A Christmas Bride For The King. Эбби Грин
Читать онлайн книгу.
look remotely repentant. He looked breathtakingly gorgeous as he lazily pulled the turban off his head. Dark hair curled wildly from where it had been confined under his turban, and his jaw was even more stubbled than she remembered. He was wearing the jodhpurs again, and the long tunic did little to disguise the sheer masculine power of his body.
Charlotte hated that she was wearing pretty much the same outfit she’d been wearing the first time she’d seen him.
As if reading her mind, his gaze slipped down from her face and he asked, ‘Do you own a similar shirt in every colour of the rainbow, Miss McQuillan?’
Defensively Charlotte answered, ‘No, actually. But I find that in my line of work it’s prudent to be smartly dressed at all times, and I’m mindful of not offending anyone by wearing anything too casual or revealing.’
His eyes met hers, and she could have sworn his mouth twitched.
‘No, that wouldn’t do at all.’
He gestured to the table behind them, and when she turned she saw that it was now miraculously set for two, with gleaming silverware and sparkling glasses on a white tablecloth. Kdal had disappeared, the little traitor.
‘Please sit, Miss McQuillan.’
She sat down, feeling on edge, cursing Kdal for not warning her to expect the sheikh, who sat down opposite her. Even though they were out in the open air it suddenly felt claustrophobic.
Muted sounds came from the direction of the small cluster of buildings. There was an air of urgency that hadn’t been there a few minutes before. The sheikh had clearly injected the wadi staff with adrenalin.
He took a sip of water and said, ‘I’m sure you’ve noticed a change in the palace since the first day you arrived.’
Charlotte looked at him and had to admit, ‘It’s like a different place.’
When she’d woken up on her first morning and gone for an exploratory walk the place had gone from being eerily empty to buzzing with activity.
She said, ‘I didn’t realise the national holiday was to commemorate the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. I’m sorry.’
The sheikh shrugged. ‘Don’t be. I hardly knew him. He died when I was a teenager.’
‘So there’s been a caretaker government here since then, until your father passed away?’
He nodded, and just then a waiter materialised, dressed in a pristine white tunic. The sheikh issued a stream of Arabic too fast for Charlotte to understand, and when the waiter had left he turned back to her.
‘I hope you don’t mind—I’ve ordered a few local delicacies.’
Charlotte narrowed her eyes at him across the table, suspecting strongly that this man would ride roughshod over anyone who let him. ‘Actually, I prefer to order for myself, but I’m not a fussy eater.’
He sat back, that twitch at the corner of his mouth more obvious now.
‘Duly noted, Miss McQuillan. Tell me, is that a Scottish name?’
He threw her with his question, and Charlotte busied herself unfolding her napkin in a bid not to let him see how easily an innocent question like that rattled her. Because it wasn’t the name she’d been born with. It was her maternal grandmother’s name.
‘I...yes. It’s Scots-Irish.’ And then, before he could ask her more questions, she said, ‘I had a tour of the city this morning with Kdal. He was very informative.’
She stopped when she saw something flash across the sheikh’s face but it was quickly replaced with a very urbane expression, and he said, ‘Please, tell me your impressions—after all, you did say that you thought it had much potential.’
Charlotte looked at him suspiciously, thinking he was mocking her, but his expression appeared innocent. Well, as innocent as a sinfully gorgeous reprobate could look.
‘Well, obviously it needs a lot of work to restore it, but I found it fascinating. I had no idea how far back some of the buildings date. The mosque is breathtaking, and I hadn’t expected to see a cathedral too.’
Sheikh Al-Noury took a sip of the white wine that had been poured into their glasses. ‘The city has always been a multi-faith society—one of the most liberal in the region. Outside the city limits, however, the country runs on more traditional tribal lines. Tabat used to run all the way to the sea. Jahor, the capital of Jandor, was merely a military fortress until its warriors rose up and rebelled, creating a separate independent state and endless years of war. Tabat is where all the ancient treasures reside. And all the knowledge. We have a library that rivalled the one at Alexandria, in Egypt, before it was destroyed.’
Another waiter arrived with an array of food as Charlotte responded dryly, ‘Yes, I’ve spent some time in the library this week—it’s very impressive.’
The sheikh—she still couldn’t think of him as Salim—gestured to the food. ‘Please, help yourself. We don’t really have a starter course.’
Charlotte felt self-conscious as she picked a little from each plate and added it to her own. She had to admit that she loved the Tabat cuisine as she tried a special bread that was baked with minced lamb, onions and tomatoes. Halloumi cheese and honey was another staple she was becoming addicted to. At this rate she’d have nothing to show for her time here except added inches to her waistline.
She watched Sheikh Al-Noury covertly from under her lashes, but he caught her looking and she could feel heat climb into her cheeks.
‘You’re not drinking your wine?’ he observed.
She shook her head. ‘I prefer not to when I’m working.’
He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. ‘I commend your professionalism. I, however, feel no similar urge to maintain appearances.’ He took a healthy sip.
Feeling emboldened by his seeming determination to goad her, she said, ‘I heard you have been away for most of the week.’
He put his glass down and his gaze narrowed on her. ‘Yes. I was invited to the Sultan of Al-Omar’s annual party in B’harani. He’s an old friend.’
An image immediately sprang into her mind of the sheikh surrounded by beautiful women, and when she replied her voice sounded unintentionally sharp. ‘I’ve heard of them... His parties are renowned for being impossible to get into, and they dominate the gossip columns for weeks afterwards, but there are never any pictures.’
‘Yes,’ he said, almost wistfully. ‘That was in the good old days. But it’s all changed now that he’s a married man with children.’
‘You don’t approve, Sheikh Al-Noury?’ Charlotte asked with faux innocence, almost enjoying herself now.
Those blue eyes pierced right through her. ‘I thought I told you to call me Salim. And my friend Sadiq can do as he pleases. Every man seems to fall sooner or later.’
Charlotte ignored the little dart of emotion that surprised her, at the thought of this man falling for someone. ‘Won’t you have to...fall too? You’ll be expected to take a queen and produce heirs once you are crowned king.’
Salim surveyed the woman opposite him, in another of those tantalising silk shirts with the damned bow that had haunted his dreams. Maybe she did it on purpose—projected this buttoned-up secretary image specifically to appeal to a man’s desire to see her come undone.
It irritated him intensely that not one of the many beautiful women at Sadiq’s party had managed to snare his interest. His old carousing friend had slapped him on the back and joked that he was becoming jaded. And then Sadiq’s very pretty wife had joined them and whispered something in her husband’s ear that had made him look at her so explicitly that even Salim, who was pretty unshockable, had felt uncomfortable.
When they’d made pathetically flimsy excuses and