The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess

Had Fatima been sick before, and Nic didn’t know?

Guilt assailed Nicolette. What if Fatima had been recovering from something…in remission from cancer or leukemia?

Nicolette returned to her room, quietly shut the door, worrying about Fatima without really knowing what Fatima was facing.

Alea arrived a little later with coffee and a message from the sultan. Nicolette opened the folded sheet of paper. He’d written a note, letting her know that due to Fatima’s poor health, the morning’s language lesson had been cancelled.

CHAPTER NINE

MALIK sat in a chair next to Fatima’s bed, his hands folded together, his expression grim. His thoughts raced, confusion and anger. ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

Fatima’s dark head turned away. ‘‘I can’t talk about it.’’

‘‘You have to,’’ he shot back, his deep voice curt, tense. How could she do this? What on earth had she been thinking?

Fatima wouldn’t answer. She continued staring at the wall and Malik felt a welling of helpless rage. He rose from the chair, towered over the bed. ‘‘They wanted to keep you overnight at the hospital. Maybe I was wrong to bring you home. Maybe I should take you back—’’

‘‘No.’’ She rolled over, looked up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘‘I won’t do it again.’’

She looked so small, so defenseless and his anger melted. He loved Fatima like a sister. They’d grown up together. He trusted her. ‘‘But why would you try something like that in the first place? What if help hadn’t come in time?’’ He shook his head, exhausted, worn out from the night spent at the side of her bed. ‘‘Is your life really so unbearable?’’

She covered her face with her hands, unable to bear his censure. ‘‘Forgive me.’’

‘‘Help me understand.’’

She cried harder. Malik felt sick at heart. ‘‘I’ve sent for your mother,’’ he said after a long moment. ‘‘She and your sister are coming from New York.’’

‘‘No, Malik!’’ She scrubbed her face dry, struggled to sit up, grimacing at a wave of nausea. They’d pumped her stomach at the hospital and she was obviously still sore. ‘‘Mother will be furious. She’ll be so upset.’’

‘‘And I’m not?’’ he demanded, not knowing whether to shake her or put his arms around her. ‘‘Fatima, you could have died.’’

She shuddered. ‘‘It was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake the moment I did it. That’s why I called for help.’’

‘‘But why?’’ He couldn’t let it drop. He couldn’t let it go. You didn’t swallow a bottle of pills without good reason. What had pushed her over the edge? ‘‘Fatima, you must be honest with me. I insist.’’

She looked at him, then past him, her dark gaze going vacant. ‘‘You were supposed to marry me.’’

He froze, air bottled in his lungs. What?

Staring down into Fatima’s averted face, he could see her agony. Her face was still pale, her mouth pinched, her eyes glassy, and he felt her tremor of fear and anger, hurt and confusion. Her agony was real. ‘‘Explain this to me,’’ he said more gently, trying for a calm he didn’t feel.

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘‘Father said you were to be my husband. He said I was to wait for you.’’

His heart fell.

For a long moment he felt horribly destructive—look what he’d done to Fatima? And then reason set in. He hadn’t done anything to her but treat her as a member of his own family.

And now he wracked his brain, trying to think of a time when marriage with Fatima might have been discussed, but he could remember no such conversation. It was common practice in Baraka for cousins to marry, for family to intermarry. Cousins were considered favorable marriage partners as it consolidated a family’s power.

Fatima filled the silence with her slow, painful words. ‘‘It’d been widely assumed that we would marry—’’

‘‘By whom?’’

‘‘My family. Your family.’’

‘‘I’ve never heard this before.’’

She shrugged wearily. ‘‘My father said your father had agreed. It would keep the wealth in the family, simplify inheritance.’’ Her body slumped, no energy left. ‘‘Ever since I was small, I’d been raised to think that you…and I…’’ Her voice drifted away, she bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears.

You and I rang in his head. You and I…‘‘So you took an overdose of sleeping pills?’’

She shrugged yet again, her slender spine bent beneath the weight of it all. ‘‘I didn’t understand why you’d decided to go elsewhere for your bride when you have me here single, waiting.’’

And suddenly he understood. Not just her pain, but also her shame.

In the West, Fatima was still considered young; she was just in her mid-twenties, but in Baraka that was old for women who remained unmarried. Men didn’t believe a woman couldn’t remain pure—untouched—for that many years and a bride’s purity was as important as her dowry. Indeed, a great part of the wedding celebration was the confirmation of the bride’s virginity.

