Banished to the Harem

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘You can’t do this …’

  ‘This is about protecting what is mine.’ Rakhal was completely unmoved by her dramatics. She was starting to beat him with her hands, but he captured her wrists.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Because I could not leave you at your home. If you are pregnant with my child then I need to be certain you are taking care of yourself and will do nothing to jeopardise its existence. You will stay in the Palace, where you’ll be well looked after …’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘In the desert. Soon I am to take a wife. It is right that I go there for contemplation and meditation while we wait to see the outcome with you. You will be well taken care of, you will be looked after, and if you are not pregnant of course you can come back home.’

  ‘And if I am?’ she begged, but already she knew the answer.

  ‘You are pregnant …’ so matter-of-fact was his voice as he said it, her heart hammered in her chest ‘… then there is no question that we will marry.’

  About the Author

  CAROL MARINELLI recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked, ‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

  Recent titles by the same author:

  AN INDECENT PROPOSITION

  A SHAMEFUL CONSEQUENCE

  (The Secrets of Xanos)

  HEART OF THE DESERT

  THE DEVIL WEARS KOLOVSKY

  Carol also writes for

  Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™!

  Did you know these are also available as eBooks?

  Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Banished

  to the Harem

  Carol Marinelli

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  For Colleen,

  Loads of love to you.

  Thank you for the friendship.

  Carol xxx

  PROLOGUE

  ‘I SHALL return on Monday.’ Crown Prince Sheikh Rakhal Alzirz would not be swayed. ‘Now, onto other matters.’

  ‘But the King has requested that you leave London immediately.’

  Rakhal’s jaw tightened as Abdul pressed on. It was rare indeed for Abdul to persist when Rakhal had made his feelings clear on a subject, for Rakhal was not a man who changed his mind often—nor did he take orders from an aide—even his most senior one. But in this case Abdul was relaying orders that came directly from the King, which forced him to be bold.

  ‘The King is most insistent that you return to Alzirz by tomorrow. He will not hear otherwise.’

  ‘I shall speak with my father myself,’ Rakhal said. ‘I am not simply going to walk away at his bidding.’

  ‘The King is unwell, though….’ Abdul closed his eyes for a moment, grief and worry evident on his face.

  ‘Which is why I shall be married before the month’s end,’ Rakhal interrupted. ‘I accept that it is important for our people to have the security of knowing the Crown Prince is married, especially with the King now ill, however …’

  Rakhal did not finish his sentence. He did not need to explain himself to Abdul, so again he changed the subject, his black eyes daring Abdul not join him this time.

  ‘Now, onto other matters.’ He did not wait for his aide’s nod. ‘We need to discuss a suitable gift to celebrate this morning’s news from Alzan. I want to express my delight to Sheikh King Emir Alzan.’ A dark smile twisted at the edge of Rakhal’s full lips, for despite the news about his father’s health, despite the summons for him to return to Alzirz and choose a bride, the week had at least brought one piece of good news.

  In fact two pieces of good news!

  ‘Something very pink,’ Rakhal said, and for the first time that morning Abdul smiled too, for it was good news indeed. The birth of female twins in Alzan gave the Kingdom of Alzirz some much-needed breathing space. Not much, for undoubtedly Emir and his wife would soon produce a son, but for now there was reason to smile.

  Long ago Alzirz and Alzan had been one country—Alzanirz—but there had been much unrest and the Sultan at the time had sought a solution. A mix-up at the birth of his identical twin sons had provided him with one, and on his death the Kingdom of Alzanirz had been divided between his sons.

  It was a temporary solution—at least temporary in desert terms—for the mathematicians and predictors of the time had all agreed that in years, or even hundreds of years, the two countries would again become one. It could be no other way, because a special law had been designed for each country that meant one day they would be reunited. Each country had been given one law by which they must abide, and only the opposing ruler could revoke it.

  In Alzirz, where Rakhal would soon be King, the ruler could take but one wedded partner in their lifetime, and his firstborn, whether boy or girl, would be heir.

  Rakhal’s mother, Layla, weak and thin and grieving her Bedouin life, had died birthing Rakhal, her only child, and the country had held its breath as the tiny, premature infant struggled to hold on to life. For a while it had seemed that the predictions of old were coming true, and that the Kingdom of Alzirz would be handed over to Alzan’s rule—for how could a baby born so early, a baby so tiny, possibly survive?

  But Rakhal had not only survived. Out of the starvation of his mother’s womb he had thrived.

  In Alzan the one rule was different—there the King could marry again on the death of his wife, but the ruler of Alzan must always be male. And now, as of this morning, Emir was the father of two little girls. Oh, there would be much celebrating and dancing in Alzirz tonight—their country was safe.

  For now.

