‘I don’t want business. I don’t want separate lives—you with mistresses, with other women. I want you all for me…’ Layla tried to voice her confusion, but Xavian could stand it no more.
‘So you come here dressed as a slut?’
‘How would you prefer me to dress?’ Layla demanded. ‘You made me this, Xavian. I was prepared just for sex, but you demanded more…you brought out the woman in me—and now you are sending her back; now you want a meek, compliant virgin. Well, she is gone!’
‘Go!’ he shouted. ‘Go back to the palace.’
‘I don’t want to go back!’ She was begging again—she was Queen and she never begged, but she could stand this no more. ‘I want you to make love to me…’
‘Well, why didn’t you just say?’ Xavian shouted, walking towards her unzipping his jodhpurs. She saw his fierce erection, and then she felt his mouth, savage and hard on hers…He was pushing her to the ground, his hands everywhere, his body a solid weight on her, pinning her down, sliding the heavy silk dress up, tearing at her panties, crushing her with his mouth, his knees pushing at her thighs—and then he stopped.
‘Is this what you want?’ he demanded, and he was as close to crying as he had ever come. Better that he shouted.
‘You know it’s not.’
His face buried in her neck felt the cool of the necklace, the centuries of tradition. All this he could keep, along with the woman in his arms, if he could remain silent, if he did not tell her his truth.
‘What is it you want?’
‘You.’
‘I cannot be King…’
This time when she heard this strong man’s desperation she did not act as a queen, because she had learnt that lesson already. She did not demand answers. Instead she acted as his lover, because she knew that this was terrible—knew she could not think, because if she thought then she must speak.
It was Layla kissing him now, frantic kisses to chase away what must come later. She knew he was hurting, was scared for him too—and so she wrenched him for the last time from the black place he visited, and it was just two of them again. She actually believed they could work it out, and her body, far from fighting him, was accepting him, matching the frenzy of his want…
‘I want you,’ Layla said, and for now she had him. He was inside her. And yet she wanted more—she didn’t want to climax because she knew then it would be over, but her body was alive and she tried to subdue it. He was pushing hard into her, and her body beat for him, dragged him in, and still she fought it. But she was gripping him tight with her centre, her hands pushing him deeper in as her contrary mind fought for just a few more moments. But he was shuddering his release, and her body sobbed and matched his. The ferocity of her orgasm didn’t alarm her, but she lay there stunned and reeling as his weight collapsed on her. Its intensity seemed suitable, somehow, because at some level Layla knew it would be their last.
This passion, this need, this want couldn’t be sustained by one person, and she knew in her heart that Xavian was about to sign himself out of the deal that was them.
He was surprisingly tender afterwards. He kissed her. He helped her stand. He helped her dress and brushed the sawdust from her dress and from his clothes too. The angry, loaded man who had walked into the stables had gone—if anything he looked exhausted, world-weary, yet somehow proud, and for the first time since she had seen him he looked her in the eyes.
‘There are some formalities that need to be completed. I must return to Qusay for a short while, and of course you must return to Haydar, and…’ He paused, expected a question, for Layla to interrupt—except she didn’t, and he could not have been more proud of her. He could see that she was steeling herself for whatever he was going to say to her. ‘If you still want to remain married we will resume our original deal—except I will be living in Calista…’
‘Calista?’ Now she did question him. She had prepared herself for the fact he did not want her, that he did not want to rule her land, and she would accept that with grace, but this she did not understand—his words made absolutely no sense. ‘What do you mean, if I want to remain married? There can be no divorce…’
‘I am not King Xavian of Qusay. I am the missing Sheikh Prince Zafir of Calista.’
