Desert Rogues Part 2

by Susan Mallery

  But that was not for now, he reminded himself as he gathered the strength to step back. He would know her soon enough—once she understood that their marriage was as inevitable as the tide.

  “You see,” he said with a calmness he did not feel. “You do want me.”

  She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. Her eyes were large and unfocused, her face flushed.

  “There’s a difference between wanting a man in my bed for a couple of weeks and wanting him in my life permanently,” she said, her voice low and angry. “If you were trying to prove a point, I’m not impressed.”

  “Your body says otherwise.”

  “Fortunately I make my decisions with my brain.”

  “Your brain wants me, as well,” he told her. “You resist only to be stubborn. I am pleased the sexual spark has lasted so long between us. It bodes well for our marriage. You will be a good wife and provide me with many strong, healthy, intelligent children, including an heir to carry on the monarchy.”

  “And my reward in all this is your pleasure. Gee, how thrilling.”

  He refused to be provoked by her. “Your reward is in the honor I bestow upon you. I believe you already understand that, and in time you will grow more comfortable showing me your pleasure in your situation.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. He could almost see the steam building up inside of her.

  “Of all the arrogant, egotistical, annoying things you’ve ever said to me,” she began.

  He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Say what you like, but I know the truth. You’re already begging to love me. In a matter of weeks you will want nothing but the pleasure of being near me.”

  “When pigs fly.”

  Daphne thought Murat was assuming an awful lot, especially that she was interested in him sexually. Whatever warm and yummy feelings he’d generated a couple of minutes ago with his hot kisses and knowing hands, he’d destroyed with a few badly chosen words.

  “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive. I said no before, I’m saying no again. No. No!”

  The infuriating man simply smiled. “Mr. Peterson will be here shortly. I trust you will act appropriately.”

  Anger filled her. She reached for something to throw, but there was only her clay statue, and she loved it too much to smash it.

  “Get out!” she yelled.

  “As you wish, my bride.”

  She screamed and grabbed the remaining block of clay. When she turned back, Murat had already walked toward the harem itself. Even though she knew she couldn’t throw that far, she pitched the clay at him and had the satisfaction of hearing it splat on the stone path.

  “I’ll get you for this,” she vowed. Somehow, some way, she would come up with a plan, and he would be sorry he’d ever tried to mess with her.

  Mr. Peterson might be old and valued but he was also the prissiest man Daphne had ever met.

  He was small—maybe five-four—so she towered over him even in low-heeled sandals. He had the delicate bone structure of a bird, with tiny hands and feet. Next to him she felt like an awkward and ill-mannered Amazon giant.

  “Ms. Snowden,” he said as he entered the harem and bowed. “It is more than a great pleasure to meet you.”

  She wasn’t sure how it could be more than a great pleasure, but she wasn’t the fancy-party expert.

  “The pleasure is mine,” she said as she led the way to the sitting area and motioned to the collection of sofas there.

  Mr. Peterson looked them over closely, then chose the one that was lowest to the floor. No doubt he hated when his feet dangled.

  She sat across from him and wondered how badly this was going to go. Mr. Peterson wanted to plan a wedding and she didn’t. That was bound to create some friction.

  “We’re working on a very tight schedule,” he began as he set his briefcase on the table in front of him and opened the locks with a click.

  She noticed that the silk hankie in his jacket breast pocket perfectly matched his tie. He sounded as if he’d been born in Britain but hadn’t lived there in a number of years. Perhaps he’d moved here with his parents back in the eighteenth century.

  “Prince Murat informed me that the wedding will be in four months,” he said. “I’ll be providing you with historical information on previous weddings, along with my list of suggestions on flower choices and the like. Some of my ideas may seem silly to a modern young woman such as yourself, but we have a history here in Bahania. A long and honorable history that needs to be respected.”

  He drew in his breath for what she assumed would be another long speech specifically designed to make her feel like a twelve-year-old who had just spilled fruit punch on a very important houseguest.

  She decided it was time to change the direction of the conversation.

  “There isn’t going to be a wedding,” she said, and had the satisfaction of watching Mr. Peterson freeze in place.

  It was amazing. The man didn’t breathe or move or do anything but sit there, one hand grasping a sheath of papers, another reaching for a pen. At last he blinked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No wedding,” she said, speaking slowly. “I’m not marrying Murat.”

  “Prince Murat,” he said.

  He was correcting her address of the man who wanted to marry her?

  “Prince or not, there’s no engagement.”

  “I see.”

  She doubted that. “So there’s no point in us having this conversation. I do appreciate that you were willing to stop by though. It was very kind of you.”

  She offered a bright smile in the hopes that the little man would simply stand and leave. But of course her luck wasn’t that good.

  “Prince Murat assures me that—”

  “I know what he told you and what he’s thinking, but he’s wrong. No wedding. N-O on the wedding front. Am I making myself clear?”

  Mr. Peterson obviously hadn’t been expecting a reluctant bride. He fussed with his papers for a few seconds, then picked up his pen. “About the guest list. I was told you come from a large and distinguished family. Do you have any idea how many of them will be attending?”

