CHAPTER EIGHT
Given the conservative nature of Ishala, Evie was surprised by the gown Anita arrived clutching on Friday afternoon. It wasn’t revealing, exactly, but the cut of it hugged Evie like a second-skin, leaving very little to the imagination. The colour was a pale cream, but it was nothing like a bridal gown. It was cut high at the neck, and at least a hundred pearls served as buttons, clipping the gown together from the nape of her hair to the swelling of her bottom. The sleeves were firm on her arms all the way to her wrists, where delicate lace clipped over her thumb and forefinger, acting as a very delicate sort of glove.
To the knees, it was firm, but then it flared – only by the smallest degrees, to make walking possible – though not exactly comfortable. The same could be said of the shoes, which were constructed from the supplest leather Evie had ever touched. They slid onto her feet as though they’d been made for her, and the heel was high, but widened enough at the bottom to make them passably comfortable.
“Isn’t it a little early to be getting dressed?” She asked Anita at four o’clock, as the last buttons were clipped into place.
“Non.”
Evie could only laugh. “But this party doesn’t start until nine o’clock.”
“But you still have the hair, and the make up, and then some photographs.”
“Photographs?” Her eyes flew to Anita’s in the mirror.
“You were not told? Yes. Vogue Ishala is to do a piece on you.”
“Vogue?” Evie’s face blanched. “Oh, Anita. That’s not right. I’m not … even remotely glamorous.”
“You will be when I am done,” Anita murmured with complete confidence. And though she did little of the handiwork herself, every brush stroke and hair wave of the hairdresser and makeup artist seemed coordinated by the glamorous fashionista.
It took forever – or at least it felt that way to Evie. But, by eight o’clock, when the photographer and journalist were ushered into the room, Evie was the absolute picture of a princess. Her hair had been styled into an elaborate chignon with tiny little plaits that all led to the crown of her head. And yes, there was a crown, too, filled with an embarrassment of shimmering gems. It was heavy, but far too incredible to complain about wearing. The largest gem was a shimmering pink – it sent rainbows of colour kaleidoscoping around the room when she moved. A necklace had been designed to match – the stone set at its centre was almost as large, and surrounded by diamonds.
“What is this?” She whispered to Anita, fingering the pendant anxiously.
“Pink diamond.” Anita tapped the gem in the middle of the crown. “And here, too. Seventy-one carats in the headpiece and this one is almost thirty.”
Evie’s eyes were enormous. “I don’t know a thing about diamonds but those numbers sound big.”
Anita laughed. “Just don’t lose either, darling.”
“I don’t intend to.” She swallowed, beginning to feel like a walking bank vault.
She posed for the photos as best she could, all the while terrified that one of the enormous gems was going to roll loose on her watch. She knew that she must surely look as she felt: a nervous wreck. This suspicion was only confirmed when Anita caught her arm at one point and said, “Do not smile as though you have a tooth ache! Smile as though you are happier than any woman in the whole world has ever been. Si?”
She nodded, but the kindly-meant encouragement only heightened her anxieties.
By the time Amira appeared at the door to the suite of rooms, Evie was ready to weep. The young servant understood.
“You are afraid?”
Evie didn’t bother to hide it. “Petrified. I can’t do this, Amira. I’m not a princess. Sabra told me that time and time again. You could never live as I grew up! You would have hated it! How am I going to do it? I don’t belong here.”
Amira shook her head with a smile. “Of course you do. Because you are kind, and you are beautiful, and you will become a mother to your nephew. This, with all the makeup and the dress and the jewels, this is not how you must be. Not often, anyway.” Emboldened, she put a hand on Evie’s wrist. “You look beautiful, but you are always beautiful. It’s not the clothes nor the jewels that make you regal, Evie. It is you.”
Evie sucked in a deep breath and shook her head, knocking away the praise. “I just want it all to be over.”
“And it will be – before you know it.”
They walked side by side through the long corridor, Evie’s nerves only increasing with each step they took.
