“We won’t go back to the city?”
“Not yet. We will marry in the city, but until then we will stay here. We will be closer to some of the Bedouin encampments, and it would be best if we were to go and visit them. Too often they feel as though they are on the fringe, and yet they’re very much a part of our country. I would have them feel as important as they are.”
Isabella’s heart swelled. Pride, she realized. Because, whether or not this was what Adham had envisioned for himself, he was born to lead. And she would have to find her place. Figure out where she fit, what she could do to help him.
Although she had a feeling he would rather her place were far away from him. The gulf between them had only widened since they’d made love. That moment of closeness—that brief, burning instant that she’d spent in the center of the sun—had been an illusion. And she was paying the price for it. She had lost any real link she’d had with Adham.
He turned to go, and without thinking she put her hand on him, desperate to find some sort of connection with him. “You aren’t staying?”
He turned, his eyebrows locked together, his jaw tense, the muscle of his forearm beneath her hand tight. “I have my own quarters. You will stay in yours.”
His words—harsh, final—were like a physical slap. “And after the wedding?” she asked, despising herself for the hopeful note in her voice.
“That will depend on whether or not you are pregnant. We didn’t take any precautions.”
She nodded, feeling sick to her core. Now that she had given herself to him he didn’t want her at all. Now that she would be forced to marry him, live with him for the rest of her life, he despised her. Living with Hassan while loving Adham would have been less torturous than having Adham while his heart was locked tightly away from her—being his wife while he didn’t desire her at all.
When he left, closing the door behind him, she sat on the bed, her eyes dry and stinging, her pain too acute for tears. She felt brittle, as though the life was being drained from her.
It was one thing to be denied a life with Adham. But to be given a life with him and have him withhold himself from her … she did not know how she could live with that.
Adham swept a shaking hand over his forehead, disgusted with himself for how hard it was to deny Isabella. Even now he wanted her, after having possessed her only a few short hours ago.
Everything in his life had suddenly changed. All the things he had never desired—a wife, family, becoming High Sheikh—were thrust upon him, and still his most pressing need seemed to be for Isabella’s ripe body.
He despised the weakness in himself. Despised that she had such control over him—a control he could not seem to regain.
Until he could, he would not allow himself to touch her. He had a country to think of. His duty extended beyond simply protecting borders and rooting out threats. He was now responsible for everything. And he would do it—would do the best thing possible for his people, as he had done during his years of military service.
He would marry Isabella. But he would not allow her to lead him around by vulnerable body parts. He had never given a woman such power over him. Women were women—easy to find and interchangeable. Sex, no matter how much he enjoyed it, was only sex. It was an easy thing for a man of wealth and power to get, should he want it.
Though he knew he would not find another woman. Not now that he was going to marry Isabella. He would be faithful to her, as he would demand faithfulness of her.
But first he had to gain control of the wild heat that seemed to overcome him when he was in her presence.
The next morning Adham sat at the head of the breakfast table, preparing a formal announcement, while Hassan and his mistress sat in the middle, the woman’s eyes downcast, Hassan avoiding Isabella’s gaze. Isabella was seated at the end, with aides and servants buzzing around her, the conversation in rapid Arabic moving too quickly for her to follow.
She put her head down and concentrated on eating her hot cereal. She couldn’t imagine a more awkward moment. And she’d never felt more like a commodity than she did right then, with Hassan sitting next to the woman of his choice, caressing her tenderly, making sure she was well. And there she was, sitting leagues away from her new fiancé—the fiancé who didn’t want her, who wouldn’t even look at her. Who had inherited her as part of a package deal with his new kingdom.
Her ears perked up, picking up the word wedding when spoken by Adham’s deep voice. “I see no reason it should not take place as planned.”
Hassan nodded. “It will give the people a sense of security.”
Oh, good. She was a security blanket for the people.
She sighed. It seemed ridiculous that she had been prepared for this with Hassan, but that now it was Adham it seemed … worse. Worse because she actually wanted Adham, because she loved him, and because she knew he was now stuck in a life, a position, he had not wanted. And she was a part of that.
She loved the man, and seeing him now, seated at the head of the table, going through massive stacks of paperwork, was like watching a tiger that had been caged. Adham would be a wonderful king. The best. And yet it was not what he had wanted for himself. And hadn’t he given enough?
She was just another sacrifice he was being forced to make.
“Isabella, where is your ring?” Adham spoke directly to her for the first time since she’d sat down at the table.
She flexed her fingers. “Oh … I thought that …” She looked at Hassan, then back to Adham. “It seemed inappropriate.”
“The ring was designed specifically for you by the palace jeweler.”
Designed for her? By whose standards? Her mother’s? Her father’s? The ring was a brilliant solitaire, beautiful in its perfection, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with her as a person. And it had been Hassan’s ring. She wanted Adham’s. More than that she wanted his heart. He didn’t seem prepared to give her either, or even understand why it might be important.
