The Governess and the Sheikh (9 page)

‘That was amazing, was it not,
Baba
?' Linah said,
her admiration for her most unusual governess rousing her from her shyness.

Jamil looked at his daughter in surprise. She had not called him
Baba
since she was a small child. His own father had banned the term.
I am a father to all my people, not just you
, Jamil remembered being told pointedly. ‘Amazing, but rather ostentatious,' he agreed curtly, watching the light fade from Linah's eyes, ignoring the tight feeling in his chest, telling himself it was for her own good.

They rode out through the city gates, with Linah on a leading rein, to a sandy paddock enclosed by tall cypress trees. Tethering his horse, Jamil watched while Cassie taught her the rudiments of walking and trotting. His daughter was awkward at first, glancing over each time she made a mistake. Realising that he was making her nervous, Jamil removed himself from her sight. Watching from the cover of one of the trees, he saw her grow in confidence, soon able to attempt a trot round the paddock on her own.

‘Did she not do well?' Cassie said, beaming at her charge, when they rejoined him back at the stables.

‘She shows some ability,' Jamil agreed stiffly. He watched Linah's face fall, saw Cassie frown at him in vexation, and told himself once more that it was for the best, but still he felt unaccountably guilty.

‘Thank your father for most graciously giving up his time,' Cassie said to Linah, ‘for if you do not, he will think his presence unnecessary, and will not come again.'

‘Oh, no,
Baba
, I would not like you to think that. Please will you come again tomorrow?'

‘Affairs of state permitting. Fakir will show you how to rub down your pony,' Jamil said, nodding at his head groom. ‘You must learn to take care of your horse if you are to become a real horsewoman.' When Cassie made to dismount in order to help, however, he shook his head. ‘That mare of yours is still fresh, we'll go for a gallop before the sun is too high.'

Surprised and delighted at the opportunity to put such a beautiful animal through its paces, Cassie waited only until they were back out of the city gates to release her hold. The grey mare needed no urging, flying across the sand with Jamil, mounted on a magnificent black stallion, in hot pursuit.

 

They rode together again the following day, after Linah's lesson, and the next and the next. Away from the confines of the palace, Jamil was a different person. Not just more at ease in the wide, untrammelled space of his desert, but more approachable, too. They found they shared a passion for the natural world, and Cassie's obvious enthusiasm for the harshly vibrant beauty of the desert, so different from the soft green landscape of England, encouraged Jamil into increasingly ambitious expeditions in search of rare plants or obscure species. The time flew by with a speed that surprised them both. Several times Jamil had returned to the palace to find Halim in a lather of worry at his having kept some merchant or visiting dignitary waiting.

Halim did not approve of his prince taking time out from his formal schedule, not even if he did return looking refreshed. Especially, Halim did not approve of Jamil spending that time in the company of his
daughter's English governess, though he was far too circumspect to give voice to such thoughts. People were talking. Such talk would end when Prince Jamil's betrothal to the Princess Adira was made public, so Halim devoted his energy to the arrangements for the ceremony. If they were watertight, this time the prince could not escape them. He would be wed and then life for Halim, and the whole of Daar-el-Abbah, would continue as it had always done.

C
assie woke every morning looking forward to the coming day. Gone was her homesickness, banished were her doubts. Linah flourished under the combined regime of physical and mental exercise, her natural intelligence and surprisingly wry sense of humour were beginning to emerge. While she still shied away from any physical signs of affection, she had twice now allowed herself to be cuddled when waking from a nightmare, and once slipped her little hand into Cassie's on the journey to the stables. The tantrums had abated dramatically. The sulks were not gone, but had become rare. Her behaviour was improving, definitely improving with every passing day.

Though she was not aware of it, for she rarely bothered these days with her looking glass, Cassie, too, was improving every day. Her skin glowed with vitality, tinged with the sun, rosy with health. Her eyes sparkled, the azure of a summer sea with the sun glinting
upon it. She walked with a lighter step. She hummed to herself when sitting sewing in the shade of the lemon tree. She was happy.

She was happy because she was making a difference to Linah. She was happy because she was doing something positive. She was happy because Jamil was pleased with her efforts. She was happy because in Jamil, the man she had come to know, if not yet fully understand, she felt she had found that rare thing—a true friend. The thought made her smile, for Jamil would have scorned it—had he not said that he did not want or need friends? But that made her smile all the more. Of course they were friends. What else could it be, this empathy that had grown up between them, the ease with which they talked, disputed, laughed, the way sometimes they did not even need to do that, content merely to be in each other's company?

‘Friends.' She said the word aloud, as if tasting it, and again, this time more assertively. They could not be anything else. She did not wish it. He did not think of it. At least…

Sometimes, when they were alone in the desert, she caught him looking at her. Sometimes, she looked at him just like that, she suspected. Hungrily. Imagining. Trying not to imagine. Remembering. Trying not to remember. When their hands met accidentally, something akin to a shock surged through her, making her awkward, aware of something not right, something too right. She thought about that kiss in those moments. His lips on hers. His arms around her. She thought about it, then she banished it.

