THE WARLORD'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER 1
Melisande stood on the screened veranda outside her bedroom and breathed deeply of the desert night. A gentle breeze tumbled from the barren, dun-colored hills beyond the palace walls and toyed with her long, mahogany hair. She closed her eyes and exhaled, lengthy and cleansing, her lips slightly parted. She imagined Henri's scent, the earthiness of it, the closeness of it. Soon she would smell it again, the idea pulling the corners of her mouth upward in a private smile. Then she listened for any sign of life within the palace, but the hour was late; her parents and extended family would all be asleep by now. The only sounds drifting to her, and those faint, came from the village beyond the palace walls—dogs occasionally barking or restless tomcats sending up hair-raising howls of challenge—or from out in the hills, the cry of a fox, perhaps lonely. She had been lonely most of her twenty-one years…until Henri.
Would he come to her tonight? Or would the danger of being detected weigh too heavily and keep him away? The fear was not for himself, no matter how lethal detection might be; he seemed to fear nothing, one of his many appealing traits. No, the fear was for her. If her father knew of their liaison, she could be in as much danger as Henri. After all, in her father's eyes, she was only a girl, and what worth did a girl have in her father's life?
The breeze brought a slight chill to her after the day's furnace-like heat. She wore the sheerest of nightgowns, a pale pink silk. If either of her parents knew she owned such a scandalous garment, the gown would be confiscated in an instant, and a tongue-lashing would burn her for days. Well, she thought with a delighted inward grin of rebellion, if she had her wish, she would not be wearing it for long tonight.
On small bare feet, she padded back into her room. Her heart quickened at the dreadful thought that Henri might not appear. If so, the disappointment would keep her awake all night. Of course, if he did come the same would be true, but that result would be strongly desired. Where should she wait? In bed or in a chair? Restlessness made either choice unappealing, so instead she paced into the adjoining salon.
This would be only their third time together since they had secretly wed, but even with their first encounter, Melisande felt as if she were already a part of him and he a part of her, a part she could never imagine being without now. The marriage had been her idea, a compromise with her conscience prior to the consummation. After all, if they were discovered, at least she could say she had lost her virginity to a husband and not merely a lover. Her innocent mind believed that the legality would somehow soften the blow if her mother discovered them. Her father, she knew, would be a lost cause no matter what. Well, unless her husband were someone he chose for her, and Henri certainly was not the choice of Siddig El Fadil.
Then he was there, behind her, his arrival as silent as a shadow, as usual. Most people would be startled by the sensation of suddenly being touched when unaware of someone else in the room, but Melisande was accustomed to Henri's ways, the stealth of a warrior, and his touch instantly soothed and fired her all at once.
"My love," he whispered into her hair, his tall height forcing him to bend down to speak close.
She turned, their arms tightly encircling each other, their lips meeting. No further words, mainly because Melisande feared that somehow someone—servant or family—would hear. Henri broke the embrace only to pick her up in his muscular arms and carry her to her bed. Melisande's blood raced with that familiar mixture of excitement and fear, the latter fueling the former. Though she hated having to keep their relationship secret, she also knew the very nature of their clandestine romance also heightened their emotions and fueled their passions even more.
By the time Henri set her gently on her spacious bed, she had already unbuttoned his black shirt. Then, with fevered urgency, they undressed each other.
Maysam awoke to a beautiful morning, serenaded by mockingbirds perched upon her veranda railing. Her servant girl drew back the curtains but left the sheer inner curtains drawn to dull the sunlight and its promise of another broiling hot day. Siddig had already arisen and was gone from their suite. He rarely slept in, his mind already full of the day's work ahead. Maysam stretched, then used her fingers to comb her long, dark hair into some semblance of order before getting out of bed. The servant would wait for her to head into the bathroom to shower before making the bed.
