He watched those hands. He remembered them. Slim, he recalled. Long-fingered. Hands that had come perilously close to grazing the fabric covering his swelling organ last night. Hands that would soon have that privilege and that right, a right he hoped they would soon exercise.
Then he noticed her eyes and found them already filling with tears, threatening to spill over. He simultaneously wondered at her ability to distract him and cursed it when he knew the news he had to deliver was only going to make her feel worse. ‘But how?’ she cried. ‘When?’
‘The morning before you were kidnapped. King Hamra was on his way to Egypt for a holiday—he and the Queen in one helicopter with his close advisers, his mother and sons, their wives and families in the other. For some reason the two helicopters ventured too close to each other. Nobody knows why. But it seems that their blades touched and both helicopters plummeted to the ground.’
He gave her a moment to let the news sink in before he added, ‘There were no survivors.’
Her face was almost devoid of colour, her dark eyes and lashes suddenly starkly standing out on a skin so deathly pale that he worried she might actually collapse.
He took hold of her shoulders before she might fall and steered her to the nearest chair where she sagged, limp and boneless.
‘But surely not all of them? Not Akram and Renata? Not Kaleem and Akra? And, please, no, surely not the children? They were so young, just babies …’
He could offer her nothing, so he said nothing, just gave the slightest shake of his head.
‘Nobody told me!’ she cried when she realised the truth and the extent of the disaster. ‘I knew nothing. All the time I was in that desert camp they told me nothing. Oh yes, they laughed and smirked and made crude jokes about what Mustafa intended to do with me, but nobody told me that the King and his family had been killed. Nobody told me …’
She looked up at him, the shock, hurt and misery right there in her eyes to see, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her and sorry for the upset all this damned mess would cause her. But, hell, why should he feel sorry for her, when his life had been similarly turned upside down, his future curtailed by the rules laid down by those of centuries past? The fact was that they were both the victims in this situation.
‘Is this why all this is happening? Because it is somehow connected to that tragedy?’
Why did she have to look so damned vulnerable? He wanted to be angry with her, the spoilt princess who was having to do what her nation needed instead of what she wanted for a change. The last thing on earth he wanted was to feel empathy for her. To feel sorry. Especially when he was being subjected to the same external forces. He sucked in air. ‘Al-Jirad needs a king.’
She looked up at him through glassy eyes, her long black lashes heavy with tears. ‘That man—the vizier—he called you Excellency. Are you to be that king?’
‘I am one possibility. King Hamra was my uncle. My father had two sons to two different wives. One was Mustafa. The other was me.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, whichever one of us it is to be is decided by the pact.’
She nodded, her eyes hardening with the realisation of what this came down to, the grief still there, but framed in anger now. ‘So that’s what this is all about, then, this game of Hunt the Princess. Whoever marries the princess first wins the crown of Al-Jirad.’
‘It is what the pact requires. Where the crown of Al-Jirad is compromised, the alliance will be renewed by the marriage between the royal families of our two countries. Because of your older sister’s situation …’
‘You mean, because she has two children to two different fathers and she never actually bothered marrying either of them, she’s no longer eligible for the position? But surely she has a proven track-record. If it’s heirs you need—and when has any monarchy not been all about heirs?—Marina has proven child-bearing capabilities, where sadly I do not.’
‘Your sister is, to put it mildly, over-qualified for the position. The fact you have not yet bred is still in your favour.’
Have not yet bred. She itched to hit something. Anything. Maybe him. Except princesses were not supposed to do such things, were not expected to give in to such base instincts. But still, the claim that this agreement was somehow in her favour rubbed, and rubbed raw.
‘How can it be in my favour when it forces me into this situation?’
‘It is duty, Princess. It is not personal.’
Not personal? Maybe that was why she hated it so much. Because it wasn’t personal. And she had dreamed—oh, how she had dreamed—that being so far down the line to the crown, and a woman into the deal, would ensure she would never be subjected to the strictures of the first or even the second-born sons. She had watched her brothers with their tutors, seen how little rope they had been given. And she had watched her sister, who had been given too much too quickly while all the attention was on her brothers and their futures. She had been foolish enough to think she could somehow escape the madness of it all unscathed and lead a near-normal life. She had stupidly hoped she might even marry for love.