HIS SERENE HIGHNESS, Prince Shahir bin Harith alAssad,
reached his vast estate in the Scottish Highlands shortly
before eight in the morning.
As usual, every possible arrangement had been put in place
to smooth his arrival with the seamless luxury that had
been his right since birth. A limousine with blacked-out
windows had collected him from the private airfield where
his Lear jet had landed. At no stage had anyone sought to
breach his reserve with unwelcome dialogue, for he valued
his privacy beyond all other things and his staff worked
hard at keeping the rest of the world at bay. Offered a
seat in the limo, his estate manager, Fraser Douglas, had
answered several questions and then embraced a self-
effacing silence.
The only road to Strathcraig Castle stretched for more
than fifteen miles, through tawny moorlands surrounded by
spectacular purple-blue mountains. The lonely silence of
the majestic landscape and the wide blue sky that filled
the horizon reminded Shahir of the desert that he loved
with an even greater passion. After the frenetic bustle
and buzz of the business world, the wild, natural
emptiness refreshed his eyes.
As the limo began its descent into the remote forested
glen of Strathcraig the passage of a flock of sheep forced
the powerful vehicle to a halt. A white-haired woman with
a bicycle was also waiting by the side of the road. Only
when she turned her head did Shahir appreciate that the
woman had barely left her teenage years behind: her hair
was not white, it was a very pale platinum-blonde, drawn
back from her delicate features in smooth wings. Slender
and graceful, she had wide, intelligent eyes and a
sensitive, full pink mouth. Even her drab clothing could
not conceal the fact that she was as proud and pure in her
beauty as an angel he had once seen in an illuminated
manuscript. There was, however, nothing reverent about the
instant charge of lust that she ignited in Shahir. He was
startled by the unfamiliar intensity of his desire, for it
had been a long time since a woman had excited his
interest to that extent
"Who is that?" he asked the estate manager seated opposite
him.
"Kirsten Ross, Your Highness," the square-faced older man
advanced, and when the silence lay gathering dust, in a
way that implied he had answered too briefly, he hastened
to offer more facts. "I believe she's employed as a
domestic at the castle."
Shahir would not have dreamt of bedding an employee, and
the news that she worked for him in so menial a capacity
struck an even less welcome note, for he was a fastidious
man. "I haven't seen her before."
"Kirsten Ross isn't the sort to draw attention to herself."
Hard cynicism firmed Shahir's well-sculpted mouth. He was
a connoisseur of beautiful women, and had yet to meet one
unaware of her power. "She must be accustomed to the
attention her looks excite."
"I shouldn't think she's ever been encouraged to pay much
heed to a mirror," Fraser Douglas responded with a wry
grimace. "Her father is a religious fanatic with a
reputation for being very strict on the home front."
Realising in some surprise that he was still staring at
the exquisite blonde, Shahir averted his attention with
punctilious care from her. The car drove on.
The older man's censorious reference to the girl's father
had surprised him, for where did religious devotion end
and fanaticism begin? After all, to an outsider village
life in Strathcraig appeared to revolve round the church
and its activities. The local community followed a very
different code of values from the more liberal ways of
high society circles. Indeed, the tenants on the estate
had a conservative outlook that struck visitors as
distinctly grim and outdated, and was probably the result
of the glen's isolation from the wider world.
Yet Shahir was more at home at Strathcraig than he was
within a more laissez-faire culture. Dhemen, the Middle
Eastern kingdom of his birth, was equally strait-laced.
Right was right and wrong was wrong and community welfare
always took precedence over the freedom of the individual.
Within that clear framework few dared to stray, and those
who did were punished by the opprobrium they attracted.
In much the same way Shahir accepted the limitations that
fate had chosen to place on his own prospects of
happiness. Any woman he took to his bed could only be a
poor substitute for the one he really desired, he
acknowledged wryly. He loved a woman who could never be
his, and casual sexual affairs were his only outlet. But
he was thirty-two years old, and that was not how he had
planned to live his life.
