Instead he’d put his homeland behind him a very long time ago. Self-defence, he knew, because the best times in his life had not been with his brothers or with their domineering father, but with a black-haired girl who had seemed like an extension of himself, who had been the light of his life.
No, he knew that if he had thought of Qusay at all it would only have brought back memories of Sera, and he’d had no intention of inflicting that upon himself.
So much for being a prince of Qusay. What did he really know of this land, when he had abandoned his existing responsibilities and his links so readily?
The moon provided no answers, and the dark sea refused to come to his rescue.
Could Sera be right? he wondered, as he set off back towards camp long after she had departed. He was little more than a tourist here. An accident of birth might have made him their prince, he might be ruler of a business empire of his own making, but there was precious little else to commend him.
It was just lucky he was not the eldest. Kareef would make a good king. A just king. Kareef would be the king Qusay needed.
Sleep eluded Rafiq in his tent that night, no matter his recent long journey, the comfy wide bed with plush pillows and comforter, and the otherwise relaxing sound of the waves crashing in, wave after endless wave, rolling in along the shore. But Rafiq did not mind the sleepless hours. Because when he did sleep it was his own private agony, and his dreams were filled with the song of sirens, of a beauty once forbidden to him, of a beauty that still called to him.
It was hard enough not to think of her when he was awake—impossible not to remember her long-limbed perfection as she’d risen from the sea, the water streaming from her golden body. And when he slept his dreams were owned by her, closeted away under the curtain of her thick black hair—the hair he’d once buried his whispers in, the hair he’d worn heavy across his chest as she’d laid her head upon his shoulder.
He jerked awake suddenly, certain he could smell the herb-rinsed scent of her hair on his pillow. But he flopped back down alone, strangely disappointed, his breathing ragged as the spindly fingers of dawn squeezed their way through the tiny gaps in his tent.
What the hell was wrong with him?
The mountain road was in no better state than reported—no more than single lane in many places, with mountain slippages making it even more risky in others. Below them as they rose up the twisted road, the endless desert rolled on. Somewhere out there was Shafar, Sera reflected, and the palace. Soon Kareef would be crowned, and Rafiq would return to his other world, and things would return to some kind of normality.
She could hardly wait.
And then she glanced across at Rafiq, sitting alongside the driver in the front seat, and thought, liar.
For, while she wished he’d never bothered to turn up for his brother’s coronation, and as much as she wished to get her emotions back under control, seeing him go, watching him leave again after he’d reawakened feelings that should have been left dormant, would be devastating.
He looked over his shoulder then, snaring her gaze. Questions swirled in his own blue depths before she could turn her head away, her skin tingling under her abaya, her breasts suddenly sensitive and full. It hurt, this sudden reawakening of her senses. It stung physically and mentally.
She closed her eyes, feigning sleep, trying to block out both him and the uncomfortable sensations, trying to cut the invisible tie that seemed to bind them even now, after so many empty years.
But when she gave up on the pretence and opened them again he was still studying her, his eyes steel-blue with intent, and her body shuddered anew. Spot fires were starting under her skin, their flames licking secret places, building secret needs that made her more ashamed of her body than ever. Evidence, if she’d needed anything more, that her body welcomed his attentions and would miss him when he was gone.
Evidence that the sooner he left, the better.
The vehicle rattled and bumped up the steep escarpment. Their ascent up the mountainous path was seeming to take for ever, although it was at most a couple of hours. Finally the narrow track opened out, widening where the land levelled between two craggy mountain peaks, and stunted trees and bushes clung to the roadside. Buildings appeared, low and squat—mud brick buildings made from the same red cliffs of the mountains.
They had reached Marrash. Goats brayed where they were tethered at the sides of the road, and children gathered in groups under the shade of spindly trees, jumping up and shouting as they approached, as if the arrival of visitors was a rare treat. Given the state of the one road leading into it, it probably was.
Rafiq surveyed the town suspiciously. This was the place where a fabric of such beauty had been created? In this dry and dusty mountain village? It hardly seemed possible.