She banished it now, forcing her mind to focus on
her one other concern. Though she and Jamil might be friends, Jamil and Linah were not. Though his attitude towards his daughter had softened, and he showed a real interest in her progress, Jamil seemed to be incapable of showing her any sign of affection. He spoke to his daughter as to an adult. He was a perfectionist, and there was nothing at all wrong with that, save that he praised so rarely and criticised so frequently. Could he not see that the child worshipped the ground he walked on? That one sign of affection would make an enormous difference to her confidence? Tough as his own upbringing must have been, from the very little he had let fall about it, surely there must have been some tender moments for him to recall?

Casting aside her sewing, a sampler she had been making for Linah, Cassie got to her feet. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when everyone took respite in the cool of their rooms, but she was restless. The Scheherazade courtyard was eerily quiet. Looking for a distraction, she remembered that Linah had once mentioned gardens on the eastern side of the palace, old gardens gone to ruin. The idea of a secret wilderness, a neglected and forgotten hide-away, appealed strongly to the romantic side of Cassie's nature. Opening the huge door that led to the corridor, nodding in a friendly way to the guards, she set off in search of it.

 

Jamil could not concentrate on the papers before him. The complicated series of commercial transactions began with the trading of Daar-el-Abbah's diamonds upon the lucrative Dutch market and ended with the
import of some of the new spinning equipment from the British cotton mills. Bills of lading, interest calculations, net costs, gross costs, profit and conversions from one currency to another danced before his eyes. The end result was positive. It always was.

Jamil rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension there. This morning he and Cassie had ridden out to a nearby oasis with Linah, his daughter permitted for the first time to handle her pony without the leading string. She'd done well, sitting straight-backed and riding light-handed, in an excellent imitation of her teacher. He'd been proud of her, but though he formed the words of praise, he could not speak them. Cassie had been unable to hide her disappointment; he saw it in the downturn of her mouth, in the tiny frown instantly smoothed between her fair brows.

Jamil cursed softly under his breath. He would not let this woman's disapproval dictate his actions. He had learned the hard way just how important it was not to let anyone know what he was feeling—that he even had feelings—for feelings could be exploited. They were a weakness. For her own good, Linah should be taught the same lesson.

But, increasingly, he found it hard not to show just the sort of weakness his father had been so keen to eradicate. It had been easier, when Linah was not so often in his company. Now, with his daughter's endearing personality imprinting itself upon him every day, thanks to Cassie, it was proving difficult to maintain the barriers that had been so hard built. Sometimes he felt as if Cassie was determined to remove them
brick by brick. To expose him. Sometimes he appalled himself by wanting to help her.

Abandoning his papers, Jamil got to his feet and wandered out into the courtyard. The heat was stifling. Even the ever-industrious Halim had retired for the afternoon. In search of distraction, he found himself wandering in the direction of the schoolroom, only to be informed by the guards that Cassie had left, half an hour before. It was not like her to go off unchaperoned like that. Slightly concerned, Jamil set off in search, tracing her meandering path through the endless corridors of the palace by way of the various sets of guards she had passed.

The trail went cold at the entrance to the east wing, where he paused, his frown deepening. The large oak door with its heavy iron grille was closed. There was no reason to think she would have opened it, save the fact that he knew there was no other way for her to have gone without being noticed. No guard stood at this door. No one, to Jamil's knowledge, had passed beyond the door for years. Eight years. Eight years, six months and three days to be precise. Since the day Jamil had come to the throne of Daar-el-Abbah, exactly one week after his father had died.

Just looking at the implacable door made Jamil's heart pound as if his blood were thick and heavy. There was no reason for Cassie to have entered the courtyard. No reason for him to have expressly forbidden it, either. He had locked the memories away long since. But now, looking through the grille to the dusty ante-room beyond, he knew that was exactly what she had done.

He didn't want to go in there. He really, really didn't want to. But he didn't want Cassie there, either. His palms sweating, his fingers shaking, Jamil opened the door and stepped in, back, over the threshold of his adulthood into the dark recesses of his childhood.

 

She'd found the door after following many false trails and dead ends. She'd known it must be the one, from the rusty look of the key. That there had been a key in the lock at all surprised her. That it turned, gratingly and reluctantly, had excited her, but then she stepped inside and the overpowering air of melancholy descended like a thick black cloak.

It was a beautiful place, a completely circular courtyard with a dried-up fountain, the marble cracked and stained, the ubiquitous lemon trees grown huge and wild, jasmine and something that looked very like clematis, but could not be, flowering with wild abandon around the courtyard's colonnaded terrace. Dried leaves covered the mosaic floor. She heard the unmistakable scuttling of small creatures as she crossed it slowly. The fountain's centrepiece, which she had at first thought to be a lion cub, she now realised must be a baby panther. She had not seen the panther fountain in Jamil's private courtyard, but he had once described it to her, mockingly. This must be its counterpart, which meant that this must be the rooms of the young Crown Prince Jamil, shut up and left to crumble into ruin, as if he had turned his back not only on his childhood, but his past.