‘I don’t understand…’ Layla whispered. ‘Xavian…’
‘My name is Zafir…’ he corrected. ‘Which means our marriage is not binding. The Xavian you married does not exist. I never was him. I am not your husband.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘WE SEARCHED for years…’
They were in the Calistan palace. Layla sat shivering, sipping camomile tea to calm her shredded nerves, but it did nothing—her knees still bobbed up and down. Stefania had wrapped a cloak around her shoulders, and the room was warm, but she could not stop shivering. She knew deep inside just how devastating this was for so many people, yet her mind was not quite ready to fathom the enormity of it in one swoop. Gently Zakari and Stefania helped her join up the dots, but Xavian—or rather Zafir—sat in stony silence. He was still in his jodhpurs, his clothes filthy from a day’s riding, sawdust in his hair, and all Layla wanted to do was cross the room and sit with him, to hold his hand as Zakari gave her the painful details. But there was an invisible shield around him, a detachment, a barrier that guarded him, and Layla knew all she could do was listen, and try to push aside the devastating personal loss. Her mind, even in such desperate times, had to think first of her kingdom.
Zakari went on. ‘My father spared no expense. Though logic said he must be dead, still there was hope he was alive somewhere—there were detectives, the underworld was infiltrated, and there were even rumours he had been adopted. Every kingdom was searched…’ Zakari’s lips were taut in bitter rage. ‘My father even spoke with the King of Qusay—he offered his full assistance…’
He turned to his brother, who just stared fixedly ahead. ‘Every day you were missed. It is time to come home now.’
‘How?’ Zafir’s voice was not helpless; instead it demanded answers. ‘My people will be crushed. They are already in mourning. And what about the people of Haydar…?’ He looked over to Layla. ‘You kissed a king and he turned into a prince…’
‘The people of Haydar will welcome—’
‘Please…’ Zafir sneered. ‘I am no Queen’s consort. I do not need some honorary role.’ He stood and crossed the room to stare out of the windows. Unlike the place he had called home, it did not look out onto the ocean, but the desert, and yet it did not soothe him. Maybe one day it would—in time perhaps this might feel like home. After all, the palace at Qusay never had.
‘Could you excuse us?’ he asked of his brother and sister-in-law. But when they were alone it took a while for either of them to speak.
Layla stood now, no longer shivering. She was too busy thinking. She was used to making tough decisions in moments, used to weighing up options, exploring possibilities and coming to rapid conclusions—but this was the hardest thing her mind had explored. When he went to interrupt her thoughts, when he opened his mouth to speak, Layla closed her eyes, so he stayed silent until she opened them again, with her decision made.
‘I will lie for you.’
He winced as she said it, saw the tears stream down her cheeks as she risked honour and reputation and the people she loved to climb into this lie with him. He wouldn’t let her do it.
‘No.’
‘I will lie—you can trust that I will never reveal your secret.’
‘No!’
‘Akmal will never say anything. You can surely persuade your brother…’
‘No!’ he shouted.
Alone, he might have lied, but he would not do it with her.
‘Layla…’ He did not look at her now, just stared out into the dark night. ‘I will have my people look into it, but if the marriage is binding—which I doubt—then I will offer you an annulment.’
‘I don’t want an annulment…’
‘I married you out of dut
y.’ Zafir’s words were cruel, but that was the only way he could do this—the only way he could fall from grace with just a shred of dignity. ‘That duty no longer exists.’
‘What about my honour?’
‘I am prepared to say that the marriage was never consummated. That we found out the truth about my identity on our wedding day and have spent time working out what to do…’
‘Oh!’ Layla stood and scoffed. ‘And I thought we were trying to halt the lies…silly me. Like it or not, the marriage was consummated—we are married.’
‘As you wish.’ Zafir shrugged.
‘So will you come with me to Haydar?’
‘And take your orders?’
‘I would have to teach you our ways.’
‘Teach me…’ His lips curled in distaste. ‘Would you double-check my work? Would you have to sign off on that too…?’
‘I don’t know…’ Layla admitted, because she was Queen, and had ruled for a long time, and had never envisaged sharing to this extent.
‘And read over my speeches…?’ Zafir persisted.
‘No.’ She was crying now.
