Postcards From Paris. Sarah Mayberry
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she was, he had to try to take it slowly, make sure she was ready, control the barbarian in him. Though if she carried on the way she was right now, her fingers exploring the length of him, caressing the swollen tip, his body was going to have severe trouble obeying his commands.
‘Is this right?’ Slowly her hand moved up and down.
Zahir let out a moan of assent. Frankly she could have done it any damned way she liked, could have done anything she wanted. He was past the point of being able to judge.
‘I don’t want to disappoint you.’
Disappoint him? That was not going to happen. He was sure about that. He moved one arm to cover her hand with his own, to position himself over her, to the place he so desperately needed to be able to enter her. His fingers strayed to find her, to part her in readiness, but then something made him hesitate. The catch in her voice, the slight tremor, suddenly permeated the lust-ridden fog of his mind and now he rapidly scanned her face for clues.
‘What is it? You have changed your mind?’ It killed him to ask but he had to be sure.
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘What, then?’ So he had been right—there was something.
‘Nothing, really.’ She removed her hand, bringing her arms around his back. But, as they skittered over the play of his muscles, their touch was as unconvincing as her words.
‘Tell me, Annalina.’
‘Well, it’s just... I’m a bit nervous.’ Her throat moved beneath the pale skin of her throat. ‘I hadn’t realised that you would be so...large.’
‘And that’s a problem?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it could be. I mean, there was a problem with me and Henrik, and he wasn’t anything like as big...’
Henrik. The mention of his name on her lips had the effect of pouring an icy waterfall over Zahir, at the same time as stirring a roaring tiger in his chest. Henrik. He knew what he’d like to do if he ever got his hands on that slimy creep of an individual. He couldn’t bear to think of him touching Annalina at any time, ever. But he particularly couldn’t bear to think of him now.
‘But I think we should try.’ Still she was talking, seemingly oblivious to the cold rage sweeping through him, her voice nervous but determined in the now suffocating air of the cabin. ‘Now—before we marry, I mean—to see if we can. I’m worried because of what happened with Henrik...’
‘Henrik!’ Zahir roared his name, making Annalina jump beneath him. ‘Do you really think I want to hear about Henrik?’ He moved his body off her, leaping to his feet, cursing the damned erection that refused to die, mocking him with its disobedient show of power. ‘Do you really think I want to be compared to your failed lover?’
‘Well, no, but... I just meant...’ Annalina sat up, covering her chest with her arms, her blue eyes staring up at him, wide, frightened and beseeching.
‘I know what you meant. You meant that I’m not the man that you were meant to marry, the man you wanted to marry. You meant that having sex with me was a chore that you were prepared to endure. Or maybe not.’ Another thought tore through his tortured mind. ‘Maybe you thought that if we weren’t able to have sex, if you could prove that, you wouldn’t have to marry me at all.’
‘No, Zahir, you’re wrong. You’ve got it all wrong.’
‘Because, if so, you are going to be sorely disappointed. We will marry, as planned, and we will consummate our marriage on our wedding night. And believe me, Annalina, when we do, I will drive all thoughts of Henrik from your mind. Banish all thoughts of not being able, or not being ready, or whatever other pathetic excuses you seem to be toying with. For when we do make love, when it finally happens, you’ll be thinking of nothing but me. Nothing but the way I am making you feel. And that, Annalina, is a promise.
FROM INSIDE THE chapel the organ music paused and Princess Annalina’s grip on her bouquet tightened. As the strains of Wagner’s Wedding March began she felt for her father’s arm, slipping her own through the crook of it. This was it, then. There was no going back now.
Not that she had any choice. Beside her King Gustav stood rigidly to attention, his gaze fixed straight ahead. If he had any misgivings about handing over his only daughter to this warrior prince, then he wasn’t letting it show. As far as he was concerned this wedding was a business deal, a means to an end, and his job was to deliver his daughter to her fate. And to make sure that this time nothing went wrong.
Sitting side by side in the vintage car taking them the short journey from the castle to the chapel on the Valduz estate, Anna had thought maybe this would be the moment her father would say something encouraging, comforting—she didn’t really know what. Instead he had simply checked his watch a dozen times, tugged on the sleeves of his morning coat and looked distractedly out of the window at the cheering crowds that lined the route as they passed. And when her hand had reached for his he had looked at it in surprise before awkwardly patting it a couple of times and handing it back.
More than anything in the world right now, Anna wished that her mother could be here to give her a hug, to make everything better. But sadly wishes didn’t come true, even for princesses, so instead she ended up blinking back the tears as she stared out of the window, forcing herself to smile and wave at the crowds brandishing their paper flags. But inside she had never felt more lost. More alone.
The chapel doors opened to reveal the stage set for the ceremony. And it was beautiful. This was the first wedding the chapel had seen since her parents’ nuptials and no expense had been spared, though it didn’t take a genius to work out where the money had come from. With a green-and-white theme, the ancient pews were festooned with alpine flowers, their scent mingling with the incense in the air. Huge arrangements of ivy and ferns were positioned at the top of the aisle and behind the altar at the end—somewhere that Anna couldn’t look at just yet. Because that was where Zahir would be standing. Waiting. That was where, in just a few short minutes from now, the ceremony would begin that would see her signing away her life, at least the only life she had ever known. Where she would hand herself over to this man, become his wife, move to his country, to all intents and purposes become his property to do with as he saw fit.
And Anna had been left in no doubt as to what that would entail, at least as far as the bedroom was concerned. It had been four weeks since that fateful evening in the log cabin, but the brutal memory of it would stay with her for ever—the way Zahir had taken her from wild ecstasy to the pit of misery before the aftershocks of delirium had even left her body. His rage when she had mentioned Henrik had been palpable, terrifying, a dark force that had shocked her with its vehemence, leaving her no chance to try and explain why she had said it, to justify herself. Instead she had hurried to pull on her clothes and followed him out into the night, the snow falling as he had unerringly led them back to where their vehicle was parked and sat beside her in stony silence as she had driven them back to the castle.
Zahir had returned to Nabatean the next morning and they hadn’t seen each other since, any contact between them limited to perfunctory emails or the occasional phone call. But his parting words still clamoured in her head. We will consummate our marriage on our wedding night. It had sounded more like a threat than a promise, but that didn’t stop it sending a thrill of tumult through Anna whenever she recalled it. Like now, for example. Because tonight was the night that Zahir would fulfil his prophecy.
But first she had a job to do. Glancing behind her, she forced a smile at her attendants, four little bridesmaids and two pageboys. The daughters and sons of foreign royalty she didn’t even know, they were nevertheless taking their duties very seriously, meticulously arranging the train of Anna’s beautiful lace wedding dress, the girls bossing the boys around, straightening their emerald-green sashes for them before clasping their posies to their chests, ready to begin.
The procession