Cassie shuddered. The stark contrast of the dull tiles, the weeds that grew between the cracks in the floor,
the general air of sullen neglect, with the rest of the pristinely cared for palace, was unbearable. Sensitive as she was to ambiance, she could almost taste the ache of unhappiness in the air. Wandering over to another solid-looking door, she peered through the grille and caught a glimpse of the secret garden. Far from the pretty wilderness she had imagined, this one was barren, arid, with skeletal trees, the bark shed in layers like skin, with thickets of some barbarous thorny shrub covering the entire ground area, like a spiky, mottled carpet.

She should not be here. It was too private a place, too redolent with intimate memories. Instinctively, she knew that Jamil would be mortified by her presence. Yet instinctively, too, she felt that here lay the key to his relationship—or lack of it—with his daughter. If she could find it—if she could understand—then surely…

Holding the hem of her gown clear of the detritus that covered the courtyard floor, Cassie picked her way carefully to the doorway of the apartments. Like all the palace suites, they followed the shape of the courtyard, a series of rooms opening out, one on to the other. The divans had been abandoned, their rich coverings simply left to rot. Lace, velvet, silk and organdie lay in tatters. The mirrored tiles of the bathing room were blistered, the huge white bath, sunk into the floor, yellowed and cracked. She found a silver samovar with a handle in the shape of an asp, tarnished and bent. A notebook, the pages filled with a neat, tiny hand in Arabic, which stopped abruptly half-way down one page. When she picked it up, the spine cracked, the cover page separated.

Careless now of her gown, overcome with the
melancholy of the place, Cassie wandered into the last room. A sleeping divan, the curtains collapsed on the bed. An intricately carved chest. On the wall above it, hanging on a hook, what looked like an ornamental riding crop. She took it down, admiring the chased-silver handle decorated with what looked like emeralds. Obviously ceremonial. How had it come to be left here?

‘What in the name of all the gods do you think you're doing? Put that down immediately.'

Cassie jumped. The riding crop fell to the ground with a clatter. Jamil kicked it under the carved chest. His face looked thunderous, brows drawn in a straight line, meeting across his nose, his mouth thinned, the planes of his cheekbones standing out sharply, like the rugged contours of the desert mountains.

‘Well?'

‘I thought—I heard about a secret garden. I wanted to see it.'

‘Well, now you have, so you can leave.'

His eyes blazed with anger, though his tone was icy cold. She was afraid. Not of him, but of the pain she could see etched into his handsome countenance. ‘Jamil…'

‘You should not have come here.'

His tone was bleak, his eyes echoing his mood. She could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the tightness of his voice. ‘They were yours, these rooms, weren't they?' Cassie asked softly.

‘These are the traditional apartments of the crown prince. Mine. Before me, my father's. And before him, my grandfather's.'

‘So this is one tradition you definitely intend to break with?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You obviously don't intend any son of yours to stay here, or else you would not have allowed the place to fall into such decline,' Cassie said, with a sweeping gesture towards the derelict courtyard. ‘If—
when
—I have a son, he will have—he will be given…' Jamil faltered, swallowing hard. ‘No.' He shook his head, shading his eyes with his hands. ‘No. As you say, this is one tradition that ends with me.'

‘I'm glad.' Cassie laid a hand tentatively upon his arm. ‘This is not a happy place, I can tell.'

‘No,' Jamil replied with a grim look, ‘happiness was a commodity in short supply here.' The hand he used to run his fingers through his auburn hair was trembling. ‘Discipline, honour, strength—they are what matter.'

‘Infallibility.'

‘Invincibility. My motto. My fate.' His shoulders slumped. He sank down on to the lid of the chest suddenly, as if his legs would no longer support him. ‘Here is where I was taught it. A hard lesson, but one I have not forgotten.' He dropped his head into his hands.

Jamil was a man who had until now appeared as invulnerable as a citadel, with all the power of an invincible army. Seeing him so raw, so exposed, all Cassie yearned to do was to comfort and to heal. Careless of all else, she crouched down and cradled his head, smoothing the ruffled peaks of his hair back into a sleek cap, stroking the cords of tension in his neck, the knotted sinews of his shoulders, his spine. Jamil stilled, but did not move. She drew him closer, wrapping her
arms around him, oblivious of the awkwardness of her own cramping limbs, thinking only somehow to ease the hurt, the deep-buried hurt that clung to him now like a dark aura.

She whispered soothing nothings and she held him close, closer, pressing tiny fluttering kisses of comfort on to the top of his head, enveloping his hard, tense lines with her softness. They stayed thus for a long time, until gradually she felt him relax, until he moved his head, and she realised, almost at the same time as he did, that it was nestled against her breasts. She became conscious of his body not as something to be comforted, but as something to be desired. Her own body responded alarmingly, heating, her nipples hardening. He stirred in her arms and she released him, blushing, looking away, concentrating on standing up, shaking out the leaves and twigs and dirt from her skirts.