Hajar's Hidden Legacy Read online

  He turned like he was going to leave, and she blurted out a question to keep him there. “So, what did my father say when you told him off?”

  “Nothing. He is, perhaps, still in there choking on his ire. But he will not push. He needs me, remember?”

  “He’s really not bad, Zahir. He has old, set ideas and tunnel vision ambition. He’s done wonderful things for the country. As a ruler, he’s a man of great compassion. As a father … not quite so much. But I respect all that he’s done here, and I support him in that wholly.”

  “And I’m still going to help ensure that Austrich is protected.”

  She couldn’t help but realize that he’d only named her country, and not his. That his priorities seemed to have shifted. People and not trade, right and not money.

  But she suspected that truly, that had been in him from the beginning. He simply hadn’t been willing to reach in and find it.

  Now he had.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE snow relented for the day of the wedding, the sun shining down on the glistening blanket of white that covered the entire grounds of the castle.

  Katharine adjusted her grip on her bouquet of pale, pink roses and closed her eyes, banishing the butterflies that were swirling around in her stomach.

  It had been a long, hectic couple of weeks with Zahir and her father hashing out details, and Alexander sitting in on the meetings, trying to understand his place in a man’s world when he was little more than a boy.

  She knew sixteen wasn’t really a child, and that a hundred years ago, he would have been placed straight on the throne. But he seemed so young. Much too young. It made her grateful for Zahir all over again.

  The wedding, though, still terrified her.

  She hadn’t seen Zahir in twenty-four hours and she didn’t know how he was feeling about it. About standing before a massive crowd of people. If his muscles were bound up by tension, as she’d witnessed on drives into town. If he would get lost in another flashback.

  Suzette, her one bridesmaid, lifted the train of her dress and dropped it gently, letting the air catch hold of it so that it fanned over the ground, the sun shining through the window of the cathedral catching the delicate lace, the rays shining through the gossamer fabric.

  “Totally gorgeous, Kat,” she said.

  Katharine sighed.

  It was perfect. Perfect on the surface, at least.

  And that’s all that matters.

  She turned to Suzette, the only person she could really count as a close friend. The American heiress had gone to the same boarding school Katharine had and they’d forged a bond. It was a bond that had loosened since adulthood, but if she ever needed anything, the chipper blonde was always willing to drop whatever she was doing and make sure she was there for her. And Katharine had always done the same for her.

  “Suzette, is Zahir in there?” she asked, gesturing to the sanctuary, hoping the other woman had seen him at some point.

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t be,” she said, straightening the top on her pale green gown.

  Katharine sighed. “You’re right. Of course. Prebridal nerves.”

  Suzette’s eyes widened. “Not wedding night nerves, I hope. Because if so … we need to have a talk after the ceremony.”

  Katharine huffed a laugh, her face heating as she recalled her night with Zahir. The way he’d made her feel, the decadent things he’d done. Yes, she was still a virgin on technicality, but from the cold comments she’d heard some women make about sex and past lovers, she had a feeling she had a better grasp on what was meant to pass between a man and a woman than some with ten times her experience.

  “Not that,” Katharine said. “Not in the least.” Although, now that Suzette mentioned it, she wondered if it being their wedding night would mean anything to Zahir. If he would want …

  No. Likely not. He’d basically said he had no desire to sleep with her, a statement she didn’t believe. But there was something behind it, she couldn’t deny that.

  “Just, actual vow-taking nerves,” Katharine said. And nerves about whether or not her groom would do well beneath the pressure, with all those people crowded near him.

  She pictured him, walking tall out of the palace of Hajar, going to meet the reporters at the gate. He was strong, her Zahir.

  My Zahir? Yes. He sort of did feel like hers. Like a part of her. She couldn’t explain it, and she didn’t really want to. She didn’t really want it to be true, either. Because that part of herself would have to be surgically removed when they parted in a few years’ time. And if it was this bad now …

  So much for calming her nerves.

  “Just a sec.” Suzette walked in front of her and opened the heavy wooden door that led into the sanctuary, just enough to see in. She turned to face her and offered a wide smile and a thumbs-up.

  Katharine offered a weak smile back, her stomach dropping into her toes when the music suddenly changed. It was showtime.

  Zahir’s fingertips felt cold, and he knew it wasn’t due to the snow outside. The slow onset of panic was distinct. His heart rate increased, his muscles tightened, his stomach clamping down like a steel trap. And his fingers always grew numb. He didn’t know why. He only knew it was far too familiar a feeling for his liking.

  It was a small wedding, by royal standards, at Katharine’s request. That had been out of deference to his issues, he was certain. Something that galled.

  Still, small meant at least two hundred guests, filling the ancient stone sanctuary, along with the music of the strong quartet. It was loud. Packed. He could feel it all closing in.

  A curvy little blonde in a spring-green dress began her walk down the aisle. She was Katharine’s maid of honor; he nearly remembered being introduced to her the night before, although now, her name escaped him. It had all become very fuzzy. Everything seemed a little fuzzy.

  He blinked hard, tried to ignore the metallic tang that coated his tongue. The fear that seemed to be slowly binding his muscle and sinew, making him feel frozen, stiff.

