One Desert Night

Now she dreaded the possibility because she knew that he saw her only as his to command. A pawn in the treaty negotiations. He didn’t even trust her and her attempts to explain had been dashed aside.

Did he really expect her to stay, to share his bed tonight? Of course he did. That was what this marriage had always been about. But that was before he had believed that she and her family had somehow deceived him.

Then there was that other vital reason he had married her. He needed an heir, so did that override his dark distrust?

‘Are you saying that you believe me now? That you don’t think that I married you under false pretences? So do I go or do I stay?’

Her thoughts dried up as Nabil prowled towards her, silent-footed, as sleek and dangerous as a beautiful black panther stalking his prey.

Coming level with her, he slid his hand under her chin to lift her face when she tried just to stare at the ground to avoid him.

‘You stay.’

His smile was deadly, steely-eyed, with a twist to his mouth that had nothing of warmth in it. It was a smile that spoke of possession, of ownership. The smile of a man who knew he was the ultimate ruler; that he held her fate in the palm of his hand.

‘Walk out that door and you take with you your own reputation and that of your family. As you are so determined to point out to me, you are now my Queen and as such you are expected to share my room. My bed.’

His cold-eyed gaze left her face and drifted over towards the door into his bedroom. If there was anything that brought home to her just how much things had changed since the moment they had almost stumbled through that door in a hot-blooded rush, she’d thought for the bed, it was the look that was stamped on to his stunning features. Every muscle in his face was set hard as stone, his jaw tight, those sensual lips clamped into a thin, hard line.

Did that twist of her heart, the sudden fluttering in her throat speak of excitement or fear? Was she always condemned to suffer ambiguous feelings about this man? At one moment wishing to be anywhere but here, at another knowing that she would be the target of bitter disappointment if she was never to know him fully.

‘Oh, you need not look so appalled, habibti.’

He actually smiled when he saw her expression.

‘I think that neither of us wants to rush into anything tonight. The country needs an heir but for tonight the country must wait. It has waited years already—what will one more night matter?’

He couldn’t let her go, Nabil acknowledged inwardly. He had known that as soon as he had seen her turn and walk towards the door. But he knew only too well where his reckless desire for another woman had led him. Once the ghost of Sharmila had come between them, everything had been blackened and distorted by those memories.

Aziza or Zia were one and the same it seemed, but he still had to question whether that meeting on the balcony had been as innocent as it had appeared or something else. He knew what he wanted to think, but what he wanted had only shown him in the past that where women were concerned he was a fool, and a blind one at that.

As a king, he needed a queen. As a man, he needed a woman. When he had seen Aziza walk away from him, her head held high, her back as straight as a spear, those lush hips undulating with every step she took, she had looked every inch a queen: beautiful, stately, regal. And he had wanted her like the devil.

He still wanted her. So much that his whole body hurt. Even as he had come out with that ‘one more night’ line, his unappeased desire had been like a scream in his head.

She was his wife for goodness’ sake! What he wanted to do was to grab hold of her, lift her from her feet and carry her into the bedroom—throw her down on to the black silk covers and lose himself in the heat and beauty of her body.

Hell, no! There was more to play for here than just a night of hot sex. This marriage was supposed to have been for the future of the country. He was not prepared to take risks with it.

‘We have all the time in the world. So you can have my bed tonight—without me in it. I will take the couch.’

‘Oh, but...’

The protest tumbled from those plump rose-tinted lips as her eyes widened in shock—distress at being caught out? Or was she really as concerned as she appeared?

‘Surely the couch will be too small—uncomfortable for you? I should sleep there.’

‘Still playing the dedicated maid, little one?’ he murmured, smiling down into her uplifted face. But it was a smile that chilled the evening air, her stomach twisting into tight, painful knots. ‘I’m flattered—but there is no need for your concern. Believe me, in the desert I have slept on far harder beds, or no mattress at all. I will be fine.’

