Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

She'd met Fayad's family, and was now taken to their heart, included on parties at the beach, shopping trips with his sisters. From being a girl with a family of one, a woman on her own, she was suddenly part of a huge extended family.

She found herself presiding over her own majlis. Like the Emir, she was there for all women to visit, to talk with, to bring their problems to as they drank tiny cups of coffee in the traditional way. She listened to their concerns and in turn, through Leila, talked about the value of education for their daughters.

And when she was taken by his sisters to visit the important hareems, especially the Sayyid hareem, she took that message with her, and found not just the younger women receptive, but their mothers and grandmothers, too.

It was the one thing she could do for Fayad, because he'd been right when he'd said, 'You're mine. You'll always be mine…' and the time she spent- running out faster than sand in an hourglass-was increasingly precious.

She might not be his wife in anything but name, but he treated her in every way like his queen. He discussed his ideas with her, took her with him when he visited schools, encouraged her input in the areas of women's health, employment.

He took her into the highlands and the valleys, to visit farms, smallholdings, to see for herself the life that his people lived there. The life the women lived. She'd expected hardship, and there was, but there was always warmth, hospitality, a simple joy in a life well lived.

They trekked across the desert-Violet swathed in veils, making him laugh out loud as her camel took her by surprise when it rose back legs first, so that she had to cling on for dear life to prevent herself being thrown over the creature's nose.

Everything was new, exciting, and she knew deep in her heart that the only thing that would make life better would be if, at the end of day, Fayad stayed with her instead of leaving her at her door. If he were truly her husband.

But he was careful always to keep a distance between them.

They were never alone. There were no more kisses. He did not reach for her hand.

Only sometimes she would turn and catch him looking at her, and for a moment she would believe that he felt the same way and her heart would turn over. But then he would look away and she'd know she was fooling herself.

She designed clothes for Leila, for Fayad's sisters, for her Sayyid cousins, and had them made up by a co- operative she'd set up for young girls who had no family. The workmanship was exquisite, and soon local women flocked to buy her designs, too, eager no doubt to please their new Emir. In her new position she discovered that there were no places barred to her, and she had a buyer from one of the big London stores corning to discuss an outlet for her label.

Breaking eggs.

There were rumblings of discontent about compulsory schooling for girls, she knew, stirred up by Ahmed al Sayyid, but they were muted, and when she visited the souk women reached out to touch her, whisper blessings.

And all the time her dowry accumulated at an alarming rate.

Each morning brought some new treasure. Diamonds in every imaginable colour. One set, in a shade not quite blue, not quite green, Leila swore were a perfect match for her eyes. There were emeralds, sapphires, pearls. And gold. Mountains of the stuff. Bracelets, unbelievable necklaces that looked just like those she'd once seen in a photograph that were supposed to have been worn by Helen of Troy.

And then there were the rubies. Polished cabochon heart-red rubies. A stunning stone in a simple gold setting. A tumble of them in a pair of matching earrings that fell almost to her shoulders. Bracelets with each stone encased in fine wire cages of gold. A wide choker necklace of pearls with a great polished teardrop ruby at its centre…

There were bolts of every kind of cloth from which wedding clothes were to be made. Pointless to say that they would not be needed. She designed, and her girls made, seven exquisite wedding dresses in figured silks. Dresses in every conceivable colour with long baggy pants to be worn beneath them, edged in embroidery. Underwear. Thaubs.

And then, one morning, she rose to find Fayad's mother arranging a gold cap hung all around with threads of gold, fine as silk, as long as her hair, on a tall stand in the centre of all this treasure.

So far she had resisted the temptation to try on any of the jewels. They were so exotic, so unreal, that to Leila's consternation she treated them almost as a joke.

But this was different and, unable to stop herself, she reached out a hand to touch the delicate threads.

'What is it?' she asked.

'It is your bridal cap,' Leila said, almost swooning with excitement, 'to be worn when you receive visitors for the seven days after the Emir comes to make your marriage.'

Make their marriage.

There could be no mistaking what she meant by that.

'Not yet…'

Please not yet. It was too soon. She had so much more to do. She did not want to leave Ras al Kawi. She did not want to leave him…

'It is time, Violet,' Fayad's mother said firmly.

'Does he say that?' she asked. If he did then there would be no question that it was time for her to go.

'He says he is too busy to discuss it, but his grandfather grows impatient, and since everything is ready-the house, the dowry-there need be no more delay.'

That would be the grandfather who was supposed to be on his last legs, but who, far from fading, seemed to have regained much of his strength in the last months.

'Which means?' she asked, hoping against hope that weddings took as long to organise in Ras al Kawi as they did in London. Months and months…

'We'll hold the maksar the day after tomorrow,' Fayad's mother replied. 'All the women will come to see the dowry, to feast.' She smiled. 'Then my son will come in the evening.'

To make her his wife.

Leila shivered with delighted anticipation.

Violet just shivered. 'I really need to talk to him about this, Sheikha.'

'He flew to Ras al Hajar this morning. He won't be back until midday tomorrow. But you don't have to worry about a thing. Everything is arranged. We will pamper you, and paint you with the wedding henna. Dress you, veil you.' She headed for the door, then turned back. 'He will expect you to resist him. Did you know this?'

'I knew.'

'Not much.' And she smiled. 'Just a token…' Then, 'I'll be back in an hour.'

Oh, the temptation. How easy it would be to just let it happen. Allow his mother to go ahead with her plans. Say nothing…

How would he be able to refuse?

Such a thought was unworthy of her. Unworthy of a man who had given her everything.

'I'm going to take a walk, Leila.'

'Now?' The girl was an unenthusiastic walker. 'But we need to begin…'

'An hour.' Little enough time. 'I just need some air.' She made herself smile. 'There's no need for you to come with me.'

'Oh, well. If you're sure?'

'I'm sure.' She wanted to take one last walk through the gardens, take the path above the palace to the place that Fayad had taken her, where she could see the whole of the city spread out below her.

A messenger met her at the door with an envelope, hand-delivered from Amira al Sayyid. She pushed it into the pocket of the jeans she wore beneath the abaya she'd thrown on to keep out the heat.

Her bodyguard half rose, but she waved him back into the shade. 'Stay, Yusuf. I'm not going far.'

She walked through the garden, through the gate that led to the home farm, with its fruit trees, vegetable gardens, its small herd of goats that provided milk for yoghurt and cheese. Up the steep path to the flat rock that provided a seat at the highest point.