Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite Kaye

said.

      ‘Tahira...’ His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you. For everything.’

      ‘And you, Christopher. For everything.’ She could not bear it any longer. Throwing herself on to the saddle, she kicked the camel into motion. For once the beast heeded her, turning and charging into a fast trot in a jerky movement that almost threw her on to the sands. By the time she had control again, she was so far from Christopher’s camp that there was no point in looking back, but she did all the same. He was still there, standing quite motionless.

      ‘Goodbye, my love,’ Tahira whispered, unable to deny her heart any longer. ‘Goodbye, my own true love.’

      She loved him. Now that she would never see him again, she was forced to admit it. She loved him, and it was quite hopeless. Sand flew into her eyes as she made her way back to the palace. She had forgotten to fasten her headdress over her face, but Tahira relished the sting of it on her skin, for it gave credence to her pain. She was in love with Christopher, whatever his name was, and tomorrow her beloved would leave Arabia for Egypt, and two days after that, she would be betrothed to a complete stranger.

      As she crossed the desert away from him, every single step her camel took made her heart ache more. Tahira slumped in the saddle, trusting to the animal’s instinct for home to guide them back to the stables. Oblivious of the beauty of the fading stars, the changing palette of the sky on this, her last night of freedom, she saw only Christopher. The reckless adventurer she had first encountered. Those eyes, ardent and passionate, tortured and haunted, laughing, serious, furious, sated. Christopher in his shabby desert garb armed to the teeth. Christopher naked. Christopher laughing. Christopher’s kisses. Christopher’s arms around her, holding her so tightly she could feel his heart beating, delude herself that he would never let her go.

      And tonight he had, for the very last time. Misery made her slump further in the saddle. She would have given everything, anything, to be able to turn back, to spend one more night with him.

      But there were no more nights, no more hours, not even another minute. It was over, and instead of wishing for more, she should be thanking the stars that it ended before they surrendered to the ultimate temptation. No wonder making love felt so right. No wonder her conscience had not intervened.

      The outskirts of Nessarah were coming into view. What was he doing? Was he asleep? Was he thinking of her? He wanted her to be happy, he had said. His self-control had ensured that her marriage would not be predicated on a lie. She could not imagine being happy with any man other than Christopher, but there had never been any question of her having any sort of life with Christopher. Did he care for her? She knew in her bones that he did. Did he love her? No. And even if he did, what difference would it make?

      But she loved him and she could not regret it. As she neared Farah’s stables and the camel slowed to a walk, Tahira smiled tenderly to herself. ‘I love you, Christopher,’ she whispered. Her last night of freedom was not yet over. Alone in her divan, she would hold her secret safe, devote herself to thinking only of her love. Time enough tomorrow to try to come to terms with what the future would hold.

       Chapter Eleven

      Indecisive was one of the last words Christopher would have used to describe himself, but for the last two days, since saying goodbye to Tahira for ever, he’d been unable to make a single decision. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had decided to leave Nessarah any number of times, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to act on it.

      He couldn’t understand it. His quest was over, his amulet buried, his dark and shameful past put firmly behind him, but the long-anticipated sense of relief continued to elude him. He felt unsettled, unprepared for the future he had been longing for, more haunted than ever by thoughts of the past.

      Dredging it all up, reliving it in order to make Tahira understand, that’s what had brought it so vividly back. He had been so very clear in his mind that ridding himself of the amulet was the key to wiping the slate clean. He’d expected her to agree, but instead she had questioned him. And her questions, infuriatingly, would not go away.

      Why hadn’t Andrew Fordyce sold the amulet? Had the man Christopher had always called father simply been too guilty to profit from blood money? Looking back—and Christopher had done a lot of that over the last two sleepless nights—he could conjure only happy memories, not only of his childhood, but of the close working relationship he’d had with his fa—with Fordyce. What’s more, despite the fact that they hadn’t sold the bloody amulet, Christopher had wanted for nothing. What sacrifices had the Fordyces made? Christopher’s schooling, now he thought about it—wasn’t hindsight a wonderful thing!—had been far superior to the children of the Fordyce’s friends and relations. He’d always believed himself loved, had always loved the people he thought his parents deeply in return. Which is why it had been so painful to discover the damning evidence that he had been duped. Though Tahira didn’t believe he had.

      Christopher threw open the door of his abode and strode out into the early morning. ‘She’s wrong,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I will not allow her to fill my mind with doubts.’

      But was she wrong? Thanks to the Fordyces he had a name—for Tahira was right, no one save himself and Armstrong knew any different. He’d had a happy childhood—there, he could admit that too—and he had been taught a very profitable profession, again thanks to Andrew Fordyce.

      None of which changed the fact that Henry Armstrong was a vile seducer, a manipulative conniver, who had walked away from the mess of his own making without a backward glance. Were it not for Armstrong, Christopher’s mother would still be alive. Mind you, were it not for Armstrong, Christopher would not exist. Which brought him to another thing Tahira questioned, his idea that his mother might have kept him, against the odds. Unlikely, Tahira thought, though she hadn’t actually said so. Not wanting to hurt him? Which forced him to wonder whether she was right about that too. Most likely Tahira understood his mother’s situation better than he did. Were she in a similar predicament, she would...

      She would never be in a similar predicament, because she was getting married. Christopher cursed long and furiously in a mixture of English and Arabic. He looked out at the beauty of the desert dawn. A distant sandstorm gave a dark golden tinge to the normal palette of pink and orange. It would not hinder his travel plans, for he was heading due north. Today. Though there was the camel race he’d heard about when visiting the bazaar yesterday for supplies. He’d like to see that, it was reckoned to be quite a spectacle. So perhaps he’d leave his journey until tomorrow.

      Today, Tahira’s betrothal was to be finalised. Would there be a celebration of some sort? For her sake, he hoped she would be able to like the man chosen for her. For his own—he didn’t want to think about it. What was she doing at this moment? Was she taking breakfast with her sisters? Or was there some elaborate ritual she would take part in prior to the ceremony—if there was a ceremony? Bathing. Oiling. Those henna designs, the women here painted them on their hands and feet, didn’t they, for special occasions.

      Tahira. Christopher groaned. Tahira, Tahira, Tahira. He missed her. He’d never see her again. Another thing that didn’t bear thinking of. The sun had risen. The sky was a perfect pale blue. Ideal conditions for a camel race? He had no idea, but what the hell, he was kidding himself, thinking he was leaving today. Why not head into the city and find out what all the fuss was about?

      * * *

      The crowds had gathered in the outskirts of the city for the occasion, lining the course in their multitudes. A long row of tents stood off to one side. Various mouth-watering aromas, of roasted goat, delicious concoctions of fruit and yoghurt, toasted coffee beans, and the ubiquitous mint tea wafted from the open fronts of each tent as Christopher wandered through the milling hordes.

      Women stood in huddles gossiping and giggling behind their veils, while their menfolk engaged in heated debates over recent form and likely favourites. Children screamed with joy as they ran between the flag poles which marked out the course, some in pairs with silk scarves