For the first time Jamilah spoke. “You can’t expect Isabella to wear a ring that was given to her by another man.”
“Actually,” Isabella said crisply, “it was delivered to me by courier. So I suppose it’s impersonal enough that it should not matter.”
“But it does,” Jamilah insisted. “Men are foolish when it comes to such matters.”
On that she could wholeheartedly agree with her. And, since Jamilah was to be her sister-in-law, she was glad that she and the other woman had something other than a fiancé in common.
Hassan cleared his throat. “Yes, men are foolish. It takes us extra time to see what we truly need sometimes.”
Isabella felt her heart squeeze tight, seeing the love that passed between Hassan and Jamilah. Isabella blinked back hot tears and cleared her throat. Seeing Hassan in love, seeing the way he looked at Jamilah.it brought to light just how far she was from that place with Adham.
She stood, pushing her bowl back, tired of the pretense of enjoying breakfast while life swirled around her, out of her control. “I’m finished. Nice to meet you, Jamilah.”
She turned and walked from the room, unable to say anything to Adham for fear she might break down entirely. Everything should feel perfect now. She was marrying the man she loved. But it wasn’t perfect. It was a mockery of her feelings. The man she loved was being forced into a union with her, and being a part of his unhappiness was worse than not having him at all.
A gentle touch on her shoulder stopped her. “Isabella.” It was Jamilah, her liquid dark eyes full of concern. “I hope that you are all right, Isabella. I know what it’s like to lose the man you love … or to think you will. I would hate it if you were heartbroken over this.”
She let out a watery laugh. “I’m not. I’m very happy for both of you,” she said, choked. “I would have hated to be the cause of your separation.”
Jamilah looked down. “I resented you, Isabella. How could I not? You were going to marry the man I loved, the father of my child,
and I had no argument against it. I still don’t. Now Adham has had to give up his life too, and you have been shuffled around like a commodity …”
“Don’t feel guilty. Adham and I … I would rather be with Adham.”
A smile lit Jamilah’s beautiful face. “Then this is a good thing for you! For both of you.”
Isabella laughed, the sound hollow and brittle in the empty corridor. “I don’t know if it’s good for both of us but … I care for him.”
“It’s a good start,” the other woman offered.
“I suppose.” She left out the fact that Adham resented her, that he felt she was responsible for revealing some sort of weakness in him. She didn’t need a big loud confrontation with him to know that.
With Adham, the silences were the worst. That icy, indifferent expression that he was so good at projecting was more cutting than angry words could ever be. It was in the small things, like the ring, that he showed just how little she mattered.
“Hassan and I are leaving the country for a while. Until everything dies down. He’s concerned for my health … the health of the baby.”
What must it be like to have a man care like that? Adham had always protected her, but he had protected her because it was the right thing to do. In that sense duty was entirely inadequate. Just as it was a wholly awful reason for the man you loved to marry you.
The door to the dining room swung open and Adham and Hassan came into the corridor. Adham’s eyes locked with hers, the dark fire there igniting a heat that burned slowly in her. Desire, need, and a longing so intense it made her want to weep with it. It wasn’t just a physical need, a physical desire. She wanted his love. She wanted it so badly that it hurt.
But the man standing in front of her, the man with scars that ran deep, with roots buried in his heart, would never love her.
He did come to her side and take her arm, the gesture traditional, proprietary and devoid of anything personal. It hurt worse than the distance.
“We will see you when you return for the wedding,” Adham said, gripping his brother’s hand.
“Thank you for this, Adham. And you, Isabella.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. So she only nodded, pressure building in her chest until she was certain the dam would burst and her tears would flood the massive palace.
Hassan put his arm around Jamilah’s waist and led her down the corridor, away from Adham and herself.
“I am happy for them,” she said quietly as they moved out of sight.
“It is the right thing for Hassan to do. When a child is involved. Consideration has to be given to that.”
“What about to him and Jamilah? To the fact that they love each other?”
“What does love matter, Isabella? The kind of love between men and women, lust, that fades with time? It is easily broken, abandoned for a thousand insignificant reasons every day. But a marriage that serves a purpose, that is bigger than the two people involved, that marriage has a chance.”
“So you don’t believe that Hassan and Jamilah will stay together?”
“They have their child. I believe that will bond them.”
“But not their feelings for each other?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Are you saying you don’t believe in love?”
His expression calmed, his eyes suddenly looking beyond her. “You remember, Isabella, we talked about life experience. I have had my share. I have seen much of people—of what the human heart is capable of. Immense greed, unimaginable cruelty. Those things choke love out, kill it where it grows. I have not seen that elusive emotion conquer anything, but I have seen it used against people. I believe love has the power to weaken.”
“That’s terribly sad, Adham.”
“You’re young, Bella. You see life as full of wonderful possibilities because you have been given protection by your family—protection from the ugliness in life. But love did not save my parents, Isabella. Do you know, the men that killed my parents … they did not see my mother hiding in the garden, not at first. They used my father to draw her out. Used her love for him, exploited it.”
