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Ella stiffened and wielded her mascara brush with great care. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘None of us understand why. It was so obvious you were mad about him when we first met,’ Belle told her bluntly. ‘You couldn’t take your eyes off him. It was kind of sweet.’
In chagrined silence, Ella swallowed more of her drink and Belle topped it up with a tall bottle that had come out of nowhere. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘Vodka. I had it in my bag. I’m not swearing off drink at a wedding,’ Belle declared defiantly.
‘I shouldn’t have too much... I haven’t much of a head for alcohol,’ Ella admitted.
Her make-up done, Ella stayed still while an elaborate coin-hung headdress was anchored to her brow. Then it was time to gaze in a full-length mirror at the vision of exotic splendour she had become in her opulent royal regalia.
‘Now we go and view some ceremonial sword dance,’ Belle announced cheerfully, having had a discussion with a very disapproving Hanya while urging Ella towards the door and slotting her glass back in her hand. ‘Drink up. I haven’t yet given up hope that I can transform you into a happy bride.’
Guilt assailed Ella as she realised she had not been putting on a good enough show to make the expected impression. A happy bride? No indeed. But, these women were members of Zarif’s family and she should’ve been trying harder. ‘I’m sorry, I’m—’
‘No worries,’ tiny Betsy whispered, squeezing her arm comfortingly. ‘Weddings are ninety-nine per cent stress even without cultural differences involved.’
‘But thanks to our objections you’re not going to be sentenced to a female-only reception,’ Belle broke in with satisfaction. ‘For the first time ever, a palace wedding will be a mixed gathering. We talked Zarif into it last night and he admitted that many of his subjects have long since abandoned all this dated separating-the-sexes-stuff. If you ask me, you can blame his uncle for all the old-fashioned stuff around here. Nobody wants to tread on his toes.’
‘Hush...’ Ella urged, skimming concerned eyes at the forthright redhead while she rubbed her aching brow with a fleeting brush of her fingers because she was starting to get what she assumed to be a tension headache. ‘Zarif is very attached to his uncle Halim and he’s seriously ill.’
‘If you can’t say something nice, say nothing,’ Betsy advised. ‘Ella’s not used to you yet.’
‘But I do like and respect honesty,’ Ella admitted, following Hanya out onto a large stone balcony. A large group of men wielding swords and clad in white traditional robes were lined up in the courtyard below. Towards the rear she could see Nik and Cristo, Zarif’s brothers, standing in the shade to watch. Zarif was easiest of all to pick out of the crowd. He wore magnificent gold-coloured robes that glimmered in the brilliant sunshine. A belt with an ornate golden dagger thrust through it accentuated his narrow waist. His white kaffiyeh was bound with a double gold cord and, framed by that pale backdrop, his hard bronzed features were shockingly handsome. It was all very solemn and serious. A drum beat sounded and the lines of men shifted their feet at a rhythmic pace, roared something incomprehensible and lunged forward with their swords.
‘Could we have just five minutes alone with our sister?’ Belle asked Hanya pleadingly.
With a look of deep resentment, the young Vashiri woman backed into the corridor and Belle shut the door on her while heaving a sigh of relief. ‘Of course you can’t talk with her listening in!’
Ella drank from her glass. She felt incredibly thirsty, her mouth very dry as she watched Zarif leap across the central fire pit with astonishing at
hleticism and grace, his lean, muscular body soaring high above the flames. At that moment he simply took her breath away.
‘He’s so fit and he’s probably been doing that stuff since he was about five years old,’ Betsy commented admiringly. ‘Nik said he had a very traditional upbringing with his grandparents and his uncle.’
Belle was scanning Ella’s expressive face as she watched her handsome bridegroom bring down his sword with a metallic clash to meet the other men’s weapons in the inner circle. ‘Why on earth did you reject him three years ago?’
‘None of our business,’ Betsy slotted in uneasily.
‘He told me he would always love Azel and that she was irreplaceable,’ Ella heard herself admit before she could think better of it.
‘You’re kidding me,’ Belle breathed, her face stunned. ‘I can’t believe he was that stu—’
‘At least he was honest,’ Ella countered defensively. ‘It wasn’t what I wanted to hear but I was better off knowing.’
‘Men!’ Belle exclaimed in a tone of lingering disbelief as Ella opened the door to invite Hanya back in to join them. Ella was annoyed with herself for speaking so freely and reckoned that Hanya’s deflating presence would, at least, make her guard her tongue.
When the dance was finished, Ella’s mind was stuffed with exotic imagery of Zarif as she had never seen him before. Hanya led them downstairs into an ornately tiled room where Zarif was waiting with his brothers, the imam and an older man in a wheelchair with a nurse hovering over him. Halim al-Rastani’s poor state of health was obvious in his sunken dark eyes and pallor but he smiled warmly at Ella and he lifted a frail hand to urge her to come closer.
Lean, strong face grave, Zarif moved forward to join her and perform a formal introduction.
‘You are indeed very beautiful,’ Zarif’s uncle told her kindly. ‘It is a joy for me to meet you at last. May you and my nephew be blessed with many children and a long life.’
Momentarily colliding with Zarif’s warning golden gaze and feeling rather as though she had run into a brick wall, Ella swallowed hard and lowered her lashes. Quite ridiculously she felt guilty about the reality that she had no intention of having any children with Zarif and indeed was currently taking medication that should prevent pregnancy. Her head was also beginning to swim a little. It had to be the heat getting to her, she thought ruefully, perspiration dampening her upper lip. The palace had ceiling fans everywhere but no proper air conditioning and she was sweltering in the heavy kaftan layered with petticoats.
The imam stepped forward and began to speak while Betsy’s husband, Nik, stationed himself to Ella’s left side and quietly and smoothly translated every word of the Arabic ceremony for her benefit. A guiding hand resting in the shallow indentation of her spine, Zarif led her over to the table where a document awaited their signatures.
‘The marriage contract,’ Zarif explained as the witnesses followed suit. He lifted a large and ornate wooden box from the table and extended it to Ella.
