Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

'It's just common sense,' she said, not in the least bit amused.

'Maybe,' he said, eyes suddenly thoughtful. 'So? Would you consider such an arrangement?'

'Me? Who's going to seek me out for an arranged marriage? What do I have to offer?' Then, as it clicked, as she realised what all that stuff about his grandfather, what all this had been leading up to, she said, ' Oh, no! No way!' And holding up a hand as if to fend him off, 'That's ridiculous. Really.'

So why, inside her head, was her subconscious saying, Oh, yes! How soon? Really!

'I assure you, Princess, that a marriage between us would make my grandfather the happiest man in the world. It has been his dearest wish that I remarry-he refuses to retire until I do. And you have every quality to recommend you.'

'I don't think so.'

'There is no need for concern, Princess. I was simply explaining why I will have to make an offer. Putting you on your guard against the expectations of my family.'

Oh, right. Well, that was plain enough. He would make the offer because he had no choice. And since, obviously, marriage was the furthest thing from his mind, her role was to get him off the hook and say no.

As if she'd say anything else. They'd only met that morning, for heaven's sake!

So why did she suddenly feel rejected, unwanted, just a little bit…hollow?

'I understand, Sheikh Fayad,' she said.

And she did. No matter that her great-great-grandmother had been Princess Fatima al Sayyid. They came from different worlds and this would never be hers. No matter that they'd already spent more time together than the average Ras al Kawi couple before they got down to business on the white sheet.

'Thank you for taking the time to explain it all so clearly. You need have no concerns.'

He frowned, looked as if he might say something more, but there was a ping, and the seatbelt lights came on, and instead he said, 'We are about to land.'

This time he did not sit with her, hold her hand. Instead Leila came to escort her to a small cabin at the rear of the plane, while he joined his staff in the forward cabin.

She told herself that she did not mind. She'd had the extraordinary privilege of spending time alone with the Sheikh and she would always cherish that. But now they were in Ras al Kawi things would be different.

How different she realised as soon as they'd landed, and she and Leila were left to cool their heels while a carpet was rolled up to the steps.

Sheikh Fayad and his party descended and approached the line of dignitaries waiting to greet him. Only then were Violet and Leila escorted down a separate set of steps that had been brought to the rear exit, where a limousine with tinted windows was waiting. Violet paused a few steps from the ground to take one last look across the tarmac at Sheikh Fayad who, every inch the Prince, was being greeted by the dignitaries. And she felt the strangest sensation of loss.

In London, on the aircraft, they could talk freely. Here, she realised, he was a man set apart. Out of reach.

As she hesitated, one of the men waiting to greet him turned and stared across the tarmac at her. His look was assessing, insolent, a little pleased, even, and for a moment she wished she had been wearing something anonymous, been draped head to foot in one of those black cloaks-an abaya-her face covered in a veil. She was glad that the car windows were tinted, so that as they sped away-no passport or immigration control for members of the Sheikh's party, obviously-she was…secluded.

Fayad faced his grandfather. Anger warred with the respect he owed him. Respect, marginally, won it. 'You cannot do this. The Princess is here as my guest…'

'She is their kin, Fayad. Their daughter. Ahmed al Sayyid is here, waiting to take her to their compound as soon as she has formally returned the Blood of Tariq.'

It was outrageous. 'Her home has been attacked twice already in an attempt to steal the khanjar, and I have no doubt that the Sayyid were behind that.'

'Fayad, please…'

His grandfather raised a hand. With a pang of remorse, he saw that it was shaking. In the short time that he'd been away the old man had deteriorated.

He reached out, took his grandfather's hand, held it.

'The responsibilities of a ruler are to his country, my son, not to an individual. The Sayyid will invoke tradition, and you know they will have support.'

'They have a medieval attitude to women. Their wives are kept behind high walls, their daughters are not allowed to go to school…'

'That is their way. I cannot defy them in this.'

But Fayad could, and would when the time came.

'Violet is giving up something of great value and asking for nothing in return except my protection. And I will protect her. It is a matter of honour.'

'We both know that there is only one way you can do that. But I warn you, if they believe you are attached to this woman, their dowry demands will put her beyond price.'

'They will dare ask for the Blood of Tariq?' Even as he said it, he knew that was their aim. They had not managed to steal the khanjar, but their spies would have informed them of every move he'd made in London. What had happened between him and Violet. Their outrage at their kinswoman's ruined honour would know no bounds. They did not care about her, but they would demand marriage, knowing that he could not refuse. And they would demand the Blood of Tariq as dowry.

His grandfather sighed. 'I'm sorry, Fayad. My hands are tied. Since they demand it, I have no choice but to surrender her to her family.'

He understood. He might rail against it, but to undermine the claim of family would be to deny the law, and his assurance, so confidently asserted, that a bride was free to choose now rang hollow in his ears.

Neither of them would have a choice.

To refuse the Sayyid terms would leave her a virtual prisoner in their compound. Beyond his reach.

He could not, would not, allow that to happen- even for a day.

There was no time to wonder, to marvel at the beauty of the palace, the exquisite arches, decorative tiling. No time to wonder at its size, spreading across the broad hilltop.

Below them lay the city, where wind towers, domes, delicate minarets sprawled down to a wide sweeping bay. Leila had pointed out landmarks.

The recently completed air-conditioned shopping mall. A new hotel with a glass atrium. The gold souk…

'What is that?' Violet had asked, as they'd climbed higher and she'd seen the remains of a cliff-top fortress.

'That?' Leila had shrugged. 'It's the Portuguese tower. It's just a ruin. There's nothing there,' she'd said, dismissing history with a careless gesture.

'It's all so much greener than I expected.'

'We have many parks. There-that is the souk. The market…' Parks were clearly not Leila's idea of a good time, either.

And then they'd driven through gates set in a high wall, guarded by armed men, and 'green' had taken on an entirely new meaning.

Unlike European palaces, it was not one huge building but a series of small arched and domed buildings, grouped around colonnaded courtyards, each with a garden, trees. Formal pools were connected by a narrow continuous rill. Everywhere was shaded, scented by roses, jasmine, flowering shrubs that she had never seen before.

As they stepped from the air-conditioned car, the warmth, the intensity of the evening scents, wrapped themselves about her, and she felt like a flower opening to the sun. She turned slowly, taking in the exquisite tiled arches, the clear sky, now turning a darker blue as the sun sank behind distant mountains.

'It's so beautiful,' she said, but as she took a step towards the pool Leila restrained her.