The Desert Lord's Love-Child: The Desert Lord's Baby. Кейт Хьюит
B’Ellahi, how had he not seen this before?
Loathing for his cousin shot to a new zenith.
But anger and hatred aside, now that he knew what he had to counteract—what he might not need to counteract now that Tareq had no more reason to block his research into her past—it would be easy to check out her story. As she must know he would.
This meant one thing. She’d told him the truth.
His gaze clung to her averted profile. He no longer saw the seductress who’d breached his barriers, entrenched herself in his responses, his fantasies, his cravings, or the traitor who’d deprived him of his child, who’d almost let Judar’s throne fall into the hands of a man guaranteed to topple it. He saw only the little girl who’d been exposed to her parents’ damaging behavior, who grew up let down, neglected, used, maybe even abused, by everyone who should have cherished and protected her. He saw only a woman who’d suffered. A lot.
He gritted his teeth against a resurgence of fury, against all the people who’d blighted her life. Against the softening that assailed him toward her as he realized she’d been doing everything to protect her—their daughter, from all she’d suffered, living for Mennah, thinking only of her safety and happiness.
He might be starting to understand her motives, her psyche, but it made no difference. He couldn’t forget, nor would he ever forgive what she’d done.
He exhaled, casting away the weakening, pushed a button.
It was time to get back on track.
“Are we crashing?”
Farooq turned inquiring eyes on Carmen at her croak.
She gestured toward Hashem, who’d entered their compartment carrying what looked like a treasure chest right out of the times of genies and flying carpets. “You said that’s the only time we’d be disturbed.”
“This is a planned intrusion.” He beckoned to Hashem who strode forward, his eyes scanning her, ascertaining her condition before casting a look of disapproval on the untouched food.
Farooq rose, extended a hand to her. She must have taken it, risen, walked. Either that or he had hypnotic and/or teleportation powers, too. Without knowing how, she found herself sitting on a plush couch in yet another compartment drenched in sourceless lights and deep earth tones, in the serenity of sumptuousness and seclusion.
Hashem placed everything on a two foot-high, six-foot-wide, square polished mahogany table in front of her and Farooq. He opened the chest, produced two boxes, one the size of a shoebox, the other half its size, both like the larger chest, handmade, ornamented in complex mosaic patterns of gold, silver and mother-of-pearl. Next he produced a variegated brown leather folder and small drawstring pouch. Everything was in perfect condition, but looked ancient, heavy with history and significance.
An urge rose, to run her hands over the textures and shapes, feel their mystique and power flowing through her fingertips. She settled for soaking in each detail. The folder and pouch embossed with intricate gold-leaf borders, Judar’s royal crest at their center: an eagle depicted in painstaking detail, its wings arched up to enclose the kingdom’s name written in the ornamental muthanna or “doubled” calligraphy with each half of the design a mirror image of the other in a tear-drop oval. The boxes’ blend of repoussé, inlaid and engraved zakhrafa embellishments that married Arabian to Ottoman, Persian and Indian designs.
Hashem’s deep murmur tore her gaze back to him. She couldn’t believe how welcome his presence was. How she didn’t want him to leave. She couldn’t take more of Farooq undiluted.
Not that an army would make effective reinforcements. Not against Farooq. Or what she felt.
Sighing, she eyed Hashem in resignation as he bowed to them and retraced his steps out of the compartment.
Farooq opened the pouch, producing two brass keys that looked designed and forged in the Saladin era. He opened the small box, produced three stamps and an inkpad of the same design, before opening the folder and extracting two papyruslike papers and two crimson satin ribbons. Then he reached into his suit pocket—opposite the one she assumed held the photo—and extracted a gold pen.
He extended it to her. “Let’s see how well you write Arabic.”
She gaped from the pen to the papers to his eyes. “You’re giving me a written Arabic proficiency test?”
“I am interested to see your level, yes. But I’d hardly give you royal papers reserved for documenting state matters of the highest order to test your spelling and handwriting.”
So all this stuff was as momentous as she’d sensed. Her heart wrenched to a higher gear. “So what do you want me to write?”
He pushed the pen into her flaccid hand. “I’ll dictate to you.”
“Yeah, you live to do that, dictate,” she grumbled.
One side of his lips twitched. His eyes remained solemn. “Write, Carmen.”
The depth of the command, the gravity, squeezed her dry of breath. She sat forward, tremors buzzing through her like a current, took in the papers in front of her, handmade, each one a unique blend of beige-tan with multicolored fibers offsetting its pearly, heavy silk finish.
She put down the pen, wiped her hand on her pants. His clamped onto it. She bit her lip on the jolt as his other hand delved inside his jacket again, produced a monogrammed handkerchief, placed it on the paper, put the pen back in her hand.
As soon as the tremors allowed her to firm her grip on it, he started dictating. She geared her brain to the right-to-left writing of the exotic letters that always felt more like drawing.
She’d written a whole sentence before it registered.
This was a verse from a sacred scripture invocation.
She raised her hand off the paper, her eyes to his. “What is this? An incantation to sign over my soul?”
His eyes smiled now, a smile drenched in that overriding sensuality that was as integral to him as his DNA. And in seriousness. “Essentially, yes. This is az-zawaj al orfi language. You are free to add to the basic pledges, if you’re feeling creative, to express how eager you are—were—for our union.”
“This is the paper the cleric will read?”
“Yes. And along with my copy, it will reside in the royal files, proof of Mennah’s legitimacy.”
“So it’s an official document. And you want me to get creative.” The teeth sprouting in her stomach sank into its walls. “Just give me the exact language. Better yet, paraphrase.”
He pouted in mockery, continued dictating. She kept writing until he told her to sign her name. She did, raised her eyes. She’d only written two paragraphs. “That’s it?”
He shrugged one massive shoulder. “It takes only so many words to pledge oneself unto eternity.” He reached for the paper, ran his eyes over her efforts. “I’m impressed.”
Without waiting for her reaction to his praise—an upsurge of irritation for wanting it, for being so pleased at having it—he turned to his own paper, started writing the words he’d dictated her. And she forgot everything as she watched those fingers that had once owned her flesh, moving in the certainty of expertise and grace, producing a req’uh script of such beauty and elegance, such effect, it did feel like a spell.
After he signed both documents, had her sign his, she rasped, “So not only a prince, a tycoon, a philanthropist, a diplomat and a handyman but a calligrapher, too.”
“Yet another side-product of my unearned privileged existence.” His eyes mocked her, documented her chagrin at being caught out at a pettiness, at the need to apologize for it, at her anger at that need and at him.
Not that he waited for her to come to a decision about which urge to obey.