The Sheikh's Jewel

Every time he pushed it—her—away. He had to be in command.

As darkness fell over the city he sat at his desk, eating a sandwich. He’d left the state dinner within minutes of the announcement of the royal engagement, pleading necessary business as a reason not to endure Amber’s company. Or, more accurately, for her not to endure his company a moment longer than she needed to. He’d seen the look of surprise and slight confusion on her face, but again, he pushed it away.

His food slowly went stale as the mountain of papers slowly dwindled. He read each one carefully before signing, while dealing with necessary interruptions, the phone calls from various heads of state and security personnel.

In quiet moments, her face returned to his vision, but he always forced it out again.

Okay, so Amber was right; he hadn’t looked at her much. What she didn’t know was that he hadn’t dared look at her. For weeks, months, he’d barely looked at her, never spoken beyond politeness, because he’d been too lost in shame that he hungered night and day for his brother’s intended wife. Even her name had filled him with yearning: a precious jewel.

But never until yesterday had he dared think that she could ever become his jewel.

Lost and alone with his grief, unable to feel anything but pain, he’d been dazed when, out of nowhere, Sheikh Aziz wished him to become Amber’s husband. He hadn’t been able to say no. So close to breaking, he’d come to her today, touched by something he hadn’t known in months, years … hope. Hope that even if she didn’t feel the same, he wouldn’t have to face this nightmare alone. Could it be possible that they might find comfort in one another, to stand together in this living death …?

And the overheard conversation was his reward for being so stupid. Of course Amber wanted Alim, his dashing brother, the nation’s hero. As her father had said, what woman wouldn’t want Alim?

A dream of twelve hours had now become his nightmare. There was no way out. She was stuck with him, the last option, the sheikh by default who didn’t even want to be here.

What a fool. Hadn’t he learned long ago that dreams were for other people? For Fadi, there had been his destiny as the next sheikh; for Alim, there was the next racing car, the next glamorous destination, the jets and the women and the adoration of his family and his nation. Habib Abbas: Alim was the country’s beloved lion, their financial saviour since he’d found oil deep beneath the water of their part of the Gulf, and natural gas in the desert.

His parents would have been so proud of him. They’d always known Alim was destined for greatness, as Fadi had said so many times. We’re all so proud of you, Alim.

Alim, the golden child. Of course he had Amber’s heart—and of course he didn’t want it. He’d thrown her away without a thought, just as he’d thrown his brother into his role of sheikh. He’d left them both to their fate without even a farewell or reason.

And yet, he still loved Alim; like everyone else in the country, he’d do anything for his brother. Alim knew that well, which was why he’d just disappeared without a word. ‘Harun will do it better than I could, anyway,’ had always been his casually tossed words when Fadi had needed him for one duty or another. ‘He’s good at the duty thing.’

Harun supposed he was good at it—he’d been raised to think his duty was sacred.

I never know what he’s thinking or feeling. To her, he was Brother Number Three, nothing but an obligation, a means to enrich her country. She was only willing to marry him after being bullied and brought to a sense of pity for his grief by her father.

No, he had no choice but to marry her now—but he had no taste for his brother’s unwanted leftovers. He’d dealt with enough broken hearts of the women who’d been rejected by Alim over the years, calling the palace, even offering themselves to him in the faint hope that he had the power to change Alim’s mind.

Not this time. Never again. I might have to marry her, but I’ll be damned if I touch her.

‘It’s lust, just lust,’ he muttered, hard. Lust he could both deal with, and live without. Anything but the thought of taking her while she stared at the ceiling, wishing he were Alim—

His stomach burning, he found he was no longer hungry, and threw the rest of the sandwich into the garbage.

It was long past midnight before Harun at last reached his rooms. He sent his hovering servants away and sat on his richly canopied bed, ripping the thin mosquito curtain. With an impatient gesture he flung it away; but if he made a noise, the bodyguards watching him from one of the five vantage points designed to protect the sheikh would come running in. So he sat looking out into the night as if nothing were wrong, and grieved in dry-eyed silence.

