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nister.
‘Gentlemen, take your seats,’ he commanded, in no mood to deal with the squabbling that ensued with this many egos in one room. He hadn’t slept since the encampment; the stench of smoke still clung to his skin, even after showering.
‘Your Highness, we are deeply troubled to hear of this unfortunate incident,’ the Chief of Police offered respectfully. ‘I have assembled a team to investigate the site; they are en route as we speak.’
‘Do we really need the police involved?’ the minister intervened. ‘I mean, we aren’t sure of the origin of the fire. For all we know, it could have been a tribesman tripping over a lamp.’
‘The King has expressed his wish for a thorough investigation,’ Sayyid said loudly.
All eyes moved to him. Khal nodded once to confirm and watched as the men’s attitudes changed instantly to rapt attention, some even taking notes as Sayyid outlined the security measures taken and the times of guard check-ins throughout the night.
‘Your Highness, are you worried that there is unrest amongst the old orders?’ An elderly man, one of his father’s long-time advisors stepped forward. ‘You once expressed the belief that they were behind the death of the late Sheikha Priya.’
‘His Highness made those statements while experiencing enormous grief,’ another advisor said pointedly. ‘The Sheikha’s death was deemed accidental.’
Khal felt the casual mention of his wife’s death like a punch to his gut. He stood before he had the sense to rein in his anger. ‘The investigation into my wife’s death is still ongoing,’ he hissed.
The elderly man shrank back visibly, realising he had overstepped the mark.
The Minister for Foreign Affairs spoke softly, addressing each of the men around the oval table in an effort to calm matters. ‘Have a care for the language used in this chamber, gentlemen. All it takes is one whiff of scandal to cause an international spectacle.’
Khal turned from the table, unable to stand one more minute of their so-called politics. ‘This meeting is over. Any questions about the incident will be addressed to my personal security team.’
He didn’t know where he was going, anger powering him along the ancient passageways until he finally felt the sun on his face. Tension filled his veins, the effort of holding back memories threatening to undo him. He changed direction, moving towards the stables with sudden intent. He demanded his prize stallion to be readied and wasted no time in switching his traditional robes for tight-fitting jodhpurs and well-worn boots. He did not speak to the boy who handed him the reins, impatiently launching himself up into the saddle and taking off in the direction of the sand.
With the wind on his face and the pounding of hooves under him, he finally allowed his spine to relax as he moved with his horse, their bodies in tune as he pushed the great beast to the limit. Takaa was a demon, the fastest horse he had ever owned, and right now he had never been so tempted to test his limits. Knowledge made him slow down as he got close to the boundaries of the old palace lands, veering off down the hill to where an almost dried up ravine formed a small oasis of sorts.
Takaa drank deeply and Khal splashed water onto his sun-warmed face, feeling the midday heat begin to claw at him through his thin shirt. His fists were almost white with the effort of suppressing the rage that had begun to unravel inside him in the chambers. They spoke her name as though it were a trivia, not a bomb that had the ability to tighten his gut with emotion. Grief was an obvious one; he most definitely had allowed grief to sink its mighty claws into him more than once in those first months following Priya’s sudden death. She had been his wife for five years, his rock during his father’s death and his ascent to becoming the leader he was today.
Everyone had offered him condolences and comfort and in time he had moved past it to the point where he could return to normal life. But the anger was another issue entirely. How did one resolve anger that was soul-deep when the woman who’d caused it was being lamented by their people so much they built shrines to her in the streets? Poetry was written about her beauty, her grace.
He had been left virtually alone with the knowledge of who his wife truly was. How she had betrayed him and everything their marriage stood for. How he had driven her to that betrayal with his own over-controlling measures. How did he resolve the guilt and the regret that ate away at his very soul—that things had not been different?
He growled, throwing the nearest rock at the water so hard that Takaa startled and began to pull back at the reins. He placed his palm flat on the horse’s neck, crooning low in his throat until the animal stopped resisting and leaned down to drink once more.
The memory of seeing the smoke last night, of rushing to get Cressida to safety while he was sure his heart would burst through his chest. It had brought him right back to the moment he had been told of the accident. It was as though, for a few moments of madness, both incidents had been one and the same and he was trapped in a nightmare of sorts. And then, when the danger had passed and he was sure she was safe and alive, holding Cressida in his arms while she fell apart had been almost more than he could bear. She was not a woman who lost control of herself easily; that much was painfully evident. And yet she had shown him her weakness. And how had he responded? By ravishing her at the first opportunity, beast that he was.
He had never felt such a challenge to his self-control than when he was around her. With each encounter, it felt as though he were losing his grip on a cliff face one finger at a time. She was getting under his skin and it simply could not continue. The physical attraction between them was more than inconvenient. It was a risk to the business arrangement of their marriage. They needed to keep their roles clear so that the next five years passed without incident. She would be the perfect Queen as he required her to be and he would break down the various political walls that stood in the way of his development plans with ease. Then, once their time was up, they would part without difficulty or complication.
He mounted Takaa swiftly and kicked off back to the palace, a plan in place. He would resolve this situation just as he did every other area of his life, with careful management and the complete absence of emotion.
* * *
While the dramatic details of the reasons behind their late-night arrival were kept carefully under wraps, news of the new Sheikha spread through the palace quickly. Cressida was awoken at dawn by a handful of servants and a young dress maid, who set about draping her in traditional silks and jewels. Zayyari was not one of the languages taught in her university and she found it incredibly frustrating not being able to make out a single word of what the women said as they spoke to one another in low tones, avoiding her gaze. She had the strange feeling of being a new statue on display at a museum.
She made a mental note to begin studying as soon as possible. The thought of having something even remotely connected to her previous academic accomplishments made her feel slightly less at sea in her new life. She had always felt most comfortable when she planned her goals for each term and ticked items off one by one. As she was dressed and styled with hair and make-up, she mentally listed out the materials she would need to get started.
Just as she had begun on the prospect of brand-new stationery, an older woman entered and announced herself in English as her new assistant.
‘You are expected to breakfast with the esteemed Sheikha Amala and Princess Nia this morning,’ the older woman said, scrolling down the screen of a sleek tablet as she spoke. ‘Your new mother and sister-in-law, as they are called in the West.’
‘Where will that be?’ Cressida asked, trying to conceal the sudden rumble of her stomach along with the fact that she had no knowledge of anyone in her husband’s family.
‘They live in the palace grounds,’ Rana said simply. ‘Then this afternoon we will commence your etiquette lessons, followed by cultural and language tuition.’
‘Etiquette lessons?’ Cressida repeated, her mind stumbling over the sudden weight of having an itinerary handed to her.
‘His Highness has arranged for an intensive month of tuition to make you more comfortable in the run-up to your celebration ball.’
