Desert Fantasies. Barbara McMahon
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He turned away before she disappeared, cursing duty and all that came with it—the duty that forced him into this situation, the duty that insisted he marry this particular woman at this particular time, the duty that meant he would spend his night trying to memorize a crusty old book rather than burying himself in the body of a woman who looked and walked like a goddess. A woman who apparently hated the thought of doing her duty even more than he did.
Or maybe she just needed a bit more time to get used to the idea. That would make sense. He’d had three days since being informed of the disaster and what its implications were—that he should prepare himself for the fact he could be the one to inherit the throne. She’d had little more than that number in hours. And, even though her father had told her there was no other course of action, of course she would still be in denial, wanting to wish away her fate.
So maybe it was a good thing he had not asked her to dine with him. Because now she would have this night by herself, this one last night to enjoy her freedom.
And tomorrow, and for all the nights that would follow, her duty would be clear. Her duty would be with him.
In his bed.
CHAPTER SIX
‘IT IS time, Princess.’
Startled, Aisha looked up from the cushioned seat where it seemed a hundred willing hands had been busy making the final adjustments to her veil and make-up until only a moment ago, whereas now she felt only the cold fingers of dread clawing at her insides. Surely it could not be time for the ceremony already? The day had passed in a blur of preparations, starting with a warm, oil-scented bath and moving on a seemingly never-ending conveyor-belt of sensual indulgences: a massage that had promised to soothe the tightness between her shoulders and yet had proved ultimately futile, before a facial, manicure and pedicure and the delicate, tickling touch of the henna artist creating golden swirling patterns on the backs of her hands and feet, a gesture of her acceptance of the Al-Jiradi ways.
It had all taken hours, yet surely it could not already be time? But the hands of the mantel clock offered no respite. Rani was right. The ceremony would begin in less than ten minutes.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling physically ill despite having barely eaten a thing all day.
‘Do not be nervous, Princess,’ reassured Rani. ‘You look beautiful.’ Clearly she mistook her reaction for normal pre-wedding jitters. But how could this be normal wedding nerves when most brides actually chose to get married? Or at least had a say in who they married. No, there was nothing normal about this marriage. Even if the mirror that Rani suddenly produced and held in front of her made her gasp.
She blinked, and looked again. Was that woman in the mirror, that woman adorned in golden robes, with her dark hair twisted with ropes of pearls and curled behind her head, really her? Her eyes looked enormous, rimmed with kohl and shimmering with glitter, her lips plumped and gloss-slicked ruby red. She looked every bit a real bride.
The enormity of what she was being forced into was like a lead weight on her chest. Married to a stranger. A despot.
A barbarian who cared nothing for her, but only what she could do for him.
What a waste it had been, feeling relief at escaping from Mustafa’s slimy-fingered clutches, for here she was, being forced to marry yet another arrogant captor.
One of the other women tinkered with the fall of her veil, while Rani searched her face for any flaws. ‘You look perfect, Princess. Sheikh Zoltan will not be able to resist his new wife.’
Oh hell! She jammed her lips shut. It was either that or bolt for the bathroom, with metres of golden embroidered silks fluttering in her wake, to throw up the few sips of sweet tea she had managed to swallow.
She clamped her eyes shut and concentrated, swallowing down on the urge, concentrating on her breathing. She would not let that happen. She was a princess of Jemeya, after all. She would not shame her father or her country in such a fashion.
Instead she willed her body to calm until she was back in control again, smiled the best she could at the waiting group of women all glowing with satisfaction with the results of their handiwork, and said with only a hint of irony, ‘Then we must not keep Sheikh Zoltan waiting.’
It was to be a brief affair—just a small gathering, she had been advised—in deference to the recent demise of the royal family, which was the reason why it was being held here at this palace rather than the Blue Palace. The actual coronation would be held there in a few more days after the traditional mourning period, but his wedding now would cement Zoltan as the next king.
The ceremony itself was painfully brief. Her stomach still in knots, she was led slowly to a gilded ballroom where both her father and Zoltan stood waiting for her at the front of a small gathering of guests and officials, already seated at low tables for the feasting to follow. She searched the faces looking at her but failed to find her sister amongst them and felt a bubble of disappointment that she hadn’t bothered or been able to attend. But that was her sister and it was half of why she loved her so much. Instead of following convention and trying to do the right thing, Marina made her own rules and lived by them, and she didn’t blame anyone else when they went wrong.
Maybe her sister had been right all along.
The attendees fell silent and rose as one as she arrived, and to the sound of music, the beat of drums, the stringed oud and the haunting ney reed pipe, she moved across the room and forward to her fate. Her father nodded and beamed at her approvingly, partly, she knew, the smile of a man who had not seen his daughter for a few days, but also the smile of a man who would keep his crown. And she could not find fault with him for that. He had been born to be king. He knew nothing else. Jemeya knew no other way.
Besides, he was her father and she loved him, and so she did her best to warm her frozen face and smile back, not sure whether she had succeeded.
The other man stood a good head taller, and she almost missed her step when she saw the evidence of her nails still clear on his cheek. She lifted her gaze higher, saw his dark, assessing eyes on her, and felt an instantaneous rush of heat blossom in her bones and suffuse her flesh with what she saw there.
Oh, there was still the resentment, hard-edged and critical and matching the unrelenting set of his jaw. There was still the smug satisfaction at achieving what he had set out to do in order to become king. But it was the savage heat she saw burning inside those eyes that started fires under her own skin. A savage desire.
For her.
Her gaze dropped to the floor as she took those final, fateful steps. She could not breathe. Could barely think. Was only half-aware as the music ceased except for the drumming, only to realise it was her own heartbeat she was hearing. And then someone—the vizier?—uttered something and took her hennaed right hand and placed it in her father’s palm. After barely a handful more words, her wrist was lifted and passed to Zoltan’s waiting hand and, as easily as that, it was done. She was married.
Somewhere outside a cannon boomed, while inside the music resumed, brighter now and faster, signalling the end of the formalities and the start of the wedding celebrations and the feasting to come, but the music washed over her; her father’s congratulations washed over her.
She was married.
They were led to their seats. She went as if in a daze, and all the time Zoltan kept hold of her hand, his warm fingers wound tightly around hers, almost as if he feared she would run if he let go. Foolish man. He should know there was nowhere for her to run now.
There was no escape.
She was married.
But she would not look at him, afraid that if she did she might once again witness that burning need and feel that potent reaction in her own body.
His thumb stroked her hand and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the warmth from his touch coursing up her arm. Why did he do that?
She did