Fadi, my brother, my father! Allah, I beg you to let Alim live and return to me.

Three days later, the armed rebel forces of the el-Shabbat family invaded Sar Abbas.

CHAPTER TWO

Eight weeks later

‘HABIB Numara! Harun, our beloved tiger, our Habib Numara!’

Riding at the head of a makeshift float—two tanks joined by tent material and filled with flowers—Harun smiled and waved to the people lining the streets of Sar Abbas. Each cheering girl or woman in the front three rows of people threw another flower at him as he passed. The flowers landed on the float filling his nostrils until the sweet scent turned his stomach and the noise of the people’s shouting left him deafened.

Still he smiled and waved; but what he wouldn’t give to be in the quiet of his room reading a book. How had Alim ever endured this adulation, this attention for so many years? Fighting for his country, his men and repelling the el-Shabbat invasion—being wounded twice during battle, and having his shoulder put back in place after the dislocation—had been a positive relief in comparison to this.

You’ll never be your brother.

Yet again his parents had been proven right. No, he’d never be like Alim.

As the float and the soldiers and the cheering throng reached the palace he looked up. His future father-in-law stood beside his bride on the upper balcony, waving to him, looking proud and somehow smug. He supposed he’d find out why when he got some time.

Amber stood like a reed moving in the wind as she watched his triumphal entry. She had a small frown between her brows, a slight tilt to her head, as if trying to puzzle out something. As if she saw his discomfort and sympathised with him.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought. She who loved Alim of racing fame and fortune, the real sheikh? Right, Harun. She sees nothing in you but the replacement in her life and bed she’d do anything to avoid.

She half lifted a hand. A smile trembled on her lips. Mindful of the people, he smiled and waved to his bride, giving her the public recognition and honour they expected.

It was all she wanted from him.

At last the wedding night she’d dreaded was upon her.

With a fast-beating heart, Amber stood in the middle of her bridal suite, with unbound hair, perfumed skin and a thin, creamy negligee over her nude body. So scared she could barely breathe, she awaited the arrival of her new husband.

The last of the fussing maids checked her hands and feet to be sure they were soft enough, perfumed to the right scent. Amber forced herself to stand still and not wave them off in irritation—or, worse, give in to her fears and ask someone, anyone what she must do to please a man she’d still barely spoken to. The way she felt right now, even the maid would do—for her mother had told her nothing. As she’d dressed her daughter for the marriage bed, the only words of advice to Amber had been, Let your husband show you the way, and though it will hurt at first and you will bleed in proof of your virginity, smile and take joy in your woman’s duty. For today, you become a woman. And with a smile Amber didn’t understand, she’d left the room.

In the Western world, girls apparently grew up knowing how to please a man, and themselves; but she’d been kept in almost total ignorance. In her world, it was a matter of pride for the husband to teach his wife what took place in the bed. No books were allowed on the subject, no conversation by the servants on the threat of expulsion, and the Internet was strictly patrolled.

She only wished she knew what to do …

More than that, she wished she knew him at all—that he could have taken an hour out of his busy schedule to get to know her.

In the end, she’d had the few months’ wait she’d asked for, but it hadn’t been for her sake, nor had they had any time to know each other better. The el-Shabbat family hadn’t reckoned with Harun’s swift action when they’d invaded the city. Handing the day-to-day work to his intended father-in-law, Harun had taken control of the army personally. Leading his men into battle using both the ancient and modern rules of warfare he’d learned since boyhood, Harun had gained the adoration of his people by being constantly in the thick of the fierce fighting, expecting and giving no quarter. The whispers in women’s rooms were that he bore new scars on his body: badges of the highest honour. He’d spent no more than a night in the hastily erected Army hospital. Every time he’d been injured, come morning he’d returned to the battle without a word.

Within eight weeks he’d completely quelled the rebellion. By forgiving the followers of the el-Shabbat family and letting them return to their homes with little if any punishment and no public embarrassment, he’d earned their loyalty, his new title—and Amber’s deep respect. By assuming control of the el-Shabbat fortune and yet caring for the women and children the dead enemy had left behind, he’d earned the love as well as the respect of his people.

