by Trish Morey
She nodded, her eyes hardening with the realisation of what this came down to, the grief still there, but framed in anger now. ‘So that’s what this is all about, then, this game of Hunt the Princess. Whoever marries the princess first wins the crown of Al-Jirad.’
‘It is what the pact requires. Where the crown of Al-Jirad is compromised, the alliance will be renewed by the marriage between the royal families of our two countries. Because of your older sister’s situation…’
‘You mean, because she has two children to two different fathers and she never actually bothered marrying either of them, she’s no longer eligible for the position? But surely she has a proven track-record. If it’s heirs you need—and when has any monarchy not been all about heirs?—Marina has proven child-bearing capabilities, where sadly I do not.’
‘Your sister is, to put it mildly, over-qualified for the position. The fact you have not yet bred is still in your favour.’
Have not yet bred. She itched to hit something. Anything. Maybe him. Except princesses were not supposed to do such things, were not expected to give in to such base instincts. But still, the claim that this agreement was somehow in her favour rubbed, and rubbed raw.
‘How can it be in my favour when it forces me into this situation?’
‘It is duty, Princess. It is not personal.’
Not personal? Maybe that was why she hated it so much. Because it wasn’t personal. And she had dreamed—oh, how she had dreamed—that being so far down the line to the crown, and a woman into the deal, would ensure she would never be subjected to the strictures of the first or even the second-born sons. She had watched her brothers with their tutors, seen how little rope they had been given. And she had watched her sister, who had been given too much too quickly while all the attention was on her brothers and their futures. She had been foolish enough to think she could somehow escape the madness of it all unscathed and lead a near-normal life. She had stupidly hoped she might even marry for love.
Zoltan watched her as she sat there, trying to absorb the enormity of the situation that confronted her. But it was hardly the end of the world, as she made it out to be. He would be the one on the throne, a position he’d never been prepared for, whereas she would go from princess to queen, a job she’d been primed for her entire life. What was so difficult about that?
They could still have a decent enough marriage if they both wanted. She was beautiful, this princess, long-limbed and lithe, with skin like satin. It would be no hardship at all to bed her to procure the heirs Al-Jirad required. And she had a fire burning beneath that cool, princessly exterior, a fire he was curious to discover more about, a fire he was keen to stoke for himself.
Why shouldn’t it work, at least in the bedroom? And, if it didn’t, then there were ways and means around that. An heir and a spare and they both would have done their duty; they could both look at different options. So just because they had to marry didn’t make it a death sentence.
Then she shook her head, rising to her feet and brushing at the creases in her trousers, and he got the impression she would just as simply brush away the obligations laid upon her by the pact between their two countries.
And just as fruitlessly.
‘So marrying you is to be my fate, then, decided by some crusty piece of paper that is hundreds of years old?’
‘The pact sets out what must happen in the event of a situation such as this.’
‘And of course we all must do what the pact says we must do.’
‘It is the foundation stone of both our countries’ constitutions—you know that. Are you so averse to doing your duty as a princess of one of those two countries?’
‘Yes! Of course I am, if it means my fate is to marry either you or Mustafa! Of course I object.’
‘Then maybe it is just as well you do not have a choice in the matter.’
‘I refuse to believe that. What if I simply refuse to marry either of you? What if I have other plans for my life that don’t include being married to some despot who thinks he can lay claim to a woman merely because of an accident of her birth?’
‘That accident of birth, as you put it, gives you much wealth and many privileges, Princess. But it also comes with responsibilities. Your sister chose to shrug them off. Being the only other member of the royal Jemeyan family who can satisfy the terms of the pact, you do not have that option.’
‘You can’t make me marry you. I can still say no and I do say no.’
‘Like I said, that is not an option available to you.’
She shrieked, a brittle sound of frustration and exasperation, her hands curled into tight, tense fists at her side. He yawned and looked at his watch. Any moment now he expected she would stamp her feet, maybe even throw herself to the floor and pound the tiles with her curled-up fists like a spoilt child. Not that it would do her any good.
