Desert Fantasies: Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh

‘Perhaps you might smile,’ Zoltan leaned close to say.

Through the fog of her senses, she heard the bite in his voice, the rebuke, and it woke her from her stupor. This was Zoltan next to her, the barbarian sheikh. If she had witnessed need in his eyes, it was the need to possess her to take the crown of Al-Jirad. That was what she had witnessed in those greedy eyes. Nothing more.

She pulled her hand from his and used it to reach for her water so he could not take it back and stir her senses with the gentle stroke of his thumb again. ‘Perhaps I do not find reason to smile.’

‘This is our wedding day.’

She glared at him then, allowed her eyes to convey all the resentment and hatred she had for him and for being forced into this position. ‘Precisely!’ she hissed. ‘So it is not like there is anything to smile about.’

A muscle in his jaw popped. His eyes were as cold and flat as a slab of marble, and she knew at that moment he hated her, and she was glad. There would be no more hand stroking if she could help it.

She sipped her water, celebrating her good fortune, but her success and his fury were short-lived, his features softening at the edges as he scooped up a ripe peach from a tray of fruit. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his fingers over the velvet skin of the peach almost as if he was caressing it, holding it to his face to breathe in its fresh, sweet scent. ‘There’s always the anticipation of one’s wedding night to bring a smile to one’s face, wouldn’t you say?’

And he bit deeply into the flesh of the peach, juice running down his chin, his eyes fixed on hers. Challenging. Mocking.

‘You’re disgusting!’ she said, already rising to leave, unable to stand being alongside him a moment longer.

‘And you,’ he said, grabbing hold of her wrist, the corners of his lips turning up, ‘are my sheikha. Do not forget that.’

‘What hope is there of that?’

‘None at all, if I have anything to do with it. Now sit down and smile. You are attracting attention.’

She looked around and saw heads turned her way, the faces half openly curious, the other half frowning, except for the three men who sat at a table nearby who looked to be almost enjoying the show, the same men who had been with Zoltan last evening at the pool.

‘Who are those men?’ she asked, sitting down to quell curiosity and deflect attention from herself rather than because she wanted to, determined not to accede to his demand quietly. It worked. People soon returned to the feast and to the conversation.

‘Which men?’

‘The three you were with last night,’ she said, rubbing her wrist where he had held her, damning a touch which seemed to leave a burning memory seared on her flesh. ‘The ones sitting over there looking like the falcons that caught the hare.’

He knew who she was referring to before he followed her gaze to see his three friends sat talking amongst themselves, openly amused by the proceedings. ‘They are friends of mine.’

‘Are they the ones who were with you the night you came to Mustafa’s camp?’

He looked back at her, amused by her choice of words. ‘You mean the night we rescued you?’ The glare he earned back in response was worth it. ‘Yes, they are the ones. On the left is Bahir, in the centre, Rashid, and the one on the right is Kadar.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘He is the one with the scar on his back?’

‘That is him.’

He waited for her to ask for details, like most women he knew would, but instead she just nodded, surprising him by asking, ‘And you are the only one married?’

‘As of today.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, “why”?’

Alongside him she shrugged and took a sip from her glass of water, taking her own sweet time to answer. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I see three men who are clearly of marriageable age and who all look fairly decent with their clothes off. Your friends are all—what is that expression they use in women’s magazines?—ripped?’

Her words trailed off, leaving him to deal with the uncomfortable knowledge that she thought his friends looked good with their clothes off, his gut squeezing tight in response. He didn’t like that. He didn’t want her looking at them. He looked over to where the trio sat, knowing that if they only knew they would never let him live it down.

‘And of course,’ she continued, ‘you all seem quite friendly.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said, already suspecting where this was going.

For the first time she chose to look directly at him, rather than choosing to avert her eyes. She arched one eyebrow high, her eyes brimming with feigned innocence. ‘Naturally, I was wondering, maybe you’re all gay or something? Not that that’s a problem, per se, you understand. But it would explain why none of you have wives or women.’

