The Desert King's Virgin Bride. Sharon Kendrick
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was the relaxed status he had simply taken for granted. Suddenly he had been hurled into a world where he was no longer able to express an opinion without first carefully thinking it through. For his words would be seized on—twisted around, or analysed for a meaning he had not intended. Yes, he had been able to turn to Fariq—his own assistant—and elevate him to the position of Sheikh’s aide, but Malik still felt as if he was on trial. As if he had to prove to everyone—to his people and the world and to himself—that he was capable of shouldering this mighty responsibility of power.
Only with Sorrel had he not had to bother—and yet now there was to be another change, and Sorrel wished to leave.
He turned round again to find her eyes wary. And something in that fearful look shook him—seeming to click reality into sudden focus. As though the trepidation in her big blue eyes emphasised more than anything else had done to date just how different his life had become.
She who had never looked on him with anything other than serene and smiling acceptance was now surveying him as if he were some cruel sultan who had stepped out of the pages of the Arabian Nights—he, Malik, who had shown her nothing other than kindness!
Well, let her go! Let her see how she enjoyed an anonymous existence in England!
But he saw the faint clouding of her eyes and he relented, giving her one last opportunity to see sense. ‘A role could be found for you at the Kharastani Embassy,’ he mused.
‘I…realise that.’
He heard the unspoken reluctance in her voice, and with anyone else he would have quashed any further enquiry—but this was Sorrel, for mercy’s sake, who as a child had brought him back a little box covered in sea-shells from a place called Brighton. ‘You do not wish for any assistance?’ he questioned proudly.
Sorrel hesitated—for the very last thing she wished was to insult his honour. Kharastani customs were incredibly complex, and it had taken her a long time to understand that the possibility of an offer was always suggested before an offer was made. Thus, the possibility could be rejected and not the offer itself, ensuring that nobody’s pride would be hurt.
‘I just think it’s better if I do it myself. Stand on my own two feet, for the first time in my life.’ She turned her face up to his beseechingly, but his eyes were as cold as stones. ‘Surely you can understand that, Malik?’
‘I think you forget yourself,’ he remonstrated cruelly. ‘It is not my place to understand one of my subjects—nor theirs to suggest that I should!’
He drew his shoulders back and iced her a look, and Sorrel could have wept—for never in a million years could she ever have imagined Malik pulling rank on her. And was she one of his subjects? Perhaps she was—technically, at least.
Once again, the sensation of being enclosed and trapped enveloped her like a velvet throw.
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she responded stiffly, momentarily lowering her eyes—not so much in a mockery of submission but more so that he would not see the fury reflected in her eyes. When she looked up again, she had composed herself—enough to even curve her lips in a polite little smile. ‘Then I shall make the necessary arrangements.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, deliberately cold and unhelpful, picking up his golden pen in a gesture which was obviously intended to dismiss her.
But Sorrel was not prepared to be so pushed aside—not any more. For Malik himself had just demonstrated how he rewarded loyalty and unswerving affection—with disdain and contempt.
‘I believe that there was a little money set aside in a trust for me by my father?’
He stared at her, tempted to use his power as trustee of her late father’s estate. Let her see how long she would last in the world if she had to go out and earn her living like other mortals—then she might appreciate her cosseted life within the walls of the palace!
But Malik was not foolish, and he would no more seek to deny Sorrel what was rightfully hers than he would contain her in a place of which she had clearly grown tired. Just a few minutes ago he himself had shuddered at the sensation of being trapped—so why would he inflict it on someone else?
Because he would miss her?
His mouth hardened. Perhaps for an instant, but no more than that—in the way that you might miss your favourite horse if you went to live in the city and found you could no longer ride. But doubtless Sorrel would visit Kharastan from time to time. He would watch her blossom as she embraced her new life—and that was exactly as it should be.
‘Yes, Sorrel,’ he said, surprised by the sudden heaviness in his voice. ‘The money your father left in trust for you was invested by the financial advisors of the late Sheikh.’ He paused for emphasis, to let the words sink in, but also to gauge her reaction. ‘Thus the amount he left has grown considerably.’ He saw her eyes widen, and he knew that he must move quickly to quash any ill-founded dreams that she might have. ‘That does not mean that you are now a wealthy woman—but that there is adequate provision for you. I advise you to spend it wisely—cautiously, even—until you are used to dealing with money.’
Sorrel stared at him. What did he think she was going to do? Blow it on hundreds of pairs of shoes or start buying diamonds? ‘Thank you for your advice,’ she said stiffly.
Malik relaxed slightly. So she was prepared to listen to him! ‘Shall I have one of my people talk to you—guide you through all the possibilities of budgeting?’
For a moment Sorrel was tempted—and then some dormant streak of rebellion sprang out of nowhere. All her life, people had ‘guided’ her and helped make her decisions—and that didn’t happen to other people of her age. Why, how many other young women had never paid any rent, nor shopped for groceries—or had to cook their own supper? And were they given the benefit of the palace’s financial advisors?
Besides, what advice could they possibly give that was going to be relevant to her new life in England? They could hardly tell her how to make savings on the central heating bill!
‘Thank you, Malik—but no. I would prefer to stand on my own two feet.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘How stubborn you can be sometimes, Sorrel,’ he said softly.
‘It isn’t stubbornness, Malik—it’s called independence.’
He hesitated, and then asked the question, knowing that by doing so he was breaking protocol. ‘You don’t want my help?’
Sorrel shook her head, and as she did so she felt her veil shimmer around her shoulders. She had worn it for as long as she could remember, and yet soon the veil would be lifted and removed—her head bare in a way which was considered unseemly here. It would be freedom in more ways than one—and most important of all she wanted to be free of this one-sided adoration she felt for the Sheikh.
‘I want to do it my way.’ She should have felt excitement, but at that moment she felt the clammy clamping of fear around her heart as she looked up into Malik’s hard black eyes, realising that despite everything she wanted his blessing—his assurance that her actions would not damage their friendship. That once she had got him thoroughly out of her system a residual affection would remain. ‘If that’s okay?’
He shrugged, deliberately disdainful. ‘Do as you please, Sorrel,’ he said coldly, and picked up one of the documents he had been working on in a gesture which said quite clearly I wash my hands of you. ‘But if you don’t mind—I think we have exhausted the subject, don’t you? And I happen to be rather busy.’
Sorrel stared at him. She had been dismissed as he would a servant, and she had to bite back her rage and her pain as he deliberately bent over his work. Yet somehow she kept silent, her head held high as she walked towards her apartment, telling herself that his reaction to her news after a lifetime of friendship was nothing less than shameful.
Well, she would show Sheikh High-and-Mighty Malik! She was going to get right out there in the world and start living