drew himself up, and with as much dignity as he could muster with his hair standing on end and without benefit of shirt, jacket and tie, looked Leila’s father straight in the eye. “Sheik Ahmed, this may seem sudden, but I have fallen in love with your daughter.” Ignoring Leila’s shocked gasp, he rushed on. “I want to marry her.” The gasps had found echoes throughout the gathering; he ignored those, too, as well as the sheik’s sudden stiffening. “I respectfully ask your permission—”
“My permission!” Sheik Ahmed’s voice shook. His wife laid a cautioning hand on his arm, and he whirled, blindly thrusting Leila toward her.
“Take her,” he bellowed. “Take her away—and the rest of you—” he waved his arms, making shooing motions at the crowd. “Leave us!” Without waiting for his orders to be obeyed, he turned back to Cade, black eyes glittering with rage.
“You. You would marry my daughter?” With extreme effort, the sheik seemed to draw himself together and spoke more calmly though with no less anger. “Mr. Gallagher, I have made you a guest in my house, and you thank me by inflicting this gravest of injuries upon my family.”
Cade frowned. This was not going quite the way he’d expected. “That was not—”
“Silence! And now, to that injury you would add insult? Do you think that I would allow my daughter to marry you—an infidel, an unbeliever, a man without honor?” There was a pause, during which Cade could have sworn the sheik grew in height at least a foot before his very eyes. And then, in a magnificent bellow, “I would sooner see her dishonored!”
Having delivered his exit line, Sheik Ahmed whirled—then spoiled the effect of it somewhat by jerking back to Cade. “You will leave my house,” he growled, stabbing the air in his direction with a bejeweled finger. “Tomorrow—as early as can be arranged.” Once more he turned, and stalked off down the now-deserted hallway, footsteps ringing on the tile floor.
Protected by an icy shell of calm he knew must be shock, Cade watched until the massive doors at the end of the hallway had closed upon the sheik’s broad back. Then he retreated into his own chamber and carefully pulled the door shut after him.
On the whole, he thought as the quivery aftereffects of shock hit him, that had gone pretty well. At least he hadn’t been executed on the spot.
Like a gracefully pensive statue, Leila stood in steamy and fragrant warmth and gazed at the familiar back of the woman who knelt beside the bath. Gazed at, but did not really see. Her mind was empty, as bereft of thoughts as her eyes were of tears. She did not dare allow herself to think, not even so much as a single thought; if she did, she feared the anger, humiliation and despair would simply overwhelm her.
Salma Hadi, her mother’s most trusted servant and once upon a time Leila’s own nanny, hummed nervously as she fussed over the bathwater, adding scent and soap bubbles, swishing the water with her fingers to test the temperature. The tune she hummed was simple and familiar, a children’s play song she had sung to Leila long, long ago. Leila found it oddly soothing.
Pushing stiffly to her feet, Salma turned to smile up at her. Holding out her hand, she spoke in Arabic, the language of her youth. “Ah, yes, now it is good. Come, my treasured child, let me help you undress.”
Mindlessly, Leila obeyed the familiar voice, lifting her hair to allow access to the fastenings of her gown. She stood, docile and numb, while well-remembered hands gently removed her clothing and twisted her hair into a pile atop her head, securing it there with jeweled clips and combs. Naked, she allowed herself to be taken by the hand and led to the edge of the bath.
“There, my sweet…gently…gently,” Salma crooned. “The water will sooth you…take away the pain.”
Leila gave her former nanny a puzzled look. Pain? What pain? Was Salma getting old? Losing her mind? The pain she felt was all inside, deep in her heart, and it would take much more than a hot bubble bath to make it go away.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she lowered herself into the fragrant suds, for she had been taught never to take loyal servants for granted. “This does feel good.” Closing her eyes, she lay back with a sigh and stretched herself languidly, like a sleepy cat. How good it felt to relax, after such a tumultuous day. How good it would be if she could simply go to sleep right here, and not have to think…
“Princess? Are you—”
There was concern, and something else—embarrassment, perhaps?—in Salma’s voice. Leila opened her eyes. “Yes, Salma, what is it?”
The servant’s round face was flushed, and her eyes glistened with kindness. “Princess, I have some oil—it is very soothing. When you have finished—”
“Oil?” Leila frowned. “What kind of oil? What for?”
Salma touched Leila’s cheek with gentle fingers. “My little one…it is normal for a woman to have pain, the first time she…is with a man. But after a hot bath…the soothing oil…it goes away quickly—” She stopped, for Leila was shaking her head wildly. She continued in distress, “Princess, it is all right—” But Leila went on shaking her head, and brushing aside Salma’s anxious fingers, covered her face with her hands.
Her face, her whole body burned with shame; even the bathwater felt cool on her fevered skin. Oh, how she wished she could just…sink to the bottom of the tub and disappear forever.
“Princess—what is it?” Salma’s voice had risen with alarm. Lifting her hands heavenward, she uttered a rapid, wailing prayer, which she almost immediately interrupted to ask in a despairing whisper, “Oh, tell me—did he harm you? Are you injured, truly? Tell me—what has he—”
“No, no!” Leila cried, “you don’t understand. He did nothing. Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Salma rocked backward, hushed and wondering. “You mean, you are not—he did not—”
“No,” Leila moaned, putting her hands over her eyes once more, “he would not. Oh, Salma, it was awful. Just awful…” And all at once she felt herself gathered into loving arms, soapsuds and all, and she was sobbing like a little child on her nanny’s shoulder. “Salma,” she gulped,
“I have been a fool….”
“Yes, my treasure,” Salma crooned, rocking her. “Yes….”
* * *
Alima Kamal was worried about her husband. She had never before seen him so angry—his color was quite alarming. Hadn’t the doctors warned him about his blood pressure, insisted he must lose some weight? And after such a weekend, so much excitement, too much rich food—and perhaps more of the mild Tamari wine than he was accustomed to—now this. What had Leila been thinking of, to do such a thing?
Ah—Leila. That was another worry entirely. She was in Salma’s capable hands—that problem could wait until tomorrow.
At the moment Ahmed was in the bathroom, Alima having persuaded him that a warm bath might help him to relax—with the help of a little subtle bribery, naturally, in the form of the promise of a nice massage afterward. She had in mind an old family recipe of Salma’s—passed on to her by her maternal grandmother—a mix of fragrant oils and certain herbs that were designed to soothe the mind as well as the body. She had used it on her husband before, with most satisfactory and highly enjoyable results, for her as well. Although, under the circumstances she didn’t hold out hope for such a conclusion to this evening’s activities. Ah, well… Alima sighed.
A discreet tapping at the royal bedchamber’s heavy wooden door almost went unnoticed, so engrossed was she in her preparations. When it continued, now a little louder, she glanced at the antique French clock on the mantelpiece. Who would dare disturb the sheik in his chambers at this hour? With a mildly vexed sigh, Alima went to answer it.
“Salma!” Her heart gave a leap of alarm when she saw her oldest and most trusted attendant standing there, almost