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Chapter Four

THE palace clung to a rocky slope above the winding river and the city between, brooding over the scene like a dream of white, terra cotta and blue. From the plane, in all the glory of its dome and its arched terraces, the palace had looked like something out of a fairy tale, but approached from below it had the air of a fortress.

It was some time before she understood that they were approaching it. They drove through the centre of the city, past the bustle of a market, through a small herd of reluctant goats driven by a grinning urchin, then along wide streets bordered on two sides with high white walls topped with greenery. So entranced was she with the unfamiliar sights that it was only after they left these walls behind that she realized there was only the palace ahead.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, when the answer was already obvious.

The car stopped at a gate and the chauffeur exchanged words through the window with an armed guard.

Salah put the papers away, snapped the briefcase shut and set it aside. After a moment, as if at a thought, he reached out and spun the locks. She felt it like a slap.

‘You can never be too sure,’ she said sarcastically. ‘But really, the state secrets of little Barakat are safe from me.’

He looked at her with a black gaze that revealed nothing.

‘What is this place, Salah?’

‘It is Prince Omar’s palace.’

‘Am I staying here?’

‘What else? Should I put you up in a hotel? Do you think I forget what I owe your family?’

‘Won’t I be meeting your family?’

They moved up the incline, past an unmanned sentry post, then under a broad archway and into a courtyard where there were several parked vehicles.

‘Except for my father, who is at the dig, my family go to the mountains in summer. The heat is bad for my mother’s health. Only the poor remain in the city in summer, and they move down by the river.’

His eyes were hard. She remembered the very different look in his eyes the last time they had met, on the morning that he left the island for the last time.

Never got over her? On the contrary, the boy who had loved her had disappeared. He was changed out of all recognition. You had a lucky escape! she told herself.

Her heart, contrarily, mourned a loss.

‘So why are you still in the city?’

He lifted one corner of his mouth and looked at her as if she were being naive.

‘You stayed in the city to meet me? Why? What do you want?’

‘Not what I want, Desi. What you want.’

He opened his door as two servants appeared through a doorway. The men seized her bags from the trunk and disappeared. The chauffeur opened her door. The heat slapped her again as she got out.

‘What has it got to do with me?’

‘I will be your guide to my father’s dig. Did you not expect it?’

Of course Salah will be your guide. The entire plan depended on this, and yet, somehow…not until this moment had Desi really believed that it was going to happen. That she’d be travelling across the desert for hours with only Salah for company…

Her eyes hurt as she gazed at him, as if they were letting in too much sun.

‘Well, I’m sorry. Your father said a guide. I didn’t expect…’

‘No?’ His manifest disbelief infuriated her, even though he was right.

‘I’m sorry, but this is the only time I’ve got. It’s when I normally go to the island.’

The word was electric between them.

‘And the case is so urgent,’ he said.

There was no answer she could make to that, without looking even more of a selfish idiot. She turned her head to escape his cynic’s gaze, and a panel of exquisite, ancient tilework met her eyes.

She had stayed in some pretty fabulous places in her time: a hot modelling career opened a lot of doors. But not so far an active royal palace. Never a place with such an aura of power, past and present.

‘Will I get to meet them?’ she asked. She knew that Prince Omar and Princess Jana had children of their own, as well as two daughters from Omar’s first marriage.

Salah led her under a worn, intricately arabesqued stone archway onto a tiled path.

‘They go to Lake Parvaneh in summer. Princess Jana asked me to assure you of your welcome here, and apologizes for her absence.’

He opened a door and ushered her along a path bordering a formal garden and thence into an internal courtyard so entrancing Desi stopped short and gasped.

Columns, floor, stairs and walls were covered with beautiful, intricately patterned mosaic tiling. A perfectly still reflecting pool in the centre reflected greenery and sunlight and the balcony above, with a mirror’s clarity and water’s depth. Cloisters ran around the walls on all sides; an ancient tree rose up in one corner, its gnarled branches and thick leaves shading the space from the morning sun. More tumbled greenery cascaded down from the balcony, or entwined the tall columns and latticework.

It was compellingly beautiful, deeply restful. The temperature seemed to have dropped by at least ten degrees. Desi heaved a sigh of sheer wonder.

‘Isn’t it spectacular!’

‘It is more beautiful in spring, with the flowers,’ said Salah and, pausing under the archway, he threw a switch.

