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‘Of course not.’ Daniel fielded an instant rebuttal. ‘Shahir would never dream of talking about you behind your back. Look, forget what I said. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’
An hour later, he was on his way to the airport and a return flight to London. It had been his third visit in two months, and Kirsten had thoroughly enjoyed the time they had spent together. At the same time, however, Shahir’s relatives had welcomed her warmly into their lives, and she had become particularly close to his sister, Jahan.
Shahir and Kirsten spent most weekends at Zurak, but weekdays were generally spent at the Ahmet, where they had the privacy of their own palace.
It was hard for her to believe that she had been living in Dhemen for two months on what felt like an extended honeymoon.
Those first few weeks of togetherness with Shahir at Zurak had been sheer, unadulterated bliss. The passion between them had burned hotter than hot, turning day into night and night into day. The wildness of the pleasure they had found in each other still shocked her. It was as though their desire was never fully assuaged. Shahir walked into a room and she wanted him. Sitting through a meal, getting through a polite conversation with visitors could be a private torment. Without the slightest encouragement she would find herself recalling the aromatic scent of his skin, the taste of him and the hard heat of his urgent body against hers, and occasionally it mortified her to be at the mercy of a hunger she could not control.
No onlooker would ever have guessed that Shahir was not in love with his wife, for he managed to act as though Kirsten was the centre of his world. He had shared so much more with her than a bed, she acknowledged, wanting to give honour where it was due. He had taken her into the desert to see the sun go down in crimson splendour, and there he had introduced her to the exquisite and unforgettable love poetry of Kahlil Gibran. He had also tried commendably hard not to laugh when she ran screaming from a lizard she had mistaken for a snake.
He rarely came home without a gift for her or Tazeem. It might be a single flower, a book, a toy for their son or an extravagant jewel, but he gave with immense generosity. He had told her about the harsh routine of the military school he had attended, and the rather disconcerting freedom that had been his when he’d later studied business at Harvard. She had begun to understand the forces and influences that had forged his reserve.
On a visit to a Beduoin encampment she had watched him take part in a sword dance and a camel race, and she had secretly savoured that glimpse of the wild side of his volatile temperament which he kept under such fierce control. They had spent the night in a tent bedecked with ancient rugs, and he had spread her out on the floor and made passionate love to her until dawn, masking her every moan with his mouth so that they would not be heard. In the morning she had watched him fly his peregrine falcon high and free, and he had told her that that was how she made him feel in bed.
She was madly in love with him, but she tried not to think too much about that. Such reflections tended to make her dwell on the fact that he was not in love with her. She tried not to remember that dreadfully stilted exchange on their wedding day, when he had tried to lay her fears about Faria to rest. She was willing to believe that he had never spoken a word of forbidden love to his gorgeous foster-sister. And she thought it was equally likely that Faria had no idea of how Shahir felt about her. But Kirsten was constantly aware that the man she loved had given his heart to another woman, and no matter how happy she was that knowledge was like a raw place on her soul that would not heal.
Somehow her brother had sensed that kernel of insecurity buried deep down inside her. She did strive to be the perfect wife. She took great care of her appearance and, although her cheeks warmed at this reflection, she knew she had been a fast learner in the bedroom. As she had a husband who was currently suffering considerable ribbing from his family for flying back from London just to spend two hours with her before leaving again, she was fairly certain she was meeting the right targets in that area of their relationship. She was equally diligent with lessons in Arabic and etiquette, and already knew more about the history of Shahir’s family than he did.
‘Kirsten…?’ Shahir appeared in the doorway.
Her green eyes lit up. She flew down the length of the grand reception room and flung herself at him. He caught her up in his arms, but instead of kissing her as he usually did he set her gently and carefully back from him. Lean strong face grave, he rested his hands on her slim shoulders and surveyed her with strained dark golden eyes.
‘W
hat’s wrong?’ she pressed, a sliver of unease fingering down her spine.
‘Pamela Anstruther is here in person to plead her case with you. Do you wish to see her?’
‘Pamela…Lady Pamela?’ Her smooth brow divided. ‘Plead her case? What are you talking about?’
Shahir straightened to his full commanding height. ‘I was planning to tell you tonight that the allegation of theft that was laid against you at Strathcraig has finally been disproved.’
Her lashes fluttered wide, her astonishment palpable. ‘Has it?’
‘Unfortunately neither of the two women who accused you had anything to gain from admitting the truth. Both had committed a criminal offence. That is why it has taken such a long time to sort out this matter,’ Shahir explained heavily.
‘But you kept on trying?’ Kirsten was impressed by the commitment he had brought to the challenge of refuting the charges made against her.
‘Yes, of course I did. Unfortunately the continual round of interviews and questions carried out by my personal staff did not appear to be bearing fruit.’
‘But they were still working on it all the same. I was afraid to ask you what was happening in case you’d given up,’ Kirsten confided in a rush.
His clear eyes met hers levelly. ‘I would not have done that.’
‘How has the theft charge been disproved?’
‘I understand that the assistant housekeeper, Morag Stevens, finally confessed yesterday that she had lied. She accepted a financial bribe from Pamela Anstruther to plant the pendant in your locker and act as a false witness against you.’
Kirsten could not hide her disgust. ‘So why did Morag confess after all this time?’
‘Pamela was afraid that Morag would crack under the pressure of the questions being asked. In an attempt to frighten Morag into continuing to keep quiet Pamela made the mistake of threatening her. Morag panicked and admitted everything she had done to the housekeeper.’
‘So my name has been cleared?’ Kirsten nodded to herself with satisfaction even as she frowned in puzzlement. ‘But I don’t understand why Lady Pamela would come all the way to Dhemen to see me.’
Beneath his bronzed complexion, Shahir seemed very pale. ‘The woman is facing prosecution. I have already interviewed her. Our meeting was brief. I see no reason why she should escape punishment. Perhaps she hopes to awaken your pity. Remember that she had none for you.’
More troubled by his bleak attitude than by Pamela’s arrival at the Ahmet Palace, Kirsten shook her head as though to clear it. ‘To be honest, I’m in shock at all this.’
