Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride (17 page)

She laughed. ‘Drowned? No, thanks to your expert tuition I will not drown. And now that I am wet again, I shall not burn.'

But he was burning. He had an armful of wet, warm, voluptuous mermaid, and his body was on fire. Her skin was still hot from the sun. ‘The glare from the water,' Kadar said, struggling to keep his thoughts on practical matters, ‘it makes it worse.'

Constance ignored him. ‘I was watching you swim.' Her smile, that mouth, she should not be allowed to smile at him in that way with those lips. ‘It was most impressive.'

‘I have been swimming since I was a child. With a little more practice...' Her top was soaked through again. Her nipples were dark peaks beneath the fabric, her breasts clearly outlined, full and soft and—and they moved, when she did. He dropped his gaze. He could see the indent of her belly button too, and a strip of creamy skin where the top ended, above the sash which tied her pantaloons, mercifully below the waterline. ‘Practice,' Kadar said. ‘That is what you need.'

‘You slice through the water like a seal, or an otter,' Constance said. ‘Sleek. That is what I was thinking when I was watching you. Sleek.'

She was not looking at him. She was gazing at his chest. There was a crimson flush on her cheeks. The effect of sun, nothing more, he thought desperately. But he knew differently because she was looking at him in exactly the same way as he was looking at her. He shifted on the sand, and his foot grazed hers. He felt her shudder. He watched, mesmerised at the way her breasts juddered under the wet, clinging fabric and his resistance crumbled. He cupped her breast, running his thumb over her nipple. She shuddered again, and her flesh quivered. She flattened her hand over his chest, the cool flesh of her sea-damp palm stroking over his nipple, and Kadar groaned, pulled her tight up against him, and kissed her.

* * *

He tasted of seawater. Constance met his kiss with her own, matching his passion with hers. She was long past reason. While she had been swimming she had been far too focused on staying afloat to be distracted by Kadar's presence, but afterwards, watching him swim alone, she discovered that she had noticed after all. She remembered the feeling of his hands gently supporting her, his arm brushing her breasts, her newly buoyant body bumping against his thighs. When he floated on his back, she watched his chest rising and falling, the water droplets glittering on his skin. Her leap from the wall back into the pool was instinctive, a response to a primal craving she could not ignore, which was to touch him.

His tongue met hers. She pressed her body against him, her hands roaming feverishly over his damp skin. She was amazed that the seawater had not turned to steam, she was so hot. The world had turned blazing red with passion, and all she wanted was more. Kadar tore his mouth from hers, pressing kisses to her throat, to the wildly fluttering pulse at her collarbone, to the valley between her breasts. Her nipples were aching for his touch, for his tongue. He tugged the flimsy straps of her camisole top down her arms, rolling the fabric down to reveal her breasts. Colour slashed his cheeks as he gazed at her, his eyes dark with passion. She felt no shame, only a thrill of pleasure that she pleased him. He whispered her name before taking her nipple into his mouth and making her knees buckle.

He picked her up, wrapping her legs around his waist, and carried her to the hard-packed sand above the waterline in the shadow of the cliffs, setting her down beside him, and their kisses became deeper. She was wound taut, every part of her tingling, burning, and inside her, the thrum of arousal made her pant.

‘Kadar,' she said, her voice both a plea for more, and for guidance. ‘Kadar, what should I...?'

His breath was as rapid and shallow as hers. His chest was heaving. ‘Constance?'

‘Yes,' she said. She had no idea what she was agreeing to. Anything. Everything. She didn't care. ‘Yes,' she said again.

He hesitated only briefly before undoing the sash which held her pantaloons at the waist, helping her to wriggle free of the pleated folds. She was beyond embarrassment. The blaze in his eyes was enough, and the slide of his tongue into her mouth was enough, and his finger slipping inside her was more than enough. Constance shuddered, clutched at his shoulders, shuddered again. ‘You,' she said, grabbing him by the wrist to stop him before it was too late, ‘you too.'

