Drawn in, totally fascinated, she said, 'Tell me about the wedding.'
'When everything is ready, there will be a vast celebration. In the old days tribes would come in from the desert and set up camp. The feasting will go on for weeks, until finally the time comes for the groom to demand entrance to the bride's home, to fight his way through her family to claim his bride, who will be waiting, wrapped in layer upon layer of veils, sitting on a white sheet.'
Even as he described the scene her heart rate was spiralling out of control, and she only managed to hold back the exclamation that sprang to her lips by holding her hand over her mouth. Cold? No way…
'Is something wrong?' Sheikh Fayad asked.
'No,' she managed, resisting the urge to fan her cheeks at the thought of him removing layer after layer of veils, unwrapping her… 'I'm fine. Really,' she said, when he reached forward, poured her a glass of iced water that seemed to evaporate on her tongue. 'You did this? When you married?'
He didn't immediately answer and she backpedalled madly. 'Oh, Lord, please forget I asked that. I can't believe I was so rude. I didn't mean-'
'The bride is expected to fight, too. To bite and kick, protect her virtue with all her strength so that her husband will respect her.'
'And does he?'
Had Hasna fought? she wondered. Could she have looked at this beautiful man and not fallen instantly and whole-heartedly in love with him? Could any woman?
And if, because his respect would be something unbelievably precious, she'd fought him with ever fibre of her being, how had he overwhelmed her?
Even as the question welled up in her mind, she knew the answer. She'd lashed out at him this morning-angry, hurting-and he'd sat with her on her grandmother's bed, just holding her, taking the blows, whispering soft words of comfort, his lips against her hair, her temple, gentling her, calming her. In her head she saw how that scene might eventually unfold with his bride. There would be no force, but patience, a soft voice, quiet kisses, caresses that would open her to him as a flower opened to the light and warmth of the sun.
And she understood exactly what he'd meant when he'd said that he'd done "much more". It wasn't the fact that he'd kissed her. His kiss had been the least of it…
She swallowed, took another sip of water. In a desperate attempt to blot out what was happening in her head, she said, 'Having showered her with jewels, and fought her entire family, the groom then has to overcome his bride, too? He doesn't exactly get it easy, does he?'
Making light of it.
He smiled. 'Interesting. I had assumed your sympathies would be with the bride.'
'Oh, please,' she said quickly. 'It doesn't take a psychologist to work out that this is a well-thought-out strategy to overcome those initial awkward moments.' Then, 'I imagine any bride worth her weight in gold knows exactly the right moment to go all weak and swoony.'
To surrender to her groom's strength, his power, and in doing so claim it for her own.
Just as she had done. Fighting him, furious with him. Blaming him for what had happened one moment. Surrendering to the comfort he offered the next.
'Three generations has done nothing to dilute your understanding, Princess,' Sheikh Fayad said, apparently not making the connection-which should have been a relief but, oddly, was not-and merely amused at her perception. 'You are Arab to the bone.'
'It's just common sense,' she said, not in the least bit amused.
'Maybe,' he said, eyes suddenly thoughtful. 'So? Would you consider such an arrangement?'
'Me? Who's going to seek me out for an arranged marriage? What do I have to offer?' Then, as it clicked, as she realised what all that stuff about his grandfather, what all this had been leading up to, she said, ' Oh, no! No way!' And holding up a hand as if to fend him off, 'That's ridiculous. Really.'
So why, inside her head, was her subconscious saying, Oh, yes! How soon? Really!
'I assure you, Princess, that a marriage between us would make my grandfather the happiest man in the world. It has been his dearest wish that I remarry-he refuses to retire until I do. And you have every quality to recommend you.'
'I don't think so.'
'There is no need for concern, Princess. I was simply explaining why I will have to make an offer. Putting you on your guard against the expectations of my family.'
Oh, right. Well, that was plain enough. He would make the offer because he had no choice. And since, obviously, marriage was the furthest thing from his mind, her role was to get him off the hook and say no.
As if she'd say anything else. They'd only met that morning, for heaven's sake!
So why did she suddenly feel rejected, unwanted, just a little bit…hollow?
'I understand, Sheikh Fayad,' she said.
And she did. No matter that her great-great-grandmother had been Princess Fatima al Sayyid. They came from different worlds and this would never be hers. No matter that they'd already spent more time together than the average Ras al Kawi couple before they got down to business on the white sheet.
'Thank you for taking the time to explain it all so clearly. You need have no concerns.'
He frowned, looked as if he might say something more, but there was a ping, and the seatbelt lights came on, and instead he said, 'We are about to land.'
This time he did not sit with her, hold her hand. Instead Leila came to escort her to a small cabin at the rear of the plane, while he joined his staff in the forward cabin.
She told herself that she did not mind. She'd had the extraordinary privilege of spending time alone with the Sheikh and she would always cherish that. But now they were in Ras al Kawi things would be different.
How different she realised as soon as they'd landed, and she and Leila were left to cool their heels while a carpet was rolled up to the steps.
Sheikh Fayad and his party descended and approached the line of dignitaries waiting to greet him. Only then were Violet and Leila escorted down a separate set of steps that had been brought to the rear exit, where a limousine with tinted windows was waiting. Violet paused a few steps from the ground to take one last look across the tarmac at Sheikh Fayad who, every inch the Prince, was being greeted by the dignitaries. And she felt the strangest sensation of loss.
In London, on the aircraft, they could talk freely. Here, she realised, he was a man set apart. Out of reach.
As she hesitated, one of the men waiting to greet him turned and stared across the tarmac at her. His look was assessing, insolent, a little pleased, even, and for a moment she wished she had been wearing something anonymous, been draped head to foot in one of those black cloaks-an abaya-her face covered in a veil. She was glad that the car windows were tinted, so that as they sped away-no passport or immigration control for members of the Sheikh's party, obviously-she was…secluded.
Fayad faced his grandfather. Anger warred with the respect he owed him. Respect, marginally, won it. 'You cannot do this. The Princess is here as my guest…'
'She is their kin, Fayad. Their daughter. Ahmed al Sayyid is here, waiting to take her to their compound as soon as she has formally returned the Blood of Tariq.'
It was outrageous. 'Her home has been attacked twice already in an attempt to steal the khanjar, and I have no doubt that the Sayyid were behind that.'
'Fayad, please…'
His grandfather raised a hand. With a pang of remorse, he saw that it was shaking. In the short time that he'd been away the old man had deteriorated.
He reached out, took his grandfather's hand, held it.
'The responsibilities of a ruler are to his country, my son, not to an individual. The Sayyid will invoke tradition, and you know they will have support.'