  Daphne sighed. So Mr. Peterson had decided to simply ignore her claims and move forward.

  “Ms. Snowden?” he prodded. “How many family members.”

  “Not a clue,” she told him cheerfully.

  “Will you be providing me with a guest list of any kind?”

  “Nope.”

  The little man shook his head. “If necessary I can contact your mother.”

  “I’m sure you can.” And her mother would be delighted by the question and the chance to influence the wedding.

  Wasn’t it enough that Murat insisted on this charade? How far was he willing to take it?

  “Excuse me,” she said as she rose to her feet. “I need to put a stop to this right now.”

  She walked toward the door and once she got there, she simply pushed it open.

  The cross bar wasn’t in place, no doubt so Mr. Peterson could leave when he was finished. There were only two guards on duty and neither of them looked as if they’d expected her to come strolling out of the harem. When they saw her, they glanced at each other, as if uncertain about what to do.

  Daphne took advantage of their confusion and started running. She made it halfway down the long hall before she heard footsteps racing after her. Up ahead the elevator beckoned like a beacon of freedom.

  “Be there, be there,” she chanted as she ran. She skidded to a stop in front of the doors and pushed the Up button. Thankfully, the doors immediately slid open.

  She stepped inside and pressed the button for the second floor and watched as the doors closed in the faces of the guards.

  Ha! She’d escaped. Probably not for long, but the feel of freedom was heady.

  She exited on the second floor and hurried toward the business wing of the palace. She had a vague recollection of the way from her detailed explorations te
n years ago. At a T-intersection, she hesitated, not sure which way to go, then followed a young man in a tailored suit as he turned left.

  Seconds later she entered a large, round foyer. A middle-aged man sat at the desk and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

  “Crown Prince Murat,” she said.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  In the distance she heard running feet. The guards, no doubt. She suspected reinforcements had been called.

  “I’m his fiancée,” she said briskly.

  The man straightened in his seat. “Yes. Of course, Ms. Snowden. Down that hallway, to your left. There are guards at the door. You can’t miss it. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll escort you there myself.”

  “No need,” she said, taking off in the direction he’d indicated. She saw massive, carved, dark wood double doors and two guards standing on duty. One of them had his fingers pressed to his ear as if he were listening to something. When he saw her, he spoke quickly.

  “I’m going in there,” she said as she hurried toward the doors. “And you can’t stop me.”

  The guards stepped forward and actually drew their weapons. A cold blade of fear sliced through her midsection.

  “Murat isn’t going to be very happy if you shoot me,” she said, hoping it was true.

  The guards moved toward her.

  More footsteps thundered from behind, and she was seconds from being trapped.

  “Murat!” she screamed as one of the men reached for her.

  The huge door on the right opened and Murat stalked out.

  “What is going on here?” he demanded. He glanced at the guards, then settled his stern gaze on her. “Release her at once.”

  The man did so, and Daphne quickly stepped behind Murat. “I escaped,” she murmured in his ear. “That made them cranky.”

  He looked at her and raised one eyebrow. “I see. And Mr. Peterson?”

  “We didn’t much get along. All he wanted to talk about was the wedding, and I kept saying there wasn’t going to be one. It wasn’t very pleasant for either of us.”

  Murat didn’t respond verbally. Instead he took her by the hand and led her into his office.

  “Stay here,” he said as he placed her in the center of an exceptionally beautiful rug. “I will return shortly.”

  With that he turned and left. She heard him speaking with the guards.

  Daphne glanced around at the large office, noting the beautifully carved desk and the view of the gardens. None of the royal family had offices that faced away from the palace grounds. Years ago Murat had told her it was for security reasons. She’d been afraid for him at the time, but he had smiled and pulled her close and told her not to worry.

  She shook off the memory. Murat returned and closed the door behind him.

  “You are safe for now,” he said. “I’ll be having an interesting talk with my security team later. They should not have let you escape.”

  “Points for me,” she said.

  “Interesting that in your moment of freedom, you chose to run here. To me.”

  “Don’t read too much into it. I didn’t come here for a good reason.”

  “No? Then why?”

  “Because I want to talk about the wedding, or lack thereof. You can’t make me do it, Murat.”

  He moved close and touched her cheek. She hated how her body instantly went up in flames.

  “You enjoy challenging me,” he said. “However, I think the real problem lies elsewhere. You have been cooped up for too long. Go change your clothes, and we’ll take a ride into the desert.”

  “And if I don’t want to go?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “Do you?”

  She remembered those long-ago desert rides. The scent of the fresh air, the movement of the horse, and the beauty all around her.

  “I do, but I hate that you assume you know best.”

  “I do know best. Now return to the harem and change your clothes. I’ll meet you downstairs in thirty minutes.”

  “Does this mean I’m allowed to roam freely about the palace?”

  He grinned. “Not even on a bet.”

