Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride (10 page)

Still he said nothing, though there was that tiny flicker in his right eye which she'd noticed when he talked of his brother. Was he angry? Had she been outrageously presumptuous? ‘I've said too much. Should I leave?'

He shook his head. ‘Constance.' Kadar got to his feet and took her hand between his. ‘I am not often at a loss for words. It is most reassuring to know that I am...that my struggle to come to terms with the changes in my life is not without justification. Thank you for recognizing that.'

He kissed her palm. His mouth lingered for a few seconds, his lips warm on her skin. It was a mere nothing of a kiss, yet it snatched her breath away. Their eyes held for a moment. And then he released her and sat back down again, and Constance, foolishly clasping her hand to her breast, was once more at a loss as to what was going on behind that enigmatic expression of his.

‘Your library is quite wonderful,' she said, desperate to prevent the silence from becoming strained. ‘Not at all what I expected and so very different to every other room and salon in this palace.'

‘The furniture as well as the books are mine. I had them shipped from Naples. As you can see, I have not yet finished unpacking them.'

‘Is there a catalogue? I could help...'

‘Naturally, there is a catalogue. I have many thousands of books.'

‘I can see that.' Constance got to her feet and began to prowl around the room. She peered through the glass cabinets at the stacked shelves of books, folio, octavo and quarto, most bound, some in their raw state. Kadar's interests seemed to be as diverse as the languages in which he was clearly fluent, though there were a preponderance of legal tomes, including Napoleon's
Code Civil
in French and Justinian's
Corpus Juris Civilis.
On the next shelf, which contained maps, she found Saxton's
Atlas of England and Wales
and Seller's
Atlas Maritimus
, and exclaimed in surprise. ‘Oh, these are exactly like the editions which my father owned. The Saxton is very old and rare, I think.'

Kadar joined her, taking the fragile book from the shelf and setting it down with care on one of the reading tables. ‘Sixteenth century.'

Constance turned the pages reverently, breathing in that familiar smell of very old parchment and worn leather binding. ‘Yes, it looks like the same edition.'

‘I believe you said your father sold his copy?'

‘Did I?'

‘“We did have a huge library once, at Montgomery House, but Papa sold all the books. Some of them were very valuable. So now the library is home to a collection of cobwebs.” Which I teased you about by suggesting you had meticulously catalogued them.'

‘Good grief, do you remember everything in such detail?' Constance asked, awed.

Kadar shrugged.

‘And books too, do you memorise those when you read them?'

‘Not everything. Certain things stick in my mind. You haven't answered my question.'

‘You answered it for me.'

‘Constance, it is not like you to be obtuse.'

She flushed, still slowly turning the pages of the atlas. ‘My father is one of those men who believe that the latest hare-brained scheme in which he invests will finally be the one which makes his fortune. Sadly, his eternal optimism has yet to be rewarded.'

‘That is why you are en route to India? To provide your father with more funds, to permit him to continue this—this financial mania of his?'

Constance closed the atlas carefully. ‘I've never considered it a mania, but Mama has always said he can't help himself.' Her lip curled slightly. ‘He certainly seems incapable of listening to reason when he is in the grip of it.' She picked up the atlas, slotting it back into its place on the shelf, and then began to walk along the length of the bookcases, gazing sightlessly at the volumes. ‘Whatever one calls it, the result is that he has sold everything of value that can be sold, he's deep in debt and the estates which have been in the Montgomery family for generations have been mortgaged to the hilt. Frankly, I believe a spell in a debtor's prison might be the only thing to bring him to his senses, but his title protects him from that fate which is probably just as well, because Mama would see it as her duty to go with him. Mama thinks—'

Constance broke off to clear her throat. ‘My mother is convinced that the funds which my—my betrothal has provided will be the saving of him. Enough to pay off the mortgage on the estate and all his debts and provide them with a comfortable income. But comfortable has never been sufficient for my father. I don't really think he's particularly interested in being rich either. It's not the money, it is the pursuit of it which excites him.'

