His Queen by Desert Decree

Having already bathed at the palace and washed her hair, Molly only made superficial use of the ceremonial bath and clambered out into a fleecy towel. Her wedding gown and lingerie awaited her in a connecting tent and she wasted no time in getting dressed, with Zahra well able and willing to hook up the back of her dress.

‘It’s a beautiful dress,’ Zahra sighed, admiring the long lace sleeves and the slender silhouette of the elegant design Molly had chosen. ‘Some brides here already wear Western gowns as one of their bridal changes. Photographs of you in this will encourage the fashion.’

A big silver box arrived to much fanfare.

‘The bridegroom’s gift to his bride,’ Zahra explained.

‘So, it’s a tradition.’ Less pleased by the awareness that Azrael was only doing what was expected of him rather than what he actually wanted to do, Molly opened the box and gazed down in awe at a fabulous set of emerald jewellery.

‘These are royal jewels, passed from mother to son for the next generation. The King’s mother, Princess Nahla, only wore them once when she married Prince Sharif.’ Nimble fingers brushed Molly’s nape as Zahra clasped the stunning necklace and passed her the glistening drop earrings.

Molly felt as though she were living history when she was escorted into yet another tent where Azrael awaited her, tall and grave in his traditional robes. His beautiful eyes were dark and serious below his lush screening lashes and she suspected that she was still unforgiven for her reaction to the possibility of a pregnancy. It really didn’t matter, she admitted wryly to herself, because with one glimpse at Azrael the dulled ache between her thighs throbbed in wanton recollection, her entire body now shamefully attuned to his in the most mortifying way. The rising colour in her cheeks had nothing to do with the temperature.

The celebrant was an American minister and the service was short and sweet. Azrael’s cool fingers slid a gold ring onto her wedding finger and, for the first time, Molly truly felt like a married woman.

In silence, Azrael admired the dress, which faithfully followed Molly’s lush curves but which revealed barely any skin. He concentrated his attention on the rusty little marks scattered below her collar bone, trying to look on them as imperfections while recalling that the same freckles extended the stippling over her full creamy breasts. Unhappily for him he loved her freckles, and the urgent pulse at his groin infuriated him at so formal an occasion and when they had parted on such poor terms. How could he still hunger for a woman who did not want his child, who did not want to create a family with him? Who rejected a future of any kind with him? Who expected him to discuss what it was pointless to discuss? Her callous attitude, after all, had said all he needed to hear.

Molly had barely spent ten minutes in Azrael’s presence before she was swept off again to be dressed appropriately for the signing of the marriage contract, which was the main event as far as her companions were concerned. Freed from the limitations of her Western wedding gown, Molly followed Zahra’s advice and simply let the attendants dress her up as a traditional Djalian bride. Her hands and feet were ornamented with elaborate swirling henna patterns, her nails painted, her face made up with a much more dramatic application of cosmetics than she would personally have used. Finally, swamped in emerald-green brocade with a richly embroidered, buttoned blue under tunic sewn with pearls, she saw herself in a mirror and she didn’t recognise her reflection because even her hair was hidden below an elaborate headdress. Throughout photos were taken by a female photographer. She wondered if Azrael would prefer her in such garb and whether it would bring a smile to his lean features.

She saw Azrael again in the presence of the solemn imam with the marriage contract laid out on a table and with Zahra and Butrus acting as witnesses. Coached by Zahra, she knew to allow the imam to ask her three times before she accepted and signed her name. She was settled down then into an elaborate wooden chair and then, to her dismay, hoisted high by a bunch of men and borne off into a big tent where a crowd awaited them. A drum was beating out a tattoo and women were wailing in apparent happiness. Molly pinned a fixed smile to her tense face as she was seated on a stage and watched Azrael brought in with loud drumming and even more pomp and ceremony. Kneeling at her feet, Zahra explained every stage, pointing out the tray of seven spices and the seven foods for purity arranged on a low table. She was brought a rose water and pomegranate cordial to drink and she was abstracted, marvelling at how stunning Azrael looked in his rich golden attire.