If Alim was their beloved lion, Harun had become Habib Numara, their beloved tiger. ‘It’s a good omen for his marriage, with his bride coming from Araba Numara,’ the servants said, smiling at her. ‘It will be a fruitful union blessed by God.’

And in the weeks since then, as he’d put down the final shadows of the rebellion and with rare political skill brought together nation and people once more, Harun had had less time for her than Fadi had done. In fact he still barely spoke to her at all; but though he’d never said a word about his heroism on the field, he’d earned Amber’s deep, reluctant admiration. If she still harboured regrets over Alim’s disappearance, Harun’s name now had the power to make her heart beat faster. He’d proved his worthiness without a word of bragging. She was ready to endure what she must tonight, and become the mother of his children.

As the main door opened the maid rushed to leave the room.

Sick to her stomach with nerves, she turned to where he stood—and her breath caught. It was strange, but it was only on the day she’d seen him returning to Sar Abbas as a national hero that she’d truly taken in his deep resemblance to Alim. A quiet, serious version, perhaps, but as, in his army uniform, he smiled and waved to the people cheering him in the streets, she’d seen his face as if for the first time.

Now, she struggled not to stare at him. So handsome and strong in his groom’s finery, yet so dark and mysterious with those glittering forest-green eyes. She groped with one hand to the bedpost to gain balance suddenly lacking in her knees. He was the man who’d come home a hero. He was—magnificent. He was hers.

‘None of you will listen or stand nearby,’ he snapped at the walls, and she was filled with gratitude when she heard the shuffle of many feet moving away.

Lost in awe, she faltered in her traditional greeting, but bowed in the traditional show of deep respect. ‘M-my husband, I …’ She didn’t know how to go on, but surely he’d understand how she felt?

Without a change of expression from the serious, cool appraisal, he closed the door behind him, and offered her a brief smile. ‘Sit down, please, Amber.’

Grateful for his understanding, she dropped to the bed, wondering if he’d take it as a sign, or was she being too brazen? She only wished she knew how to go on.

He gave her a slow, thoughtful glance, taking in every inch of her, and she squirmed in embarrassment. Her heart beat like a bird trying to escape its cage as she waited for Harun to come to her, to kiss her or however it was this thing began. ‘Well?’ she demanded in a haughty tone, covering her rush of nerves with a show of pride, showing him she was worthy of him: a princess to the core. ‘Do I pass your inspection, Habib Numara?’

For a moment, she thought Harun might actually smile as he hadn’t done since the hero’s return. There was a telltale glimmer in his eyes she’d noticed when he was in a rare, relaxed moment. Then, just as she was about to smile back, it vanished. ‘You have to know you’re a beautiful woman, Amber. Exquisite, in fact.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her voice losing its power. He thought her exquisite? Something inside her melted—

He turned from her, and, drawing out a thin wreath of papers from a fold of his robe, sat at her desk. ‘This should cover the necessary time. I forgot my pen, though. Do you happen to have one handy, my dear?’

Her mouth fell open as he began perusing whatever work he’d brought with him. He’d brought work to their wedding night? ‘In the second drawer,’ she responded, feeling incredibly stupid, but what else could she say?

‘Thank you,’ he replied, his tone absent. He pulled out one of her collection of pens and began reading, scrolling up and down the pages with his finger, and making notes in the margins.

She blinked, blinked again, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘Harun …’ Then she faltered to a stop.

After at least ten seconds, he stopped writing. ‘Hmm …? Did you say something, Amber?’ His tone was the cold politeness of a man who didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘Yes, I did,’ she retorted, furious. At least five different things leaped to her mouth. What do you mean by covering the necessary time? What is it with the el-Kanar men? This is our wedding night!

Don’t you want me?

But at the thought of asking it, her confused outrage turned cold inside her, making her ache. Why should this brother want me when the other two didn’t?

What’s wrong with me?