  Chapter Seven

  Daphne settled into the saddle and breathed in the fresh air. She’d been spending plenty of time outdoors in the harem garden but for some reason, everything seemed better, brighter now that she was sitting on a horse about to ride into the desert on a great adventure. Or to the nearest oasis, whichever came first.

  There were a thousand reasons to still be angry with Murat—not the least was the man continued to hold her prisoner and insist they were to be married. Somehow none of that mattered anymore. At least not right now. She wanted to ride fast and feel the wind in her hair. She wanted to spin in circles on the sand, her arms outstretched, until she was too dizzy to stand. She wanted to drink cool, clear water from an underground spring and taste life. Then she would be mad at him again.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded as she pulled her hat lower over her forehead. All the sunscreen in the world couldn’t completely protect her fair skin. So to keep herself from reaching the crone years too early, she’d worn a loose fitting, long-sleeved white shirt and a hat. Beside her, Murat looked handsome and timeless in his black riding pants and tailored white shirt. His black stallion was so large and difficult to manage as to be a cliché. Her own mount, a gray gelding of particularly fine build, also danced impatiently but with a little more restraint.

  “When did you last ride?” Murat asked, as he urged his horse forward. The stallion leaped ahead several feet before agreeing to a more sedate walk.

  “A couple of months ago. I usually go regularly, but I’ve been caught up with work.”

  “Then we will take things easily. This is unfamiliar country.”

  She glanced at him from under her lashes. “I don’t mind if we go fast.”

  He grinned. “Of course you don’t. But we will wait until you find your seat again.”

  She wanted to point out that she hadn’t lost it in the first place—it was where it had always been. But she knew what he meant. That she had to get comfortable on her horse. So she contented herself with enjoying the scenery.

  The royal stable sat on the edge of the desert, about a forty-minute drive from the Pink Palace. Daphne knew she could happily spend her life there, studying blood-lines and planning future generations of amazing Arabian horses. Not that she wanted Murat to know. He had too much power already—he didn’t need to discover more of her weaknesses.

  She glanced around as the last bits of civilization gave way to the wildness of the desert. When their horses stepped onto sand, she couldn’t help laughing out loud.

  “Whatever you thought about me,” Murat said. “You always loved Bahania.”

  “I agree.”

  “You should have returned for a visit.”

  “Somehow that didn’t seem exactly wise.”

  “Did you think I would make things difficult?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer that. If she said yes, it implied that he had cared for her after she left and she didn’t think that was true. If she said no, she risked going in the opposite direction and she didn’t think Murat would like that. As a rule, she didn’t much care about what he liked, but this afternoon was different. For once, she didn’t want to fight.

  “I thought it might make things awkward,” she admitted.

  “That is a possibility,” he said, surprising her. “But it is sad that you could not see this for so long.”

  She glanced around at the beauty of the desert and had to agree. She loved the rolling hills that gave way to vast stretches of emptiness. She loved the tiny creatures who managed to thrive in such harsh surroundings. Most of all she loved coming upon an oasis—a gift from God plopped down in the middle of nothing.

  “You can taste the history out here,” she said, thinking of all the generations who had walked this exact path and seen these same sights.

  “We are closer to the
past in the desert. I can feel my heritage all around me.”

  She grinned. “You come from a long line of men compelled to steal or kidnap their brides. Why is that? Are you all genetically unable to woo women in a normal way?”

  He made a noise low in his throat. Daphne grinned.

  “I’m serious,” she said.

  “No, you are tweaking the tiger’s tail. Take care that he doesn’t turn on you and gobble you up.”

  As Murat wasn’t an actual tiger, she didn’t have to worry about being eaten. Instead his words painted a picture of a different kind of devouring…one that involved bodies and touching and exquisite feelings of passion and surrender.

  A dull ache settled in her stomach, making her shift on the saddle. Probably best not to think about that sort of thing, she told herself. Under the circumstances, sleeping with Murat would be a disaster. He would take her sexual surrender as a resounding “yes” on the marriage front.

  But she couldn’t help wondering what he would be like in bed. So far his kisses had reduced her to a quivering mass. Ten years ago she’d been too innocent and out of her element to be much more than intimidated by the obvious sexual experience of the man. Now she found herself wanting to sign up for a weekend seminar on the subject.

  Next time, she promised herself. When her future and her freedom weren’t on the line.

  “Those marriages you mentioned may have started in violence, but they all ended happily.”

  She glanced at him. “You know this how?”

  “There are letters and diaries.”

  “I’d like to read them sometime,” she said. “Not that I don’t trust you to tell me the truth…” She smiled. “Well, I don’t, actually.”

  “You think I would lie?”

  “I think you would stretch the truth if it suited your purpose.”

  He muttered something she couldn’t hear. “How do you explain a relationship that lasts thirty or forty years and produces so many children?”

  “Women don’t have to be happy to get pregnant.”

  “I will give you the diaries,” he said. “You will see for yourself that you misjudge my ancestors as much as you misjudge me. Are you ready to go faster?”