TO DEFY A SHEIKH

by Maisey Yates

  The only time it had ever come close to this was in moments of sheer, unadulterated terror. Those she’d had. Those she was familiar with. This? This was something else. Something new. Something that had nothing to do with the past.

  He turned to the side and she couldn’t breathe. It all just gathered in her chest like a ball and stopped. She was completely frozen, held captive by him. She wanted to see him. All of him. She wanted so badly for the mystery to be solved. To know now what he looked like. All over. Because not knowing…it made her more afraid of the future. She just needed to know.

  She tried to swallow, but it got caught with the knot of air.

  Then he turned to face her, dark eyes boring into hers. But she only met his gaze for a moment. Then, completely without thought, she was looking down.

  She bit her lip, taking the moment to study him in detail. It was her first glimpse of a naked man and she found she could only stare. And that she could not remain wholly detached.

  “See something you’re interested in.”

  She wasn’t sure interested was the word. She forced her gaze back to his. “I’m sorry.”

  He lifted one shoulder and the muscles in his chest shifted. Fascinating. “No need to apologize. I didn’t hang a sign out.”

  “Do you…do you have a sign?” she asked, feeling slow, her brain processing things at half the speed. The lack of oxygen was probably to blame.

  “No, I don’t have a sign.”

  “It would be the best way to warn people.”

  “I could have sent you a text.”

  She blinked slowly. “I don’t have a phone.”

  “That will change.”

  “Will it?”

  “Of course,” he said, still standing there. Casually naked. She didn’t feel casual at all. There was so much skin on display it made her want to slip out of her own and run away.

  “There’s no of course about any of this. Not to me and I—I can’t just stand here and talk to you while you’re naked.”

  “That will change, too.”

  “I do not think,” she said, turning around and heading back up the path, sweeping her stick through the grass and quickly following behind.

  She had no desire to run away from a naked man, only to step on a snake. Out of the frying pan and all that.

  And it wasn’t as if Ferran’s nakedness put her in any danger.

  The heat in her cheeks, the pounding of her heart, said otherwise. It felt a lot like fear. She knew fear well. Much more intimately than most.

  Though, there were subtle differences to this feeling.

  Such as the not entirely unpleasant feeling between her thighs.

  She wasn’t that innocent. She knew what that was. Why was this happening to her now? With him?

  You are marrying him….

  Yes, but she’d intended to deny sex as part of the equation for as long as possible and then submit to it when she had no other option. Her plan, thus far, hazy as it was, had been to just lie there and think of Jahar, so to speak. As far ahead as she’d thought in the past hour, when she’d finally decided that yes, she would be his wife. Really. Not just as a reprieve to a sentence or until she could kill him.

  Even so, she wasn’t ready to contend with the idea that she might…desire him.

  No. This was just garden variety, biologically inspired arousal that had nothing to do with desire. It was the first time she’d been exposed to a man, an attractive man, and not been worried about him being something of a threat in the back of her mind.

  So that was all it was.

  She frowned as she shut the door to the dwelling. When had she stopped perceiving Ferran as a threat? She was certain he wouldn’t harm her. Certain he would never force himself on her. And she wasn’t sure what he’d done to earn that measure of trust, when only two weeks ago she’d cowered in the middle of his bed, her own weapon in his hands, fearing he would kill her or use her body.

  She didn’t now. Not in the least.

  Strange how things had changed. How they were changing.

  Now, that made her feel afraid. Because without all the anger at Ferran, she wasn’t sure what she had left. It had insulated her, consumed her, for so long, she felt almost bereft without it.

  “I apologize that my body offended you.”

  She turned and saw Ferran in the doorway, tugging his shirt over his head. His pants were already on, riding low on his lean hips. Not that any of it helped now, since she could so clearly visualize how he looked without the clothes on. Problematic.

  “It was not…offensive,” she said. “I just am not accustomed to having conversations with nude men. Out in the open.”

  “You only have conversations with them in the enclosed?”

  “Well, where else would I have them?” she asked.

  “Outside, it turns out.”

  “No. That’s why I came in.”

  “Stubborn creature. Since you’re in an enclosed space now, I could always take my clothes off again as I know you find this preferable.”

  She held up her hands, her heart scurrying into her throat. “No!”

  “Then perhaps you might like to come outside and have dinner.”

  “Clothed?”

  “Only if you want. I have no such rules about women and nudity.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “But you aren’t naked with women at all, if what you say is true.”

  “Come back outside, Samarah.”

  “I will require we both remain clothed.” She walked out the door and followed the rising smoke, back down to the pond where he’d been swimming only a few moments earlier. The ground was damp here, but there were blankets and pillows spread out already. There was a pan over the fire, resting on a grate.

  “You’ve cooked?”

