The kiss…
'Only because you thought I was going to have hysterics at leaving my home. It was nothing,' she said quickly, but could not meet his eyes.
It had not felt like 'nothing'. It had felt like a bridge between the past and the future. And how easily she had stepped towards the unknown, leaving everything, everyone she knew, behind her. Because with his lips on hers she had not cared if she ever came back.
'And who would know?' she said.
'Staff from my embassy, those who were at your house, who packed your clothes, stayed to organise the clean-up. And because they know it is inevitable that my grandfather will have heard exactly what happened today and drawn his own conclusions.' Then, 'And I know.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fayad's words were spoken with a finality that raised Violet's heartbeat.
'What conclusions? What are you saying?'
'My world is not like yours, Princess. Here marriages are arranged. It is a contract that unites families, matches two people who might never have met except perhaps as children. Whose qualities are known only by word of mouth. Through friends, family.'
'What about those career women? You can't work without meeting people.'
'There are not so many. Many families still cling to old traditions. Your own family, for instance, the Sayyid,' he said, with an impatient gesture, 'they fight change with every breath.'
It was something he clearly felt very strongly about.
'Sometimes you have to bite the bullet, break eggs, to get things done,' she said.
'The problem with that, Princess, is that sometimes more than the eggs will break.'
'I'm sorry. I'm a little out of my league here.' Then, because she couldn't keep her mouth shut, 'Can you
really trust the word of people who for politics, money, might have a vested interest in arranging a wedding?'
'Believe me, when a wedding is being arranged everyone has an opinion and everyone expresses it. Everything that you ever did will be dragged out and examined at length by grandmothers, sisters, cousins, brothers, aunts.' He smiled again. 'Especially aunts…' Then, 'It is too important to risk failure. Marriage is the glue of a civilised society and everyone has a stake in its success.' He watched her struggle with that, then, before she could ask the next question, he said, 'Yes, Violet. A girl can reject any potential groom.'
'But they do meet before the wedding? These couples?'
'Maybe. Not always. And not once the wedding preparations begin.' He smiled at her disbelief. 'A bride is a treasure to be closely guarded within the family while the dower is gathered and delivered. In that period she will only see those closest to her. Even when the contracts have been signed and the bride and groom are to all intents and purposes married.'
'What happens then?'
'Between the formal signing and the celebrations? First the engagement jewels are sent. Not just a ring, but a matching set of bracelets, necklace, earrings, in stones chosen by the groom's mother to perfectly complement his bride. At the same time the groom prepares a house for her, furnishing it with the best he can afford. And the dowry is gathered-gold, jewellery, bolts of every kind of cloth, carpets, money, all designed to demonstrate his ability to provide for her-ready to be delivered to the bride's home to be
displayed at the
'Oh…'
Violet, who had been thinking it all sounded rather cold, began to see it from a different point of view. Began to imagine the trembling excitement of a secluded virgin bride as the day grew nearer. As her groom's dowry gifts arrived, proving to the world, to her family, to her, just how much he valued her, wanted her above all other women.
'There is more than one way to rouse the passions,' she said.
'Her weight in gold?'
Her eyes widened at the idea of just how much that would be worth, but then she shook her head. 'No. It's not the gold. It's what it represents,' she said. And Sheikh Fayad responded with a look of admiration for her understanding. A look that sent her own heart spinning up into her mouth, that suggested passion would not be in short supply for the woman who won his heart.
Drawn in, totally fascinated, she said, 'Tell me about the wedding.'
'When everything is ready, there will be a vast celebration. In the old days tribes would come in from the desert and set up camp. The feasting will go on for weeks, until finally the time comes for the groom to demand entrance to the bride's home, to fight his way through her family to claim his bride, who will be waiting, wrapped in layer upon layer of veils, sitting on a white sheet.'
Even as he described the scene her heart rate was spiralling out of control, and she only managed to hold back the exclamation that sprang to her lips by holding her hand over her mouth. Cold? No way…
'Is something wrong?' Sheikh Fayad asked.
'No,' she managed, resisting the urge to fan her cheeks at the thought of him removing layer after layer of veils, unwrapping her… 'I'm fine. Really,' she said, when he reached forward, poured her a glass of iced water that seemed to evaporate on her tongue. 'You did this? When you married?'
He didn't immediately answer and she backpedalled madly. 'Oh, Lord, please forget I asked that. I can't believe I was so rude. I didn't mean-'
'The bride is expected to fight, too. To bite and kick, protect her virtue with all her strength so that her husband will respect her.'
'And does he?'
Had Hasna fought? she wondered. Could she have looked at this beautiful man and not fallen instantly and whole-heartedly in love with him? Could any woman?
And if, because his respect would be something unbelievably precious, she'd fought him with ever fibre of her being, how had he overwhelmed her?
Even as the question welled up in her mind, she knew the answer. She'd lashed out at him this morning-angry, hurting-and he'd sat with her on her grandmother's bed, just holding her, taking the blows, whispering soft words of comfort, his lips against her hair, her temple, gentling her, calming her. In her head she saw how that scene might eventually unfold with his bride. There would be no force, but patience, a soft voice, quiet kisses, caresses that would open her to him as a flower opened to the light and warmth of the sun.
And she understood exactly what he'd meant when he'd said that he'd done 'much more'. It wasn't the fact that he'd kissed her. His kiss had been the least of it…
She swallowed, took another sip of water. In a desperate attempt to blot out what was happening in her head, she said, 'Having showered her with jewels, and fought her entire family, the groom then has to overcome his bride, too? He doesn't exactly get it easy, does he?'
Making light of it.
He smiled. 'Interesting. I had assumed your sympathies would be with the bride.'
'Oh, please,' she said quickly. 'It doesn't take a psychologist to work out that this is a well-thought-out strategy to overcome those initial awkward moments.' Then, 'I imagine any bride worth her weight in gold knows exactly the right moment to go all weak and swoony.'
To surrender to her groom's strength, his power, and in doing so claim it for her own.
Just as she had done. Fighting him, furious with him. Blaming him for what had happened one moment. Surrendering to the comfort he offered the next.
'Three generations has done nothing to dilute your understanding, Princess,' Sheikh Fayad said, apparently not making the connection-which should have been a relief but, oddly, was not-and merely amused at her perception. 'You are Arab to the bone.'
