Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (15 page)

A knock on the door announces the arrival of Kadar, who seems to have become my personal escort. Walking alongside the prince – again followed by the ever-present guard – I’m taken out of the palace and into the scorching sunshine which emphasises how far removed from home I am. Fuck! I’m an ordinary twenty-five-year-old Englishwoman. I work, eat, sleep the same as everyone else. I moan about the UK weather and watch the news with curiosity but with no real empathy for things happening at the other side of the world. So how the bloody hell have I ended up here? Caught up in a drama of my own, thousands of miles away from everything I know? This cannot be happening! But my eyes, ears and other senses assure me that it is. I won’t be waking up from this nightmare any time soon. Or for the next five years, for that matter.

Since the extraordinary meeting with the princes, I’ve been in a state of disbelief, almost managing to convince myself that someone, at some point, is going to leap out and shout ‘
Candid Camera
!’ at me, but now, as Kadar leads me across to a helicopter waiting on the helipad, everything starts to seem all too real. My eyes fill with tears. I falter and stop.
What the hell am I thinking? I can’t do this.
No way on earth can I marry a man I’ve never met in a country with customs I don’t understand. What’s going to happen to me? How am I going to be treated?
My gut churns at the thought of being taken to the desert; the place conjures up no romantic fantasies for me. As a wave of nausea rises I turn, looking for somewhere to run.

Kadar places his hand on my arm, holding me firmly, as if he’s read my mind, preventing any escape. “Come,” he says, his voice rough. With a secure grip, he pulls me forwards to the transportation waiting to take me to my fate.

Before I can protest, he lifts me in his strong arms and I’m seated and belted up in the helicopter. Trapped. The pilot wastes no time in getting going. The strange sensation as we rise into the air makes my stomach heave, but once we’ve levelled out I’m slightly better, although unable to enjoy what turns out to be quite a long flight. With no watch or phone, I have no idea of how much time is passing. There’s nothing to do but stare out at the scenery below, which is simply miles and miles of nothing. I see no beauty in the desolate desert we’re flying over. Like my thoughts, it resembles a sea of despair. The pilot has given me headphones, but I’m obviously not tuned into the same channel as the pilot and Kadar seated in front of me. They hold conversations that I cannot hear, and I’ve no opportunity to ask any more questions, or plead my case further. As we travel over the endless sand, I drift into a mindset of disbelief, completely unable to accept this is happening to me.

Eventually, I feel a slight change in our orientation, and see that we’re flying lower. There seems to be a kind of encampment ahead, and as much as I’ve found the journey monotonous and boring, I’ve now got no desire for it to end. My brain’s suspended animation comes crashing back to life with the thought that I don’t want to arrive at our destination, nor do I want to face what’s waiting for me there. As the decrease in altitude signals we’re coming into land, my nausea returns with a vengeance. The helicopter circles then hovers before finally coming gently to rest, allowing me, in those last few moments in flight, to see a small camp surrounded by an oasis. There’s water and a handful of palm trees. I’d expected somewhere bigger, certainly more than the thirty or so tents I count. Beyond, there’s nothing but sand in either direction.
Jesus, is this my new home?
Despite the space, it already makes me feel claustrophobic. So alien, so unlike anything I’ve ever known before. I want to beg them to turn the helicopter around. As my panic rises, I barely feel the jolt that signals we’ve touched down.

Kadar comes to the door. He tries to undo my harness but I grasp it tightly, not wanting to leave the last piece of the twenty-first century that’s in sight. I shake my head, words failing me as I see the determination in his eyes. He’s not going to save me. His job is to deliver me, and plainly he takes his job seriously. Firmly prising my fingers from the safety belt surrounding me, he undoes the harness, frees me, and then offers his hand to steady me and help me out. Fighting back tears and taking a deep breath, I realise I have no option but to step down on to the baking sand.