Malik sat down in the chair next to her bed, reached for her hands, held them between his own. She felt so cold, her skin chilled. ‘‘I didn’t realize—’’ He broke off, heartsick. Or did he?

He’d known she’d always hoped to make a royal marriage. But he hadn’t realized she’d always hoped to marry him…or had he?

He clasped her cold hands in his, trying to warm her. His thoughts were broken, disjointed. He’d confronted her this morning wanting to make sure she understood the shame she’d brought on the family by her actions, and yet now he saw the shame she’d been enduring for years.

People would have been wondering, whispering, why a wealthy royal like Fatima Nuri was still single. They would have wondered why her cousin went outside Baraka for a wife…they would have gossiped about Fatima’s reputation, and her shame. Shame. Hshuma, he thought wearily. Hshuma was such a heavy burden for everyone.

She bowed her head, stared at her hands. ‘‘Forgive me.’’

‘‘I do.’’ He felt her tremble and his heart smote him. He’d unwittingly hurt her. No wonder Fatima had been so angry, so resentful of Nicolette. Fatima had feel rejected. Supplanted.

Fatima couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. ‘‘What have you told my family?’’

Nothing yet, thank God. ‘‘Just that you were very ill, and they needed to come quickly.’’

‘‘Ah.’’ Fatima gently disengaged her hands, putting distance between them. ‘‘When do they arrive?’’

‘‘Later today.’’

‘‘Will you tell Mother about what I…did?’’

He’d been asking himself the same thing. What did one do in this circumstance? ‘‘No,’’ he decided quickly, and knew it was the right decision. There was absolutely no reason to bring more shame to her, or on the family. ‘‘But you have to know this behavior—what you did—isn’t acceptable. The choice you made, that’s not a valid option. You are loved by all. Your life is of great value—’’

‘‘Please,’’ she pleaded, fresh tears welling. ‘‘Please don’t. I won’t do it again, I won’t try anything like that again. I just felt so ashamed, so horrible about what happened at the market yesterday. I’d never mean to hurt the princess and yet—’’ She broke off, shook her head, tears spilling. ‘‘Maybe I did lose her on purpose. I don’t know anymore—’’

He hugged her. That any member of his family should hurt so hurt him. ‘‘The princess returned safe. Do not worry, or blame yourself anymore. You must get rest. You need to take care of yourself.’’

She nodded slowly, fatigue etched in the tightness at her eyes and mouth. ‘‘Maybe I’ll go with Mother to New York for awhile. Maybe a change of pace…’’

‘‘I’ll arrange it for you.’’ Malik kissed her forehead, and stood. ‘‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Fatima. Just get some rest. Everything will work out.’’

‘‘Malik.’’ Her voice stopped him at the door. He turned around to face her. Fatima’s eyes looked huge in her pale face. ‘‘I…can I ask a favor, please?’’

He nodded.

‘‘Would you consider taking the princess to Zefd for a few days…just while Mother is here? It’d be easier to pack and leave for NY without worrying about Mother saying something to Princess Chantal. I know Mother will be disappointed that I didn’t—’’ She broke off, frowned, drew a deep breath. ‘‘You see, Mother had also hoped you and I…and she doesn’t know about your engagement to Princess Chantal.’’

He nodded. ‘‘I understand. I’d planned on taking the princess there next week, we’ll just go a few days early. You’re comfortable explaining my absence to your mother?’’

Fatima smiled weakly. ‘‘Yes. And thank you, cousin.’’

Malik stopped by Nicolette’s room personally to tell her they were going to visit another home of his for a few days. Nicolette saw the shadows in his eyes, felt his strain. ‘‘How is Fatima?’’

He shook his head.

His silence put knots in her stomach. ‘‘If she’s ill, we shouldn’t go—’’

‘‘She’ll be herself soon. I don’t want you to worry. You have enough on your mind.’’

‘‘But—’’

‘‘No.’’ This time he was adamant, his tone forceful. ‘‘I do not want to discuss this further. Have Alea pack. Tell her you are going to Zefd.’’

Several hours later Nicolette and Malik left noisy, congested Atiq behind, traveling in a luxuriously outfitted four wheel drive vehicle, the interior seats leather, the windows tinted, the middle console between two of the passenger seats built to house a mini refrigerator, a stereo, and a DVD player.