He could not believe what he was hearing. If they had been anywhere else … If they had been anywhere but sitting in the midst of a crowded room where they were the centre of attention, he would have rucked up her golden skirts and shown her just how far from gay he was right here and now.

But he did not have to resort to such means, not given their eventful, albeit brief, history. She could not have forgotten already. ‘I seem to recall a certain incident in the library yesterday. I seem to recall you being there. Do you really have cause to wonder if I am gay?’

She shrugged again and picked a grape from a bunch, the first item of food he’d seen her take. ‘So maybe you swing both ways,’ she said, her eyes outlined and as bold as that sharp tongue of hers. ‘How am I supposed to know? After all, you were the one who said you never wanted a wife. And you are only marrying me so you can get the throne of Al-Jirad. What do you expect me to make of that?’

He growled, looking around at their guests, happy, loud and deep in the celebrations, and wondered if anyone would actually notice if he did drag her off to some sheltered alcove and put her concerns about his sexuality to bed this very minute. The thought made him stir, and not for the first time today. The moment she had walked into the ballroom, shrouded from head to toe in her golden wrapping, looking more like a goddess than any woman he had ever seen, he had lusted to peel each and every one of those robes and veils from her until she stood naked before him.

‘Let me assure you,’ he said, aware of three pairs of eyes studying them intently, judging their interaction, instead of watching the dancers like everyone else, no doubt hoping for more sparks to further entertain them. ‘You need have no concerns on that score.

‘And one more thing,’ he added almost as an after-thought, when he noticed she was now making an entire course of grape number two. ‘If I might suggest something?’

‘What?’

‘In the interests of allaying any and all concerns you have about my sexuality, you would be wise to eat something much more substantial. You’re going to be needing your strength tonight.’

The grape went down the wrong way, the dancers finished, and it was only that the applause drowned out the sound of her coughing that hardly anyone realised she was choking.

Bastard!

Her father topped up her water but she was already on her feet, one of her attendants coming to help her manage her robes. ‘Where are you going?’ Zoltan demanded to know, rising to his feet beside her.

‘The bathroom. Is that permitted, Your Arrogance?’

He let her go this time and she swept from the room, on the outside a cloud of sparkling gold, on the inside a raging black thundercloud.

She bypassed the bathroom, needing to stride the long corridors, needing to pound the flagstones in an effort to pound the man out of her psyche, until finally she stopped by an open window looking over yet another shady garden. She breathed deeply of the fragrant air, praying it lend her strength. She needed space. Space from that barbarian she was now wedded to. Space from the knowledge that tonight he would expect to make her his wife in every sense of the word.

And she was so very afraid.

She should never have goaded him. She should have known he would find a way to strike back at her, that her tiny victory would be only short-lived.

She looked up to see the vapour trail of a jet neatly bisecting the endless blue of the sky with a thin white line, the tiny plane no more than a diamond sparkling in the sun. She wished with all her heart that she were on that plane right now, flying as far, far away from Al-Jirad, Zoltan and her birthright as she could possibly get.

But she was not, because she was a princess, and duty ordained that she do this thing, that she marry a man she didn’t love.

Duty.

Such a little word. Such a huge impost. And tonight Zoltan would expect her to do her duty again and let him bed her.

She shuddered at the thought, suddenly assailed by myriad images and sensations cascading over her: the feel of his strong arms around her in the library, his hot mouth seeking hers, plundering hers, the sight of his body, fresh from his swim, the slide of droplets down his satin-skinned chest.

She breathed in the perfumed air and watched the tiny speck of a plane disappear into the distance as she thought of her shattered dreams and hopes. No hope of marrying a man she loved. No escape from a forced marriage. Not now.

But that did not mean she was completely powerless.

‘Princess,’ Rani said beside her, ‘the Sheikh will be worried.’

She nodded as an idea formed and took shape in her mind, but knowing what Rani said to be true. Any moment Zoltan was sure to send out the storm troopers to find her and drag her back.

