by Jane Porter
The ring inside was stunning, but it came nowhere near the splendid design of the mother-of-pearl and ruby jewelry box that caught the candlelight and reflected it like fire. “This is gorgeous,” she whispered, reverently turning the box this way and that. “Is it an antique?”
“It dates to 1534 and was designed by Pierre Mangot. It was a gift for the French king, Francis I.”
She tried to press it back into Zayed’s hands. “It’s too costly a gift—”
“Nonsense. In Sarq, the groom always showers the bride with extravagant gifts, and even if we were not here in Sarq, I would still be compelled to give you beautiful things. You are a beautiful woman. You deserve nothing less.”
Zayed’s words stayed with her the rest of the night, and she heard them repeat as he walked her back to her wing at one-thirty in the morning.
Zayed was quiet as they walked, and her nerves were wound so tight that she could barely breathe.
Tomorrow they’d marry.
Tomorrow she’d probably go with him to his room.
It was what she wanted, but her desires also filled her with fear. She wasn’t experienced enough…hadn’t dated enough…hadn’t been with enough men to approach sex with anything like calm or composure.
Suddenly Rou just wanted to be in her room and alone. She wanted to hide. Wanted to return to her self, her real self, the plain woman with the sober wardrobe and severe hairstyle.
She wanted the safe Rou, the predictable one, not this dress-up princess that wore elegant heels and delicate gowns and silver-and-diamond earrings on her earlobes.
But maybe Sharif would still return in time. Maybe he’d walk through the doors tomorrow morning saving them all from a dreadful mistake.
It would be a mistake, too.
Darting a glance at Zayed from the corner of her eye confirmed her worst fears. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was beyond physical perfection. How could she trust a man like him? He had everything a man could want, everything a man could need. How could he, how would he, ever be content with her?
How could a man like that ever love a woman like her?
He might be intrigued, might see her as a challenge, or a conquest, but it’d never be love. He himself said he didn’t know how to love….
She was practically trembling in her shoes by the time they turned down the corridor that led to her wing, and as she spotted the now-familiar stonework that led to her sunken living room, she felt pure relief. Soon she’d be in her own pajamas, in bed, and at least for one night, away from Zayed and this terrible, oppressive sense of doom.
But once in her living room Zayed was in no hurry to leave. He wandered around the dimly lit room touching this and that before opening the French doors onto the moonlit garden, allowing them to hear the light, tinkling splash of the courtyard fountain.
Rou watched him stand in the doorway, drinking in the cool night air. The moonlight dappled his face light and dark. “Do you have any questions about tomorrow?” he asked, his deep voice unusually rough.
“No.”
He turned around to face her. “You understand the expectations? The morning ceremony and then the afternoon together…?”
She moved farther from him, retreating to the low white couches where she kicked off her shoes and sat down on one, her legs curling beneath her. “I believe so.”
“We must consummate the marriage for it to be valid.”
Her heart raced and her stomach knotted, screaming in protest. “We couldn’t just tell everyone we did the deed?” she choked.
He leaned against the open door frame, his mouth compressing, his expression strangely brooding for such a celebratory night. “Can’t lie. Karma and all.”
“How would such a little lie bring the wrath of the gods?”
He drew a fist across his mouth. “Little lies do,” he said, his voice so deep and hoarse Rou felt it scratch across her heart.
Afraid, but not sure why, she wrapped a protective arm around her legs. “You sound as if you speak from experience, my prince,” she said shakily, wondering at the tension coiling in the room.
Zayed closed his eyes briefly before looking at her, and yet even once he did look at her, he didn’t really seem to see her. No, he seemed to be somewhere else, seeing something—or someone—else. “Little lies are the worst. Those are the ones that appear so innocent, so foolish as to be silly, but the little lies are the ones that will break you. They’re the ones that will cut you, stealing your soul.”
