Kitabı oku: «Desert Fantasies: Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh», sayfa 2

The sun was lower now, turning the golden stone of the palace to a burnished red, though it was still almost too hot for the white linen trouser suit she had selected from her wardrobe.

She didn’t care. She had chosen smart travelling clothes over one of her cooler silk abayas for a reason: she wanted it to be clear that she intended travelling home to Jemeya the first chance she got, today if it was at all possible. They could pack up and send her clothes after her.

The merest hint of a breeze, cooled by the fountains and the garden, tickled the patch of bare skin behind her neck, making her thankful she’d knotted her hair behind her head. Cool serenity she had been aiming for in her look, which was what she most needed. Along with confidence. Which she had for the most part, she felt, until she thought about the mystery of the clothes so neatly filling the dressing room and the absence of any kind of answers to her questions.

The strangeness of it all once again sent skitters down her spine. No matter how much she had tried to find a logical reason, to try to explain what possible reason they had sent her entire wardrobe here, it made no sense at all.

She shivered despite the warmth of the day, the relief she’d felt at escaping Mustafa’s desert camp rapidly dissipating in the wake of all of her unanswered questions.

And in the shadow of a growing suspicion.

Something was wrong.

The vizier led her deeper into the palace, through a maze of corridors; between walls lined with beautiful mosaics set with gemstones, the colours leaping out at her; past rich wall-hangings and tapestries of animals frolicking on the banks of rivers. And water, water was always a theme—in the murals, mosaics and in the tiny fountains, trickling from stone jars in every corner over rocks, making music with water.

It was beautiful.

No doubt designed to be quite restful.

If you weren’t already seething with impatience, turning every watery tinkle, every babbling and burbling rivulet, into the sound of someone scraping their nails down a blackboard.

By the time they came to a set of carved doors that rose imposing and ominous before them, she was ready to scrape her nails down anything.

Strange; she wasn’t normally a violent person or prone to biting or scratching.

‘Can you run as hard as you bite?’

She remembered the laughter in his words and she wished she’d bitten down harder. Then Hamzah beckoned her to follow, and she promised to put that man out of her mind once and for all. He was gone, probably busy blowing his reward at the nearest casino or flesh-pot.

Mercenaries would be like that, she figured. In it for the money. The thrill of the hunt. The quick buck.

They entered a library, the floor and columns of the massive room decked in marble, smooth and cool, the occasional chairs and tables gilt and inlaid with precious stones, the walls lined with books and manuscripts. And there, in one far corner of the room, sat a man behind a computer, his hair shining blue-black under the lights.

He looked up as they approached, his eyes narrowing as he sat back in his chair. A secretary, she assumed with a sigh, wondering how long it would be and how many more layers of bureaucracy she would encounter until finally she found this mysterious sheikh and maybe even someone who could answer her questions.

‘Princess Aisha.’

She stepped forward, her patience having reached its limit. ‘Can you answer my questions? Or can you at least point me in the direction of someone who can? Because, as much as I am grateful for your hospitality, I need to know why I am not already on my way home to Jemeya but instead find the wardrobe in my room stuffed full of my clothes.’

The older man reared back as if he’d been physically struck. ‘Excellency, I am sorry.’

Her eyes snapped around to the vizier. Excellency?

‘Thank you, Hamzah. I’ll handle this now.’ And something in his voice made her turn back to the man in the chair, even while the older man withdrew. Almost in slow motion, it seemed, he pushed back his chair and rose to his full height.

Tall, she registered. Broad-shouldered.

And there was something about that voice …

Her mouth went dry.

It could not be him! She must be going mad if she imagined this man to be her rescuer. That man was a mercenary, sent by her father to rescue her. And this man was some kind of … royalty?

‘Why did he call you Excellency? Surely that term is reserved for King Hamra, the ruler of Al-Jirad?’

She swallowed as he rounded the desk, long-limbed and lean, before propping himself against it, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he coolly surveyed her with dark, unreadable eyes. His hard face was constructed of too many harsh angles and too many dark places to be considered conventionally handsome. And, with the dark blue-black shadow of his beard, he looked—dangerous.

