The Forced Bride Of Alazar

‘We have met now.’

Johara stared at him, searching for some glimmer of warmth in those starless eyes, a hint of a smile in the uncompromising line of his mouth. She saw neither. ‘Yes, but we do not know one another,’ she continued, trying to make her tone both light and reasonable. ‘And...marriage.’ She spread her hands, tried for a smile. The pep talk she’d given herself on the plane seemed woefully improbable now, and yet she had no other plans, no other weapon. ‘It is a large step to take for two people who have not laid eyes on one another before this moment.’

‘Yet one you have, I have been told, been prepared to make for some time. I do not see any reason for your objection now?’ The lilt of his voice suggested a question but Johara was wary of answering it. He did not seem as if he was waiting for a response.

When she dared to look into his eyes, she wished she hadn’t. They felt like two black holes she could tip right into and fall for ever. ‘I only meant...’ she tried, ‘shouldn’t we get to know one another first? In order to—’

Azim’s expression did not change a modicum as he answered, cutting her off. ‘No.’

Johara took a deep breath, clinging to the remnants of her composure that was now in shreds. Even in her worst imaginings she hadn’t expected Azim to be this unrelentingly cold. His expression was pitiless and impatient, his arms folded over his chest, as if she was wasting his time. How could she marry a man such as this? And yet she had to. Her only hope was some kind of negotiation as to the terms.

‘Our marriage then will be one of convenience,’ she stated.

His mouth twisted, drawing the puckered flesh of the scar along his cheek tight. ‘Surely you had already come to that conclusion.’

‘Yes, but I mean...’ She faltered, unsure how to present the suggestion that had seemed so logical, so amenable, on the journey here. She had not anticipated Azim al Bahjat’s attitude of stony indifference, underlaid by a hostility she didn’t understand. Unless she was being paranoid? Perhaps he was like this with everyone. Or perhaps he was simply nervous, as she was.

The prospect was laughable. Azim al Bahjat did not look remotely uncertain or nervous. He was a man utterly in command of the situation—and her. Still Johara persevered. ‘Malik and I had discussed—’

‘I do not wish to talk about Malik.’ Azim’s voice was the quiet snick of a drawn blade. ‘Do not mention him to me again.’

Johara fell silent, chastened by this dictate. Her father had told her Malik was acting as Azim’s advisor, but the lethal warning in his voice made her wonder if their relationship was fraught. Or perhaps it was the relationship with her that was fraught. ‘I’m sorry. I only meant it would make sense for our marriage to be an arrangement that is convenient to both of us.’

‘Make sense?’ For a moment Azim looked coldly amused. ‘How so?’

Encouraged by the mere fact that he’d asked a question, Johara plunged into her explanation. ‘As you might know, I have spent most of my life in France. I am not as familiar with Alazar as you are—’

‘You are Alazaran-born, with your bloodline able to be traced back nearly a thousand years.’

Yes, she knew of her precious ancestry, descended hundreds of years ago from the sister of a sultan. ‘All I meant is,’ she explained, ‘France is my home, and has been since I was a young child. I’ve only been to Alazar a handful of times in my whole life.’

Azim’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘A notable lack in your upbringing. You will have to familiarise yourself with its customs immediately.’

This wasn’t going at all the way she’d intended. Hoped. ‘What I mean to say is,’ Johara tried yet again, ‘I would like to live in France for as much of the year as possible. Of course, I would come to Alazar when needed, for state functions and the like.’ She spoke quickly, tripping over her words, desperate to come to an agreement. ‘Whenever I’m needed, of course. It seems a suitable arrangement to us both—’

‘Does it?’ Azim cocked his head, his narrowed gaze sweeping over her, a dark searchlight. ‘It does not seem so to me. Far from it, in fact.’

Frustrations warred with despair and Johara clenched her fists, hiding them in the stiff skirts of her dress. ‘May I ask why?’

‘My wife belongs with me, not pursuing her own interests in another country,’ Azim stated, a hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘The Sultana of Alazar must be by the Sultan’s side, or in the palace, showing the country what an exemplary, modest and honourable woman she is. That is where you belong, Sadiyyah Behwar,’ he finished in a ringing, final tone of a judge delivering his sentence. ‘By my side, in the palace harem—or in my bed.’