He rubbed his fist across his mouth, eyes so dark with memories that they were nearly as black as the night outside. “In marrying you, I am pledging to you my fidelity, my respect and my protection. While we’re married, while together, I will never take another. You will be my only wife, and my only woman. And I mean that with every breath that I take, with every breath that I am.”
Rou sat very still as his words sank into her. She could feel truth and anger in the promise he made her, and she felt a lick of fear, wondering how everything had gotten so intense so quickly. They were back to emotions, very deep, very dark emotions, and this was definitely out of her comfort zone. But then everything here in Sarq was out of her comfort zone.
“You make me realize I do not even know you,” she said unsteadily, hugging her legs. “You seem so much the playboy, but I’m beginning to think that you’re nothing like a playboy…nothing like the image you’ve projected all these years.”
He laughed grimly. “Do not imagine me a hero. I am not Sharif, or Khalid, nor will I ever be.”
“Then who are you?”
He left the door and walked slowly, deliberately toward her. He was still so graceful, and yet his focus had an almost lethal quality. “The family shame,” he answered, reaching her side and towering above her.
Rou’s pulse quickened, and she had to tip her head back to see his face. “You are by far the most beautiful and financially successful of your brothers. How can beauty and wealth be a source of shame?”
He traced her profile, his finger lightly covering her brow, the length of her nose, the curve of lips and then chin. “Oh you of all people should know that beauty and wealth are deceitful gifts. Some of the world’s most evil men have hidden their true nature behind beautiful faces.”
Her skin flushed and burned beneath his light touch. “Are you evil, Zayed?”
He reached down and pulled her into his arms and lifted her to her feet, bringing her so close that she could feel the hard length of his body from his chest to his knees. “No,” he murmured against her cheek, his warm breath tingling her ear. “But I am cursed.”
Rou shivered against him. “Do not say such things.”
He wrapped an arm snugly around her waist, holding her in such a way that she could feel the size of his ribs, the lean hips, hard thighs, as well as the rigid male length between. “But I have promised to protect you,” he said, his lips trailing ever so slowly across her cheek to the edge of her mouth, “and that includes protecting you from me.”
And then he tilted her head back, and his lips covered hers, hungry and fierce, as if a man starved. She felt her own mouth tremble beneath the pressure of his, even as a terrible weakness filled her belly. She felt weak and empty and in desperate need of his arm holding her up, holding her against him, holding her as though he never intended to let her go.
Zayed kissed her thoroughly, parting her lips, taking her mouth, taking her tongue between his lips, kissing her until she shivered and shuddered, burning from the inside out. With veins hot and thick, veins that felt as though they were filled with stinging honey, Rou lost all track of time, lost track of everything but this fierce fire between them.
Long minutes later when Zayed lifted his head, he stroked her flushed cheek, as if marveling at its softness. “You are too good, too innocent, for a life with me, laeela,” he said regretfully, “but I cannot ignore duty. Not now, not after all these years. I have to honor Sharif, and that means I have to have you.�
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CHAPTER EIGHT
ROU slept fitfully, waking every hour from vivid, intense dreams. Zayed featured prominently in every one, and Rou didn’t know if it was the kiss or her feverish imagination, but she woke up afraid, terribly aware that today everything changed.
Today she became vulnerable. She married the man she loved, and yet he didn’t love her back. And she’d found what it was her clients all wanted, only for her, the wedding and marriage were just temporary.
Agitated, she turned on her side, her arm as her pillow, and she looked out the small, high window that showed the sky. It wasn’t dawn yet but the sky was lighter, the dark blue night sky giving way to a layer of light blue. Somewhere the sun was already up. Soon it’d be up here, too. Soon she’d be Zayed’s wife.
Her eyes closed, lashes fluttering against her cheek as she drew a frightened breath.
She didn’t know how to do this. Didn’t know how to become any man’s, not even his.