‘So, who are you?’ she asked, raising her chin in defiance, willing her voice not to crack. ‘Why is it so impossible to get answers to my questions?’

‘You are impatient, Princess. I was not warned of that particular trait. But then, I suppose you have been through an ordeal and we can excuse it this once. Did you sleep well?’

She was impatient but he could excuse it just this once. Who the hell did he think he was? What was it about Al-Jirad and the men here that brought out the worst in them? ‘And I am expected to answer your questions while you choose not to answer mine?’

He smiled then, and for a moment he almost looked human. Almost. Before his face reverted to dark, shadowed planes and grim eyes. ‘Touché.’ He gave just the merest inclination of his head. ‘I am Sheikh Zoltan Al Farouk bin Shamal, but of course you may call me Zoltan.’

‘And I am Princess Aisha of the royal Peshwah family of Jemeya, and you may address me as Princess Aisha.’

This time he laughed, a rich, deep sound that sounded far too good to come from someone like him, a man she wanted to dislike everything about.

‘Where is my father?’ she demanded, cutting his laughter short. ‘Why is he not here to greet me? I was promised he would know I was safe, but instead I find myself still here in Al-Jirad, instead of already being on my way home to Jemeya.’

He spread his arms out wide. ‘You have an issue with your suite? Have we not made you comfortable here? Is there anything you lack?’

‘I was assured my father would know I was safe.’

‘And he knows, Princess Aisha. As he has known since you were plucked from that desert encampment last night. I spoke to him again once you were safe within this palace’s walls. He is overjoyed beyond measure. He wanted me to tell you that.’

She blew out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. At least something made sense. They were the exact words she would expect her father to use. ‘So he’s still in Jemeya, then, waiting for me to return home.’ It still didn’t explain why he would send her entire wardrobe—surely her lady in waiting could have selected a few likely outfits for her to choose from? But maybe he panicked.

‘No. He is not in Jemeya, but right here in Al-Jirad, at the Blue Palace, attending to some business. He will be here tomorrow.’

She blinked. The Blue Palace was the ceremonial palace of Al-Jirad, and the seat of the kingdom. Her father must have business with the King. But then she remembered the black flags flying atop the palace roof. Of course he would be here in Al-Jirad at such a time. ‘Did something happen to Queen Petra? There are black flags flying.’

His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing, drawing her eye to the strong black lashes framing his dark eyes. ‘Yes, as it happens. It did.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that’s so sad. So I’m not leaving just yet.’

He smiled again. ‘No, Princess, you are not.’

‘Then I will just have to wait for him here.’

He smiled and crossed his ankles, drawing her eye to the long, lean line of his legs encased in what looked like the finest fabric, superbly tailored. Superbly fitted everywhere. ‘I get the impression you are not used to waiting, Princess.’

She realised she was staring, and where, and snapped her eyes back to his face. She caught a glimmer of laughter in the crease of his eyes and the curve of his lips. Laughter, and something entirely more menacing, and she got the impression he thought he was toying with her, like a cat with a mouse, prodding it one way and then the other, wanting it to run so he could pounce …

Well, she was no mouse and she would not run. And, sheikh or no sheikh, she didn’t like his tone, nor his words that told her he was busy adding to her list of character faults. As if it mattered to her what he thought of her. She stiffened her spine.

‘Maybe it’s because I seem to have done nothing else lately. I spent many hours out in the desert, waiting for escape. But I can wait one more night.’

He nodded, his smile growing wider. ‘Excellent. I am sure you will find your time here most entertaining.’

She sensed she was being dismissed, and she realised that she was doing most of the ‘entertaining’, for he seemed more than amused. But she also realised that, no matter how much the man irritated her, she could not go without at least thanking him for offering her a safe haven. ‘Then thank you, Sheikh Zoltan, for your hospitality. I apologise if I seemed impatient earlier but naturally I became frustrated when nobody seemed willing or able to answer my questions.’

‘Perfectly understandable, Princess. You have been through a testing time.’