In the spacious bathroom, Maysam removed her nightgown, humming to herself. Then, catching her image in the full-length mirror opposite the vanity, she stopped singing. She ran one hand across her flat belly, frowned. Why would her womb not yield another child? Why was she able to produce one daughter and nothing since? Siddig needed a son, wanted nothing more in life. He needed an heir. Most of the time he hid his disappointment, but sometimes when they argued about one thing or another, he let slip his frustration regarding her barrenness. He had sent her to multiple doctors to try to diagnose and treat the issue, but so far nothing had helped. Maysam knew Siddig loved her, otherwise he would have discarded her by now, but how long would he wait? More and more lately he seemed discontented with their relationship. After all, her womb was not getting any younger. She was already in her late thirties.
With a sigh, she turned away from the mirror to step into the shower. She needed to banish her own melancholy over this situation and focus on today. She had to be dressed and to the dining room within the hour. Siddig's brother and wife had arrived late last night and were having breakfast with them. Maysam scowled, for she did not care for Amir or Iba. She knew the two were jealous of Siddig's empire and coveted it, but until Siddig died, they would have to wait. Maysam would not put it past them to have Siddig assassinated, but Siddig scoffed at her concerns. He was a confident man, a man who thought himself indestructible.
She reached the palace dining room a few minutes before the appointed time. Two armed men stood guard in the hallway, dressed in desert fatigues. The largest of the two was Henri Ducard, the family's most trusted bodyguard, a handsome man of French and English descent. He was rawboned and powerful, long-limbed, his hair a sandy brown and a bit thin for someone only around thirty years old. His blue eyes could be cold and dark when he was angry or hooded and mysterious, but when he dealt with Maysam or Melisande, those eyes were warm and inviting, almost mischievous, especially when it came to her daughter. Maysam even believed Henri was attracted to Melisande, but then again, so was every man who saw her daughter.
Entering the dining room, Maysam found Siddig and Amir already seated. Both men said good morning to her, then continued their discussion. Something about one of their arms dealers. Maysam always pretended to have no interest in the family business, to play the part of merely a wife and mother, but she always had an ear attuned to anything her husband discussed with others in her presence. She had a sharp, discerning mind, but few men found that to be a desired trait in women.
As one of the servants poured Maysam's tea, Iba arrived, heard before seen. The young woman was snapping a rebuke at the two guards for not opening the door fast enough for her liking. Once inside, she huffed and rolled her eyes as the doors closed behind her. She was dressed in rich silks of gold and pale brown, intricately embroidered, the light fabric flowing behind her lithe form as she moved briskly to the table. Beautiful and much younger than her husband, her dusky skin was perfectly smooth, her makeup impeccably applied. Her dark eyes flashed with a warning at her husband. Amir quickly stood and held her chair for her. She gave Maysam barely a glance, then snapped a finger at the servants waiting in the wings.
"I'm famished," Iba said. "Serve us. What are you waiting for?"
The servants exchanged nervous glances but did not move from their positions.
Siddig said, "We are awaiting my daughter."
"Well," Iba said, "where is she? You should teach your only child to be punctual, brother. That one has always got her head in the clouds."
Siddig tempered his scowl only a little. "Once you have children of your own, sister, you will find that the older they become, the less compliant they are."
Iba raised one well-defined eyebrow at Maysam. "Once our sons are born, they will obey their parents, regardless of age, or they will suffer the consequences. Perhaps your daughter needs to know what 'consequences' means."
"Dear sister," Maysam said with barely veiled sarcasm, "perhaps you could instruct our daughter out of your vast years of experience. After all, you are barely older than Melisande."
Iba gave her a dark look, then said to Siddig, "Perhaps you could at least send someone to fetch her. We will all be starved to death if we leave it up to her to get here soon. Really, brother, it is insulting to your guests. Don't you agree, Amir?"
Amir, a formidable, ruthless man in other areas of his life, had one weakness, and she sat next to him. Siddig told Maysam that Iba's skills in bed kept Amir under her finger in domestic matters. Now Amir shifted his weight in his chair, cleared his throat. "I'm sure our niece means no insult. She probably overslept."
"Doesn't she have servants to wake her?" Iba countered. "Or perhaps they overslept as well." She looked pointedly at the stoic servants nearby.
In a humoring voice, Siddig spoke to the closest girl. "Go to my daughter's room and remind her that she is to be here directly."
