For he had insisted that she learn to ride—had even insisted on teaching her himself. And what a hard taskmaster he had proved to be—not satisfied until she could gallop alongside him with a fearlessness which matched his own.
Never satisfied…and yet always satisfied.
It was the same in their marital bed on silken sheets which whispered and wrapped themselves around their entwined bodies. Would their passion for each other never abate? she sometimes asked herself in helpless wonder as she came back down to earth from some remote place of pleasure which Khalim had taken her to.
She hoped not.
He touched a light hand to her elbow as a golden shaft of sunlight turned her hair to pure spun gold. ‘Tired?’ he asked softly, thinking how all the people had warmed to her that afternoon. As they always warmed to her. For his Rose had a gentle understanding which made people instantly love her.
As he loved her, he thought fiercely—loved her more than he would have thought possible to love another person.
‘Tired?’ Rose smiled up at him dreamily. ‘No, of course I’m not. It was a wonderful afternoon. Wasn’t it?’ she asked him, a touch anxiously.
‘You know it was.’ They had been to the opening of the newly refurbished Maraban Orphanage, now named after its princess. No announcement had ever been officially made, but word had got around on the grapevine of Rose’s generous donation when she’d still been living in London, when she had believed her relationship with Khalim to be over.
‘Such unselfishness,’ his mother had cooed, totally in thrall with her daughter-in-law herself. As were his sisters. In fact, everyone. Well, almost everyone.
Khalim allowed a wistful smile to play at the corners of his mouth.
Except for Philip, of course. Philip had tendered his resignation a year after Rose had become Princess, even though both she and Khalim had asked him to reconsider.
But Philip had shaken his dark, handsome head, the green eyes enigmatic, giving little away.
‘I cannot,’ he had demurred.
‘It isn’t me, is it, Philip?’ Rose had asked him.
He gave her a fond smile. ‘Never you, Princess,’ he had murmured. ‘But I am part of the past, it is time for me to go. Your new emissary must be someone who will engage in your joint future. Think about it. You know that what I say is true.’
Yes, Khalim had known—Philip’s insight had been one of the reasons he had made him his emissary. And even Rose had known that, too—though she was sad for a little time, because she herself had become fond of the cool Englishman and his connection with her old life.
The doors to their apartments were opened and they went inside, Khalim giving a swift shake of his dark head to the robed figure who looked enquiringly at him. He wanted to be alone with her.
Because Rose had seen very early on in her marriage that absolutely everyone wanted a piece of Khalim, and that unless she put her foot down their time together would be limited indeed. And so—to much outrage at first—she had insisted on having their own kitchen built inside their private apartments.
‘I don’t always want to be served food,’ she had told Khalim stubbornly when he’d tried to oppose her plan. ‘Sometimes I want to cook myself, for just the two of us, the way I used to when we lived together in London, remember?’
He’d smiled. ‘How could I ever forget?’
‘And, of course, for you to cook for me!’ She had seen his look of outrage and slanted him a provocative smile. ‘We don’t want you forgetting how to fend for yourself, do we, my darling?’
‘Oh, Rose,’ he had moaned, helpless in the capture of that smile.
He watched her now as she moved with such elegant grace towards the kitchen, and followed her, wondering whether he should take her to bed now, or later. That was the trouble and also the joy of their relationship—he never stopped wanting her. But his powers of self-control had been sorely tested.
Today, her flaxen hair was complimented by the lavender silk of the gown she wore, and he looked at her with a slightly jealous pride. Too bad that they were now having to contend with hordes of foreign journalists eager to capture the beauty of the Marabanesh princess. His Rose was going international, while he wanted her all to himself! And yet deep in his heart he knew that she gave herself completely to him. And always would.
She turned to find him watching her and thought that right now was just the moment to make her gift to him. ‘Khalim,’ she said softly, in perfect Marabanese. ‘Shall I make some mint tea for us to drink?’ And she thought that she would never forget the look on his face as he stared at her with a kind of dawning wonder.
‘Rose?’
She continued speaking in his native tongue. ‘I’ve been having lessons,’ she told him shyly. ‘From Fatima. Whenever you’ve been dealing with affairs of state, I’ve been poring over my dictionary! And Fatima says I’m almost fluent and that I—’
But she couldn’t say any more on the subject, because he had swiftly crossed the room, and had pulled her into his arms and was looking down at her with a fierce and tender love.
‘Were the gods looking down on us the day I met you, Rose?’ he demanded heatedly. ‘And were they Jupiter and Venus?’
‘I expect so,’ she said demurely, because she knew just what he wanted when he looked at her like that. What she wanted, too, more than anything else.