She nodded and gave a matter-of-fact smile, relieved she hadn’t plunged their two countries into some kind of diplomatic crisis. After all, she was being offered protection here in a neighbouring country. Sanctuary. She should not abuse that courtesy. ‘Then I will not waste any more of your time, Sheikh Zoltan. I will wait in my suite until my father arrives.’

He took her hand and she felt a sizzle of recognition, of having held a hand like this one before, a hand that belonged to a man who ran with long, powerful strides …

Impossible!

‘Tell me one thing,’ she said, disturbed enough to remember another niggling question that had not been answered. ‘Why did my father send all of my belongings here when I will be in Al-Jirad such a short time? Surely he must have realised I could have made do with a suitcase-full at the most? Why do you think he did that?’

He shrugged, her hand still wrapped securely in his. ‘Maybe he thought you would need them afterwards.’

‘Afterwards? After what?’

‘After we are married, of course.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHE wrenched her hand away. ‘You must be mad!’ The entire world must be going crazy! First Mustafa and now this man claiming she must marry him! ‘I’m not marrying anyone,’ she said, wanting to laugh so insanely at the very idea that maybe she was the one who was mad. ‘Not Mustafa. And certainly not you.’

‘I am sorry to break the news this way, Princess. I had intended to invite you to dine with me tonight, and convince you of the merits of the scheme while I seduced you with the best food, wine and entertainment that Al-Jirad can offer.’

‘It does not matter how you planned the delivery. Your message would still be insane and my answer would still be the same. I am not marrying you! And now I intend to return to my suite and await the arrival of my father. I’m sorry that someone went to the trouble of unpacking all my belongings when they will only have to repack it all for the journey home tomorrow. Good night.’

She wheeled around, already taking a step towards the door that looked a million miles away right now, when her wrist was seized in an iron clasp.

‘Not so fast, Princess.’

She looked down to where his hand curled around her slender wrist, his skin a dark golden-olive, making her own honey-coloured skin pale to almost white. Or was that just because all her blood had drained away and turned her ghostlike?

She lifted her gaze to his dark, glinting eyes. ‘Nobody touches a princess of Jemeya without consent.’

‘Surely the betrothed …’

She pulled her wrist from his grip. ‘I have no betrothed!’

‘That’s not what your father thinks.’

‘Then you are indeed crazy. My father would never give his permission for a marriage I did not want.’

‘Maybe your father has no choice.’

‘And maybe you’re dreaming. For when he arrives tomorrow he will surely set you straight. He did not send his men to rescue me from the hands of one mad despot to simply hand me over to another.’

‘You are so sure they were your father’s men?’

His words blindsided her. What kind of question was that? Of course her father had sent her rescuers. ‘They came for me,’ she asserted, hating this man right now for making her question her own father’s actions, for making her doubt that he would do anything and everything in his power to get her back. ‘As I knew they would from the first moment I was kidnapped. I knew my father would send someone to rescue me and I was right. And they told me that my father would be told I was safe. So who else would have sent them?’

‘And if I told you that it was my men who rescued you from that desert camp and from a future bearing Mustafa’s fat and plentiful sons?’

She threw her hands up in the air. ‘I’ve heard enough of this. I’m leaving.’ She turned away and started walking. She was going to walk out of here and through that door, and this time, when she did, she would forget all about being a princess and looking like a princess and acting like a princess—she would run as fast and hard as she could back to her suite and lock the door behind her. And she did not care who might see her, or what they might think of her, and she would not come out until her father had arrived and ensured her safe passage back to Jemeya.

This time there was no iron manacle around her wrist, no move to stop her. And for a moment she even thought she might make it. Until she heard him utter the fateful words behind her.

‘And if I said I came for you with your father’s blessing?’

Her feet shuddered to a halt on the marble-tiled floor, fear clamping down so hard on her muscles that it was impossible to move. She was suddenly aware of the pounding of her blood, her heart racing like that tiny mouse’s must have, knowing the cat was behind it, ready to pounce if she moved so much as a tiny whisker.

I came for you?

Did he mean what he had said? Had he been there after all last night? Had he been one of the men in the rescuer’s party? Or had he been the one to slice his way into her tent, to plaster her to his body too tightly and set off a low, burning heat deep in her belly, to cradle her in his arms as his stallion galloped across the dunes?