‘And then I reward you for letting me play at being King by sleeping with you at night?’
He couldn’t—he could not take her crumbs.
He had had power, and, guess what? He had loved it—just as she did.
‘I would rather be a prince.’
‘Than be with me?’
‘Layla, from as far back as I can remember I have without question accepted my duty—ruling was my future, my passion. Now that that is not an option—well, a prince’s life sounds good. I do not have the weight of a country on my shoulders, and I have a whole family waiting. I can ride horses, play polo…’
‘Screw tarts…’
‘High-class tarts,’ Zafir corrected, but though he said it he could not fathom it. Somehow those days were over for him. No matter how brave his words, the thought of a woman who was not Layla—well, he couldn‘t bring himself to even consider it. ‘I will be discreet, and of course I will service you—I will give you your promised heir…’ He frowned as he did the maths—they had been married more than two weeks now, and their wedding night had been at her most fertile time. ‘Perhaps I already have.’
She said nothing, just stood there as he called in Stefania and Zakari, and Akmal too. His decision had been made; now all he had to was carry it through.
‘My decision is made. Tonight I am returning to Qusay. I want to arrange a dignified resting place for Xavian—but the people do not need to know how thoughtlessly he was discarded. Once that has taken place, I will inform the people as to what has occurred.’
‘How will you tell them?’ Layla’s face was pale.
‘On national television,’ Zafir answered. ‘In the next couple of days, as soon as Xavian is in his rightful resting place, and before rumours start to spread. I will contact Kareef and tell him that he is the rightful King…’
‘I will tell my people after you.’ Layla’s eyes were wide in her bleached face. She thought of Kareef, and of the news he would soon receive, of how so many lives would be changed. ‘And then I will return to Haydar…’
‘Alone,’ Zafir reminded her. ‘I need time with my family, but of course I will visit in due course…’ He could not stand the thought of her people, of their prying eyes as the deposed King stepped off the plane. His shame was intense, he felt emasculated, but he would never, ever let her see that.
‘I miss being a prince.’
She gave a tight smile. ‘Then a prince you shall be—as I said, I will inform my people.’
‘Please do,’ Zafir said coolly, finding it safer to keep her at a distance. ‘I will leave for Qusay now. There is a lot to do.’
‘You are welcome to stay here, Layla,’ Stefania offered, when he did not suggest that she join him. ‘Till the broadcast…’
She couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in separate chambers, of sharing his palace and not his bed, so gratefully she nodded.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ZAKARI and Stefania were wonderful hosts.
They accepted she was in shock, and food was brought to her room. Stefania, kind and gentle, sat on her bed in the early hours of her final morning there, and baby Zafir lay between them, kicking his little fat legs, smiling and cooing, utterly oblivious to the pain all around.
They were all to fly to Qusay. Zakari and Stefania would attend the funeral, while Layla waited back at the Qusay palace, and then the truth would be revealed.
‘There will be celebrations in the streets here in Calista later…’ Layla was still wearing her nightgown, her hair knotted, her eyes swollen from tears. ‘And there will be wailing in Qusay.’
‘What about Haydar?’
‘I don’t know,’ Layla confessed, and then she admitted just a little more. ‘They are not happy under my rule.’
‘It would be the same here in Calista,’ Stefania admitted. ‘They would struggle to accept just a queen. Aristo is more modern, but even there I know that Zakari makes it easier for them to accept me.’
It was such a relief to talk, and Layla wished their friendship had developed under different circumstances. ‘With Zafir by my side it would have been so much easier…’ Layla whispered, and it felt strange to use his name—it all felt strange. Tears filled her eyes as Stefania sadly shook her head.
‘I heard him talking with Zakari. He is King or nothing—his pride will not let him be otherwise…’
When little Zafir started crying it was Layla who picked him up. She felt his cries give way and wished his namesake was as uncomplicated…wished she could comfort him too. But her sympathy would only make things worse.