But before the servant reached the door, Maysam heard Melisande saying good morning to the guards, then Ducard held the door open for her.
"There she is," Maysam smiled, her gaze transmitting to her daughter a mild rebuke and an order for her to explain herself.
"I'm sorry, Baba," Melisande said to her father with no hint of concern, keeping her voice and expression light. "I had misplaced my shoes, and it took Lakshmi and me a while to find them."
Iba turned away from Melisande to Siddig, saying, "May we eat now?" as more of a command than a request.
Siddig nodded to the servants as Melisande breezed past him at the head of the rectangular table, touching his shoulder lightly before taking her place next to her mother, across from Amir and Iba.
"So glad you could see fit to join us," Iba said. "The food might still be warm."
"Oh, I'm sure it is," Melisande said brightly, rarely taking Iba's bait whenever the woman was looking for a fight. "They keep the dishes covered."
Maysam briefly touched her daughter's hand beneath the table to both praise her response and caution her not to go farther.
As the servants began to serve the first course, Iba said, "Did I hear you talking with the guards, niece?"
"I wished them good morning," Melisande replied.
"Sounded like more than that," Iba said. "I'm surprised at your familiarity with your father's employees."
Now Melisande's tone changed ever so slightly, revealing a hint of anger. "Wishing a good morning to the men who protect all of us every day seems only polite to me; most of them have been with us for years, longer than you've been with Uncle. I wish Lakshmi good morning every morning. Should I not do that, Auntie?"
"They are your father's employees, not your companions," Iba said.
"Sister," Maysam interjected, almost bordering on sharpness, "as you said, no need for your food to get cold. Let us discuss these matters away from the table." But she had no intention to do so. If Iba came at her later, away from the men, Maysam would shut her down in no uncertain terms, but she could not do so in front of their husbands.
"Yes," Amir said, nodding to Iba. "Our sister is right—let us all enjoy our breakfast and speak of other things."
With her spouse finally stepping into the fray, Iba had little choice but to retreat. She flashed Melisande a final glare, then picked up her fork.
Melisande spent the morning in one of the usual mundane ways—embroidering with the women of her extended palace family, wives to Siddig's younger brothers. Iba was not among them; she had no interest in embroidering. She would rather purchase clothes that were either already embroidered or would set her seamstress to adorning anything purchased. Melisande was thankful her aunt left the palace to be driven to Jodhpur for a day of shopping.
After lunch, Melisande slipped away, carrying a book with her to the lowest level of the palace, the floor where the large kitchen was as well as quarters for the servants and the palace security detail. Her pretense for being there was to request a particular dessert for supper, but once she had finished speaking to the chef, she drifted past the adjoining room where the staff ate their meals. Three men were still there, finishing lunch, all part of the security force, including Henri Ducard. Expecting her appearance, he had sat in a chair facing the open doorway, and their eyes met meaningfully as she passed. Her heart skipped a beat, and her body responded in a way her father would think shameful. As she continued down the corridor, she fought to contain a private smile.
From there, she exited the building through a door at the end of the corridor. A small, paved area, shaded by khejri trees, offered the staff a place to smoke since they were not allowed to do so inside. Two of the off-duty men were there. They halted their conversation and nodded respectfully to her as she passed, dutifully avoiding her eyes in such a private setting.
She continued to the rear of the palace, to the acres of manicured gardens. The day was already hot, but she did not mind, having grown up a child of the desert. No one from the palace was outside, not even any of her young nieces or nephews, only the gardeners. She glided on her way, pausing now and then to admire a flower or a fountain, acting as leisurely and without purpose as possible.
At the far end of the gardens was a guesthouse made of pale pink stone, a two-storied affair with wrap-around verandas on the second floor. Although Amir and Iba were currently guests of the palace, they never stayed in the guesthouse; they had a suite in the palace that was kept only for their visits. So the guesthouse sat empty. Melisande often came here for privacy and the peace it offered, a place where the only sounds came from the variety of birds that roosted upon the tiled roof or the verandas, away from the bustle of the palace. She called it her reading house, for she spent hours here with her books. Since the start of her affair with Henri, the guesthouse also served as one of their rendezvous points.