‘Look,’ she started, the spark in her eye telling him she’d hit on some new plan of attack. Her hands unwound and she took a deep breath. She even smiled, if you could call it that. At least, it was the closest thing to a smile he’d seen her give to date. ‘This is all so unnecessary. The pact is centuries old and we’ve all moved on a long way since then. There must be some misunderstanding.’
‘You think?’
‘I know.’ She held out her hands as if she was preaching. Maybe she thought she was, because she was suddenly fired up with her building argument, her eyes bright, her features alive. He was struck again with how beautiful she was, how fine her features, how lush her mouth. His groin stirred. No, it would be no hardship bedding her. No hardship at all.
‘My father loves me. He would never make me marry a man I didn’t love, not for anything.’
‘Not for anything?’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Not even for the continuing alliance between our two countries?’
‘So, maybe…’ she said, with sparks in her eyes, really getting into it, ‘maybe it’s time we drew up a new agreement. Times have changed. The world has moved on. We could lead our respective countries into a new future, with a new and better alliance, something more applicable to the modern era that covers communication and the Internet and today’s world instead of one that doesn’t exist any more.’
He crossed his arms, nodded, fought to keep the smile from his own face as he pretended to give it serious thought. ‘A new agreement? I can see how that would appeal.’
She failed or chose to ignore the sarcasm dripping from his words. ‘Besides, of course, there is my work in Jemeya. My father would not expect me to walk away from my duties there.’
‘Ah, yes, your work. Of course, someone like you would consider sitting down with a bunch of homeless kids and reading them fairy stories to be work. Very valuable work, no doubt. Makes for a few good photo opportunities, I dare say.’
Her eyes glinted, the smile wiped clean from her face. ‘I teach them our language! I teach them how to read and write!’
‘And nobody else in Jemeya can do that? Face facts, Princess.’ He kicked himself away from the column. ‘You are needed by Jemeya as much as a finger needs a wart.’
‘How dare you?’
‘I dare because someone needs to tell you. Jemeya does not need you, and the sooner you face facts the better. You have two older brothers, one of whom will inherit the throne, the other a spare if he cannot. So what good are you to Jemeya? Don’t you see? You are surplus to requirements. You’re a redundant princess. So you might as well be of some use to your country by marrying me.’
Her eyes were still glinting but now it was with ice-cold hatred.
‘I have told you—I will not marry you and my father will not make me. Why would anyone in their right mind want to marry you? You led me to believe I had been rescued from one mad man when all along you were planning captivity of the same kind with another.
‘Maybe it’s time you faced facts yourself—you’re arrogant beyond belief, you’re a bully and you’re so anxious to be Al-Jirad’s next king that you would stop at
nothing to get on that throne. I won’t marry you now and I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man left on earth!’
Blood pounded in his temples, pounding out a drumbeat of fury, sounding out a call to war. What must he have done wrong in some former life that he would be lumbered with this selfish little princess for a wife? What gods had he somewhere and at some time insulted that they would visit upon him this poisoned shrew? For if he had a choice right now, if he didn’t know Mustafa would otherwise get the crown, he would take her back and dump her back in that desert camp and be finished with her.
‘Do you actually believe that I want to be king? Do you actually think that even if I wanted a wife I would want to marry someone who does not know when she is being offered the better end of the deal? Do you really think I want to marry such a spoilt, selfish little shrew?’
‘Bastard!’ He heard the crack, felt the sting of her hand hard across his cheek, and the blood in his pounding veins turned molten.
He seized her wrist as it flashed by, wrenching her to him. ‘You’ll pay for that!’ She tried to pull her arm free and when he did not let go she pounded his chest with her free hand, twisting her shoulders from side to side.
‘Let me go.’
Like hell.
He grabbed her other wrist, and she shrieked and tugged so hard against his restraint until she shook the hair loose behind her head and sent it tumbling down in disarray. ‘Let me go!’