  Having entered his third decade, Rakhal could no longer put it off. He had rowed frequently about this with his father, but now accepted that it was time for him to choose his bride. A wife he would bed at her fertile times only, for she would be rested at other times. A wife he would see only for copulation and at formal functions or special occasions. She would live a luxurious, pampered life in her own area of the palace, and guide the raising of children he would barely see.

  Emir would see his children…. Rakhal recognised the darkness that dwelled within him as he thought of his rival, but it did not enter his head that jealousy might reside there too—for Rakhal knew that he had everything.

  ‘Do you have any ideas as to a gift?’ Abdul broke into Rakhal’s thoughts.

  ‘Two pink diamonds, perhaps?’ Rakhal mused. ‘No.’ He changed his mind. ‘I need to think about this. I want something more subtle than diamonds—something that will make him churn as he receives it.’ Of course he and Emir were polite when they met, but there was a deep rivalry between them—a rivalry that had existed before either was born and would be passed on for generations to come. ‘For once I will enjoy choosing a gift.’

  ‘Very well,’ Abdul said, gathering up his papers and preparing to leave the study in Rakhal’s luxurious hotel suite. But as he got to the door he could not help himself from asking, ‘You will speak with the King?’

  Rakhal dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He did not answer to his aide—he had said that he would speak to the King, and that was enough.

  Rakhal did speak with his father. He was the only person in Alzirz who w
as not intimidated by the King.

  ‘You are to return this instant,’ the King demanded. ‘The people are becoming unsettled and need to know that you have chosen your bride. I wish to go to my grave knowing you shall produce an heir. You are to return and marry.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rakhal responded calmly, because there was no debating that point. But he refused to dance to his father’s tune—they were two strong and proud men and often clashed. Both had been born natural leaders, and neither liked to be told what to do, yet there was another reason that Rakhal stood his ground and told his father he would not return till Monday. If he boarded a plane immediately, if he gave in without protest, then his father would really know that he was dying.

  And he was dying.

  Hanging up the phone, Rakhal closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands for a moment. He had spoken at length yesterday with the royal doctor and he knew more than the King did. His father had but a few months to live.

  Conversations with his father were always difficult, always stilted. As a child Rakhal had been brought up by the maidens, and had seen his father only on special occasions. Once, as a teenager, he had joined his father in the desert and learnt the teachings of old. Now, though, as leadership approached for Rakhal, his father seemed to want to discuss his every move.

  It was one of the reasons Rakhal liked London. He liked the freedom of this strange land, where women talked about making love and demanded things from their partner that were not necessary in Alzirz. He wanted to linger just a little longer.

  Rakhal had a deep affinity for the city that was, of course, never discussed. Only by chance had Rakhal found out that it was here in this hotel that he had been conceived—a break with desert rules that had not only cost his mother her life, but also threatened the very country he would soon rule.

  He stood and headed to the window and looked at the grey view, at the misty rain and the cluttered streets. He could not wholly fathom this country’s appeal, for he knew it was the desert where he belonged, the desert he must return to.

  The desert that was summoning him home.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE policewoman could not have been more bored as she instructed Natasha to fill out the necessary forms.

  And, yes, in the scheme of things it wasn’t exactly riveting that her car had been stolen, and neither was it a disaster, but on the back of everything else that she was dealing with, today of all days, Natasha could very easily have put her head on the desk and wept.

  She didn’t, of course. Natasha just got on with what she had to—it was how this year had been. Her long, thick red hair was wet from the rain and dripped on the counter as she bent her head. She pushed it out of her eyes. Her fingers were white from the cold. If her car had to have been stolen, Natasha almost wished it could have been in a couple of days’ time, when she would have known nothing about it.

  Natasha was supposed to be spending this gruelling day planning a holiday. It was the anniversary of her parents’ death, and she had wanted to mark it somehow. She had been determined to push on with her life, but had finally listened when her friends had said that she needed a break—a proper one—and it didn’t need to be expensive.

  As a substitute teacher it had been easy for her to arrange a fortnight off, and today she had been planning to visit the cemetery and then go to a friend’s house to book the cheapest, hottest place on the planet she could afford. Instead she was standing in a draughty police station, politely trying not to listen as the woman beside her reported a domestic incident.

  The policewoman’s voice suddenly trailed off mid-sentence. In fact the whole room seemed to stop, even the argument breaking out between a father and son paused, and Natasha looked up as a door beside the counter opened.

  She watched the policewoman’s cheeks redden, and as Natasha followed her gaze she could certainly see why. Walking into the foyer was possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  Definitely the most beautiful, she amended, as he walked past the counter and came into full view. He was tall, with exotic dark looks, his elegance so effortless that he wore even a torn shirt and a black eye well.