Once inside, she crossed the cool tile floor of the reception room and took the stairs to the second floor. Two separate suites took up the entire floor. She entered one and drew the curtains as if to deflect the afternoon sun when in truth it was to keep out prying eyes. Then she settled on a mauve-colored sofa and opened her book, glancing at a clock on the nearby credenza. Henri would wait half an hour before he came here after his lunch. This was his day off duty, so no one would be seeking him out. And he would be his usual careful self, not coming here directly from the palace's lower level. He would wind his way through various parts of the property before arriving here. Her impatience to be in his arms made her wish that he was not always so thorough in his cautious measures.
She found herself reading and rereading the same paragraphs, unable to concentrate. Giving up, she set the book aside and stood. It was then that she heard someone coming up the stairs. She turned to see Henri in the doorway, his tall frame taking up the space, a smile on his face and that sparkle in his blue eyes that he saved just for her. She rushed to him, and he folded her into his warm embrace. There was no place on earth where she felt more secure.
After a lengthy kiss that took her breath away, they parted long enough to settle on the sofa. Melisande brought her feet up on the cushion, her body curled up against him, his muscular arm around her shoulders, his scent—sandalwood mingled with something else—filling her.
"How was your breakfast with Amir the Snake and his shrew of a wife?" he asked with a small grin.
"Dreadful. She was angry that I spoke to you in the hallway."
The twinkle reappeared. "And did you do that just to make her angry?"
She gave him a playful slap on his arm. "Of course not."
He raised one eyebrow leadingly, waited.
"Well," she said, "maybe that was part of it."
He chuckled.
"But I always say good morning to you when I see you, don't I?"
"True. But maybe that's simply to irritate your father."
"Stop," she said, then reached up to kiss him.
They fell silent for a time, happy to simply be with one another, their fingers languidly caressing each other's arms.
"We should go away together," she murmured.
"And where would we go?" Henri asked, not sounding serious at all.
"I don't know. It doesn't matter where, as long as we're together."
"We are together."
"But we can't be really together here. You know what I mean."
"Melisande." His suddenly hard tone and pregnant pause drew her gaze up to his. All teasing was gone, replaced by the deadly seriousness of a soldier. "Your father will never allow you to leave."
"I wasn't saying that I would ask permission."
"I understand that, my love. Trust me, I know exactly what you're thinking. But I also know if we left, your father wouldn't rest until he found us. And what we would suffer for our decision to leave would be at the least unpleasant and—in my case—quite possibly lethal."
"I wouldn't let Baba hurt you."
"Your father's wrath would never be swayed by his daughter's protests. Come, my darling, you know him better than that. We must be realistic."
She cuddled tighter against him. "I don't want to be realistic. I want to be happy."
"We are happy, aren't we? For now, we have to be satisfied with the time we have together, like this." He kissed her and smiled again, banishing his harshness.
"You've seen so much of the world. I want to see it, too."
"Someday you will, when you are older."
"But Baba wants to marry me off, and the sooner, the better, for him. Then I'll have to tell him that I'm already married. That won't have to happen if we go away now."
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. It won't be happening today, my love." He kissed her forehead. "So, let's not waste any more time talking about it. We have better things to do, don't we?" He grinned suggestively.
She blushed before he pulled her closer and kissed her again.
Alone, Maysam stepped onto her veranda after evening prayers. The sun had set, leaving behind a faded pink ribbon along the horizon. A flock of birds raced above the palace gardens, vanishing into the encroaching darkness without a sound. The heat of the day still lay heavy upon the land, but Maysam did not mind. She enjoyed this time of the evening when she often came to sit on the veranda and sip chai.
Movement to her right caught her eye—Melisande was on her own veranda, just down the way from Maysam's. She watched her daughter move restlessly, her long hair now free, flowing down her back in a dark wave. Melisande chewed on one finger as she paced, seemingly distracted, not noticing her mother's scrutiny. Maysam frowned and headed back inside just as her servant arrived with the chai.