But what came from her mouth, born of the stubborn pride that was her backbone in a world where she’d had beautiful clothes and surroundings but as much control over her destiny as a piece of furniture or a child’s doll, she stated coldly, ‘If there’s no blood on the sheet tomorrow, the servants will talk. It will be around both our countries in hours. People will blame me, or worse, assume I wasn’t a virgin. Will you shame me that way, when I’ve done nothing wrong?’

His back stiffened for a moment.

Amber felt the change in the air, words hovering on his lips. How she knew that about him, when they’d still barely spoken, she had no idea, but whatever he’d been about to say vanished in an instant.

‘I see,’ he said slowly, with only a very slight weariness in the inflection. ‘Of course they will.’

He stood and stripped off his kafta, revealing his nakedness, and Amber’s heart took wings again. Magnificent? Even with the scars across his back and stomach he was breathtaking, a battle-hardened warrior sheathed in darkest gold, masculinely beautiful and somehow terrifying. Involuntarily she shrank back on the bed, wishing she’d found another place to sit. I’m not ready for this … please, Harun, be gentle with me …

She couldn’t breathe, watching him come to her.

But he walked around the bed as if she weren’t there. He didn’t touch her, didn’t even look at her. At the other side of the bed, he put something down, and used both his hands to sweep all the rose petals from the coverlet. ‘I don’t like the smell. Cloying.’

‘I like it,’ she said, halfway between defiance and stupidity.

He shrugged and stopped brushing them away. ‘It’s your bed.’ Then he lifted the thing he’d put on the bed: a ceremonial knife, beautifully scrolled in gold and silver.

‘What’s that … Harun …?’ Her jaw dropped; she watched in utter disbelief as he made a small cut deep in his armpit, and allowed a few drops of blood to fall into his cupped palm.

‘What—what are you …?’ Realising she was gaping, she slammed her mouth shut.

‘Making a cut where it won’t be seen and commented on,’ he said in a voice filled with quiet irony. ‘Thus I’m salvaging your pride in the eyes of others, my dear wife.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Beyond pride now or remembering any of her instructions for tonight, she gazed at him in open pleading. ‘What are you doing?’

He sighed. ‘As you said, virgins bleed, Amber. It’s my duty to ensure that your reputation isn’t ruined. Pull the coverings down, please, and quickly, before the blood drops on the rug. Imagine what the servants would make of that.’ His tone was filled with understated irony.

She closed her mouth and swallowed, and then swivelled around in the bed to pull the covers down.

She watched as he dripped blood into his other hand. ‘It seems enough, I think,’ he said after thirty seconds. Her husband of six hours looked at her. ‘Which side of the bed do the servants know you prefer?’

Torn between shock and fury born of humiliation, she pointed.

‘Thank you.’ As casually as if he’d spilled water, he smeared his blood on the bed. Then he walked into the bathroom; she heard the sound of running water.

When he came out he returned to the desk, picked up his bridegroom’s clothing, pulled it back over his head and let it fall to his feet. He sat down again, reading, scrolling and making notes.

Not knowing what else to do, she sat on the bed, drawing her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped tight around them. And for the next hour, she watched him work in growing but helpless fury.

Why won’t you touch me? she wanted to scream. Why don’t you want to touch me? What did I do wrong?

But she’d made an innocent scene with Fadi when it was obvious he was running from her, and he’d told her about Rafa. I can’t marry her, but I love her, Amber.

She’d made another scene before her father when Alim fled the country rather than marry her. He has rejected both Fadi’s position, and Fadi’s bride.

She was already the bad-luck bride in the eyes of the servants and the people—but if they found out about this, she’d never recover. Fadi had loved another; Alim fled the country—but neither of them had made the rejection this obvious.

Asking him why would only humiliate her further.

After a while, her husband said without looking at her, ‘It would be best if you went to sleep, Amber. It’s been a very long day for you.’

She lay back on the sheets, avoiding the smeared blood—but she kept watching him work out of a stubborn refusal to obey anything he asked of her. If he wasn’t going to be a real husband, it relieved her of the necessity to be any kind of wife.