It wasn’t just consummating the marriage that filled her with anxiety, although that was terrifying in and of itself. At least she wasn’t completely inexperienced. She’d had sex a couple times many years ago, but it’d felt wrong—it’d hurt—and the doctor in her knew it was a combination of emotional and physical pain. She didn’t love either of the men, and she wasn’t properly aroused, which contributed to her discomfort. But her fear today was different. Her fear was disappointing Zayed. He’d called her beautiful, called her passionate, but what would he say when he discovered she was useless, ridiculous in bed?
Sharif had once asked her why she didn’t date more, and she’d answered that her work consumed her, but it hadn’t always just been about her work. In her midtwenties when she’d tried dating, she’d discovered she was hopeless at it. Everybody wanted casual sex. She couldn’t have casual sex. And those two times a relationship developed sufficiently that she thought she should try to have a physical relationship, it went wrong, so wrong. Sex itself felt invasive. A man on top of you, surrounding you, filling you.
But later today it wouldn’t be just anyone with her. Today it would be Zayed.
Her stomach lurched, and she threw back the covers and swung her legs from the bed.
Calm down, she told herself, going to the living room to the French doors and opening them to welcome in the cool, sweet air. He might be disappointed, but he’ll have done his duty and you’ll both survive.
Manar arrived early with breakfast and coffee and elaborate plans to help Rou prepare for her ceremony. “In my country we henna the bride’s hands and feet,” she said, smiling as she poured Rou’s coffee and served her a selection of flaky pastries from the tray. “I think you would find it wonderful and unusual.”
Rou gratefully sipped her strong coffee. “You’re not from Sarq?”
The maid shook her head. “I am from Baraka, a country not far, and while not terribly different, we do celebrate marriage differently.”
“How did you get to Sarq?”
Manar smiled, dimpling. “My husband. He is one of Prince Khalid’s men, and I met him while he accompanied the prince to Baraka on business.”
“Do you return home often?”
The maid shook her head. “It is too far and quite costly to travel.”
“Don’t you miss your family?”
She shrugged. “I would miss my husband more if I was not with him.”
Jesslyn appeared in the arched doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, not at all. Please come in, Your Highness.” Rou rose and went to greet Jesslyn with a kiss on each cheek. “How are you?”
“Excited for you.”
A lump filled Rou’s throat. Jesslyn was so good and kind. “Thank you.”
“I have brought you a gift for your wedding day,” the queen added, holding out a small, tissue-wrapped package. “Every bride must have something borrowed, something blue, and this is both. I thought perhaps you could tuck it inside the strap of your bodice, or maybe your purse.”
Rou sat and opened the small gift. It was a fine white handkerchief embroidered with an elaborate S and F in dark blue thread.
“It was Sharif’s,” Jesslyn said with an uncertain smile. “He was quite a fan of yours and I thought this would be a way to include him. It’s borrowed, and it’s kind of blue.”
Rou clutched the handkerchief in her hand, the square of starched fabric more precious than Jesslyn knew. “You will make me cry.”
Jesslyn’s eyes were already pink with tears. “He’d be so happy for you and Zayed. He loved both of you and the fact that you have found each other…” She shook her head, her voice drifting off. “I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t break down. I don’t want to be sad, and I don’t want to make you sad on your special day.”
Rou reached out and took Jesslyn’s hand. “You’ve made it special, Your Highness—”
“Jesslyn, please. We are to be sisters. And friends, I hope.”
Rou squeezed her hand gently. “Yes. With all my heart.”
Jesslyn leaned forward and gave Rou a swift hug and then rose. “I won’t keep you. I know you’re busy. But know you can come to me for anything, and—” She broke off, hesitating, dark brows tugging together in consternation. “And don’t listen to rumors. The palace is full of them, especially when it comes to Zayed. He’s a bit of a mystery around here and there are many staff members who don’t really understand him. He certainly isn’t cursed, no matter what they say.”
Cursed.
That word again, and this time from Jesslyn herself.