  He was not a man given to prayer. But standing there, in a church, he felt it appropriate to send up a request. That he not do this here. He had wanted to do it all on his own strength, and yet it was proving impossible. He would take borrowed strength if he could use it to simply get through.

  The sharp change in the music cut through the fuzzy edges of his mind, and he turned his focus to the doors that led from the sanctuary out into the foyer. They parted, and all of his focus zeroed in on the angel that moved through them.

  An answer to his prayer.

  Katharine looked as though she was floating, her strawberry-blond hair cascading over her shoulders, the frothy, lacy dress flowing and shimmering with each step she took. But that wasn’t what held him captive.

  It was her face. The same face that had brought him back in the marketplace. The same face he had watched alter beautifully as he gave her pleasure.

  As Katharine came into view everything else faded away. It was as they had planned it, of course. But he had not imagined it would work quite so well.

  He extended his hand, and she took it, and in an instant, he was warm again.

  He leaned in. “You didn’t have your father give you away.”

  She shook her head. “This was my decision,” she whispered.

  Good for her. Katharine was running on extra strength today, too, it seemed.

  The priest spoke in Latin, and at length. And Zahir didn’t know the meaning of the entire ceremony. But he did know what the bejeweled goblets filled with sand placed near the back of the stage meant. A Hajari tradition, one that he had not thought would be included here.

  The vows were spoken in each of their native languages, and before the priest made his pronouncement, he gestured to the two chalices of sand. One filled with white sand, one golden brown, set on either side of a clear glass vase.

  “Now Sheikh Zahir and Princess Katharine have chosen to seal their vows with a tradition from the
Sheikh’s homeland,” he said, his voice thinner in English, his tone disdainful.

  “What is this?” Katharine whispered.

  “A Hajari tradition. Your father must have seen fit to add this.” Because he’d known what it meant. An unsubtle reminder, perhaps, that the union was meant to be permanent.

  Keeping her hand in his, he led her to the table, where they knelt on velvet cushions.

  “What does it mean?” she asked, keeping her voice hushed.

  He picked up both cups, and handed the one filled with white sand to Katharine. “The sand represents us, as individuals. Today, we do not leave here as two, but one.”

  He tipped his cup over the vase and poured a measured amount inside it. “Now you,” he said.

  Katharine did the same, and then he repeated the motion until they had emptied the cups, layering the sand into the vase.

  “You are still there,” he said, pointing to a bright streak of sand. “As am I. But, just like the sand, we will be impossible to separate. We are bonded together.”

  Katharine’s green eyes looked glassy, her mouth dropped in shock. He leaned in and put his lips near her ear. “I’m sorry. I did not know this would be a part of the service.”

  She nodded stiffly. “It’s … it’s all right.”

  He led her back over to where the priest stood, her hand trembling in his. The priest made his pronouncement, and gave the command to kiss the bride. A command Zahir was more than happy to follow. Just for another taste, brief though it would be.

  He leaned in slowly, watched her green eyes flutter closed as he descended. He pressed a soft kiss against plump, tender lips. The sensation was enough to take him out at the knees. Explosive in every way. Incredible.

  And it was only a hint of the kind of pleasure her body offered. He knew, because he’d experienced much deeper torture at her hands. Rather, his own. She had been ready. And he had been forced to deny them both.

  She pressed her mouth more firmly against his and he simply rested there for a moment, caught up in her touch. Just a moment of warmth. Of being surrounded by her.

  Then he pulled away, his hand still joined with hers and the guests clapped for them as the priest introduced them as a married couple for the first time. He thought he felt Katharine’s fingers tighten on his, almost imperceptibly.

  They walked down the aisle together, the crowd a blur as they passed by. And he kept his eyes on Katharine, and his mind firmly in the present.

  “Ready?” Zahir asked, his hand extended.

  The crowd had made a half circle in the massive ballroom, preparing for the bride and groom dance.

  The reception had been a blur from the moment they’d walked in, so many well-wishers, and cake, and a fountain that was spraying punch. It was everything a wedding should be. Except real.

  The sand had thrown her. It had been so symbolic, the depth of it a shock she hadn’t anticipated. It was how marriage should be. Their own color, their own individuality still on show, yet entwined with their partner’s. There would be no easy way to separate the sand, and it had struck her then, how hard it would be to separate herself from Zahir.

  But she would have to. As long as she remembered that she would be fine. She just couldn’t forget. The sand was just a thing. Just sand. It wasn’t them.

  But in that moment …

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  They moved into the open area that had been cleared for the dance, and Zahir drew her into his body, one arm banded across her waist.

  They had a live orchestra this time instead of the slow, sensual music they’d danced to in the library at the palace. But the guitar music was what she heard in her head. She felt everything recede.

  Oh, so dangerous. So stupid. And yet, she found she couldn’t fight it. Didn’t want to.

  He leaned in, his cheek pressed against hers, the skin rough on hers. But it felt right. It felt like Zahir.

  “We made it through,” he said, his voice soft, his breath hot against her neck.

  “You did it,” she whispered.

  “I looked at you.”

  They didn’t speak again, they simply moved with the music while Katharine fought the overwhelming tide of emotion threatening to consume her.

