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“She can’t,” Kahlil said quietly but firmly, crouching next to Ben. “And your mommy understands. She’s not upset. She knows why she needs to wear it.”
“Why?” Tears shone in Ben’s eyes, his lower lip thrust, curling with weariness and petulance.
“Because we’re in my country, and it’s a different country with different rules. We treat our women very special and we like to protect them. If your mommy wears this robe, she’ll be safe.”
“It’s magic? Like a spell?” Kahlil had caught Ben’s imagination again, and the tears dried in his eyes.
“A little like that. And she won’t wear it forever, just until we reach the palace.”
“But it’s not a nice color. It should be a pretty color. Like pink, or blue. Mommy looks pretty in pink or blue.”
“Then let’s pick her out a pretty dress when we reach the palace. We’ll look at all the beautiful dresses and you tell me which ones would be nice on your beautiful mommy.” Kahlil stood, extended a hand. “Now, let’s go see the palace.”
They were moving across the tarmac into the brightly lit building when sudden shouts drew a virtual army of soldiers from the building and the airport perimeter.
“What’s happening?” Bryn cried, turning to Kahlil.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied, swinging Benjamin into his arms.
Bryn wanted Ben, needed him with her but the soldiers were converging, carrying enormous guns that filled her with terror.
One soldier approached Kahlil, bowed deeply and murmured something in Arabic.
Kahlil nodded curtly, picked up his pace and drew Ben even closer to his chest. He cast a brief glance in Bryn’s direction but his expression revealed nothing.
They were practically running. She noted that the soldiers had formed a tight protective circle around Kahlil and herself and that a spotlight was sweeping the tarmac, casting a great white blinding light behind them.
Inside the building the door slammed shut and the soldiers moved, separating Bryn from Kahlil.
“Ben!” she cried, reaching out for him, but the soldiers stepped toward her, distancing her further from Kahlil and her child.
Her mouth tasted like sawdust and she swallowed convulsively, realizing it was fear making her throat seal close. What was happening? Where were they taking her? Where were Kahlil and Ben going?
She hadn’t realized she’d voiced the questions aloud until a crisp voice answered her in nearly flawless English, “No harm will come to you. Please be patient, Princess. All questions will be answered in due time.”
Be patient? How? Ben was gone and soldiers were relentless, never once touching her, but moving her continually forward, leading her through an unmarked door and out into the night.
A car awaited, a black luxury-style car, a Mercedes she guessed, and the back door opened. She had no choice but to climb in and the door slammed shut, the car swiftly pulling away.
“Where are we going?” she asked the driver, hands balling in her lap.
The driver briefly glanced into the rearview mirror, dark eyes flashing, but he didn’t speak, and just as swiftly his attention returned to the road.
She’d asked the question not really expecting an answer. In Zwar, men did not address strange women, especially Western women, but she’d felt compelled to assert herself, to try to make sense of the chaos at the airport.
“What happened back there?” she persisted. “Why so many soldiers?”
The driver didn’t even glance into the rearview mirror this time. He simply continued driving.
Bryn leaned against the seat, fear and indignation wrestling for the upper hand. How could Kahlil do this to her? And yet thank God he had Ben. No one would touch Ben if Kahlil held him. And Kahlil would protect him, she knew that much. He might hate her, but he already loved his son.
Massive gates opened to accept the limousine, only to shut loudly after the car passed through the compound’s high stone walls. Bryn felt relieved when they finally reached the palace. She wanted only to see Ben again. To know that he was safe.
Inside the palace, the guards silently handed her off to two robed servants, one which she recognized immediately as Rifaat, Kahlil’s personal assistant. Part butler, part secretary, Rifaat al Surakh handled Kahlil’s private affairs, business as well as personal. In the past he’d managed everything from travel arrangements to political gatherings.
Bryn felt a momentary glow, relieved to see her old friend again. “Rifaat, how are you?”
“Well, thank you, Princess,” he returned, bowing deeply. The son of a diplomat, he’d been educated in the West, attending prestigious Georgetown University in Washington D.C., before returning to Zwar and serving in the diplomatic corps like his father before him.
