One Desert Night. Kate Walker
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laugh that almost escaped him. But he’d obviously not been quick enough to hide his response as it drew Aziza’s eyes, wide with shock, to his face.
‘You obviously didn’t know my mother. She expected to be given attention—not to give it to others. And she would have hated to have children mess up her clothes. She would have made sure to keep a careful distance.’
‘But surely with you—with her son?’
This time he wasn’t so successful at hiding his cynicism.
‘As I said, you didn’t know my mother. Oh, she had style, elegance—she definitely looked good on the stamps. The person who most reminds me of her is your sister.’
‘And that’s not a good thing?’
Her eyes were like molten gold, fixed on his face. He couldn’t look away.
‘My mother wanted to be Queen much more than she ever wanted to be a mother. Once I arrived, she’d done her duty to the crown. One heir to the throne—check! Mission accomplished. With me safely under the care of my nurse she could go back to enjoying being the foremost lady in the land.’
‘Enjoying it?’ Aziza gave a small shudder. ‘Is it possible to enjoy being the focus of every eye? Knowing that people are watching your every move?’
She looked so horrified that he wanted to wipe that distress from her face. If she had felt so disturbed by the past few days then she hadn’t shown it when they were in public. After just a few short minutes he had known that he could leave her to cope, to talk to people whatever their age or status, though he had been aware of the way that every now and then she had glanced at him for support, encouragement.
‘It’s possible to grow accustomed to it at least. Believe me, Zia, it won’t always be this bad.’
‘Don’t call me that!’ Aziza couldn’t hold back. She hated hearing that version of her name on his lips.
‘Don’t call you—what?’ A dark frown pulled his black brows together. ‘Zia?’
The sudden inclination of his head showed how he had caught the small flinch that was her reaction.
‘It’s how you introduced yourself to me.’
‘When I didn’t want you to know who I was.’
He was too aware, too sharp. She knew that when she saw his eyes narrow swiftly. And his response only confirmed it.
‘So you don’t want me to know Zia—but who is Aziza? Your father’s daughter.’
‘My father’s second daughter.’
She’d intrigued him now. She saw the change in his expression, the tightening of the bronzed skin over the high, fierce cheekbones, then suddenly he was leaning forward with his arms resting along his thighs, hands clasped on his knees.
‘Go on. Aziza, I said, go on,’ he repeated when she hesitated and the note of command that came so naturally to him left her in no doubt that if she did not obey then the consequences would not be pretty.
‘I— Well you know the “heir and a spare” syndrome? When there is the heir apparent—but a second son will be useful just to make sure? So a second son is only there in case they’re needed—as back-up—well, the spare.’
‘I understand.’ It was clipped and curt. ‘There have been times I might have wished that I’d had a brother—as “back-up” or at least as company—but how does this affect you?’
‘That “spare” situation—well it works for daughters too. Perhaps even more so. My father always wanted a son—he didn’t get one. He had two daughters—the firstborn was special. She might not be a son and heir but she was a beauty who could be married off for a great bride price—bring honour to the family. And Jamalia was exactly that. She’s always had suitors flocking to her. Not me. I was a second daughter—a disappointment.’
‘How could anyone see you as a disappointment?’ Nabil asked softly.
It could have meant so much. Perhaps on their wedding night it would have made all her dreams come true. But there had been that wedding night and that appalling moment when he had first seen her.
‘You did. “Hellfire and damnation—I’ve married the maid!”,’ she quoted hotly when she saw him frown in confusion. The stab of distress at his obvious disappointment was just as brutal—worse—than the first time she had heard it. ‘And you looked so—horrified.’
He had said that he wasn’t disappointed, but how could he have been anything else? He had thought that he was gaining a queen, instead...
‘I suspected there might be a trap. I’ve been caught that way before.’
Aziza wasn’t quite sure exactly how his face had changed. There was a new and disturbing tension that stretched his skin tight over his carved bone structure and a muscle jerked at the edge of his jaw where it was clamped tight against some feeling he was not prepared to admit.
‘There are conspiracies everywhere.’
Could his eyes get any colder, bleaker? And without seeming to be aware of it he had lifted a hand to rub at the place where the scar marked his skin, just for a moment before he snatched his fingers away and shook his head in brusque rejection of his troublesome thoughts.
‘And you thought I might be part of one.’ She didn’t know if the sadness in her voice was for herself and his suspicions of her or for the man who had grown up facing a rebellion against his rule that had been part of his father’s legacy to him, and had obviously never fully recovered from that brutal attempt on his life and its fatal consequences.
No wonder he had been so determined not to let her close. She felt the cold slide of ice down her spine as she recalled the way that he had pulled the knife—a knife he obviously always had hidden about his person. And of course, every day he looked in the mirror, that scar must remind him that someone had hated him so much that they had tried to take his life. Something caught and twisted cruelly in her heart at the thought of him living with the fear and the doubt.
‘Not me,’ she hastened to assure him.
To her astonishment he didn’t argue. Instead he seemed to accept her assurance, nodding slowly.
‘You were not what I expected. But that was not disappointment. I wanted you in my bed from the moment I saw you. If you want to know the truth, it was the thought that you were Jamalia’s maid that meant I had to think again about having her as my Queen.’
‘You were watching us?’
She’d felt that he was there; had sensed the burn of somebody’s gaze coming through the two-way glass—observing them, watching every single move.
‘Do you think I’d have chosen your sister, sight unseen?’
It was when he had seen the sensually feminine form of the woman he’d thought was just Zia that he had known he could not take Jamalia into his bed. Nor was she what he wanted as the mother of his children. He’d been there himself, and still remembered the loneliness, the shadowed world of being the wanted heir but not a wanted child. What was it Aziza had said? The first born could be married off—bring honour to the family. So had she too known what it was like to be a child who was wanted only to be there because of what they were worth in political terms?
‘Seeing that maid reminded me of Jamalia’s sister—of you. Had I but known it...’
And yesterday he’d had the evidence that his thoughts had been on the right track. The woman who hadn’t cared about her clothes, who had let the children swarm all over her and had laughed, was the woman he wanted as mother to his children.
With Sharmila it had seemed as if it was like that too. She had appeared to want a child so much—more than he had at the time. It was almost as if she had set herself to get pregnant as quickly as possible. She had set out