So there was no escape. She was stuck in this marriage with him. But Zoltan was a fool if he thought that meant he would have it all his own way and that she would deliver herself up to him on a platter.

She would not waste herself that way.

She had not saved herself all these years to be taken by a barbarian.

‘What are you doing here? ‘

She stilled at the desk where she was sitting, pausing mid-sentence in the letter she was writing longhand to her sister to tell her about the wedding. In all likelihood it would never be sent, the details too baring, too revealing, but it was cathartic, writing it all down, putting her thoughts and shattered dreams into words.

But partly it had been something to pass the time, something to placate her mounting nerves, to do while waiting for the inevitable knock on the door.

She’d known that eventually he’d finish his drinks with his friends or whatever it was that he’d excused himself to do and that had kept him so long after the ceremony, wonder where she was and come looking for her. She should have known that he wouldn’t wait for her to open the door to barge in, all aggrieved and affronted masculine pride.

She rose to face him, willing away the heat in her cheeks. Against Rani’s shocked protests, she’d unwound herself from the metres and metres of golden fabric, pulled down her hair and scrubbed her face clean, dressing instead in a simple white nightdress, with a white robe lashed at her waist. Now only the henna tattoos adorning the backs of her hands and feet remained, but even they would fade in time and at least she no longer felt like some kind of prize to be fought and waged war over and dressed up like some kind of triumph. She felt like herself. Not even a princess any more, but a woman.

A woman with a mind of her own. A woman who knew about duty, but who also had her own hopes and dreams for the future.

That woman faced up to him now.

‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’ She swallowed and tugged on the ends of her robe’s ties, taking both mental and physical reinforcement from the action. ‘After all, this is my suite, Sheikh Zoltan.’ She put the emphasis squarely on the ‘my’.

‘And this is our wedding night!’

Packed with memories she would cherish for ever. What a laugh. She shrugged, realising she hadn’t been the only one to divest of her wedding garb. He’d changed too out of that crisp, white wedding robe and into a pair of perfectly tailored trousers and a smooth fine-knit shirt that clung to his chest like a lover’s caress. But no, she would rather not think of his lovers right now, or how many he must have had, or what their hands might do with a chest like that to explore. Not that she was jealous, exactly. It was just that she did not care to know the details.

She lifted her gaze to his face, plastering a disingenuous expression on her own. ‘Your point being?’

‘You are supposed to be in my chamber. Didn’t they tell you I was expecting to find you in my suite?’

She sniffed, looking down at the desk and fingering the hand-written pages, thinking about all the things she’d talked about, all her hopes and her disappointments, exposing herself and her pointless dreams. No, she probably wouldn’t end up sending it, come to think of it. Her seize-the-moment sister would probably only laugh and say that no man was worth waiting for, especially the one you didn’t even know existed. She looked back up at Zoltan, waiting like a mountain before her. ‘I do believe someone mentioned something like that, yes.’

‘Then why did I have to come looking for you here?’

‘Because there seemed no point in going to your room.’

He raked one hand through his hair. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Why not, when you knew I had been expecting to find you there?’

‘Simply because I thought it might give you the wrong idea,’ she said, pausing to enjoy the mess of confusion on his features and the questions flashing across his eyes before deciding to put him out of his misery. ‘Given the fact I have no intention of sleeping with you.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE mountain before her turned volcanic, the face glowing hot with the magma so close below the surface, eyes wild. She braced herself for the eruption, knowing she was courting disaster and yet feeling a strange sense of elation that she’d succeeded in throwing him so completely off-balance. But the expected eruption did not eventuate. Zoltan somehow managed to hold himself together, his rage rolling off him in searing waves of heat. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘Rest assured, Sheikh Zoltan,’ she said, aiming for meekness. ‘I would never joke about such a thing. I am deadly serious.’

‘But you are my wife!’ he roared, rigid with fury. ‘Let me remind you of that fact, in case today’s ceremony had somehow slipped your mind.’