She heard a rumble, a groan, as if some great underground creature had been disturbed in its rest, and then the perfect reflection in the water shimmered and was lost as fountains leapt up into the air from the centre of the pool.

The fine spray damped her face as she stood smiling up at the vision.

‘Now, that’s what I call air conditioning!’ Her spirits lifted and she laughed for sheer pleasure.

Watching as the fine mist damped her lips, as if a kiss had moistened them, his face closed. He turned away to lead her through the spray up a flight of stairs and along the balcony.

A sudden gust caught his cloak and it billowed around him, the image of the hero in an ancient tale. Desi was struck by the same promise of timelessness and belonging that the sands had whispered to her, as if they had met here a thousand years ago…

He opened a door.

She stopped to catch her breath again at the doorway. It was a magnificent room, huge, but divided into comfortable niches by the artistic use of rugs, furniture clusters, and intricately carved antique room dividers in cedar, ebony and sandalwood.

Above the doorway and windows, panels of stained glass threw patterns of coloured sunlight onto the white-painted walls. Fat brocade cushions forming sofas and armchairs were interspersed with low tables; on the walls above hung fabulous paintings and patterned mirrors, with niches holding burnished bronze plates and pitchers that glowed like gold. Covering the dark polished wood floor was the biggest silk carpet she had seen outside a museum. A Chinese cabinet looked as if it had been painted for an emperor.

The plates and jars that glowed like gold, she realized with a jolt, were gold.

A sweeping arch gave onto a farther room, and against the opposite wall a soft breeze coming through the jalousies of an open window disturbed the silk canopy of a low bed whose pillows and spread were patterned in turquoises and purples.

The luxury was suddenly and profoundly erotic. So different from the bed under the old dock ten years ago, but pulsating with sensual and sexual promise. As if that other bed, those places they had made their bed, had been a foreshadowing, a dream of which this, now, was the living, breathing, full-colour reality.

They stood gazing at each other, locked in the moment, as the tentacles of memory reached out from the thing called bed and began to entwine them.

She had thought herself immune. She had imagined that hatred had blanked out the love that had once consumed her, and that in the intervening years indifference had wiped out hatred.

Desire, it seemed, was independent of such considerations. It operated outside them, it must, because right now his eyes were as hot on her skin as the desert sun.

Desi thought wildly, with a kind of panic, If he kissed me now…

A woman appeared silently, suddenly, as if from nowhere, and murmured a greeting. Salah drew in a controlled breath, spoke a few words to her, and when he turned back to Desi all sign that he had been affected by the moment was blanked out behind obsidian shutters.

‘I have a meeting now. Fatima speaks a little English. She will look after you and bring you lunch later. It will be best if you remain in the palace today. We will have dinner about sunset. Do you wish something to eat or drink now? Fatima will bring it.’

‘Nothing, thanks. Do you live in the palace?’ she asked, not sure which answer she was hoping for.

‘I have rooms here, yes,’ he said. ‘We all do.’

‘“We”?’

‘Prince Omar’s Cup Companions have offices and apartments in the palace.’

Desi remembered all about the Cup Companions. In ancient times holders of the title had had duties no more onerous than to carouse with the monarch and take his mind off affairs of state.

‘Now they work very hard,’ Salah had told her, that day he confided his dreams of one day serving with Prince Omar. ‘They are the Prince’s working cabinet. One day, inshallah, I will achieve this—to work with Prince Omar.’

I don’t know what Salah’s exact mandate is, but my brothers have heard he’s in Prince Omar’s confidence, Sami had explained more recently. They’re convinced he’s very, very VIP.

‘We heard about your appointment, of course. Congratulations, Salah, I know it was always your dream,’ she said now. ‘Your parents must be proud.’

‘Mash’allah,’ he said dismissively. It was God’s will.

In another life, he would have come to her first with the news.

Looking up at the shuttered face, the arrogant tilt of his chin, the hanging judge’s eyes, Desi could well believe that Salah had a Prince’s ear. But she herself wouldn’t marry him now for all the power and influence in six continents. She was suddenly violently, intensely glad she’d agreed to help Samiha. Marriage to Salah would be a hell of a life.

Chapter Five

‘THEY want me to marry Salah,’ Samiha had said.

The harassment had begun during the last year of her undergraduate degree, after Sami’s father had been killed in a work accident. With his death, her eldest brother, Walid, became ‘head of the family’. The trouble started almost immediately, and because her mother caved in under the pressure, Sami had had to give in. First she had been forced to wear the head covering called hejab whenever she was out of the house. Other restrictions followed, in a steady erosion of her freedom.

