Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (28 page)

I sense she’s interested and, as I answer her many questions, she gradually starts to relax. She’s attentive, hanging on my every word. The issues she raises are pertinent, and she quickly picks up on some of the many problems. I can’t imagine any other woman I’ve known wanting to acquire so much detail about how the people of my country live. When she asks about Rais I find myself relating stories of escapades from our youth, realising I hadn’t thought about those simple pleasures for years. I start to see the desert and my environment through her eyes and, for the first time since my banishment, become aware of the beauty around us. The feelings of claustrophobia and suffocation that have been with me since the desert became my prison, begin to dissipate.

As we get closer to our destination, I realise she’s so engrossed in thinking through what I’m telling her, she doesn’t notice that we’re arriving at the other camp. My friend is coming forward to meet us. I notice the exact moment her eyes fall on him: she pulls Sakin up abruptly, and lets out a quiet squeak of concern. I glance at her, and then at the approaching tribal leader. After a second I appreciate what she is seeing, a fierce-looking, heavily bearded man with a serious-looking scimitar tucked into his belt. His customary expression would not, to an outsider, look particularly friendly. I grin.

“Sheikh Rais.” I greet him cheerily as he approaches, ignoring the fact that he looks like he is about to kill someone, and that he wouldn’t be particular as to who it was. I know the man underneath.

“Sheikh Nijad.” Rais bows then quickly straightens, having given me only a cursory gesture of respect. He casts a disdainful eye over Cara and then speaks rapidly to me in Arabic. I answer in the same guttural dialect. We exchange fierce-sounding sentences back and forth, and I’m aware Cara has moved her mare closer to Amal. Eventually Rais turns, and I notice the bow he gives her is more deferential than the one he afforded me. I narrow my eyes possessively.

“Sheikha. You are welcome.” Rais even smiles. The expression transforms his face, exposing his rugged handsomeness.

I move Amal slightly forward, sending a clear message of possession. Rais’s eyes flick to mine and open wide, and then he grins. He doesn’t miss a thing.

“Thank you,” she answers him, in such a relieved way; she sounds immensely grateful to have escaped being beheaded on the spot.

We dismount, and Rais calls two of his men to take care of the horses. He indicates that we should follow him. I glance at my guards, and gesture that they should fall in behind us. When I arranged the meeting with Rais on the phone, he told me he’d gathered several of the other leaders here today, and until I verify exactly which ones are present, I want to make sure Cara is competely protected. As we walk after the sheikh, Cara pulls me back and says in a harsh whisper, “I want to learn the language. Can I?”

I nod, pleased with her proposal.

“I’d like that. I’ll get you a tutor in the desert city. But why mention it now?”

“So I can understand when someone’s insulting me,” she hisses. “Or when you’re discussing me with your friends.”

Fuck, this woman can make me laugh. “You’ll have an incentive to learn fast then. And I’ll have to make sure everyone knows to get their insults out of the way before you do.”

“So he was being rude about me?”

I take her hand; the truth is exactly the opposite.

“No,” I tell her gently, pulling her forward so I can kiss her forehead. “He was telling me how lucky I am to have such a beautiful bride.”

I can tell she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not, but Rais has stopped, waiting for us to catch up. He leads us to the main tent they use for meetings, and one of his men opens the flap with a flourish. I catch Rais’s eye before I enter, and don’t like the gleam in it. As soon as I’m inside I see what he has neglected to tell me. Six of the tribal leaders are present. Five of them bow deeply at our entrance; the sixth makes a token gesture of greeting and scowls at Cara: Sheikh Abdul-Muhsi, staunch Muslim and known objector to the modernisations the ruling Kassis family are bringing to Amahad. I pull myself up tall, my bearing reflecting the prince that I am, knowing I can’t afford to show any weakness in front of this man. I bow slightly in acknowledgement of the presence of the leaders, and indicate the woman at my side.

“Sheikhs, may I present my wife, Sheikha Cara al Kassis.”

Three bow to her, two stare with interest in their eyes. The last man gives a look and a snort of distain. He gives voice to his feelings.

“She should be dead. Your father is weak.”

Grateful that Cara cannot understand his Arabic, I send him a fierce look.

“The tribes agreed to the punishment. You have your money returned, and your honour. The daughter of your enemy is married to me. Let that be an end to it.” My hand slashes angrily through the air to emphasise my point.

Abdul-Muhsi is not giving up that easily. “You’ve bedded the bitch, we all know that.” There are a few sniggers and laughs. “That traitor’s bloodline should have been stamped out. She may even now be incubating another charlatan inside her …”

I interrupt. “Any child will carry my blood.”

“So the future prince of the southern desert will be half thief, half
savage? Pah! What a combination.” He turns to see whether he has the support of the others, but at his words there are gasps.

Rais starts to step forward, but it’s my place to contain this. I keep my voice low, but the visible tension in my body, and my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, can leave no doubt as to the extent of my anger.

“You will leave us now, Sheikh Abdul-Muhsi. You have insulted the Crown, your prince, and my wife. If you wish to discuss this further, we will do so. Outside. With swords.”

Abdul-Muhsi blanches. My reputation as a swordsman is renowned; the skills I’d learned from fencing at Oxford, honed by the close-combat training in the military, fuelled by myths I am all but unbeatable. With his fat belly visibly protruding beneath his robe I’d run him through before he managed to draw his sabre from its scabbard. When he glances around for support and meets with a positive response from no one, he grumbles and gets to his feet. He’s going to leave, but before he gets to the entrance he turns and has one more go.

“This is not the last of this.
Prince
!” he sneers.

My temper gets the better of me. My hands grab his robe and roughly pull him close. Face-to-face, I tell him, “If one person from your tribe, or anyone you’ve enlisted to your outmoded vicious ways, harms a hair on the head of my wife I
will
come after you and there will be nowhere for you to hide. I will take my time killing you.” Before I let him go, I give him a wicked smile. “I am, after all, the savage sheikh!”