Taking my eyes away from Kadar, I turn to face the crude-looking camp, unable to miss the reception party of half a dozen robed men and, behind them, a small group of women. In my fear of what is going to happen to me, I’d forgotten Kadar’s high status in this country. But I get a stark reminder as the assembled crowd all bow deeply from the waist when he turns to face them – all except one man waiting behind the others, tall and upstanding in his white robes, who merely dips his head briefly in a subdued mark of respect for the crown prince.

Wasting no time, Kadar leads me forward to the man standing apart from the others.

“Sheikh Nijad.” Kadar nods to his brother, seemingly using the two words succinctly to serve as both acknowledgement and my introduction.

Just like that, I’m presented to my husband-to-be. The desert air is hot and dry, but that’s not what’s preventing me breathing; it’s the man in front of me. He is wearing a headdress which obscures most of his face, but my gaze is drawn to his dark eyes examining me, and then to his mouth where his lips are compressed. His face is lean, much like his brother’s, and while his features favour those of the friendlier Jasim, his expression mirrors Kadar’s, stern and almost cruel. He is just as tall as his brothers; I barely reach to his shoulder. Feeling thoroughly intimidated, goosebumps rise on my skin, even though the sun is blazing down. Nervously I wait. He continues his lazy appraisal, but makes no immediate move to welcome me or to put me at my ease. I take a step closer to Kadar before I realise what I’ve done, unconsciously seeking the comfort of the known, scared of the formidable sheikh staring so intently at me.

Nijad

So this is the woman. My future wife. She looks so slight and frail, as if the desert wind could blow her over. Not that I can see very much at all; her veil covers all but her eyes, which are a pretty enough blue, but clearly show her fear and apprehension, wide open, with dilated pupils. I scowl, having to force the pity for the woman standing in front of me to the back of my mind and remember the reason she is here. She’s here for vengeance. This is the woman I’m expected to break and bend to my will, as the only way to keep her alive. This fucking marriage has to go ahead whatever her feelings about it or, for that matter, my own. I realise my thoughts have made my face grow fierce as she steps back, seeking the protection of Kadar, as if I’d struck her. Her wary movement brings me to my senses. Even if I can’t muster any particular feeling of empathy for the woman I’m going to be forced to live with, I’ve no wish to frighten her more than she is already. Fear is a tool but, like any other, there’s a right time and place to use it. I make an effort to sound sociable and friendly, something I’ve not had much practice in over the past three years. My voice is low and rumbling, and as non-threatening as I can make it, as I tell her “Welcome”. I accompany my words with a slight bow of my head.

After only a second’s hesitation, she returns a matching bow and stutters out a quick “Thank you”. Her response pleases me. I could have expected her to rail against her fate, but my brothers appear to have cowed her sufficiently; she seems to have no fight left in her.

The brief exchange of courtesies is the signal Kadar’s been waiting for. He claps his hand on my shoulder, gaining my attention. “Nijad, I need to talk to you.” He raises his eyebrows, awaiting my response. I nod, knowing there are formalities to complete.

“Indeed brother. You will take refreshment?” As he indicates his agreement, I turn my attention back to the woman. I wave my hand towards the small group waiting patiently behind me. “Go with the women,” I tell her. “You will be brought to me later.”

It’s impossible to miss the flash of panic in her eyes which flick quickly between the women waiting to my rear and me, but I’ve told her what I want her to do. Forgetting she’s a woman from Western society, I expect her to obey me without question. I’m already following Kadar when I feel her hand on my arm, stopping me. I can’t help it: I go rigid making me realise I’ve been in the desert too long as the contact takes me by surprise. Here the accepted protocols mean that no one touches a prince without invitation. Her hand drops away as she grasps she shouldn’t have tried to attract my attention in that way. I know I'm a bastard. It’s not her fault that she’s here, or that she doesn’t know our ways. I turn back, giving her the opportunity to speak, tilting my head to show I’m listening.

She stares into my eyes. I see her eyes flit back and forth showing there’s a myriad of questions she wants to ask me, but as the intelligent woman her reputation suggests she is, she dismisses most of them. There’s no point in further protestation; what will be, will be. Both of us have to accept that. When she, at last, selects the question she wants to ask, her voice is soft, melodious, but shaking. She’s scared of me. She has to swallow before asking, “When will the wedding be?”

