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Nadim shook his head, and as the man turned to go Iseult said, ‘Shukran.’
When he’d left she turned to Nadim and saw the expression on his face. ‘What?’ she asked nervously.
‘You’ve been learning Arabic?’
Iseult shrugged, feeling self-conscious again. ‘Jamilah has been teaching me a few words.’
It was crazy for Nadim to feel suddenly jealous of Jamilah teaching Iseult Arabic, but he did. Feeling uncharacteristically out of control, he pulled out a chair for Iseult to sit down. When she moved her scent wrapped around him like a caress. He sat down opposite Iseult and poured them both some wine. He held up his glass, ‘Well, if you’ll permit me, perhaps this evening I can teach you a little about traditional Merkazadi food…’
A couple of hours later Iseult protested, putting up a hand. ‘Please, no more food. I’ve never eaten so much in my life.’
Nadim reluctantly put down a plump and succulent date. Watching Iseult taste and eat the array of dishes and then feast on the dates had him so tightly wound that he had to exert some control over his rogue hormones.
Iseult sat back and let a delicious languour invade her veins. She’d never thought eating dinner had erotic possibilities, but she knew after sharing dinner with Nadim this evening she’d never sit at another table with him and not blush.
He’d dismissed the use of knives and forks and had fed her himself. Balls of mashed rice infused with delicate spices. Morsels of Kingfish that broke apart on his fingers so she had to stick out her tongue to catch them. Wine…and dates…fat dates…oozing with illicit sticky sweetness, washed down with strong, tart coffee called khawa.
He sat back and looked at her for a long moment, and then said, ‘I thought you were too thin when I first met you.’
Iseult attempted humour to deflect the intensity that seemed to drench the air around them. ‘So you’re just trying to fatten me up?’
He sat forward. ‘It must have been hard for you, covering for your father and trying to keep things going.’
Iseult blinked, shocked out of the languid desire that had been sneaking through her veins. Instant shame came back—the shame of her father’s illness that they’d all done their best to cover up. Iseult’s mouth twisted, and she played with her empty coffee cup. ‘It wasn’t that bad really…’
Nadim caught her eye and raised a brow. ‘I know how hard Jamilah works, and she has a whole team under her. I know how hard it is to run even moderate-sized stables. And then to have to deal with an alcoholic parent…’
Iseult was defensive. ‘My father never got abusive or angry. He just…tried to drown his sorrows—literally.’ Iseult shrugged minutely and looked out to the glittering view of Merkazad in the far distance, with the distinctive minaret of the mosque standing out. ‘As for keeping things going…I never really had time to think about it.’
That bare explanation hid the sheer toil she’d endured on a daily basis, sometimes skipping school to work at home. Saying anything that might be construed as wanting sympathy had always been anathema to her.
Wanting to divert Nadim’s intense regard, she remembered something he’d said in Ireland. She looked back at him. ‘What did you mean when you said you knew what it was like to have everything you know jeopardised?’
Nadim was quiet for a long moment, and then stood from his chair, taking his glass of wine with him, and went to stand against the stone balustrade of the private balcony.
He spoke so quietly at first that Iseult had to strain to hear, and then silently she got up too and went to stand with her back to the view, just looking at Nadim’s proud profile.
‘It happened a couple of times. We’d always had an uneasy alliance with Al-Omar. We’d been gifted our independence many years before, but when the current Sultan’s great-grandfather took control he wanted Merkazad back under his control. He never managed to attack, but the intention went down the line. When I was twelve we were attacked by the Sultan’s father and taken by surprise as we hadn’t had to defend ourselves for many years…’
Iseult was mesmerised, leaning on one elbow to listen. What Nadim spoke of was utterly fantastical.
‘Salman and I were woken in the middle of the night by my mother and told to get out of bed and sneak down through secret passages, but we were caught.’
‘What happened?’
‘We were held prisoner in an ancient jail in the basement of the castle.’
Iseult gasped. ‘But you were the ruling family. Isn’t there some sort of protocol for that?’
Nadim’s mouth twisted. He flicked her a glance. ‘Not in this world.’
Shakily Iseult asked, ‘How long were you kept prisoner for?’
Almost carelessly Nadim said, ‘Nearly three months. I think it affected my brother much more profoundly. For some reason our captors used to delight in tormenting him. They would take him out of the jail for hours on end, and when they returned him he wouldn’t say a word. I tried to make them take me…but they’d just beat me back.’
He continued briskly, ‘We were lucky. Our Bedu neighbours came to help us. Our invaders had grown complacent, thinking that we would just rot away in the dungeon…but we had powerful friends who were more interested in keeping us a sovereign state. And my father was a well-loved ruler. They attacked one night and we were freed. But everything was gone…the stables and stud were ransacked…they’d shot all the horses. The castle was looted of all but the murals on the walls…’
Iseult shook her head, trying to understand how it must have felt, first of all to be incarcerated and then to come out to find everything changed or gone.