  “I come here alone often, as I said. I could cook inside, but I quite like to eat out here.” He took the pan from the grate and moved it to a small, low table that was next to his seat.

  “Obviously.”

  There was rice and meat in the pan, and he handed her a bowl filled to the top. It was much simpler than the way they ate at the palace. She liked it. It reminded her of who she was apart from all the comforts. Of the way she’d grown up.

  But this was a piece of that memory with the absence of that wary feeling. The fear. The anger. This was different. This felt like they were totally set apart from the world. From reality.

  It was nice, because she’d had far too much reality in her life.

  Something about this felt much more like a fantasy. Strange, because never in all her life away from the palace had she imagined spending time with Ferran being part of a fantasy. In her life at the palace, perhaps. She’d been fascinated by him then. The handsome prince who was always in trouble. Always up to mischief.

  He lifted his head, and the disappearing sunlight cast a glow on his face. She remembered then. An image pulled from deep in her mind. Standing in the palace in Khadra, watching him stride into the room. The way he’d smiled. He’d reached out his hand on her head and ruffled her hair.

  And she’d been certain he was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen.

  She didn’t know why she was only remembering this now.

  Or maybe she did. Maybe because her anger, her determination for revenge, wouldn’t let her have a memory of him that was so…precious.

  It was precious because it was a part of where she’d started, and she had so few memories of that time in her life. The time where things had been right. Before it had all gone to hell.

  “I remember you,” she said, allowing real memories to mingle with her words. Allowing herself, for the first time, to really remember the people they had been. Before their parents had destroyed everything.

  “
You should. I’ve been sitting here with you the whole time.”

  “From before,” she said. “I remember you.” It made her feel so strange. To connect him, suddenly, much more strongly with that boy than with the monster she’d made in her mind.

  “And what do you remember?”

  “I thought…I thought you were beautiful.” They were true words, forgotten thoughts that rose up in her mind and poured from her lips, filled her chest with a strange warmth.

  “Did you?” he asked. “That is…not the description one might hope for.”

  “I was a little girl. I thought you were fascinating.” She looked down into her bowl. “And you were very nice to me.” Little wonder she hadn’t let herself remember that. Because it did not fit with the stories she’d told herself about Ferran the monster. But here and now, those legends were being overridden with something more powerful. With memory.

  “It was impossible not to be. You would not be ignored, and being unkind would have been like kicking a puppy.”

  In this moment, she decided she would pretend there was nothing away from this fire. She would allow them to have nothing but these good, shared memories. A truce.

  “Well, I appreciate it, anyway. I had a…nice memory just now. I’m short on those. I don’t remember very much about my life before my father died. And I think a lot of that isn’t so much because I was too young—I was six. I feel I should remember some things—but because I forced myself to stop trying to remember. Because it hurt so bad. Because it…made me hate where I was even more. Those memories didn’t serve a purpose, so I didn’t let myself have them.” She looked up. “I’d like to have them again. I’d like to have…something normal.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not the man for that,” he said.

  Of course he wasn’t. How could he be? Given the way things were all tangled up, he couldn’t be. And still, she pressed. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I know what normal is. Though, I’m not sure either version of our lives, on this side of the tragedy or the other, were normal.”

  “Maybe not. But one was happy. In one, I did smile.”

  “And you’re looking for your smile.”

  “I am. Currently seeking any emotion other than anger or fear, actually. That’s basically been my life for the past sixteen years.”

  His expression changed, hardened. “I cannot imagine all that you’ve been through.”

  “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay. But it’s what is. And there is nothing that can be done about it now.”

  “I wish there was more I could do.”

  She laughed suddenly. So suddenly not even she expected it. “It’s so strange. I never thought I would sit across from a campfire with you while you offered to try and fix things for me. Not so long ago, I would have cried death before dishonor but…I feel like I was wrong about you.”

  “Samarah…”

  “I don’t see how either of us could have won in the situations we were put in, Ferran. You were a new ruler and you had to act as a king. And that day my father did not act as a king. He was simply a jealous man. Ruled by emotion.” She took a breath and tried to loosen the tightness in her chest. “He was tried fairly, and found guilty of a crime he absolutely committed. What happened to my mother and I was less just, but it wasn’t by your hand.”

  It nearly pained her to say it. But there was no honor in misdirected rage. She knew that better than most. And yet she had spent sixteen years clinging to it.

  It didn’t make her friends with Ferran, but…but it made her feel as though a truce that extended beyond the moment might be possible.

  “Samarah,” he said again, “there are things… I am not a hero.”

  “Neither am I. I’m a victim. And I think you are, too. But isn’t it time to stop?”

  “You’re not a victim now,” he said, the words coming slowly. “You will never be again. You’re a sheikha. And you have power in this country. You have power now.”

  “I think I’ve proven that I’ve always had power. Though, it’s nice to have that power backed up by…the law. And the army.”

