasn’t like anyone else she knew. Or maybe it was her feelings for him that were unique.

‘Dance with me?’ The moment she said it she realised how much she wanted to.

‘Surely you’ve had enough. Let me buy you a cold drink while we wait for the fireworks.’

Soraya shook her head. She wanted Zahir to hold her. She’d spent a lifetime doing the right thing, was facing a future of duty, and for this day wanted something for herself.

‘Please, Zahir? Just one dance? It’s Bastille Day, after all.’ She held out her arms and after a long moment he took her in his arms, holding her gently and not too close. Even so her senses clamoured in delight as the music struck up and they moved together.

‘You’re not French. Bastille Day means nothing to you.’

‘You’re wrong.’ She fought to keep her voice even when her bloodstream bubbled with pleasure. ‘It’s about liberty. There’s nothing more important than freedom.’

Zahir heard the edge in her voice and tried to read her face in the darkness. She was like fluid quicksilver in his arms. He had to make an effort not to drag her close. Instead he focused on her words.

‘Liberty? You speak as if it’s threatened.’

She didn’t answer for a moment. ‘This is
my
time,’ she said eventually. ‘When I reach Bakhara I won’t be able to do as I want or make my own choices. I’ll be constrained.’

Because she’d be Hussein’s bride.

‘You don’t sound enthusiastic.’

This time her silence was even longer. ‘It’s a great honour to be chosen as the Emir’s bride.’

Yet he heard no pleasure in her voice. Or was it that he didn’t want to hear it? Damn him for his jealousy.

‘You’re right,’ he said at last. ‘Your life will be restricted.’ Hadn’t his own become tightly constrained by duty, loyalty and the demands placed on it? Maybe that explained his dizzying sense of freedom with Soraya. This was a vacation from a life of responsibilities. Yet he couldn’t help suspecting the wonder of it would continue if he had Soraya by his side, always. ‘But there will be benefits. Hussein is a good man. He’ll look after you.’

Though he shied from the thought of them together.

The music ended and they stopped moving in the shadows at the edge of the square. He told himself to let her go but didn’t move. Nor did she.

‘I know he is,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s an enormous step, giving up the life I know.’

Zahir breathed deep, dizzy with her sweet, fresh scent, revelling in the feel of her in his arms.

‘Would you ever consider not going through with it?’

His hoarse words seemed over-loud in the charged silence.
Appalled, he wished he could retract them. What sort of mad, wishful thinking was that?