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

His eyes gleamed. His smile was mocking. He reached for her again, his fingers curling through her long hair. ‘‘You, Princess, have had too many Western men.’’

His words, his touch, his knowing smile made her tremble inwardly. The power continued to shift. The boundaries seemed practically invisible. He touched her as if she was already his. And her body was responding to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘‘I said I’d try.’’

He released her leisurely, drawing his fingers from her thick hair even more slowly. ‘‘You will. We both know you will. You’re in Baraka now, laeela. My will, Princess, will soon be your command.’’ Taking her hand in his, he kissed her knuckles. ‘‘Enjoy your time with Fatima. I’ll look forward to getting a full report on your lessons tonight.’’

Nic watched him leave, feeling a bubble of hysteria form in her chest. How was she going to convince him to go to America? How was she going to convince him to do anything? He wanted her to submit—not the other way around!

You’re in so much trouble, she told herself, feeling like a ship with a hole in the stern. She was going to sink. The only question was how much time did she have left before she went down?

Nicolette met Fatima in an airy salon, where the wood shutters at the tall arched windows were folded back, allowing the bright sun to bounce off the pale apricot walls and drench the marble floor with its dramatic black and ivory diamond pattern.

The language lesson seemed to last forever, but then a serving girl carried in almond pastries and mint tea.

Fatima poured the tea, glancing at Nicolette as she did so. ‘‘You know we have a saying here, Princess Thibaudet. There’s no escaping death and marriage.’’ Fatima smiled grimly, handed Nicolette her tea cup. ‘‘It’s true, you know. A girl’s place is in the home. Tending to the family.’’

Nic shrugged, sensing the other woman’s hostility thinking of the life Chantal had lived so far in La Croix, knowing that they were supposedly discussing Chantal’s future, not hers. ‘‘I don’t have a problem with that, Lady Fatima. I have a daughter. I’m comfortable being home. I’ve lived this way for years.’’

Fatima blew delicately on her hot tea. ‘‘Your daughter will marry a man chosen for her, too, then?’’

Nic startled, picturing her young niece being forced to marry against her will. Never. ‘‘There’s no reason for Lilly to do that.’’

‘‘Yet…if you are to marry the Sultan,’’ Fatima’s smile was hard, and it made her dark eyes gleam like polished onyx, ‘‘your other children will have to follow our traditions. Surely it would be better for Lilly to do the same.’’

Nicolette couldn’t answer. She felt cold on the inside. Scared, too. ‘‘Your cousin has never spoken of this to me.’’

‘‘Not yet, no. But he will. After I have introduced our culture to you.’’ Fatima sipped from her cup. ‘‘That is my job, you realize. To introduce you to our ways.’’

Nic stared into her small cup, her emotions growing hot, replacing the ice around her heart. Had Chantal considered this? Thank God Chantal was not here. Thank God she would not have to listen to this. Be tortured like this. Chantal and Lilly had been through too much already.

Gracefully Fatima set her cup on the low table, lifted the plate of pastries out to Nicolette. ‘‘Please.’’

It’d be impossible for Nic to eat now. She’d choke on the pastry. Her throat was dry as dust.

Fatima inclined her head. ‘‘Back to our discussion about your daughter. Do you really think it is fair to her to make her an outcast? To treat her differently than you’ll treat your children with the sultan? Please try to think of it from her perspective, of what would benefit her most. How do you think she will feel being different? And how shall your choices impact her later? Because, Princess, no Barakan man will ever marry her, and if she can’t marry here then you are choosing to send her far away.’’

Nic’s tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth. She felt horribly close to choking. ‘‘She’s four, Lady Fatima. Just four years old. A little girl still. I think these decisions don’t need to be made for a number of years.’’

‘‘Time passes quickly.’’

Not quickly enough, Nic silently retorted, furious, hanging on to her temper—barely. Fatima’s company was becoming intolerable. ‘‘And you,’’ Nic said, turning the focus onto the twenty-five-year old. ‘‘What are your cousin’s plans for you? Is there a husband on the horizon, or are you going to remain here, devoting your life to him and me?’’

Fatima’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘I haven’t heard who he has selected for me, but I am interested, of course. Why? Have you heard something?’’

‘‘No.’’

For the first time since they sat down together this morning, Fatima expressed uncertainty. ‘‘But if you do hear something, you’ll tell me?’’

‘‘Of course, Lady Fatima. We should help each other, not hurt each other, don’t you think?’’