‘I knew the trouble this would cause,’ Stefania said sadly. ‘I knew how confusing this would be for Zafir. I was raised as a poor girl—I was a palace maid when I found out I was actually Queen…’ She screwed her eyes closed as she recalled her own confusion. ‘But it is so much worse for Zafir. At least I knew my mother, and I still had my identity, I still had some truths. Zafir has none.’ She looked over to Layla. ‘I wasn’t going to tell Zakari my suspicions. I was worried that if I was wrong I would have raised his hopes for nothing, and I was scared for Zafir too…But then…’ she touched her baby’s cheek ‘…after he was born, when I saw my husband hold him, saw that proud man cry over his name, I knew I had to tell him my thoughts. Zakari has been trying to contact him since. We invited him to stay with us when his parents died—Zakari wanted to see for himself, and we hoped that his being back in Calista would bring memories back—but Xavian, or rather Zafir, failed to respond to our letters, which was unusual, of course. Our kingdom is powerful—Zafir not returning our letters told us he must know something…’
‘I think he was starting to.’ Layla looked back on their rows with hindsight.
‘I wonder if Inas and Saqr had any idea of the pain this would cause…’
‘I doubt it…’ Stefania said wisely. ‘They were probably trying to spare pain at the time.’
But all they had done was pass it on, and it had multiplied and multiplied again. It would do so a thousand-fold today, but then hopefully it would end.
The funeral for Xavian was small, but loaded with love.
Zafir had never warmed to Akmal, always he had found him old-fashioned, set in his ways, but seeing the proud man weep, seeing how this day affected him, Zafir got a taste of what was to come for the people of Qusay.
Stefania and Zakari stood with him, yet their togetherness only exacerbated his isolation.
Xavian was placed with his parents—Zafir had said no at first, but had taken counsel from his elder brother and understood he might regret that decision later—so finally Xavian rested where he belonged.
Zafir saw his name, his past, his future—all buried now.
And then he saw Layla approach the small gathering.
She was dressed in a smart black suit, a simple black lace veil covering her face, but he would
have recognised her anywhere—and she was wearing the emeralds.
‘You were not invited.’
‘I have my respects to pay too…’ She stood beside him. ‘For as long as I remember Xavian was my betrothed.’
At every turn there was pain. This fracture in the soul of Qusay would spread like an earthquake soon, ripping the foundations of this proud land. She took off the necklace that had been given with love, she was sure, and returned it.
‘I will pass it on to Kareef.’
‘I hope it brings his wife more happiness than it did me.’ Then she saw that his fingers were over the ring she had given him.
‘I told you before you accepted my stone—this goes with you to the grave. At least that is the Haydar way. What you do with that tradition is your choice.’
‘Layla.’ Zafir refused to be manipulated. ‘You speak as if you went into the mines and chose it yourself—you speak as if you chose that stone for me. You did not even know me then…’
‘Correct,’ Layla said. ‘I had to respect my parents’ choice for me—even if it meant giving my gift to a man I felt nothing for, even if he repulsed me…’ She stared at him, and now they were not talking about the stone. ‘Still that gift would have been given. What my husband chooses to do with it now…’ She swallowed down sudden tears. ‘I am proud to come from Haydar—when we give a gift, it is for ever…’ She glanced at the emeralds in his hand to prove her point. ‘Know one thing…’ He waited for a slap, a spit, for deserved cruel words, but they never came. ‘We could work this out together. I love you, Zafir.’
But Zafir didn’t know himself—so how could she love him? He was tired of platitudes, of Zakari and Stefania stifling him with those words, of his brothers waiting, of love that was unconditional just because of his name, of love that bound Layla through marriage.
‘Love,’ Zakari said as he held the cool stones in his palm, ‘was not part of the arrangement.’
‘No,’ Layla agreed—and that was that. She would beg no more, and just hope that in time she would miss him less. ‘Let’s get this day over with, and then I will return to Haydar…’
Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen Page 12