But when Walid, supported by their brother Arif, started to suggest that the headscarf was not sufficient to protect her from men’s lusts or show her devotion to their religion, and that Sami really ought to wear niqab, the full face veil, Sami had finally found the courage to introduce him to Farid, her fiancé. The couple hoped that Walid would be happy to pass his troublesome ownership of his sister to a husband.

This had been a tactical error. The secrecy of it, her brazen determination to make her own choice, outraged Walid. It violated his right as her protector and guide to choose a good husband for her. Farid al Muntazer, though a Muslim, did not meet with his approval.

Samiha should marry someone from back home. Someone connected to them. Family.

‘But Salah’s your cousin!’ Desi had protested, scandalized.

In her distress, Sami had turned to Desi as naturally as breathing. They no longer lived on the same street, but there were ways of keeping in touch that were almost as good as walking home from school together. Wherever Desi was in the world, the two friends always spent a couple of hours a week on the phone.

‘All the better!’ Sami informed her bitterly. ‘The old ways are best, you see!’

‘They’re crazy! Sami, you can’t give in to this!’ The idea filled her with primitive horror. Sami and Salah, married? It couldn’t be allowed! ‘You’re twenty-seven! It’s none of their business who you marry. You’ve got to refuse!’

‘I am refusing. But my mother is being very weak. My brothers keep telling me how lucky I am, can you believe it? Salah’s got everything—he’s rich, handsome, Prince Omar’s right-hand man.’

‘I don’t care if he’s Prince Omar himself. He’s your cousin!’

‘If he were Prince Omar himself, Des, he wouldn’t be my cousin.’

‘That’s what they call gallows humour, is it?’

‘I knew there was a word for it.’

‘What can you do to make your refusal stick?’

‘I know what I can’t do. I can’t marry anyone but Farid. I’ll drink bleach first. But Walid is pretty crazy right now, and Arif is right behind him. Full-frontal confrontation is probably not a good idea.’

‘Can you just tell Salah himself? He must think you want this. Surely if he knew—’

‘Maybe, but, Des, I’m actually scared to risk it. I don’t know what his reasons are. Maybe he needs a Canadian passport or something.’

‘What? He’s a Cup Companion! Why would he need—’

‘Des, I can’t risk telling Salah!’ Sami protested in a tight voice. ‘I don’t know what’s in it for him! If he told Walid…’

‘Do you really think Salah would—’

‘I don’t know who to trust!’ Sam cried, and Desi suddenly realized how close her friend was to outright panic. When your own brothers could turn rabid, what was safe?

‘Oh, I feel so useless! I wish I could help!’

‘Des, you’re the only one who can.’

Her heart had started to pound right there. ‘Me? What—’

‘It’s no good challenging the noble protectors of Islamic purity head-on. I figure I have to start from the other end.’

‘I’d be very happy to kneecap them both for you, Sam, but I think it’s actually illegal.’

‘Not that end.’

Desi’s heart seemed to feel she was trying for the thousand-metre world record.

‘You want me to kneecap…Salah?’

‘That’s the one! Do you think Salah ever got over you, Desi?’

‘Yes,’ she said crisply. ‘Without a doubt. In ten years he hasn’t lifted a finger in my direction.’

‘He hasn’t married, either.’

‘Clearly the women of Central Barakat are not stupid.’

‘I don’t think he ever really got over you. And that was then. Look at you now. Did you see what Every-woman called you this week? Hang on a sec, I’ve actually got it here.’ There was the sound of rustling paper, then Sami started reading.

‘“Perhaps the most iconically beautiful of all the supermodels on the world scene today, Desirée Drummond—Desi to everyone caught in the intimacy of that smile—projects the haunting vulnerability of a woman who has never learned to hide her heart.”’

‘How wrong can one sentence be?’ said Desi.

‘Whatever reasons Salah’s got for wanting the marriage, I bet if he thought he stood any chance with you…’

‘Along the lines of an icicle’s chance in hell…’

‘…he’d walk away from this deal so fast we’d see smoke at his heels.’

The bottom fell out of Desi’s stomach. She tried to laugh.

‘Sami, I haven’t seen Salah in ten years!’

‘Yeah, but he’s seen you! Your face is everywhere, isn’t it? You can bet he hasn’t forgotten.’