Returning to her room, Nic glanced at her calendar, unable to believe that every morning would be spent in virtual hell with Fatima, unnerved by the fact that she was making every decision—including decisions about meals and coffee—based on a calendar. Malik Nuri’s calendar! It was an insult to her intelligence. A test of her control.

Insult or not, Nic knew that according to the calendar, she had just enough time to freshen up and change before dinner. According to her appointment book, she and King Nuri would be dining alone together, and Alea had clothes already waiting, a pale pink trouser set with a long slim silk overcoat.

Nicolette wasn’t in the mood for pink, but she didn’t have the energy to protest, especially not when she had more pressing matters on her mind.

Managing her emotions—and reactions—around the sultan was an issue. Lady Fatima was already posing a problem. And Nicolette was no closer to convincing the sultan that the wedding should be moved to Baton Rouge than when she arrived yesterday afternoon.

So think of tonight as an opportunity, she told herself, as she was escorted to King Nuri’s quarters. This isn’t a chance to fail, but a chance to succeed.

They ate Western style, sitting at a small table in one of the elegant courtyards. Torches illuminated the tiled walls, reflecting off the ancient mosaics decorating every surface. During the meal, Nic struggled to think of a natural way to bring up her concerns about the wedding—and Lady Fatima—but no opportunity presented itself. But the wedding first.

‘‘I attended the lessons today,’’ she said, cringing a little at her inept opening. There had to be a better way to approach the topic than this. ‘‘Lady Fatima is certainly…knowledgeable.’’

‘‘She is, isn’t she?’’

Nic forced herself on. ‘‘She expressed thoughts that troubled me.’’

‘‘Indeed?’’

He wasn’t being very helpful here. ‘‘Despite her education, she sounds quite conservative, at least in terms of women’s roles in your society.’’

His shoulders shifted and the candle light flickered over his face, his features even, controlled. ‘‘Fatima has always been most comfortable as a woman. She embraces the unique differences between men and women.’’

Was he purposely taunting her? ‘‘Sounds perfect for you. I’m surprised you never considered marrying her.’’

His gaze clashed with hers. ‘‘Did I say that?’’

‘‘Did you propose?’’

‘‘No. I respect her immensely, but she’s like a sister to me.’’

Finally some insights into his world. Ever since arriving in Atiq, Nicolette had floundered, struggling to get her feet on the ground. Just who was Malik Nuri? What did he want? What did he really believe? ‘‘Have you ever proposed to anyone?’’

‘‘I’ve waited a long time to marry.’’ His expression revealed nothing, and his tone was deceptively mild. ‘‘I’ve waited a long time for you.’’

‘‘Not me—’’

‘‘Yes, you, Princess.’’

She wasn’t sure what to say next. Maybe she should just be glad he’d presented her with an opportunity to address her wedding concerns. ‘‘Have you had a chance to think about my request? It really does mean a great deal to me…marrying in my mother’s parish.’’ She tried to keep her tone casual, although beneath the table her fingers were knotting her linen napkin. There were so many undercurrents between them—personal, physical, sexual.

‘‘Your mother, the American.’’

‘‘I know you want to be married here, in Atiq, but perhaps we could find a compromise. Instead of just one ceremony, we could have two. We go to Baton Rouge for my church ceremony, and then return here for a traditional Barakan ceremony.’’

‘‘Two ceremonies?’’

‘‘It’s not unheard of, Your Highness—’’

‘‘Malik. Please. We’re discussing our wedding.’’

The way he said our wedding made her blush and she nodded awkwardly, immediately aware of the size of him, the strength of him, as well as the sense that despite the differences between them, they’d be eventually matched in bed. ‘‘Dual ceremonies are being done more and more these days,’’ she said, voice almost breaking. ‘‘It’s one way of addressing the various aspects of culture.’’

He hesitated, lips pursing. ‘‘Perhaps. I’ve never thought of drawing this out, but that’s not to say we couldn’t make it happen.’’

Yes. Nic felt herself exhale in a deep rush. But her relief was tinged by something else…an emotion far more personal, one that had nothing to do with Chantal and Lilly and only to do with her attraction.

‘‘We’d marry here first, then,’’ he added, as if thinking aloud. ‘‘You’re already here. The plans have been made. After the palace ceremony, we could fly to Louisiana, invite your friends and family to join us there.’’