* * *

Azim noted the way Johara’s pupils flared even as her face paled. Was she disgusted by the thought of sharing his bed? He’d had his fair share of women over the years, and they had all been more than willing to be there. In any case it didn’t matter whether Johara was or not. He was not looking for companionship or even pleasure from this arrangement. After a lifetime of being denied such things, he had schooled himself not to want them.

‘You are very blunt,’ she managed, two bright spots of colour now visible high on each cheekbone, the delicate skin around her pouty mouth nearly white.

‘I am merely stating facts.’

Johara shook her head slowly. ‘So you want me with you all the time, and yet you have no interest in getting to know me?’

‘What is there to know?’ Azim returned. The pain in his temples was becoming too much to indulge her in such a sentimental conversation. He didn’t care about her feelings, or even his own. This was a matter of state, nothing more. ‘You are young, healthy and eminently suitable,’ he clarified. ‘You can trace your bloodline back almost as far as I can. That is all I need to know.’

She lifted her chin, her eyes flaring now with anger. Arif had assured him his daughter was extremely biddable, but from this conversation alone Azim knew the man had exaggerated—and her defiance was both an aggravation and an insult he didn’t need.

‘There must be a dozen women like me,’ she said, her chin lifted, ‘with suitable breeding and bloodlines. Why are you so determined to marry a stranger you don’t even want to get to know?’

Because she’d been intended for Malik. Because choosing anyone else when his entire country had been expecting her as Sultana would be an admission of failure, a sign of defeat, and something he refused to consider. He had suffered too much, sacrificed too much, to fail in this. ‘You are my chosen Sultana,’ he stated coldly. ‘Most women would consider that an honour.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘But I am not most women.’

‘So I am beginning to realise.’

‘I just don’t understand—’

‘You don’t need to understand,’ Azim snapped. He took a steadying breath, pain stabbing his temples once more. He could feel a full-fledged migraine coming on, the black spots starting to dance before his eyes, the nausea churning in his stomach. He had five minutes, if that, to get to a dark, quiet room and wait out the agony. ‘All you need to do,’ he stated in a tone of utter finality, ‘is to obey.’

Her mouth dropped open as Azim turned away. He walked blindly from the room, his vision starting to grey at the edges. He could not manage any more. From behind him he heard a ragged gasp.

‘Your Highness...’ It was a cross between a protest and a plea, a sorrowful sound that grated on his nerves even as it plucked at the broken strings of his compassion. He had been abrupt with his fiancée, he could acknowledge that. If he hadn’t been in pain, if he hadn’t seen her shudder...perhaps things might have been a little different. But it was too late now to make amends, if he even wanted to, which he didn’t think he did. Better for his bride to accept the hard reality, just as he’d had to do time and time again. Life was hard. People turned on you, betrayed you, used you. She could learn the same life lessons he had, albeit in far more comfortable circumstances.

‘An attendant will show you to your room,’ he stated, forcing the words out past the pain that was building like a towering wall in his head. ‘You may spend the next few days preparing for our wedding.’ He didn’t wait to hear her reply. He knew Arif would force her to comply, and in any case he didn’t trust himself to stay standing for much longer. He pushed through the doors, doubling over the moment they’d swung behind him, his hands braced on his knees.

‘Your Highness...’ An attendant hurried forward, and with immense effort Azim straightened, throwing off the servant’s arm. He couldn’t be seen as weak, not even by a servant.

‘I’m fine,’ he grated. Then he walked on leaden legs to his bedroom, and its welcoming darkness.

* * *

Johara stood in the audience chamber for a full five minutes before she felt composed enough to leave its privacy for the prying eyes of the many palace staff. The abruptness of her conversation with Azim had bordered on the surreal, and yet it had possessed the stomach-clenching realisation of hard reality. This man, who had not spared her so much as an introduction, who barked commands, whose smile seemed cruel, was going to be her husband.

She tried to find one redeeming quality in the man she was meant to spend her life with and came up empty. He possessed a strong sense of duty, she supposed, her thoughts laced with desperation and flat-out panic. He wasn’t bad-looking; in fact, if his expression hadn’t been so severe, his manner so terse, she might have thought him quite handsome. His form was certainly powerful, and even in the shock and tension of their conversation she’d noticed his muscled shoulders, the dark slashes of his eyebrows.