For that man had been tall and broad, supremely fit and sure of himself and unbearably arrogant with it. Yet her rescuer had been a mercenary, dressed all in black, his face completely covered but for his dark, glinting eyes.

No, it couldn’t be him. She would not allow it.

She spun around. ‘You are bluffing! You admit speaking to my father this morning. He told you about the rescue and now you try to make me feel so indebted to you, so happy to have escaped the clutches of Mustafa, that I will agree to this—’ she searched frantically for a word that might convey just how crazy this marriage idea was ‘—insanity!’

Not a chance.

‘But by all means,’ she continued, ‘do share this little fantasy of yours with my father when he arrives tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be most entertained.’

Zoltan pushed himself from the edge of the desk, then strode towards her with long, purposeful strides that ate up the distance between them until he stood before her, tall and impossibly autocratic, his eyes fixed with a steely determination, his jaw set like concrete. ‘If you want to talk fantasy, Princess, let me share one with you right now. Would you be similarly entertained if I told you that I cannot wait to see what that mouth of yours can do when you are in the throes of passion rather than in the grip of fear?’

Shock thunderbolted down her spine, ricocheted out to her extremities and made her clenching and unclenching hand itch to slap one darkly shadowed cheek. ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’

‘How dare I?’ He reached out a hand, put the pad of his thumb to her lip. ‘But you’re the one who put the idea into my head, Princess—you and those sharp, white teeth of yours.’

She gasped, took a step back. ‘You!’

And then he smiled and, seemingly casually, crossed his arms over his chest. She saw it then, on the index finger of his right hand: the imprint of her teeth etched deep and angry-looking on his skin.

He watched her eyes widen. He saw the realisation dawn and bloom. He smelt her fear.

And it felt strangely good.

‘Yes, Princess. Me. Wearing your brand, it would appear—some quaint Jemeyan custom, I assume, to mark one’s intended?’

She looked back up at him, her features tight and determined. ‘It doesn’t matter who you are or whether you were there last night. It doesn’t matter if you were in the party that rescued me from that desert camp. I owe you nothing but my thanks, and you have that. But there is still no way I will marry you. And there is no way on this earth that you can make me.’

‘You can fight this all you like, Princess, but there is no other way.’

‘And if I still say no?’

He smiled. ‘In that case, if you feel that strongly, maybe there is one other way after all.’

‘Yes?’

‘I can take you back to that desert encampment, leave you there and let Mustafa have his way with you. Your choice, Princess.’

She looked as if she was going to explode, face red with heat, her hands clenched at her side and her eyes so alight they were all but throwing flames. ‘When my father finishes his business with the King and comes for me tomorrow, he will tell you the same as I do. There will be no marriage!’

All of a sudden he was tired of the game, of baiting her for her reactions, of toying with this spoilt princess, even though she had provided the only entertainment value in a world suddenly turned upon its head. The need to rescue her had brought him and his three friends together again for the first time in five years, and plucking her from beneath the nose of his hated half-brother had presented a moment of such sublime satisfaction that he would revel in the victory for years to come.

Except now he was faced with a precocious, precious princess who thought she had actually some say in what was happening. Why had he ever let her think that? Why had he tolerated her demands, deflected her questions and allowed her that privilege when she had never had it?

He knew damned well why—because he was still so angry about being put in this invidious position himself. Because he couldn’t see why he should be the only one to suffer and sacrifice, the only one mightily frustrated at the choiceless situation he found himself thrust into. So why the hell shouldn’t he extract some measure of glee from seeing her tossed right out of her precious, princessly comfort-zone?

And what right had she to feel so mightily aggrieved when marriage was the only thing required of her? Whereas his marriage to her was only one tiresome necessity in a long list of requirements his vizier had put before him in order to enable him to take the throne of Al-Jirad. And who had the time for any of this? The ability to speak fluent Jiradi as well as Arabic; the need to be able to quote from the sacred book of Jiradi which he must learn by heart before the coronation; having to honour the alliance between commitment to replenish the blood stock of Al-Jirad with a princess of noble birth from their sister state of Jemeya.