Rou’s mouth went dry, and she reached for her glass of guava juice and took a small sip. “People can be ignorant, can’t they?”
Jesslyn nodded. “They can be, and it’s so unfair. He was so young, just a boy, and hopelessly romantic. If he committed a crime, it was of being naive, and yet the consequences were so severe, so vile it’s more than the mind can take in.” Her expression softened. “Sharif has worried about him for years, and so to see Zayed here, now, taking his place as the head of the family, is bittersweet. Bitter, because Sharif isn’t here, but sweet because Zayed deserves so much more than he’s known.”
And then Jesslyn was kissing her cheek and hurrying out the door, leaving Rou even more conflicted than she’d been before.
So there was a curse. And something terrible had happened. Zayed had suffered, as did the family. But why? What had happened?
Manar appeared with towels on her arm. “My lady, I’ve drawn your bath. It’s time for you to begin preparing for your wedding. The ceremony is in less than two hours.”
The ceremony was short and simple, neither religious nor sentimental. She and Zayed stood next to each other in the palace reception room for the exchange of vows and rings. It was essentially a civil ceremony with fifteen witnesses, immediate family and a few visiting heads of state, with the rest of the guests to join them later for the luncheon.
Zayed had surprised her with another dress, this one for the wedding. He hadn’t brought it to her personally, but one of the palace staff carried it to her room and it was perfect. The long silver-gray skirt had a fitted matching top with snug three-quarter sleeves. The glamorous yet understated design reminded Rou of Hollywood fashions in the 1940s, and Manar knew exactly what to do with Rou’s hair, twisting and putting it up like a 1940s pinup.
Her only jewelry was her wedding ring and her own simple pearl stud earrings, but it was enough, and now with the service concluding, and the Sarq Minister of Justice giving them the traditional Sarq blessing, it was over.
They were married.
She darted a nervous glance at Zayed as they turned to face their guests. He looked so calm, so strong, and she wondered at his composure in light of what he had said last night.
What was this curse hanging over his head? And what had he done to bring such shame to his family? It must have been significant for palace staff to still gossip about it so many years later.
His gaze caught hers
, and he smiled faintly, but there was no time for words as they were being swarmed by Jesslyn and Sharif’s children eager to give their uncle and new aunt hugs and kisses.
The greetings and congratulations continued through lunch. Close to seventy attended, with many international names and faces, including a former American president, an ex-British prime minister, and a host of royal figureheads along with some of the region’s most powerful men, like the Sultan of Baraka, Malik Nuri; Nuri’s younger brother, Kalen; and their friend and neighbor, the desert chieftain, Sheikh Tair.
Sitting at the head table, Rou’s gaze drifted around the room, puzzling a little over the number of powerful men in attendance, men without their wives.
“What’s the matter?” Zayed asked, leaning toward her to whisper in her ear.
“All these men…they’re so famous, and powerful. Aren’t they all heads of state?”
“Most, yes.”
She gave her head a shake. “But why are their wives not here? Why are they here alone?”
“They’ve come for the coronation and the wedding, but the coronation is for men only.” Zayed looked into her eyes. “But you knew that, right?”
“No.” She frowned and then ducked her head. “Am I not allowed to be there, either?”
“No, laeela. I am sorry.”
“Ah.” She looked up, managed a smile. “It’s probably quite boring.”
His gaze held hers. “Sometimes the laws are very archaic. I am sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” But she could see from the sympathy in his eyes that he knew she was disappointed. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be emotional here, not in front of everyone.”
His lips curved, his long black lashes dropping to conceal his deep gold eyes, eyes that always seemed to see too much. “I like your fiery side. When you’re passionate, your eyes blaze and your lips tighten and you become so very righteous. It’s exciting.”
Under the tablecloth she slipped her foot on top of his and pressed down, pinching his foot beneath hers. He let out a little oath and looked at her, surprised, and she lifted her eyebrows. “Let that be a warning. You don’t want to provoke me.”