Drifa’s gaze locked with the prince’s then. Oh, how she wanted to refuse, but she feared what he might do to Hakeem, who was innocent, in this instance anyhow.
She removed her veil and the outer gown, letting both drop to the ground. Raising her chin haughtily, she demanded of the prince in Greek, “Is this how Arabs treat guests in your land?”
At first he stiffened with affront, and his mother could be heard sputtering with outrage at her tone, no doubt, but then he put a genial expression on his face and bowed to her. “Forgive my manners, Princess Drifa. Welcome to our land. Your land, too, of course. The birthplace of your mother.”
As he spoke, his dark eyes surveyed her figure, much as he would if he were at a horse fair, contemplating a purchase. So she did the same to him.
He was not a bad-looking man, what she could see of him in the white robe he wore, tucked in at the waist by a heavy twisted rope belt. No jewelry, except on his left hand there was a heavy, jeweled ring on his middle finger. He was only slightly taller than she, but well built, with wide shoulders and narrow hips. His black hair, slicked back off his face wetly, or greasily—she wasn’t sure which—was threaded with a few strands of gray; he was after all forty and one years old, according to the man from the Rus lands she’d met at the wedding feast. A meticulously trimmed mustache adorned his otherwise close-shaven face. Drifa suspected by the arrogant way he carried himself that he and Finn would make great comrades-in-vanity.
“Why have you kidnapped me?” she demanded.
He seemed taken aback. “Kidnapped. No!” He turned to Hakeem, “If you mistreated the princess in any way, I will have your head on a pike afore nightfall.”
“No, no, no!” she interrupted. “Hakeem did nothing wrong, other than bringing me here against my will, at your orders, I presume.”
“What does she say?” his mother demanded to know.
The prince told her.
And his mother ordered him, “Beat the woman for her insolence.”
Also in Arabic, he replied, “Later, Mother. We must get her consent first.”
His mother nodded.
Oh, so my consent is needed, after all. Drifa was having trouble with this swinging back and forth between the two languages and having to not react to the Arabic one.
With a peremptory wave of his hand, ad-Dawlah indicated to Hakeem that he should leave. The man bowed and backed out of the room. She hoped the lout didn’t expect the same obeisance from her.
But nay, he turned to smile at her, an oily smile that must charm some women. Not her. She’d been around men too long not to understand when a devious seduction was in play. “Princess Drifa, you are more beautiful than a thousand sunsets.”
Oh please, spare me the nonsense.
“She is skinny as a winter-starved chicken,” his mother remarked.
Drifa schooled her face not to show that she understood.
“You can fatten her up afore the wedding,” the son replied with an ingratiating smile.
I have got news for you. There will be no wedding, and the only fattening will be of your smirking mouth when my fist makes its mark.
“She is old,” his mother observed.
“Not so old that she cannot bear me many sons.”
His mother shrugged.
Drifa thought, When dragons fly and birds talk!
Turning back to her, he said, “My mother remarks on my good fortune in finding such a glorious bride.”
You are such a bloody liar.
His mother glared at her.
“Allah must be smiling on me today,” he concluded.
Or Loki, the jester god, because the joke is going to be on you, my high and mighty halfbrain. There will be no wedding with me, that I guarantee. “Prince ad-Dawlah,” she began, forcing her voice to remain calm and polite.