Her fingers were shaking on his sash. Her hand brushed his arousal, and he shuddered too, just like her. He struggled briefly with the knot, his teeth gritted. When it gave way she watched blatantly as he freed himself of the last piece of clothing between them, and discovered that there was a great deal of difference between a nude statue and a naked, flesh-and-blood man. She wanted to touch him, but she had no idea what to do, and there was a limit to her boldness, for she could not bring herself to ask.

And then Kadar kissed her again, rolling her onto her back. Cool damp sand beneath her, and hard, hot man looming over her. She was melting. His kiss was making her bones melt, and his fingers, sliding inside her again, were rousing her at the same time to new heights. She moaned. She shuddered. His tongue and his fingers thrust, and Constance wanted only to make him feel the same way, to take him with her. She wrapped her hand around his arousal, momentarily distracted by the softness of the skin covering the rigid length of him. She felt him tremble at the contact. Was that good or bad. ‘Kadar?'

He covered her hand, showed her what to do. ‘Slowly,' he whispered, his fingers sliding over her again. Slowly, she thought, as his touch made her tighten, slowly, she moved her own hand to the same pace as his, and slowly their tongues touched to that same pace. Kisses. Sliding strokes. Slow strokes. More kisses, and more stroking, more sliding, until she could not bear it any longer and let go with a cry, the pulsing of her climax echoed by a shudder running through him before he rolled away from her and his own release shook him.

* * *

It took her long moments before she returned to earth. Kadar was lying on his side, looking at her, his grey-green eyes heavy-lidded. She reached over to push a lock of silky hair away from his brow. ‘Why are you frowning?'

‘You know that I did not bring you here to— It was not a ploy to—to initiate any further intimacy between us,' he said.

She smiled. ‘You did not initiate it.'

‘Constance...'

‘Of course I know that. I also know that you would not— It was a very considerate and chivalrous further intimacy,' she said, flushing.

He kissed her mouth softly. ‘But be assured, the pleasure was entirely mutual.'

‘Was it?'

‘You know that I never say anything I don't mean.'

She knew her smile must be ridiculously self-satisfied, but she didn't care. ‘Good,' she said.

Kadar laughed, pulled her against him and kissed her again. Their bodies were damp, gritty with sand, her skin was tight with salt and too much sun, but still the contact made her shiver with delight. She wrapped her arms around his neck, returning his kiss with enthusiasm, and it started again, astonishingly, the tingling and the thrumming, and she could feel him stirring against her as his hand sought her breast again, and her leg curled instinctively around his, and his member nudged between her legs.

Kadar pulled away instantly, muttering something under his breath. ‘I'm sorry, I did not mean—
that
we cannot do.'

Registering the shock on his face brought her to her senses. She had not even considered the consequences of what they were doing, had been so carried away that she would have allowed him anything. Her naïvety took her breath away. The onus she had unthinkingly placed on him, the willpower he must have exercised to resist such innocent temptation. ‘I didn't think,' Constance said, appalled. ‘I was so—so—and I did not think. But you did, and I should thank you for being so careful.'

His expression softened. He pulled her to her feet, taking her hands in his. ‘You have no need to thank me, Constance. That you trusted me is an honour.'

She had trusted him, implicitly. The knowledge made her uneasy. She had the horrible feeling that a very unwelcome fact lay waiting to be uncovered in the recesses of her brain. As if to emphasise the point, a tiny cloud covered the sun, briefly casting a shadow over the pool, giving her gooseflesh. ‘Our clothes,' she said, using the excuse to slip from his hold, picking up the wet sandy rag that used to be her pantaloons and looking at it with genuine dismay.

She stumbled across the damp sand into the shallows and began to rinse the garment out, realizing then that her camisole was still wrapped around her waist. She was wriggling ineffectually, trying to free herself of it when Kadar's hand on her shoulder made her jump. He was wearing only his tunic, and held hers out for her. ‘You must cover up or you will burn.'

‘I can't get out of this thing,' Constance said pathetically.

