THE table was set in a small banqueting room—a surprisingly intimate table, even though it was laid with plates of solid gold which gleamed beneath the light from the dazzling chandelier overhead. Heavy crystal glasses threw off rainbow lights, and overblown crimson roses were crammed into low golden bowls.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Lara breathed automatically.
Darian turned to look at her, at the elegant little curve of her nose and the way her soft lips had parted. She had clipped some of her hair back—he had never seen it like that before. The rampant curls had been subdued, emphasising her long, elegant neck, and the overall impression was to make her look rather pure and innocent. But then, she was an actress, he reminded himself. A chameleon. She wore so many different masks.
‘Exquisite,’ he said curtly, his head turning as Khalim walked into the room accompanied by a retinue of servants, most of whom he dismissed immediately.
He had changed from his Western suit into one of the garments tradionally worn by the Marabanesh—only his was fashioned from the finest silk, denoting his royal status. It was a fluid and flowing robe in a silvery colour which made Lara think of a river. He indicated for them to take their seats and ran a finger reflectively over a rose in one of the bowls, rather in the way that Lara had done in her room, earlier.
‘You know, it is a strict rule at the palace to have only roses placed on the table at royal functions,’ he said gravely as he took his seat, though his black eyes were glinting with mischief. ‘In honour of my darling Rose.’
Lara frowned as she unfolded the heavy linen napkin. ‘Won’t Rose think it strange you haven’t told her I’m here, Khalim? Won’t she be upset?’
‘Why would she be?’ Khalim looked at her steadily. ‘Rose loves me and trusts me,’ he said simply. ‘And she trusts my judgement,’ he added softly. ‘She will know soon enough, when the time is right, but she must not be troubled by events over which she has no control. Especially not now, when she carries my child within her.’
He spoke in a way in which few men did—his words were poetic and romantic and they came straight from the heart. Lara had not spent her life looking for love—women who did that were doomed, in her opinion—but as she listened she experienced a great ache of longing. She tried to imagine what it must be like to have a man profess his love for you in such a profound and moving way as that. Didn’t Rose have what most women dreamed of? Oh, not the prince or the palaces or the untold riches—but the steadfast and passionate love of the man she adored.
And what a man Khalim was. She recognised then that somewhere in the back of her mind she had thought that no man could ever match someone like Khalim—his strength and his passion and his sheer, overriding masculinity. Only now she had met another such man.
Covertly, she studied Darian from beneath her lashes. His half-brother had those same qualities—qualities which had been born in him, not fashioned by his upbringing in a place of riches and privilege. Darian would be a man whose love would be worth more than a king’s ransom.
And she had blown it.
‘You will drink some wine, Darian?’ Khalim was saying.
‘No, thanks.’ Darian pointed to a decanter filled with a rich gold liquid. ‘I’ll have some of what you’re having.’
Khalim nodded, looking pleased. ‘It is a special Maraban concoction—made from honey and water taken from the crystal streams of mountain rivers and scented with rose and cinnamon.’
Darian took the goblet and sipped some. ‘Here,’ he murmured, and passed the goblet to Lara.
The gesture seemed somehow symbolic of sharing, and yet at the same time a mockery. Part of her wanted to refuse—but how could she in front of Khalim, and risk appearing churlish or rude? The goblet was so heavy and her fingers were so unsteady that she had to hold onto it with two hands. ‘Th—thanks,’ she stumbled.
The glittering look he sent her was impenetrable, and Lara found herself wondering how she was going to be able to fight him off later, when they were alone in their sumptuous room. Especially when there was a part of her which didn’t want to fight him at all…
A feast was brought before them—dish after tiny dish of subtly flavoured delicacies, some of which Lara had tasted before and some of which were new to her. She looked at the mound of glistening saffron-scented rice, studded with pistachios and cardamom seeds, and tried to summon up an appetite for it.
But during the meal she found herself cast in the role of spectator, listening while Darian continued to ask questions about Maraban’s history and about Khalim’s ongoing task of making sure that the country embraced new technology while losing nothing of its tradition and traditional values. She could have listened all night to the Prince describing dark conquests, the battles of his ancestors as they strove to liberate Maraban from marauding neighbouring countries.
‘Tomorrow we shall ride,’ announced Khalim as tiny little cups of thick, dark coffee were placed before them.
Darian dropped a single sugar cube into his cup and absently stirred at it. ‘I’ve never ridden before.’
‘It alarms you?’
Darian’s eyes narrowed into golden shards. ‘On the contrary. I have always enjoyed rising to a challenge.’
‘Of course. But I shall give you our quietest mount.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t.’ Darian’s voice was low, but it carried with it a steely determination, and Lara couldn’t miss the unmistakable look of horror which crossed the face of one of the servants. You wouldn’t need to speak English to be aware that this guest was arguing with the Prince!
‘I will take a mount that you favour,’ Darian emphasised.
This time Khalim frowned. ‘But it would be sheer folly to put a novice on a spirited horse!’
‘And would you not do the same in my situation?’ challenged Darian softly.
The eyes of the two men clashed a silent duel over the ornate table, until at last Khalim nodded his head.
‘Indeed I would.’
There was silence for a moment, as if another unspoken test had been set and passed.
‘And can I come and watch?’ asked Lara.
They turned to look at her, as if they had forgotten she was there.
‘Of course you can,’ said Khalim indulgently. ‘You don’t mind, Darian?’
‘Why should I mind?’ But of course Darian did mind. He minded a lot. He had never ridden before, and as Khalim had pointed out he was a novice. Did he really want Lara to witness him at the very bottom of a learning curve—he who liked to be seen to be accomplished in all things?
‘Good. That is settled.’ Khalim rose to his feet. ‘You will forgive me if I leave you now? I have affairs of state to attend to, and I must telephone Rose before she retires. You may linger here, over coffee—or one of the servants will show you where a television can be found, should you wish it. Or…’ His voice softened. ‘You can take Lara for a walk through the rose gardens—they are smaller than those at the Golden Palace, but they are beautiful indeed, and the perfect place for lovers on such a starlit evening.’
Lara opened her mouth to protest, to end this ridiculous charade here and now, but before she could speak Darian had answered for her.
‘Thanks, but I think we’ll go straight to bed. Lara’s very tired—aren’t you, darling?’
The mock concern in his voice made her want to rail against him. But what could she possibly say that would not embarrass her host? She nodded, and even managed to curve her lips into a smile. ‘Very tired,’ she agreed demurely.
She saw Khalim narrow his eyes fractionally. ‘Then I will bid you both goodnight and sweet dreams.’
They