"I'll take it in my daughter's suite. Fetch a second cup," she directed, not breaking stride as she moved down the hallway to a door that connected the suites. Surprisingly, she found the door locked. She knocked loudly, called, "Melisande, let me in."
After a moment of continued knocking, Melisande's servant, Lakshmi, opened the door. The dark-skinned girl bowed slightly, her hands pressed together in front of her. "Good evening, sahiba."
"Good evening, Lakshmi. I saw my daughter on her veranda. Is she still there?"
"Yes, sahiba."
A knock came at the main door of the suite.
"That's Aditi with my chai. Tell her to bring it to the veranda. Then you are both dismissed. I wish to be alone with my daughter. See that we are not disturbed." With that, Maysam swept through the living room to the veranda.
Melisande quickly turned when she heard the veranda door open. Surprise flashed in her eyes. "Mother, I wasn't expecting you. Should I have Lakshmi bring us some tea?"
"Aditi is just behind me with some for both of us."
"Oh…" Melisande turned in a flustered circle, as if looking for something before she forced a smile and gestured to one of the two white wicker chairs nearby.
As they both sat, Aditi arrived and set the tea service on the small round table between them, then proceeded to pour for the women.
"Thank you, Aditi," Maysam said. "You can return to my suite now."
"Yes, sahiba."
Maysam blew gently into her teacup before sipping, allowing the moment to lengthen so she could gauge her daughter's state of mind. She knew her child intimately and loved her deeply. They were close and always confided in one another things that they would say to no one else. This was why Maysam felt hurt by Melisande's recent withdrawal from her. She figured it was Melisande's way of protecting her from something, but even that assumption failed to soothe Maysam. Though they were both surrounded by Siddig's extended family, they shared a certain isolation. Maysam saw so much of her younger self in Melisande, the girl's intelligence and quiet desire for things beyond the palace—education, for one, and perhaps even a career—things that their fathers had denied them. Lately, Melisande was restless and rebellious, mainly when it came to Siddig, but sometimes even with Maysam. A natural element of youth, Maysam said to her husband to try to smooth his ruffled feathers after his complaints about their daughter. It irked Maysam, those times, for she knew if it were a rebellious son they were discussing, Siddig would have smiled with smug pride over his boy's strength of character.
"I didn't see much of you today," Maysam began leadingly.
"Embroidery is dull after an hour or so." Melisande's graceful fingers lifted her teacup to her lips.
"You went to the guesthouse to escape your cousins?"
"You know me well, Mother." She smiled and returned the cup to its saucer.
Maysam allowed a long silence between them as they drank. Her eyes wandered to the rocky hills beyond the palace's western wall. She felt her daughter's unease, noticed the slight shifting of Melisande's feet on the sandstone tiles.
"Whatever do you do, daughter alhabiba, in the guesthouse for an entire afternoon?"
"You know…read and nap."
"Are you always alone?"
Melisande hesitated only a moment. "Of course."
Maysam took another sip, sighed, and set both the saucer and cup back on the tray between them. "I have never lied to you, Melisande."
Melisande blinked at this sudden change of subjects. "Of course you haven't. And I—"
Maysam held her hand between them, silencing her daughter. "Do not hide a lie with another lie."
"What do you mean?"
"I will ask you again—are you always alone in the guesthouse?"
Melisande's gaze darted around them, anywhere but on her mother.
"Tell me the truth, daughter."
The unease on Melisande's face changed then as she realized she had been found out. Her expression closed and darkened with anger, tension showing in the tightening of her lips before she murmured, "Baba's spies."
"No, it was no spy who gave you up. It was your own behavior that gave you away, but as far as I am aware, I am the only one who knows."
"Knows what?"
"That is what you will tell me now." Maysam's own voice carried the weight of her concern, offering no solace to her daughter, nothing to encourage her to be anything but honest.
"I go to the guesthouse to have some privacy. I have no privacy here. And I can't leave the compound without bodyguards, so I can't find privacy somewhere else."
"Where else would you look for privacy?"
"I don't know," Melisande said, her volume rising as she stood. "But I would like to find it since now it seems the guesthouse isn't private anymore either."
"You have not answered my question, daughter. Are you always alone in the guesthouse?"
