His Christmas Conquest: The Sheikh's Christmas Conquest / A Christmas Vow of Seduction / Claiming His Christmas Consequence. Maisey Yates
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free to do so. His advisors didn’t like it, but that was tough. He refused to be treated with kid gloves, especially here in England—a country he knew well. And he knew that the dangers in life were the ones where obvious risk was involved, but the ones that hit you totally out of the blue...
He could feel her pulse slamming wildly beneath his fingers.
‘Let me go,’ she whispered.
‘No. You’re not going anywhere,’ he snapped. ‘Stick close to me—I’m going first. And be careful.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me to be careful. Don’t you have a phone? We could use it as a torch instead of stumbling around in the dark.’
‘It’s in my car,’ he said as they edged along a corridor that seemed less dense now that his eyes had started to accustom themselves to the lack of light. ‘Where’s yours?’
‘In my bedroom.’
‘Handy,’ he said sarcastically.
‘I wasn’t expecting to be marooned in the darkness with a total stranger.’
‘Spare me the melodrama, Livvy. And let’s just concentrate on getting there without falling over.’
Cautiously, they moved along the ancient passage. The flagged floors echoed as she led him down a narrow flight of stairs, into a large windowless kitchen that was as dark as pitch. She wriggled her hand free and felt her way towards a cupboard, where he could hear her scrabbling around—before uttering a little cry of triumph as she located the candles. He found himself admiring her efficiency, but noticed that her fingers were trembling as she struck a match and her pale face was illuminated as the flame grew steady.
Wordlessly, he took the matches from her and lit several more candles while she melted wax and positioned them carefully in tarnished silver holders. The room grew lighter and the flames cast out strange shadows that flickered over the walls. He could see the results of what must have been a pretty intensive baking session, because on the table were plates of biscuits and a platter of those sweet things the English always ate at Christmastime. He frowned as he tried to remember what they were called. Mince pies, that was it.
‘What do you think has happened?’ she questioned.
He shrugged. ‘A power line down? It can sometimes happen if there’s a significant weight of snow.’
‘But it can’t!’ She looked around, a touch of desperation in her voice. ‘I’ve still got so much to do before my guests arrive.’
He sent her a wry look. ‘Looks as though it’s going to have to wait.’
A sudden silence fell and he noticed that her hand was trembling even more now.
‘Hadn’t you better go, before the snow gets much worse?’ she said, in a casual tone that didn’t quite come off. ‘There must be someone waiting for you. Someone who’s wondering where you are.’
Incredulously, he stared at her. ‘And leave you here, on your own? Without electricity?’ He walked over to one of the old-fashioned radiators and laid the flat of his hand on it. ‘Or heating.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own,’ she said stubbornly.
‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. What kind of man would walk out and leave a woman to fend for herself in conditions like these?’
‘So you’re staying in order to ease your own conscience?’
There was a pause, and when he spoke his voice had a bitter note to it. ‘Something like that.’
Livvy’s heart thundered as she tried to work out what to do next. ‘Don’t panic’ should have been top of her list, while the second should be to stop allowing Saladin to take control. Maybe where he came from, men dealt with emergencies while the women just hung around looking decorative. Well, perhaps it might do him good to realise that she didn’t need a man to fix things for her. She didn’t need a man for anything. She’d learned to change a fuse and fix a leaking tap. She’d managed alone for long enough and that was the way she liked it.
She walked over to the phone, which hung on a neat cradle on the wall, but was greeted with nothing but an empty silence as she placed it against her ear.
‘Dead?’ he questioned.
‘Completely.’ She replaced it and looked at him but, despite her best intentions, she was starting to panic. Had she, in the rush to buy the tree and hang the mistletoe and bake the mince pies, remembered to charge her cell phone? ‘I’ll go upstairs and get my phone.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘Were you born to be bossy?’
‘I think I was. Why, does it bother you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tough,’ he said as he picked up a candle.
But as they left the kitchen Saladin realised that for the first time in a long time he was feeling exhilarated. Nobody had a clue where he was. He was marooned in the middle of the snowy English countryside with a feisty redhead he suspected would be his before the night was over. And suddenly his conscience and his troubled memories were forgotten as he followed her up the large staircase leading from the arched reception hall, where the high ceilings flickered with long shadows cast from their candles. They reached her bedroom and Saladin drew in a deep breath as she pushed open the door and turned to him, a studiedly casual note in her voice.
‘You can wait here, if you like.’
‘Like a pupil standing outside the headmaster’s study?’ he drawled. ‘No. I don’t like. Don’t worry, Livvy—I won’t be judging you if your room’s a mess and I think I’m sophisticated enough to resist the temptation to throw you down on the bed, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Oh, come in, if you insist,’ she said crossly.
But it was with a feeling of pride that she opened the door and walked through, with Saladin not far behind her. The curtains were not yet drawn and the reflected light from the snow outside meant that the room looked almost radiant with a pure and ghostly light. On a table beside the bed stood a bowl of hyacinths, which scented the cold air. Antique pieces of furniture glowed softly in the candlelight. It was a place of peace and calm—her haven—and one of many reasons why she clung to this house and all the memories it contained.
She walked over to the window seat and found her phone, dejectedly staring down at its black screen.
‘It’s dead,’ she said. ‘I was sending photo messages to a school friend when the snow started and then they delivered the Christmas tree...’ Her words tailed off. ‘You’ll have to go out to the car and get yours.’
‘I will decide if and when I’m going out to the car,’ he snapped. ‘You do not issue instructions to a sheikh.’
‘I didn’t invite you here,’ she said, her voice low. ‘We’re here together under duress and in extremely bizarre circumstances—and I think it’s going to make an unbearable situation even worse if you then start pulling rank on me.’
He looked as if he was about to come back at her with a sharp response, but seemed to think better of it—because he nodded. ‘Very well. I will go to the car and get my phone.’
He left the room abruptly, and as she heard him going downstairs she felt slightly spooked—a feeling that was only increased when the front door slammed. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet without him—all she could hear was the loud tick of the grandfather clock as it echoed through the house. She stared out of the window to see the sheikh’s shadowy figure making its way towards a car that was now completely covered in white. The snow was still falling, and she found herself thinking that at least he’d had the sense to retrieve his cashmere coat and put it on before going outside.
She could see him