The Royals Collection. Rebecca Winters

‘Not a chance. The forecast is grim. Nothing’s coming in or out of here today.’

      Including us, Jazz’s worried eyes seemed to say. ‘Did you manage to speak to Sharif?’ she asked.

      ‘No. Did you get hold of him?’

      Jazz shook her head. ‘Everything’s down. Does anyone know how long this storm will last?’

      ‘If I could get the Internet up, maybe I could tell you. Best guess?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s set in for a while. I shot off an email to Sharif earlier on today to let him know you took a tumble, no harm done. I also reassured him that the women of the village are taking good care of you. I just can’t be sure the mail got through before the connection went down.’

      ‘So we’re stranded?’

      ‘Looks like it. Nothing’s changed for me, Jazz. I work here.’

      But everything had changed for Jazz, her eyes behind the veil told him.

      Then, remembering who she was and where her duty lay, and that she should not be holding his stare like this, she looked away as the headman began to speak.

      ‘Don’t worry, Jazz,’ Tyr murmured discreetly. ‘I won’t let any harm come to you.’

      ‘I can look after myself, Tyr,’ she murmured back. ‘Storms in the desert are nothing new to me.’

      Something told him Jazz wasn’t referring to the weather conditions.

      By the time things got under way, the searing heat of afternoon had faded to a comfortable warmth, while the sand flurries outside the windows had bathed everything inside the hall in a deceptively muted glow. Tyr gradually edged his way to the back of the crowd, where he could observe without being observed. As expected, there were speeches from several of the village elders, but then a group of old men ushered him forward until he found himself standing next to Jazz at the foot of an improvised stage.

      ‘This won’t last long,’ Jazz reassured him, knowing his dislike of being in the spotlight. ‘Just a formal vote of thanks for helping out, I think, and then you can leave.’

      He hummed, wishing he felt as confident as Jazz. There was an air of anticipation surrounding them that he couldn’t account for, and when he glanced around, people smiled back at him as if they were sharing a great piece of news. The villagers’ initial shock at Jazz’s unconventional arrival at the village in his arms must have faded, he guessed, but was that it?

      ‘I told you things would soon return to normal,’ Jazz said confidently.

      ‘I hope you’re right,’ he replied with less enthusiasm, remembering his bizarre conversation with the headman.

      ‘I am right,’ Jazz assured him as the speeches continued on.

      He was soon distracted by some alluring scent she was wearing and the seductive rustle of her robe. Jazz was certainly playing the traditional card now, and had dressed for this session in the village hall in a plain black robe with only her expressive eyes on show. Eyes and tiny feet, he noted, telling himself not to be so ridiculous as to be affected by the sight of a set of shell-pink toenails.

      ‘Excuse me.’

      Careful not to touch him, she moved past him to stand with the elders who had invited Jazz to join them on the stage. Gesturing for quiet, she began to speak. He couldn’t understand every word in Kareshi, but he knew enough to raise his hands in a signal that he had done no more than his job when Jazz praised him and everyone turned to face him and applaud. Then the headman beckoned for him to join Jazz on the stage and the smiling crowd parted for him.

      ‘The headman’s just explained that we’ll be working together as a team,’ Jazz translated, leaning forward as the headman took up his position between them.

      Blood rushed to his temples as the headman began to speak, but good manners forced him to remain silent until the old man had finished. He didn’t need an interpreter to judge the mood of the crowd. They were jubilant. Some of the men started clapping him on the back. He turned to Jazz, who said something in Kareshi, and the cheers grew louder.

      ‘What did you say?’ he demanded, but the headman distracted her and she turned away.

      ‘What did you say?’ he repeated when Jazz started waving to the crowd.

      Jazz 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