If he slept at all. The thought of lying through the long hours of the night knowing that Aziza was only metres away amongst the soft cushions of his bed left him doubting that he would enjoy a moment’s sleep throughout the night.

‘And I suppose you still want to make sure that I don’t try to sneak out in the night, to meet with the fellow conspirators you have imagined I’m working with?’

Aziza’s head came up, golden eyes blazing defiance above pale cheeks that had been drawn tight across her fine cheekbones. The Queen was back and it twisted in his guts to see her there, cursing the need for caution that held him back from enjoying the wedding night he had anticipated.

‘It must be hell to be so cynical about people—and always looking for something underneath the surface, never trusting anyone.’

‘You get used to it.’

The admission shocked Aziza, stunning her into silence. Once again her thoughts were torn in two different ways, feeling both repelled at the black cynicism of his statement and troubled at the thought of what had made him live like this. When his hand went up to rub at the scar on his cheek, she was tormented by images of the day he had been injured, the way he still reacted to any possible threat.

In spite of herself her hand went up, wanting to touch his face, ease the discomfort of that wound—in all ways. But the look in his eyes, the way his head jerked backwards, stopped the movement as it began.

‘You can trust me.’

‘I will decide when—if—that is true. For now, this is how it is to be.’

Without warning he took one step forward and, bending his head, brought his lips down hard on hers, crushing her mouth open so that the intimate taste of him flooded her senses, weakened her knees. Just a couple of heartbeats and then it was over. He was retreating from her, pushing her towards the bedroom as he swung away to the huge windows that looked down into the courtyard where the wedding festivities were still going on, the celebrations mocking the reality of the way the promised wedding night had turned out for the bride and groom.

‘Go to bed, wife,’ he commanded harshly. ‘I will see you in the morning.’

Deliberately he turned his back on her, folding his arms across his broad chest as he stared out at the darkened city below. He obviously didn’t spare her a single further thought but, as Aziza stumbled wearily in the direction of the bedroom she had expected to share with her groom that night, that kiss left her knowing that even without trust, without any form of affection, one touch, one caress, could still set molten desire pouring through her veins in a way that left her hungering for more.

CHAPTER NINE

SIX DAYS HAD passed since the wedding day.

Six nights since the wedding night that wasn’t.

Six days of being a bride but not a wife.

Six days of being Queen to everyone in the country—but not to the one man who mattered. She’d even had to be at his side during the planned six days of celebrations that marked the royal wedding. Dressed as a queen, treated as a queen, knowing that as soon as they returned to their suite she would once more, like Cinderella, turn back into the insignificant maid she had once claimed to be. Never being anything to Nabil but a source of suspicion. Never knowing if he was going to renounce her and hand her back to her father in disgrace.

And what made matters worse was that each evening they’d been escorted to the royal suite of rooms with smiles and choruses of delight and left there, obviously meant to turn their attention to the vital matter of creating that all-important heir to the throne. Instead of which they had spent so much of their time in awkward silence until it had come time to prepare for bed.

Six nights of being in his bed—but without him. Six nights of not sleeping at all, but tossing and turning restlessly in spite of the luxury of her surroundings. And if she had fallen asleep at all then the restless, wildly erotic nature of her dreams piled sensation on sensation, making her heart race. She didn’t know how many times she had lived through that terribly intimate search in her dreams. She only knew that in the darkness of her night-time imagination it felt even more heated, even more sensual than anything she had ever experienced in her life.

Waking had only brought coldness and shock, leaving her shivering in frustration, lost and bereft, unable to control her racing thoughts.

Six nights of that and she felt like a wreck, worn out from lack of sleep and from living each day on her nerves.

Today they had been to the farewell banquet for all their guests. She had spent a long time sitting beside Nabil on the ornate throne to which he had led her after their marriage, a throne she felt she had no real right to. As a result she had been unable to eat anything more than a mouthful or two while the ceremonial event had passed in a haze. Then she had spent more than an hour standing at Nabil’s side as they’d said farewell to their guests. This at least had given her something to do; her studies came into use and she was able to greet so many of the dignitaries in their own language.