‘And will continue to excite him while he has money to fuel his mania,' Kadar said.

‘Yes,' Constance said in a small voice, ‘that is exactly what I fear. I knew—I knew in my heart, Kadar—that it was a mistake, but Mama begged me and begged me. And she was so— I think she truly did believe that he would turn over a new leaf as he promised. As he has promised so many times. He doesn't care who has to suffer and my mother makes it easy for my father to ignore
her
suffering. But this time there was nothing left, you see.'

‘Except you.'

‘Except me.'

‘So that is why you agreed to this marriage. Not for your father, but for your mother?'

Constance risked a glance at him, but Kadar's expression gave nothing away. ‘Yes.' She wandered over to the window to gaze out at the rows of palm trees, noticing with vague surprise the posse of guards climbing the slim trunks with practised ease to set the lanterns in their fronds. ‘You must not think Mama wholly lacking in feelings for me though, it is just that she cares first and foremost and quite foolishly for my father. She really thinks that money will make him happy and that in turn will make her happy, and if one accepts that logic then one can see that she would also believe that a rich husband would make me happy too. It is nonsense of course, but when one is faced with a distraught mother and a father reminding his daughter that he has supported her for twenty-five years and that the time has come for her to—' She broke off, embarrassed by the sudden well of emotion. ‘‘Well, there you have it.'

‘Indeed,' Kadar said drily.

‘You think I should have resisted.' Constance leaned her forehead against the glass pane. ‘I tried. Perhaps not hard enough. I don't know. I didn't see the matter quite so clearly until after I sailed, and by then it was too late.'

‘Constance...'

‘I've never wanted a husband, Kadar, and do you know what the worst aspect is?' she demanded.

He shook his head.

‘Acquiring a rich husband is the worst possible thing I could do, because my father has no doubt already spent my dowry. All my marriage will do is provide him with access to a further source of funds. My husband will become his banker. And where does that leave me, Kadar? I'll tell you where it leaves me—it leaves me in a prison of my own making.' Her voice quivered. She took a deep breath, refusing to give way to tears. ‘There, now you know the sordid story of my betrothal, and no doubt find the whole situation as distasteful as I do.'

‘It seems to me that of the three people involved, you are the only one who has behaved with integrity.'

Constance sniffed. ‘Thank you, but if I had been true to myself, I would have refused. A wife has no freedom save what her husband grants her. Her body, her mind, even her children, belong to him. My mother told me that if I was an
amenable
wife, then I would never want for anything.' She laughed bitterly. ‘You could not find a more amenable wife than Mama. She is the kind of wife whom people—my father included, naturally—commend for her unstinting loyalty, her unfailing affection, her many sacrifices and her determination to make light of them. I don't want to have to be that amenable.'

‘You have never considered the possibility that after you are married, you may come to care for this man to whom you are betrothed?'

‘How is it possible to feel affection for someone to whom one is utterly beholden? And even if one did—though I can't believe it possible—do you think a husband acquired in such a way would believe it anything other than cupboard love? Or were you thinking of true love, Kadar? Now that really would make matters worse, for it would make one not a prisoner but a slave. I would not be so foolish.'

‘Have you ever been so foolish, Constance?'

‘Oh, yes. I swooned over one of our grooms when I was sixteen,' she answered lightly. ‘Then there was the Russian acrobat in a travelling troupe—I went to see his performance every single night. And there is a blacksmith in the village at home whose physique makes every female who sets eyes on him working the forge go quite weak at the knees.'

‘You have a penchant for ineligible men,' Kadar said drily. ‘That is one way of ensuring that you remain unmarried, I suppose.'

He was, embarrassingly, quite right. At least she was still running true to form. ‘And you?' she said. ‘Do you have a penchant for unattainable women?'

She meant it flippantly, To tease him, to deflect him from seeing any deeper into her mind, but her words made him flinch. ‘Once,' Kadar replied. ‘Which was more than enough. I will never make that mistake again.'

