Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

right-about the kohl at least. She looked washed-out, and without a little colour the clothes would be wearing her rather than the other way around.

There was no time to draw elaborate patterns on her hands with henna, but she allowed Leila to add kohl and a touch of blusher, although Violet wiped off most of the kohl as soon as she'd turned away to pick up her skirt, hooking, buttoning and zipping her up, as if she hadn't been doing it herself for her entire life.

The waistcoat followed, and when Violet looked at the finished result in the mirror she swallowed. This was as good as her wardrobe got. Her Cinderella 'you can go to the ball' outfit; if this was what constituted everyday wear in Ras al Kawi, what on earth did women wear when they wanted to make an impression?

What would make an impression on Sheikh Fayad?

She stopped the thought and turned to face Leila. 'What do you think?' she asked. 'Will I do?'

Leila's response was a sigh of envy. 'It is designer?' she asked, and Violet's smile was, finally, unforced.

'In a manner of speaking,' she said. Then, when the girl frowned, 'I designed it, Leila. And then I made it.' Since the girl was apparently lost for words, she said, 'Have we kept Sheikh Fayad waiting long enough, do you think?'

CHAPTER SIX

Fayad looked up as his aide approached him. 'The Princess is waiting,' he said.

He'd given no instructions that she was to be given that title, but everyone knew who she was, and it seemed that her transformation from Violet Hamilton to Princess Violet al Sayyid had already begun.

He still did not know what he was going to say to her, only that he must somehow prepare her for his grandfather's expectations. Reassure her that she was totally in control of her own destiny. But as the door to the hareem majlis was opened to his knock he saw her standing in the centre of the room, waiting for him, and words became an irrelevance.

He could not have spoken even if he'd wanted to.

Grave, beautiful, untouchable.

As distant from the girl who'd opened the door to him that morning-hair an enticingly damp tangle of curls, legs and feet bare, wearing nothing but a faded pink bathrobe-as the moon was from the stars.

Mistaking his silence for disapproval, she said, 'This was Leila's idea.' A tiny gesture took in her clothes, some rich creation that would have his sisters drooling with envy.

'Leila will be rewarded,' he said.

'Oh. I wasn't sure. I thought it seemed a little…excessive, but…'

'But everything is strange.'

Her silence, her stillness were answer enough.

'You are wondering, now you've had time to think, whether you have made a mistake.' And this time heat rushed to her cheeks. Not that cool, then.

'You have the khanjar,' she said. 'And now you have me. If this was a movie I would probably be screaming at the heroine not to be so dumb.'

'Believe me, I appreciate the trust you have shown. Your generosity. You could so easily have told me to…how do you say it? Get lost? Sold the khanjar to the highest bidder.'

She could have no idea how high the bidding would have gone.

'No. That would have been wrong. And I'm here to protect Sarah. Her family. The innocent people who get hurt when powerful people clash.'

'Not even a little bit for yourself? Are you not curious about your family? About where you come from?'

'I could have gone to the library,' she said, continuing to regard him with those extraordinary eyes. Then, 'Your only concern was to get me away from the house. Anyone else would have called the police, but you didn't want them involved, did you?'

'My country's politics are not the concern of your police, Princess.'

'Don't call me that. I'm not a princess. I'm just Violet Hamilton.'

'And you're angry with me. You find yourself being torn from everything you know and you're just a little frightened.'

'Of course I'm frightened!' she said. 'It's been a hell of a day…'

Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand in what he'd intended as no more than a gesture of simple reassurance, but he continued to hold it long after it became much more.

Beneath his, her hand was small, but not soft. There was nothing soft about her. He had her history and he knew she had given up her education to care for her grandmother, not for expectation of reward, but out of love.

She was a woman whose value was far above rubies. Far beyond him…

'Are you afraid now? Truly?'

'Should I be?'

'What does your heart tell you?'

Violet shook her head. The nonsense that her heart was babbling as he held her hand, warmed her with the heat of his eyes, was for her ears alone.

In a suit, Sheikh Fayad had been drop-dead gorgeous. Attainable, if only in some foolish midnight fantasy. But here, in snowy robes, a silver khanjar at his waist, he was a figure from another world. One that was so far beyond anything she knew that she could see just how foolish any fantasy involving him would be.

'My heart says that it's a bit late for second thoughts,' she replied, retrieving her hand.

The fact was, she'd rushed into this without a clue about where she was going, or what to expect.

'It is only natural to feel anxious, but I promise you will be made most welcome.'

'Even though Princess Fatima stole the khanjar from you?' she asked.

'That worries you? It need not. You will be honoured for returning it.' Then, 'Shall we sit down? I will do my best to answer any questions. Explain what will happen when we arrive at Ras al Kawi.'

He indicated one of the armchairs, waited while she settled herself before taking the one beside her.

Questions. Dozens of questions had been racing through her mind, but mostly about where she would stay.

One thing was sure. She could not expect the undivided attention of the heir to the throne so, while she had it, she'd better make the most of it.

'Tell me about Ras al Kawi?' she asked.

It was the right question, his smile transforming his grave countenance into something very different. Making him seem younger, less…haunted. Sarah, she realised, had been quite wrong when she'd warned her about some man charming her out of her windfall.

If he'd smiled she would have been on her guard, suspected his motives. Wouldn't have been so quick to hand over the khanjar. So quick to pick up the phone and call him.

That quiet, austere gravity was far more deadly.

'What is it like?' she pressed.

'A great traveller once said that Ras al Kawi sits like a dragon's tooth between Ramal Hamrah and Ras al

Hajar,' he told her, 'but within the fortress of the mountains our valleys are fertile and green, and the coast brings us fish and pearls.'

'There is no desert?'

'You British are all the same. What is this yearning you have for empty spaces where the wind continually removes any trace of man? Great shifting dunes?' He shook his head, but his smile intensified as if it pleased him to tease her a little.

Encouraged, she grinned, said, 'Blame Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia.'

'Not the fabled Lawrence himself?'

'He was a little…intense.'