Malik sat silent the first half hour of the trip, staring blindly out the window. Nicolette knew he wasn’t angry with her. Rather he was wrestling internally, in a battle with himself.

Finally she wouldn’t let him sit in silence any longer. He’d had over an hour to beat himself up. Now he’d have to talk to her.

‘‘I’ve never seen a four-wheel drive vehicle like this,’’ she said, her voice breaking the heavy silence.

‘‘It’s custom,’’ he answered, his expression even more brooding. ‘‘Built for the desert. To handle the dunes if necessary.’’

‘‘It’s quite plush. You could live in here.’’

‘‘If necessary.’’

He wasn’t making this easy, but Nicolette doggedly inspected the entertainment system, remembering the hidden speakers and stereo system in her room at the palace. ‘‘Lots of interesting gadgets.’’

‘‘A king should be entitled to a few play things.’’

She cocked her head, hearing the anger and self-loathing in his voice. What had happened last night? What had happened with his cousin? ‘‘Please tell me about Fatima.’’

‘‘There’s nothing to say.’’

Pain deepened his voice and Nic’s heart ached. ‘‘I’ve been worried,’’ she said softly. ‘‘And I know you care about her very much.’’

Malik continued to stare out the windows. The hills were giving way to steep red tinted mountains. ‘‘She’s going to go to New York for a while, spend time with her family there. She agrees with me that she needs a change—’’

‘‘And until then, we’re leaving her alone?’’

‘‘She won’t be alone. Her mother and sister are arriving from America this afternoon.’’

Nic assessed the situation, understanding suddenly that she was being sent away deliberately before Fatima’s mother arrived. ‘‘You didn’t want me to meet your aunt.’’

‘‘Fatima wanted to avoid any potential problems.’’

‘‘Meeting your aunt would have created problems?’’

He turned his head, met her gaze. ‘‘My aunt wished me to marry my cousin, and Fatima, wisely wanted to save you, and herself, from further embarrassment.’’

So that explained Fatima’s hostility. Nic exhaled slowly, thinking of the past week, all the time the two had been forced to spend together. Fatima must have felt hurt, and humiliated. ‘‘I didn’t know.’’

He made a rough sound, impatient, angry. ‘‘I didn’t, either.’’

Her lips parted in surprise but Malik’s pained expression stilled the words on her lips, leaving them unspoken. He looked staggered even now. Nicolette had never seen him so quiet, so closed. It was as if he’d gone inward and shut all his emotions down.

Something horrible must have happened last night…‘‘I’m sorry, Malik. I really am.’’

‘‘I am, too.’’

Nicolette suddenly wondered if perhaps she’d done something far worse by coming here than just masquerading as Chantal. Had she perhaps destroyed people’s futures…their lives? ‘‘Was there a reason you couldn’t marry?’’

His powerful shoulders shifted. ‘‘I didn’t choose her,’’ he said flatly, turning to look at Nicolette with a piercing gaze. He stared at her hard, staring at her as if he could see all the way through her. ‘‘I chose you.’’

Nicolette felt a wave of panic. Fatima loved Malik, she’d hoped to share her life with him, and all the while Nicolette was playing a part, biding her time before she could escape back to Melio.

How would Nic’s disappearance affect Malik…Fatima…the Nuri family?

She swayed on her seat, feeling dizzy, sick, scared of what she’d started. Her breezy words spoken to Chantal returned to haunt her, I’ll sneak in, sneak out, and be gone before the sultan even notices…

Wrong.

‘‘She’s going to be okay,’’ Malik said, sensing Nicolette’s panic, seeking to reassure her. ‘‘Don’t blame yourself. I chose you. You didn’t create this…problem.’’

Nicolette heard the emotion in Malik’s voice, felt his worry, his personal struggle. He blamed himself.

He cared about Fatima. He loved his family. He’d spent his life trying to protect those he cared about. And in that instant, Nic realized that all those European gossip magazines had gotten King Malik Roman Nuri wrong. He wasn’t a Casanova. It’d be impossible for him to take women to bed just to discard them later.

Malik cared about women. He didn’t take advantage of them.

She felt tears start to her eyes. ‘‘No wonder you enjoy your gadgets.’’ She covered his hand with hers. ‘‘You should be entitled to a few fun toys. It’s not easy being King.’’

He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed the back of her fingers. He was trying hard to lighten his mood. ‘‘You will enjoy Zefd. It will be good for us to spend a few days in the mountains.’’

