Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride. Marguerite Kaye

       Chapter Two

      Constance found herself in a huge room with a domed ceiling illuminated by three massive, glittering chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles so bright they dazzled her, making bright spots dance in front of her eyes. In the doorway beside her, two identical statues stood sentinel, some type of mythical sabre-toothed felines who looked as if they were about to pounce and devour her. She shivered.

      A man stood at the far end of the salon gazing out of a row of tall windows into the darkness beyond. He was dressed from head to toe in white silk robes, his cloak woven with golden threads. Diamonds glittered in the band which held his headdress in place. He was both tall and lean, yet she had the distinct impression of a latent strength in the broad set of his shoulders.

      ‘Lady Constance Montgomery,’ the official announced in his thick accent, giving her a little push. ‘His Most Royal Highness, Prince Kadar of Murimon.’

      The heavy wooden doors closed behind her with a resounding thud, the Prince turned around, and Constance’s heart skipped a beat, her mouth went dry, and the muscles in her belly clenched in a visceral surge of desire that took her entirely by surprise.

      He was young, no more than thirty. His brow was high, his face long, his nose strong. Austere features, not handsome in the conventional sense, actually slightly forbidding, framed as they were by his headdress. Definitely not a man who needed his regal robes to underline his natural air of authority. It was evident in his demeanour, in that haughty expression, and in those remarkable eyes, which were almond-shaped and wide-set, a curious colour which was neither grey nor green. Like all the men in this land, he wore a beard, but his was trimmed very close, not much more than a dark shadow, drawing attention to the contrasting smoothness of his cheekbones, the disturbingly sensual curve of his mouth. Beneath her rustic tunic, Constance felt her skin flush as heat suffused her. Those lips were sinful.

      ‘Lady Constance.’

      With a start, she dropped into a low, sweeping curtsy. She had been staring at the Prince like a ravening wolf. Her eyes lowered, she had the sense of a lithe grace as he crossed the room towards her, his feet clad in black slippers embroidered with gold, his robes fluttering around the long length of his legs. Dear heavens, she should not be looking at his legs. She raised her eyes. Slim hips. She oughtn’t to look at those either. A belt slung around his narrow waist, chased with gold and at the centre, an enormous jewel glowed red and luminous, like a diamond lit by fire.

      ‘Please, rise.’

      His voice was husky. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. For goodness’ sake, Constance, pull yourself together! The hand he extended was slim, the long fingers artistic, the nails neatly trimmed. His skin was cool to the touch. Mortified, she realised her own palms were clammy, her skin most likely ruined beyond recognition by a combination of salt and sun. Which all paled into insignificance when compared to her windswept hair, which most likely looked as if it had birds nesting in it, her sack-like gown and her grubby bare feet. She felt like Cendrillon in Monsieur Perrault’s story. It was a shame this prince had no slippers to offer her. She curled her toes further under her tunic.

      ‘Your Highness, it is an honour,’ Constance said.

      ‘In the circumstances, I am not sure that “welcome” is the most appropriate epithet to use to describe your somewhat unconventional arrival in Murimon, but I hope you will allow me to welcome you to my kingdom nonetheless.’

      Surprise made her forget protocol. ‘Oh, you speak English beautifully.’

      ‘Thank you. My childhood tutor would be most gratified to hear that.’

      Colour flooded her cheeks, for his words were lightly ironic. ‘I did not mean to imply astonishment that you can speak my language, only delight. It is a pleasure, Your Highness, to make your acquaintance.’

      ‘I fear that sentiment may alter when you hear what I have to say. Please, won’t you sit down?’

      The chamber was even bigger than she had realised when she first entered it. Now that her eyes had grown accustomed to the blaze of light cast by the extraordinary chandeliers, Constance could see it was almost the same proportions as the tea room in the Bath Assembly Halls, with the same style of double-columned balcony on the side opposite the windows. But there the similarities ended. Every available wall surface in this salon was tiled, row after row of rich gold and earth colours, separated by elaborately carved rococo dados. On the furthest wall was something which looked rather like a four-poster bed, and which Constance assumed must be the royal throne. Though the floor immediately in front of it was covered in thick silk rugs, there was, however, not a single other seat, cushion or chair to be found.

      Prince Kadar seemed to realise this at the same time as Constance did. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said ruefully, ‘the Royal Saloon is designed to intimidate visitors, not offer them comfort. I had forgotten.’

      ‘Forgotten?’

      ‘I have used this room but once before. When I took my vows.’

      ‘Your vows,’ Constance repeated, wondering if she was being obtuse. ‘Ah, I see now. This room is used for royal weddings?’

      ‘I am not married.’ A flicker of something—pain? Sorrow? Regret?—passed over the Prince’s countenance, but it was gone so quickly Constance might well have imagined it. ‘The solemn vows I took when I assumed the crown,’ he said.

      ‘Oh, you mean your coronation.’

      Another shake of the head. ‘No, that ceremony was postponed until after the period of national mourning for my elder brother, who died suddenly three months ago.’

      ‘I am so sorry, how dreadful. My most sincere condolences.’

      She had reached out to touch him in an automatic gesture of sympathy. The Prince was staring at her grubby, tanned hand with its ragged nails, which contrasted starkly with the pristine sleeve of his tunic, as if fascinated. Or more likely repelled. Or simply appalled at her lack of deference. Constance snatched her hand away. ‘Were you close, you and your brother?’

      He took so long to answer she wondered if he had heard her question. Or perhaps posing it had been another breach of protocol. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat. ‘I have been living abroad for the last seven years.’

      Which was no answer, but his frosty expression made it clear the subject was closed. When he turned his back, Constance began to panic. She had offended him. The audience was over before it had begun, and she knew not a single fact more than when she had arrived. ‘Please, Your Highness, if you could...’

      He held his hand out to silence her. ‘One moment.’ The throne or divan or whatever it was, was covered in scarlet cushions tasselled with gold. Prince Kadar began to strew them on the floor. ‘There,’ he said, when the throne lay bare and the floor contained two heaps of cushions, ‘now we may both be seated in comfort.’

      He sank down with a fluidity she could not dream of imitating, crossing his legs with enviable ease, indicating that she sit opposite him. Considerably impeded by her voluminous tunic, Constance did as he bid her. The Prince tugged off his headdress, casting it carelessly, with its diamond-encrusted band, onto the stripped throne. His hair was black, silky, dishevelled, curling down over the collar of his tunic at the back, the contrast with his austere countenance adding another dimension to his allure. He really was a very, very attractive man.

      ‘You were saying?’

      Constance started. ‘What?’ She blushed.