Suddenly she wondered how long a day it had been for him. How long had he been working—right up until he’d dressed for the wedding? During the ceremony and after he’d kissed her hand, touched her face with a smile, played the loving bridegroom—for the cameras and the people, no doubt. Now he was working again. Barely two months ago, Harun fought for his life, for the sake of a nation that didn’t belong to him.

Did he ever stop, and just be a normal man?

Harun, just look at me, be kind to me for a minute. I’m your bride, she wanted to say, but nothing emerged from her mouth. She was lying on their marriage bed, his for the taking in this shimmering piece of nothing, and he was doing stupid paperwork.

He didn’t even look at her, just as he never had before.

As a soldier, they said, he’d fought with a savagery beyond anything they’d seen before. Like Fadi, had he done it to escape her? What a shame for him that he’d lived, forced into taking a wife he clearly didn’t want in the least.

She hated him. She hated this bed … and she couldn’t stand this ridiculous situation any more.

Pulling her hair into a messy knot, she got to her feet, stalked into the bathroom, shredded the stupid negligee in her haste to take it off, and scrubbed away all traces of perfume and make-up under the stinging heat of the shower.

Using the pumice stone she scrubbed at her skin until it was raw, and took minimal comfort in the fact that Harun would never know how he’d made her cry.

But as she scrubbed herself to bleeding point she vowed she’d never make a fool of herself for an el-Kanar man again. No, she’d show Harun nothing, no emotion at all. She’d be a queen before him at all times, damn it! And one day he’d come to her, on his knees, begging for her …

If only she could make herself believe it.

CHAPTER THREE

Three Years Later

‘MY LADY, the Lord Harun has requested entrance!’

Startled, Amber dropped the papers she was reading and stared at her personal maid, Halala. Barely able to believe the words she’d heard, she couldn’t catch her breath. All the ladies were in a flutter of excitement … and hope, no doubt.

She could almost hear the whispers from mouth to ear, flying around the palace. Will he come to her bed at last?

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the common knowledge within the palace of the state of her marriage, the tag of bad-luck bride she couldn’t overcome, but she answered calmly enough. ‘Please show my husband in, and leave us. I need not remind you of what will happen if you listen in,’ she added sternly, holding each of her ladies-in-waiting with her gaze until they nodded.

As the room emptied she smoothed down her dress, her hair, while her pulse beat hard in her throat. What could he want? And she had no time to change out of one of her oldest, most comfortable dresses—

Then Harun entered her rooms, tall and broad-shouldered, with skin like dark honey and a tiny cleft in his chin; she’d long ago become accustomed to the fact that her husband was a quiet, serious version of her dashing first crush. But today his normally withdrawn if handsome face was lit from within; his forest-at-dusk eyes were alive with shimmering emotion, highlighting his resemblance to Alim more than ever. ‘Good morning, Amber,’ he greeted her not quite formally, his intense eyes not quite looking at her.

He doesn’t care what I’m wearing, Amber thought in sullen resentment. How foolish she’d been for wishing to look pretty for him, even for a minute. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Or why it still hurts after all this time.

Why had her father wanted her to wed this—this robot? He wasn’t a man. He was barely human … at least not where she was concerned. But, oh, she’d heard the rumours that he was man enough for another.

She tamped down the weakness of anger, finding strength in her pride. ‘You need something, My Lord?’ she asked, keeping her tone meek, submissive, but just as formal and distant as his. ‘It must be important for you to actually come inside my rooms. I believe this is the first time you’ve come here willingly in three years.’

He looked at her then—with a cold flash in his eyes that made her feel like a worm in dirt. ‘Since you’re taking the gloves off, my wife, we both know it’s the first time I’ve been in here willingly at all, not merely since our wedding night.’

The burning returned in full measure to her cheeks, a stinging wave of embarrassment that came every time she thought of that awful night. Turning from him with insulting slowness, as if she didn’t care, she drawled, ‘You never did explain yourself.’

Yes, she’d said it well. As if it were a mere matter of curiosity for her, and not the obsession it had been for so long.