Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride. Marguerite Kaye

asleep for a very long time.

      Opening her eyes, she gazed up at the ceiling. It was domed, painted a dazzling pristine white. The room was suffused with sunlight. The window through which it streamed was set high in the wall opposite, covered by some sort of carved wooden grille. Beautiful colours adorned that wall and all the others. Tiles. Red and yellow and blue and green, in an unfamiliar pattern that repeated every fourth row. There was a small table set beside her bed. On it sat a silver pitcher frosted with condensation. She was very, very thirsty. She poured herself a glass from the jug and took a tentative sip. Sharp lemon, sweet sugar flavours burst onto her tongue. It was refreshing and delicious. She drained the glass and poured another.

      The nightgown she wore was cream, embroidered with tiny white flowers. She had never owned anything so pretty. How long had she been sleeping? Who had put her to bed? The whisper of women’s voices, the gentle hands massaging something soothing into her forehead, she had thought that a dream. The fog in her head began to slowly clear. She recalled the journey from Bashir’s village. The boat. She shuddered. Don’t think of the boat. And then the sedan chair. And then...

      Prince Kadar.

      Constance gave a little shiver, then frowned at her reaction. She was twenty-five years old and not immune to the appeal of a handsome man, but this was different, no passing fancy but a shocking pang of—of base desire. She had never felt such a very primal attraction before. She wasn’t at all sure that she liked it.

      She smiled. No, that was a lie. She did like it, very much. She liked this tingling feeling she felt, and she liked the fluttering low in her belly, and she liked the little shiver—there it was again, that delicious little shiver, of feeling something she was pretty sure no lady should, and of wanting to do something no lady should either. That a man like Prince Kadar would ever—that she would ever—no, no, no, she never would. But goodness, the sheer impossibility of it was part of the allure.

      She stretched again, enjoying the caress of silk and sheets of the softest cotton on her skin. Sinful, sinful, sinful. And decadent. Sinfully decadent. Decadently sinful. Constance laughed. It was not like her to be so frivolous. Then again, it was hardly commonplace for her to be lying in a bed in a suite in a royal palace, the guest of an Arabian prince. It was fantastical, a dream. Or the continuation of a dream, for nothing had seemed real to her since she had awoken in Bashir’s cottage. It was as if time was suspended, and her life too.

      How was it that Prince Kadar had described it last night? ‘Cast adrift,’ that was it. Cast adrift from both the past and the future. She liked the idea of that, it was an alluring conceit. The Prince had a way with words. And his command of English was extremely impressive. He had told her he had lived abroad, but he had not told her where. Or why. Seven years, he had said. Through choice? What had he been doing, wherever it was he had been? And why had he come back to Arabia? She didn’t even know how his brother had met his fate—an accident, an illness? Constance frowned. Now she came to think it over, he had given away remarkably little, while she—she had revealed far too much.

      She pulled the sheet over her head. Far, far too much. She had aired thoughts she shouldn’t ever have. So she would not permit herself to have them now. Instead, she would think of the Prince. Never mind all the things she didn’t know about him, what did she know? There had been moments when he let his guard down, but they had been very rare. Prince Kadar considered his words very carefully. He was one of those men who made good use of silences too. Deliberately, she was sure of it. He’d be the type of man to whom secrets would be blurted out, crimes confessed.

      I am not married. One very interesting piece of information he had let slip. There had been something in his expression when he said those words, but she couldn’t articulate what it was. Why on earth was a man so—so fascinating and so tempting as Prince Kadar not married? It could certainly not be for lack of opportunity. Even without an Arabian kingdom and all its trappings, even if Prince Kadar were not a prince but a footman, or a groom, she could not imagine he would lack opportunity. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine him taking orders either. So perhaps not a footman. Or a groom. Or any sort of servant.

      Oh, for goodness’ sake! To return to the point. Why wasn’t he married, when surely he could have his choice of any woman? Save women like her, of course, who would never choose to marry. Constance groaned, casting off the sheet. Except that was precisely what she was going to do just as soon as she could board a ship heading east. Provided she could force herself to actually board the ship. Which she would have to do, no matter how terrifying the idea was, because Mr Edgbaston had paid for her in good faith, and much as she’d like him to continue to believe her lost at sea, she was not lost at sea.

      Her mood spoilt, her sense of impending doom returned, Constance dangled her legs over the edge of the high divan bed. She felt decidedly shaky. The floor was marble, cool on the soles of her feet. Pulling on a robe which had been helpfully draped at the bottom of the bed, she made her way carefully to the double doors set in the far wall. They were wooden, ornately carved, similar to the grille covering the window above. Pulling them wide, she found herself in a sitting room with a view out to a courtyard. Dropping onto a huge cushion beside the tall window, she leaned her cheek against the glass. What if she really could decide not to return from the dead? Who would miss her, truly? Mama...

      A lump rose in her throat. Tears burned in her eyes. She had come all this way at Mama’s behest, even though she was pretty sure—no, she was absolutely certain—that what Mama wanted was not in her best interests. What would Mama want her to do now? The answer to that had not changed. She certainly would not want her to return to England. Constance sighed, her breath misting the glass. It was rather dispiriting to discover that whether one was dead or alive didn’t much matter to anyone. Save herself, of course.

      A gentle rap on the door preceded the entrance of a small procession of servants, which diverted her from her melancholy introspection. One after another, they clasped their hands and bowed slightly before her in formal greeting. One maid set out breakfast. Two others began to lay out a selection of clothes in the most delightfully cool materials, and yet another maid presented her with a note, written in English. Prince Kadar requested her presence.

      Constance gazed around her at the flurry of activity, which included two more maids setting out a huge bath in the bedchamber. Honestly, she had no cause at all to be downhearted. She had days, perhaps even weeks of respite ahead of her here as a guest in this fabulous royal palace. Days in which to enjoy being becalmed, cast adrift, shipwrecked. She was going to savour every one of them.

      * * *

      Constance learned that it took an inordinately long time to prepare one for an audience with a prince. First she was bathed in water delicately perfumed with rose petals. Her freshly washed hair was tamed into something resembling submission thanks to some scented oil. The clothes, which she had eventually allowed the collection of maids to select for her, were also unlike anything she had ever worn. Loose pantaloons, gathered tightly at her ankles and cinched at her waist, made from a creamy gossamer-fine fabric that clung revealingly to her legs. A thin-strapped camisole was her only undergarment. Over this, a simple tunic in cream muslin which stopped at her thighs, and on top of that, a sort of sleeveless half-dress in apricot silk which fastened with tiny pearl buttons, leaving the slip beneath, and the bottom of those shocking pantaloons, exposed. Soft kid slippers adorned her feet.

      Studying her reflection, quite unrecognizable to herself, Constance thought she resembled something between a milkmaid and a concubine. Not that she’d ever actually seen, far less met, a concubine. It felt decidedly odd, being fully dressed without being laced into a corset. Though the overdress was buttoned tightly at her waist, the neckline skimmed the top of her breasts, which were confined only by the thin muslin of the tunic—or rather cradled rather than confined. Staring critically at the swell of her bosom, she supposed she was at least more decently covered than if she had been wearing a ball gown in the latest fashion.

      And the posse who had created this vision seemed to be happy with the effect. She was, finally, fit to be seen by the Prince. Smiling and miming her thanks, Constance trailed in the wake of another servant through a warren of corridors before being ushered up a narrow flight of spiral stairs. She paused for a moment at the top, her eyes dazzled