His mouth opens and shuts like a beached fish as he goes through the process of wondering whether he should make a comeback or retreat. Sensibly deciding not to push me further, he stumbles out of the tent and is gone.

“Look to your wife,” Rais says softly as he walks past me and takes a seat with his peers.

I turn and see her face has gone completely white. When I reach for her hand she’s trembling. She might not understand what was said, but I suspect she got the gist of it. Abdul-Muhsi’s hatred was palpable. I squeeze her fingers with mine, and lead her further into the tent.

At the far end of the impressive structure there is a raised dais, and as the prince today I will take this seat while Rais joins the other sheikhs sitting cross-legged on the floor. I sit, and indicate to Cara to settle at my feet. She seats herself demurely and lowers her eyes to the floor, remembering the expectation of her behaviour in which I’ve instructed her.

Leaning forwards, I whisper into her ear and remind her of the nature of the proceedings. “The sheikhs will take the opportunity to ask my advice on issues that are of importance to them.”

She mumbles quietly and I strain to hear her. “But what about that other man?”

I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. He’s not important.” While saying the words to calm her, I do have a lingering concern, and make a note to tell the emir about the altercation. He won’t be pleased that I’ve threatened one of the tribal leaders, but neither will he be particularly happy with the veiled threats to the Crown. Abdul-Muhsi has voiced criticisms of the emir’s approach to government before, such as when a licence was granted to open the first casino in the capital city of Al-Qur’ah. But today he surpassed himself.

I leave my hand on her shoulder, keeping the connection between us, and throw a nod of thanks towards Rais as he approaches with Fuad, his teenage nephew, a bright boy who’s going to act as translator for Cara. After he’s settled beside her, the proceedings commence, and I start to hear the issues of concern to the men surrounding us, and adjudicate on them. Fuad translates the issues and my resolution.

Cara’s head lifts as the afternoon progresses, and I feel her hand on my thigh giving me support when my judgment is not welcomed, particularly when the protests are quite vehement. I’ve been holding such adjudications since I first came to the desert and know enough not to bow to pressure unless the contrary argument holds validity, needing to be fair, but not weak. Some of the problems are minor and would be thought laughable in the Western world, but here needed to be taken seriously and with a straight face. A couple of times she whispers to me, making a point that I have overlooked. I welcome her intelligent contribution. For the first time since I took on this responsibility three years ago, I don’t resent my participation.

I notice Rais looking at her thoughtfully throughout and once, when I meet his gaze, he nods in approval.

Cara

Our visit to Sheikh Rais sets the pattern for the remainder of our time in the desert. Most days Nijad takes me to meet some of the other tribes, anxious to introduce me as his new wife as widely as possible. Relieved that no one else shows anything like the open animosity of the rude man who I’d learned was Abdul-Muhsi, I gradually begin to feel more comfortable meeting these people who eke out their meagre existence in the harsh desert environment. My marriage to Sheikh Nijad seems, luckily, to have largely satisfied their desire for revenge, and for the most part they greet me in a friendly but curious manner. For some of the tribespeople, I’m obviously the first Caucasian women they’ve have contact with. As I gain a better understanding of the pattern of life here, I find myself owning some shame that I carry the blood of the man who defrauded them, appreciating how hard it must have been both to find the funds to finance the project, and to handle the disappointment when liquid gold was not found to be running beneath the desert sands. At least the bride price recompensed any financial loss, and for that I’m glad I could play my part.

Although the luxuries of the palace in Z̧almā tempt me, once I get under a real shower I’ve already decided I’ll be there for hours! I’m grateful for the chance to live among, and get to know, the people over whom Nijad rules. His role as sheikh of the southern desert is an important one and, as sheikha, I’ve become proud to be at his side supporting him.

How is it possible that life can change so dramatically in such a short period? My days no longer revolve around computers and investigations, nor am I trapped in my home in the cold winter weather in England. Instead, I’m the wife of a powerful desert sheikh. It’s unbelievable; who would have thought Nijad and I would be so compatible? Enjoying each other’s company by day and, at night, or, to be honest, at any time of the day whenever we get a chance, enjoying each other’s bodies. Our incredible lovemaking goes way beyond the expectations raised by the romance novels I used to read.
How did I get so lucky?

I’m so busy settling into my new life, I’ve barely given any thought at all to command central and the computer I left ticking away still doing its business. Likewise, Nijad doesn’t talk about his life before he came to the desert; it’s a topic that we both steer clear of, as if our pasts have no relevance today. The desert suits us; it’s as though here, at this time, is where we are both meant to be.

Life is so different. As well as being involved in his business with the tribal leaders, Nijad’s been showing me the pleasures living in the desert. Once he even produced a dune buggy from God knows where and took me for hair-raising rides over the dunes. Smiling, I remember how he offered to teach me to drive it, surprised that I’d never learned to drive a car, and under his patient tutoring I was soon taking on the dunes.

We ride the horses practically every day and, as a result, my muscles are developing and I feel far more confident in my body. I have grown to love the placid Sakin who, surprisingly, has a great turn of speed. I relish the brisk gallops in the cooler early morning or evening air. One night we rode out into the desert, and Nijad showed me the stars as we lay back on the sand which still held warmth from the day’s sun.

Thanks to Nijad I now have a self-assurance that makes me stand taller. My skin is better, the exposure to the sun helping heal my scarring to the extent that even I have to admit the scars are hardly visible now. I’ve developed a glowing, healthy tan, and the exercise has toned my physique. Inside and out I’ve changed.
It’s strange
:
this new life I could never have expected, this happiness, is all down to my hated father.