He had a compelling look about him, possessing the kind of bearing that made you want to both stare and look away at the same time. He was too much. Too hard, too cold, too cruel. He hadn’t offered her one simple civility in their first meeting. What on earth would their life together look like?

She couldn’t marry him.

Johara pressed her hands to her cheeks, distantly noting their iciness, as she gazed out of the arched window at the desert vista. A hard blue sky and an unrelenting sun framed the endless, undulating desert. Looking at it hurt Johara’s eyes, and made her long for the rolling hills and lavender fields of Provence, the dear familiarity of her book-lined bedroom, her kitchen garden with its pots of herbs, the stillroom where she’d pottered about experimenting with salves and tinctures, pursuing her interest in natural medicine. Made her wish, yet again, that everything about her meeting with Azim had been different. Better. Or preferably, hadn’t happened at all.

She dropped her hands and took a deep breath. What recourse did she have now? She was powerless, a woman in a man’s world, a sultan’s world. Her only option was to run to her father and beg him to release her. Hope flickered faintly as she considered this.

Her father loved her, she knew he did. Yes, he’d been planning for her marriage to the Sultan of Alazar for years, but...he loved her. Perhaps her father had not realised what kind of man Azim was. Perhaps when she told him just how cold and hard her husband-to-be seemed, he’d renegotiate yet again. Or at least ask for a delay, months or even years...

Taking a deep breath, Johara turned from the room. A palace attendant was waiting by the door as she came through. ‘His Highness wished me to show you your rooms.’

‘Thank you, but I’d like to see my father first.’

The attendant’s face was blank, his voice polite as he answered, ‘Many pardons, but that is not possible.’

The anxiety that had been coiling in her stomach like a serpent about to strike reared up, hissing. ‘What do you mean? Why can I not see my own father?’

‘He is in a meeting, Sadiyyah Behwar,’ the man answered smoothly. ‘But I will, of course, let him know you wish to speak with him.’

Johara nodded, the panic receding a little. Perhaps she was overreacting, seeing conspiracy or coercion at every turn. Her father would surely come to her when he was able. He would listen to her. He would understand. He might be ambitious and sometimes a little bit hard, but she had never, not once, doubted his love for her. ‘Thank you.’

She followed the man silently down a long marble corridor to a suite of rooms nearly as opulent as the audience chamber where she’d met Azim. She gazed round at all the luxury, the huge bed on its own dais with silk and satin covers, the sunken marble tub in a bathroom that was nearly as large as her bedroom at home, the spacious balcony that overlooked the palace’s lush gardens. It was lovely, but all she could see was a gilded prison, invisible bars that would hold her there for the rest of her life.

What would she do here, as Azim’s wife? Lie on a bed with her face to the wall, as her mother had these many years, trapped by her own endless despair? Johara resisted that with a deep, frightened instinct. She had long ago vowed never to be like her mother, had chosen a cheerful, optimistic approach to life as a matter of principle, because to give in to doubt or despair was no life at all. Yet optimism was hard to find now.

So then would she devote herself to her children, if they came, and try to forget the unending loneliness of being yoked to a man who had no interest in her beyond her bloodline? Would she be able to make friends, make a life? There was so much she didn’t know, so much she couldn’t imagine and didn’t even want to imagine. She wanted more for her life than what Azim was offering. She wanted more for her life than any arranged marriage could provide. It had taken a fleeting week of precious freedom to make her realise that.

She sank onto a divan by the window, her body aching with both emotional and physical fatigue. It had been a little more than twelve hours since her father had told her she was marrying Azim. And only a week until she would be forced to say her vows...unless she could find some way out of this disaster—seek her father and try to persuade him to end the engagement. He had to listen to her. He loved her, she reminded herself. She was his habibti, his treasure, his little pearl. He wouldn’t let her suffer a fate such as this.

* * *

Azim blinked in the gloom of his bedchamber, the migraine having finally lessened to a dull, endurable throb, the fragments of a dream still piercing his brain in poignant shards. He’d been back in Naples, hiding from Paolo, cowering and afraid. He hated that dream. He hated how it made him feel.