Her face on a magazine cover would only serve to remind him of why he’d rejected her, but Desi couldn’t embark on that now.

‘You aren’t dating anyone, are you? I wouldn’t ask if you were involved with someone. At least—I hope I wouldn’t,’ Sami admitted with disarming honesty.

‘Are you joking me, Sam?’

‘Des, all you’d have to do is—let him think there’s a chance. Talk about those carefree summers on the island. Remind him how you used to hero-worship him. You know you can do it.’

Desi took a deep breath, and reminded herself that Sami hadn’t been there. And afterwards she’d told no one, not even Sami, all of it.

‘Oh, Sam…’ she began pleadingly.

‘Des, I know it’s a terrible thing to ask. But this is the rest of my life, and you’re my only hope. Just think if your father wanted to force you to marry—Allan, say.’

Her cousin Allan was a blameless stockbroker in Toronto, but Desi shuddered.

‘I understand. You know I understand. But honestly, Sam—’

‘All we need is some excuse for you to visit Central Barakat. Could you be looking for locations or something?’

‘Models don’t scout locations. Anyway, even if I did visit, why should I run into Salah? The country’s not that small.’

‘After all your family did for him all those years! Of course you’d get in touch and ask for his help! Wouldn’t you?’

‘When pigs fly,’ Desirée said grimly.

‘But why? Of course you’d call him! Harry did, when he was over there. Salah treated him like royalty, he told me.’

‘Sam, if I did go, if I did see him, it wouldn’t do any good. Ashes are ashes. They don’t stay warm for ten years.’

‘They do. Salah used to act as if…’

She would not ask. She didn’t care how he used to act.

‘As if what?’ Desi blurted.

‘As if his heart was broken, I guess. For years when I mentioned your name he’d stiffen, the way people do when they’re protecting a sore spot.’

‘I’d be happy to think Salah suffered, but I think it was probably gas.’

‘Hey—that’s it!’ Sami said. ‘Two birds with one stone! Think of how sweet revenge would taste.’

‘It’s tempting to consider myself a worthy successor to Sharon Stone, but come on, Sam!’

The wind went out of Sami’s sails abruptly.

‘You’re right. It’s crazy of me to ask. Sorry, sorry. But, Desi, what can I do? Tell me what to do!’ And again, the flame of desperation was there, licking around the edges of her voice. Desi’s heart contracted.

‘God, Sam—can’t you and Farid just elope?’

‘Walid is not above making threats. Maybe—probably he’d do nothing, but you know I can’t count on that.’

‘Making threats? That’s disgusting!’ Desi exclaimed. ‘Is Walid completely insane?’

‘Don’t get me started.’

‘What about talking to your Uncle Khaled?’ Uncle Khaled was her father’s younger brother, and since her father’s death, Sami had explained, was the head of the extended family. Uncle Khaled was also Salah’s father.

‘I’ve thought of that. But Uncle Khaled and Aunt Arwa are really keen on me and Salah. They’ve told my mother they’re thrilled. So I can’t just ask Uncle Khaled straight out, either, because if that went wrong…But, Des, if you were there you could sound him out for me—’

Sami broke off with a gasp. ‘Oh, Allah, I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’ she cried. ‘Uncle Khaled’s dig!’

Chapter Six

THE servant led her through the palace to the foot of an external staircase running up to a large terrace backed by the dome, and left her. Desi went slowly up, gazing entranced as the vista was slowly revealed.

The sun was just disappearing behind the horizon of deep-purple desert on the right, pulling a cloak of fiery, furnace-red sky after it; to the left the last of its rays caught the mountain tops with liquid gold. Below and beyond the palace the city was lighting up, a swathe of glittering jewels cut in two by the darkness of the great river that carved its way from the mountains to the sea. As the sun’s last light faded, the tree-lined river began to reflect the myriad lights from its banks.

Desi drew a long breath as she arrived at the top and sighed it out. Magic.

Salah was standing halfway along the terrace, looking out over the city. He turned, and at once she was locked by his gaze. Desi put one foot in front of the other and, as helpless as if a magnet were drawing her, slowly moved towards where he waited.

Her hair was loose, he saw, caressing shoulders and neck; her skin was without a flaw. She was wearing seablue silk that turned her chameleon eyes to turquoise: a clingy slip top bared the smooth skin of her throat and the shadow between her breasts; flowing trousers caressed the tantalizing shape of hip, thigh and leg when she moved; a matching jacket, the collar standing up under her chin, showed purple and gold embroidery. Gold and amethyst glinted against her neck and ears. Her sandals were delicate straps of gold across her insteps.

