Royals: A Dutiful Princess. Leanne Banks

was like a fire burning too bright, in danger of consuming everything around her, including him. What was she keeping from him? It wasn’t enough for her to smile and nod her head in his direction, when not once had she held his gaze.

      And now the headman stepped forward to speak again.

      ‘If there’s something I should know, you’d better tell me now, Jazz,’ he warned in an urgent undertone.

      Putting a finger over her mouth beneath the veil, Jazz shook her head as the headman cleared his throat and began to speak. He was brandishing a sheet of paper, which Tyr guessed must be an email that had arrived when the Internet was still up. Who could possibly evoke this level of response simply by sending an email? Only one name sprang to mind, and that was his friend Sharif. ‘What the hell is going on, Jazz?’

      ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. The headman says it’s very good news.’

      For whom? he wondered.

      ‘I’m hoping it’s a reply to the mail I sent to Sharif, requesting more funding for the school,’ Jazz explained.

      ‘So what is he saying now?’ he demanded as the headman waved his arms and called for silence. A cold blade of dread sliced through him as Jazz paled and swayed. She looked as if she was about to faint. ‘What is it, Jazz? What is he saying?’

      ‘We’ve got the money for the school.’

      ‘Aren’t you happy about that?’

      ‘Of course I am. And the headman has just explained that we will both be staying on to supervise the setting up of the school.’

      ‘Both?’ He frowned.

      ‘Tyr—I don’t know what to say— Everything’s out of control— This is all going too fast—’

      ‘What is?’ he demanded.

      ‘The headman just confirmed that Sharif has also agreed to his request that when I do get married it will be here in the village.’

      A storm of emotion hit him as cheers rose around them. ‘Not to the emir, I hope?’

      ‘Not to the emir,’ Jazz confirmed to his relief, but the tears in her eyes did nothing to reassure him.

      ‘Then to whom?’ he demanded, the punch in his gut delivering the answer before Jazz had chance to speak.

      ‘The headman’s somehow got the idea that I’ll be marrying you,’ Jazz told him faintly above the roar of the crowd.

       CHAPTER NINE

      ‘WE NEED TO TALK, JAZZ.’

      ‘We certainly do,’ she agreed, all business now, ‘but not here and not now. These people deserve everything we can do for them, but the one thing they don’t need is our problems on their shoulders.’

      The meeting was breaking up. ‘We’ve got work to do. You go and round up the children, while I make sure everyone gets home safely.’

      ‘And then we’ll talk,’ Jazz assured him tensely.

      ‘You bet we will. I’ll come and find you.’

      ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of coming round to check out my accommodation?’

      ‘The headman’s little speech has changed nothing, Jazz. I still owe it to your brother to keep you safe, so, however much of a pain in the backside you are, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

      ‘I’ve lived in the desert all my life, Tyr.’

      ‘In a palace, Jazz.’

      ‘Have you forgotten our camp-outs when we were younger?’

      How could he ever forget? Worms in his bed? Stones in his boots?

      ‘Back off, Tyr. Just leave me to work this out, will you?’

      ‘I’d love to,’ he assured her, ‘but something tells me it’s going to take a concerted effort to solve this one. And right now, I have bigger concerns, like making sure you’re safe. One thing I do know is that Sharif would never forgive me if any harm came to you. More importantly, I would never forgive myself.’

      Straightening up, Jazz pulled the regal card. ‘My people will make sure I’m safe. And now, if you will excuse me?’

      He almost bowed mockingly, but he was all out of humour and confined himself to watching from the door as Jazz shepherded the children home through swirls of sand until finally she was lost to sight.

      * * *

      By the time he’d delivered the last older person safely home, the storm had the village in its vicious grip. The roar of sand driven at speed by gale-force winds was deafening and his only concern now was for Jazz. Fighting against the power of the wind with one arm over his face and his bandana tied over his nose and mouth, he finally reached the large guest pavilion nestling against the cliff. His feelings lurched from concern to relief when he spotted the hurricane ropes connected to the cliff face, which Jazz had already secured across the entrance.

      ‘Jazz?’ Shaking the brass bell, he yelled her name again. He wanted to check the struts holding the pavilion before the wind really got up.

      ‘I’m coming in.’

      ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ she yelled from somewhere deep inside the tent.

      ‘You should have stayed in the hall until I came back with you to check everything was safe.’

      ‘How many times, Tyr?’ Jazz demanded as he closed the roar of the storm out behind him. ‘There’s no need for you to come and check up on me. Why risk your life for no reason?’

      ‘Maybe I disagree with you about there being no reason for me being here?’

      He went about doing the job he’d come for, shaking poles and checking roof beams. ‘Move aside, Jazz. I need to make sure this structure’s safe.’

      She stalked round after him. ‘Do you really think the Wadi people don’t know how to build a structure that can weather a storm?’

      ‘Like your brother, Jazz, I have only survived this long because I never take anything for granted.’

      ‘Are you satisfied now?’ she demanded, when he stood back to take one last long look around.

      ‘Not nearly,’ he said. ‘How long do you think you might be confined here? Do you have enough water? Enough to eat?’

      ‘Look around, Tyr.’

      He dragged his gaze reluctantly from Jazz to take in the platters set out on low brass tables. They were laden with sweetmeats and fruit. ‘Jazz.’

      ‘And don’t Jazz me. I’m not a child,’ she snapped. ‘Well? Are you satisfied now? Oh, and there’s an underground stream running through the back of the tent, should I start to get thirsty.’

      He glared back at her.

      ‘So, what are you going to do now, Tyr? Stroll back to your place in the village—get knocked off your feet and killed?’

      ‘Hopefully not.’ Jazz sounded belligerent, but her expression was both wounded and touchingly concerned for him. This had to be embarrassing for Jazz. According to the headman, they were destined to be married, though not a word of romance had passed between them. Jazz didn’t know how to handle it, and for once he had no advice to offer her. ‘I’m satisfied you’re safe in here,’ he said to break the tension.

      ‘The pavilion is well insulated, thanks to its outer skin of camel hide,’ Jazz confirmed with a dry throat, clearly relieved to seize the distraction lifeline he’d offered her.

      ‘And you’re right, saying no one is safe outside in a storm like this,’