raised in the old ways. She believed in them. And, as his father had pointed out, there was the promise of riches, of status.
Khalil rose to his feet.
The sultan was right. He had no role in any of this except as crown prince. He had obligations to meet and, in meeting them, he could at least ensure that this woman reached Kasmir safely. His father wished it. The council wished it. Omar wished it.
And so did she.
He turned his back on her, spoke directly to the little group gathered around them.
“I will escort her to Kasmir.”
His father beamed his approval. So did her father. The two men began talking, but Khalil couldn’t take his eyes from Layla.
Her posture was one of supplication but when she looked up, her eyes told a different story. As before, they glittered. With defiance, with anger…
With an unspoken plea?
He hesitated. Then he held out his hand. She took it, started to her feet—and stumbled. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her but she fell against him anyway. He felt the quick brush of her body and then she was on her toes and her lips were at his ear.
“For God’s sake,” she hissed, “are you blind? They’re lying. Your father. My father. Damn it, can’t you tell that I’ve been forced into this?”
Khalil blinked. She was steady on her feet now, standing with her head bowed, making no protest as Omar stepped forward, cupped her elbow and marched her away. It was almost as if nothing had happened.
But something definitely had.
Her whispered words had not been spoken in Arabic.
They had been spoken in flawless American English.
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