Beholden to the Throne - By Carol Marinelli Page 0,52

Each taste of bridal tradition choked her and reminded her of the cheat and liar she was.

She bathed and had her make-up and hair done. Her eyes were lined with kohl and her cheeks and lips rouged. But she could see the pallor in her face and the guilt in her eyes as blossom was pinned into her hair—‘For innocence,’ the maiden explained. Amy closed her eyes on another lie as she remembered the love they had already made.

A dress of pale gold slithered over her head and she thought of her mother who, though there for the wedding, was stressed. She had done all she could to dissuade Amy. As late as last night she had warned her daughter of the mistake she was making, had offered to take her home; she had told Amy that she was taking on too much, that though the country was cheering at the union now it would soon turn against her, and maybe in time her husband would too.

‘No.’ Amy was adamant. ‘He loves me.’

Yet she felt guilty accepting that love. What should be the happiest day of her life was blighted by the knowledge that she could never be the Queen the people really wanted.

And now the final touches. She could hear the excitement and anticipation building in the streets outside, for the wedding was to take place in the gardens and the people had gathered around the palace.

‘The people are happy,’ the maiden said as a loud cheer went up.

‘It is King Rakhal and Queen Natasha, arriving,’ a younger maiden informed the busy room, watching the proceedings from the window. ‘They have the young Prince with them.’ She looked to Amy and smiled. ‘They won’t be able to gloat over us for much longer.’

And now the maiden tied a necklace around her throat which had a small vial at the end of it. Amy knew even before the maiden told her that it was for fertility, for Clemira and Nakia had received a similar necklace in the desert. Emir’s response then had been brusque, but the maiden was more effusive as she arranged it around Amy’s throat.

‘It is to ensure that the sands remain as Alzan.’ She placed it over the scar on Amy’s throat and Amy could feel her rapid pulse beating there against the vial, could hear the cheers from the people of Alzan building outside, she could feel the sweat removing her carefully applied make-up as the humid desert air made it impossible to breathe.

‘Amy?’

She heard the concern in the young maiden’s voice, and the shocked gasps from the others as they saw how much she was struggling.

‘I can’t do this,’ was all Amy remembered saying as she slid to the ground.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘SHE is late.’

Emir heard the whispers in the crowd and stared fixedly ahead. Though outwardly calm and in control, he was kicking himself, for he should not have left her alone last night. He knew the reason Amy was late was because she was reconsidering the union. He realised that perhaps, for her, it was too much too soon—after all, his decision had been more than a year in the making. But Emir knew he could not lose his love to a prediction, knew he was right, and he would go now and tell her the same.

‘That is not necessary,’ Patel informed him. ‘She is better now, apparently. They have given her salts to smell and some fluids to drink and she will soon be on her way.’

As Amy approached she reminded Emir of the first time he had met her—pale and quiet but somehow strong. She had helped him so much at that heartbreaking time and he wanted to help her now, wanted to take her away from the gathered crowd, to talk to her, soothe and reassure her, but of course it was impossible.

‘You are okay?’ Emir checked as she joined him at his side, and his hand found hers.

She was touched at the gesture, for he had told her that today was duty, that feelings would not be on display—for in Alzan love usually came later.

Not today.

‘Nervous,’ Amy admitted, which was perhaps the understatement of the century.

The magnitude of what was about to take place had hit her again as she’d walked through the fragrant gardens and seen the crowd, and she had thought she might pass out again. There was Hassan, the reprobate brother, standing tall and silent by his brother’s side. King Rakhal and Natasha were there too, regal and