But Nic didn’t want him to put on a happy face for her sake. She searched his eyes. ‘‘Are you going to be okay?’’

Leaning forward, he brushed his mouth across her cheek, and then once more on her lips. ‘‘I’m glad you’re with me, laeela.’’

‘‘I’m glad I’m here, too.’’

They spent two hours traveling in and out of the rugged red and pink mountains, climbing slowly, steadily to the peak of one mountain, to descend on the other side, and then start climbing all over again.

Late afternoon they reached an open valley, the barren ground dotted here and there with oases of green. ‘‘Artificial lakes,’’ Malik said, ‘‘for commercial orchards of date trees.’’

On this side of the mountains the landscape looked brighter, clearer, and more unusual. It was the quality of light, Nic thought, the way the golden rays hit the rose and gold sand, reflecting off the pink and red granite cliffs.

Everything here seemed to come from the earth, to be made of the earth, and would eventually return to the earth. The driver approached a red sandstone fortress, the stark walls high, the parapet clearly etched against the brilliant blue sky. The fortress towered over the rest of the city and yet was still dwarfed by the snow-capped mountains behind.

‘‘So where are we?’’ Nic’s inquisitive gaze took in the magnificent mountains dusted in white and the weathered apricot and terracotta buildings before them.

‘‘This is Zefd. One of the oldest cities in Baraka. My father’s family came from here.’’

As Malik’s vehicle entered the walls of the city, people unexpectedly poured out, robed men and women and dozens of eager children. ‘‘Did they know you were coming?’’

Malik’s expression was ironic. ‘‘Someone must have alerted them.’’

The driver parked, but before he opened the door for them, palace guards appeared, forming a protective barrier between the sultan’s car and the crowd.

Malik climbed from the car and assisted Nicolette. On seeing the king, the people cheered, and Malik lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

Malik was surprised when Nicolette moved forward, toward the crowd, greeting his people. She spoke only a few Arabic words, but the sincere phrases coupled with her warm smiles appeared to charm everyone.

Standing at her side, Malik watched Nicolette work the crowd, and while ‘‘work’’ sounded cold, it was exactly what she was doing. She knew her job, he thought, seeing how gracefully she handled the press of people, the hands extended, the small children lifted for her to kiss. She knew how long to chat, how long to listen, and then how to gently break free to continue making her way along the edge of the crowd.

He’d known she was strong, intelligent, but he hadn’t expected this natural warmth and ease with his people. She was a true princess—regal, royal—and yet she identified with the common man. She would be good for his people.

And very good for him.

But he still hadn’t made much headway when it came to knowing her, openly speaking with her. She’d learned to hide herself quite well. She projected so much warmth and charm that one didn’t realize how neatly she sidestepped the personal until later.

Princess Nicolette did not wear her heart on her sleeve. Instead she kept her heart buried very deep. But it was her heart he wanted, and right now he wasn’t even sure he had that. She was attracted to him, and responded to him, but the fact that she continued to hide her true identity had begun to trouble him. What if she didn’t intend to go through with the wedding? What if she still intended to leave him at the altar, the jilted royal bridegroom?

The thought left him cold. His jaw gritted and he felt ice lodge in his chest, close to his heart. He wanted her. He needed her. He had no intention of losing her now.

His temper and emotions firmly in control, Malik moved forward, claimed Nicolette, drawing her with him into his desert home.

‘‘We call this house the Citadel,’’ he said, showing Nicolette around his Zefd desert home. ‘‘It was built as a fortress, and although the royal family has lived here off and on for the past two hundred years, it still serves as an important military outpost, one of our stronger defensive positions.’’

‘‘Does Baraka worry about its neighbors?’’

‘‘The neighbors aren’t the threat. Our troubles historically have come from within.’’ He opened a door, leading to a large walled garden dominated by an ancient argan tree. The tree’s upper limbs were enormous and gnarled, like spiny green dragons fighting.

They took a seat in the shade and were immediately served with glasses of ice cold, very sweet mint tea.

Malik’s expression became contemplative and he drummed his fingers on the table. When he spoke next, he chose his words with care. ‘‘We have a complex society in Baraka, our culture that of Berber, Boudin, Arab, African. Throw in some French colonialism and you have intense conflicts.’’

She considered him. ‘‘How intense?’’

‘‘We’ve had more than our share of political turmoil in this century. Unfortunately, the last fifty years have been especially…explosive.’’

