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‘Don’t sit down until I do,’ Shahir warned her in an undertone, belatedly appreciating that she would have to be taught royal protocol—and fast.
It was dawning on him that he had been thoughtless in not equipping her better for the challenge of this rarefied world in which he lived. The many privileges of royal status came at the cost of an equal number of restrictions. When his wife appeared in public she would be expected to demonstrate an impeccable grasp of etiquette and the old-fashioned formality that was the hallmark of his family.
An adorable little girl presented Kirsten with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Kirsten’s generous smile lit up her face and she thanked the child in Arabic, grateful that she had taken the time to learn a few basic words.
‘I’m impressed,’ Shahir admitted.
‘Don’t be,’ she said shyly. ‘I bought a tourist vocabulary book and I’ve only managed to learn about fifty words.’
A court ministerial advisor gave a rather lengthy speech of welcome with great enthusiasm. Then an impossibly long white limousine with a Dhemeni flag on the bonnet pulled up, and at Shahir’s covert signal they stood up and left the dais. The band immediately began to play a classical piece that was familiar to her.
‘In your honour, the musicians have selected a piece by an English composer,’ Shahir explained.
She was touched. ‘It’s called “Chanson de Matin.” It was a favourite of my mother’s.’
For an instant he was surprised, until he recalled that her mother had taught music. ‘I didn’t realise you were so knowledgeable.’
‘I was still quite young when my father decided to get rid of the family television. Mum used music to keep Daniel and I occupied in the evenings. We were quite happy without a TV. Then Dad decided we were enjoying music too much and he sold the piano.’
His fine ebony brows pleated. ‘It must have been grim.’
‘It hurt Mum the most, and I promised myself that one day I would have a piano of my own and I would play it all day!’ Kirsten confided with a rueful laugh. ‘I’d be pretty rusty at the keyboard now.’
His dark golden eyes had a sombre light. ‘I don’t think that would matter.’
The interior of the air-conditioned limo was blissfully cool, and Kirsten stretched out her long slender legs and relaxed with a contented little sigh.
Shahir studied her delicate profile with keen masculine appreciation. Her wilful independent streak was matched by a surprising level of sensitivity. The more he found out about her, the more he wanted to know. Like an exquisite painting, she never lost her appeal. And the plain tailored suit she wore was the perfect choice for a woman of such stunning beauty. In so many ways, he acknowledged, she continually exceeded his expectations.
But no sooner had that thought occurred to him than he remembered the theft of the pendant. His proud bone structure hardened, and distaste filled him before he could suppress it. He removed his attention from her. Once again he reminded himself that she had made an appalling mistake in fraught circumstances, and that he had to find it within himself to understand and forgive.
‘My word!’ Kirsten sat bolt upright, her eyes rounding in astonishment when she saw the giant advertising hoarding on the outskirts of the city. Unbelievable as it seemed to her, it carried a huge picture of her face and Shahir’s. ‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing. What’s that for?’
‘It is announcing our wedding, which will be a public holiday. All of Dhemen will be celebrating with us,’ Shahir proffered coolly.
She swallowed hard and wondered why he was being so distant with her. Was he wishing he did not have to go through another wedding with her? Was it the ultimate horror to be forced to marry the wrong woman twice over? Or was she simply being over-sensitive? It was not his fault that she suffered from such low self-esteem, she told herself uncomfortably.
The capital city, Jabil, was composed of wide thoroughfares shaded by mature trees. The busy streets were softened by enticing glimpses of lush green parks. Contemporary buildin
gs sat side by side with ancient domed mosques and rambling villas, and there was a definite air of prosperity to the upmarket shops and hotels. The people wore both European and Arab dress, and many of them stopped to look and wave as the royal motorcade rolled past complete with outriders on motorcycles.
‘We are to have a traditional wedding,’ Shahir breathed tautly, suspecting that culture shock was about to engulf his European bride. ‘The festivities begin tonight and will not end until late tomorrow. We will not meet again until the ceremony takes place.’
Kirsten was thoroughly dismayed at the prospect of being parted from him again so soon. ‘Does it have to be like that? I mean, why can’t we be together?’
The note of panic in her soft voice tugged at his self-assurance until it broke through his defensive barriers. Dark golden eyes intent on her, he closed a lean bronzed hand over hers. ‘It is the way it has been done for centuries, and we have broken quite enough rules already in our courtship. As it is, the usual three days of festivities are being compressed into one and a half to suit my father’s schedule.’
‘But I don’t know anybody…’ She could hear her voice wobbling and she was ashamed of the tears gathering.
Shahir reached for her other hand as well. ‘But there are many English speakers in my family, and they will be very kind to you,’ he swore. ‘My relatives are very relieved that I have finally found myself a wife.’
The level of his conviction soothed her. ‘Relieved?’ she queried.
‘Apparently my father didn’t put any pressure on me to marry because he believed that was the best way to encourage me to take a bride.’ His darkly handsome features were wry. ‘But I was in no hurry, and my indifference had become a source of concern.’
Curiosity about Faria stabbed at her. How many people were aware that he loved another woman? Had the awareness that his son could not have the woman he really wanted lain behind his royal parent’s willingness to be patient?
‘Why was the King so worried?’