Concerned relatives kept on lining up the names of
promising bridal prospects, and the more broad-minded set
up casual meetings with suitable females on his behalf.
Perhaps, he reflected grimly, it was time for him to bite
the bullet and choose one of those candidates. His darkly
handsome features firmed. An Arabian woman would devote
her energies 24/7 to the pursuit of being his wife. In
return she would expect children, wealth, and the prestige
of great position. Love wouldn't come into the equation
and why should it? Marriage in his world had much more to
do with the practicalities of status, family connections
and, primarily, the provision of an heir. His father had
been extremely sympathetic towards his son's desire to
remain single for as long as possible but, as the next in
line to the throne, Shahir was well aware that he could
not stave off the inevitable for much longer.
It was fortunate that there was not an atom of romance in
his soul, Shahir conceded with bleak satisfaction. His hot-
blooded temperament and powerful sex-drive had always been
kept in line by his strong principles and his
discriminating tastes. He was a man who faced the truth,
no matter how unpalatable it was. He was not a man who
made foolish mistakes. Born into the very heart of a royal
family, he knew what his duty entailed and he was proud of
his heritage. His keen intelligence told him that
accepting the need to acquire a wife would be a much more
sensible option than eying up a gorgeous but totally
unsuitable Western woman — particularly one who worked for
him in so lowly a capacity…
"You're living in Cloud-cuckoo-land," Jeanie Murray told
Kirsten with blunt conviction as she sat on the worn
wooden counter, smoking a cigarette in flagrant disregard
of her rules of employment. "Your father will never let
you live away from home to go to college."
Kirsten continued to wash a bone-thin Sevres china saucer
with gentle and careful hands, her classic profile
intent. "I think that now that he's married to Mabel he
might be prepared to consider it." 'Aye, all that kneeling
and praying didn't stop your dad from courting a new bride
before your poor mum was cold in her grave. Folk say he
likes his home comforts on tap." Impervious to her
companion's discomfiture, the plump, freckled redhead
rolled her eyes and vented a laugh. "But why should he
agree to you moving out? You're bringing home a tidy pay
packet. Don't tell me that that isn't welcome to Angus
Ross — we all know how tight his hold is on his wallet!"
Kirsten tried not to wince at the news that her father's
stinginess was a living legend locally. Jeanie's frankly
uttered opinions and tactless remarks often caused
friction with other members of staff. Kirsten, however,
could forgive her much, for she valued the other woman's
warm-hearted friendliness. "Jeanie…"
"Don't go all goody-goody on me just because you think you
should. You know it's true. I've heard a story or two
about what your home life's like, and that's no picnic by
all accounts —"
"But I don't discuss my family with anyone," Kirsten
slotted in swiftly.
Jeanie rolled her eyes with unblemished good humour. "I
bet you're still doing all the cooking and cleaning at
home. Old sourpuss Mabel won't want you to move out
either. Face up to it, Kirsten. You're twenty-two years
old and the only way you're ever going to get a life of
your own is by running away as fast as your legs can carry
you from the pair of them!"
"We'll see." Kirsten bent her head and said nothing more.
It would take a hefty sum of money to enable her to set up
home elsewhere. Running away would be the coward's way
out, and doing so without sufficient funds would be
foolish, for it would land her straight into the poverty
trap. She wanted to be able to rent somewhere decent and
plan her future. She just had to be patient, she reminded
herself sternly. She was only six weeks into her very
first job, and with her father taking a large slice of her
wages to cover her keep it would be a few months before
her savings could cover any sort of a move.
She could wait until then; her job, humble as it was,
still felt like a lifeline to her. She loved working in
the medieval splendour of the historic castle. The
magnificent surroundings were an endless source of
fascination to her. Even riding her bike into work every
morning gave her a freedom that had long been denied her.
The chance to mix freely with other people was even more
welcome. But she was equally conscious that she wanted
more out of life than a post as a cleaner, and that she
needed qualifications and training to aspire to anything
more.