‘Stand still.' He ripped the now mangled strip of fabric from her waist, then pulled her tunic over her head, helping her slide her arms into the sleeves. ‘Go and sit in the shade.'

‘But my pantaloons...'

‘Constance, I will tend to those. Go and sit in the shade by the boat. There is a flask in the hamper there, with lemonade. You need to drink, or you will get a headache. That is an order.'

She opened her mouth to protest and changed her mind. Besides he was right. Beneath the tunic, her skin was hot and prickly, and her mouth was dry, and her legs were a bit shaky, and the blanket was in deep shade now.

The lemonade was delicious. She drank two full glasses, pressing her forehead to the condensation on the outside of the flask with a grateful sigh. When she opened her eyes again, almost fully restored, Kadar was spreading out his trousers and her pantaloons on the rocks to dry.

‘If I told Mama that a royal prince had done my washing she would never believe me,' she said, handing him a glass of lemonade.

‘If you told your mother what else the royal prince had done she would hang me out to dry,' Kadar replied, sitting down beside her. ‘Are you feeling better?'

‘Yes, thank you. You were right,' Constance said with a mock sigh. ‘Would you like to eat now? My first swim has made me ravenous. Does swimming always do that?'

‘Many things can evoke an appetite,' Kadar said, smiling wickedly as he lifted the hamper out of the boat.

Together they laid out the food, which had been kept cool by a layer of ice packed around the metal box which lined the wicker exterior. There were pastries stuffed with nuts and pheasant, a salad of tomatoes, olives and orange, a rice pilaf scented with saffron and flavoured with dried fruits, and a delicious cake made with ground almonds, moist with lemon and honey. They ate in quiet contemplation, watching as the sun began its slow journey westward, the white-gold blaze slowly turning more golden, the tide turning, the waves growing white-crested, creeping their way slowly back up the beach towards the outer wall of the rock pool.

‘Did your mother ever join you here?' Constance asked, when the remnants of the food had been returned to the hamper.

Kadar shook his head. ‘She rarely left her quarters in the palace. Not because she was confined there, I hasten to add, but through choice. She was happiest in the company of other women, and seemed perfectly content to spend the day sewing, gossiping, reading. I think she would have preferred daughters to sons, though of course that would not have suited my father,' he added wryly. ‘She died when I was ten. To be honest, I barely knew her.'

‘How sad. Perhaps that is where you get your love of books from.'

Kadar shrugged. ‘Perhaps. What about you?'

‘What about me?'

‘Does your mother like to read?'

‘Goodness, no. Mama thinks reading is a waste of valuable time.'

‘And your father thinks books are important only as a source of income,' Kadar said contemptuously.

‘Yes,' Constance agreed, surprised by his tone. ‘But my grandfather loved books.'

‘And your father deprived you of that relationship too.'

‘Yes.' Constance plucked at a thread on the blanket. ‘No, that's not fair. My mother and I would have been welcome visitors, but Mama...'

‘“Mama chose Papa, as she always does,”' Kadar quoted. ‘Were you a very lonely child?'

‘Odd,' Constance said, with a twisted smile. ‘My parents thought me odd, so you see we have that much in common. Perhaps if I had been a boy my father might have shown more interest in me, and perhaps if I had been a boy, and my father had shown more interest in me, then my mother— But, there, that sounds horribly like self-pity.' She folded her arms, glaring out at the sea. ‘I was a great deal more fortunate than most. You must not feel sorry for me.'

‘I don't feel sorry for you, Constance, you are far too admirable for that, but I wish—I wish things could have been different for you, and I fear that your family will never appreciate you as they ought.'

‘My family.' Constance gave a heavy sigh. ‘I suspect I have put myself well beyond their appreciation. They will probably disown me. Let us not talk about that today, on our holiday.'

‘Not today, but soon, we must discuss it. I can help you, Constance.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘And in the meantime, I am afraid we must set sail soon, if we are to be back in Murimon before dark, but if I may, I'd like to come up to the terrace and observe the stars with you later tonight.'

