She squeezed his hand. “This had better not end up with both of us in a dungeon. I hate when fairy tales go that way.”
He gave a small laugh. “After we are married, a magic carpet will fly us away. I promise you that, habibti.”
From under the veil, she looked at him. “And just what does that mean.”
“It means my love.”
13
Melanie sucked in a breath. My love. Habibti. Of course. He said it so casually. Her heart gave a jerk, and she had to steady herself with a breath. Did he mean that? Or was he saying what she wanted to hear? Those stupid tears that seemed to be hovering close these days threatened to spill. She tried to blink them away, and then decided Nasiji might well be crying at her own wedding. And what man ever wanted to deal with a crying woman. She gave a sniff
le, and felt Ahmed stiffen next to her.
Great—the tears would help cover any mangling of the wedding vows she managed.
Oh, what was she thinking, getting married like this?
I’m thinking about giving the baby a father—and a future.
She swallowed hard. She was also thinking that it was more than wonderful to have Ahmed’s arm to lean on right now.
This whole thing had become a mess. The wedding was going to be a rush job; she wasn’t going to get the hundred thousand Jamul had promised her. At least she was helping Nasiji to get away with her guy—and this would let Ahmed get out of the country. She had a feeling the sultan was more than able to pen up any of his family in the palace. Or the palace dungeons, if such a thing existed. She shivered. When she got back to New York, it was going to be a long, long time before she stepped out of the country again. And she’d figure out then what she was going to do about Ahmed.
She could always file for a divorce.
They stepped into the garden to find Ahmed’s brothers waiting, along with the sultan and a man who had to be a cleric of some kind. He, at least, had a kindly face. Everyone else looked as grim as if this was a funeral.
Madam Zolest must be having fits that all her plans were being thrown away.
Ahmed and Nasiji had been meant to have a very modern wedding with touches of tradition, held in a huge tent with gold and brightly glowing chandeliers—Melanie had seen the drawings of it. Six hundred guests, round dining tables, silk-covered chairs, white with gold everywhere and henna adorning the bride and her attendants, while the groom wore a white suit and a white robe over that.
She glanced up at Ahmed. He at least looked calm and his eyes seemed clear. A band tightened around Melanie’s chest. She wanted this ceremony to be for real—for Ahmed to be marrying her for love.
Habibti he had called her. But was that just because of the child? Or because she was getting him out of a tight spot? Would he marry her and then walk away?
She put her shoulders back.
It didn’t matter if he did. He was here with her today—her child would have a dad of some kind. And everything else she’d worry about tomorrow.
Then she remembered she was supposed to be Nasiji and marrying a guy she didn’t love.
She slumped a little.
She knew there was supposed to be something called a zaffar—a wedding march with drums and flaming swords and music to announce the marriage was about to begin. It seemed that Ahmed’s brother, Khalid, had thought of this, for he had a boom box playing Arabian music, which stopped when she and Ahmed stood in front of the cleric. Nasiji should have been in a huge, white gown with hands painted in intricate henna designs. Melanie kept her own shaking hands hidden within the black burka. She must look like a crow. She also kept her head down and struggled to remember the Arabic Ahmed had taught her.
Qabul—I accept.
She was supposed to say it three times, and Ahmed had said he would nudge her when it was time to speak. Her mouth was dry at the thought of having to say anything. She was certain the sultan or one of Ahmed’s brothers was going to step forward, yank off her veil and denounce her as an imposter.
The cleric, or whoever he was, started to speak, but Ahmed interrupted. “This is my wedding. I will ask it be in English as well, for it is my intent to live in New York after this with my bride.”
The cleric—an older man with a long, graying beard—turned a worried look to the sultan. Ahmed met his father’s stare. The old man’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a nod and a wave of his hand. Melanie wanted to pull off the burka herself and run away into the night. Instead, she kept her head bowed, thought of the most miserable things she could and let the tears flow.
That at least had the sultan shifting on his feet and Ahmed’s brothers swapped uneasy stares, but the ceremony went on.
The ceremony was more about what the groom would give the bride. It was mostly a formality, but was meant to ensure the bride’s security. The most important thing was to sign the contract. The cleric or whoever he was gave a speech, droning on about honoring women. Nasiji’s father was supposed to be here. A table had been set out with the marriage contract. The sultan signed first on behalf of Nasiji’s father, then Ahmed signed. Melanie’s hands were shaking when she was supposed to sign and she scrawled her name. After she had, Ahmed’s brother, Zaid, shot a worried look at her and then at Ahmed.
The two swapped hard stares.