When he rose early, he tried not to dwell too much on how good she looked asleep with her hair rippling over the pillow, or how easy it would be to climb into bed with her and finish this thing now. Except that she would truly hate him then, and somehow he didn’t want her to hate him any more. If she could like him, even just a little, it would make this whole thing so much easier.
But he took one look at the table under his palms waiting for him to resume his studies and baulked. He had a problem to contend with and there was no space in his head for study. Besides, there was still way too much tension in his body to sit there quietly and take anything in, tension he needed to work off to give himself the headspace to think. He looked out at the ocean, inviting and calm, but swimming would involve going back to the tent to change. Besides, the thought of swimming made him think about her, looking lush and edible in that citrus-coloured swimsuit, and he needed to untangle his thoughts if he was to work out what he was to do, not scramble them completely.
And she was more than capable of scrambling his mind.
Already he was half-tempted by the thought of giving her as much time as she needed to fall into his bed. But that would mean leaving the door open for Mustafa, and how could he do that to Al-Jirad? How could he so callously evade his duty?
But, for a prize like her, it would be almost worth giving up the throne.
He shook his head, though he knew it would take more than that to clear it. He heard the nicker of horses and swung his head around.
Perfect.
Zoltan was nowhere to be seen when she rose, her head feeling as if someone was pounding inside her skull trying to break their way out. She could not remember a worse night. But then, she had not had much experience of sharing a tent with a man who simultaneously drove her wild with passion one minute, and so foaming with fury the next. And somewhere in the midst of those extremes she felt a strange hurt, a sadness, that things had gone so very wrong. But she would not dwell on how cheated she felt that they had not made love last night, or how her body had refused to relax, remaining so achingly high-strung half the night. She would not dwell on that at all.
Rani bringing her tea was just the distraction she needed. If she was going to worry, it might as well be about something important, and someone must have heard from Marina by now. ‘Is there any news of my sister this morning?’ she asked as the steam from the fragrant, spiced liquid curled in the air.
‘No news, mistress.’
For the first time, Aisha felt a prickly discomfort about her sister’s failure to arrive. Sure, Marina might be headstrong and wayward, and abhor anything to do with the constraints of convention, but why would she not attend her sister’s marriage, and now the coronation? Surely she would attend for her sister’s sake, at least?
‘The master is riding, Princess,’ Rani continued, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Would you like a horse prepared for you?’
Aisha almost said no. Almost. But then she thought about riding along the beach, the wind in her hair, the closest she would ever get to being free again, and the idea held such appeal that she agreed. Maybe it might even blow away this growing concern in her gut that Marina hadn’t shown up. Maybe it might make her see that her sister was just making a statement that she disapproved of this marriage and its terms and she was staying away as a protest. Maybe.
‘Which way did Sheikh Zoltan go?’ she asked when her horse was brought to her a few minutes later. When the groom pointed one way down the beach, she pointed her mount the other way.
It had been worth visiting the rest of the tribes people, Zoltan thought as he neared the point, taking a circular route back to the camp. Talking with them had made his path clearer and shown him what was needed. Al-Jirad had progressed in many areas under the rule of King Hamra, but there were still advances to be made in education and healthcare delivery, especially for these wandering people.
It was clear he should thank Aisha for breaking the ice and putting him in contact with them. He would not have thought to visit them otherwise.
It was also clear that he could not entrust the future of anyone, let alone his people, to the likes of Mustafa. That man did not want the throne of Al-Jirad for any reason other than his own personal aggrandisement. He cared nothing for the people.
Strange, he mused as his mount nimbly negotiated the rocky shoreline, how quickly he had come to think of the people of Al-Jirad as his people. He had taken on this role begrudgingly out of a sense of duty, and because the alternative was too ugly a prospect to entertain. He had taken it on all the while resenting the changed direction it meant for his life, and the loss of a business he had created from the ground up, the biggest and best executive-jet leasing business in the world. He had been only months away from achieving that goal when he had taken the call and realised he could not do both. Where was his resentment now? Where was his anger? Instead he felt a kind of pride that he was able to follow in his beloved uncle’s footsteps. He would honour King Hamra’s memory by being a good king.