  He was tousled and unshaven, and the torn shirt allowed for more than a glimpse of one broad coffee-coloured shoulder. As he gave up trying to fasten the broken buttons on his shirt he moved to tuck it in, and even though Natasha looked away the image of a flat stomach with a snake of jet hair danced before her eyes. She struggled to remember the registration number of the car she’d owned for more than five years.

  ‘Maybe you should go and sit down to fill it in?’ the policewoman suggested.

  Natasha was quite sure she was only being helpful because, now he had moved, Natasha was blocking her view of the exotic prisoner. Still, it was rather nice to sit in a front row seat and every now and then look up from the form to witness him sliding in his belt and buckling it, and then, a moment later, when they were handed to him, slipping on his shoes.

  ‘Are you sure we can’t offer you a ride home?’ a sergeant asked.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  His voice was deep and low and richly accented, and despite the circumstances he was very much the one in command—there was an air of haughtiness to him as he took his jacket from the sergeant and brushed it down before putting it on. The gesture, as some dust fell to the floor, was curiously insolent, as if telling all present that he was better than this.

  ‘We really are sorry for the mix-up …’ the sergeant continued.

  Natasha quickly looked back to her paperwork as he made his way over to the bench where she sat, raised a foot and placed it beside her, and proceeded to lace up his shoe. There was a delicious waft that reached her nostrils, the last traces of cologne combined with the essence of male, and though she resisted, though she tried terribly hard not to, her body did what it had to and despite Natasha’s best intentions she looked up.

  Looked up into a face that was exquisite, into eyes that were at first black but, as she stared, became the indigo of a midnight sky. He let her explore the vastness, let her deep into the reaches of his gaze, then he withdrew that pleasure, his concentration moved back to his footwear and Natasha was for a second lost. So lost that she did not turn her face away, still watched, mouth slightly gaping, as his dark red lips tightened when the sergeant spoke on.

  ‘As I said before, Your Highness …’

  Natasha’s mouth gaped fully open. No wonder the sergeant was groveling. There was a diplomatic incident unfolding right here in the room.

  ‘… I can only apologise.’

  ‘You were doing your job.’ Shoes laced, he stood to his impressive height. ‘I should not have been there in the first place. I understand that now. I did not at the time.’ He looked down at the policeman and gave a brief nod—a nod that was final, that somehow confirmed he was giving his word. ‘It is forgotten.’ Relief flooded over the sergeant’s face even as His Highness snapped his fingers. ‘I need my phone.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Natasha was dying to know what had happened, what the mistake had been, but unfortunately she couldn’t drag out filling in the form any longer, so she went up to the counter and handed it in. She could feel his dark eyes on her shoulders as she spoke with the policewoman, and as Natasha turned to go their eyes met briefly for the second time. Briefly because Natasha tore hers away, for there was a strange suggestion in his eyes that she could not logically explain.

  ‘Good morning.’

  His words were very deliberate and very much aimed at her. They forced her gaze to dart back to him as he greeted her in circumstances where it would be more customary to ignore another person. It was almost inappropriate to initiate a conversation here, and Natasha flushed as she returned his greeting.

  ‘Morning …’

  There was the slightest upturn to his mouth—imperceptible, almost, but there—as if he found her voice pleasing, as if somehow he had won, for still he stared. There was a bizarr
e feeling of danger. Her heart was racing and her breathing was shallow and fast. Instinct told her to run—especially as that haughty mouth now shifted a little further, moved to almost a smile. There was a beckoning in it, and she understood now the danger. For her body still told her to run—except to him.

  ‘Thank you.’ Natasha turned to the policewoman, thanked her for her assistance, and then, because she had no choice, she walked past him to reach the exit.

  It was an almost impossible task, for never had she been so aware—not just of him, but of her own body: the sound of her boots as she clipped past him, the relief in her nostrils as they once again detected him, the burn of his eyes as they unashamedly followed her progress. And, though she could not know, she was certain of the turn of his head as she passed him, and knew he was watching as she walked out through the door.

  It was a relief to be out in the rain—never had she had a man so potent linger in his attention on her—and Natasha walked quickly from the police station, crossing at the lights and then breaking into a run when she saw her bus. It drove off as she approached it and she felt like banging on the door as it passed, even chased it for a futile few seconds, knowing what she would see now.

  She tried not to look—tried to disappear in the empty bus shelter—but of course she could not. He walked out of the police station and down the steps in his slightly muddied tuxedo, and instead of turning up his collar, as most would, he lifted his face to the rain, closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face as if he were showering. He made a wet winter morning suddenly beautiful. He made the whole wretched day somehow worth it for that image alone. Natasha watched as he lifted his phone to his ear and then turned around. She realised he was disorientated as to his location, but he walked on a little farther and located the name of the suburb from the sign on the police station’s wall.