At last all the formal events were over and once more she was free to return to their suite where she sank down wearily into a chair and kicked off her elegant shoes.

‘You did well today.’

The voice from the door surprised her and she glanced up, startled. She had been so sure that today, with the official ceremonies complete, Nabil would be free to find his own space, and that he would decide to leave her alone, give himself the privacy neither of them had had over the past week.

‘I—thank you.’

Was he as tired as she was? As tired of the ceremonies and ritual, at least. His voice sounded flat enough for it, though he showed no sign of the sheer bone-aching fatigue that she had endured for the past couple of days. Nights with little sleep, the nerve-stretching tension of not being trusted, and every minute of the ceremony that she had no experience of would do that. For the past few nights she had pretended exhaustion as an excuse to crawl into the sanctuary of the bedroom and hide away. Tonight she took refuge in the same excuse.

‘I’ll leave you in peace...’

She was pushing herself to her feet when Nabil shook his head abruptly.

‘Stay where you are. I’ve brought this for you.’

Aziza stared in disbelief at the plate of food he held out to her. Small, tasty-looking delicacies and some fresh fruit. Nothing complicated, nothing fancy. But what mattered more was that he had thought to provide it—and that he was now delivering the snack to her in person, not at the hands of one of the hundreds of servants who lived only to perform such tasks for him.

‘Thank you.’ Her throat had closed up so tight that it was an effort to push the words from it, and when she had to take the fine china plate from him her hand shook so badly that she almost dropped it down on to her knees.

‘I noticed that you barely ate a crumb at the banquet. And, as you’ve disappeared into the bedroom every night before this, I thought I’d better make sure you eat before you did that. And I know I need this.’

He set down a jug of fresh mango juice on the table, adding two glasses and pouring some of the liquid into each of them. Aziza could only watch in silence as he tossed his headdress aside, shrugging off his outer robe, then gulped down a draft of the drink, the muscles under the tanned skin of his strong neck tightening with each swallow, before he dropped into a chair opposite her.

‘Eat,’ he commanded but there was an unexpected gentleness in his tone, not the autocratic snap she was used to.

The mango juice was needed first, her mouth too dry to eat anything. But once the glorious refreshment had been swallowed she found she really was ravenously hungry and the delicate pastries were a delight that practically melted on her tongue.

‘This is wonderful,’ she managed, but the quick glance up towards his face was a mistake, so that she dropped her gaze to her food again rather than let his laser sharp focus on her destroy the appetite she had just rediscovered. ‘And thank you for saying that I did well—I wanted to do my best.’

‘More than your best’ was the unexpected response, almost making her choke on a crumb of pastry. ‘I never knew you could speak so many languages.’

‘Oh, that.’ A small, slightly rueful bubble of laughter escaped her. ‘To be honest I didn’t do so very much except thank them in their own language, and at the very least wish them a safe journey home.’

‘They appreciated it—and so did I.’

‘Really?’ She risked a swift upward glance through her lashes, stunned to see that his steady regard was calm, almost thoughtful.

‘Why so surprised? Surely you can understand that everyone appreciates the courtesy of being spoken to in their own language?’

‘I was glad of a chance to try out my knowledge. I always loved studying languages. I begged my father to let me have extra lessons so that I could learn. He dismissed the idea of my going to university but he let me have conversational classes at home.’

That frown told her what he thought of her father’s decision.

‘Why not university? Did he think I brought in the new laws that meant women could attend universities—study for a degree—simply to have that ignored?’

‘He believed that I would be even harder to find a husband for if it was known that I was bookish.’

‘Your father is a fool.’

The bluntness of his retort made her blink in shock. Having endured so much mockery as she’d stumbled through her language lessons, her father’s frank disbelief that she would master one other tongue, let alone the three she could now manage, it brought a glow of pride to her heart to know that this at least had been appreciated.