This time she could not help but laugh. ‘Do you seriously think for a moment I could forget, when I was handed over to you like little more than a stick of furniture?’

‘Oh,’ he said, pacing out the width of the Persian rug that took up one half of the room before turning to devour the distance back in long, purposeful strides, his thumb stroking his chin as if he were deep in contemplation of some highly complex problem. ‘I see your problem. You think it should have been all about you, the poor little princess forced to do her duty for once in her life? Do you think we should have got down on hands and bended knees and thanked you for so generously sacrificing yourself on the altar of martyrdom? For so generously agreeing to do what was your duty?’

She closed her eyes as she took a despairing breath, ignoring his barbs and insults except to use them to fuel her resolve. If she had a problem, it was standing not ten feet from her. ‘No, I don’t think that at all. For, while I’m not overly fond of finding myself a pawn in someone else’s game—a game, it seems, where I find myself a loser from the very beginning—I actually don’t think I’m the one with the problem here.

‘You needed a wife—a princess, no less—in order to be king and today you got one. So now you can be crowned King of Al-Jirad. You have my heartiest congratulations.’ She looked towards the door. ‘And now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving, Sheikh Zoltan, I will finish my correspondence.’

He stood, slowly shaking his head. ‘You are kidding yourself if you think that, Princess. You think this ends here? You know Al-Jirad needs an heir. Two at least before your work is anywhere near done.’

She angled her chin higher. ‘I acknowledge that my services are also required as some kind of brood mare. I do not particularly like it, but I accept that it is so.’

His eyes gleamed in the light. ‘Then what are you doing here and not already in my suite?’

‘Simple,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest, refusing to be cowed. ‘I don’t know you. I won’t sleep with a man I don’t know, whoever he is, whether or not he believes he has some kind of legal entitlement to my breeding services.’

He came closer then, so close she could feel the air shift and curl between them, carrying his scent to her on a heated wave. It was all she could do to stand her ground and not turn and run, and only half from fear of his anger. The other half was from fear that, in spite of her anger and her hatred for him, she might yet be drawn towards an evocative scent that brought back memories of lying wrapped in his arms, close to his heated body.

She swallowed as he came close. But surely he would not try anything here, in her suite? Surely he was not that ruthless that he could come here to take what she had denied him elsewhere?

‘You don’t know me, Princess?’ He scooped the back of one finger down her cheek, an electric, evocative gesture that sent ripples of sensation radiating out under her skin. ‘Not at all?’

‘No,’ she said, hating it when he slid his hand around the curve of her throat. ‘I know practically nothing about you.’ She willed herself to be strong, to remember his cruelty and the fact he was using her, even as her skin tingled, her traitorous body yearning to sway into his touch. ‘And to tell you the truth, I’m not particularly fond of the bits I have seen.’

‘Strange,’ he mused. ‘When I had been sure there was a definite connection between us.’ He angled his head. ‘Did you not feel it then, when we kissed?’

‘I felt nothing but revulsion!’

‘Then I am mistaken. It must have been your sensual twin sister in my arms in that library. That woman was warm and willing and had a fire raging inside her that I longed to quench.’

She spun away, discomfited by his words. Shamed by the parts that hit too close to home. ‘You are very much mistaken!’

He stood there where she had left him like a dark thundercloud. ‘It is you who is mistaken, Princess, thinking you have a choice about this, barricading yourself away in your room like some kind of virginal nun seeking sanctuary when you should already be on your back working to provide Al-Jirad with the heirs it requires.’

Her blood simmered and spat, turned molten in her veins and seared its way under her skin. It was all she could do to swallow back on the bitter bile that ached to infuse her words. ‘How tempting you make it sound, Sheikh Zoltan. You paint a picture in which any woman would be mad not to want a starring role—on her back, ready to be serviced by the barbarian sheikh!’

She turned away, unable to look at him a moment longer, unable to banish the unwelcome pictures in her mind’s eye—and the unwelcome rush of heat that had accompanied them—needing air and space and everything she knew she would never find in this marriage where she was stuck with him for ever.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder and wrenched her around. ‘What did you call me?’