With determined effort Azim shook it off, banishing the memories of his confusion and fear. He was a sultan-in-waiting now, restored to his rightful place, a man of power and authority. He would not allow himself to be bested by his old nightmares, even if he’d had more and more of them since returning to Alazar.

He had no idea what time it was, but he noted the moonlight sliding between the shutters and knew it had been many hours. He closed his eyes, his whole body aching with the effort of having battled the pain—and won.

The headaches that had plagued him since he was fourteen years old had been getting worse since he’d returned to Alazar, no doubt from the unrelieved tension of being back in a place with so many bitter memories, as well as his legacy hanging by no more than a slender thread. He hated the fragility of his position, the powerlessness it made him feel. No wonder he’d had that old dream. He had no idea if the old tribes of the desert would accept him as a leader when he had been gone from his country, from his people’s memory, for so long. He had only been a boy when he’d been taken, an event he couldn’t actually remember. He had not yet had a chance to prove himself capable and worthy of command, no matter that his grandfather had been preparing him for it for years. Marrying Johara, as unwilling as she was, would help to cement his position as the next Sultan. He needed her compliance...or at least her perceived compliance. How she felt didn’t matter at all as long as she obeyed.

Sighing heavily, he rose from his bed, the room see-sawing around him until he was able to blink it back into balanced focus. It wasn’t only the pressures and tenuousness of his role that weighed on him now. It was the look of shocked hurt in Johara’s clear grey eyes when he’d issued his flat commands earlier that day. He had not attempted to soften them with the merest modicum of kindness or compassion; he’d been in too much pain as well as too angry at her own unguarded reaction, when she’d looked up at the palace and he alone had seen the truth in her face.

He supposed he would need to remedy the situation somehow, but he was not a man prone to apologies. In the world he inhabited an apology was weakness, the admission of any guilt a mistake. He could not afford to do that now, even if he wanted to, which he did not. It was better for his new bride not to have any expectations except obedience.

‘Azim?’ Malik spoke softly from behind the bedroom door. Quickly Azim grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. He’d shucked it off in the worst throes of the migraine, when he’d been covered in icy sweat, but he was always careful to keep his back covered. No one, not even his infrequent lovers, had seen his scars. No one would know of his shame.

He flicked on the lights even though the flash of brightness sliced through his head like a laser. He straightened his clothes and ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, determined that Malik not see any sign of his weakness.

‘Enter.’

Malik came in, closing the door quietly behind him. ‘You are well?’

‘Yes, of course. What is it?’ He spoke more tersely than he’d intended, and saw the flash of bruised recognition in his brother’s eyes. Once, a lifetime ago, they’d been close, leaning on each other when the adults in their lives had failed them, but now Azim had no idea how to navigate that old, once-precious relationship. For too long everyone had felt like an enemy, someone who would break the trust he now refused to give.

‘You spoke to Johara?’

‘Yes. She is not as compliant as her father indicated.’

Malik leaned one powerful shoulder against the doorframe, his arms folded. ‘She knows her duty.’

‘I would hope so.’ Azim reached for his trousers, preferring the Western dress he was far more comfortable in after twenty years in Italy, at least in private. ‘I told her we would marry in a week’s time.’

Malik’s eyebrows rose. ‘So soon?’

‘I do not have time to waste.’

‘Still, that is rather quick,’ Malik said mildly. ‘Considering only a week ago she was meant to marry me.’

‘She was meant,’ Azim clarified with clipped precision, ‘to marry the heir to the Sultanate, whoever that was.’

Malik inclined his head. ‘You are right, of course. But she is very young, and she is not as used to our ways as you might—’

‘I thought you did not know her.’ Azim heard the edge to his voice and turned away from his brother. The knowledge that Johara had been meant for Malik gave him a deep-seated sense of resentment that he did not fully understand. He knew Malik and Johara had never so much as kissed, and yet still he resisted the notion of them together. So much had been taken from him, including his bride. He was more determined than ever to gain it all back, no matter what the cost—or who paid the price.

‘She said she has spent most of her time in France,’ he remarked to Malik. ‘Why is that?’

Malik shrugged. ‘Her mother has been ill for a long time. Arif has kept her away from Alazar.’

