LITMIR.BIZ

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which meant that for each lap there would be four tight corners to negotiate.

      ‘And so this stranger who has been in our midst for some weeks is interested in our camels as well as our horses.’ The man who accosted Christopher was old, his wiry grey hair tied in the multitude of plaits favoured by some of the Bedouins. ‘I saw you at the horse fair some weeks ago,’ he said, in response to Christopher’s raised brows. ‘You are not a man easily forgotten.’

      ‘My colouring is not a common sight in Arabia, right enough.’

      The old man shook his head. ‘It is your eyes. Not the colour, but you are like me, a man who sees what others do not.’ He smiled, revealing a sparkling gold front tooth. ‘Do you come to see our royal family today, Mr Foreigner? We will be granted a rare sighting of the princesses, I am told.’

      ‘Indeed, I wondered who that lavish construction would house.’ On the opposite side of the track, at the start-and-finish line, a large podium had been erected with benched seating strewn with cushions, a silk tasselled canopy covering the whole. ‘Will Prince Ghutrif be in attendance?’

      ‘Today is Prince Ghutrif’s gift to the people of Nessarah. Some significant announcement is expected,’ the old man said. ‘A new gold mine, perhaps. Not yet the birth of the long-awaited heir, for the guns would have been sounded from the palace. Have you attended a camel race before, Mr Foreigner?’

      ‘This is my first,’ Christopher said, wondering if the prince was celebrating the opening of his turquoise mine.

      ‘You will witness a spectacle rather than a race,’ the old man was saying. ‘Camels, as you will know, take a great deal of encouragement to get going, and once they do, they take a deal more encouragement to stop. Then there is the fact that it is not the most flexible of animals. Have you ever tried to turn a tight corner on camel back?’ When Christopher shook his head, the old man cackled. ‘I advise you to stay clear of the marker poles if you value your life.’

      ‘But I had heard racing camels were specially bred.’

      ‘You heard correctly. These beasts are fed on a diet of dates and honey, alfalfa and milk. They eat better than I! Such food makes for a smaller hump—reduced still further by depriving the animal of food and drink the day before the race, and so it is easier for the jockey to balance behind it without a saddle.’

      ‘No saddle? I would imagine that would be rather—painful,’ Christopher said, wincing.

      The old man cackled again. ‘A pain eased by the gold given to the winner by our most venerable Prince Ghutrif. Look, he is arriving now.’

      Sure enough, the crowd had dropped to their knees, the cries and laughter changing to hushed, reverential greetings. Following suit, Christopher watched furtively as the royal party arranged themselves on the seating under the canopy. Prince Ghutrif was a handsome man, much younger than Christopher had imagined, and slender under his rich robes of gold and scarlet. There was something familiar in his features, the fine arched brows, the brown eyes under heavy lids, explained no doubt by Prince Ghutrif being related to one or several of the other sheikh princes Christopher had encountered on his travels.

      There was another man seated in state beside him. A brother? A fellow prince? Now that the prince was seated, the women who must be the princesses, judging from the richness of their robes and jewels, were taking their time to find their seats, their attendants fussing over the arrangement of their silks. Four this time, not the five he’d seen at the market place. The Crown Princess must be too near her time to attend. One, swathed in the colours of the setting sun, was being ordered to change places, to sit not at her brother’s side, but beside the stranger, and as she moved Christopher’s stomach lurched. Impossible, he chided himself. A trick of the eye, a case of his senses mistaking reality for what he most wanted to see. But his stomach lurched again as she reached up to adjust her veil and her long sleeve fell back to reveal her wrist. And on it, a distinctive turquoise bracelet.

      At last, the other three princesses were seated, their maidservants ranged behind them, the guards posted. With a quick, formal farewell to his companion, Christopher made his way swiftly to the other side of the track, and a better view of the royal box. He was being ridiculous, but his pounding heart and dry mouth didn’t appear to agree. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, her averted sidelong gaze, were all painfully familiar. If only she were not veiled. If only he could get close enough—but a guard barred his way, and a drum began to beat loudly, and Prince Ghutrif got once again to his feet, the signal for everyone else to drop to their knees.

      But Christopher did not, for the woman in the colours of the rising sun had lifted her eyes to look at the crowd. Dark brown eyes, almond-shaped, under perfectly arched brows. Their gaze met and held, and those familiar eyes widened in horror, before the sharp tap of a guard’s lance brought Christopher to his knees. But he refused to drop his gaze. He watched her as her brother continued to pontificate, the things she had told him of her family, her life, her fate, sliding into place like the interconnected pieces of a puzzle. He had fantasised about seeing her in the daylight. Now his wish had been granted. Be careful what you wish for!

      ‘My people, we come together on this most happy of days to celebrate,’ the prince announced.

      The crowd waited with bated breath to find out what was being celebrated but Christopher, with a sinking heart, already knew. Today was the day Tahira’s betrothal was to be formalised. Today was the day that...

      ‘His Royal Highness, Prince Zayn al-Farid, has pledged to marry my sister. I hope you will join with us in celebrating this most joyful and momentous occasion. Please rise, and let the festivities begin.’

      Christopher rose, and so did his bile, and his fury, fuelled by the fact that Tahira’s brother had not even seen fit to give her name. Fists clenched, he stared at her, willing her to meet his eyes. And she did. As the man she was to marry took her hand and kissed her fingers, Tahira looked up, her free hand stretching towards him, and instinctively Christopher took a step towards her, heedless of anything but the sorrow in her eyes. But a guard barred his way, and he came to his senses, and anger returned full-force as he cursed, turning away from the woman who had lied to him, betrayed his trust, played him for the fool that he was.

      He strode across the track, where the camels and their riders were milling, and kept on walking. He couldn’t wait to shake the sand from this cursed place out of his cloak for ever.

      * * *

      Tahira thought the day would never end. Seeing Christopher at the camel race, her poor heart had leapt pathetically in her breast, and for a fleeting, foolish moment, she thought he had come to save her from her fate. Why he would do so, why he was still here in Nessarah at all, she had no time to consider, for one glance at his equally shocked expression told her that she was the last person he had expected to see, and she tumbled back down to earth as she saw her betrayal written large on his face.

      As the crowd roared, and her brother and husband-to-be dispensed ribbons, trophies and gold, and her sisters relished the spectacle, Tahira’s mind raced in quite another direction, out across the desert towards Christopher. She felt quite sick imagining what he must be thinking of her. She had not lied to him, but she knew that the truths she had concealed were tantamount to the same thing.

      * * *

      The races over, back at the palace Juwan held one of her interminable dinners as Tahira’s future husband dined in separate state with the menfolk. She gave him barely a thought. Shock had given way to a fierce determination to explain herself to Christopher, but the risks were enormous. She belonged to another now, it would be wrong of her to seek him out, but when she tried to reconcile herself to silence, every feeling rebelled. She had to see him. She had to explain. She had to.

      And so she waited, growing more and more tense through dinner, finally claiming to be overwhelmed by the momentousness of the day, to have a headache, to require utter solitude, retiring to her divan long before the meal was finished. Locking her door and making her escape long before the harem lay silent for the night, she was far beyond counting the risk, the possible costs, ignoring Farah’s astounded pleas, caring

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