The Highest Bidder. Maureen Child
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assassination ten years ago. Relief flooded through her.
She allowed herself to hope that her new husband had changed his mind. Perhaps he’d sleep somewhere else, or spend the night with his comrades, sharing stories of bravery and heroism. Should he wish, he’d have no trouble finding a woman in the village that surrounded the palace.
A male servant silently followed her aunt inside the room. He placed a large, fabric-covered object on a table near the foot of the bed. Her aunt quickly and sharply dismissed him.
Laila waited for the older woman to speak.
“His Majesty knew this day would come.” Dhelal’s tone was much softer as she moved forward and took both Laila’s hands in hers.
Laila blinked away a sudden tear. She loved her father, and she understood his position, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal. Had there been no other way?
Dhelal gestured to the rich green-and-gold brocade cover. “This gift was carved from Royal Han marble, the rarest of the rare. It was crafted by Saleh walud Rahman walud Kunya Al-Fulan, right before his death. It has been blessed at the headwaters of the river. It will bring you luck, my child, good fortune in love.”
Laila couldn’t help a pained laugh at that. “It’s not working.”
“Give it time.”
“I don’t have time.”
Dhelal smiled in sympathy. “You have plenty of time.”
With a final squeeze of Laila’s hands, Dhelal removed the cover, revealing a sleek, carved figure of a woman, mounted on a gold pedestal, her heart etched in gold. The mauve, gold-veined marble reflected the soft candlelight, making the statue seem to glow. The woman’s expression was gentle, serene. Something about it eased the tension from Laila, and for the first time in three days, the cramp left her stomach. Her hand reached automatically out to touch the smooth stone.
The chamber door flew open with a smack. The doorway filled with the breadth of Prince Tariq.
“Leave us.” His guttural command to Dhelal was harsh.
“Do not—” Laila began in horror. But Dhelal’s hand on her arm stopped the protest.
“Good fortune,” Dhelal reminded her gently.
Or death, Laila thought, her gaze fixing on the imposing figure of the prince. She’d thought a lot about death these past days. But she knew if she killed herself, Tariq would demand one of her two sisters. Then again, if it was an accident. If she tripped and fell from a height or was swept away in the river, who could say her father hadn’t kept his side of the bargain?
Dhelal was gone and Tariq slammed the door.
“You are ready,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
“I am not,” she dared, raising her chin.
“Remove your scarf.”
Laila hesitated. All women in Rayas wore flowing head scarves after puberty. They were mostly bright-colored and beautiful, denoting wealth and social status. In Laila’s case, the pattern conveyed her royal stature. It had been years since she’d removed it in front of a man.
What Tariq was asking was an intimate act, a prelude to everything she feared.
He took a menacing step forward, and she quickly complied with his demand, draping the white, silk garment around her neck. It was trimmed with a purple scroll pattern, laced with fine gold thread—the colors of the royal family.
“You are pretty,” Tariq noted, inspecting her as if she was an Andalusian mare in the royal stables.
He reached for her cheek, and she reflexively recoiled, taking a step back.
He immediately closed the gap between them. “Shall I punish you first?”
She mutely shook her head, nervousness turning to outright fear. She was at his mercy, and they both knew it. Not a single person in the palace would dare aid her.
He reached up again, brushing her cheek with his calloused fingertips. “You are soft.”
“You are not,” she responded, before she could think better of speaking.
“I am not,” he agreed, a wry smile barely quirking the corner of his slash of a mouth. It was the first time she’d seen him with his head bare, though she’d come to know his face well these past few days. That tiny smile was the first sign she’d seen of anything other than anger and distaste. He was tall, strong, his chin square, his skin dusky brown, and his dark eyes penetrating beneath a thick brow. The scar across one cheek said he was battle-hardened and uncompromising.
“Remember that,” he told her, before dropping his hand.
“I’m not likely to forget.”
“Good.” He reached for the top button of his tunic.
Sweat immediately prickled the goose bumps on her skin.
He crossed to the bed. It gleamed with crisp, white sheets, covers pulled back, flower petals sprinkled around the plump pillows. “Shall we get this over with?”
Laila couldn’t move. She simply could not lift her feet from the tile floor.
After a moment, he turned. “No?”
She swallowed, having lost the power of speech.
“You have a different plan?” His black eyes penetrated, and his face formed into a scowl. He was clearly daring her to defy him.
He moved back toward her, watching, like a cobra sizing up a baby chick. He moved far too close, their bodies almost touching.
She could feel his heat, hear the rasp of his breath, smell his spicy, earthy odor.
“I’m going to see you naked, Laila. I’m going to hold you. I’m going to touch you. Putting it off will only make it worse.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m a man and you’re a woman.”
“There are lots of women.”
“And there are lots of men. But you are my wife. And you are Bajal. And our child will avert war.”
“I don’t even know you,” she protested.
“And I don’t know you.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
He did smile then, and it softened his midnight eyes. “No. I suppose it is not. You don’t want me to touch you.”
“No,” she dared.
“Are you afraid or defiant?”
“I’m afraid.”
“They told me you were defiant.”
She might have been defiant—if she wasn’t so terrified. Other than the king, all the men in Rayas were beneath her in the social order. She’d never been subject to a single one. And she’d certainly never met a man so intimidating and powerful and lethal. He killed for a living, and she had no escape.
He inhaled deeply, obviously testing her scent. Then he brushed his cheek against hers. The touch burned, and her breath left her body as he wrapped a hand around her rib cage, thumb resting just below her breast.
Then, to her surprise, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek. He moved to her mouth, kissing her there, tenderly at first, evoking an unexpected buzz of sensation. Then the kisses grew firmer, more insistent. His hand cupped her breast, and she gasped in shock. He pressed his advantage, tongue invading her mouth, his free arm clamping her to his hard body.
She whimpered in fear and in shame, as her breast responded to the warmth of his hand, pleasure somehow flooding her