‘I'd like that,' Constance said, closing her mind firmly on the alarm bells which were telling her that she would like it far too much. Tomorrow, she told the persistently tinkling warning bells as she headed over to the rocks to collect her pantaloons, tomorrow she would listen and heed their warning. Tonight it would be just herself and Kadar and the stars.

Chapter Eleven

C
onstance pushed aside the telescope eyepiece and wandered over to the parapet to gaze out at the horizon. Though her skin still tingled from their long day in the sun yesterday, the lotion which Kadar had had sent to her suite had worked wonders. Night was giving way to morning. The holiday was over. Kadar had retired to his bedchamber to snatch a few hours' sleep before he took up his formal duties. The stars were receding, the sky going through the first stages of its daily firework display, turning from inky blue to silver grey. Returning to the telescope, she flopped down on her cushions, feeling slightly sick. She could no longer ignore her feelings for him after what had passed between them on the beach. She was in love.

That profound insight was not the source of untrammelled joy it should be. Instead, it made her feel very, very foolish indeed. It simply hadn't occurred to her that she would fall in love. She had taken no precautions to guard her emotions until it was far too late. Kadar had given her a sense of purpose, a sense of worth, helped her take the first faltering step of this new path she was about to follow on her personal road to freedom. Kadar had seen something in Constance that no one else had seen. So, yes, gratitude formed part of what she felt, but there was a lot more to it than that.

From the moment she set eyes on him she had known he was different from any other man she had ever met. She smiled now, recalling that shockingly primal gust of desire which had gripped her. Her body had known in an instant what it had taken her mind and her heart several more weeks to acknowledge. This man was made for her. The unspoken bond that existed between them, the desire which had beguiled her into a false sense of security was not something which would fizzle out. It was a symptom of a long-term malaise. She was in love, and though she had known Kadar less than a month, she knew with sickening certainty it was a love that would last a lifetime.

Constance groaned. She loved him, and despite the fact that it changed nothing, deep inside her was a determination that it changed everything. She, Constance Montgomery, was in love. She wrapped her arms around herself, closed her eyes and allowed herself to dwell on this astounding fact. It was true, love knew no reason, cared not for logic. She loved him. For a moment, being in love was all that mattered.

But only for a moment. Opening her eyes and sitting up with her back against the telescope, Constance prepared to administer a harsh dose of reality to herself. ‘Facts,' she muttered, ‘facts. And the first and foremost of these is that these feelings have absolutely no impact on your future.'

Her instinctive protest against this statement startled her. Love appeared not to care for harsh reality. She would simply have to try harder. ‘Fact one,' she began, drawing up a mental list, ‘I can't stay here for ever. Yes, the position of court astronomer would grant me all the freedom I could wish for and more, but is it a position I would wish to hold when Kadar's passion for me has cooled, as it inevitably must?'

It was tempting to answer in the positive, tempting to tell herself that they could return to their original official footing of court astronomer and prince, forget that they had ever been a man and a woman in the throes of passion, but she knew it for a lie. Her passion would not cool. It would be folly to remain here, counting the weeks or months, waiting for Kadar to turn his attentions elsewhere as he surely would—fact two. And fact three—all the time she'd be waiting, vainly hoping that he would fall in love with her. And fact four—he would never fall in love with anyone again because—fact five—you can't improve on perfection. He'd said so himself, and emphatically at that.

Which really was the insurmountable barrier of facts, Constance thought sadly. Even if all the other practical considerations, such as her complete unsuitability as a royal bride, and her determination never to be a bride were set aside, Kadar would never marry her because Kadar would never love her.

‘And so concludes my list.' She got to her feet, padding over to watch the sunrise. As ever, the spectacle took her breath away. This morning the horizon was streaked with wispy cloud, filtering the rising sun's rays into bursts of gold through a softer silver-gold shadow. Long fingers of light danced off the Arabian Sea, turning it the colour of melted butter.

