throat as raw as the desert, but she no longer cared. It wasn’t as if he gave a fig if she did weep or how she felt about anything—but the embarrassment at her less than regal behaviour might just get rid of him for a little while.
‘Amber, I don’t want to keep going like this. I can see you’re hurting, but I don’t know how to help you.’
Seconds later she heard the door close softly behind him, and heaved a sigh—whether in relief or from the greatest misery she’d ever known, she wasn’t sure. Had she got her point across to him at last, or had she driven him away?
There would be no divorce. Her father would see her dead before he’d allow it, and she couldn’t just disappear. Even if she weren’t hemmed in by servants, she’d put her family through public shame, the scandal would leave her younger sisters unmarriageable and, worst of all, she’d have to leave her family behind for ever.
Unthinkable. Impossible. They were all she had, and, despite her ongoing conflicts with her father, she loved them all dearly.
So she was stuck here, for ever bound to this man—
‘So why do I keep driving him away?’ she muttered through her fingers. If she wanted any kind of amity in her life—and, most importantly, a child to fill the hole in her heart and end her public shame—she had to let Harun know the truth. That, far from hating him, she punished him for his neglect of her because she admired and desired him, and had since before their wedding day. Even now she pushed him in some desperate attempt to get him to really speak to her, to feel something, anything—
No. She’d die before she told him. He had to give her some sign first! But how to—?
The rag crossed her mouth with shocking suddenness. Panic clawed at her and she struggled, but within moments it was tied at the back of her head. Another bound her hands together behind her. She kept fighting, but then a sickly sweet stench filled her nostrils, and made her head spin before everything turned black.
* * *
Three steps from her door, Harun stopped and wheeled around. What was he doing?
Amber was crying, and he’d left her. He’d never believed he’d ever have the power to make her cry, but he had…talking of Naima and Buhjah—
‘Idiot!’ he muttered when at last a light went on in his brain and his heart after years of darkness. Was it possible? Could Amber be jealous? He struggled to think. Did she yearn for the child she’d demanded of him last year, the child he’d never given her—his children that were her right as his wife…or—dear God in heaven…he’d let her keep thinking Buhjah was Rafa’s real name—that she was his lover, not Fadi’s—
Amber was his wife. He owed her his first loyalty, not Buhjah and Naima, much as he cared for both of them. He owed Amber a lot more than the public presence he gave her. And—what if all her roundabout talking, her probing and proud demands for more than the child she’d asked him for a year ago were supposed to help him to work out that she wanted more? That she wanted him?
He stalked back through the door before he could change his mind. ‘Amber, I’m not going anywhere—’
Then he jerked to a standstill, staring at the sliding door of the secret passage that joined the back of their bedrooms—the one that was never watched, at his strict order. It led to freedom through a tunnel below the palace, created during the seventeenth century, when many brides were taken by abduction. Amber’s feet were all he saw as the door began to slide closed again, but they were sliding backwards.
Someone had her! If it was the el-Shabbats…or worse, the more virulent of the el-Kanar supportive factions who’d kept sending him messages to rid himself of her, that she was bad luck—dear God, the return of Alim might have spurred them to action. The faction of reactionary, old-fashioned autocrats hated Alim for his western ways, and wanted to keep Harun as Sheikh. If they’d
‘Amber, I don’t want to keep going like this. I can see you’re hurting, but I don’t know how to help you.’
Seconds later she heard the door close softly behind him, and heaved a sigh—whether in relief or from the greatest misery she’d ever known, she wasn’t sure. Had she got her point across to him at last, or had she driven him away?
There would be no divorce. Her father would see her dead before he’d allow it, and she couldn’t just disappear. Even if she weren’t hemmed in by servants, she’d put her family through public shame, the scandal would leave her younger sisters unmarriageable and, worst of all, she’d have to leave her family behind for ever.
Unthinkable. Impossible. They were all she had, and, despite her ongoing conflicts with her father, she loved them all dearly.
So she was stuck here, for ever bound to this man—
‘So why do I keep driving him away?’ she muttered through her fingers. If she wanted any kind of amity in her life—and, most importantly, a child to fill the hole in her heart and end her public shame—she had to let Harun know the truth. That, far from hating him, she punished him for his neglect of her because she admired and desired him, and had since before their wedding day. Even now she pushed him in some desperate attempt to get him to really speak to her, to feel something, anything—
No. She’d die before she told him. He had to give her some sign first! But how to—?
The rag crossed her mouth with shocking suddenness. Panic clawed at her and she struggled, but within moments it was tied at the back of her head. Another bound her hands together behind her. She kept fighting, but then a sickly sweet stench filled her nostrils, and made her head spin before everything turned black.
* * *
Three steps from her door, Harun stopped and wheeled around. What was he doing?
Amber was crying, and he’d left her. He’d never believed he’d ever have the power to make her cry, but he had…talking of Naima and Buhjah—
‘Idiot!’ he muttered when at last a light went on in his brain and his heart after years of darkness. Was it possible? Could Amber be jealous? He struggled to think. Did she yearn for the child she’d demanded of him last year, the child he’d never given her—his children that were her right as his wife…or—dear God in heaven…he’d let her keep thinking Buhjah was Rafa’s real name—that she was his lover, not Fadi’s—
Amber was his wife. He owed her his first loyalty, not Buhjah and Naima, much as he cared for both of them. He owed Amber a lot more than the public presence he gave her. And—what if all her roundabout talking, her probing and proud demands for more than the child she’d asked him for a year ago were supposed to help him to work out that she wanted more? That she wanted him?
He stalked back through the door before he could change his mind. ‘Amber, I’m not going anywhere—’
Then he jerked to a standstill, staring at the sliding door of the secret passage that joined the back of their bedrooms—the one that was never watched, at his strict order. It led to freedom through a tunnel below the palace, created during the seventeenth century, when many brides were taken by abduction. Amber’s feet were all he saw as the door began to slide closed again, but they were sliding backwards.
Someone had her! If it was the el-Shabbats…or worse, the more virulent of the el-Kanar supportive factions who’d kept sending him messages to rid himself of her, that she was bad luck—dear God, the return of Alim might have spurred them to action. The faction of reactionary, old-fashioned autocrats hated Alim for his western ways, and wanted to keep Harun as Sheikh. If they’d
Similar Books