Outside a pair of doors that seemed to have been constructed from marble and gold, Evie took another deep breath. Her fingers were shaking and her eyes showed her skittish anxieties. Several guards stood to attention as she approached, their liveried forms were held almost unnaturally still. How hot they must have been in such formal uniforms!
They clasped in one gloved hand a golden rifle; the butt of which was balanced on the marble floor, and the golden tip was pointed towards the chandelier-laden ceiling.
It was all so incredibly grand, Evie had never seen anything like it.
“Where’s Mal?” She whispered to Amira, turning her back on the guards for a moment.
“Were you not told?” Amira asked urgently.
Evie shook her head.
Consternation furrowed the young woman’s brow. “I dare say she didn’t want to make you nervous.”
“Oh, God. What is it? What’s going to happen?”
“Nothing!” Amira smiled encouragingly. “His Highness is in the ballroom. He’s waiting for you.”
“And?”
“And a guard will announce you,” she said.
“Why do I feel like you’re dropping tiny breadcrumbs that are going to lead me to a fiery death?”
“Because you’re anxious,” Amira returned quickly. “Now, stop fussing. You look like a princess. This night is about you. Enjoy it.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank you for trying to make me feel better,” she tacked on as an afterthought.
Amira nodded and then lifted a finger to Evie’s cheek. “Remember to smile. Your smile is dazzling.”
“Dazzling? With this on my head? Like anyone will be looking at my smile.”
“Madam?” One of the older guards addressed her as she stepped closer to the door. “It is time?”
“Yes. It’s time.” She nodded jerkily and swallowed, stepping backwards as the room was opened.
It was so much worse than she’d imagined. The doors swung into a delicate balcony. The floral arrangements were so large there was almost no room for her to stand. But, at the top, another guard stood, this time in a white uniform, and without the rifle. To his right there was a staircase, apparently made from gold with jewels in the railing. And at its base? So many people. More, even, than had been at the funeral.
Her eyes skimmed the crowd, bouncing from person to person, until finally she saw him.
His eyes locked with hers and she felt the immediate charge of electricity. Heat seemed to fire from one to the other and the rest of the room faded to nothingness.
Love simmered in her veins. She walked with great care down the stairs. As her hand lightly touched the railing she had a Sabra-esque vision of falling and so walked slowly. She felt his eyes on her the whole time and they were heating her blood to boiling. The crowd was parted at the base of the stairs, but she barely saw them.
It was Malakhi that drew her full attention. When their eyes met, it was as if they were the only people in the room. He held out a hand out as she neared and, on autopilot, she lifted hers to it.
Zing. There it was. Sensual awareness flashed through her, flipping her stomach and squeezing her chest.
“Good evening.” His expression showed amusement. It fanned her self-doubts.
“I look ridiculous,” she murmured, dropping her eyes from his.
“No.” He leaned closer, pressing his lips to her ear. “There are no words to describe how exceptional you look.”
“So why are you laughing at me?”
He grinned. “I’m imagining you as you were the day I first met you, that’s all.”
His smile alighted hers. “Oh.”
“Dressed in a servant’s uniform, your hair wild, your face afraid of my eagle. Tonight you are my princess, afraid of no one.”
She arched a brow. “Still insisting I’m yours?”
He tipped his head back and laughed. “As much as I am yours,” he assured her softly, squeezing her hand. “Are you ready?”
“I think I am, actually.”
He stepped a little away from her, but kept his fingers lightly gripping her hand. The second he turned to face the crowd it silenced, all eyes on the stunning young couple. In his own language he repeated the ancient Vows of Intent that formalised their betrothal. They were the words that had been passed down from the oldest tribes of Ishala; words that were spoken when a woman was promised to a man by her father that had now been adapted to suit modern life.
The words joined them and after speaking them he expelled a breath of relief that even Evie didn’t see. The crowd applauded and the noise suddenly became deafening as discussion raged.
