‘Lady Constance.’
His hair was damp, slicked back over his head, though it was already beginning to curl rebelliously. He wore a long tunic in broad grey-and-white stripes, grey trousers, black slippers. She still couldn’t decide whether his eyes were grey or green, but she had been right about his mouth. Sensual. There was no other word for it. Except perhaps sinful. And if she didn’t want to appear like a blushing idiot, she had better stop thinking about it.
‘Good morning.’ The Prince bowed over her hand, in the European style. ‘I trust you are feeling better? You look quite—quite transformed.’
‘I have certainly never worn exotic garments such as these,’ Constance replied, flustered by her thoughts, and by his touch, and by that gleam in his eyes when he looked at her, which she must have imagined.
‘I regret our markets were unable to provide the kind of clothing you are accustomed to—or so I was informed by the female who selected these. The wife of one of my Council members.’
‘Please thank her. And please believe me when I tell you that I like these clothes much better. They are infinitely more suitable to this climate. In my own clothes, I would be far too hot. All those petticoats and...’ stays was not a word one said to a gentleman, never mind a prince ‘...and things,’ Constance finished lately. ‘What I mean is, thank you, Your Highness, for being so thoughtful. I am afraid that I have no means to pay you back for these, but...’
‘Do not, I pray, insult me.’
His manner changed so abruptly that Constance flinched, only then realizing how informal he had been moments before. She bit her lip. She dropped into something that could be construed as a curtsy. ‘I assure you, no insult was intended.’
Silence. A nod. More silence. Constance stared down at her feet. ‘I expect you’ve brought me up here to tell me I’m to be packed off on a ship at first light,’ she said resignedly.
Prince Kadar pushed his fingers through his hair. ‘It is, unfortunately, uncommon for trading vessels from the west to call in at our port. Most sail straight for India once they have navigated the Cape of Good Hope. I have confirmed that the next ship is not expected until August.’
‘August! But this is only May.’
‘Unfortunately we have no other ship here at Murimon which is fit for the voyage. Apparently my brother commissioned a schooner to be built. A three-master. Ocean going.’ Prince Kadar shook his head. ‘Why Butrus imagined he needed such a thing, I have no idea, but it is beside the point. It is not completed, and will not be until July at the earliest.’
‘So I am effectively stranded here for two months,’ Constance said.
‘Possibly three.’
‘I’m terribly sorry.’
Prince Kadar gave her one of those assessing looks. ‘For what?’
‘I shall be inconveniencing you. Three months is a long time for an uninvited guest to stay.’
The Prince smiled. ‘But I did invite you, last night, to stay for as long as you wish.’
‘Yes, but...’
‘Lady Constance, I repeat, your presence here is most welcome.’
Goodness, but when he smiled she quite lost track of her thoughts. It was like the dazzle of a faraway star captured in the lens of her telescope, temporarily blinding her to everything else. ‘Thank you,’ Constance said, blinking. ‘If there is anything I can do while I am here to work my passage, so to speak, then I would be delighted to help. I’m afraid I’m not a very good needlewoman, but I’m very good with accounts. Though I can’t imagine why you would need a bookkeeper when you most likely have a treasurer.’
‘And an assistant treasurer and any number of scribes,’ the Prince said. ‘There are any number of needlewomen here at the palace too, I expect. Your time will be your own.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with it. I like to be busy.’
‘Then you must see some of our country, explore its delights. Which brings me to the reason I asked you up here, to my private terrace. Come.’ Prince Kadar ushered her over to the waist-high parapet. ‘There, take a look at Murimon.’
The view which confronted her was quite stunning. Sea and sky met on the horizon, both brilliant azure blue, the sky streaked with wispy white cloud, the sea sparkling with little white-crested waves. A line of fishing boats was strung out in the distance, too far away for her to make out more than the distinctive shallow hulls and single lateen sails. The wide sweep of the coastline to her left consisted of a number of little bays and fishing villages similar to Bashir’s village, with white strips of sand, the houses huddled together on the narrow shoreline. Behind the nearer villages, narrow strips of green cultivated land could be made out. On the right, the terrain was more mountainous, rolling red-and-ochre hills guarding much steeper, jagged peaks. Here, there were few vestiges of green, and even fewer villages.
The port of Murimon sat proudly in the centre, directly below the palace. The harbour was formed by two long curves of rock embracing the sea. At the end of each arm stood a lighthouse. On the furthest-away point, buildings covered every inch of available space, some three or four storeys high, some squat and low. Presumably wharves, their huge doorways opened directly onto the jetties which sat at right angles to the shoreline. The nearer harbour wall was higher and rockier, housing a small defensive fortress. The port was nothing like the size of Plymouth, where she had embarked on the Kent, but it looked to have a similar sense of bustle. Ships of all shapes and sizes sat at anchor in the middle of the bay or were moored to the jetty. Dhows, much bigger than the fishing boats of Bashir’s village, darted in and out between the statelier vessels.
The town attached to the port lay spread out below them. Constance leaned over the parapet to get a closer look. The path she must have followed in her chair last night zigzagged up the hillside below, past houses, tall and narrow, and tinkling fountains set in small squares.
She leaned over further. The roof terrace seemed to be at the highest point of the palace, in the very centre of the building. There looked to be three or even four storeys below the huge central edifice on which they were perched, with two low terraced wings on either side. A vast piazza, tiled with marble and bordered by two straight sentry-like lines of palm trees, formed the entrance to the palace itself, with a sweeping staircase on either side of an arched portal meeting on the first floor. It was exotic and absurdly impractical and utterly foreign and completely overwhelming.
‘Well, what do you think of my humble domain?’
Constance turned too suddenly, snatching at the edge of the parapet as the heat and the glare of the sea and the sky and the sun all combined to make her dizzy.
A strong arm caught her as she staggered. ‘Careful. I would hate to have to report your untimely death for a second time.’
She laughed weakly. Her cheek rested against the Prince’s shoulder. She closed her eyes to combat the dizziness and breathed in the clean scent of cotton dried in the sunshine, warm skin and soap, and the slight tang of salt from the sea. Her senses swam. She put her hand onto his chest to right herself. Hard muscle over bone. Which she had no right to be touching.
‘Thank you, I’m perfectly fine now.’ Constance turned back to the view, shading her eyes. ‘Your humble domain is absolutely spectacular. I’ve never seen anything remotely like it. How far from the harbour was the Kent when she went down?’
‘You see