Claiming His Desert Princess - Marguerite Kaye

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wrong to do so. It might be that, every now and then, the stars did indeed align.

      * * *

      The third and innermost courtyard of the Royal Palace of Nessarah was a vast enclosed space, surrounded on all sides by a colonnade of twenty-two marble columns, the walls of which were set with huge mirrors interspersed with elaborate plasterwork covered in gold leaf, the pattern repeated on the ceiling. Divans covered in crimson velvet, tasselled with gold, lined the colonnade at regular intervals, the overall impression being one of lush, shaded opulence. In contrast, the central square of the courtyard was flooded with light.

      The high domed ceiling was painted in ultramarine and studded with gold stars. The lower walls were covered in blue and white tiles, the higher ones painted a soft dove-grey, and the arched windows, deliberately set far too high for anyone to peer either in or out, allowed light to dapple the rich silk carpets and terracotta floor tiles. The inner courtyard was, like every other room in the harem complex, beautiful, luxurious, and utterly closed off to the outside world. Or so King Haydar and his only son, Prince Ghutrif, believed. Tahira, the eldest of the royal princesses, knew better.

      The crystal chandelier which hung from the central point of the dome held exactly one-hundred-and-twenty-two candles. Tahira knew this for certain, for she had counted them numerous times in an attempt to pass the hours until darkness fell, forcing herself to lie still on the divan, refusing to consult her little jewelled timepiece yet again. She could feel it ticking now where it nestled, concealed beneath her clothing, marking out the hours, minutes, seconds, until she was once more free.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother’s wife, Juwan, enter the courtyard from the door which led to the Crown Princess’s official quarters. Heavy with her second child, which she determinedly proclaimed to all would this time prove to be a prized son, Juwan scanned the room, a frown drawing her finely arched brows together, which cleared as her gaze alighted on her prey.

      Quickly closing her eyes, Tahira feigned sleep, but as Juwan sank on to the divan beside her with small sigh, she accepted the inevitable and sat up.

      ‘Juwan, you look fatigued, don’t you think you should rest, given your condition? It would be better if I left you in peace to do so.’ She stood, arranging a number of silk and velvet cushions invitingly, but although her sister-in-law lowered herself slowly down, rubbing the small of her back, she shook her head when Tahira made to leave.

      ‘No, stay with me a while. I wish to have a little talk with you.’

      Tahira’s heart sank, for since the official visit from Murimon’s Chief Adviser two weeks ago which put an abrupt end to her betrothal, she had endured several such little talks or, more accurately, lectures. Juwan had made it clear—as if Tahira could possibly be in any doubt—that she was very deeply in disgrace. Resigning herself to the inevitable, from force of habit keeping her expression carefully neutral, Tahira pulled a large cushion to face the divan and sank down on to it, crossing her legs.

      ‘Only a few more weeks now, until your baby arrives. You must grow weary of waiting,’ she said brightly, in an attempt to divert her sister-in-law on to her favourite subject.

      Juwan folded her hands over her mountainous stomach. ‘When the time is right, my fine son will grace us with his presence. It is his father who is impatient. Your brother is naturally anxious,’ she added hastily, lest her words be construed as any form or criticism, ‘to finally welcome his long-awaited heir. A man needs a son. I pray I do not let my husband down again.’

      Ghutrif had demonstrated little interest in his daughter. Little wonder that Juwan refused to countenance the possibility of a second female child. Though every fibre of her being rebelled, Tahira could not dispute the facts. Here in the royal palace, patriarchal rule had always been both culturally entrenched and rigorously enforced, regardless of the slowly changing outside world. Here in the Nessarah harem, the female of the species was defined by her ability to produce more males to continue the line, or alternatively to enrich the kingdom by means of advantageous marriage contracts.

      ‘As you know,’ Juwan said, returning to the subject of her visit, ‘this most unfortunate second broken betrothal of yours has upset your brother and father a great deal.’

      ‘My first betrothed died unexpectedly. That was far more unfortunate for him than me, wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘Indeed it was. And only a matter of weeks before the marriage, in a most tragic and untimely accident.’

      Tahira bit her tongue. Of course she would never have wished Prince Butrus dead, but she could not lie to herself. The tragic news had also come as a huge relief.

      ‘Clearly no blame can be laid at your door for that first instance,’ Juwan reluctantly conceded, ‘but now it has happened again, and involving the very same royal family. It does not reflect well on you.’

      ‘I was not the one who tore up the marriage contract,’ Tahira retorted indignantly. ‘And Prince Kadar, I understand, compensated our family far more generously than is customary in such circumstances.’

      Juwan pursed her lips. ‘You see, this is another example of the many character traits which cause my husband great concern. Dowries, compensation, these are not matters we women should be discussing. No matter how much recompense your family may have received, the stain of shame clings to you, yet your behaviour in no way reflects this.’

      ‘What do you expect me to do, hide in a corner crying, or simply keep my head permanently bowed and my mouth permanently closed?’

      ‘That would certainly be a good start,’ Juwan replied tartly. ‘You set a very poor example to your sisters, continuing as if nothing has happened.’

      ‘Because as far as I’m concerned nothing did happen!’ Tahira exclaimed, her temper rising. ‘The one and only time I met Prince Kadar of Murimon, we were heavily chaperoned, and all communication was carried out on my behalf by my brother. I did nothing and I said nothing. The outcome is not my fault.’

      ‘You forget,’ Juwan said, ‘that I was one of the chaperons present to protect your honour. Though your father and my husband may have been oblivious, you overlook the fact that I too have been raised in the confines of the harem, and I too understand the unspoken language, the nuances of the body women such as we have learned to perfect. You made your indifference to the prince very clear without recourse to words.’

      There was no point in denying the truth of this. Tahira had from the first fought both betrothals as furiously as was possible against the implacable wall of her brother’s determination to marry her off, to absolutely no effect. The fates had twice intervened in her favour, but she doubted they would do so again.

      It was time to deploy a risky strategy. ‘If there is such a very large stain of shame attached to me, perhaps we should accept that I am simply not marriageable,’ Tahira said. ‘Very soon now, you will have your hands full taking care of your new son as well as your daughter. You will not wish to be distracted by having to look after the welfare of my younger sisters too. Let me be their official chaperon. Let me take the burden of that responsibility from you. I would be content with that role and would carry it out dutifully.’

      ‘So now, finally, you allow your true colours to show,’ Juwan said disdainfully. ‘Ghutrif and I are of one mind, Tahira. Your one and only duty, the purpose for which you have been bred, is to enhance the power and wealth of Nessarah through marriage. As the wife of the Crown Prince, it is my duty to ensure that your sisters are taken care of and married appropriately when the time comes, not yours.’

      ‘Juwan, I promised my mother...’

      ‘Tahira, that is another lesson which you have signally failed to learn. Your allegiance is not to a woman fourteen years dead, but to your brother, and to myself as his consort. Our wish is to have you married as soon as possible, sparing us all the pain of your most childish behaviour in defying us. Ghutrif will have his way. The easiest thing for yourself and the sisters you claim to love is to accept the inevitable with good grace.’

      ‘I do not claim to love my sisters. I love them

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