Bright, sophisticated, modern, Rifaat had always been her friend. “Rifaat, help me, please. The soldiers at the airport, they took my baby from me. Is he here? What happened?”
Rifaat bowed again. “I shall escort you to your rooms, Princess.”
“No, I don’t want to go to my room. I must see Kahlil. He has my son. Are they here? Have they arrived?”
The second manservant silently walked away, leaving Rifaat and Bryn alone. With the second man gone, Rifaat bowed a third time. “I am to escort you to the ladies’ quarters. Your maid is waiting for you there.”
I must see Kahlil,” she repeated firmly, squaring her shoulders. “Please, Rifaat. My son.”
His eyes flashed, his gaze briefly meeting hers, before he looked away, staring at a point just past her shoulder. He didn’t look at her again. He didn’t intend to speak.
“Rifaat, please.”
“Your room has been prepared,” he repeated woodenly, carefully keeping his gaze fixed on the marble pillar behind her. “I hope you find it satisfactory.”
She blanched, as if he’d thrown a glass of icy cold water in her face. He didn’t intend to tell her anything. Even if he knew where Kahlil was, Rifaat wouldn’t share his information with her. They might have been friends five years ago but they weren’t friends now.
Turning, Rifaat set off down the marble hall, his slippered feet noiseless on the gleaming black-and-white marble floor. She followed behind him, having no other choice. No one would deal with her here, not until Kahlil had given instructions.
At the elaborately carved entry to the east wing, the wing where the women lived, a veiled maid appeared and bowed to Bryn. Kahlil’s valet walked away without a look back.
He’d done his duty, she thought bitterly. He’d escorted her to the harem. He could get her off his hands.
She stared after him, watching the valet’s departing back. He treated her the way Kahlil had treated her—with anger, with scorn, with contempt.
She flushed faintly, the skin hot and tight across her cheekbones. Only one thing could be worse than her current situation. The return of Amin.
The young maid introduced herself as Lalia and announced that she would be the princess’ personal assistant, helping with dressing and hair and happiness.
Bryn nearly smiled at the peculiar description of services to be rendered. Dressing and hair and happiness. As if life were so easy.
But Bryn didn’t smile and Lalia shot a shy, nervous smile at her as she led Bryn into her private suite of rooms. “For you, my lady,” Lalia said, gesturing around the spacious high-ceiling bedroom. Her English was stilted, her accent heavy. “You like, my lady?”
“Lalia,” Bryn spoke gently, persuasively. “My husband, the sheikh, I must see him. He has my son, and I’m afraid.”
“No fears,” Lalia replied, rustling her hands like flower petals in a breeze. “Everything is lovely here. Just the way you like, yes?”
“My son—”
“This room, very pretty, yes?”
Lalia wouldn’t tell her anything, either. The girl wouldn’t even acknowledge Bryn’s pain.
No one would.
Slowly, numbly, Bryn wandered to the middle of t
he room, her old room, the same one she’d had three and a half years ago, and glanced at the pale peach carpet beneath her feet.
The carpet’s pattern was intricate, vines and scrolls and ornate vases, a priceless wool carpet made seven hundred years ago for a Persian queen, reputedly the most beautiful woman in the East. Kahlil had bought the carpet for her, installed it in her room. He wanted everything perfect for his bride, his future queen.
It hadn’t worked out that way.
Her gaze fell on the small, elegant carved wood chest sitting next to her bed on the night table.
Her jewelry box.
Amin. The struggle. Her last night at the palace three and a half years ago.
Her heart did a ragged double-beat, revulsion radiating from her middle to her arms and legs, making her shake. She took an involuntary step backward as if she could put space between her and memories of the past.
Slowly she crossed to the nightstand and even more slowly lifted the dark heavy lid on the box. Diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds sparkled in a sea of purple velvet.
Couldn’t be. She’d taken it all, emptying the box into her purse before fleeing the palace, dumping the glittering jewelry—bangles, chokers, drop earrings, a gold-and-diamond crusted tiara—all presents from Kahlil, into her handbag. She’d used the jewelry to buy her way out of Zwar, smuggling herself onto a charter flight to New York and then another flight, this one on a commercial liner to Dallas where Rose had picked her up from the airport.