‘Simply because she is ill? That does not seem sensible.’

‘I am not quite sure of the details,’ Malik answered. ‘Arif never speaks of her.’ He paused. ‘That seems intentional.’

Azim frowned. ‘I was assured Johara’s bloodline was impeccable—’

‘It is. But even impeccable bloodlines contain people with problems, with illness or suffering.’

Azim did not answer. God knew he had his own share of suffering, and he was descended from kings. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment. ‘She will comply. She has no choice.’

‘A little kindness might go a long way,’ Malik suggested mildly. ‘Considering her youth and inexperience.’

Azim had come to that conclusion himself, but he didn’t particularly like hearing it from Malik. And what kindness could he offer her? He had no time or interest, not to mention ability, in wooing, paying court or offering flattery. He was a man of action, not words. He always had been. And in the world he’d lived in these last twenty years, flattery got you nowhere.

‘I can manage my own bride,’ he told Malik, his tone curt. Malik nodded, his mouth a pressed line. Tension simmered between them. Once they’d been as close as brothers could be, sharing everything, including sorrow, and now—what? Reluctant allies, perhaps, but even that was a step of faith for him, a level of trust he wasn’t comfortable with, not even with Malik.

After Malik had left Azim summoned an attendant to his room. ‘Send some fabric to Sadiyyah Behwar,’ he instructed. ‘Brocade and satin, spare no expense. As a gift from me, for her wedding dress. And ensure there are seamstresses on hand to do her bidding.’ He knew she already possessed a gown from her intended wedding to Malik, but he wanted her to have a new one, one that was just for him. A new start for a new marriage. He hoped Johara appreciated his gesture.

CHAPTER THREE

JOHARA WRAPPED HER arms around herself, suppressing a shiver despite the sultry summer air, as she looked out on the steep roofs and steeples of Paris’s Latin Quarter. She’d arrived back in Nice that morning and she was still trying to ignore the icy panic creeping coldly over her—and to convince herself that she’d made the right decision.

In the end it had been both easy and heartbreaking. She closed her eyes against the look of icy disbelief in her father’s eyes when she’d asked him to delay the wedding. The memory of the conversation caused pain to lance through her again.

‘F-F-F...Father,’ she’d stammered, inwardly cringing at the look of barely concealed impatience in her father’s face. She’d caught him leaving a meeting, and the other diplomats and dignitaries had eyed her with cold disapproval, a woman trying to break into a man’s world.

‘What are you doing here, Johara?’ Arif asked. He glanced back at his colleagues. ‘She is to marry His Highness Azim next week.’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk about,’ Johara said, trying to gather the tattered remnants of her courage. ‘About the marriage...’

‘What is it?’ Arif grabbed her elbow and steered her to a private alcove. ‘You are humiliating me in public,’ he snapped, his eyes narrowed to dark slits, everything in him radiating icy disapproval. Johara shrank back, shocked. He’d never looked at her like this back in France, even when she’d dared to risk his displeasure.

‘Azim is...very cold.’

‘Cold?’ Arif looked nonplussed.

‘He seems almost cruel,’ Johara whispered, losing courage by the second. ‘I...I don’t want to marry him. I can’t!’

Arif stared at her, his lips thinned, the skin around them white. ‘Clearly I have spoiled you,’ he stated in a hard voice. ‘For you to be speaking this way to me now.’

‘Father, please—’

‘You have been petted and indulged your whole life,’ Arif cut her off. ‘And I have asked only one thing of you, something that is a great honour and privilege. And now you tell me to humiliate myself and my family, risk my career and livelihood, because you find him a little cold?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I will do my best to pretend this conversation has not happened.’

‘But, Father, if you love me...’ Johara began, her voice shaking. ‘Then surely you wouldn’t...’

‘Nothing about this has to do with love,’ Arif stated. ‘It has to do with duty and honour. Never forget that, Johara. Love is a facile emotion for fools and weaklings. Your mother is a testament to that.’ Without waiting for her reply he stalked off, leaving her reeling.

Love is a facile emotion. She could hardly believe he’d dismissed her concerns, her feelings so easily. And worse, seemed to have none of his own. Like a naïve child she’d believed her father loved her. Now she knew the terrible truth that he didn’t, and never had.