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 was hot, dusty, and tired. The short ride in an open Jeep from the royal airstrip to the palace itself was enough to nearly cover him in dust. He’d been met by a palace official who would take him to the palace’s throne room, where he would extend Zakari’s formal greetings to his bride and her father.

Aarif swallowed and the dust caught grittily in his throat and stung his eyes. Already he’d seen the official sweep a cautious gaze over his face, linger on that damnable line from forehead to jaw. His scar. His reminder, and everyone else’s, of his flaws, his failures.

The palace emerged in the distance, long and low, of mellow golden stone, with towers on either end. In every other direction the desert stretched to an empty horizon, although Aarif thought he glimpsed a huddle of clay and stone buildings to the west—Makaris, the nation’s capital.

The Jeep pulled up to the front entrance, a pair of intricately carved wooden doors under a stone canopy.

‘I will take you to wash and prepare yourself, Your Highness,’ the official said, bowing. ‘King Bahir awaits you in the throne room.’

Aarif nodded, and followed the man into the palace, down a cool, stone corridor and to a waiting chamber with benches and a table. There was a pitcher of lemon water, and Aarif poured a glass and drank thirstily before he changed into his bisht , the long, formal robe worn for ceremonies such as this. In the adjoining bathroom he washed the dust from his face, his eyes sliding away from his reflection in the mirror before returning resolutely to stare at his face, as he always did.

A light, inquiring knock sounded on the door, and, turning from that grim reminder, Aarif left the bathroom and went to fulfil his brother’s bidding, and express his greetings to his bride.

The official led him to the double doors of the throne room; inside an expectant hush fell like a curtain being dropped into place, or perhaps pulled up.

‘Your Eminence,’ the official said in French, the national language of Zaraq, his voice low and unctuous, ‘may I present His Royal Highness, King Zakari.’

Aarif choked; the sound was lost amidst a ripple of murmurings from the palace staff that had assembled for this honoured occasion. It would only take King Bahir one glance to realise it was not the king who graced his throne room today, but rather the king’s brother, a lowly prince.

Aarif felt a flash of rage—directed at himself. A mistake had been made in the correspondence, he supposed. He’d delegated the task to an aide when he should have written himself and explained that he would be coming rather than his brother.

Now he would have to explain the mishap in front of company, all of Bahir’s staff, and he feared the insult could be great.

‘Your Eminence,’ he said, also speaking French, and moved into the long, narrow room with its frescoed ceilings and bare walls. He bowed, not out of obeisance but rather respect, and heard Bahir shift in his chair. ‘I fear my brother, His Royal Highness Zakari, was unable to attend to this glad errand, due to pressing royal business. I am honoured to escort his bride, the Princess Kalila, to Calista in his stead.’

Bahir was silent, and, stifling a prickle of both alarm and irritation, Aarif rose. He was conscious of Bahir watching him, his skin smooth but his eyes shrewd, his mouth tightening with disappointment or displeasure, perhaps both.

Yet even before Bahir made a reply, even before the formalities had been dispensed with, Aarif found his gaze sliding, of its own accord, to the silent figure to Bahir’s right.

It was his daughter, of course. Kalila. Aarif had a memory of a pretty, precocious child. He’d spoken a few words to her at the engagement party more than ten years ago now. Yet now the woman standing before him was lovely, although, he acknowledged wryly, he could see little of her.

Her head was bowed, her figure swathed in a kaftan, and yet as if she felt the magnetic tug of his gaze she lifted her head, and her eyes met his.

It was all he could see of her, those eyes; they were almond-shaped, wide and dark, luxuriously fringed, a deep, clear golden brown. Every emotion could be seen in them, including the one that flickered there now as her gaze was drawn inexorably to his face, to his scar.

It was disgust Aarif thought he saw flare in their golden depths and as their gazes held and clashed he felt a sharp, answering stab of disappointment and self-loathing in his own gut.

HE HADN’T come. Kalila gazed blankly at the stranger in front of her, heard the words, the explanations, the expected flattery, the apologies and regrets, but none of it made sense.

She couldn’t get her head—her heart—around the fact that her husband-to-be hadn’t bothered to show up. Would he even be at the wedding? Hadn’t he realised she’d been waiting, wondering, hoping…?

Or had he even bothered to think about her at all?

She swallowed the bubble of hysterial laughter that threatened to rise up and spill out. Her father was speaking, his voice low and melodious, inviting this man—who was he? Kalila’s brain scrambled for the remembered words, fragments—Prince Aarif. Zakari’s younger brother, sent on this glad errand . Her lips twisted cynically, but of course no one could see her smile behind this damned veil.

Her fingers clenched at her side. She longed to rip off the veil, destroy the entire charade, because that was all it was. A charade, a façade. False.

A piece of theatre, and she no longer wanted the role.

She wanted to run, to run and never stop until she was somewhere safe and different, somewhere she could be herself—whoever that was—and people would be glad.

Where, she wondered hopelessly, was that place? She didn’t think she had found it yet.

Her father had risen, and Kalila knew this was her cue to gracefully withdraw. This pretty little part had been scripted, rehearsed. She bowed, lowering her head with its heavy plait and awkward veil, and backed slowly out of the room, trying not to trip over the embroidered hem of her kaftan. She couldn’t wait to get out of this get-up, to be free .

She tore the veil from her face as soon as she was out of the room, grabbing a fistful of the kaftan to clear her feet as she strode to her bedroom. Juhanah followed, tutting anxiously.

‘The fabric—it is delicate!’ she protested, reaching for the veil Kalila had fisted in one hand.

‘I don’t care,’ she snapped, and Juhanah clucked again, prising the veil from Kalila’s fingers and smoothing it carefully.

‘You are disappointed, of course. But the king is a busy man, with many demands. It is just as well you become accustomed to this early, ya daanaya.’

‘Even before we’ve met?’ Kalila heard the sarcastic edge to her voice and was glad. She needed to vent her feelings, her frustration, for Juhanah was right, she was disappointed. Disappointed and hurt.

And she had no reason to be, because she had never thought Zakari loved her. How could he? So what had she been hoping for? She didn’t know, couldn’t answer, yet she felt deep in her belly, her soul, that something had been irretrievably lost today. She just didn’t know what it was.

Back in the sanctuary of her bedroom she took a deep, steadying breath. She knew there was no point in acting like a petulant child; she was a woman, with a woman’s life ahead of her. A woman’s duty, a woman’s burden.

Her mind slid back to the night eight months ago, alone in her Cambridge flat, when she could have walked away. She could have cut herself off from her father, her family, her country and culture. A small part of her would have welcomed it.

Yet she hadn’t, and she knew in her heart she never would have. Despite the endless, aching uncertainty and regret, she had a duty to her family. To herself.