Forbidden in Regency Society. Marguerite Kaye

knew that Jamil would be mortified by her presence. Yet instinctively, too, she felt that here lay the key to his relationship—or lack of it—with his daughter. If she could find it—if she could understand—then surely …

      Holding the hem of her gown clear of the detritus that covered the courtyard floor, Cassie picked her way carefully to the doorway of the apartments. Like all the palace suites, they followed the shape of the courtyard, a series of rooms opening out, one on to the other. The divans had been abandoned, their rich coverings simply left to rot. Lace, velvet, silk and organdie lay in tatters. The mirrored tiles of the bathing room were blistered, the huge white bath, sunk into the floor, yellowed and cracked. She found a silver samovar with a handle in the shape of an asp, tarnished and bent. A notebook, the pages filled with a neat, tiny hand in Arabic, which stopped abruptly half-way down one page. When she picked it up, the spine cracked, the cover page separated.

      Careless now of her gown, overcome with the melancholy of the place, Cassie wandered into the last room. A sleeping divan, the curtains collapsed on the bed. An intricately carved chest. On the wall above it, hanging on a hook, what looked like an ornamental riding crop. She took it down, admiring the chased-silver handle decorated with what looked like emeralds. Obviously ceremonial. How had it come to be left here?

      ‘What in the name of all the gods do you think you’re doing? Put that down immediately.’

      Cassie jumped. The riding crop fell to the ground with a clatter. Jamil kicked it under the carved chest. His face looked thunderous, brows drawn in a straight line, meeting across his nose, his mouth thinned, the planes of his cheekbones standing out sharply, like the rugged contours of the desert mountains.

      ‘Well?’

      ‘I thought—I heard about a secret garden. I wanted to see it.’

      ‘Well, now you have, so you can leave.’

      His eyes blazed with anger, though his tone was icy cold. She was afraid. Not of him, but of the pain she could see etched into his handsome countenance. ‘Jamil.’

      ‘You should not have come here.’

      His tone was bleak, his eyes echoing his mood. She could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, in the tightness of his voice. ‘They were yours, these rooms, weren’t they?’ Cassie asked softly.

      ‘These are the traditional apartments of the crown prince. Mine. Before me, my father’s. And before him, my grandfather’s.’

      ‘So this is one tradition you definitely intend to break with?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You obviously don’t intend any son of yours to stay here, or else you would not have allowed the place to fall into such decline,’ Cassie said, with a sweeping gesture towards the derelict courtyard.

      ‘If—when—I have a son, he will have—he will be given …’ Jamil faltered, swallowing hard. ‘No.’ He shook his head, shading his eyes with his hands. ‘No. As you say, this is one tradition that ends with me.’

      ‘I’m glad.’ Cassie laid a hand tentatively upon his arm. ‘This is not a happy place, I can tell.’

      ‘No,’ Jamil replied with a grim look, ‘happiness was a commodity in short supply here.’ The hand he used to run his fingers through his auburn hair was trembling. ‘Discipline, honour, strength—they are what matter.’

      ‘Infallibility.’

      ‘Invincibility. My motto. My fate.’ His shoulders slumped. He sank down on to the lid of the chest suddenly, as if his legs would no longer support him. ‘Here is where I was taught it. A hard lesson, but one I have not forgotten.’ He dropped his head into his hands.

      Jamil was a man who had until now appeared as invulnerable as a citadel, with all the power of an invincible army. Seeing him so raw, so exposed, all Cassie yearned to do was to comfort and to heal. Careless of all else, she crouched down and cradled his head, smoothing the ruffled peaks of his hair back into a sleek cap, stroking the cords of tension in his neck, the knotted sinews of his shoulders, his spine. Jamil stilled, but did not move. She drew him closer, wrapping her arms around him, oblivious of the awkwardness of her own cramping limbs, thinking only somehow to ease the hurt, the deep-buried hurt that clung to him now like a dark aura.

      She whispered soothing nothings and she held him close, closer, pressing tiny fluttering kisses of comfort on to the top of his head, enveloping his hard, tense lines with her softness. They stayed thus for a long time, until gradually she felt him relax, until he moved his head, and she realised, almost at the same time as he did, that it was nestled against her breasts. She became conscious of his body not as something to be comforted, but as something to be desired. Her own body responded alarmingly, heating, her nipples hardening. He stirred in her arms and she released him, blushing, looking away, concentrating on standing up, shaking out the leaves and twigs and dirt from her skirts.

      ‘I must apologise,’ Jamil said, rising slowly to his feet.

      ‘There is no need,’ Cassie said quickly.

      ‘A moment of weakness. I would be obliged if you would forget you witnessed it.’

      Cassie chewed on her lip, knowing that further probing might well anger him. ‘Jamil, it is not weakness to admit to having been unhappy—rather the opposite.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Something horrible happened here, I can sense it.’ She shuddered, clasping her arms around herself. ‘Don’t you see that by refusing to acknowledge it, you are granting whatever it is the victory of silence?’ She clutched at his sleeve to prevent him from turning away.

      ‘You exaggerate. As usual.’

      ‘No. No, I don’t. Jamil, listen to me, please.’ She gazed desperately up into his face, but the shutters were firmly back in place. ‘Why can you not tell Linah how you feel about her?’

      The directness of the question took him by surprise. Jamil raised a haughty eyebrow.

      ‘I know you care for her,’ Cassie continued recklessly. ‘I know that you’re proud of her, but you can’t bring yourself to tell her. Why not?’

      Jamil pulled himself free. ‘Show thine enemy a heart, and you hand them the key to your kingdom. My father taught me that lesson here in this very room with the aid of a very persuasive assistant,’ he said fiercely, stooping to retrieve the riding crop from under the chest.

      ‘He beat you! My God! I thought that thing was ceremonial.’

      Jamil’s laughter was like a crack from the whip he held. ‘In that you are correct. The ceremony of beating the weaknesses out of the crown prince was one that took place on a regular basis.’

      Cassie’s face was ashen. ‘But why?’

      ‘To teach me to conquer pain. To ensure that I understood extreme emotions well enough to abandon them. To make me what Daar-el-Abbah requires, an invincible leader who relies upon no-one else.’

      ‘There is no such thing,’ Cassie said passionately. ‘You are a man, not a god, no matter what your father thought, no matter what your people think. Everyone needs someone. For heaven’s sake, Jamil, that is absolutely ridiculous. You are a man, and you have feelings, you can’t pretend they don’t exist.’ Even as she spoke the words, Cassie realised that that was exactly what Jamil did. The appalling nature of his upbringing struck her afresh. Her fury at Jamil’s father knew no bounds. ‘What about your mother? Where was she when this was happening?’

      ‘I was not permitted to see her, save on ceremonial occasions, once I was established here.’

      ‘That’s what you meant about losing her at an early age?’

      Jamil nodded.

      ‘What age, precisely?’

      ‘Five.’

      Cassie’s mouth