‘He should be proud of you. I was proud of you tonight. And yesterday.’

‘You were?’

Aziza dropped the pastry she had picked up back down on to the plate uneaten. Her throat suddenly felt thick and clogged and she had no wish to choke on her food.

Nabil’s eyes met her shocked ones, still calm, but so intent that she felt they might burn deep into her soul.

‘I would have told you that last night but you vanished into your room so fast and, by the time I looked in on you, you were fast asleep.’

‘You looked in on me?’

It was a disturbing thought that he had caught her asleep and so vulnerable. She could only pray that nothing of her dreams, those wild desolate dreams into which she had tumbled when tiredness had finally ended her uneasy restlessness, had shown on her face.

‘I wanted to talk to you. And the maid needed your dress to clean.’

‘Oh, but I would have done that...’

Aziza’s protest died away as she saw the glance he slanted her. A mixture of reproof and disbelief. Fiery colour rushed into her face as she recalled just why her dress had needed cleaning. They had visited a children’s hospital and she hadn’t been able to resist getting close to the young patients.

‘I do know how to do it.’

‘And so does the maid. It’s her job.’

‘And mine is to be—what?’ When he didn’t answer, she tried another approach, hoping to get him to answer her. ‘I don’t know how to be a queen.’

And there she’d touched on the reason he had wanted to talk to her last night, Nabil acknowledged.

‘There was no one who could have done things any better.’

She’d had a natural, easy approach with everyone she met. The people she’d talked to had positively glowed in the warmth of her attention. And the children in the hospital they’d visited yesterday had made straight for her like needles drawn to a magnet. They had climbed all over her, pushed their hands into hers. Her elegant blue dress had come back smeared with sticky little fingerprints and a smattering of baby sick on one shoulder.

And she’d laughed at it! Laughed and gone back for more.

‘I saw you before each event; you were nervous...’

‘Terrified,’ Aziza slipped in jerkily. ‘I was never trained to be a potential queen—or married to anyone important. Not like Jamalia. So I tried to imagine what your mother would do—she was so elegant...’

Nabil hastily caught back the cynical laugh that almost escaped him. But he’d obviously not been quick enough to hide his response as it drew Aziza’s eyes, wide with shock, to his face.

‘You obviously didn’t know my mother. She expected to be given attention—not to give it to others. And she would have hated to have children mess up her clothes. She would have made sure to keep a careful distance.’

‘But surely with you—with her son?’

This time he wasn’t so successful at hiding his cynicism.

‘As I said, you didn’t know my mother. Oh, she had style, elegance—she definitely looked good on the stamps. The person who most reminds me of her is your sister.’

‘And that’s not a good thing?’

Her eyes were like molten gold, fixed on his face. He couldn’t look away.

‘My mother wanted to be Queen much more than she ever wanted to be a mother. Once I arrived, she’d done her duty to the crown. One heir to the throne—check! Mission accomplished. With me safely under the care of my nurse she could go back to enjoying being the foremost lady in the land.’

‘Enjoying it?’ Aziza gave a small shudder. ‘Is it possible to enjoy being the focus of every eye? Knowing that people are watching your every move?’

She looked so horrified that he wanted to wipe that distress from her face. If she had felt so disturbed by the past few days then she hadn’t shown it when they were in public. After just a few short minutes he had known that he could leave her to cope, to talk to people whatever their age or status, though he had been aware of the way that every now and then she had glanced at him for support, encouragement.

‘It’s possible to grow accustomed to it at least. Believe me, Zia, it won’t always be this bad.’

‘Don’t call me that!’ Aziza couldn’t hold back. She hated hearing that version of her name on his lips.

‘Don’t call you—what?’ A dark frown pulled his black brows together. ‘Zia?’

The sudden inclination of his head showed how he had caught the small flinch that was her reaction.

‘It’s how you introduced yourself to me.’

‘When I didn’t want you to know who I was.’

He was too aware, too sharp. She knew that when she saw his eyes narrow swiftly. And his response only confirmed it.

