Violet lifted her hand to his cheek. 'I will be at your side for always, Fayad al Kuwani, owner of my heart, twin of my soul. Be the mother of your sons, insh 'Allah. Or your daughters, if that is his wish.'
And when their plane touched down in Ras al Kawi an hour later, Violet was not whisked away in a limousine while her husband was greeted by the tribal leaders. On this occasion she had her own reception, as the head of every hareem-with Amira al Sayyid first in line-waited to touch her hands, kiss her forehead, welcome her home.
The Sayyid coup was put down without bloodshed.
Even those who had sided with Ahmed on the question of education were horrified at what he had done, and in their effort to distance themselves from him were swift to ally themselves with the Emir.
The khanjar was returned anonymously and Fayad wore it when he arrived at the maksar, three days later, to claim his bride.
In the silence of the bridal chamber, Violet waited for her husband. Her hands and feet had been painted with the ornate bridal patterns. Her friends, Leila and Amira and Fayad's mother, had, giggling like girls, wrapped her in a series of gauzy gold-edged veils.
Fayad met little resistance at the door as those who guarded Violet bowed him through, but his heart was in his mouth as he opened the last door, saw her waiting for him, gift-wrapped and sitting upon a white sheet.
He expected that she would fight him, just a little, but as he picked up the edge of the first veil, 'My love,' he said, his voice shaking just a little. 'Will you have me?'
'My lord…'
Her voice was shaking, too, he realised. She was trembling. It was not what he'd expected from his modern British bride. He'd expected giggles, a pretend fight…
He kissed the edge of the first veil and slowly removed it.
'I have to tell you something, keeper of my heart, twin of my soul. I have to tell you why, when my grandfather, my family, pressed me to marry I refused to consider it.'
She looked up and he kissed the edge of another veil and slowly removed it,
'The truth is that I was so racked with guilt at the death of my wife, my son, I was useless to a woman.
'But…'
He smiled as he removed yet another veil, could see her eyes widen with surprise. Well, of course she must have been aware of the effect that she had on him. When he had kissed her, had come within a hair's breadth of making their marriage a reality…
'It is because of you that I have my country. Because of you that I am a man…'
Another veil fell, revealing a hand. He lifted it, kissed each finger, turned it over to kiss the pad of her thumb, her palm.
There was no fight. Just a slow, sensuous unwrapping of his beautiful bride. He kissed every trembling inch of her until she was melting, imploring, begging for him to make their marriage complete. At which point he discovered that the white sheet was no mere symbol.
That Violet Hamilton had, indeed, given him everything.
Liz Fielding
Liz Fielding was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain – with pauses for sightseeing pretty much everywhere in between.
She finally came to a full stop in a tiny Welsh village cradled by misty hills and these days, mostly, leaves her pen to do the travelling.
When she's not sorting out the lives and loves of her characters, she potters in the garden, reads her favourite authors and spends a lot of time wondering… "What if…"
For news of forthcoming books – and to sign up for her occasional newsletter – visit Liz's website at www.lizfielding.com