Many commended the Sheikh’s choice of bride. She was beautiful and poised, but more than that, she had been the dear friend of the much loved Sabra, and this made her special to the Sheikh’s people. There was condemnation also, of course, though it was hushed. How could the choose marry a Westerner? It had been a failure for Sabra, and it would be a failure now. Were there not suitable princesses and ladies to choose from in Ishala and amongst their allied countries?
“What did you just say?” She asked, biting down on her full lip.
He brought his mouth closer to her ear again. “I will kiss you right here if you keep reminded me how delightful your lips are.”
She gaped, her eyes shifting to his. “Would that be so wrong?”
His expression shifted a little. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Until we are married, I’m not supposed to touch you … intimately.”
Anguish tore through her. “That’s silly,” she said with a shake of her head.
His laugh was gruff. “Now perhaps you appreciate my reasons for rushing the ceremony.”
“But you … we were together … last night.”
He nodded, his eyes faintly mocking. “And I have every intention of possessing you tonight, too.” He put a hand in the small of her back and brushed his thumb over the flesh in rhythmic circles. “I just do not think we should flaunt it to this crowd.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Her lashes were dark fans against her cheeks as she closed her eyes on the admission.
He breathed in her delicate feminine fragrance and felt an immediate tightening in his groin. “We must circulate now. But Evie?”
She looked up at him in silent response to his question.
“All I am thinking about right now is making you mine again.”
“I’m already yours,” she said teasingly, reaching around and linking her fingers in his. “Remember? All these people heard you say so.”
His expression didn’t lighten. “We will leave as soon as possible.”
She nodded, her eyes enormous.
He knew he needed to part from her; to speak to his guests and allow her to be feted and welcomed, but he was reluctant. “You’ll be okay.”
It was a statement rather than a question; Evie found herself nodding anyway.
He released his grip on her hand and was swallowed by the crowd. She watched him go, bemused by this bizarre turn of events. She didn’t have long to watch him; she was likewise engulfed by curious guests, eager to meet and speak to the woman who was about to become extremely politically powerful.
There were requests for her to join charity boards, to oversee hospital renovations, to visit schools in struggling districts, to speak to the Sheikh about funding for arts projects, and to speak to him about clemency for a prisoner. Her head was spinning and all the more so for having to listen carefully to the accented English.
“You are doing well.” The kindly-spoken words had her turning with relief.
“Fayaz!” Her smile was reserved. “Are we actually allowed to speak now?”
“Of course! Why should we not?”
“It’s just …” She was wary after their last encounter. She dropped her eyes. “Malakhi said I exposed you to gossip last time. When we had lunch.”
Fayaz’s expression shifted a little. “I don’t care about that.”
“I had no idea. The ways of Ishala are so very different to what I’m used to.”
“Of course they are.” He waved aside her apology. “It was just a lunch.”
“That’s not what you said the other day.”
He grinned. “Your betrothed made me aware, in no uncertain terms, that I was infringing on his interests.” His smile broadened. “We’ve been friends for a long time and I’ve never seen him so territorial. Even with Leilani , whom I know he cared for a great deal.”
Evie’s heart thudded heavily at both the reference to the other woman and the description of Malakhi’s feelings for her.
Sensing it, Fayaz moved the conversation along quickly. “I have a present for you.”
“That’s not necessary,” she demurred.
“But of course it is! You are to marry, and presents are traditional.”
She bit back the declaration that she was getting a pretty amazing present in the form of her husband. How could she have become so dramatic and sentimental?
Fayaz lifted a small gold box from his pocket. It was about the size of the business card wallet her father had used to carry. Slim and compact, it fit neatly into the palm of her hand. From across the room, Malakhi watched with a growing sense of irritation. What the hell was his friend thinking?
“It’s lovely,” she murmured, turning the tin over to examine the intricate carvings in its back. “What does this say?” She ran her finger over the foreign script, as though the feel of it beneath her fingertip might lead to better comprehension.
“Forever,” he translated, his smile handsome as he pointed to the letters.