No. Suddenly he was tired of it all.

He sighed as she looked up at him, eyes defiant and openly hostile. He was sick of this whole damn situation before it had even properly begun.

‘King Hamra is dead.’

She blinked. Once. Again. And then it seemed her entire face turned into a question mark, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. Then she shook her head. ‘No.’ Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘You said it was Queen Petra. No!’

He watched those hands. He remembered them. Slim, he recalled. Long-fingered. Hands that had come perilously close to grazing the fabric covering his swelling organ last night. Hands that would soon have that privilege and that right, a right he hoped they would soon exercise.

Then he noticed her eyes and found them already filling with tears, threatening to spill over. He simultaneously wondered at her ability to distract him and cursed it when he knew the news he had to deliver was only going to make her feel worse. ‘But how?’ she cried. ‘When?’

‘The morning before you were kidnapped. King Hamra was on his way to Egypt for a holiday—he and the Queen in one helicopter with his close advisers, his mother and sons, their wives and families in the other. For some reason the two helicopters ventured too close to each other. Nobody knows why. But it seems that their blades touched and both helicopters plummeted to the ground.’

He gave her a moment to let the news sink in before he added, ‘There were no survivors.’

Her face was almost devoid of colour, her dark eyes and lashes suddenly starkly standing out on a skin so deathly pale that he worried she might actually collapse.

He took hold of her shoulders before she might fall and steered her to the nearest chair where she sagged, limp and boneless.

‘But surely not all of them? Not Akram and Renata? Not Kaleem and Akra? And, please, no, surely not the children? They were so young, just babies …’

He could offer her nothing, so he said nothing, just gave the slightest shake of his head.

‘Nobody told me!’ she cried when she realised the truth and the extent of the disaster. ‘I knew nothing. All the time I was in that desert camp they told me nothing. Oh yes, they laughed and smirked and made crude jokes about what Mustafa intended to do with me, but nobody told me that the King and his family had been killed. Nobody told me …’

She looked up at him, the shock, hurt and misery right there in her eyes to see, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her and sorry for the upset all this damned mess would cause her. But, hell, why should he feel sorry for her, when his life had been similarly turned upside down, his future curtailed by the rules laid down by those of centuries past? The fact was that they were both the victims in this situation.

‘Is this why all this is happening? Because it is somehow connected to that tragedy?’

Why did she have to look so damned vulnerable? He wanted to be angry with her, the spoilt princess who was having to do what her nation needed instead of what she wanted for a change. The last thing on earth he wanted was to feel empathy for her. To feel sorry. Especially when he was being subjected to the same external forces. He sucked in air. ‘Al-Jirad needs a king.’

She looked up at him through glassy eyes, her long black lashes heavy with tears. ‘That man—the vizier—he called you Excellency. Are you to be that king?’

‘I am one possibility. King Hamra was my uncle. My father had two sons to two different wives. One was Mustafa. The other was me.’ He paused. ‘And, of course, whichever one of us it is to be is decided by the pact.’

She nodded, her eyes hardening with the realisation of what this came down to, the grief still there, but framed in anger now. ‘So that’s what this is all about, then, this game of Hunt the Princess. Whoever marries the princess first wins the crown of Al-Jirad.’

‘It is what the pact requires. Where the crown of Al-Jirad is compromised, the alliance will be renewed by the marriage between the royal families of our two countries. Because of your older sister’s situation …’

‘You mean, because she has two children to two different fathers and she never actually bothered marrying either of them, she’s no longer eligible for the position? But surely she has a proven track-record. If it’s heirs you need—and when has any monarchy not been all about heirs?—Marina has proven child-bearing capabilities, where sadly I do not.’

‘Your sister is, to put it mildly, over-qualified for the position. The fact you have not yet bred is still in your favour.’

Have not yet bred. She itched to hit something. Anything. Maybe him. Except princesses were not supposed to do such things, were not expected to give in to such base instincts. But still, the claim that this agreement was somehow in her favour rubbed, and rubbed raw.

