Midnight in the Harem. Susanna Carr
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tiredness overtook her and she felt the room fading even as Zahir whispered words of praise next to her ear, their bodies still joined.
ZAHIR lowered himself and Angele into the steaming, fragrant water of the bath. Worthy of communal baths anywhere in Zohra, the traditional mosaic tiled rectangular bath could easily accommodate four adults. It would only ever serve him and Angele however.
As her toes touched the water, she began to stir.
The soft lighting was brighter than the candlelight in the bedroom, but not so bright it should hurt her eyes. Nevertheless, he bent protectively over her as she wakened. He’d never had a lover fall into dozing like she had, a picture of perfect peace and contentment.
It had stirred something inside him he did not want to examine too closely.
“It smells so good,” she whispered as she snuggled her head into the joint of his shoulder and neck.
A small bag of fragrant herbs floated on the surface near them. He had added the vial of specially prepared oils to the steaming water as well. “It is the traditional bathing treatment for after the wedding night.”
“For all of Zohra, or for your family?”
“These herbs and spices are mixed only for the royal family.” He brushed his hands down her stomach, tempted to go lower, but refrained. She needed time to recover before he made love to her again. “They are supposed to help assuage the aches and pains post coitus.”
“They’re doing a bang-up job.” The husky tone of her voice challenged his intentions further.
“I am glad you find it so.”
“Don’t you?” she asked, as if daring him to deny the lovemaking had not been impacting for him as well. He had no desire to attempt such a falsehood. “I do.”
Though he suspected he found the bath slightly more reinvigorating than she did. He could not imagine a more pleasing wedding night. The marriage would have to be organized and dignitaries from all over the world invited, but he had no intention of maintaining chastity with her between times.
He could even be grateful they had this time to explore their sensual relationship without concern of the next heir’s conception. He wondered what form of birth control she had decided on, but did not feel tonight was the one to discuss such mundane matters.
Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Angele was intelligent and highly organized. He had no doubt whatever option she’d chosen it was the best and most reliable on the market. When she planned something, she did it with a thoroughness that impressed even his father, or so the king had told Zahir.
He felt honored she had planned this time for them, no matter what nerves had prompted it.
“Your en suite is huge. Is that a royal thing or a rich thing?”
“It is a Zahir thing.” He spent his life serving his people. When he got an opportunity to relax, he wanted to be able to do so in absolute comfort.
“I suspected, but well … it’s not as if I’ve ever gone into my parents’ en suite or my uncle’s, for that matter.”
“You have refused to live in your parents’ home since their reconciliation.”
“It happened when I was an adult.” She paused as if thinking of the past. “It was time for me to get my own place anyway.”
“Had you been raised in Jawhar, you would have remained with your parents until our marriage.”
She tensed, but her tone was even as she said, “But I was not raised in Jawhar.”
“No, you were not.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No.” While he found her independence somewhat disconcerting, he found he liked the woman floating in his arms.
“You’ve made a couple of comments that implied it did.”
“Mere observations on differences are not an accusation of unacceptability.”
“Sometimes, they feel like they are.” “Feelings are not fact.”
“True.”
“Emotions cannot be trusted.” That reality had been drilled into him from childhood as he trained from his earliest memory to take over leadership of the kingdom of Zohra.
“Perhaps that is true sometimes, Zahir, but the lack of emotion can be just as bad.”
“To control one’s emotions is to control the negotiation.”
She sat up, unexpectedly sliding away from him in the water. “All of life is not a political negotiation.” She settled on the underwater bench opposite, her gaze searching, her expression earnest. “Don’t tell me you use those tactics when dealing with your family?”
“Not telling you would not make it any less true.”
Her lovely brown eyes widened and then narrowed. “You mean that.”
“I do not make it habit to lie.”
“You hid your relationship with Elsa Bosch for years.” An expression of chagrin came over Angele’s features before she bit her lip, clearly wishing she had not said that.
Nevertheless, he would answer the implication. “I kept it private. This is a necessary survival tactic for those of us who spend the majority of our lives in the public eye.”
“Discretion is minimal, subterfuge preferred,” she said quoting something he knew his uncle often said.
“Sometimes subterfuge is necessary, but that does not make me a liar.”
She looked away, her brows drawn together, but then she sighed. “So, you treat your parents like competing world leaders?”
While it was hardly a subtle way for her to change the subject, he did not call her on it. He had no desire to discuss one of the major mistakes of his life.
“My father especially. I successfully negotiated for my first horse.” He smiled at the memory. “I lost the negotiation for a private family-only birthday party when I was ten, though.” “You were shy?”
“Timidity is not an acceptable trait in a world leader.”
“You were ten.”
“Nevertheless, I was not shy.”
“Then why no other children?”
“That option was not on the table for negotiation.”
Her brow wrinkled charmingly. “I don’t understand.”
“I lobbied for a party with my siblings. My father insisted on a state dinner.”
Her gasp was far too adorable. Perhaps even he could be influenced by the emotion of the moment the first night with his bride.
“You mean you weren’t allowed to have a children’s party at all?”
He shrugged and admitted, “I was seven when I had my last children’s party.”
He had continued to try to negotiate for one until his twelfth year, when his father had informed him he was a man and had to put away childish things. It was the way of things for someone in his position. He knew his cousin in Jawhar had been raised with a similar set of ideals.
“That is terrible.”
He shook his head. “You are too softhearted.”
“No child of mine would be forced to have a state dinner for his birthday celebration.” She sounded like she was discussing some form of torture.
And