“Forever.” She breathed the word like a spell and sighed. “Thank you.”
“You are thanking me for this? You have not even looked inside.”
“Oh!” With delight, she unclipped the clasp and slipped the tin open, holding it in both hands. A soft piece of leather unfolded from one side; it seemed to be attached to the tin and had strong crease lines so it could be easily put away again. “What is it?” She lifted it closer and then laughed. “It’s a map! Of the palace?”
“You said you wanted one.” He pointed to the top left corner. “Here is your suite of rooms.” He moved his finger closer to the first crease line. “Here is the swimming pool.” And further along the leather, to a rectangular room. “The kitchens,” he murmured, then moved his finger once more. “And the ballroom, where we are now.”
“You’re telling me I could use this to find my way back at the end of the night?”
He nodded. “And for any other time you are lost within the palace walls.”
“Oh, Fayaz!” Her expression showed true appreciation. “That’s so very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
He waved away her gratitude. “It was an easy gift. You had, after all, given me the idea yourself.”
“Yes, but I meant like a tourist map or something. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“No. They are not made any longer.”
“No?” She lifted a brow, urging him to continue.
His smile was kind. “A hundred were commissioned for the marriage of His Highness’s great grand-parents, as gifts for the dignities in attendance of the ceremony. One was given to my great-grandfather.”
“He was a guest?”
“A servant. But held in high esteem by the groom,” he corrected.
“Wow.” She shook her head slowly, sending prisms of light cascading through the room. “I don’t know what to say.” She folded the map carefully into the tin and clutched it tightly in her palm. “I love it.”
His smile was bright. He opened his mouth to change the subject but Malakhi appeared as if by magic. His expression was perfectly convivial but Evie knew him better. She stifled a sound of frustration and rolled her eyes instead.
“Let me guess.” The polite mask she wore was held in place with effort. “You’re annoyed we’re talking.”
His eyes shifted a little, showing his surprise at the challenge.
Fayaz, despite himself, couldn’t stop the laugh from escaping his lips.
“Do you have some single women you want me to seek out instead?” She continued, lifting a hand to her hip and tapping her fingers slowly against the fabric of the dress.
“Evelyn,” he warned, but even his lips were twitching at the unprecedented cheek.
“What?” Still she looked, for all the world, as though she was discussing the weather or the event.
He shook his head in disbelief and then laughed. “Why do I feel like our marriage is going to be … eventful.”
“Because you’re marrying me.” Her eyes narrowed. “And we both know I’m no wallflower.”
“Ah. But what a pretty wallflower you would be, Jamila.”
She rolled her eyes again and he reached down to hold her hand. When his fingers connected with hers he pulled her swiftly to his side. “Fayaz,” he said without taking his eyes off Evie’s face. “We’re going to leave now.”
“We are?” She swallowed, adrenalin pumping through her.
“Yes.” A warning was in his eyes. “I think you need to remember who’s in charge.”
Now Evie laughed. “Am I meant to pretend that’s you?”
Fayaz was moving away slowly, his cheeks flaming. The sensual tension between the two was so hot he risked getting burned if he lingered a moment longer.
“I have a condition,” she murmured quietly, squeezing his hand back.
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
He stared at her, trying to fathom the secrets she held in the depths of her eyes. “And it is?” He prompted laconically, when she said nothing.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to go to your apartment.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“Where do you want to go?”
She squeezed his hand again and lifted a little closer to his ear. “I want to go swimming. With you.”
“I see.” He felt his whole body jerk with desire. “Then we shall swim.”
“Ah. And I’m going to find the way to the pool.”
He smiled slowly. “No, you’re not.”
A frown tugged between her brows. “But look. I have a map.” She held the tin up for him to inspect and he turned to it for a brief moment only.
“My pool is not on that map.”
“Your pool?”
“Mmm,” he breathed the word against her ear, sending a tidal wave of need lurching across her system. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her dress and a longing unlike any she’d experienced surged through her.
“Can we go now?”