Who was she, this woman who had broken Kadar's heart, this woman that no other woman could ever measure up to? Relieved to be distracted from her own weighty heartache, Constance turned her mind to Kadar's. What did she know? Very little, it seemed to her at first. Some years ago, Kadar had fallen in love with a woman named Zeinab who for some reason could not marry him. A perfect love, he had called it, so perfect that he believed he would never find such a love again, so painful in its loss that he never wanted to risk such loss ever again.

Dispirited, Constance returned to the desk and opened her notebook. Perhaps if she documented what she knew, like a star map, it would start to make sense. A star-crossed lovers' map. It would be amusing if it wasn't so tragic. She drew a heart shape around two stick figures representing Kadar and his love. What else did she know of his past? She drew a book. Yes, and there was his friend, who shared his love of books. A girl who had died, he had told her on the beach. And then he had closed the subject. Just as he had on another beach, talking of another female, now she came to think about it. His brother's wife, who had died in childbirth.

The lead of her pencil snapped on this second stick couple she had drawn representing Butrus and his wife. She stared down at her little diagram in horror. Dear heavens, surely not?

I doubt the fates would be so very cruel as to allow history to repeat itself in this twisted way.
Kadar's words, spoken on this very terrace the night after his coronation. Constance picked up another pencil and drew a shaky triangle to connect all three women on her chart. Kadar's childhood friend. Kadar's lover. Kadar's brother's wife. She drew a circle in the centre of the triangle and wrote one word.
Zeinab?

Pity mingled with an immense sadness. Seven years ago, Kadar had left Murimon. Seven years ago, his brother had been crowned. And married. A tear fell on to her notebook. Had Zeinab loved him? No question, Constance thought, her own new-found love making her absolutely certain. What woman would not fall in love with Kadar? Yet he had been forced to watch her marrying another, and his own brother to boot. No wonder his heart was broken. No wonder he had left Murimon. Such an honourable man. Such a terrible tragedy.

The sun was fully visible over the horizon now. Constance sniffed, blew her nose, and stared down at her diagram. No wonder Kadar was so determined never to love again. She slowly closed the notebook over. And then to return from his exile and the entanglement of another bride intended for his brother. History repeating itself in a very cruel manner indeed. He must think himself doubly cursed. No surprise at all that he could not force himself to go through with it.

But she couldn't bear to picture him living alone for the rest of his life any more than she could bear the thought of him forcing himself into another arranged marriage for the sake of his kingdom. What she wanted above all was for Kadar to be happy, but Kadar seemed intent on courting unhappiness. The spectre of the past was still haunting him, no matter how much he denied it. But how best to help him exorcise his demons? And was she considering doing so in the vain hope that if Kadar laid his ghosts to rest he might miraculously find some way to love her?

No. No, she could not be so utterly blind to reason as to contemplate that. So desperate as to avoid harsh reality. Constance yawned, exhausted from the emotions of the last few days. Returning to the cushions under the awnings, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. It could never come to pass, but where was the harm in dreaming, imagining how it might be. She pictured herself on the beach. The sand was gritty on her back. Kadar was naked beside her. He was kissing her. Touching her. Loving her.

* * *

Kadar prowled restlessly around the room where his plans for Murimon had been brought to life in the shape of a large model of the kingdom which took up most of the available space. It showed the locations of all the new schools and the huge development that would be the new port, the wharves and docks, and even the location of a ship-building yard proposed for future development. Lining one wall were detailed drawings and more explanatory information in written form. There would be representatives from many of the towns and villages on hand to explain to those who could not read, to attempt to answer questions, and to pass on those which they could not. His own idea, which Maarku from the Great Oasis had embraced with enthusiasm, co-ordinating the representatives on his behalf. The room was to be unveiled to the council in a few days' time, opened up to the people next week. He should be feeling triumphant, but now Kadar was wondering if his utopia was simply a pipe dream.