  “Don’t get too power mad.”

  “I can make no guarantees.” She looked out across the water, dark blue now with the sun gone behind the horizon line. “Do you know, these past weeks with you…before them, I can’t remember the last time I sat and just had a conversation with someone. I can’t remember when I had the time for something so casual. Master Ahn was very good to me. The closest thing I ever had to a friend, but we didn’t have many conversations. He instilled in me the will to survive, the sense to think with my head and to act with honor in all things. To know what was right, so deeply that it would be an instinct to act upon what’s right when the time comes….” She paused. “Maybe…maybe that’s why I hesitated in your room that night. Because something in me knew it was wrong. Because something in me knew I couldn’t possibly be serving justice if I hurt you.”

  “A bold statement, Samarah.”

  “I realized something today. I was allowing rage to dictate my action. And in that, I was no better than my father. For all that I wished to avenge his death, I have never condoned his actions. My anger was for me. For my mother and our country. But revenge was never going to make that right. Rage would never do anything but lead to more devastation. I’m ready to let go. Even if that makes me weak.” She looked down at her food, then back up at him. “Does it make me weak?”

  “You have never been weak,” he said. “Never.”

  “You say that with such confidence. But I’ve always been scared.”

  “Is that a weakness?”

  “Not when it keeps you alive, I suppose.”

  He set his food down, then stood. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll stay for breakfast and then head back to the bedouin camp.”

  For some reason, the thought of leaving made her feel sad. “Okay.”

  “See you tomorrow, Samarah.”

  Another chance to simply sit. To be with another person. To live. She found she was looking forward to it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SAMARAH WOKE UP to the sound of rain on the canvas rooftop. She slipped out of bed and looked outside. It was gray out, the sun trying to pierce through the heavy blanket of clouds that had rolled in overnight.

  She ran her fingers through her hair and leaned forward, the silken strands sliding over her shoulders.

  She looked out the window, at the rain pelting down, hitting the parched earth, large droplets creating ripples on the surface of the lake. And she had the sudden urge to go out in it.

  She’d hated the rainy season when she’d lived in Jahar. Hated having to hide in rooms that were muddy and flooded. Hated looking for shelter during the day wherever she could find it, or more often, just spending most of the afternoon feeling like a drowned rat.

  But it was different now. She wasn’t forced to stand out in the rain. She had a choice. She could stay in here where it was dry, or she could dance in the water drops. It was up to her. Because she had a home now. She had shelter.

  Everything had changed. There was more than survival. There was…enjoyment. Happiness. Something about yesterday’s realization, yesterday’s acceptance, had allowed her to capture these things. Or at the very least the possibility of them.

  She stood and walked to the window, pressing her palm against the glass. Then she turned and walked out into the living area. It was still hazy, and the house was dark. She hadn’t checked the time but it had to be early.

  She padded to the front door and pressed down on the handle before going out onto the deck. She was wearing only a nightgown, a soft, silken one with very little in the way of adornment. It had been provided for her at the palace and she’d packed it for the trip. It wasn’t designed to be flashy, just to be comf
ortable.

  Normally, she wouldn’t go walking outside in it. And she wouldn’t go walking out with her hair down, simply because there was too much of it, and letting it free was much more trouble than it was worth.

  But right now she didn’t care.

  She stepped down onto the wet sand; it stuck to her feet while the raindrops poured down over her body, making her nightgown stick to her skin. She looked up and let the rain drop onto her face, sliding down her cheeks and her neck.

  How different it was to stand in the rain when it was your choice. When you knew you could go back inside and get dry.

  She spun in a circle, her arms held out wide. She felt like the child she had been. As if she was free. As if rain was just rain, and she didn’t have to worry about the cold, or the discomfort, the mold or the damp. All of the cares she normally carried were washed away.

  She walked along the path they’d taken last night, to the ashes of the fire from the night before, and to the edge of the water. She looked out across the surface, continually being shattered by heavy drops of rain and tilted her face upward again.

  “You’ll catch your death.”

  She turned and saw Ferran, and immediately the childlike joy, the simplicity of it, faded. And she realized she was standing there with nothing but a thin nightshirt clinging to her body, and her hair wet and stringy down her back.

  “You’re out here, too,” she said.

  And in nothing but a pair of jeans. He was wearing jeans. And no shirt. But he hadn’t worn jeans to bed so that must have meant he’d been…well, he’d likely slipped the jeans on before coming outside.

  “Yes, but you’re…you’re beautiful,” he said.

  “I’m wet.”

  “Yes.” He took a step toward her and she looked behind herself, her heel at the edge of the water. There was no backing away from him. And she didn’t feel very inclined toward punching him in the face, either. Which was new. He extended his hand and took a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it lightly. “I wondered what your hair looked like down.”