But Khalid immediately reached his hand out to stop her.
Shahrzad met his gaze, and he shook his head very slightly, his eyes narrowing at the edges. His thumb trailed along the underside of her forearm, and the knot in her stomach pulled tight. Then he let go, his features blank once more.
As the sea of faces parted before them, Shahrzad took her first glimpse of the man who wished to lord over Khalid with accusations of illegitimacy. The uncle who had treated Khalid’s mother with such disdain.
The sultan who would do anything for the chance to gain a kingdom.
Salim Ali el-Sharif was an attractive man with a strong jaw, nicely greying hair, and a meticulous mustache. He was trim and appeared in good health, with a deceptively warm set of dark brown eyes. His charcoal-colored mantle was exquisitely embroidered at its collar and hem, and the scimitar at his hip had a burnished hilt of solid gold with an emerald the size of a child’s fist embedded in its base.
He strode onto the dais with the confidence of a man absent worry and took a seat in the empty space by Khalid.
At Salim’s arrival, the rest of the guests began filtering to the tables. Shahrzad finally dared to run her eyes across the room and was distressed to discover that Tariq was seated quite close, well within earshot. When their glances met, his handsome face eased into perilous familiarity—awash in the memory of stolen embraces—and Shahrzad immediately looked away.
Stop it! Please don’t do this, Tariq. If Khalid sees you looking at me . . . you don’t understand.
He notices everything.
And you are risking your life.
“Khalid-jan!” the Sultan of Parthia began in a spuriously pleasant voice, putting his wolfish white teeth on full display. “Are you not going to introduce me to your new wife?”
As Salim spoke, the shahrban sat down next to him, shielded by his usual armor of circumspection.
Khalid’s piercing gaze turned to Salim. Then he smiled slowly, with such patent falseness that its chill blew back like an icy gale on a mountaintop.
“Of course, Uncle Salim. It would be a privilege to introduce you.” Khalid shifted to one side. “Shahrzad, this is my uncle by marriage, Salim Ali el-Sharif. Uncle Salim, this is my wife, Shahrzad.”
Salim regarded her with an eager friendliness Shahrzad found disarming. He beamed at her with no small amount of charisma.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.” Shahrzad offered him a ready smile. She bowed her head and touched her fingertips to her brow.
“By all that is holy, Khalid-jan—she is a vision.” Though Salim looked at her, he addressed Khalid, treating Shahrzad as little more than a tapestry hanging on his nephew’s wall. It rankled her.
Shahrzad held firm to her smile. “A vision with eyes and ears, my lord.”
Khalid continued staring ahead, but the ice set around his features thawed at her retort.
Salim’s eyes widened, and something flared for an instant in their pools of contrived warmth. He laughed, and the sound was just as charming as his voice. Just as overdone. “Stunning and silver-tongued. What an interesting combination! I can see I will have quite a time getting to know you, my lady Shahrzad.”
“Quite a time,” Shahrzad agreed. “I look forward to it, my lord.”
Though his smile wavered for less than an instant, there was no mistaking it; she was irritating him.
“As do I,” he replied. Each word was like a spear soaked in sweet water.
“If it pleases our esteemed guests,” the announcer boomed from above, “dinner is served!”
Two rows of servants descended the open-armed staircases, bearing steaming trays above their heads. They marched in unison until they arrived before the dais, setting plates of food in front of each guest—aromatic rice with fresh dill and split fava beans, lamb simmered in a sauce of turmeric and caramelized onions, skewers of chicken and roasted tomatoes, fresh vegetables garnished with mint and chopped parsley, olives marinated in fine oil, lavash bread with rounds of goat cheese and seemingly endless sweet preserves . . .
Shahrzad had never seen so much food.
The air filled with the aroma of spices and the clamor of conversation. Shahrzad began with some lavash bread and quince chutney, which had quickly become a favorite of hers since she arrived at the palace. As she ate, she chanced another perusal of the room. Tariq was speaking with an older gentleman seated to his left. When he felt her eyes on him, Tariq turned his head, and Shahrzad was forced, yet again, to look away.
Khalid poured himself a cup of wine and eased back onto the cushions, leaving his plate of food untouched.
“Have you no appetite, nephew?” Salim raised an eyebrow at Khalid. “Perhaps it has mysteriously disappeared. That can happen when one is—troubled.”
Khalid ignored Salim’s attempt to bait him, choosing instead to take a sip of wine.
“Or . . . is it possible you are concerned your food seeks to lash out at you in response to some inexplicable offense?” Salim laughed at his own joke, winking at Shahrzad.
Hateful man.
Shahrzad reached over and snared an olive from Khalid’s plate. Holding Salim’s gaze, she popped the olive in her mouth and ate it. “His food seems fine to me, my lord. I’m not certain which inexplicable offense you might be referencing, but rest assured, his food is quite safe,” Shahrzad replied with a wink of her own. “Would you like me to taste your food as well, Uncle?”
At that, Jalal began barking with laughter, and even the shahrban was forced to lower his grizzled chin.