Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride. Marguerite Kaye

Historical Note

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Kingdom of Murimon, Arabia—May 1815

      Daylight was just starting to fade as he neared his journey’s end. He guided his deliberately modest caravan, consisting of the camel on which he sat and two pack mules, through the broad sweep of the valley floor where the largest of Murimon’s oases fed the fields and orchards, sheltered from the fierce heat of the desert sun by the serried ranks of date palms laden with their ripening fruit. Towering above, the crags of the Murimon Mountains he had just traversed provided further shelter, the silver-grey rock streaked with ochre, gold and umber glinting in the sun’s rays.

      The small town which served the oasis was built into the foothills of the mountains, consisting of a steep jumble of houses and rooftops which clung precariously to the hillside, leaving every precious scrap of level land free for cultivation. The delicious aroma of roasted goat meat wafted on the faint breeze, along with the soft murmur of voices. There was precious little chance of him being recognised for who he was. His recently ended seven years of self-imposed exile and the kingdom’s state of hibernation due to the current period of deep mourning saw to that. But he kept his gaze turned away all the same, leading his camel and his little train of pack mules past the town towards the final mountain pass he must negotiate, keffiyeh pulled over his face leaving only his eyes uncovered.

      His brother would not have countenanced travelling in such a low-key manner. Butrus would have ridden in regal splendour at the head of a caravan of magnificent proportions designed to proclaim his majesty, to encourage his people to pay homage to their ruler, to marvel at and to revere him, to bask in the opulent glare of his princely person. But Butrus was dead. He, Kadar, was Prince of Murimon now. Ostentation sat uneasily with him, though he was beginning to realise that his personal views quite often differed from those of his subjects, and their expectations of him.

      Three short months Kadar had reigned, and the full gamut and weight of responsibility he had been forced to assume were becoming clearer. Responsibilities that would never have been his, had fate not twisted and turned so cruelly. He had returned from his exile to attend his brother’s wedding as an honoured guest. Instead, he had attended his funeral. Kadar’s domain was no longer the palace library he had more or less inhabited while growing up here, but this entire nation. People and not books were his subjects. Instead of studying and interpreting the complex legal systems, both ancient and modern, of other lands, for other rulers, he must apply the laws of this land himself, sitting in judgement on a royal throne rather than interpreting dusty tomes in a seat of learning.

      Emerging from the narrow pass onto the plateau, Kadar brought his camel to a halt. Below him lay the palace, the wide courtyard already lit by the lanterns hanging in the distinctive rows of palm trees which stood guard with military precision at the entrance to the palace itself. The serpentine road which wound down the cliffs to the port was also lit, lamps winking in the fast-fading light, like stars greeting the dusk. And below that, the two enveloping arms of the harbour, the dark mass of ships and the vast sweep of the Arabian Sea.

      The sun was setting on the horizon, a golden orb casting streaks of vermilion, scarlet, orange and dusky pink into the sky. The rhythmic swish of the waves on the shore was like a whispered lullaby. It was the sea he had missed most in his years abroad. No other sea was so brightly blue, scenting the air with that unique combination of salt and heat. Kadar took several deep breaths. The relatively short journey to a neighbouring kingdom he had just completed, his first official state visit, had changed him irrevocably, forcing him to accept that his wishes, his desires, were no longer relevant. Or rather the outcome of this visit had done so. He was a prince first now, a man second. His unwanted inheritance must take priority over all else. Accepting custody of the kingdom he had always loved, he could reconcile himself to that. But as to the stranger he had inherited as a bride...

      No! Every instinct rebelled. The echoes of the past, the dark, painful memories which he had travelled half the world to escape, still had the power to wrench at his heart. He could not endure it. Yet he must, and he could.

      He must not draw comparisons between the past and the present. He must not dwell on the similarities, must focus on the differences. For a start, this particular woman had made her indifference to him very clear, a sentiment he reciprocated entirely, despite her beauty. It ought to make it easier. No need for pretence. No requirement for false declarations of emotions he was incapable of feeling. Not now. Not ever again.

      It ought to make it easier, and yet still he struggled to reconcile himself to this passionless contract. He must steel himself. He must remember that this wedding was what his people demanded, his country required. To honour his brother’s memory by fulfilling his brother’s vision of a new royal dynasty and a suitable heir. And more importantly for Kadar, a large dowry, money with which he could transform Murimon, bring it into the nineteenth century, implement his own golden vision for his people’s future.

      Yes, he could do that. It was a huge personal sacrifice, but it was one worth making.

      Arabian Sea—three weeks earlier

      The storm had been gathering ominously on the horizon for some time. Lady Constance Montgomery, standing in what had become her habitual position on the deck of the East Indiaman sailing ship Kent, watched as the grey clouds mustered, rolling onto the distant stage one after the other as if in response to some invisible cue.

      They had been at sea for nine weeks. Captain Cobb reckoned it would be another three before they reached their destination, Bombay. Only three more weeks before Constance would meet, for the first time, the prominent East India merchant who was to be her husband. No matter how hard she tried, she was still unable to prevent that sickening little lurch in her stomach every time she was reminded of this call of duty that took her halfway around the world.

      She had resisted this marriage which was convenient for all but herself. She had reasoned. She had come up with any number of alternatives. She had even, to her shame, resorted to tears. But when all her stratagems failed, when it became clear that her fate was sealed, she had resigned herself to it. Boarding the Kent at Plymouth, she had felt as if she was jumping off a cliff rather than stepping onto a ship, her eyes screwed shut to avoid the ground rushing up to meet her. The ground, in the form of this arranged match, was not rushing, but it was inching inexorably closer as the East Indiaman sailed across the ocean on fickle winds, edging ever nearer to Bombay. Constance had begun to dread their arrival. This marriage—or any marriage for that matter—ran counter to all her inclinations.

      Oh, dear! She had promised herself not to pick over it all again. The deed was done, the deal had been made—for a business transaction by another name this marriage most certainly was. The exorbitant sum of money Papa required to save the estates had been despatched by Mr Gilmour Edgbaston. The goods, in the form of Constance, were in transit in the opposite direction. ‘And there’s no point in railing against your fate,’ the most expensive piece of cargo on the ship told herself firmly. ‘The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.’

      An excellent resolution and one, she had persuaded herself before she sailed, which was quite achievable. But before she had sailed, she had been bolstered by Mama’s happy smiles and confident assertions that Constance was doing the right thing. Now, very far from home indeed, with far too much time to consider the reality of the situation, she was not at all sure that Mama’s simple philosophy that money was the root of all evils and the source of all happiness had any foundation at all. Not that she had ever believed it. She’d simply had no option but to pretend to do so, because Papa had given Mama no choice, and so Mama had been forced to demand this ultimate sacrifice of her daughter.

      It hurt. It hurt a great deal more than Constance had ever permitted Mama to see. A great deal more than