Chapter Eight #2
Rafiq arrived deep into the night wondering if he should have chosen firefighter as a profession, for he was certainly putting many out now.
He had finally sorted the damn press when Yara had called, repeating that it might be better if he were to announce they would marry.
Again he had told her to wait, and just when he had thought he could get to Liliana he had landed in Al-Zahir to be told the king wished to speak with him.
‘I will bring him up to speed soon,’ Rafiq had said, striding towards the chopper.
‘Your Highness, it is an official summons from the king.’
Rafiq’s back had stiffened; his father had never done that before.
He did not want to go into the palace; he wanted to get back to Liliana, but of course there could be no ignoring a direct summons.
Shortly after landing, he found himself on his way to the sanctum at the very centre of the Al-Zahir palace.
It was magnificent. There were no windows on the high stone walls, just a huge clear dome above that let in light relative to the time of day.
It afforded the same light as the desert, the same light as the sea, the same light for the wisest of men or the most foolish…
Rafiq strode through the softly lit palace, still wearing a suit and tie, angry at being summoned, preferring to discuss this with Liliana before his father, but as he stood at the guarded entrance and waited to be let in it dawned on him again…
He could never fully discuss this with Liliana.
Never tell her the real reason he resisted marriage.
He stepped into the relative darkness of the sanctum, lit only by a sliver of new moon, but the architects of ancient times had been wise and the upper walls were lined with pearls from Al-Zahir’s plentiful ocean and they enhanced the thin light.
He made his way over to where the king stood in the centre.
‘You should know better, Rafiq.’
Rafiq offered no response.
‘I have given you great leeway. I have not forced you into marriage. You can do what you want behind closed doors and veils, but here you are seen being affectionate with the same woman three months apart. Dancing, kissing… You know the edicts forbid this.’
‘They don’t,’ Rafiq said through gritted teeth, ‘because Yara and I are not betrothed.’
‘There is a silent agreement,’ his father barked. ‘And both countries know it! You have brought shame to both peoples.’
‘Where?’ Rafiq said. ‘Our people seem fine. There is no baying mob outside the palace. If anything, they seem surprised to learn that I am capable of affection.’
‘Well, you have brought shame to Princess Yara. King Al-Nawar and I are both in full agreement—you are to apologise on national television.’
‘Never.’
‘I shall remind you to whom you are speaking. You shall apologise on national television and speak of your desire for unity between the two countries. Shortly thereafter you shall visit King Al-Nawar in his inner sanctum, then you shall call for Yara to be your bride.’
‘You cannot force me.’
‘Incorrect,’ the king said. ‘You must be aware than I am permitted to call for your bride.’
‘Don’t even try it,’ Rafiq warned. ‘Surely the groom being dragged to the ceremony chained and bound would cause even greater offence. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it.’ He held up his wrists, displaying the scars. ‘Being chained and bound is nothing new to me!’
‘Rafiq, there was an agreement. Not officially perhaps, but there has long been an understanding that you and Yara shall marry. You cannot deny that. You went along with it, Rafiq.’
And only Rafiq and Yara knew why.
Instead of revealing that though, he countered with an attack.
‘For nine months the two of you left me there to rot. Even after they had killed Khalid you did nothing to get me out.’ His voice husked, and he saw the pain flash in his father’s eyes at the mention of his brother, and he steadied his tone.
‘I shall choose when I marry. If I marry…’
‘You need an heir, Rafiq,’ his father said. ‘A suitable heir, and for that you need a suitable wife.’
‘I am going to the desert.’
He strode off, but before he could knock on the door for the guards to open up, his father called out to him.
‘Rafiq.’
He turned.
‘I did what I could to get you free.’
‘Well, it wasn’t enough.’
‘I just wish you…’ He stopped talking, shook his head.
‘You wish it had been me that died?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And Khalid had been the one to live?’
‘That is not what I was about to say.’
‘What then?’ Rafiq challenged, but his father gave a shake of his head. Conversation closed.
Rafiq went to knock on the door to be let out rather than respond, but before they opened his father spoke.
‘Perhaps run through the edicts regarding discretion with your mistress.’