But it was her eyes where the true beauty resided—that wide level gaze that once had shown him all the truth of her soul, the gentle sweep of mobile eyebrows under a broad, pale forehead. The curve of her cheeks like wind-sculpted sand, and the mouth—wide, full, sensuous. Her face had always held this contradiction, as if her eyes held no awareness of the sensuality promised by her mouth and body.

Long ago, he had awakened something else in that gaze. Joy, sensual gratitude and love had mixed in a gaze for him and him alone. He had believed he was the only one to see it.

Falsely, as it happened, for it was exploited by every advertiser she posed for. But men had been fools before him, and would be fools when he was dust.

And still in ten long years he had not seen beauty to match it. But he would not fall victim to that beauty again. He had been weak earlier, but he would be that much more on his guard now.

Her gaze was guarded, her beauty remote. But something more: in her eyes was more than a simple veiling of the inner. She was lying to him.

What lie? Well, he would find out.

‘Good evening, Desi,’ he said.

He had dispensed with the keffiyeh and the oil sheikh’s robes. Now he was wearing flowing cream cotton trousers and a knee-length shirt, the outfit called shalwar kamees. The shirt was open at the neck and rolled up at the wrists, leaving his dark throat and his forearms bare. His head, too, was bare, black curls kissed into gold by the setting sun.

Without the keffiyeh, he was less a stranger. She looked up into the harsh face, searching for traces of the fresh-faced boy she had loved, and wondered if he, too, was looking for the awkward, naive girl of ten years ago.

The boy was gone forever. The eyes she remembered could never have looked at her as these eyes did: hard and suspicious, even as they raked her face with a hunger so blatant she shivered.

‘It’s a fabulous view,’ she said, to defuse the sudden tension. But his jaw only tightened. She felt a sudden jolt of heat against her back—his hand, guiding her.

They moved silently along the terrace and into a roof garden. In the centre of the space was a small fountain, its splashing sounds a caress to the ears in the twilight.

He led her to an alcove surrounded by trellis, enclosed in greenery, where a low platform was luxuriantly spread with carpets and pillows. He kicked off his sandals, stepped up onto the platform and sank down on the lush carpet amongst silken pillows.

Lying back against the cushions, dark and arrogant, he suddenly looked like a sultan in a storybook.

She hesitated, without knowing why. With a regal gesture he indicated the cushions opposite him in the little enclosure. Desi slipped off her own sandals, stepped up along the soft carpet and melted down into the luxuriously comfortable cushions opposite him.

‘You are beautiful tonight.’ The words seemed choked, as if they came out in spite of his intentions.

He had said it before. Tonight—and always, he had said then.

‘Mash’allah,’ she said, with a wry half smile. He had taught her the traditional Barakati response to a compliment. Like crossing your fingers, he’d said, you have to avert the evil eye.

His eyes darkened, suddenly, like a cat’s, but his lips tightened, as if the fact that she used the expression gave him pleasure but he would not allow himself to feel it.

Beyond the trellis and greenery, sky and sunset created a backdrop of magnificence. Intimacy closed around them like a velvet paw, trapping them for the gods’ amusement.

The desert was deep purple now in the darkness. A soft breeze lifted her hair as she gazed at the scene, tossed it lightly across her face. Shaking it back, Desi sighed in pure delight. A feeling of peace invaded her bones, and she searched for something innocuous to say. She did not want to fight with him.

‘This must be the most unusual dining room in the world.’

‘Princess Jana designed it for private use. It is Omar’s favourite retreat. No state business is ever conducted here.’

‘I hope food is coming soon! I haven’t eaten since London, and I’m ravenous.’

‘I apologize. Fatima should have offered you lunch.’

‘She did. I wasn’t hungry. Then.’

‘And you didn’t eat on the plane?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually.’

There was a curious amplified clicking noise, and then down in the city the haunting voice of the muezzin began to recite the call to prayer. The reciter’s deep tones, half singing, half chanting, poured out over the city, echoing in the distance. They sat in silence, listening, trying not to remember how, long ago, he had lovingly described this sound to her…

A waiter came, spread a tablecloth on the platform between them and set down a couple of jugs and four goblets. He half filled the goblets and disappeared again.

