Kadar was pensively picking up handfuls of sand and letting it trickle slowly through his fingers so that it formed a mound, like the contents of an hourglass. He didn’t look like a man struggling to regain his self-control. ‘My lack of experience has disappointed you,’ Constance said, because of course that’s what it was. ‘It’s fine, you don’t have to pretend that you enjoyed my inexpert kissing.’
He studied her face, a faint frown drawing his brows together. ‘Constance, I never pretend. I enjoyed kissing you more than I ought, if the truth be told. When I first set eyes on you I had a feeling that our lovemaking would be memorable, our bodies and desires perfectly matched. What just happened proved that I was right. We would be wise to heed the warning contained in that knowledge.’
‘You mean it would be more difficult to stop the next time?’
Kadar winced. ‘I mean we would be wise not to contemplate a next time.’
Resisting the temptation to kiss him again was one thing, but to deny herself the pleasure of imagining it—no, she wasn’t sure she could do that, so Constance remained silent.
Kadar measured out another handful of sand. ‘My coronation takes place in two weeks.’
She accepted the change of subject gratefully. ‘You will be King of Murimon.’
‘Prince of Murimon. We do not adopt the title of King here. The ruler is Prince, and his heir has the title of Crown Prince. You will of course attend the ceremony in your official capacity. You will require robes. We’ve never had a court astronomer before, so you can have them designed to your own specifications.’
‘That sounds wonderful, but rather wasteful, since the position is temporary.’
‘Temporary, but nonetheless legitimate. I have already announced your appointment to my council. I do not wish your reputation to be compromised by speculation, nor do I wish to dishonour my future bride. The marriage will be onerous enough for both parties. I do not wish to start the journey on a note of resentment.’
‘Onerous? Don’t you wish to be married, Kadar?’
‘No more than you do.’ Another measure of sand trickled down. ‘But like you, my personal preferences are of little consequence. My fate, like yours, has been defined for me, my bride chosen for me. Duty, honour, obligation are my motivation, though we differ in one fundamental way, you and I. The beneficiary of your marriage is your father. The beneficiary of mine will be my kingdom.’
Constance stared at him open-mouthed. So much, contained in those few clipped words uttered in that expressionless tone. ‘Your bride—did you say she was chosen for you?’
‘Actually, that’s not strictly accurate. She was in fact chosen for my brother,’ Kadar said drily. ‘I inherited her, along with his kingdom.’
‘No, no, you can’t possibly be serious.’ But one look at Kadar’s expression told her he was perfectly serious. ‘Goodness,’ Constance said, ‘that is very—odd to say the least. Don’t you object to having a hand-me-down bride?’
‘There you go again with your unedited, albeit truthful observations. As I said, my personal preferences...’
‘...are of no consequence. But you are a prince!’
Another of those harsh little laughs. ‘Exactly, and as a prince I must put my kingdom first, my own desires—last. My people were anticipating a royal wedding, the dawning of a new era. The date was set for a mere two weeks after my brother was tragically killed.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘A riding accident.’
There was the tiniest flicker, not quite a blink, of his right eye. She had noticed it before, when he mentioned his brother. She had asked if they were close, and he had not answered. She decided to try a more roundabout approach. ‘Was he much older than you?’
‘Two years.’
‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ Constance said. ‘I’ve always wished—’
‘We were not particularly close,’ Kadar interrupted, ‘if that is what you want to know. It was one of the first things you asked me about Butrus the night you arrived.’
‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘Until I returned for his wedding, I had not seen him for seven years. We are very—unalike. Butrus found my love of scholarly pursuits simply incomprehensible. As did our father, who was for ever grateful that I was the second son and not the first born. I was temperamentally, intellectually and in many ways ethically unsuited to life in the palace, while Butrus...’ Kadar shrugged. ‘Oh, Butrus was cast in our father’s image. The only thing we had in common latterly was a love of horses. Unfortunately, he had a rather higher opinion of his ability to ride than was warranted. Even more unfortunately, he was not a man who learned from experience. I found it easier, in the end, simply to refuse to race him.’
‘It was not—dear heavens—it was not in a race with you that he died, was it?’
‘No.’ That tiny flicker of the eye again. Kadar stared out at the sea. Constance waited, holding her breath to prevent herself from speaking, and her patience was eventually rewarded. ‘He had a new horse. A wedding present, ironically. A wilful brute of an animal which most certainly did not come from the stables at Bharym, though that is what Butrus had been told. I advised him at once that he should not attempt to master it. Perhaps if I had held my tongue, he would not have felt the need to prove himself to me. It threw him. He hit his head on a boulder, he was dead before I reached him.’
‘Kadar, I am so sorry. How very, very terrible for you.’
Constance reached for his hand, pressing it between her own. He went quite still, allowing her to hold him for a few moments, before freeing himself. ‘Terrible for the people of Murimon. Butrus was a very popular prince. His betrothal was very favourably received by the people.’
Constance frowned. ‘How long was your brother Prince of Murimon?’
‘Seven years, why do you ask?’
‘You say he was popular, and you say that your people expect a prince to be married, yet your brother waited seven years to take a bride.’
Kadar seemed to—to freeze, there was no other word for it. What on earth had she said? When he spoke, his tone was icy enough to make Constance shiver. ‘Butrus was married on the day of his coronation. The Princess Tahira would have been his second wife.’
‘Second!’ Was that it, was he affronted because she had mentioned the forbidden subject of polygamy?
‘My brother was a widower,’ Kadar said, obviously still capable of reading her thoughts despite his frozen state. ‘His first wife died just over a year ago.’
Mortified, Constance dug her toes deeper into the sand. ‘I’m so sorry. How dreadful. Was she very young? Were there no children?’
‘She was three years younger than me. No, there were no children.’
What was she missing? Constance wondered, for Kadar had curled his fists into the sand. Her brow cleared. It was obvious! ‘If there had been a child, you would not now be Prince,’ she said gently.
His eyes were bleak. ‘She died trying to give him an heir. Who knows what difference it would have made if she had? But it was not to be.’
Poor woman, Constance thought, her heart touched by this tragedy. And poor Kadar, the only one in this sad little story left alive, to bear the consequences. ‘Your brother left no heir, but he did bequeath you a bride. Is that why you feel obliged to honour the betrothal?’
He did not answer for a