She reached for her glass, sipped the icy beverage gratefully. ‘‘The tensions have boiled over?’’

‘‘Violently.’’

‘‘It seems I do need to learn Baraka’s history,’’ Nic said, setting her glass down.

He hesitated, staring off, his gaze on the red mountains beyond, the manicured palm trees lining the exterior citadel wall. ‘‘Baraka was in the midst of a violent civil war when I was born. This war lasted fifteen years. Everyone took sides. Many fought on behalf of the royal family, others fought for the insurgents. You see, we’d been under French rule for so long that people were fighting simply because they were angry, and scared, and no one knew what was best. I was still just a small child when my grandfather was assassinated, but I’ve never forgotten that day.’’

His brow furrowed as he remembered those dark violent years. ‘‘My grandfather’s assassination ended the war.’’ He turned and looked at her, his expression curiously blank. ‘‘Because you see, my grandfather was universally loved. He wasn’t supposed to be killed. This wasn’t a fight against him, or the family, but a fight about culture…custom…a fight to be recognized. The country virtually shut down the day of Grandfather’s funeral. All the people took to the streets. I’ve never forgotten the sound of weeping, thousands of people weeping, and it taught me that nothing is more important than life. Than family.’’

‘‘I’m surprised you haven’t married before then.’’

‘‘It didn’t feel urgent.’’

‘‘And it is now?’’

His mouth opened as if to speak but instead he closed it, shook his head.

Truthfully, he’d never worried about marrying, having children, he’d been certain it was a matter of timing and sooner or later he’d meet the right woman…but it hadn’t happened, and here he was, in his late thirties, and without a wife, an heir, or a family of his own.

And with one assassination attempt against him already.

Malik drank his tea, let the cool liquid pour down his throat and ice his raw emotions. It’d been a difficult twenty-four hour period. He was feeling the strain of Fatima’s desperate measures, Nicolette’s masquerade, and his own need for closure. He just wished he knew if she’d come through, meet him on her own terms. He wanted her on her terms, he wanted her heart, her laughter, her commitment. But he couldn’t push her…yet.

He turned his head, looked at Nic whose features were grave, a deep furrow between her eyebrows from thinking hard, listening so intently.

‘‘The years of war changed the way I looked at society,’’ he continued. ‘‘It impacted the way I view our culture and the idea of stability. I learned early that we must embrace change, that without change we die.’’

‘‘I would have thought you’d be afraid of change. After all, change triggered your grandfather’s death—as well as that decade and half of turmoil. One would think you’d associate change with danger.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘But chaos and turmoil surround us, whether or not we choose to recognize it. Just because we don’t see turmoil, or because we’re not immediately impacted, doesn’t negate its existence. Chaos can happen at any time.’’

‘‘So your philosophy is…?’’

Talking with Nic was good for him. ‘‘Change is good. Change is necessary. It doesn’t mean that one can’t revere the past and respect tradition, but tradition is pointless unless one can use tradition to teach, to use as a benchmark, to show one where and how to aim.’’

She leaned back in the chaise. ‘‘You like being King.’’

‘‘I love being King.’’

CHAPTER TEN

NIC couldn’t look away from his remarkable face with the light silver eyes. He was so quiet, so controlled. She’d had no idea he’d been through so much. Another man might have been angry, bitter, cruel, but Malik had accepted the tragedies with grace.

Baraka, she whispered to herself. Baraka, Fatima had once told her, meant Grace and peace. Malik had that peace, didn’t he?

‘‘There are dangers, of course,’’ he said after a reflective silence, ‘‘but we all face danger at different points in our life. The secret is to be aware of the danger, to know how one is vulnerable, and then embrace truth, and life, and move on.’’

He rose, took her hand in his, and tugged her to her feet. ‘‘You still look hot, laeela. Let me take you to your room. You’ll be pleased to know you have your own private swimming pool.’’

It was good news and Nic took a long, leisurely swim before dinner. The bottom and sides of the pool had been painted a sapphire blue and as Nic floated on her back, she stared up at the high pink stone towers surrounding her, one tower covered in purple bougainvillea, while climbing roses draped another tower wall, the petals the palest shade of pink. With jasmine and sweet orange blossoms scenting the air, and the setting sun painting the ancient walls a dusty red, Nicolette closed her eyes and felt…bliss. Baraka, she whispered to herself. Grace and peace.