‘So you don’t want me to know Zia—but who is Aziza? Your father’s daughter.’

‘My father’s second daughter.’

She’d intrigued him now. She saw the change in his expression, the tightening of the bronzed skin over the high, fierce cheekbones, then suddenly he was leaning forward with his arms resting along his thighs, hands clasped on his knees.

‘Go on. Aziza, I said, go on,’ he repeated when she hesitated and the note of command that came so naturally to him left her in no doubt that if she did not obey then the consequences would not be pretty.

‘I— Well you know the “heir and a spare” syndrome? When there is the heir apparent—but a second son will be useful just to make sure? So a second son is only there in case they’re needed—as back-up—well, the spare.’

‘I understand.’ It was clipped and curt. ‘There have been times I might have wished that I’d had a brother—as “back-up” or at least as company—but how does this affect you?’

‘That “spare” situation—well it works for daughters too. Perhaps even more so. My father always wanted a son—he didn’t get one. He had two daughters—the firstborn was special. She might not be a son and heir but she was a beauty who could be married off for a great bride price—bring honour to the family. And Jamalia was exactly that. She’s always had suitors flocking to her. Not me. I was a second daughter—a disappointment.’

‘How could anyone see you as a disappointment?’ Nabil asked softly.

It could have meant so much. Perhaps on their wedding night it would have made all her dreams come true. But there had been that wedding night and that appalling moment when he had first seen her.

‘You did. “Hellfire and damnation—I’ve married the maid!”,’ she quoted hotly when she saw him frown in confusion. The stab of distress at his obvious disappointment was just as brutal—worse—than the first time she had heard it. ‘And you looked so—horrified.’

He had said that he wasn’t disappointed, but how could he have been anything else? He had thought that he was gaining a queen, instead...

‘I suspected there might be a trap. I’ve been caught that way before.’

Aziza wasn’t quite sure exactly how his face had changed. There was a new and disturbing tension that stretched his skin tight over his carved bone structure and a muscle jerked at the edge of his jaw where it was clamped tight against some feeling he was not prepared to admit.

‘There are conspiracies everywhere.’

Could his eyes get any colder, bleaker? And without seeming to be aware of it he had lifted a hand to rub at the place where the scar marked his skin, just for a moment before he snatched his fingers away and shook his head in brusque rejection of his troublesome thoughts.

‘And you thought I might be part of one.’ She didn’t know if the sadness in her voice was for herself and his suspicions of her or for the man who had grown up facing a rebellion against his rule that had been part of his father’s legacy to him, and had obviously never fully recovered from that brutal attempt on his life and its fatal consequences.

No wonder he had been so determined not to let her close. She felt the cold slide of ice down her spine as she recalled the way that he had pulled the knife—a knife he obviously always had hidden about his person. And of course, every day he looked in the mirror, that scar must remind him that someone had hated him so much that they had tried to take his life. Something caught and twisted cruelly in her heart at the thought of him living with the fear and the doubt.

‘Not me,’ she hastened to assure him.

To her astonishment he didn’t argue. Instead he seemed to accept her assurance, nodding slowly.

‘You were not what I expected. But that was not disappointment. I wanted you in my bed from the moment I saw you. If you want to know the truth, it was the thought that you were Jamalia’s maid that meant I had to think again about having her as my Queen.’

‘You were watching us?’

She’d felt that he was there; had sensed the burn of somebody’s gaze coming through the two-way glass—observing them, watching every single move.

‘Do you think I’d have chosen your sister, sight unseen?’

It was when he had seen the sensually feminine form of the woman he’d thought was just Zia that he had known he could not take Jamalia into his bed. Nor was she what he wanted as the mother of his children. He’d been there himself, and still remembered the loneliness, the shadowed world of being the wanted heir but not a wanted child. What was it Aziza had said? The first born could be married off—bring honour to the family. So had she too known what it was like to be a child who was wanted only to be there because of what they were worth in political terms?