* * *

He had no idea what had prompted him to make such an admission. Constance was struck dumb. Outside, the sun had fallen, leaving the room mercifully gloomy, the light dim. Too dim, thankfully, for him to see her face. What a pitiable creature he had been back then. His toes curled inside his slippers as he remembered that doe-eyed youth, so certain that love could conquer all. How naïve he had been, how utterly lacking in worldliness. Butrus had been for ever teasing him about it, putting it down to his bookishness. Kadar shuddered. Thank the stars his brother had never guessed.

‘I'm so sorry. I was merely funning, I did not mean—did not think for a moment...'

Constance's hand on his arm made him jump. He brushed her away, unable to bear her being close enough to read his thoughts. ‘I am in no need of your sympathy. I do not know how we came to be discussing such a thing.' Too late, he realised it was he who had introduced the subject. ‘It is quite irrelevant to either of our cases,' he continued hastily, before Constance could point this out.

He waited but she did not, as she usually did, fill the silence. Did she sense how angry he was that she had unwittingly opened up that old wound? Coming home had brought it all back, that was all. The memories—he had to find a way of ridding himself of those memories. ‘It's late,' Kadar said gruffly. ‘It must be past time for your evening meal.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

Was her voice teary? He had selfishly been thinking only of himself, forgetting those painful truths she had spilled out earlier. She had every right to tears. He could be furious on her behalf, if it would do any good. If he had any right to be furious. Which he did not. ‘You cannot stargaze on an empty stomach. Let me have something brought here. We can eat together.'

‘It wouldn't be proper,' Constance said. ‘Besides, you've probably got a thousand things to do. I should go.'

She turned away. She was right, they should not eat together. His meal would be set out in great state as usual in the Royal Dining Salon, and he did have a thousand things to do, but he didn't want to let her go like this. ‘Constance,' he said, ‘please stay. I'm trying to apologise.'

‘What for?'

Kadar rolled his eyes. ‘Forcing you to talk about your father,' he equivocated. ‘I gave rein to my curiosity, even though it was clearly a painful subject.'

‘You didn't,' she said, ‘or at least, hardly at all. I blurted it all out, pretty much unprompted. It was embarrassing. It is I who should be apologising.'

She wasn't crying, but her voice had that brittle tone that made it clear how much of an effort she was making not to. ‘Don't,' Kadar said, pulling her into his arms. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. You are the only one who has understood that the kingdom I have inherited comes at a cost to me. To those I can no longer serve, it seems I have been seduced by power, and as to those I now serve—I don't think any of them ever could understand the appeal of the life I forged for myself.'

‘Have you ever tried to explain the appeal to anyone?'

Once, there had been someone.
Had she really understood? He had thought so, but then he had thought them twin souls. Were his feelings so much stronger than hers? She had denied it. But she had not done as he had begged her. Kadar squeezed his eyes tight shut, as if the action would banish the memory. The past was dead, and so too was the life he had forged from its ashes. ‘It is done,' he said, ‘gone. What would be the point in explaining?'

Silence. Constance's face was pressed against his chest. Her hair tickled his chin, her body was warm against his, but he had no idea what she was thinking. Now he had a taste of his own medicine, for it made him uncomfortable, her silence. ‘It was a long time ago, and no longer painful,' Kadar said. No lie, because it ought not to be painful, had not been painful until...

‘But it must be painful,' Constance exclaimed. ‘If you truly loved her, this woman. What was her name?'

‘Zeinab.' It was the first time he'd said it aloud in years. It sounded so strange coming from his lips. Just thinking of her name, all those years ago, could conjure her up, but now he still couldn't recall her face. ‘As I said, it was a long time ago.'

‘Did she love you?' Constance persisted. ‘Why wouldn't she marry you?'

‘
She c
ould
not,' he said stiffly.

‘Oh.' He could see her struggling to suppress the obvious question, and felt unaccountably relieved when she succeeded, though the one she asked was not particularly welcome either. ‘This woman is the reason you have never married, then?'