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If she had ever been the kind of person to hold romantic notions about her wedding night, this would probably be a fairy tale come to life. Swathes of jewel-toned fabrics cascaded from the intricately patterned roof, softly lit by traditional lamps and coloured lanterns. More lanterns provided a glow at strategic points around the space. Warm, luxurious Persian-style rugs carpeted the entire floor and the sensual scent of incense wafted through the air. But what drew her eye most was the enormous canopied bed of luxurious shimmering golden cushions that dominated the room. Filled with satin tasselled throw pillows and covered in bright red rose petals, it was as though it were created simply for the act of deflowering one’s new bride. The thought made her gulp audibly.
‘Leave us,’ Khal commanded after two of his men performed a sweep of the tent’s surprisingly large quarters. Once again, she felt slight unease at the level of security that preceded every move they made. She wondered at the reason for it; Zayyar had been at peace for almost a quarter of a century. But, before she could think too much of it, two things suddenly stopped her in her tracks. One, they were completely alone in the most romantic place in the entire world. And two, her new husband had removed his headdress and was shrugging out of his robe with surprising speed.
CHAPTER FOUR
NAKED FROM THE waist up, the man was like one of the statues she would stare at in the palace gardens when she lived in Monteverre. He had the body of a warrior, not a pampered king. He wore his hair long and unruly under the traditional head covering. Cressida whirled to put a few more feet of space between them, pretending to be suddenly interested in the array of fresh drinks and fruit laid out in the small dining area.
When she looked up once more, he had changed into a simple robe and loose drawstring pants, leaving only part of his chest bare. She gulped, looking away from the smooth mahogany skin and wondering when on earth she would regain control of her mind again.
‘A robe has been laid out for you as well, and a private area for you to change.’ He remained facing away from her, of which she was thankful. She moved quickly behind the screen, immensely grateful that her Zayyari bridal gown was nothing like the Western million-buttons-down-the-back variety. One simple zip ran down the side seam and she was free, stepping out of the pool of fabric and hanging it carefully.
It was a beautiful gown, so simple and elegant that she had almost felt beautiful for the first time in her life. She had spent a lifetime being the ugly duckling, always comparing herself to her more attractive sisters. Eleanor and Olivia had vibrant red hair like their famous grandmother, the late Queen Miranda, who had once been named the most beautiful woman in the world. Cressida hadn’t even inherited her mother’s pale blonde locks, instead ending up with an in-between shade of ash-blonde that was entirely forgettable. But the shade of her wedding gown and the sparkling amber jewels that adorned it had made her glow from head to foot.
A standing mirror faced the screen; she angled her body sideways, hardly believing that the woman in the glass was her own reflection. Her lingerie was the same dusky golden shade as her dress but stitched with shimmering embroidery that drew the eye to the illusion of her much fuller breasts. Closing her eyes firmly at the thought, she pulled the buttery soft silk robe over her shoulders, crossing it at the waist and noting that it was significantly shorter than the male version. No drawstring trousers were provided for the bride, it seemed, leaving her legs completely bare from mid-thigh downwards.
Perhaps it was the sensually charged décor of the tent or simply the overwhelming romance of the day in general, but suddenly she felt flushed and hyper-aware of the silk material as it moved against her skin. She felt a strange tightening in her solar plexus at the thought of stepping beyond the screen and revealing her ensemble to the man who was now her husband. She wanted him to see her, she realised with sudden heat in her cheeks.
She wanted him to look at her like he had in London and she wanted to find out just what it felt like to have his hands on her again. But it was unlikely that whatever madness had existed in the dark in London would be present now. He had made it clear that they would not have a true marriage, had he not? With a shake of her head she pulled the robe as tight as it would go, successfully covering most of her cleavage but
still leaving much of her legs on show. Opting to leave her hair down, she took a deep breath and stepped back into the open space of the tent, only to find Khal standing opposite her, the ridiculously sensual bed spread out between them like a battlefield.
If only she could have simply turned tail and ducked back behind the screen, just to avoid the treacherous pang of heat that ran down her spine. His eyes raked over her, moving slowly to take in her hair, her breasts, then finally resting upon her bare legs.
Unable to stand still under his scrutiny, Cressida willed herself to move past the bed, turning her back on him on the pretext of pouring herself a glass of water.
‘If you plan to continue skittering around me it is going to be a long night.’ He sat down and sprawled back on the bed, hands interlocked behind his head as he surveyed her.
She moved forward, stumbling over her words as she nervously twisted the tie of her robe between her fingers. ‘I can sleep on the futon if you’d like to take the bed.’
‘And have all of the servants know we spent our wedding night apart?’ He sat up, both hands braced on his knees. ‘We will share a bed for tonight.’
Cressida nodded once. ‘Of course. I didn’t think...’
‘Am I so frightening?’ He watched her, waiting.
She placed her glass of water on the table, still twisting one ribbon of her robe around her finger. ‘I am not afraid of you. I suppose I’m a little overwhelmed by all of this.’
His brow furrowed. Without warning, he stood and walked to a low table in the middle of the tent where an elaborate tea service had been laid out. He poured the steaming dark liquid into traditional cups and handed her one. ‘You seemed to enjoy the festivities this evening. I had worried the Old Zayyari style might be a little far from what you are used to.’
Cressida smiled. ‘I adored every moment. I have not travelled much before so this is all so new, but in a good way.’ She took a sip of the strong brew, feeling it warm her through. ‘I’m impressed at how quickly your team arranged everything.’
‘The clandestine photographs will probably be making their way into the wrong hands as we speak,’ he mused, one corner of his mouth lifting.
Cressida noticed a tiny dimple appear in his cheek, but it was gone almost before it appeared. He never smiled fully, she realised. It was as though he did not allow himself to. She pushed the thought away, realising that he was still speaking of the ceremony, oblivious to how her thoughts had wandered.
‘They simply made some modifications where needed. This tent in particular was redesigned to be larger but the sanctity still lies in the markings on the cloth itself.’ He pointed upwards to the domed roof.
She looked up, squinting at a jumble of blurry shapes on the cloth. She could not make out a single thing at a distance without her glasses.
‘Looking for these?’ He extended the blurry outline of her glasses towards her. She took them quickly as though any prolonged contact might ignite the spark that she was quite happy to ignore.
Cressida adjusted the frames on her nose, craning her neck upwards. Sure enough, the pattern was made up of more than just an arbitrary design. Spread out above them were thousands of intricate symbols and markings painted in burgundy-coloured ink on the raw canvas material. An ancient language. Her mind soared to life, all other thoughts abandoned as she kneeled on the edge of the bed to get a closer look. ‘Fascinating...’ she breathed. ‘What do they all mean, I wonder.’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said, shrugging. ‘The markings are very old; they can be traced back to the first Zayyari tribe that made their settlement in this exact spot. Spending the wedding night here is an ancient custom that goes back to the very dawn of my people.’
‘Absolutely fascinating,’ she said, mostly to herself.
‘Yes, you’ve said that already.’