‘I first saw his picture at the embassy in London,’ she shared reflectively with Zahra. ‘I didn’t know who he was back then but I noticed him.’

‘Women do tend to notice His Majesty.’ Zahra smiled. ‘Butrus mentioned that the first time the King saw you it was obvious that he was noticing you as well.’

Molly wondered if that was true, if it was possible that the same awareness that had initially electrified her had also affected Azrael. While musicians took their seats, dancers trooped in and tossed sweets to the guests. Azrael took a seat on the stage beside her as a table was arranged in front of them and Zahra excused herself.

‘Zahra’s been a wonderful help,’ Molly confided. ‘Explaining everything, translating for me. I didn’t make any mistakes.’

‘Everything at an occasion like this is new to you. Don’t worry about making mistakes,’ Azrael responded quietly.

A veritable feast of food was brought to them and Molly ate sparingly, too conscious of being the centre of attention to relax, but as the evening wore on and she watched Azrael take part in an astonishingly acrobatic traditional dance with actual swords her tension gradually ebbed because all around her people were happy and obviously having a good time. Every so often Zahra would approach her and bring people for her to meet, and the emeralds that still glowed round her neck were complimented many times and clearly a highly recognisable symbol of Djalian royalty that the guests liked to see on display.

They left the continuing festivities in the helicopter. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked Azrael.

‘You’ll see,’ he parried. ‘I hope I ha

ve made the right choice. Butrus thought I was crazy. The normal option would have been to remain in the encampment for the night.’

But Molly was grateful for any choice that took them away from the noisy partying and the almost suffocating attention of so many people. Privacy, she appreciated, was a gift Azrael rarely enjoyed and it would be the same for her because the local media would publish their wedding photos. At the same time, now that the cameras and the audience were gone, how would they be together and how would Azrael behave?

Azrael lifted her out of the helicopter because she was struggling in her capacious layers of brocade and silk and very much looking forward to changing into something more comfortable and shedding the heavy jewellery. In the darkness she couldn’t see where they were. All she could see was an actual burning torch flaring against a wall.

‘Where are we?’ she asked because she could still see no artificial light and it was very quiet. As she drew closer to the torch she saw that the wall was a rock rather than an artificial creation and her brow furrowed in confusion.

‘It is a surprise. The helicopter will pick us up again in the morning.’ Azrael hesitated. ‘I brought you back to the cave for the night...’

A cave? The cave? Molly hinged her dropped jaw shut again, grateful for the darkness. ‘Wow,’ she said chirpily as if it were the best news she had ever heard, because she was not stupid, after all.

If Azrael was taking her back to the cave for their wedding night it was because he believed that was romantic and, since he was far too practical to be what she would have deemed a natural romantic, it signified a feat of imagination and effort on his part that she had to admire...even if she hated it.

‘The stars are beautiful and the moon is full,’ Azrael pointed out with pronounced determination as they trudged across the sand by the light of his cell phone.

My goodness, he’s trying—he’s trying so hard to make this special and you are an ungrateful cow, Molly scolded herself furiously. But to be fair, he had wrong-footed her because she had been planning to tell Azrael that she thought it would be wisest if they stopped having sex until they had both decided where their marriage was heading. Why? Because sex with Azrael killed her brain cells, she thought wildly, knowing there was no way she could drop the sex ban on him when he’d gone to the extreme lengths of taking her to a cave for the night. I mean, how lucky am I to be the woman who gets to spend another night in the cave?

A clutch of robed men moved away from the front of the cave, bowing to them both and addressing Azrael in their language. ‘They are honoured to guard us tonight,’ Azrael translated.

Molly contrived a brilliant smile and passed on into the cave...and found it transformed. There was a bed, a proper bed and lit lanterns everywhere. A seating area with rugs was arranged around a small fire as well as a table with covered dishes. Towels were heaped helpfully by the pool edge. Her contrived smile blossomed into a genuine smile and she spun back to Azrael to say spontaneously, ‘You’re not crazy. It was a wonderful idea.’