Sheikh's Defiant Wife. Maisey Yates
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the freedom of riding with Suleiman beneath the hot desert sun had been powerful enough to make her forget that she was getting ever closer to a destiny which filled her with horror.
It had felt fantastic to be back on a horse again. She had eagerly agreed to his offer of a race, although at one point she’d been lagging behind him as they were galloping towards the sand dune. Suleiman had turned to look at her and had slowed his horse to match her pace.
‘Are you okay, Sara? Not feeling too tired?’
‘Oh, I’m okay.’ Without warning, she had dug her knees into the horse and had surged ahead. And of course she reached the dune first—laughing at the frustration and admiration which were warring in his dark eyes.
‘You little cheat,’ he murmured.
‘It’s called tactics, Suleiman.’ Her answer had been insouciant, but she had been unable to hide her instinctive glee at having beaten him. ‘Just plain old tactics.’
It was only now, with the relaxation which followed hours of physical exertion, that her thoughts were slowing down enough to let her dwell on the inevitable.
One day down and time was ticking away. Soon she would never be alone with him again.
The thought of that was hard to bear. Within a few short hours, all those feelings she’d repressed for so long had come flooding back with all the force of a burst dam. He was the only man she’d ever felt anything for and he still was. She couldn’t believe how badly she had underestimated the impact of being in his company again.
She had been planning to use him as her means of escape, yes. What she hadn’t been planning was to fall deeper under his spell. To imagine herself still in love with him, as she’d been all those years ago. Had she forgotten the power of the heart to yearn for the impossible? Or had she just forgotten that Suleiman was her fantasy man, who had now come to vibrant life before her eyes?
On horseback, he looked like a dream. He had changed into his desert clothes and the result had been breathtaking. Sara had forgotten how good a man could look in flowing robes and had spent most of the day trying not to stare at him, with varying degrees of success. The fluid fabric had clung to his body and moulded the powerful thrust of his thighs as they’d gripped the flanks of his stallion. His headdress had streamed behind him like a pale banner in the warm air. His rugged profile had been dark and commanding—his lips firmly closed against the clouds of fine sand which billowed up around him.
She lay back as the servant continued to wash her with a mixture of rose water, infused with jasmine blossom. Next, her ears would be anointed with oil of sandalwood, a process which would be repeated on her toes. After that, her hair would be woven with fragrant leaves which had been brought from the gardens of the Sultan’s palace and the intention was for her to be completely perfumed by the time she was presented to him at court.
Sara shuddered as she imagined the swarthy potentate stripping her of her bridal finery, before lowering his powerful body on hers.
She could not go through with it.
She would not go through with it.
For the Sultan’s sake and for all their sakes—she could not become his wife.
And deep down she knew that the only way to ensure her freedom was with the seduction of Suleiman.
Yet the nagging question remained about how she was going to accomplish that. How could such a scenario be possible when silent servants hovered within the shadows of the camels and the tents? When the eyes of the bodyguards were so sharp it was said they could see a snake move from a hundred yards away.
The light was fading by the time she emerged from the tasselled tent for the evening meal. Against the clear, cobalt sky the giant desert sun looked like a fiery giant beach-ball as it sank slowly into the horizon. She found herself remembering the week she’d spent in Ibiza last year—when, bikini-clad, she’d frolicked in the waves with two girlfriends from the office, enjoying the kind of freedom she’d only ever dreamed of. Would she ever do something like that again? Would she ever be able to wander down to the deli near Gabe’s offices and buy herself a cappuccino, with an extra shot?
Her silken robes fluttered in the gentle breeze and tiny silver bells adorned the jewellery she wore. They jangled at her wrists and her ankles as she moved—and apart from their decorative qualities, that was the whole point of wearing them—to warn others that the Sultan’s fiancée was in the vicinity. As soon as the sound was heard the servants would bow their heads and the male members of the group would quickly avert their eyes.
All except Suleiman.
He had been standing talking to one of the bodyguards but he must have heard her for he glanced up, his eyes narrowing. It was impossible to know what was on his mind but she knew she hadn’t imagined the sudden tension which had stiffened his body. She saw his mouth harden and the skin stretching tautly over his cheekbones—as if he was mentally preparing himself for some sort of endurance test.
The bodyguards had melted away into the shadows and even though the temporary camp was humming with the unseen life of servants, it felt as if it were just her and him, alone beneath the vast canopy of the darkening sky, which would soon give way to starry night.
He, too, had changed for dinner. Soft robes of dark crimson silk made him look as if he were part of the setting sun himself. His ebony hair was covered with a headdress which was held in place by a woven circlet of silver cord. There was no aristocratic blood in his veins—that much she knew about a childhood of which he rarely spoke—but at that moment he looked as proud and patrician as any king.
He bowed his head as she approached, but not quickly enough to hide the sudden flash of hunger in his eyes.
‘You look like a true desert princess tonight,’ he said.
‘I can’t make up my mind whether or not that’s a compliment.’
‘It is,’ he said, looking for all the world as if he now regretted his choice of words. ‘It signals that you are accepting your fate—outwardly, at least. Are you hungry?’
She nodded. The sight of Suleiman was enough to make food seem inconsequential, but she could smell cooking. The familiar concoction of sweet herbs and spices drifting towards her was making her mouth water and it was a long time since she had eaten a feast in the desert. ‘Starving.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t they say that a hungry woman is a dangerous woman?’
‘And don’t they also say that some women remain dangerous even when their bellies are full?’
‘Is that a threat or a promise?’
She looked into his eyes. So black, she thought. So very black. ‘Which would you like it to be, Suleiman?’
There was a split second of a pause, when she thought he might respond in a similar, teasing style. But then something about his countenance changed and his face darkened. She could see him swallow—as if something jagged had lodged itself in his throat. And was it a terrible thing to admit that she found herself almost enjoying his obvious discomfort?
Well, it might be terrible, but it was also human nature—and right now, nothing else seemed to matter. She was achingly aware that beneath their supposedly polite banter thrummed the unmistakable tremor of sexual desire. She wanted to break down the walls that he had built around himself—to claw away at the bricks with her bare hands. She wanted to seduce him to guarantee her freedom, yes—but it was more than that. Because she wanted him.
She had never stopped wanting him.
But this could never be anything more than sex. She knew that. If she seduced Suleiman, then she needed to have the strength to walk away. Because no happy ending was possible. She knew that, too.
‘It’s dinner time,’ he said abruptly, glancing at the sun, which she knew he could read as accurately as any clock.
Sara said nothing as they walked over to the campfire, where a special