Postcards From Paris: Bound by His Desert Diamond / Amorous Liaisons / The Secret to Marrying Marchesi. Sarah Mayberry
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that begged to be stroked. These were her weapons. And Zahir was beginning to realise that they were more lethal than any he had come across before. They consumed his mind, invaded his consciousness, provoking feelings of anger, lust and a desperate need that had only increased in the weeks they had been apart. And there was another emotion, one he had never experienced before. Jealousy. The thought of Annalina with another man, past or present, innocent or not, gripped him hard enough to paralyse his whole body. It frightened him with its force, weakened him with its power.
Forcing himself to relax, he leant against a pillar festooned with winter foliage, flexing his fingers, half-closing his eyes. Eyes that still followed Annalina as she started talking to another guest—that narrowed further when he saw the man taking her hand in his, raising it to his lips, holding it there longer than was strictly necessary. He sucked in a breath. Control yourself, Zahir. And find enough patience for another hour. When they finally did come together, it would be all the sweeter for the wait.
He was glad now that they hadn’t had sex that night in the cabin. At the time it had only been blind rage that had stopped him. But now he knew the timing hadn’t been right. He had wanted her—God how he had wanted her! But deep down had he felt uneasy about despoiling such an exquisite creature? Felt unworthy, even? Now Annalina was his bride, his wife. Now he could legitimately claim her. And any unusually sensitive worries he might have had, any hesitancy about his rights or his responsibilities, had long since vanished in a sea of carnal craving.
Shouldering himself away from the pillar, he decided to go outside in search of some fresh air. He needed to cool himself down.
It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear, with a full moon shining on the virgin snow. Zahir paused to take in the view, the town of Valduz spread out in the valley below twinkling prettily, the mountains all around them soaring into the night sky. He set off around the side of the castle, his footprints sinking deep into the crunchy snow, breathing in deeply to relish the cold air that scoured his lungs. But then he stopped, his senses on high alert. Someone else was out here. He could hear the huff of their breath, a sort of shuffling noise, a mumbled voice.
Zahir moved stealthily forward, tracking the sound like the trained killer that he was. Now he could make out the shape of man leaning against the wall of the castle, see the glow of a cigarette burn more brightly as he took a deep drag before flicking it away into the snow. He watched as the figure raised a bottle to his lips—whisky, if Zahir had to guess—glugging from it greedily then wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before staggering a couple of steps sideways, then back again. The mumbling was him talking to himself. There was no one else was around. He was clearly very drunk.
Zahir stepped out of the shadows.
‘I think you’ve had enough of this.’ Removing the bottle from the man’s grasp, Zahir flung it behind him.
‘Hey!’ Lunging forward, the man peered at him with glassy-eyed aggression. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Zahir silently positioned himself in front of this creature, squaring his chest, towering over him. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but neither was he going to let this guy drink himself into oblivion. Not here, at his wedding party.
‘You have no right to...’ Squinting up at Zahir, the man suddenly stopped. ‘Well, look who it is. The mighty desert Prince.’ A sneer twisted his thin lips. ‘What brings you out here? Trying to escape already?’
Zahir’s fists balled by his sides. This individual was seriously asking for a punch.
‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ Pushing himself unsteadily off the wall, he straightened up, holding Zahir’s gaze, emboldened by the alcohol or stupidity, or both. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Prince Henrik of Ebsberg.’ He extended a limp arm. ‘Delighted to meet you.’
Blood roared in Zahir’s ears, raging through his body, turning his muscles to stone. So this was the revolting individual who had once been engaged to Annalina. His fists by his sides flexed, then balled again, his nails digging into his palms.
‘Ha.’ With a dismissive laugh, Henrik withdrew his hand, folding his arms over his chest. ‘So my name’s familiar to you, then.’ He put his head on one side, the sneer still curving his lips. ‘You may not want to shake my hand, old chap, but perhaps you will accept my heartfelt commiserations instead. You have my deepest sympathies.’
A growl erupted from somewhere deep inside Zahir as he adjusted his stance, planting his feet further apart. ‘And just what do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, dear.’ With a giggle, Henrik moved his hand to his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know. This is so much worse than I thought.’
‘Don’t know what?’ Zahir ground out the question, more as a diversionary tactic to stop his hands from travelling to this man’s throat rather than because he wanted an answer.
‘About your new bride. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Princess Annalina is not only as pure as the driven snow, she’s as frozen as it.’ Misinterpreting Zahir’s thunderous silence, Henrik warmed to his theme. ‘Yes, it’s true. Beneath that pretty exterior there lies nothing but a block of ice.’
‘Hold your tongue.’ Zahir bent down, his face just inches away from his prey. ‘You will not speak of my wife in such a way. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Why not?’ Henrik blithely carried on. ‘I’m only telling you the truth. Annalina is the original ice maiden. You will get no satisfaction from her. Take it from me. I should know. I’ve been there.’
Unbidden, Zahir’s hands flew to Henrik’s throat, grasping a handful of shirt and lifting his feet clean off the ground. The fury that engulfed him was so strong he could taste it, feel it rising up his throat, burning behind his eyes. The thought that this man had even touched Annalina was enough for Zahir to wish upon him the most slow and painful death. But to brag about it. To speak of her in that hideously insulting manner... Death would be too good for him.
He looked down at Henrik, now squirming in his grasp. Then, taking a deep breath, he let him go, watching as he fell to his knees before scrabbling to stand upright again.
‘Tut, tut.’ Brushing the snow from his hands, Henrik staggered a couple of steps away. ‘It’s not my fault that you’ve married a dud, Zahani. You should have taken a leaf out of my book and had the sense to try her out first. I had a lucky escape. But you, my friend, have been duped.’
‘Why, you little...’ Raging fury had all but closed Zahir’s throat, grinding his words to a low snarl. ‘Get out of my sight while you can still walk.’
‘Very well. But it won’t change anything. The fact is, pretty Annalina is frigid. If it’s any consolation, I had no idea either—not until she was in my bed, until she was under me, until it came to the actual point of—’
Crack. Zahir’s fist connected with Henrik’s nose, making a noise like the fall of a branch in the forest. With this vilest of creatures now splayed at his feet, his first thought was of satisfaction, that he had finally silenced his revolting words. But rampant fury was still pumping through his body, the temptation to finish what he had started holding him taut, tensing his muscles, grinding his jaw. He looked down at Henrik, who was whimpering pathetically, blood pouring from his nose.
‘Get up.’ He realised he wasn’t done with him yet. He wanted him on his feet again, wanted him to fight back, to give him the opportunity to have another swipe at him. But Henrik only moaned. ‘I said, get up.’ Bending down, Zahir lifted him by the scruff of the neck again, holding him before him like a rag doll. ‘Now put your fists up. Fight like a man.’
‘Please, no.’ Henrik raised a hand, but only to touch his damaged nose, recoiling in horror when it came away covered in blood. ‘Let me go. I don’t want to fight.’
‘I bet you don’t.’ Zahir set him down again, watching Henrik’s knees buckle in the struggle to keep him upright. ‘Call yourself a man, Prince Henrik of Ebsberg?’