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Suleiman smiled. ‘Indeed I do. A little-used means of desert travel nowadays, but many of the nomadic people still claim it is the most efficient.’
‘And who’s to say they aren’t right? Gosh, I haven’t been on one since I was a child.’ Sara looked at him, her violet eyes shining with excitement. ‘And of course, this means that there will be hor
ses, too.’
Suleiman felt his throat tighten. Was it wrong that he found the look on her face utterly captivating? That her smile would have warmed a tent on the coldest desert night. ‘I had forgotten how much you enjoyed riding,’ he said.
‘Well, you shouldn’t—because it’s thanks to you that I ride so well.’
‘You were an exemplary pupil,’ he said gruffly.
She inclined her head, as if she was acknowledging the sudden cessation in hostilities between them. ‘Thank you. But your lessons were what gave me my confidence and my ability.’
‘Do you still ride?’
She shook her head. ‘There aren’t too many stables in the middle of London.’ She looked at him. ‘But I miss it.’
Something about the vulnerable pout of her lips made him ask the indulgent question, despite his own silent protestations that their conversation was becoming much too intimate. ‘And what do you miss about it?’
She wriggled her shoulders. ‘It’s the time when I feel most free, I guess.’
Their eyes met and Suleiman saw a sudden shadow cross her face. It was almost as if she’d just remembered something—something which made her face take on a new and determined expression.
He watched as she smoothed down the silk of her blouse, her fingers whispering over the delicate material which covered her ribcage. Why did she insist on doing that, he wondered furiously—when all it was doing was making him focus on her body? And he must stop thinking of her body. And her violet eyes. He must think of her only as the woman who would soon be married to the Sultan—the man for whom he would lay down his life.
‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, his sudden lust tempered by relief as the powerful jet began its descent.
Their arrival at the airbase had been kept deliberately low-key, since all celebrations had been put on hold until the wedding. Suleiman watched the natural grace with which Sara walked down the aircraft steps and then moved along the small line of officials who were assembled to meet her. She had lowered her lashes to a demure level, in order to conceal the brilliant gleam of her eyes, and her lips were curved into a serene and highly appropriate little smile. She could easily become an exemplary Sultana, he thought, despising himself for the dull ache of disappointment which followed this thought.
Afterwards, he watched her look around her, as if she was reacquainting herself with the vastness and beauty of the desert. He saw the admiration in her eyes as she gazed up at the mighty herd of camels standing at the edge of the airstrip, where the land was always waiting to encroach. And wasn’t she only reflecting his own feelings about this particular form of transport?
A camel caravan could consist of a hundred and fifty animals, but since this endeavour was mainly ceremonial there were no more than eighteen beasts. Some were topped with lavishly fringed tents while others carried necessary provisions for the journey. Men on horseback moved up and down the line, riding some of the finest Akhal-Teke horses in the world, their distinctive coats gleaming metallic in the bright sun.
‘It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it?’ he observed.
‘It’s more than that. I think it’s one of the most beautiful sights in the world,’ she said softly.
He turned to her and suddenly he didn’t care if he was breaking protocol in the eyes of the onlookers. Wasn’t this his opportunity to make amends for having let his lust override his duty to the Sultan, on the night of her brother’s coronation? Couldn’t he say the right thing to her now? The thing she needed to hear, rather than the impure thoughts which were still making him hard whenever he was near her.
‘That is genuine passion I hear in your voice, Sara,’ he said. ‘Can’t you piece together the many things you love about the desert? Then you could flick through them as you would a precious photo album—and be grateful for the many beauties of the life which will be yours when you marry.’
‘But they won’t be mine, will they?’ she demanded. ‘Everything will belong to my husband—including me! Because we both know that, by law, women in Qurhah are not allowed ownership of anything. I’ll just be there, some bored figurehead, sitting robed and trapped. Free only to communicate with my husband and my female servants—apart from at official functions, and even then the guests to whom I will be introduced will be highly vetted. I don’t know how the Sultan’s sister stands it.’
‘The Princess Leila is deeply contented in her royal role,’ said Suleiman.
Sara closed her lips together. That wasn’t what she’d heard. Apparently, at the famous Qurhah Gold Cup races, Leila had been seen looking glum—but it was hardly her place to drop the princess in it.
‘I’ll probably have to fight to be able to ride a horse,’ she continued. ‘And only when any stray man has been cleared away from the scene in case he dares look at me. And I’ll probably be forced to ride side-saddle.’
‘You do not have to be bored,’ he argued. ‘Boredom is simply a question of attitude. You could use your good fortune and good health to make Qurhah a better place. You could do important work for charity.’
‘That goes without saying,’ she said. ‘I’m more than happy to do that. But am I to be consigned to a loveless marriage, simply because my country got itself into debt?’
Suleiman felt a terrible conflict raging within him. The conflict of believing what was right and knowing what was wrong. The conflict of duty versus desire. He wanted nothing more than to rescue her from her fate. To tell her that she need not marry a man she did not love. And then to drag her off to some dark corner and slide those silken robes from her lush young body. He wanted to rub the nub of his thumb between her legs, to feel the moist flowering of her sex as her body prepared itself for his entry. He wanted to bite at her breasts. To leave the dark indentation of his teeth behind. His mark. So that no other man would be able to touch her...
With an effort he closed his mind to the torture of his erotic thoughts—for that way lay madness. He could do nothing other than what he had promised to do. He would deliver Sara to the Sultan and he would forget her, just as he had forgotten every woman he had ever lain with.
‘This is your destiny,’ he breathed. ‘And you cannot escape it.’
