‘Tilda?’ Katie knocked on the door. ‘What are you doing?’
Tilda emerged with sparkling eyes, still talking on the phone. ‘Oh, I’m just arguing with Rashad, Katie. Nothing new there-’
‘Tilda,’ Rashad drawled huskily. ‘Make no mistake. This is a real wedding…’
Rashad, devastatingly handsome in a superb grey morning suit, worn with a silk waistcoat and striped trousers, awaited her in a beautifully decorated room filled with all his closest relatives. The Christian marriage service, conducted by a chaplain attached to the British embassy, was short and sweet, but the simple words of the ceremony had a familiarity that had a lingering resonance for Tilda. Rashad slid a platinum ring on her finger and she returned the favour with a matching band on his. For the first time she felt married, for the first time he felt like her husband and she felt like a wife.
‘You look fantastic in white,’ Rashad confided huskily.
Meeting his appreciative gaze, Tilda tingled. After the bride and groom had posed for formal photographs with King Hazar, Tilda was whisked off at speed to be prepared and presented afresh as a traditional Bakhari bride.
Assisted from her gown by half a dozen pairs of helpful hands, lost in a crowd of chattering women, Tilda was ushered into a palatial bathroom. A scented bath liberally sprinkled with rose petals awaited her. While she bathed, she heard music striking up in the room next door and smiled. There was a marvellous atmosphere of fun in the air. She emerged wrapped in a towel and learnt that she had only completed the first step of the all-important bridal preparations. She submitted to having her hair rinsed with what one of her sisters-in-law explained was an extract of amber and jasmine. It left her tresses silky smooth and deliciously perfumed.
After being placed on a couch, Tilda was gently massaged with aromatic oil and she relaxed for the first time that day. Durra asked her if she would mind having her hands and feet ornamented with henna. Acquiescing, Tilda looked on in fascination while, for the sake of speed, two women embarked on painting delicate lacelike ochre patterns on her slender hands and feet. Refreshing mint tea was served.
‘Men are not usually very good at waiting for what they want,’ Durra contended cheerfully, ‘but Rashad is an exceptional man. It is years since my brother first mentioned your name to us and here you are, his bride at last.’
Surprise made Tilda tense. ‘You knew about me then…I mean, Rashad told you about me?’
Durra gave her an anxious apologetic look. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’
‘No, not at all,’ Tilda soothed, because she was pleased to learn that Rashad had considered her of sufficient importance in his life to have told his family about her. At the same time, though, it made her even more determined to find out what had so totally destroyed his faith in her. Had he seen her with a work colleague or another student that summer? Misinterpreted what he had seen? Did he have a problem with jealousy? Had someone lied about her?
A diversion was created by the arrival of a brassbound wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Tilda eased up the lid and displayed, to a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs,’ an intricate headdress of beaten golden coins and an incredible quantity of ornate turquoise jewellery. Evidently last worn by Rashad’s mother on the occasion of her marriage, the antique necklaces, earrings and bracelets had been passed down through many generations of brides.
Tilda sat while her hair was styled and her make-up done. Her sisters’ steadily widening eyes warned her that the end result was likely to be very different from what she was accustomed to. A wonderfully colourful hand-embroidered and beaded kaftan was extended for her admiration. Only when she was finally dressed was she allowed to see herself in the mirror.
‘Welcome to the sixteenth century!’ Katie whispered cheekily in Tilda’s ear.
From her kohl-lined, glittering turquoise-shadowed eyes to the silvery fairness of her hair, which fell like a gleaming sheet of silk below the bridal headdress, there was a dazzling barbaric splendour to her appearance. Tilda wondered if Rashad would go for the traditional Bakhari bride look and she rather thought he would.
She was led into a huge richly decorated room filled with people, but the only person she was truly aware of was Rashad. He wore an army dress uniform in royal blue and gold, a sword hanging by his side. Her heart skipped a beat as soon as she saw him. She let the inner wall of her pride soften for an instant and admitted to herself that she didn’t just find Rashad madly, insanely sexy and attractive. That was only a part of what drew her to him. The truth was that she had never got over the secret conviction that he was the love of her
life. Although he had hurt and disappointed her, he had still awakened feelings stronger than any other man could hope to match. She still loved him. Perhaps, she reasoned ruefully, now that they were husband and wife, it really was time that she stopped fighting with him and gave him a second chance.
On cue, Rashad gripped her hand and murmured with flatteringly impressed conviction. ‘You look so beautiful-it is wrong of me to think it, but every man here must envy me.’
Delighted that she had been correct in assuming that the medieval theme would be a winning success, Tilda drifted dreamily through the ceremony that followed. Her heart open to her emotions and her love acknowledged, she felt curiously at peace with herself. The reception started with a lavish feast. She sat by Rashad’s side in their carved thronelike chairs and, with a calm smile on her lips, watched a ceremonial display of dancing with swords, whips and bloodthirsty shouts. After the folk dances came poetry readings and songs and the presentation of magnificent gifts. They went out onto a balcony to watch a camel race taking place beyond the walls.
In the noisy debate that took place at the end of the race, Rashad closed a hand over hers and tugged her back indoors and down a quiet staircase. ‘Now at last we can be alone.’
‘We can just vanish in the middle of it all?’
Rashad surveyed her with scorching golden eyes and brought his hungry mouth down on hers with passionate force. As an answer it was very effective. Her consciousness of the world around her went into a crazy tail-spin until he lifted his imperious dark head again.
‘You’ve spent virtually the whole of the last month ignoring me!’ Tilda recovered enough to splutter.
‘But you made it plain that you wanted to be left alone,’ Rashad reminded her darkly, walking her down the stairs at a pace she could manage in her long dress and high heels. ‘You said you wanted to sleep apart from me.’
As Tilda paused to look up at him a sensual frisson of awareness slivered through her body. ‘Not tonight, but-’
‘No conditions,’ Rashad slotted in.
‘Just one tiny one,’ Tilda told him winsomely, noting the way his devouring gaze was glued to her and feeling an intoxicating sense of her feminine power. ‘You have to tell me what really happened five years ago. I want to know what made you turn against me.’
Seriously disconcerted by that demand, Rashad breathed, ‘You want to rake up the past on our wedding night? Are you crazy?’
‘Don’t I have a right to know?’