Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage. Kathleen Creighton
“My God, Desmond, are you that mercenary? That you’d wish Lucas had not returned, for the sake of your own—”
“How can you think such a thing of me, your own brother?” Whoever he was, Cade thought, this Desmond had apparently really stepped in it, and was now backpedaling so fast he was almost sputtering. “I only meant—I was referring to our future in service to King Marcus. My only ambition is to serve His Highness, in any way I can, as he sees fit…”
As the voice babbled on, Cade almost snorted out loud. This Desmond guy was slippery as a snake oil salesman.
Apparently his companion was starting to have some doubts about the man’s character, too, brother or not. There was a formidable chill in his voice when, after a marked silence, he suddenly said, “I see my wife is looking for me. Excuse me.”
Footsteps quickly retreated. A moment later Cade heard the hiss of an exhalation followed by some mutterings that sounded mostly like swearing, and then a second set of footsteps moved off aimlessly along a tiled path, fading finally into the general noise of mingling guests and whispering water.
Cade released a breath he’d not been aware of holding, then took a quick drag on the cheroot he’d all but forgotten. Cautiously, casually, he stepped around the clump of hibiscus. Interesting, he thought as he watched two men in white dinner jackets move off in different directions. Apparently all was not entirely rosy after all in this Garden of Eden.
Back in the crowded main courtyard, he snagged a waiter, resplendent in white brocade and saffron yellow turban.
“Excuse me—uh, do you speak English?”
Balancing a tray of fruits carved to look like flowers, the waiter dipped his head respectfully. “Of course. How may I help you, sir?”
Cade smiled in mild chagrin. The man sounded as if he’d stepped right off the campus at Oxford—or wherever it was those British lords went to school.
“Uh…yeah, I was wondering if you could tell me who that gentleman is—the one with the lady with red hair. I was just talking with him, and didn’t catch his name.”
“That would be his lordship, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani of Montebello, sir. The lady is his wife—an American. I believe her name is Eliza.”
“Ah—of course. And that gentleman over there—the dark one? I think he said his name was Desmond….”
“Yes sir—that is Duke Lorenzo’s brother, Desmond Caruso, an advisor to King Marcus.”
“Ah,” said Cade. “Yes…thank you.”
“I am happy to be of service, sir.” The waiter bowed and went on his way.
Interesting, Cade thought again. But, since it didn’t have anything to do with Tamir or Elena or her new in-laws, it didn’t concern him, either.
He winced as a piercing “Yoo-hoo!” rose above the pleasant chuckle of a nearby fountain. “Cade—oh, Cade!”
He groaned and glanced around in hope of finding cover. Seeing none, he rolled his eyes and fixed what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face as, with one last fortifying puff of his cigar, he went forth to greet Elena’s other guest, her loud and annoying friend, Kitty.
Leila was bored. The wedding banquet had been going on for more than three hours, and showed no signs of concluding any time soon. The parade of waiters bearing trays laden with an incredible variety of delicacies seemed endless, even though Leila—and, she was sure, most of the other guests—had already eaten as much as they could possibly hold. The food had been wonderful, of course, befitting a royal Walima—chicken simmered in pomegranate juice and rolled in grape leaves, veal sauteed with eggplant and onions and delicately spiced with tumeric and cardamoms. And for the main course, Leila’s favorite—whole lamb stuffed with dried fruits, almonds, pine nuts, cracked wheat and onions, seasoned with ginger and coriander and then baked in hot ashes until it was tender enough to be eaten with the fingers. Leila had eaten until she felt stuffed herself—which was, she supposed, one advantage in being forced to wear the gracefully draped but all-concealing gown that was Tamir’s traditional female costume. At least she didn’t have to hold her stomach in.
The trays now were offering a variety of fruits, as well as an amazing assortment of sweets—cakes, pastries and candies, even tiny baskets made of chocolate and filled with sugar-glazed flower petals. Ordinarily Leila had an insatiable sweet tooth, but tonight she was too full to do more than nibble at a chocolate-covered strawberry.
She had also drunk much more of her country’s traditional mildly fermented wine than she was accustomed to, and as a result was becoming both sleepy and cross. Not to mention frustrated. It was such a beautiful evening—stars were bright in the cloudless spring sky that canopied the palace’s Great Courtyard. The Walima was being held outdoors in order to accommodate the great number of guests, as, according to tradition, everyone in the immediate vicinity was invited to a marriage feast, rich and poor alike. Tiled in intricate geometric patterns and flanked on both sides by stone colonnades, the Great Courtyard was a formal rectangle that extended from the palace to the cliffs, where arched portals framed a spectacular view of the sea. Tables draped in linen and set with fine china and crystal had been set up on both sides of a chain of fountains and narrow pools that divided the courtyard down the middle and reflected the stars and hundreds of flickering torches. A light breeze blowing in from the sea was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. It was a beautiful night. It might also have been—should have been—a very romantic night.
Except that Leila had been trying all evening without success to catch the eye of the man she would very much have liked to share such an evening with—the man she had noticed that morning in the garden, the Texan in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat. As luck would have it, he was sitting at a table almost directly across the reflecting pool from hers. Tonight the hat was absent, and, like many of the other male guests present, particularly those from Montebello and America, he wore a white dinner jacket. Though in Leila’s opinion, none of the other guests looked so lean and fit and dangerous in theirs, or boasted such broad and powerful shoulders. She could see now that his hair was thick and wavy, a rich dark blond. It gleamed like gold in the flickering light of the torches. She would like to know what color his eyes were, but they were set deep in his rugged face, and masked in shadows.
If only we could dance like Americans do, she thought wistfully as she watched a line of professional performers of the traditional Tamari dances, faces veiled and torsos cleverly concealed, undulating their way down the length of the courtyard, weaving in and out among the tables to the rhythmic keening of native flutes and sitars. Jewels flashed from their ankles, wrists and hair as they performed the intricate hand movements and kept time to the music with tiny finger cymbals. Like most girls in her country, Leila had learned secretly as a child how to dance the traditional dances, though of course it would not have been proper for a princess to actually perform for anyone—except, perhaps, for her husband, in the privacy of their marriage chambers. If I ever have a husband, she thought moodily, as without her realizing it, her body began to move and sway in time to the music.
On her right, Samira nudged her and hissed, “Leila—stop that. Someone will see you.”
Leila rolled her eyes. So what? she wanted to say. It would not be the first time. Many people had seen her dance in Switzerland and England, and the world had not come to an end. When she was in boarding school she had learned to dance the western way, to rock and roll music, and in England she had even—and she was sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew—danced with boys the way westerners did. Touching one another. And nothing terrible had happened then, either. She was still, alas, very much a virgin. And likely to remain one for the foreseeable future.
“I am bored,” she whispered back. “I have eaten too much and I want to lie down. When is this going to be over?”
“Hush,” Samira scolded. “This is Hassan and Elena’s night. Remember your manners.”
“I