Melisande stopped near the edge of the veranda, her hands closing around the painted metal railing, her back to her mother. Maysam wanted to go to her, wanted to put her arms around her, but she knew she needed distance right now to draw out the truth.
"No," Melisande finally said, subdued.
"Who is with you?"
Melisande remained with her back to Maysam. Her knuckles were turning white from her firm grip on the railing. "Sometimes Mr. Ducard keeps me company, when he's not on duty, of course."
"And why would he do that, knowing it's not appropriate?"
Melisande turned suddenly, anxiety in her quick reply, "Please don't tell Baba."
"I haven't. If I had, your father would be talking to you now, not I."
"But will you tell him?"
Maysam held out one hand, beckoning her daughter to return to her chair, her expression sympathetic, for she did not like seeing her child upset. Melisande hesitated, then took Maysam's hand and regained her seat.
"I won't tell your father, child, but you must be completely honest with me. Are you romantically involved with Henri Ducard?"
Melisande's long eyelashes lowered, demurely veiling her eyes. "If I tell you, will you send him away? This isn't his fault, you know. I blame myself."
"Affairs are never the fault of only one person."
"It's not an affair," Melisande quickly said, as if insulted, then she bit her lip, realizing she had said the wrong thing.
"If it is not an affair, then what is it? Ducard would know that he can never pursue you with the goal of marriage."
"That's why I said this is all my fault. We both wanted to…" She frowned, and color rose to her cheeks. "We wanted to be together, and I told him that I would never sleep with someone that I wasn't married to."
Maysam gasped. She had expected an affair, but she had never dreamed her daughter would be reckless enough to marry in secret. A man could be so foolish, yes, especially when he was not the one with a strict, fiery father, but Melisande… How dare Ducard put Melisande in this position, preying on her immaturity and foolish dreams of romance. Surely he would realize the repercussions for both himself and Melisande. Maysam had thought of him as a man of integrity; indeed, he would not be a part of their security force if he were anything less. Perhaps he had fooled them all.
"Tell me it isn't true, daughter," Maysam said. "Did Ducard trick you into this?"
"No, mother. It was all my idea."
"And of course he would go along with it," Maysam grumbled. "He has taken advantage of your innocence. He must leave, and the sooner the better, before your father finds out."
Melisande's other hand closed tightly around Maysam's. "No, you can't send him away. He's my husband." Some of the rebelliousness edged back into her tone. "If you send him away, I will go with him. You will never see me again. I don't want that. Do you?"
"Who married you? Where is the proof? Is this some scheme of Ducard's, some falsehood he's making you believe so he can sleep with you?"
"No, mother. I told you, it was my fault, my idea. He didn't want to because of Baba. He tried to resist me, but I wouldn't let him. I love him, and he loves me. It's only right that we married. You should be glad that I didn't just let him—"
"I should be glad?" Maysam reared back in her chair, breaking their physical hold on each other. "What I am is terrified, and you should be, too. We must end this quietly, before your father finds out."
"He won't. We are always careful."
"Not careful enough if I have figured it out. I've kept my observations and suspicions to myself, but eventually you or he will slip up, and your father will figure it out with his own observations or the observations of others."
"Baba is gone more than he is here."
"But he has eyes and ears that he leaves behind. His spies, as you call them."
"I told you, we're cautious about where and when we meet."
"Foolish child, you can't keep this a secret forever. What about when you become pregnant?"
"We've been careful."
"Careful! If you were careful, daughter, you never would have found yourself in this situation. Have you already forgotten Iba's remarks at breakfast? About you talking with Ducard? She would like nothing more than to discredit you, us, jealous child that she is. Maybe she has someone watching us, someone who sees you go to the guesthouse and wherever else you rendezvous. She won't be discreet, not for a second. And if she didn't outright tell your father, she would use her knowledge as leverage for something she wants through me or you." She paused when she saw tears start to rise in her daughter's beautiful eyes. She reached for Melisande's hand again, their flesh now cold. "You are all I have, daughter. I can't lose you."
