Marguerite Kaye – Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride (страница 2)

The sun was setting on the horizon, a golden orb casting streaks of vermilion, scarlet, orange and dusky pink into the sky. The rhythmic swish of the waves on the shore was like a whispered lullaby. It was the sea he had missed most in his years abroad. No other sea was so brightly blue, scenting the air with that unique combination of salt and heat. Kadar took several deep breaths. The relatively short journey to a neighbouring kingdom he had just completed, his first official state visit, had changed him irrevocably, forcing him to accept that his wishes, his desires, were no longer relevant. Or rather the outcome of this visit had done so. He was a prince first now, a man second. His unwanted inheritance must take priority over all else. Accepting custody of the kingdom he had always loved, he could reconcile himself to that. But as to the stranger he had inherited as a bride...

No! Every instinct rebelled. The echoes of the past, the dark, painful memories which he had travelled half the world to escape, still had the power to wrench at his heart. He could not endure it. Yet he must, and he could.

He must not draw comparisons between the past and the present. He must not dwell on the similarities, must focus on the differences. For a start, this particular woman had made her indifference to him very clear, a sentiment he reciprocated entirely, despite her beauty. It ought to make it easier. No need for pretence. No requirement for false declarations of emotions he was incapable of feeling. Not now. Not ever again.

It ought to make it easier, and yet still he struggled to reconcile himself to this passionless contract. He must steel himself. He must remember that this wedding was what his people demanded, his country required. To honour his brother’s memory by fulfilling his brother’s vision of a new royal dynasty and a suitable heir. And more importantly for Kadar, a large dowry, money with which he could transform Murimon, bring it into the nineteenth century, implement his own golden vision for his people’s future.

Yes, he could do that. It was a huge personal sacrifice, but it was one worth making.

Arabian Sea—three weeks earlier

The storm had been gathering ominously on the horizon for some time. Lady Constance Montgomery, standing in what had become her habitual position on the deck of the East Indiaman sailing ship Kent, watched as the grey clouds mustered, rolling onto the distant stage one after the other as if in response to some invisible cue.

They had been at sea for nine weeks. Captain Cobb reckoned it would be another three before they reached their destination, Bombay. Only three more weeks before Constance would meet, for the first time, the prominent East India merchant who was to be her husband. No matter how hard she tried, she was still unable to prevent that sickening little lurch in her stomach every time she was reminded of this call of duty that took her halfway around the world.

She had resisted this marriage which was convenient for all but herself. She had reasoned. She had come up with any number of alternatives. She had even, to her shame, resorted to tears. But when all her stratagems failed, when it became clear that her fate was sealed, she had resigned herself to it. Boarding the Kent at Plymouth, she had felt as if she was jumping off a cliff rather than stepping onto a ship, her eyes screwed shut to avoid the ground rushing up to meet her. The ground, in the form of this arranged match, was not rushing, but it was inching inexorably closer as the East Indiaman sailed across the ocean on fickle winds, edging ever nearer to Bombay. Constance had begun to dread their arrival. This marriage—or any marriage for that matter—ran counter to all her inclinations.

Oh, dear! She had promised herself not to pick over it all again. The deed was done, the deal had been made—for a business transaction by another name this marriage most certainly was. The exorbitant sum of money Papa required to save the estates had been despatched by Mr Gilmour Edgbaston. The goods, in the form of Constance, were in transit in the opposite direction. ‘And there’s no point in railing against your fate,’ the most expensive piece of cargo on the ship told herself firmly. ‘The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.’

An excellent resolution and one, she had persuaded herself before she sailed, which was quite achievable. But before she had sailed, she had been bolstered by Mama’s happy smiles and confident assertions that Constance was doing the right thing. Now, very far from home indeed, with far too much time to consider the reality of the situation, she was not at all sure that Mama’s simple philosophy that money was the root of all evils and the source of all happiness had any foundation at all. Not that she had ever believed it. She’d simply had no option but to pretend to do so, because Papa had given Mama no choice, and so Mama had been forced to demand this ultimate sacrifice of her daughter.

It hurt. It hurt a great deal more than Constance had ever permitted Mama to see. A great deal more than she cared to admit even to herself too, so she endeavoured not to think about it and she succeeded, mostly. Save that here she was again, dwelling on it most pointlessly. ‘When my time would be a great deal more productively spent dwelling on how I can make sure my marriage does not become a prison cell in which I must serve a life sentence,’ she told herself sternly.

Her heart sank. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to force herself to feel positive about something so very negative. She had three more weeks at sea. Three last weeks of freedom, and three more weeks to make the most of the spectacular stargazing opportunities the long sea journey had granted her as they travelled under unfamiliar skies, crossing the equator into the southern hemisphere before crossing back into the northern hemisphere again on this final part of the journey.

Mind you, it was doubtful whether she’d see anything of value through her telescope tonight, Constance thought. The clouds had merged into one roiling mass now, an angry pewter colour, dense iron grey at the centre. Around her on the deck the crew were struggling with the rigging. The calm deep blue of the Arabian Sea, with its crystal-tipped waves, like the clouds, seemed to be forming into one foaming mass, a more sinister sea which moved in one great rolling motion, sending the Kent high above the horizon before plunging low, into the depths of the swell.

Constance retreated into the lea of the main mast in the middle of the ship, but spray soaked her face and travelling gown. Above her, terrifyingly high on the crow’s nest, a sailor signalled frantically to the crew.

‘Best get down below decks, your ladyship,’ one of the ship’s officers told her. ‘We’re going to head in towards the shelter of the coast, but I’m not sure we’ll be able to outrun the storm. It’s going to get a tad rough.’

‘A tad?’ Staggering as the Kent crested the swell like a rearing stallion, Constance laughed. ‘That sounds to me rather an understatement.’

‘Aye. So you’d best get below sharpish. If you thought the Bay of Biscay was rough, I assure you it was nothing to what’s heading our way. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

The ship listed again. Above her, the mast creaked alarmingly. Barefooted Jack Tars clung tenaciously to the sodden decks, going about the business of steering the huge three-master towards safer waters. Several of the soldiers of the Thirty-First Regiment of Foot, en route to a posting in India, were helping out, looking decidedly unsteady in comparison to the sailors, but Constance was the only civilian left on deck. The wives and children of the soldiers and the twenty other private passengers including Mrs Peacock, the returning merchant’s wife whom Papa had paid to act as companion and protect his daughter’s valuable reputation during the voyage, were all safe and dry below.

She really ought to join them. It was becoming treacherous on deck, but it was also incredibly invigorating. Here was a breath of true freedom. Constance found a more secure spot under the main mast, out of the way of the crew and mostly out of sight too. Though her stomach lurched with every climb and dip, she had discovered very early on in the voyage that she was an excellent sailor, and felt not remotely ill. Spray, heavy with salt, burned her skin. Her hair escaped from its rather haphazard coiffure, whipping her cheeks, blowing wildly about her face. The wind was up now, roaring and whistling through the rigging, making the sails crack. The ship too was protesting at the tempest, the timbers emitting an oddly human groan as they strained against the nails and caulking which bound them together.

The spray had become a thick mist through which Constance could make out only the very hazy outlines of scurrying sailors. The ship listed violently to port, throwing her from her hiding place, sending her sliding out of control across the deck, saved only when her flailing hands caught at a rope. The swell was transformed into terrifyingly high walls of water which broke over the decks. Clutching desperately at her rope, she was dimly aware of other bodies slipping and sliding around her. The ship listed again, this time to starboard. Men cried out, their voices sharp with fear. Below decks, women were screaming.