‘Why?’ he ground out between clenched teeth. ‘So you can slap me again?’
But she twisted one arm right around, her wrist somehow slipped free and she raised it to lash at him again. He caught it this time before she could strike and pulled her in close to his body, trapping her arm under his and bringing her face within inches of his own. She was breathing hard, as if she’d just sprinted a mile, her chest rising and falling fast and furiously against his, her eyes spitting fire at him, her lips parted, gasping for air and showing those neat, sharp teeth, whose bite he could still feel on his hand.
He looked at her mouth and wondered how she would taste—something spicy and sweet with a chili bite. He looked at those wide, lush lips, parted like an invitation, looked at the teeth again and decided it might even be worth the risk.
And then he shifted his gaze and realised she was watching him watching her, her eyes wide, her pupils so dilated they were turning her eyes black.
‘I hate you!’ she spat, twisting her body against his, friction turning to heat, heat turning to desire.
Desire combusting to need.
‘I know,’ he said, breathing just as hard and fast. ‘I hate you too.’ Before his mouth crashed down hard on hers.
And even as she turned rigid beneath him, even though shock stilled her muscles, he felt the warmth of her blossoming heat beneath his kiss, tasted the honey and spice he knew he’d find there, tasted the chili heat—and there, in the midst of the honey, cinnamon and chili, he tasted the promise of a woman beneath the princess.
And he wanted more.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHOCK punched the air from her lungs, sent all thoughts scattering from her mind. But God, she could still feel!
He seemed to be everywhere, the strong wall of his chest pressed hard against her, the steel bands of his arms surrounding her, the rough of his whiskered cheek against her skin and the press of his lips against her own.
Even the very air that intermingled between them, their heated breath, seemed full of his essence, his taste.
And for a moment that recognition blindsided her because it was so powerful. She did recognise his scent and the very feel of him, and she knew it was truly him—the man who had cradled her tightly in his arms, whose chest she had turned into to breathe more of him in while his horse had carried her away from the desert camp and away from that slug, Mustafa, who thought he could just take her at will…
Revulsion blossomed inside her, welling up like a mushroom cloud, giving her frozen limbs strength and purpose and her blank mind the will to act.
She thrust her chin up, twisted her face away, seeking escape from his relentless kiss. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘No!’
But he did not stop. He gave her no space, no release. He showed no mercy. Instead she felt herself lifted from her feet and swung around until she felt the hard marble of a column at her back. She felt herself sandwiched between it and him, pinning her to his long, lean body while his seeking mouth found hers again and she was full of him and the taste of him. Coaxing. Demanding. Persuading.
So persuasive.
Her body stirred. Her body responded, and she hated herself for it, even as she angled her head to give his mouth and his hot tongue better access to her mouth.
Then his hand slid down her arm, brushed one aching nipple on a straining breast, and suddenly it was Mustafa’s greasy fingers she saw in her mind’s eye, it was the smack of his lips as he walked towards her…
Oh God.
And that image was enough to give her the strength she needed. ‘No!’ she cried, twisting hard against the steel-hard shackles of his strong limbs. ‘Get away from me!’ And somehow she managed to unleash one wild hand and lashed out with it to push him away, her nails finding purchase on flesh as she dragged them down.
She heard his curse and suddenly she found herself thrust away, panting and reeling and having to search for the bones in her legs in order to stay upright while he stood there looking like a thundercloud, dark, grim and threatening, rubbing his scored cheek. She waited, gasping for air, shocked by what she had done, appalled that she, a princess of the royal house of Jemeya, had performed such a base act. Yet she was not sorry she had done it. Not one bit.
But she was afraid.
The reality of her position was never starker, never more terrifying. For she was alone in this palace, with no allies, no-one to protect her. He was big, powerful and angry, and she had struck him and drawn blood. The way his chest heaved, the way his pulse pounded angrily at his temples and his eyes looked wild and vengeful, she knew he would not let her get away with that.