  She could feel his heart beating against hers, matching hers. She’d never felt so close to anyone before. Had never wanted so badly to hold someone to her. And she didn’t want to know what that meant.

  So she just wouldn’t think. Not now.

  When the song ended, Zahir released her. It happened far too soon. If it were possible to freeze a moment, she would have done it with that one. In that moment, the desire to be in his arms was simple. She had accomplished what she’d needed to accomplish as far as the marriage went and she could rest. And be happy for a moment.

  “I need a drink,” she said, as they walked back off the floor. “You?”

  “I am ready to be done.” The way he said it, the look in his dark eyes … she wondered if he wanted to claim his wedding night. In the most traditional sense of the word.

  Her pulse pounded, her blood turning fizzy in her veins. And if he did? If he did, she didn’t think she’d refuse him. Quite the opposite. He was in her already, mingled in who she was, like the grains of sand in the vase.

  “Just … just a moment.” She turned and headed to the punch table, giving a finger wave to a cluster of women she’d gone to school with.

  “Katharine?” One of the women, Katharine couldn’t remember her name, stepped to the forefront of the group. “You aren’t going to live in Hajar now, are you?”

  Katharine frowned. “Of course I am. We’ll still be here sometimes, of course.” Especially if Zahir had to fulfill his duties as Regent. Most of it could be done remotely, especially with parliament in the solid shape it was in. But there would be traveling.

  The other woman narrowed her eyes. “Won’t you have to wear a veil there?”

  Katharine shook her head. “No. Women aren’t veiled in Hajar.”

  One of the women in the back, Ann, Katharine remembered, because she’d always been awful, snorted a laugh. “It’s not the women who need to be veiled, though, is it?”

  Katharine stiffened, anger rolling through her. Anger and the need to strike out, to wound as she was wounded. Because the comment seemed aimed at her heart.

  Everything in her itched to slap the smug smile from the other woman’s face. But with press everywhere, it would be the slap heard around Europe. And while part of her found that very attractive, she knew it would end up being much more trouble than it was worth.

  “If that’s your assessment it’s clear you don’t know what true sex appeal is, Ann,” she said, keeping her voice as soft and even in tone as possible. “And my husband has it.”

  “In that case,” Ann returned, “you had better hope you have it in you to hold on to him. I remember how you were in school. Trust me, sweetheart, rule following isn’t sexy. And a shy little virgin like yourself, and no point pretending you aren’t, is hardly going to hold the interest of a man who’s done so much … living.”

  A sharp slug of anger and insecurity jabbed at her. She knew Ann was just taking strips off her because it was what Ann did, but that didn’t erase the small amount of damage her remarks had done. It didn’t help that Zahir didn’t seem to have too hard a time resisting her. That he’d been in bed with her, toying with her body, bringing her past the point of reason and control, and then simply walked away hadn’t been the biggest ego boost anyway.

  Ann’s eyes widened and Katharine turned sharply, into the warmth of Zahir’s solid chest. His fingers curled into her arms, pulling her more tightly against him, the strength in his touch reminiscent of the day in the market.

  She looked into his eyes, black wells of anger, and she knew he was still with her. But he was not happy.

  And judging by the wide-eyed fear registering on Ann’s face, she knew it.

  “If you have upset my bride, I will have no cho
ice but to see you out. And I will not bother to send for the guards,” he said, his voice hard.

  “It’s fine, Zahir,” Katharine said, unaccustomed to having someone stand up for her. It touched her, though, made her feel warm. Drew out the venom from Ann’s insult.

  “Ready, latifa?” he asked, the darkness radiating from him in palpable waves.

  “More than,” she said, caressing his arm lightly before following him out of the knot of people.

  When the guests noticed they were leaving, there was major fanfare, and they lined the sides of the ballroom, flinging white petals onto the marble floors. A pathway for the bride and groom, a symbol of new beginnings.

  As they made their way out of the massive room she felt Zahir tensing beside her, felt the burning heat of his rage as it warmed his skin.

  When the heavy doors closed behind them, Zahir ran his hands over his short dark hair and stood still for a moment, not looking at her, before he turned and stormed out the door that led into the gardens.

  Katharine lifted the skirt of her dress so the hem didn’t drag on the ground and followed him out into the dark, crisp night. “Zahir?” His name came out with a cloud of condensation.

  “Go, Katharine. Get changed. Rest.”

  “What’s going on?”

  He whirled around, his shoes crunching on the frozen snow, his top lip curled into a sneer, the expression tugging at his scars, exaggerating them.

  “Is it what Ann said about … you?” she asked.

  “Is that what you, think, Katharine? That I am so vain she managed to wound my pride?”

  “It wounded me,” she said.

  “Why? I don’t care what she thinks. But I didn’t like the way she made you look … she … hurt you.”

  “She did. I didn’t like what she said about you. Or me.”

  “I almost lost it, Katharine. For all of my tightly held control today, that almost did it. It reminded me of something Amarah said. That no matter how well my injuries healed, I would never be the man I was before. She was right. No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t change anything. Not really.” He turned away from her again and she knew that they were done with the conversation.