It wasn’t that that bothered her.
It was being summoned to return to the kingdom—for good. To leave behind her life in New York, the important work she was doing to support childhood literacy; it was leaving behind the identity she’d carved out for herself there. And for what? To come home to Taquul where her future was all mapped out for her? A ceremonial title and marriage to the man her brother deemed most suitable, Paris Alkad’r? A role in this kingdom as ornamental but useless and ineffective?
It felt like a form of suffocation to even contemplate that kind of life and yet she understood her over-protective brother’s thinking. He’d seen the way she’d been after Matthew—the American she’d fallen in love with and who had broken her heart. The newspaper articles had been relentless, the tabloids delighting in her pain. Malik wanted to spare her that—but an arranged marriage was about ten steps too far. Besides, the kind of marriage he and Paris envisaged—a political alliance—was the last thing she wanted!
A spirit of rebellion fired inside her.
Her brother was the Sheikh. He was older, true, but, more importantly, he had been raised to rule a country. Johara’s importance—compared to his—had never been considered as particularly great—at least, not by their parents. Even Malik seemed, at times, to forget that she was a person with her own free will, simply snapping his fingers and expecting her to jump. Her closest friend in New York had commiserated and said that it was the same with her and her older sister—‘older siblings are always bossy as hell’—but Johara doubted anyone could match the arrogance of Malik. She adored him, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of feeling enraged by his choices, at times.
She expelled a sigh, took a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and had a small sip, then replaced it on another waitress’s tray. Every detail of the party was exquisite. The National Ballet were serving as wait staff, each ballerina dressed in a pale pink and silver tutu, dancing as they moved through the crowd, mesmerising, beautiful, enchanting. The enormous marble hall had been opened for the occasion—showcasing the wealth and ancient prestige of the country, the windows displaying views of the desert in one direction and the Al’amanï ranges in the other. Large white marble steps led to an enormous lagoon; man-made, centuries ago, it had a free-form shape and was lit with small fires all around it. Glass had been carefully laid over the edges, allowing guests to hover over the water. Gymnasts danced in the water, their synchronised routines drawing gasps from those who stood outside. Fairy lights were strung overhead, casting a beautiful, ‘midsummer night’s dream’ feeling.
Nothing had been missed.
Another sigh escaped Johara’s lips. In New York, she had still been a princess, and the trappings of home had, of course, followed her. She’d had bodyguards who accompanied her discreetly wherever she went, she’d stayed at a royal apartment, and from time to time had taken part in official functions. However, she had been, by and large, free to live her own life.
Could she really give that up to come home and be, simply, ornamental? What about her burning desire to be of use?
Her eyes flicked across the room. Dignitaries from all corners of the globe had travelled to Taquul for this momentous occasion—an occasion most said would never happen. Peace between Ishkana and Taquul was almost an oxymoron, despite the fact the war had raged for so long that it had become a habit rather than anything else. A foreign diplomat was strutting proudly, evidently congratulating himself on bringing about this tentative peace accord. Johara’s lips twisted into an enigmatic smile. Little did the diplomat know, no one could force her brother into anything that was not his desire.
He wanted this peace. He knew it was time. The ancient enmity had been a part of their life for generations, but it didn’t serve the people. The hatred was dangerous and it was purposeless. How many more people had to die?
Perhaps in the beginning it served its purpose. The landscapes of Ishkana and Taquul were inhospitable. True, there was beauty and there was plenty in parts, but not enough, and the regions that had been in dispute a hundred years ago were those most plentiful with water, most arable and productive. Though a property accord had been reached, the war had continued and the accord had always seemed dangerously close to falling through. Add to that a group of tribes in the mountains who wanted independence from both countries, who worked to ensure the mistrust and violence continued, and Johara could only feel surprise that this peace had finally been wrought. Detailed negotiations between both countries and an agreement to impose strict laws on both sides of the mountains had led to this historic, hopeful event.
She hoped, more than anything, the peace would last.
‘You are bored.’ A voice cut through her thoughts, drawing her gaze sideways. A man had moved to stand at her side. He wore a mask over the top half of his face—soft velvet, it hugged the contours of his features, so she could still discern the strength and symmetry that lay beneath. A jaw that was squared, a nose that was strong and angular, and lips that were masculine yet full. His hair was dark as the depths of the ocean might be, and just as mesmerising—thick with a natural wave, it was cut to the collar of his robe and, though it was neat, she had the strangest feeling it was suppressed wildness, that it wanted to be long and loose, free of restraint. His eyes were dark like flint, and his body was broad, muscular, tall, as though cast in the image of an ancient idol. The thought came to her out of nowhere and sent a shiver pulsing down her spine. He wore an immaculate robe, black with gold at the cuffs and collar, complementing the mask on his face. He looked...mysterious and fascinating.
Dangerous.
He looked temptingly like the rebellion she wanted to stage, so she forced herself to look away while she still could.
‘Not at all.’ She was unrecognisable as the Princess of Taquul, but that didn’t mean she could speak as freely as she wanted. And not to a stranger.
But she felt his eyes on her, watching her, and an inexplicable heat began to simmer inside her veins. She kept looking forward. ‘There is somewhere else you’d rather be though?’ he prompted, apparently not letting his curiosity subside.
She felt a burst of something shake her, willing her to speak to him, to be honest.
‘I—’ She swallowed, tilting her gaze towards him. The mask emboldened her. She was hidden, secret. He didn’t know who she was, and she had no idea who he was. They were simply two strangers at a state function. No rank, no names. A smile curved slowly over her lips. ‘Up until twenty hours ago, I was in Manhattan.’ She lifted her shoulders, conscious of the way the delicate gown moved with her.
‘And you would prefer to be there.’
‘It is a momentous occasion.’ She gestured around the room, then turned back to face him fully. ‘Everyone in Taquul will be rejoicing at the prospect of peace with Ishkana after so long.’
His eyes gave little away; they were stony and cool. ‘Not everyone.’
‘No?’
‘There are many who will harbour hatred and resentment for their lifetimes. Peace does not come about because two men snap their fingers and decide it should.’
Fascination fluttered inside her. ‘You don’t think people see the sense in peace?’
His lips curved in an approximation of a smile. There was something about its innate cynicism that sparked a fire in her blood. ‘Ah, then we are talking about sense and not feeling. What one feels often has very little to do with what one thinks.’
Surprise hitched in her throat. It was an interesting and perceptive observation; she found herself more interested in him than she’d expected to be by anyone at this event. She took a small step without realising it, then another, leading them around the edges of the space.
‘Nonetheless, I believe the people of Taquul will feel enormous relief, particularly those in the border regions. What’s needed is a unified front to quell the unease in the mountain ranges.’
His eyes burned her with their intensity—strange when a moment ago she’d been thinking how like cool stone they were.