My eyes narrow. She’s expecting time to prepare. Time neither of us has. I give a short, mirthless laugh when I reply with the answer that’s as distasteful to me as it is to her. “You have already signed the marriage contract. I’m going to add my signature now. In a few minutes, we will be man and wife. There is no need for a celebration. In the circumstances, festivities are, perhaps, inappropriate.” I raise my eyebrows as I look down at her, daring her to disagree.

Glancing around at the group of women, I wave towards the one who I know has a good command of English. “Go with Lamis now,” I tell her, and then pause. My voice low and commanding I add, to ensure this time she obeys, “Go with the women. They will prepare you for your sheikh.”

Walking away, without bothering to make sure she’s complied with my instruction, I go to the tent where Kadar is waiting for me. Without invitation, he’s folded himself down so he’s half-lying on the cushions and has spread out a document on the low table in front of him. As I take my place opposite, I watch him smooth the paper out with his hands and turn it so the writing is towards me. Looking up into my face, he takes out a pen and passes it over. I shut my eyes briefly before picking it up, wishing I could avoid this situation but knowing there is nothing I can do but my duty. It isn’t just that the emir has decreed it; I see for myself, daily, the volatility of the tribes and I know they would be out for blood were I not to take the woman for my wife. I pick up the pen and scrawl my signature. There: it’s done. We are now man and wife. Sheikh and Sheikha.

“It’s well done, brother.”

With my head still bowed over the contract I glance up at my oldest brother through my eyelashes. “It keeps the peace.” Suddenly I’m curious. “What do you make of her, Kadar?”

Rubbing his hand over his short beard, he takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “She’s out of her depth, as we knew she would be, but she has an inner strength.” He gives a short laugh. “She preferred marriage over death.”

Personally, I don’t think that’s an alternative at all, but then she doesn’t know me. I want to find out. “Did you tell her about me?”

He shakes his head. “No, she’s scared enough already without informing her of your reputation. The story’s long buried now; she didn’t recognise your name.” He shuffles his robe around him. “You have to control her, Nijad. We can’t afford a loose cannon. I don’t care how you do it, but you must make sure she toes the line.”

I feel sick to the depths of my stomach. Yes, I’ve proved I can be violent towards a woman, but I still resent the fact that’s how people know me nowadays, and that the tribes think marriage to the savage sheikh is a punishment worse than death. And it galls me that this woman is in a bad enough place already, without adding the threat of a potentially violent man into the mix. “I’ll do what I have to do,” I answer. It’s all I can promise.

The flap of the tent is pulled open and in steps a man I’ve not seen for three years. It’s Jon Tharpe, my ex-bodyguard from Grade A. I hadn’t taken notice of who’d been piloting the helicopter today, but I gather now it had been him. I stand to greet him, my arms hanging loosely by my sides. In another time, we’d have exchanged man hugs or, at the very least, shaken hands. I realise from the look on his face he hasn’t forgiven me; he is frowning as if this meeting is distasteful.

“I didn’t realise you were in Amahad, Jon.” He can’t refuse to answer a sheikh, but I can tell he doesn’t want a conversation with me.

“I’m covering for Harry,” he tells me directly. “I was asked to bring your wife to you.” His mouth twists, letting me know without words that he knows the reason that she is here and, being English, finds it abhorrent. The person I was three years ago would have agreed with him. The person I am now? I can’t deny the desert is in my blood. Life is harsher here, and death is commonplace, caused by the whims of nature, the lack of accessible medical care and, not least, the jihadists trying to cross the border. It makes a man look differently at the world.

Stepping towards Kadar, he hands him a parcel. My brother nods as he takes it. With a dip of his head, Jon takes his leave of the crown prince. Sparing just a glance in my direction, he makes no further acknowledgement as he leaves me alone with my brother. I sigh, regretting the loss of his friendship. He found me with Chantelle, saw the injuries I’d inflicted. He, more than anyone, knew exactly what I did, and what I am capable of.