Chantelle Shaw - The Royal House of Karedes - Two Crowns - The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin / The Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess / The Future King's Love-Child

Aarif turned his mind resolutely away from the memory of last night, the quiet, forbidden intimacy of the garden. He turned to one of the palace staff who waited patiently for orders.

‘Have the cases been loaded?’ he demanded, hearing his tone and knowing it was unnecessarily surly and abrupt.

The aide lowered his eyes. ‘Yes, Prince Aarif.’

‘Good.’ Aarif glanced at the sky, the endless blue smudged by a faint streak of grimy grey on the horizon. ‘It looks like a wind is kicking up. We should leave without delay.’

It was another half-hour before they actually began to drive the five kilometers to Makaris, as servants and staff hurried to and fro, remembering this, forgetting that, while Aarif waited and watched, curbing his irritation with effort.

He wanted this whole spectacle to be finished. He wanted to be back in Calista, in his offices, away from the distractions, the temptations—

Again his mind clamped down, and he shook his head. No, he wouldn’t think of it. Of her.

As the motorcade moved into Makaris people lined the road, and the cars slowed to a crawl. Ahead of him Aarif saw Kalila’s car window open, and a slender, golden arm emerge to accept ragged bouquets of flowers, scraps of paper printed with blessings and prayers, and other well wishes. The crowd smiled, cheered, and called their blessings, children and dogs trailing the cars as they went under the main arch of the city into the Old Town, with its crumbling buildings of red clay, before emerging into a large square lined with food stalls and filled to near overflowing with a joyous throng.

The cars drew to a halt, and King Bahir emerged from the front car, smiling and waving while aides stayed close to his side. Aarif looked around the ragged crowd with a deepening unease.

It was crowded, dirty, impossible to keep track of Kalila. Anyone could accost her, anything could happen. Aarif knew how quickly it could all go desperately, dreadfully wrong. And he, Aarif, would be responsible. Again.

He threw open the door of his car, snapping to an aide behind him. ‘Stay close to the princess. Don’t let her out of your sight.’

The man nodded, scurrying off, and Aarif stood in the centre of the square, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun as people pressed close, desperate for a glimpse of the royals, a blessing from the princess.

A space had been cleared for dancing, and Aarif watched as some local women put on a little show, a band of men in colorful robes and turbans playing instruments, the bandir drum, the maqrunah, the garagab. Together the instruments made a reedy, dissonant, not unpleasing sound, yet with the crowds and the heavy, spicy smell of fried food from the stalls, Aarif found himself annoyed, tensing, on alert.

There was too much risk. Too much danger. It kicked his heart-rate up a notch, made his palms slick with sweat. He despised himself for it; he despised his fear.

He despised the uncertainty, the unknown.

Anything could happen here.

He glanced around, his eyes sifting through the crowds, and saw Kalila standing at the front of the cleared space, watching the little dance as if it completely captured her attention. Her hair fell down her back in a dark, gleaming plait, and the breeze moulded her loose clothing to her body, so Aarif could see the gentle swell of her breast and hip. He swallowed, dragging his gaze away.

Next to him a ragged little boy tugged on his leg, and Aarif glanced down at his smiling face and reached for a coin, glad for the distraction.

The presentation ended, and once again Aarif found his gaze pulled relentlessly back to the princess. She clapped and smiled, speaking to each woman in turn, her arm around them as if they were equals. Friends.

Aarif felt a reluctant tug of admiration for her poise. He knew she was under strain, nervous and tense, and yet she acted with an innate grace. She acted like the princess she was, the queen she would be. His brother’s wife.

He turned away, scouring the crowds on the other side for any sign of danger, darkness—

‘The king wishes you to join him and the princess,’ an aide murmured in his ear, bowing low, and Aarif was left with little choice than to make his way through the crowds to King Bahir’s—and Kalila’s—side.

She glanced at him sideways as he approached, smiling slightly, and Aarif gave a tiny bow back. Her smile deepened, but her eyes, those deep golden pools of reflected emotion and light, were sad, and Aarif felt something inside him tug, something start to unravel. He wanted to make her smile. He pushed the feeling away, and when Kalila looked back at the dancers so did Aarif.

The dance was followed by another, and then a performance by children. Aarif watched, feeling himself grow weary even as Kalila continued to smile and applaud, speaking individually to each man, woman, and child. Finally the performances ended, and Aarif realised a meal of sorts was to be served. Perhaps after they’d eaten they would be free to continue to the airport, and finally home. Safety.

Makeshift tables and benches, no more than rough planks, had been set up by the food stalls, and Kalila and her father sat down with a few other important dignitaries from the palace. A few well-placed individuals from the city crowd had been chosen as well, Aarif saw with a cynical smile, a pretty child, a smiling old woman, a fat merchant.

The food was served, dish after dish of beef kebabs and chicken with raisins and rice, stewed prunes and eggplant salad. Aarif ate a bit of everything so as not to offend, although his nerves were wound too tightly to enjoy what was a surprisingly delicious meal.

The plates were cleared and the music and dancing began once again in the square, with no sign of the festivities abating. Aarif suppressed a sigh of impatience, nerves tautening like wire. He was hot and sticky, tense and irritable, and they’d already been there too long. It was time to take charge.

He wove his way over to Bahir, who was smiling at some of the more energetic dancing that was now going on, men in a circle with their arms crossed, stamping their feet. Instinctively Aarif looked around for Kalila, but her slight figure was nowhere to be seen.

He scanned the crowded market place, the crush of bodies, searching for her distinctive figure, that gleaming plait of hair, knowing instinctively if she was there, certain he could find her.

She wasn’t there. He knew it, felt it like a shock to his system, rippling unpleasantly through him. Somehow, somewhere, she had gone. A sharp pain stabbed him in the gut, memory and anger and fear. Aarif’s mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed against the dazzling glare of the sun.

He saw Bahir glance at him in question, but Aarif did not want to see the older man now. He wanted to see Kalila. He wanted to know she was safe. He needed to.

He pushed away from Bahir, through the crowds, scanning the strange, smiling faces for a glimpse of the untarnished loveliness he’d seen in the garden last night.

Where was she?

He caught sight of the aide he’d assigned as her babysitter, and grabbed the man’s elbow. ‘Where is the princess?’ he demanded roughly.

The aide flinched under Aarif’s rough grasp. ‘She went into the church for some cool air. I thought there was no harm—’

Aarif swore under his breath and let the man go. His gaze searched the square before he found what he was looking for—an ancient church in the Byzantine style, made of a startling white stone with a blue cross on top of its dome. He moved towards it with grim purpose.

The door was partly ajar, and Aarif slipped inside quietly. The church was refreshingly cool and dark, and empty save for a few benches and some icons adorning the walls. Kalila sat on one of the benches, her back to Aarif. Something about her position—the rigid set of her shoulders and yet the despairing bowing of her head—made Aarif pause.