“Adham.” Her voice cracked.
“She could have survived if she had used her mind instead of her heart. No matter what, they were not going to free my father. There was nothing she could have done, and in the end they were both killed.”
She saw now where Adham’s rigid control, his seeming absence of emotion, came from. He felt it necessary for survival—for the survival of others. And he had honed those defenses, made them so solid, so impenetrable, that she had no hope of breaching them.
“What if it were Hassan? Wouldn’t you try to save him?”
“It is different. It is my duty to protect Hassan. I am trained to do so.”
She wanted so badly to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and offer him the comfort of her body, offer him whatever he needed. But she stayed still, rooted to the spot, unable to face the rejection that would come if she made a move toward him.
“There is an event this evening,” he said, changing the subject suddenly. “Other sheikhs, leaders of some of the larger tribal groups, are coming to the palace. I am to hear their concerns for their communities, listen to their needs, You will attend, of course.”
“Of course,” she said dryly.
“You will find suitable clothing laid out for you on your bed.” He did not look at her when he said that.
Anger flashed through her. “So you’re going to choose my clothing now? “
“Clothing that fits the event, your position, the customs of your new country. You may wear what you like in other circumstances.”
It was a small concession, but one that meant something to her.
“Thank you.”
“I’m not a tyrant, Isabella.”
“I know that.”
“Then don’t look at me as though you expect me to be.”
“Do you want honesty, Adham? I don’t know what to think. I don’t know where we stand, or how you will want your wife to behave. I don’t know what you want from me.”
He looked at her, his gaze assessing. “I’ll give you honesty, since you gave it to me. I don’t want a wife. But I do want to do what is best for my people, for your people. That is as far as my expectations of you will go. Otherwise you’re free to do as you like.”
She had a feeling he looked on that as a gift of some kind, as though he had handed her freedom. But it was impossible. Hearing that he didn’t want her hurt worse than she had imagined it would. She hadn’t thought that the verbal confirmation would be more difficult to handle than the physical signs, but it was. Much worse.
“I know you’ll do what’s best for everyone, Adham,” she said tightly. “You always do.”
“Not always.”
“Well, that’s done now. We can’t go back. And there’s no point in dwelling on it now.”
“I don’t intend to repeat my mistakes.”
He strode away, and she stood, rooted to the spot. She was a mistake? Even now that they were going to be married she was nothing more than a mistake?
He had said they would see if she was pregnant or not. Did that mean he only intended to sleep with her to ensure that she produced an heir? When she’d faced marriage to Hassan she would have welcomed that, but with Adham … the thought of him coming to her bed out of duty.
She dashed away the tears that were falling down her cheeks and went to her room. She had to pick one of her pre-selected outfits so that she would be ready to present herself as a proper sheikha. Present herself as a woman her fiancé might be proud to have on his arm.
Adham disliked state functions. Diplomacy was not his strong point, as he had been told more than once since childhood. He shifted, trying to ignore the discomfort he always experienced when wearing the traditional Umarahn robes. He preferred Western-style clothing to the billowing garb of his ancestors, but meeting with tribal leaders required him to observe tradition
in a way he was not accustomed to.
One thing he did discover was that he enjoyed talking to the people. Enjoyed finding out what their needs were, and knowing that he could help them with those needs in an immediate fashion. Being the High Sheikh would have many rewards, but the sacrifices were great. Already he chafed for the freedom of the desert. But that way of living was past.
His future bride was late—a fact he was grateful for. He had not found any more control over his libido since leaving her earlier that day. He still ached for her.
He turned his attention to the Sheikh of one of the larger nomadic groups, who was talking about a need for traveling schools, finding better ways to transport water. That was when he spotted a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and looked up.
Isabella was standing in the doorway of the throne room, her exquisite body draped in rich silk, her dark hair left loose, strands of silver chain woven through it, adding an ethereal shimmer to her glossy black locks. Her eyes were darkened with black kohl, her lips red to match her gown. The style was traditional and modest, yet on her. She looked like the essence of temptation, a call to sin that any man would be hard pressed to resist.
As she moved across the room the heads of every tribal leader turned sharply, their eyes fixed on her womanly form as she walked toward him. Her hips swayed, an enticing rhythm, and her eyes were full of sensual promise.
And she was his.
Mine.
She didn’t offer him a smile as she came to join him. Her expression was neutral, much more guarded than he was used to seeing. He had hurt her earlier, with his admission that he did not want a wife. But she had to understand that he would not be the sort of husband to her that Hassan would have been.
He would be faithful, and he would give her children. But he did not know how to give the love of a husband. The love of a father. She and her children deserved both, and it galled him to know that he could not give it. Had it been up to him he would have spared her, but the need for their marriage remained. Which meant that she had to sacrifice more than she might have.
But hurting her in that way … it had made him ache to see her eyes so full of pain.
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