Allahu akhbar. Allahu akhbar. Hayya alas salaat.

‘What is he saying?’

‘God is great. Come to prayer,’ Salah translated softly.

‘Curious to hear so many echoes! Does the desert do that?’

‘Echoes?’ A smile twitched one corner of his mouth and he shook his head. ‘Each mosque has its own muezzin, so that no one lives beyond reach of the call. Up here we hear them all.’

The last note sounded as darkness covered the sky. Desi leaned back and looked up through the tracery of trellis and leaves at the stars just beginning to appear.

‘This is magic,’ she breathed again, and then, with a little frown, ‘It reminds me of somewhere! What is it? That sky is pure velvet. I can’t think when I last saw such a—Oh!’

Heat burned up her chest and into her face like a flash fire, and she instinctively jerked upright.

‘What is it?’ Salah said.

‘Nothing.’ She coughed unconvincingly. ‘Something in my throat.’

‘You are reminded of something? A place? A time?’

‘No, not really.’ She coughed again and reached for a glass.

‘Yes,’ he said harshly, as all his intentions for the evening went up in smoke. ‘The island. I, too, Desi. The first time I sat here under the trellis at night I remembered those nights under the dock. We looked up at stars glowing with endless beauty, telling us it was the right time, the right place, the right one.’

Desi gazed at him, frozen, the glass halfway to her mouth.

‘You remember, Desi?’

‘Do I?’ she asked bitterly. Tears were ripping at the back of her throat, but she was damned if she would give him that victory.

‘Yes!’ he said fiercely. His face was shadowed in the candlelight, his eyes hidden, his mouth hard. ‘Yes, you know how our love was! Tell me! I want to know that you remember.’

‘Why, since you forgot?’

‘I thought the stars would die before my love for you. I told you that, didn’t I? When each of those stars is a blackened lump, my love will still be burning for you. Isn’t that what I told you?’

Her throat closed tight. She set the glass down again without drinking. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said, her eyes shadowed and grey.

‘Ah, that is well. Because I was wrong. My love did not last.’

‘No kidding. And are you proud of that fact? I’ve always wondered.’

‘Proud?’ His eyes flashed. ‘Why should I be proud? I was shamed, for you and for me. My love did not die honourably, like a star, consuming itself in its own burning. You know how it died.’

‘Your love died because it was fantasy from day one. The stars going out? It wouldn’t have withstood a hiccup.’

The waiter appeared out of the night, shocking them both into silence, and set down a basket of bread and another filled with sprigs of greenery before disappearing again.

‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘they will bring us the foods I told you of, in those starry nights when we lived a dream.’

She closed her eyes and breathed for calm as memory smote her. ‘Why?’

‘Because it was a promise. A man keeps his promises,’ he said. ‘Even ten years too late.’

A kiss with every mouthful.

She had not expected this. Of all the reactions she might have imagined in Salah, the last would have been that he would actually want to bed her. Flames burst into life in her stomach. No. No.

‘Just so long as you don’t expect me to keep mine,’ she said grimly.

He smiled. ‘But I know well that you do not keep your promises, Desi. Who knows better than I? That other one you promised to marry and then did not?’

The bitter memory was bile in her throat. ‘I changed my mind there.’

‘Yes,’ he said with emphasis. ‘You changed your mind.’

Why was he doing this? What did he want? She was miles from understanding him. For years she had waited for his call, hoping against hope. Until her love died and nothing was left but dust and ashes. He must know that. The choice had been his.

‘And you didn’t, I suppose?’

He stared at her for a long, electric moment during which his eyes seemed to pierce her soul. A hard, angry gaze that was nothing like the boy she had loved. Then he tore off a bit of bread, plucked up a sprig of the greenery, wrapped it expertly in the bread, and held it out to her.

‘This I told you of. Sabzi-o-naan. This is traditional in the mountains.’

Desi took it and put it into her mouth. The pungent taste of a herb she didn’t recognize exploded in her mouth and nostrils, sweet and fresh, and she made an involuntary noise of surprise.

His eyelids dropped to hide his eyes for a moment, then his dark gaze burned her. ‘I taught you to make that sound,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I thought it would be the music of all the rest of my life.’

Heat rushed through her at his words, tearing at defences she now saw were pitifully weak. ‘Stop this,’ she said.

He reached for the herbs again, pulling off a sprig that he put into his own mouth.