"You won't lose me," Melisande said. "What, you think Baba would send me away if he were to find out about me and Henri? Well, if he did, then Henri and I could be free. Perhaps I should tell him."
Maysam tightened her grip, leaned toward her daughter with sudden desperation. "You must not. Neither one of us can guess how he would react. Your father is not a forgiving man. I shouldn't have to remind you of this."
"But I am his daughter."
"Yes, his daughter, not his son. Men do not overlook the faults of a woman the way they do with other men. You know how they are. Surely you are not that naïve."
"Of course not, mother. But…" She looked toward the horizon, swallowing hard to help hold her tears at bay. "I can't let Henri go. I love him. I would die without him."
"I assure you, you would not. And let go of him you must. It's only a matter of time before your father finds out about your relationship. As I said, there are too many eyes and ears here in the palace. And all except my brother's family are of your father's blood, so their allegiance is to him, not to you and me." She paused. "If you won't do this for your own safety and future, then you must do it for Ducard's safety. I would not put it past your father to kill him if he finds out about your relationship."
Melisande's attention snapped back to her, alarm clearing her eyes. "Baba would never do that. Henri is his most trusted man. Baba respects him."
"There will be no respect if your father finds out his employee has not only slept with his daughter but has married her, a girl he plans to marry to someone of his choosing, a virgin who will make the transaction lucrative in one form or fashion."
"So that is all I am to Baba? A bargaining chip?"
Maysam quickly assured her, "You are his daughter; he loves you."
"How can he love me if he would kill my rightful husband?"
"I can't explain everything about your father. I know him well, but there are also aspects of his life and character that are mysteries to me."
"I know." Anger slipped into Melisande's tone now. "You married him because you had to, because your fathers arranged it. No one cared what you felt. Is that how you want it to be for me? Married to someone I don't love?"
"Of course not. But you know my opinion matters little in such a case when it comes to your father and his plans for you." She paused. "I learned to love your father, and he loves me. Who is to say that won't happen with you and the man your father chooses for you?"
"I love Henri. I don't want to be with anyone else. He's my husband, and he will remain my husband."
"You leave me no choice but to speak with him myself, then."
"He won't change his mind any more than I will."
Maysam's lips pressed into an unhappy line. How could she get through to them? She could request Ducard be reassigned, sent back into the field instead of stationed here at the palace, but if she did, Siddig would grow suspicious. No, she could not take a chance that might jeopardize her daughter. She would have to confront Ducard and pray that he listened to reason and quietly divorced Melisande.
"Ducard must change his mind," Maysam said, "if he truly loves you. After all, how could he ever forgive himself if his actions led to something tragic happening to you?"
"Nothing will happen, mother. If Baba ever finds out, I will make him understand."
Maysam sighed and shook her head. "If only it were that simple." She sipped her tea, no longer finding any pleasure in it. "You must not seek Ducard out, nor he you. I will see to it the most discreet way I can."
"No! Please, you can't."
"I'm sorry, daughter, but I must." Maysam got to her feet.
Melisande hurriedly stood, bumping the table and causing the tea to slosh out of her cup. She grasped her mother's arms, held her in place, eyes pleading. "Please, please, mother. We will be careful. No one will know—"
"Enough," Maysam said, pulling away from her. "I'm sorry, but I'm your mother, and my duty is to protect you."
Hurt and anger tightened Melisande's muscles, replaced the look of supplication. "I don't need your protection. My husband will protect me."
Maysam turned away to reenter Melisande's suite, pacing briskly toward the adjoining door. Melisande followed on her heels.
In a quiet hiss, Melisande said, "You can't keep us apart. If you do, I will hate you forever. Is that what you want, just to keep Baba happy?"
Maysam turned upon her, her quickness nearly causing her daughter to stumble back. Now tears stung her own eyes as she said, "I will do whatever I must to keep you safe. If that means your hatred, then that is the price I will pay. What kind of mother would I be not to protect you?"
Then she was through the door, locking it behind her. Aditi was just coming out of Maysam's bedroom. Maysam said to her, "You are to go to the main door of my daughter's suite and lock it from the hallway. Then you are to fetch Mr. Ducard from his quarters and send him to me right away."