He turned. ‘Do not call her that.’
‘Rafiq.’ His father even sounded sympathetic. ‘That is all she can ever be.’
Flying to his desert abode, he could feel the pressure from all sides.
Even Yara seemed to be caving in and wanting this marriage.
Then he thought of what his father had said, or rather had stopped himself from saying.
Of course he must deep down wish it had been Khalid who had lived. He’d have been married for a long time by now, and the children he and his wife would undoubtedly have had by now would be teenagers.
Rafiq closed his eyes, wondering how it was possible to miss nieces and nephews that he had never had, but yes, it felt as if a part of his soul had left him that day, and yet he was so cross with his brother too.
Glancing down at the abode from the sky, he felt tense shoulders drop a fraction, felt the pall of grief lift. Realised he was smiling, simply that she was here…
Even if there were difficult conversations to be had.
Even if there were conversations that could never be had.
His world was made better from knowing Liliana was near.
Only there was no angry Liliana to greet him when he entered the abode, no trace of her summery scent in the air. Nor was she waiting, as he’d both secretly hoped though very much doubted, in his bed. Instead, he found her asleep in the seraglio.
‘Liliana?’
She did not stir.
‘Liliana?’ He was not used to having to wake anyone.
Certainly he had hoped they could at least talk.
He turned on the lamp and was about to touch her shoulder to rouse her when he saw she was deeply asleep.
Her hair was splayed on the violet cushion, the tense features he had left her with now softened in sleep.
And he felt those damn feelings again, and could not bear to disturb her.
‘Get some rest,’ he said, and was about to turn off the lamp off when her eyes opened.
‘Hey,’ he said.
Liliana had slept through the fire being lit in his sleeping area, and the woodsy scent had seemed to come from the fire that had danced on the night they’d made love. She’d somehow managed to incorporate the sound of the helicopter approaching into her dream.
An odd dream where she and Rafiq were flying over London, on their way to Haven Manor.
She’d opened her eyes to his impossibly good looks and for a second all had been right in the world.
He was wearing a suit and looked…
She’d frowned then, because he looked, well, not dreadful, but he looked tousled, and the dark rings under his eyes spoke of his strain.
‘Rafiq!’
He was here.
Her instinct was to kneel up. To jump up in the bed and walk on her knees to him, to just wrap herself around him and be enveloped in his arms. His eyes had an opaque desirous sheen, as if all he wanted was the same.
But by then she’d stopped dreaming and recalling all that had occurred and right now, she didn’t trust him, nor her instincts.
‘Go away!’ she told him.
‘Liliana.’ He did not have the patience for this. ‘Clearly we need to talk.’
‘Perhaps,’ she responded, not liking the rather brusque, impatient man who stood by her bed, though wanting him all the same. ‘But it will be at a time of my choosing.’
She rolled onto her side, turned her back to him, because it was either that or leap into his arms.
Rafiq could not believe she would dismiss him like that, that she would simply turn her back on him.
‘Liliana,’ he demanded.
‘I don’t jump to your command, Rafiq.’ She rolled onto her back and looked up at him. ‘And don’t you dare try to summon me.’ She gestured to the veils. ‘Is that what you do?’ She was appalled, her angry eyes demanding contrition from him. ‘Just pull a rope when you want sex?’
‘Sometimes.’ He nodded, a slight smile on his face and no trace of contrition in those silvery eyes. ‘But don’t worry—’ that smile was just a little cruel ‘—I shan’t be calling you. I like my lovers a little less surly.’
‘Bastard!’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I am not. I am doing everything I can to do the right thing by you.’
He turned on his heel and walked out.
She breathed out when he left the seraglio and then breathed in the traces of his scent.
And the tent wasn’t private. There were the shadows of the fires in both the sleeping and the lounge areas dancing on the walls of her room.
And when he stood, she could see him, even when she lay on her back, because there were times his shadow stretched across the ceiling.
And she could hear him.
While being served his meal, soft music played, and then she lay with her back to his chamber, listening to him undress, and every fibre of her being was fighting itself not to step through that veil.
Of course they needed to talk.
But somehow, she understood her mother now…
Rafiq made her weak.