Yet the prospect of having to blatantly defy her father's
rigid rules of conduct was challenging and frightening,
for she had been taught from childhood to offer him
unquestioning obedience. He was a cold, intimidating man,
with a violent temper that she had once struggled to
protect her late mother from. Her lovely face shadowed,
for she was still grieving for that loss.
Isobel Ross had become ill when her daughter was thirteen
years old, and her long, slow decline had been matched by
her ever greater need for care. That responsibility had
fallen on Kirsten's shoulders. Her father had not been
prepared to assist with what he saw as 'women's work', and
her older brother, Daniel, had been kept too busy doing
farm work to be in any position to help. Once the
brightest child in her class, Kirsten had begun to miss a
great deal of school and her grades had slowly worsened.
Fed up with the restrictions imposed by their father's
increasingly obsessive absorption in religion, her brother
had finally quarrelled with him and moved out. As soon as
it was legally possible, Angus Ross had removed his
daughter from school so that she could nurse her mother
and take charge of his household.
For the following five years Kirsten had only left the
farm to attend church and do the weekly shop. Her father
disapproved of social occasions and had discouraged all
visitors. Exactly a year after her mother's death her
father had married Mabel. The other woman was sour and
sharp-tongued. But Kirsten was grateful that Mabel's
eagerness to see more money coming into the household had
prompted her stepmother to persuade her husband to allow
Kirsten to seek employment outside the home.
"We'll have to see if we can get you a proper thrill this
week, while our gorgeous desert sheikh is in residence,"
Jeanie remarked brightly.
A surprisingly mischievous smile curved Kirsten's
lips. "I've had my treat for the week: I saw the Prince's
limousine, and very impressive it was too."
"Never mind the limo. We'll hide you somewhere to get a
glimpse of the man himself! I've only seen him a couple of
times, and at a distance, but I'm telling you he'd make a
sinner out of any saint." Jeanie groaned, with a
lascivious look in her eyes, as she disposed of her
cigarette and put the ashtray back in its hiding
place. "He's a right sex god."
"I'll be keeping well out of his way. I wouldn't want to
lose my job." Kirsten had been warned when she was hired
that all domestic tasks at the castle were to be carried
out with as much silence and invisibility as was humanly
possible. It had been made equally clear to her that if
her phenomenally rich and royal employer was to appear in
the same corridor she was to hastily vacate it, so she
didn't think there would be much chance of her bumping
into him!
"If I had your face and body I'd be tripping over myself
to accidentally fall in His Serene Highness's way!" Jeanie
gave her a broad wink." If he fancied you he could take
you away from all this and set you up in a house
somewhere. You'd be made, because he's minted! Think of
the clothes you could have, and the jewels, and a real
macho man in your bed into the bargain. You're really
beautiful, Kirsten. If anyone could pull Prince Shahir,
you could!"
Kirsten studied her in bewilderment, her colour
rising. "I'm not like that —"
"Well, you'd be much better off if you were," the redhead
told her roundly. "At least I know how to have a bit of
fun and I can enjoy a good laugh. If you don't watch out
your father will turn you into a dried-up old spinster!"
Having finished washing the Sevres dinner service, Kirsten
dried it piece by piece with great care. Even so, her
thoughts were miles away. She felt so out of step with
Jeanie. Kirsten had been brought up in a house where the
only spoken reference to sex had related to what her
father referred to as 'the sin of fornication'. The
content of the newspapers and magazines she had glimpsed
since starting work at the castle had initially shocked
her, for the only written matter in her home consisted of
the Bible and religious tracts, and it was many years
since her father had got rid of the television. Yet she
was guiltily aware that she was sorely tempted by the
fashionable clothes and the exotic places that she had
seen in those publications.
If only her father were a more reasonable man. If only he
would allow her to go out and about and enjoy mixed
company, like other women her age. After all, he must have
dated her late mother to have married her — and surely
that could not have been morally wrong?