Fayad had known and respected the Emir of Ras al Hajar since boyhood. The man was everything he aspired to. Cleaving to the best that was traditional in their way of life, but modern in outlook. And his English wife was not only mother to his sons, but stood beside him on the political stage, an advocate for women and an ambassador for her country.
Already Violet was filling that role in his own life. Full of ideas, proactive supporter of all his projects, in the task of convincing the conservative die-hards on the education question, talking to the women.
Every day he spent with her was a joy. And a day nearer the time she would leave Ras al Kawi and go back to her real life.
And every day he thought about the moment when she'd made him whole, when he'd cried out, "You are mine!" But he'd known even then that she would never belong to anyone. Only someone who was utterly free could have surrendered something as valuable as the Blood of Tariq and asked for nothing in return.
He'd known from the beginning that she had every quality that would make her a worthy queen. From the first moment he'd seen her, recognised her courage as she'd flown to her friend's aid, she'd overturned everything that was dead inside him.
The one thing he had not expected was to fall in love with her. It was something so new, so different. But this must be love, surely? Not just the derided western word for what was little more than lust, but the knowledge that grew stronger every day, that when she left him to return to her own life she would tear out his heart and take that, too.
He would give everything to have her by his side, his wife in every way.
'Fayad?' He realised that Hassan had asked him a question. Was waiting for an answer.
'I'm sorry…'
'Your mind is elsewhere. This will keep.' He stood, releasing him with a smile. 'Next time you come to Ras al Hajar, bring your new wife with you. Rose is eager to meet her.'
Before he could answer, he saw his aide coming towards him, his face white. Without a word, he handed him the cellphone he was holding.
The caller did not bother introducing himself. All he said was, 'I have your wife.'
There was nothing else. No ransom demand. No threat.
There was no need.
He flew straight back to Ras al Kawi. Leila was distraught, blaming herself. 'She said she wanted to walk. To be alone.'
Violet's bodyguard was suicidal.
'Neither of you are to blame,' Fayad assured them. 'This is entirely my fault.'
He had brought her to Ras al Kawi. Worse, he had under-estimated the ruthlessness of Ahmed al Sayyid and just how determined he was to get his hands on the dagger.
He drove alone to the place where he was to deliver the khanjar. He took no one with him, would not risk Violet's life by deviating from the instructions he'd been given. By attempting a rescue attempt.
He had been careless of his first wife, his son, and he had lost them. Now, when in his head he had offered all he had in return for the woman he loved, Allah had tested him, was calling on him to make good his word.
He left the four-wheel drive and, carrying the Blood of Tariq in one hand, walked towards the narrow bridge slung across a high gorge.
Ahmed al Sayyid stood at the far end of the bridge, holding Violet by the wrist. With a gesture he made the point that if there was one false move on his part he would pitch her into chasm.
He walked slowly towards them, making sure that his hands were always in sight, set the khanjar down at the centre of the bridge, then turned to walk back.
The tension was unbearable. Would she follow? Would they keep her until they had roused their supporters, deriding him as weak, unfit to lead their country? For the first time in his life he looked back. Straight into Violet's eyes, and said, so that all could hear him, not that foolish, possessive "you are mine", but stood as a man should and said, 'I am yours.'
'Go and pack your bags, Fayad al Kuwani,' Ahmed mocked. 'I'll send your wife to join you in exile in her little house in London.'
He'd looked back. That was all Violet could think as she was delivered to the small private jet. He'd looked back and said, 'I am yours.'
He had not just surrendered everything for her. He had surrendered himself.
The plane was in the air for only twenty minutes, and when it touched down the first person aboard was Fayad. No holding back, no distance. He gathered her in his arms, held her close. 'My heart…you are safe.' Then, looking at her. 'They did not hurt you?'
'I am safe,' she repeated, clinging to him despite every promise she'd made herself. 'I was so afraid for you.' They'd had guns, and it would have been the work of a moment to have killed him once they had what they wanted. Then, 'You just gave it up. Handed over the Blood of Tariq for me. Are you prepared to go into exile…?'
'Would you come with me?'
'To the ends of the earth…' Then, because that really left her completely exposed, with no hiding place, 'Where on earth are we?'
'Ras al Hajar. This aircraft belongs to Ahmed al Sayyid and the pilot is married to Amira al Sayyid. Amira, however, wants her girls to go to school, and so she told him that if he took you to London he need not come home.'
'I know Amira. She comes to the majlis. In fact…' She dug into her pocket, drew out the envelope that had been delivered earlier that day. 'She sent me this, this morning.' Tearing it open, she found a letter, written in Arabic. 'This is Fatima's letter,' she said. 'The one that was stolen from my house…'
Fayad skimmed it. Then grabbed her and kissed her. 'Ahmed may have the Blood of Tariq, but he does not have you, twin of my soul.'
Twin of his soul…? 'What does it say?'
'It's a confession. Written when she was old, near death. I believe she meant to send it to my great-great-grandfather, but maybe she left it too late.'
'Yes, but what does it say?'
'Her marriage to Tariq al Kuwani was arranged by her father for the sole purpose of stealing the khanjar from him. The plan was that she should drug him, take it, make her escape by night.'
Violet caught her breath. 'If she had been caught…'
'I know. Death would have been certain, but it was for her tribe, her family. Her brother was to wait for her at a given place every night until she escaped. It was weeks before she could bring herself to do it- would not have if her father hadn't made her swear on the holy Q'uran. When she finally forced herself to do it, her brother was not there. Perhaps he'd given up, or thought that she'd been caught and killed. She couldn't go back and, knowing that her husband would kill her if he found her, she ran.'
'And was found by my great-great-grandfather.'
'He saved her life, paid her passage to England- because he knew what would happen to her if he left her behind to fend for herself. Then he married her in England when he was discharged from the army.'
'He was a true hero, then.'
He took her hand. 'Not all Hamilton men are bad, Violet.'
She shook her head. 'No…'
'Fatima vowed to make the most of her second chance, vowed to be a good wife to him. Bought him the house with her gold.'
'But she hid the khanjar.'
'It was famous. If it had appeared in London…' He left her to imagine what would have happened.
'I don't think it was chance that Lawrence put that fancy bit of cutlery in your great-great-grandfather's
hand,' she said. 'He chose wisely. And now, because of me, you have lost it.'
'You gave me everything you had and I could do no less for you.' She tried to speak but he stopped her. 'Later. My plane is waiting to take us back to Ras al Kawi.'
'Not exile, then?'
'The Kuwani have ruled Ras al Kawi for ninety years without your "fancy bit of cutlery", Violet. It takes more than a symbol to hold a country together over many generations, to bind it into a nation. It takes heart. Something that you have in abundance.' Then, 'Do you really want to go to London? Or does "the ends of the earth" include the bed of the Emir of Ras al Kawi, Violet Hamilton?' He took both her hands in his. 'You are my wife, the owner of my heart, the twin of my soul. Nothing will ever change that. Now I ask you, in your own language, in words that you will understand, will you stay at my side for always, be the mother of my children?'