His words popped whatever brief fantasy she held. She was being ridiculous, the daydream she had been having of a lazy afternoon in bed was even more ridiculous. He was a sultan. She was a princess. She wasn’t even the princess he wanted. ‘‘Your Highness—’’ she saw his frown, and quickly substituted his name ‘‘—Malik. I appreciate you considering my suggestion, and I’m grateful you’re willing to travel to the States, but if we should do all that, I’d really like to walk down the aisle first…be a bride in white.’’

‘‘A bride in white,’’ he echoed thoughtfully.

And then remembering she was supposed to be Chantal she forced a tight smile. ‘‘I know I’ve done it before, but it’s still…traditional.’’

‘‘And you’re the traditional sister, right?’’ He leaned away from the table and the candles, having burned low, turned the table into a shade of rose-gold. ‘‘You mentioned this morning that the Ducasses are half French?’’

It was a quick switch. He was very good, she thought, rinsing off her fingers in her water bowl, wiping her hands dry. He controlled the conversation. He controlled her physical reactions. He controlled her emotions. This was certainly a first for her.

‘‘French and Spanish,’’ Nic answered after a moment’s pause, gathering her wits about her, knowing she needed them more than ever. He let nothing slide. He remembered every word she said. ‘‘Although throughout history many Ducasse kings took English brides.’’

‘‘Royal brides?’’

‘‘Only royal brides.’’

‘‘So you were raised speaking…?’’

‘‘French for father, English for Mother, and our nanny was from Seville, so we spoke Spanish with her.’’

‘‘Any other languages?’’

Her heart was no longer racing. She felt calmer again, dignified. ‘‘I read Latin, of course, know some Greek, a fair amount of Italian and can get by with my German.’’

‘‘A linguist.’’

She shrugged. ‘‘I’m a mathematician. They say language and math use the same parts of the brain.’’

‘‘Interesting.’’ His fingers tapped the table, his expression almost brooding. ‘‘I didn’t realize both you and Nicolette studied mathematics at university. I knew she had—you’d mentioned that this morning—but didn’t know you had as well.’’

Nic gave herself a hard mental kick. You’re Chantal, act like Chantal! But it was proving harder to do than Nic ever expected. Having never wanted to be anyone but herself. ‘‘It’s all the same gene pool,’’ she said lightly. The table had been covered by an elegant purple cloth shot with gold threads so the entire table seemed to glimmer and shine in the soft candlelight.

‘‘Speaking of the parental gene pool, I met your father once,’’ Malik said, again changing the topic, keeping her firmly off balance. Candlelight flickered across his face, playing up the length of his imperial nose, the uncompromising line of his jaw. ‘‘Years ago, when I was still in my teens, I heard him address a group of leaders at a European economic summit. He was brilliant.’’

‘‘He loved Melio.’’ Nic pictured her country’s beautiful old port, the narrow tree-lined streets, the pretty farms tucked between rocky hills. ‘‘He wanted the best for Melio, and was willing to make whatever sacrifices were necessary—’’

‘‘Except for giving up your mother,’’ the sultan interrupted thoughtfully. ‘‘Your mother wasn’t ever negotiable, was she?’’

Her mother, the American pop sensation…a star who’d risen from the poorest roots imaginable. Her mother had grown up hungry. Hungry for food, warmth, love, shelter. Hungry for recognition.

Only Nic’s grandparents hadn’t seen it that way. They’d thought her mother was hungry for power and they’d done everything in their power to break up Julien and Star’s marriage. They’d wanted so much more for their Prince Julien. ‘‘He would have given up the crown if he had to,’’ she answered flatly.

‘‘Your grandparents nearly disinherited him.’’

She shook her head, finding it all so ludicrous. ‘‘My grandparents underestimated my mother.’’ Nic had never visited her mother’s birthplace in Louisiana, but she knew it was considered rural. Rough. Poverty stricken, crime ridden. Definitely not roots to be proud of. ‘‘Mother may have been born poor, but she wasn’t afraid of challenges.’’ No one worked harder than her mother. She had little formal schooling, having dropped out of high school before earning her diploma, but she’d dreamed big and that counted for something.

Malik’s gaze rested on Nic’s flushed face. ‘‘You got along well with her?’’

‘‘Very.’’ Nic had adored her mother. In some ways they were one and the same. Fearless. Absolutely fearless. ‘‘I’m glad she wasn’t your typical princess. I’m glad she was poor, blue collar, American. She took nothing for granted. She taught us to take nothing for granted.’’

