'They have a medieval attitude to women. Their wives are kept behind high walls, their daughters are not allowed to go to school…'
'That is their way. I cannot defy them in this.'
But Fayad could, and would when the time came.
'Violet is giving up something of great value and asking for nothing in return except my protection. And I will protect her. It is a matter of honour.'
'We both know that there is only one way you can do that. But I warn you, if they believe you are attached to this woman, their dowry demands will put her beyond price.'
'They will dare ask for the Blood of Tariq?' Even as he said it, he knew that was their aim. They had not managed to steal the khanjar, but their spies would have informed them of every move he'd made in London. What had happened between him and Violet. Their outrage at their kinswoman's ruined honour would know no bounds. They did not care about her, but they would demand marriage, knowing that he could not refuse. And they would demand the Blood of Tariq as dowry.
His grandfather sighed. 'I'm sorry, Fayad. My hands are tied. Since they demand it, I have no choice but to surrender her to her family.'
He understood. He might rail against it, but to undermine the claim of family would be to deny the law, and his assurance, so confidently asserted, that a bride was free to choose now rang hollow in his ears.
Neither of them would have a choice.
To refuse the Sayyid terms would leave her a virtual prisoner in their compound. Beyond his reach.
He could not, would not, allow that to happen- even for a day.
There was no time to wonder, to marvel at the beauty of the palace, the exquisite arches, decorative tiling. No time to wonder at its size, spreading across the broad hilltop.
Below them lay the city, where wind towers, domes, delicate minarets sprawled down to a wide sweeping bay. Leila had pointed out landmarks.
The recently completed air-conditioned shopping mall. A new hotel with a glass atrium. The gold souk…
'What is that?' Violet had asked, as they'd climbed higher and she'd seen the remains of a cliff-top fortress.
'That?' Leila had shrugged. 'It's the Portuguese tower. It's just a ruin. There's nothing there,' she'd said, dismissing history with a careless gesture.
'It's all so much greener than I expected.'
'We have many parks. There-that is the souk. The market…' Parks were clearly not Leila's idea of a good time, either.
And then they'd driven through gates set in a high wall, guarded by armed men, and "green" had taken on an entirely new meaning.
Unlike European palaces, it was not one huge building but a series of small arched and domed buildings, grouped around colonnaded courtyards, each with a garden, trees. Formal pools were connected by a narrow continuous rill. Everywhere was shaded, scented by roses, jasmine, flowering shrubs that she had never seen before.
As they stepped from the air-conditioned car, the warmth, the intensity of the evening scents, wrapped themselves about her, and she felt like a flower opening to the sun. She turned slowly, taking in the exquisite tiled arches, the clear sky, now turning a darker blue as the sun sank behind distant mountains.
'It's so beautiful,' she said, but as she took a step towards the pool Leila restrained her.
'There's no time. You have to get ready to meet the Emir.'
They walked up marble steps into a vestibule spread with fine carpets. Leila kicked off her shoes and nodded approvingly when Violet followed her example.
'This is to be your house,' she said, hurrying her through a series of ornate reception rooms until they reached a private suite of sitting room, bedroom, bathroom. 'Make yourself comfortable, then I will prepare you for the Emir's majlis.'
'Majlis?'
'It is where he sits so that people can come and talk to him. Drink coffee. Appeal for his help. All the tribal leaders and heads of important families will be there today, to see the Blood of Tariq.'
Violet felt a sudden qualm. A surge of something rather more heavy-footed than butterflies stampeding through her stomach. A nervousness that was not eased when, having persisted in her determination to apply more make-up, Leila lifted a loose outer robe over her head and let it drop to the floor over her clothes.
It was cut from dark blue silk, embroidered in gold thread at hem and wrist, slit at the side. Ornate. Simple.
'This is a thaub. A traditional outer garment.'
'It's exquisite.'
'You will wear a scarf?' Without waiting for an answer, Leila loosely draped a long matching scarf over her head. It was woven from a silk so fine that it appeared to defy gravity, almost to float as the air was stirred by a slowly turning ceiling fan.
'Beautiful,' Leila said.
'It's lovely,' Violet agreed. She knew cloth, and understood that this was something rare, beyond anything she could ever afford.
'Not the scarf. You, Princess.' She fiddled with the tail of a comb until Violet's face was framed in a dark curve of hair. 'You are beautiful.'
'No…'
Unusual. Dramatic. That was the kindest thing anyone had ever said about her looks. Even her grandmother.
Her nose was too big, her brows too strong, and her eyes were the wrong colour… And yet made up this way, her hair shining like polished ebony, her face gently framed in the soft folds of the scarf, it seemed as if suddenly everything had fallen into place. Everything…fitted.
'Good. Hurry. The car is waiting…'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fayad paced the small lobby, waiting for Violet to arrive. There would be so little time to explain. Then, as the door opened, he turned and caught his breath, felt his heart seize at the sight of her.
Again.
She kicked off her shoes as naturally as if she'd been doing it all her life, stepped inside and stood, her head on one side, waiting for him to speak.
Speech was not enough. He touched his fingers to his forehead, his heart, bowed to her beauty, her honour, her courage. 'You are, in every sense of the word, a princess, Violet Hamilton.' Then, 'Give me your hands.'
She held them out and he picked up the Blood of Tariq and placed it across her palms, held his own hands beneath them.
'By this act, Princess, you honour your family. They should be proud to call you daughter.'
'Should? That suggests they might not be best pleased that I'm surrendering this to you.'
He did not want to frighten her with the truth, but since she was not a fool he tilted his head, acknowledging that she might have a point.
'Will I meet them? Will they be here?'
'Ahmed al Sayyid, patriarch of his tribe-your tribe-is sitting at my grandfather's right hand.' And given the slightest opportunity, he thought, would seize the chance to move over and drag his country back into the Dark Ages. His sons would be there, too. And if he failed to surrender the Blood of Tariq, she would be doubtless given to one of those cousins as a wife. Without the option to say no… 'He will expect you to bow to him, acknowledge him.'
'But I shouldn't expect a hug and a Hi, kid, welcome home…?'
'I'm afraid not.' Then, because time was short, 'My grandfather is sitting at the far end of the majlis. You should walk straight down the room, looking neither to left nor right, holding out the khanjar so that everyone can see it. Bow to Ahmed first. Then bow to my grandfather and place the knife in his hands. I will be with you every step of the way,' he said, and the tension seemed to slip away from her a little. Then, 'Do you remember what I promised you, Princess?'
She looked up at him. 'I remember,' she said. Then, fear darkening her eyes, 'Something has happened. What is it?'
'There's no time to explain. Do you trust me to do exactly as I promised, Princess?'