It would be extremely difficult to achieve without the Nessarah dowry. Some harsh and unpalatable choices would be forced upon him. New schools or deepen the harbour? This would allow more varied goods to be imported, but who would be able to afford to purchase them? Which of Murimon's children to bestow the gift of education on first? And which adults? Or any? Better education would lead to increased wealth but being forced to stagger its introduction due to lack of sufficient funds meant only some would be beneficiaries. There would be rivalry. Resentment. Inequality. The very things he wished to eradicate. How to be a fair prince and provide equally for all? Kadar ran his fingers along the boundary of his model kingdom. It struck him that in one sense, it would be considerably easier and much fairer to make no changes at all.

No, that was not an option. And nor, despite the fact that her dowry would eliminate the need for this painful dilemma, was marriage to the Nessarah princess. A prince first, and a man second. A month ago, returning from his first visit to Nessarah, he remembered thinking just that. His duty was first and foremost to his kingdom. But he also had a duty to be true to himself. He would not marry a woman he didn't love, not even to launch Murimon into the nineteenth century. He would summon Abdul-Majid, set in train the delicate, rarely used but none the less established protocol for ending the betrothal, and he would then set about making the difficult choices which must be made as a consequence of his actions.

But though he was relieved to have formulated a workable strategy, Kadar was in no mood to set about executing it. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the temptation of replaying yesterday's lovemaking in his head. Constance beneath him, on top of him, the sound of her voice, a whispery, throaty gasp as she climaxed, made his member stir to life. Captivating Constance, he had called her once and she was—utterly captivating. The way she smiled. The way she kissed. The way she bit her lip when she was trying to decide whether to press him on a subject she knew he would prefer closed. The way she saw past his words and into his mind—though that was most certainly a double-edged sword. No one had ever been able to do that. Not even Zeinab.

Startled, Kadar looked around the room foolishly, as if someone else had spoken her name aloud. He rarely permitted himself to speak it. Until recently, he rarely permitted himself to think of her at all. He could see her as the child he had first known, a serious little girl with a passion for horses and books, but he still struggled to remember the beautiful young woman she had become. He could recall her voice, smoky, soft, and he could recall the way she walked as if she were floating beneath the layers of rich silks and gauzy lace she was fond of wearing. Yes, he remembered now, teasing her that she had grown to prefer fashion to books. He had hurt her. Tears had filled her eyes—and he also remembered their colour now, a very pale brown, like the sand at low tide. She had allowed him to kiss her then. He remembered that too, the innocence of her kisses. Not passionless. Innocent. She had never allowed herself to succumb to passion. She was more honourable than he—that was all. If things had been different, he didn't doubt that she'd have allowed her passion full rein.

He had never once pressed her. Those chaste kisses were all that they had shared. She was too precious, too sweet, too fragile. He had been afraid to overwhelm her with his desire. Though he had never once had any difficulty in restraining himself.

In stark contrast to his lack of restraint on the beach with Constance. It had taken every single ounce of control not to take what she had offered, not to thrust into her, to feel her flesh enfolding him, holding him, to push higher inside her, and higher, to feel that delicious frisson as he thrust and withdrew, thrust and withdrew, to feel her tighten around him, to experience that painfully delightful tension as he held himself back until she came, the pulsing of her climax sending him over the edge.

Kadar groaned. He was hard. How could he ever have imagined that what they had done would be enough to sate his need of her? He was very far from being sated, either of her body or of her mind. Captivating Constance. Clever Constance.

Outside, the sun was coming up. He ought to be turning his mind to the diplomatic disaster looming over him. He ought to summon Abdul-Majid, but the need to be with Constance was overwhelming. Waiting only for his all-too-obvious desire to subside, Kadar made his way to the roof terrace.

* * *

She was sound asleep. Her bare feet were showing beneath the loose pleats of her pantaloons. He sank quietly onto the cushions beside her, curling himself into her back, breathing in the scent of her. Smoothing back her hair, he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist. She stirred, snuggling her
derrière
against him, and he too stirred, in a very different way. Not what he intended at all. Reluctantly, he loosed his hold on her and tried to edge away. Constance turned around, her eyes slumberous, her mouth curved into a soft smile. ‘Am I dreaming?'