The Sheikh's Collection. Оливия Гейтс
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heart sick with dread. He found himself taking in the unruliness of her hair and the crumpled disorder of her robes. He swallowed. If the Sultan had seen her flushed face, then mightn’t he guess the cause of her untidy appearance?
He turned to follow the servant, his heart heavy.
How was he going to be able to tell Murat? How could he possibly admit what had been done? The worst betrayal in the world, from the two people who should have been most loyal to the sovereign.
He was ushered into one of the informal ante-rooms which he recognised from times past. He lifted his gaze to the high, arched ceiling with its intricate mosaic, before the Sultan swept in, alone—his black eyes inscrutable as he subjected his erstwhile emissary to a long, hard look.
‘So, Suleiman,’ he said. ‘This is indeed an unconventional meeting. I was disturbed from playing backgammon at a crucial point in the game, to be told that you wished to see me immediately. Is this true?’
His eyes were questioning and Suleiman felt a terrible wave of sadness wash over him. Once their relationship had been so close that he might have made a joke about his supposed insubordination. And the Sultan would have laughed softly and made a retort in the same vein. But this was no laughing matter.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ he said heavily.
‘And may I ask what has provoked this extraordinary break with protocol?’
Suleiman swallowed. ‘I have come to tell you that the Princess Sara will not marry you,’ he said.
For a moment, the Sultan did not reply. His hawk-like features gave nothing away. ‘And should not the princess have told me this herself?’ he questioned softly.
Suleiman felt his heart clench as he realised that years of loyalty and friendship now lay threatened by his one stupid act of disloyalty and lust. He had accused Sara of being headstrong—but was not his own behaviour equally reprehensible?
‘Sire, I must tell you that I have—’
‘No!’ The word cracked from Murat’s mouth like the sound of a whip and he held up his palm for silence. ‘Hold your tongue, Suleiman. If you tell me something I should not hear, then I will have no option than to have you tried for treason.’
‘Then so be it!’ declared Suleiman, his heart pounding like a piston. ‘If that is to be my fate, then I will accept it like a man.’
The Sultan’s mouth hardened but he shook his head. ‘You think I would do that? You think that a woman—any woman—is worth destroying a rare friendship between two men? One which has endured the test of time and all the challenges of hierarchy?’
‘I will accept whatever punishment you see fit to bestow on me.’
‘You want to slug it out? Is that it?’
Suleiman stared at Murat and, for a moment, the years melted away. Suddenly they were no longer two powerful men with all the burdens and responsibilities which had come with age, but two eight-year-old boys squaring up to each other in the baked dust of the palace stables. It had been soon after Suleiman had been brought from Samahan and he had punched the young Sultan at the height of an argument which had long since been forgotten.
He remembered seeing the shock on Murat’s face. The realisation that here was someone who was prepared to take him on. Even to beat him. Murat had waved away the angry courtiers. But he had gone away and taken boxing lessons and, two weeks later, had fought again and soundly beaten Suleiman. After that, the fight victory rate had been spread out evenly.
Suleiman found himself wondering which of them would win, if they fought now. ‘No, I don’t want to fight you, Sire,’ he said. ‘But I am concerned about the fall-out, if this scheduled marriage doesn’t go ahead.’
‘As well you should be concerned!’ said Murat furiously. ‘For you know as well as I do that the union was intended as an alliance between the two countries.’
Suleiman nodded. ‘Couldn’t an alternative solution be offered instead? A new peace agreement drawn up between Qurhah and Dhi’ban—which could finally banish all the years of unrest. After all, a diplomatic solution is surely more modern and appropriate than an old-fashioned dynastic marriage.’
Murat gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, how I miss your skills of diplomacy, Suleiman. As well as your unerring ability to pick out the most beautiful women on our foreign tours.’ He gave a reminiscent sigh. ‘Some pretty unforgettable women, as I recall.’
But Suleiman’s head was too full of concern to be distracted by memories of the sexual shenanigans of the past. ‘Is this a feasible plan, do you think, Sire?’
Murat shrugged. ‘It’s feasible. It’s going to take a lot of backroom work and manoeuvring. But it’s doable, yes.’
The two men stared at one another and Suleiman clenched his teeth. ‘Now give me my punishment,’ he ground out.
There was a brief silence. ‘Oh, that’s easy. My punishment is for you to take her,’ said Murat silkily. ‘Take her away with you and do what you will with her. Because I know you—and I know how your mind operates. Countless times I have watched as you grow bored with the inevitable clinginess of the female of the species. She will drive you mad within the month, Suleiman—that much I can guarantee.’
Murat’s words were still ringing in Suleiman’s ears as he waited in the sunlit palace courtyard for Sara to emerge from her ablutions. And when she did, with her blonde hair still damp and tightly plaited, he could not prevent the instinctive kick of lust which was quickly followed by the equally potent feeling of regret.
Her face was pale and her eyes dark with anxiety as she looked up at him. ‘What did he say?’
‘He accepts the situation. The wedding is off.’
‘Just like that?’
Suleiman’s mouth hardened. What would she say if he told her the truth? That Murat had spoken of her as if she’d been a poisoned chalice he was passing to his former aide. That his punishment was to have her, not to lose her.
He suspected she would never speak to him again. And he wasn’t prepared for that to happen.
Not yet.
‘He has agreed to make way for a diplomatic solution instead.’
‘He has?’ Her eyes were filled with confusion as if she found something about his reaction difficult to understand. ‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It is an acceptable compromise, considering the circumstances,’ said Suleiman, holding up a jangling set of keys which sparked silver in the bright sunlight. ‘Now let’s go. We’re leaving the horses here and taking one of the Sultan’s cars.’
Sara tried to keep up with his long-legged stride as she followed him into the courtyard, but it wasn’t until they were sitting in the blessed cool of the air-conditioned car that she could pluck up enough courage to ask him.
‘Where are we going?’
He didn’t answer straight away. In fact, he didn’t answer for a good while. Not until they had left the palace far behind them and all that surrounded them was sand and emptiness. Pulling over onto the side of the wide and deserted road, he unfastened his seat belt before leaning over and undoing hers.
‘What...are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I want to kiss you.’
‘Suleiman—’
His mouth was hard and hungry and she could feel his anger coming off him in waves. He slid towards her on the front seat of the luxury car, one hand capturing her breast, while the other began to ruck up the slithery silk of her dress. He stopped kissing her long enough to slide his hand up her bare thigh and stare down at her face.
‘Suleiman,’ she said again—as if saying his name would make some kind of sense of the situation. As if it would remind her that