Free Defiant in the Desert by Sharon Kendrick

was born into poverty?’ he said. ‘Real and abject poverty?’
    ‘I heard the rumours,’ Sara answered. ‘Though you’d never guess that from your general bearing and manner.’
    ‘I learn very quickly. Adaption is the first lesson of survival,’ he said drily. ‘And believe me, it’s easier to absorb the behaviour of the rich, than it is the other way round.’
    ‘So how did you—a boy from the wrong side of the tracks—ever come into contact with someone as important as the Sultan?’
    There was silence for a moment. Sara thought she saw a sudden darkness cross his face. And there was bitterness, too.
    ‘I grew up in a place called Tymahan, a small area of Samahan, where the land is at its most desolate and people eke out what living they can. To be honest, there was never much of a living to be made—even before the last war, when much blood was shed. But you, of course—in your pampered palace in Dhi’ban—would have known nothing of those hardships.’
    ‘You cannot blame me for the way I was protected as a princess,’ she protested. ‘Would you sooner I had cut off my hair and pretended to be a boy, in order to do battle?’
    ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
    ‘Carry on with your story,’ she urged, leaning forward a little.
    He seemed to draw in a quick breath as she grew closer.
    ‘The Sultan’s father was touring the region,’ he said. ‘He wanted to witness the aftermath of the wars and to see whether any insurrection remained.’
    Sara watched as he took a sip from his beaker and then put the drink back down on the low table.
    ‘My mother had been ill—and grieving,’ he continued. ‘My father had been killed in the uprisings and as a consequence she was vulnerable—struck down by a scourge known to many at that time.’ His mouth twisted with pain and bitterness. ‘A scourge known as starvation.’
    Sara flinched as guilt suddenly washed over her. Earlier, he had accused her of self-pity and didn’t he have a point? She had moaned about her position as a princess—yet despite the many unsatisfactory areas of her life, she had certainly never experienced anything as fundamental as a lack of food. She’d never had to face a problem as pressing as basic survival . She looked into his black eyes, which were now clouded with pain, and her heart went out to him.
    ‘Oh, Suleiman,’ she said softly.
    His mouth hardened, as if her sympathy was unwelcome. ‘The Sultan was being entertained by a group of local dignitaries and there was enough food groaning on those tables to feed our village for a month,’ he said, his voice growing harsh. ‘I was lurking in the shadows, for that was my particular skill—to see and yet not be seen. And on this night I saw a pomegranate—as big as a man’s fist and as golden as the midday sun. My mother had always loved pomegranates and I...’
    ‘You stole it?’ she guessed as his words faded away.
    He gave her a tight smile. ‘If I had been old enough to articulate my thoughts I would have called it a fair distribution of goods, but my motives were irrelevant since I was caught, red-handed. I may have been good at hiding in the shadows, but I was no match for the Sultan’s elite bodyguards.’
    Sara shivered, recognising the magnitude of such a crime and wondering how he was still alive to tell the tale.
    ‘And they let you off?’
    He gave a short laugh. ‘The Sultan’s guards are not in the habit of granting clemency to common thieves and I was moments away from losing my head to one of their scimitars, when I saw a young boy about the same age as me running from within one of the royal tents and shouting at them to stop. It was the Sultan’s son, Murat.’ He paused. ‘Your future husband.’
    Sara flinched, for she knew that his heavy reminder had been deliberate. ‘And what did he do?’
    ‘He saved my life.’
    She stared at him in bewilderment. ‘How?’
    ‘It was simple. Murat was protected and pampered—but