Just when she feared he would act, that he might actually raise his hand to strike her, he surprised her by smiling, a long, lazy crocodile smile. ‘What quaint customs you Jemeyans have. What does this second brand signify, I wonder? Eternal fidelity? Ever-lasting love? Or a promise of many years of wild, passionate nights in my bed?’
‘You flatter yourself! You know exactly why I hit you. How else was I supposed to make you stop acting like a barbarian?’
‘Maybe it was not clear you wanted to stop.’ And, maybe because he saw the disbelief etched so clearly on her features, he added for good measure, ‘Your body told me you did not want to stop.’
‘Then you weren’t listening!’
He lifted his hand, exposing the three angry red lines marring his cheek, his eyes widening at the blood smeared on his hand. ‘You will be sorry for this.’
She almost laughed out loud. His threat meant nothing to her. ‘No. I don’t think so. What I’m actually sorry about is for assuming I was being rescued last night rather than being kidnapped into some other nightmare. I’m sorry for having to listen to this ridiculous scheme of yours and argue its insanity, and I’m really sorry you do not seem to have any concept of how mad you are. But I am not sorry for hitting you. You asked for that!’
His lip curled. ‘I should take you back to Mustafa’s camp and leave you there.’
Fear crawled up her spine, even though she knew that there was no chance of it, even though she knew that he would never do such a thing—not when he wanted the throne for himself. Yet still she remembered the old crone’s probing fingers, the humiliating inspection, and she remembered what Mustafa had promised to do to her the moment they were married and he was safe…
‘My half-brother deserves a woman like you,’ Zoltan continued. ‘He deserves someone who can give him grief and make his life hell.’
But the poison of his insults washed off her, only serving to fuel the f
ire in her veins. She tossed her hair back, refusing to be cowed by his kind. ‘If you think you’re so different from him you are kidding yourself mightily.’
His face turned as red as a pomegranate, the tendons in his neck standing out in thick, tight cords, his pulse dancing in his throat. ‘I am nothing like him!’
‘Then you don’t know him at all. You are both contemptible! Unfit to rule a line, let alone an entire kingdom. Al-Jirad is better off without the both of you.’
‘Then who will be king?’
‘I don’t care. Someone else can sort that out. But I tell you this much, just as I’ll tell my father when he comes: I am not marrying either of you.’
‘You do that, Princess. You tell your father. You tell yourself. You tell whoever you like. Maybe if you say it often enough, you might even believe it.
‘But you would be wasting your breath. For in less than twenty-four hours we will be married, whether you like it or not.’
‘Over my dead body!’
His eyes glinted dangerously, the three scratches down his cheek standing out bold and angry. ‘If that’s what it takes.’
If the vizier hadn’t chosen that exact moment to arrive, she would have hit him again—harder this time.
Princesses didn’t hit, she knew. Princesses were serene, kept their cool and never lashed out—so she had been taught by endless tutors. But she had grown up with older brothers. They might have been princes, but they’d certainly not treated her and her sister like princesses. Oh yes, she was more than capable of dealing with bullies.
‘Hamzah,’ he said to the bowing vizier. ‘What is it?’
The vizier took one look at Zoltan’s cheek before glancing over at Aisha with disdain, taking in her unkempt hair, her reddened cheeks, clearly disapproving of what he saw. Then he blinked as if she didn’t matter and turned back to Sheikh Zoltan.
‘Sheikh King Ashar has called from the Blue Palace. He asks if he can speak to the princess.’
At last! Zoltan looked at her and now it was her turn to smile, because finally this was her moment. The sooner she spoke to her father, the sooner a halt could be put to these crazy wedding plans. Finally she had a chance to talk to someone who would listen to her, someone who cared about her, rather than trying to reason with a man who was like a brick wall and gave not a toss for what she wanted. ‘Where can I take the call?’