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of the imam he’d chosen to perform the ceremony. He would have preferred a civil service, but Malouf would dismiss a marriage that was conducted by a notary, and the last thing he could do was have Malouf dismiss this, the most important diplomatic manoeuvre he’d ever make.
‘We’re ready,’ he said to the imam, who gave a brief nod. Halina’s confused gaze moved from him to the man who would marry them.
‘What...what are you...?’
‘All you need to say is yes,’ Zayed informed her shortly. He did not have time for her questions, her concerns, and certainly not her protestations. They could talk after the vows were performed, the marriage finalised. Not before. He would allow nothing to dissuade him. Halina’s eyes had widened and darkened to the colour of a storm-tossed sea, her lips, rosy-pink and plump, parting soundlessly.
‘Yes,’ she repeated, searching his face, looking for answers. Did she not understand what she was doing here? It seemed obvious to Zayed, and it would soon be so to Halina when she made her vows. He could not afford to explain why he’d taken her, why they had to marry with such haste. Although his desert camp was well hidden, already Sultan Hassan could be sending his troops to take back his daughter. Zayed intended to have the marriage performed well before then.
Sensing his urgency, the imam moved forward and began the ceremony, speaking with quick fluidity. Zayed took Halina by her arm, firmly but with gentleness. She looked dazed, but Zayed hoped she’d adjust quickly. She knew they were engaged, after all. His methods might be unorthodox, but the end result would be the same as if they’d been surrounded by pomp and circumstance.
A silence descended in the tent and Zayed realised it was Halina’s turn to speak. ‘Say yes,’ he hissed and she blinked at him, still seeming confused.
‘Yes,’ she said after a second’s pause.
The imam continued twice more, and twice more Zayed had to instruct Halina to speak. ‘Say yes.’
Each time she murmured yes—naaam—her lips forming the word hesitantly.
The imam turned to him and Zayed bit out his three replies. Yes, yes, yes.
Then, with a little bow, the imam stepped back. Zayed’s breath rushed out in a sigh of satisfaction and relief. It was done. They were wed.
‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he told Halina, who blinked at him.
‘Alone?’
‘For a few moments, to ready yourself.’ Zayed hesitated, and then decided he would not explain things further. Not now, with the imam listening and Halina seeming so dazed. Later, when they could talk, relax even, he would explain more. There would be food and wine and conversation—a little, at least. Then he would tell her. Tonight was not merely the marriage ceremony but its consummation.
OLIVIA FELT AS if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole into some awful, alternative reality. She had no idea what was going on; in the tent she’d only understood one word of Arabic out of three, if that. It had seemed as if some official kind of ceremony had been performed, but Olivia had no idea what it could be. And the man had insisted she keep saying yes—but to what? Perhaps he was preparing a ransom demand to the royal family, and wanted her to proclaim she was unharmed.
And she was unharmed, but she was also confused and more than a little scared. Who was the man with the terse manner and the gentle eyes? What did he want from her? And what was going to happen next?
The woman who had helped her to bathe and dress earlier, Suma, fetched her from the tent and led her to another, this one luxurious in every detail. Suma handed her some gauzy fabric and Olivia took it uncomprehendingly. Judging by the way Suma mimed her actions, she was meant to change once again. Olivia glanced down at the garment she held, a nightgown of near-diaphanous silk embroidered with gold thread. She had no idea why she had been given such a revealing and exquisite garment but she was afraid to think too much about it.
She couldn’t ask Suma; the older woman spoke a dialect of Arabic that was virtually incomprehensible to Olivia. They’d communicated by hand gestures, clumsy miming and the occasional understood word; there was no way she could ask the smiling, round-faced woman what was going on, or why she’d been given this nightgown. Not that Suma would tell her, anyway.
The tent she’d been led to was both sumptuous and spacious, with a mattress on a dais that was spread with hand-woven quilts of silk and satin and scattered with pillows. Candles flickered in torches and the desert wind made the tent rustle quietly. In the distance Olivia could hear the nickering of horses, the occasional low voice.
Suma left her alone to change and Olivia stood there, clutching the nightgown to her, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do now. Escape seemed unwise in the dark; she couldn’t ride and they were hours from anywhere. Putting on a slinky, near-transparent nightgown also seemed unwise; the last thing she wanted was to be less dressed.
She put the nightgown on the bed, running her damp palms down the side of the blue robe she’d changed into earlier as she tried to think of a way out of this. Would the man come back? Did he speak English? If he did, perhaps she could demand some answers. Not that he seemed a man to acquiesce to anyone’s demands, and Olivia doubted she’d be brave enough to give them.
Suma returned with a platter of fruit and cheese, as well as a jug of something, a carafe of water and two golden goblets. It was all very civilised, Olivia acknowledged with wry incredulity. She was being treated as an honoured guest rather than the prisoner she was...but she still had no idea what her abductor intended to do with her, and thinking too much about it made her stomach churn and bile rise to the back of her throat.
The older woman caught sight of the nightgown Olivia had left on the bed and frowned. She gestured to Olivia to change, and Olivia shook her head.
‘No...la,’ she said, speaking as firmly as she could. Her Arabic was clumsy but insistent. ‘I do not want to wear that.’
Suma’s frown deepened and she made wild gestures with her hands as she let forth a stream of incomprehensible dictates. Clearly Suma wanted her to wear the gown very much.
‘Yes,’ Olivia cut across her, having understood at least one word she’d spoken: jamila. ‘It is very beautiful. But I do not want to wear it.’
Suma scowled. Olivia almost felt apologetic for disappointing her. Was she being reckless, by refusing the nightgown? What if it made the man angry? But why on earth would he want her in it in the first place? A question she could barely bear to ask, much less answer.
With a huff, Suma shook her head and then disappeared. Olivia let out a gusty sigh of relief. She really did not want to parade around a desert camp of strange men in a diaphanous nightgown that looked like something a bride would wear on her wedding night.
She paced the luxurious confines of the tent, wondering if anyone was going to come in to see her and explain what on earth was going on. What did they want from her? If they thought Sultan Hassan would pay a hefty ransom for her return, she suspected they would be disappointed. Hassan was fond enough of her, but she was just an employee.
And if they wanted her for something else...
Swallowing convulsively, she tried not to give in to panic. She wanted to see the man with the gentle eyes again, although something about his fiercely determined manner made her half hope he wouldn’t come in. When he was near her it felt as if he were taking all the air, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. And Olivia knew she needed all her wits about her now. Somehow she had to figure out why she was here...and then she had to figure out how to escape. Both felt impossible.
Then the tent flap opened and there he was, those grey-green eyes glinting in the candlelight. He was dressed as he had been before, in loose trousers and a long shirt of bleached linen that emphasised the powerful, rippling muscles of his chest and thighs.
Olivia