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

She knew she wasn’t.

Juhanah was already exclaiming over a bolt of red damask threaded with gold, and Kalila paused before a display of lavender silk, threaded with a rainbow of shades of blue and purple. It looked and felt like water, clean and cool.

‘You like that?’ Aarif asked, coming up behind her, and Kalila smiled.

‘It’s very pretty.’

Aarif barked a few instructions in Arabic to the peddler, who, giving him a rather toothless smile, said something back. They were speaking too fast for Kalila to catch what they were saying, and her Arabic wasn’t very good anyway, but she knew they were haggling, and she enjoyed seeing the glint of amused determination in Aarif’s eyes, the way the simple exchange lightened his countenance.

Finally they reached an agreed price, and Kalila couldn’t help but murmur, ‘Did you get a good deal?’

Aarif turned to her with a smile and a shrug. ‘He would have been offended if I hadn’t haggled.’

‘Of course.’ She paused, watching as the peddler bundled the silk up and Aarif gave instructions to deliver it to the palace. ‘You didn’t have to buy it for me,’ she said quietly.

He shrugged, yet this time the movement lacked the easy familiarity of a moment before. Instead it was tense, straining towards indifference, and his gaze did not meet hers. ‘It will look lovely on you. Besides, it is custom in Calista to offer a wedding gift for the bride.’

‘Shouldn’t that be Zakari’s providence?’ Kalila asked, then wished she hadn’t when Aarif’s expression closed up.

‘Perhaps, but he is not here to do it,’ he replied, and there was a surprising note of acerbity to his voice. For a second Kalila wondered if Aarif was actually criticising his brother.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and dared to lay a hand on his arm. Aarif stilled, glancing down at her hand, and Kalila was conscious of the warmth of his skin on her fingers, the awareness that surged through her from the simple touch. Would he always affect her this way? she wondered. It was a wonderful and yet frightening thought.

‘You’re welcome,’ Aarif replied, and he raised his gaze so his eyes were steady on hers, like a rebuke. Blushing a little, Kalila removed her hand.

They moved on, past the cloth and fabric stalls with their bolts of silks and satins, as well as the cheaper and more serviceable cotton and corduroy, and onto the spice stalls, with their exotic scents and deep colours of ochre and umber, canisters full of cinnamon, cardamom, paprika and the precious saffron.

There were more stalls, some selling postcards, some cheap American knock-offs and dodgy-looking electronics.

Kalila enjoyed the shouting and shrieking, the bargaining and haggling, the pulsing sense of energy and excitement that a crowded market created. She felt alive, part of something bigger than herself, and it was a blessed escape from the prison of her bedroom and, worse, of her own mind.

Aarif suggested they have lunch at a highbrow-looking restaurant with private rooms and deep, plush chairs, but Kalila refused, wanting to stay out in the noise and tumult of the market. She had a sudden fear that she would lose him in the oppressive formality of such a place; out here, in the market, he was more accessible, more free, and so was she.

They ate greasy, succulent kebabs at a food stall, licking their fingers and washing it down with bottles of warm Orangina, and yet Kalila found it to be one of the best meals she’d ever eaten, with the sun warm on her head, Aarif’s eyes warm on her face.

He didn’t smile, didn’t even unbend, and yet she felt something had changed, shifted imperceptibly between them, and she was glad. It reminded her of how his skin had felt against hers, his lips on hers, and with an inward shiver she knew she wanted to feel that again.

To feel the intimacy of touch, and yet a deeper intimacy too, one of spirit. It amazed her even now that she’d felt that with Aarif…Aarif, who was so hard and dark and harsh. And yet she had; she knew she had, and it felt like something precious, something sacred.

After lunch they wandered around the other side of the market square, where the common hucksters performed their stunts to a half-indifferent, half-enchanted crowd: snake charmers, with the dozy cobras coiled in their baskets, weaving their heads sleepily upwards, the flame-throwers and fire-eaters, and a grinning ‘dentist’, armed as he was with a basket of pulled, yellowed teeth and a pair of rusty pliers.

‘He’s just there to scare what tourists come our way,’ Aarif murmured in her ear. ‘We have a national health service, and I can assure you he is not employed by it.’

Kalila smothered a laugh. ‘You mean you haven’t used his services yourself?’

Aarif’s smile gleamed, white and whole. ‘Most assuredly not.’

His hand came around her elbow, guiding her to the edge of the market square. ‘Your nurse is flagging,’ he remarked quietly. ‘I think it might be time to sit down. She looks as if her feet are killing her.’

Guiltily Kalila threw a look behind her, where Juhanah lagged back a few paces. Her nurse did look tired, and her pinched expression suggested that she would indeed prefer a rest.

‘Why don’t we take tea?’ Aarif suggested. ‘You might have preferred eating standing up in the street, but I don’t think your nurse did.’

‘I’m sorry, Juhanah,’ Kalila said, coming to take the older woman’s arm. ‘I’ve been so enjoying the sights, I haven’t thought enough of you.’

‘And enjoying more than the sights, it would seem,’ Juhanah huffed under her breath, and Kalila shot her a sharp look. Were her feelings for Aarif so obvious? She barely knew what they were herself.

Aarif guided them to a flat-roofed café on the north end of the square. Once inside they were greeted with a flurry of excited chatter interspersed with bows, and then they were taken up a narrow staircase to the roof, open to the sun and sky.

They sat down at a shaded table and a dark-coated waiter soon arrived with glasses of mint tea and a plate of salted pistachios.

They sipped and nibbled in silence for a moment, the sounds of the market below carried on the breeze.

‘Thank you,’ Kalila said at last, ‘for showing me Serapolis.’

‘There’s much more to see,’ Aarif replied with a tiny smile and a shrug. ‘Although nothing is quite as exciting as the central square on market day.’

‘I’m glad to have seen it.’

Aarif raised his eyebrows. ‘You must have seen similar sights back in Zaraq. Makaris’s market looked quite like ours.’

‘Yes,’ Kalila agreed slowly, ‘it is, and yet there is something different here.’ She looked around at the market below them, and then at the sea, a glinting jewel-green on three horizons. ‘There’s more of an international flavour here,’ she said at last, ‘an energy. In Zaraq, we are cut off from most of the world by mountains. It is what has kept us from being invaded, but it has also kept us isolated.’

‘Yet your country is very Western and progressive.’

‘On the surface,’ Kalila agreed after a moment, ‘if not in reality.’ She pressed her lips together and looked away, but she was still conscious of Aarif’s frown.

‘What are you speaking of?’ he asked after a moment. He rolled the tall glass of mint tea, beaded with moisture, between his palms as he looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Are you referring to your marriage?’ he continued quietly, although Kalila thought she heard an edge to his voice. ‘Arranged as it has been?’

She shrugged. ‘Not very Western, that.’

‘But necessary.’

‘Yes.’

‘You could have refused your father,’ Aarif said after a moment. ‘When you were in Cambridge.’ He leaned forward, his expression suddenly intent. ‘You could have said no.’