A maid appeared with a tray and a steaming pot of coffee and two small cups. As the maid poured the coffee Nic wondered how on earth had they gotten onto this topic in the first place. It was not her favorite topic. Nic was too much like her mother to understand those who’d criticized Star.

Malik waited for the maid to leave again. ‘‘Would you say you’re the same kind of mother to Lilly? What is your relationship with your daughter like?’’

And suddenly Nicolette felt wrenched all over again, remembering how everything they were saying, everything they were doing was a lie. She was supposed to be playing Chantal, instead she kept speaking from the heart, answering his questions honestly, openly.

Think like Chantal…think like Chantal. And Nic could see Chantal in her mind’s eye and knew that yes, Chantal was a fantastic mother. Chantal was the ultimate mother. ‘‘I think I’m more protective than my mother,’’ Nic said after a moment. ‘‘And Lilly, I think, is more trusting than most children, and considerably more vulnerable.’’

Malik sipped from his small cup. ‘‘Perhaps it’s losing her father so young in life.’’

Nic couldn’t help her jaw hardening. Armand…Armand…how she hated Prince Armand Thibaudet. ‘‘Perhaps,’’ Nic agreed quietly, but her voice came out cold, flat. ‘‘Or perhaps it’s that she’s very bright for her age, quite intuitive, and she senses that things are not…as they should be.’’

Malik stared at her, considering her, his expression curious, almost speculative. After a minute ticked by, he shifted in his chair, leaning back to make himself more comfortable, and yet the intensity of his gaze made her burn from the inside out. ‘‘From what I understand, your first marriage wasn’t a love match.’’

Her stomach was in knots. She could hardly concentrate. ‘‘Far from it.’’

‘‘Yet you came to Baraka…?’’

Because I didn’t have a choice, she wanted to tell him. You were pressuring Chantal, and Chantal’s had enough pressure. ‘‘I want Lilly happy,’’ she said at last, feeling the weight of the world rest on her shoulders. Somehow, in less than forty-eight hours, he’d tied her in knots. She wasn’t Nic. She wasn’t Chantal. She didn’t know who she was anymore. The only thing she did know was that the chemistry between her and King Nuri was wild…stunning…she’d never had this kind of response to anyone and there was no way—absolutely no way—she could let the attraction get out of hand.

CHAPTER FOUR

LATER that evening, after returning to her room, she lay in bed, staring at the wood shutters where just the faintest edge of light could be made out around the edges. She couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t turn her brain off.

She was beginning to worry, really worry. First her dinner conversation with King Nuri played in her head, and then as soon as that conversation ended, she heard her last conversation with Chantal begin, the conversation they had just hours before Nic had boarded the Royal Star yacht.

‘‘It’s just a meet and greet, right?’’ Nicolette had asked, drumming her fingers on her locked steamer trunk. ‘‘You wouldn’t actually marry him. It’s just a chance to say hi—bye—and know what you’re not getting involved with?’’

Chantal’s eyebrows lifted. ‘‘Be careful, Nic. This isn’t one of your fun-loving Greeks. This is King Nuri—’’

‘‘A man—’’

‘‘A King.’’

Nic shrugged. ‘‘So he’s a royal, but so are we—and just because a man says jump, it doesn’t mean we have to.’’

So she didn’t have to jump, but the wedding was less than two weeks away and she had no idea how she was going to make this work.

What if she couldn’t get out of Baraka? What if she wasn’t able to break off the engagement in time?

There was no way she’d go through with this marriage.

Not even to rescue Lilly?

The little voice in Nic’s head made her sigh, close her eyes. She knew she’d marry Bluebeard if it’d save Lilly. But oh, let there be another way…

There had to be another way…

Once again Nic woke up in a bad mood. She hated lies. Detested hypocrisy. And yet here she was, about to begin another day pretending to be someone she was not.

Alea had breakfast waiting outside in Nic’s private courtyard, and after wrapping herself in one of the long silk robes from her wardrobe, Nic wandered outside, pulling her hair into a ponytail high on the top of her head.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the koi pond outside. Brown hair. Long messy ponytail. Dark circles under the eyes.

Princess heading to disaster.

Alea sat with Nic while she had her breakfast. ‘‘It’s going to be a busy day,’’ Alea said, studying Nic’s calendar. ‘‘Language lesson. Culture lesson. Then a wedding gown fitting—’’

‘‘No.’’

Alea looked up from the appointment book. ‘‘Did you want lunch before the fitting?’’

‘‘No. No, I don’t want to go to the wedding gown fitting—’’

‘‘It’s only scheduled for an hour.’’