‘How can it be in my favour when it forces me into this situation?’

‘It is duty, Princess. It is not personal.’

Not personal? Maybe that was why she hated it so much. Because it wasn’t personal. And she had dreamed—oh, how she had dreamed—that being so far down the line to the crown, and a woman into the deal, would ensure she would never be subjected to the strictures of the first or even the second-born sons. She had watched her brothers with their tutors, seen how little rope they had been given. And she had watched her sister, who had been given too much too quickly while all the attention was on her brothers and their futures. She had been foolish enough to think she could somehow escape the madness of it all unscathed and lead a near-normal life. She had stupidly hoped she might even marry for love.

Zoltan watched her as she sat there, trying to absorb the enormity of the situation that confronted her. But it was hardly the end of the world, as she made it out to be. He would be the one on the throne, a position he’d never been prepared for, whereas she would go from princess to queen, a job she’d been primed for her entire life. What was so difficult about that?

They could still have a decent enough marriage if they both wanted. She was beautiful, this princess, long-limbed and lithe, with skin like satin. It would be no hardship at all to bed her to procure the heirs Al-Jirad required. And she had a fire burning beneath that cool, princessly exterior, a fire he was curious to discover more about, a fire he was keen to stoke for himself.

Why shouldn’t it work, at least in the bedroom? And, if it didn’t, then there were ways and means around that. An heir and a spare and they both would have done their duty; they could both look at different options. So just because they had to marry didn’t make it a death sentence.

Then she shook her head, rising to her feet and brushing at the creases in her trousers, and he got the impression she would just as simply brush away the obligations laid upon her by the pact between their two countries.

And just as fruitlessly.

‘So marrying you is to be my fate, then, decided by some crusty piece of paper that is hundreds of years old?’

‘The pact sets out what must happen in the event of a situation such as this.’

‘And of course we all must do what the pact says we must do.’

‘It is the foundation stone of both our countries’ constitutions—you know that. Are you so averse to doing your duty as a princess of one of those two countries?’

‘Yes! Of course I am, if it means my fate is to marry either you or Mustafa! Of course I object.’

‘Then maybe it is just as well you do not have a choice in the matter.’

‘I refuse to believe that. What if I simply refuse to marry either of you? What if I have other plans for my life that don’t include being married to some despot who thinks he can lay claim to a woman merely because of an accident of her birth?’

‘That accident of birth, as you put it, gives you much wealth and many privileges, Princess. But it also comes with responsibilities. Your sister chose to shrug them off. Being the only other member of the royal Jemeyan family who can satisfy the terms of the pact, you do not have that option.’

‘You can’t make me marry you. I can still say no and I do say no.’

‘Like I said, that is not an option available to you.’

She shrieked, a brittle sound of frustration and exasperation, her hands curled into tight, tense fists at her side. He yawned and looked at his watch. Any moment now he expected she would stamp her feet, maybe even throw herself to the floor and pound the tiles with her curled-up fists like a spoilt child. Not that it would do her any good.

‘Look,’ she started, the spark in her eye telling him she’d hit on some new plan of attack. Her hands unwound and she took a deep breath. She even smiled, if you could call it that. At least, it was the closest thing to a smile he’d seen her give to date. ‘This is all so unnecessary. The pact is centuries old and we’ve all moved on a long way since then. There must be some misunderstanding.’

‘You think?’

‘I know.’ She held out her hands as if she was preaching. Maybe she thought she was, because she was suddenly fired up with her building argument, her eyes bright, her features alive. He was struck again with how beautiful she was, how fine her features, how lush her mouth. His groin stirred. No, it would be no hardship bedding her. No hardship at all.

‘My father loves me. He would never make me marry a man I didn’t love, not for anything.’

‘Not for anything?’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Not even for the continuing alliance between our two countries?’

‘So, maybe …’ she said, with sparks in her eyes, really getting into it, ‘maybe it’s time we drew up a new agreement. Times have changed. The world has moved on. We could lead our respective countries into a new future, with a new and better alliance, something more applicable to the modern era that covers communication and the Internet and today’s world instead of one that doesn’t exist any more.’