She looked purposefully down at his hand on her arm, and then up to him. ‘Only what you are. A barbarian.’

He smiled then, if you could call it that, baring his teeth like a wild animal before it lunges for the kill, his eyes alert and anticipating her every move. Her simmering blood spun faster and more frantic in her veins.

‘I seem to recall you calling me a barbarian once before, Princess,’ he said, tugging her closer, sliding his free hand down her arm, and then so slowly up again. ‘Maybe you are right. Maybe I am only a barbarian—the princess’s personal barbarian. Do you like the sound of that? Would that excite you? Does it heat your blood like it did yesterday in the library?’ He looked past her shoulder to the massive, wide bed that lay so broad and inviting across the room, and when he looked back at her his eyes gleamed with purpose. ‘Is that why you stayed here in your room?’ He looked down at the simple robe she was wearing, flicking the collar under his thumb, and she could tell he was working out how easy it would be to discard. ‘Is that why you changed out of your wedding gown, so that when I came and got angry, as you knew I must, it would be no challenge to tear off your robe and gown and bare you to my gaze?’

‘You kid yourself,’ she whispered, her breath coming rapid and shallow. She hated what he was doing to her body, hated herself for imagining the scene he portrayed and for wondering what it would be like to be taken by one so powerful. And she felt confused and conflicted—she hated him, and he was being a monster, yet still heat mounted inside her, still the excitement of his touch and his words tugged and awoke some deeply buried carnal self.

‘Do I?’ He touched the pad of his thumb to her parted lips, and she trembled and saw his answering smile when she did. ‘For, given that I am a barbarian, I could take you now and save myself the trouble of carrying you all the way to my suite.’

His predatory smile widened. He stepped in closer, let go his grip on her arm and used both his hands to scoop behind her neck and into her scalp, under the weight of her thick black hair. ‘Would you like that, Princess?’

She swallowed, having to put up her hands against his hard chest to stop herself from falling into him. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ But she wouldn’t bet on it.

‘And maybe it would be better this way,’ he countered, lifting her chin, angling his head. ‘For some say familiarity breeds contempt. Maybe we should consummate this marriage now, right now, lest in time you decide you hate me.’

His face drew closer and she remembered all the reasons why it shouldn’t, remembered how she felt, remembered the promise that she’d made to herself. ‘I already hate you.’

His nostrils flared, his eyes flared, then immediately descended into utter blackness. She knew she was playing with fire. ‘In which case, sweet princess, what is the point of waiting? Let’s finish this now.’

‘No!’ She pushed against his chest with every bit of strength she could muster, twisting away from him, almost stumbling in her hurry to get away. ‘Get out! I do not want this! I do not want you!’

‘You are fooling yourself, Princess,’ he said, his chest heaving as his eyes burned like coals. ‘Once again your body betrays you. Why shouldn’t we finish what we started?’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ she said. ‘Because if you do not leave now, if you do not go, then it will be on your own head. And you need never seek my respect or love or even the tiniest shred of civility, because I will hate you as much as it is physically possible to hate anyone if you take what is not freely given!’

There were sparks spitting fire in her eyes, there was a bright slash of colour across her cheeks, and right now he burned for her—burned for this woman who was now his wife and yet not completely. He burned bright and hot, his blood heated and heavy in his groin, and it took every bit of the restraint civilisation had wrought over the aeons upon the male mind that he did not throw her bodily to the floor and take her now.

‘Then I warn you, Princess. Do not take too long to decide to give what you must, because when it all comes down to it, for the sake of Al-Jirad, I will gladly risk your hatred!’

He left her then and his blood turned to steam, his fury a living thing, tangling in his gut, fuelling his feet into long, purposeful strides. He should never have given her time to prepare. He should have accompanied her to his suite, got their necessary coupling over and done with before returning to his studies. Instead he had got lost in the endless pages and had given her too much time, it seemed. Time to think and plan and plot how she could evade her duty.