Nic covered her face with her hands, rubbed her forehead, hating the headache that never seemed to go away. ‘‘I just wish…I mean…why can’t the fitting wait?’’ Nic shook her head. No use complaining. Alea hadn’t made the schedule and Alea couldn’t change her schedule.

But Alea frowned, feeling responsible. ‘‘Do you want me to send a message to His Highness? Would you like to speak with him?’’

Nic’s gaze rested on the courtyard’s lacy latticework, and her view through the open bedroom door to her suite of rooms. The ceiling in her bedchamber was high, and painted gold and blue, the floor covered in graceful tile mosaics—all lovely, all intended to seduce the senses, subdue the will—but Nic didn’t want to be seduced and subdued. She wasn’t here to be charmed. And she wasn’t about to be wooed.

‘‘These rooms,’’ Nic said, ‘‘they’re incredibly beautiful. Are all bedrooms in the palace like this?’’

‘‘Oh, no, Princess. There are just a few of these special rooms. They are reserved for the sultan’s favorites.’’ Alea smoothed a page in the open appointment book.

The sultan’s favorites? As in plural. Very nice. Nic’s eyebrows lifted satirically and she glanced around once more seeing the palatial use of space, large outdoor sunken pool, koi pool, and colorful mosaics with fresh eyes. ‘‘This was part of the harem.’’

‘‘For the sultan’s chosen.’’

Ah, well, that was much better, wasn’t it? Nic thought pushing away from the table, thinking it fitting that she moved from one excruciating test to another. Breakfast in the harem followed by Arabic lesson with the cousin. How could life get any better?

Nic survived the arduous lesson, and then happily the study turned to geography. Today Fatima pulled out a map of Baraka and its neighboring countries and Nicolette loved learning about the various geographical points of interest—the mountain ranges, the river, the great deserts.

Abruptly Fatima folded the map. ‘‘What do you know about our weddings?’’

‘‘Very little,’’ Nic answered, wondering why Fatima had taken the map away. She’d been enjoying the lesson immensely and they still had plenty of time left. At least fifteen minutes.

‘‘You should know about our weddings,’’ Fatima continued tersely. ‘‘They are very important in our culture, and they are very expensive.’’ Fatima’s lips curled but she didn’t seem to be smiling. ‘‘Wedding celebrations generally last a week. The wedding itself takes place over several days. Yours will probably be at least three days. Each day of the wedding week you’ll receive more gold and jewelry from Malik. And then finally on the wedding day, you’ll be carried in on a great table, covered in jewels and all the gifts Malik has given you.’’

Nicolette was appalled, disgusted that she’d be paraded about on a table like a roasted pig at Christmas.

‘‘You are very lucky,’’ Fatima added forcefully. ‘‘You are grateful for your good fortune, aren’t you?’’

A murmur of voices sounded from the doorway and Nic glanced over her shoulder to see the servants bowing. King Nuri had entered the room and Nic couldn’t be more relieved.

‘‘Good morning,’’ Fatima greeted, rising.

‘‘How is the lesson coming?’’ he asked, approaching them, wearing dark casual slacks and a long-sleeve shirt the color of burnished copper. The shirt flattered his complexion, enhancing his features and the inky black of his hair.

‘‘Good,’’ Fatima said stiffly. ‘‘We’re done.’’

‘‘Fine. Then allow me to steal my princess.’’ He bent his head, kissed Nicolette on each cheek, and waved off Fatima, indicating she was free to go and turned to Nicolette. ‘‘You’re certain the lesson went smoothly?’’

She glanced up into his face. His expression was guarded. She wondered if he’d heard something when he first entered the room. ‘‘It went smoothly. Your cousin is quite knowledgeable.’’

‘‘She is,’’ he agreed. ‘‘And at times a little formal.’’ He hesitated a moment. ‘‘I thought I heard her speak of our wedding customs.’’

So he had heard something. ‘‘She was describing the ceremony. I must admit, it seemed a little…otherworldly to me.’’

‘‘Which part?’’

She felt heat rise to her cheeks and tried to shrug casually. ‘‘The part where the bride is draped in gold and jewels and carried in, reclining on a table.’’

He laughed, the sound deep and husky, and far too sexy. ‘‘It’s not exactly the same thing as walking down an aisle in virginal white, is it?’’

It amused him, this little play acting of hers. The princess was determined to stick with the role, even though it didn’t suit her at all.