The Sheikh's Impetuous Love-Slave

by Marguerite Kaye

  Only five days ago she had first stared up at him like that. Defiant, challenging, determined not to let him see what she really felt. Only five days ago, but it seemed like an eternity. It seemed like his whole life had been waiting for this point, this woman. He would not lose her now.

  ‘Khalid? The goddess, do you have her?’

  ‘There is only one goddess I’m interested in at the moment. Look at me, Juliette.’

  When she did, she saw a light in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Despite her attempts to suppress it, hope flared like a torch flame fanned by a gust of air. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We were meant to be together. You and I, ma belle Juliette. I laughed at the idea Shal’aal might be a portent, but she is. She has brought us together. You were meant for me, as I was meant for you. I love you, Juliette.’

  ‘Khalid! If this is about last night, you did not—you do not have to—’

  ‘Oh but, Juliette, I do! Not because I feel obliged to, but because I cannot help myself. Juliette, my Juliette, surely you feel, as I do, that you have been sent to me. That we were made for each other, destined to be with each other.’

  ‘But it’s impossible, Khalid. You must know that.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible if you want it enough. Nothing will stop me taking you as my wife, placing you by my side as you were meant to be, save one thing—that you do not love me.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘Do you love me, Juliette, as I love you?’

  ‘Oh Khalid, I love you so much, but….’

  ‘What then? Are you worried about your family, never returning to France?’

  ‘I have no family now, nor any allegiance to a country that used and abused my poor father. But you are a royal prince, Khalid. I am a commoner and a foreigner to boot. Your subjects….’

  ‘My subjects should rejoice at my great fortune to have you as my wife. With you by my side, I will be a far better ruler. Be my princess, Juliette. Say you love me.’

  He loved her. He really loved her. She could not quite believe it, yet it seemed the most natural thing in the whole world. ‘I love you, Khalid.’ Juliette laughed with sheer joy. ‘I love you,’ she cried, the words echoing round the temple. ‘Je t’aime, Khalid. Je t’adore.’

  He pulled her ruthlessly into his arms, holding her tight, so tight it would have hurt were it not so wonderful. ‘Ma belle, now I will show you what it is like to be loved. Truly loved. Now we will give our thanks to Shal’aal, our own goddess of love, together.’

  He laid her down on the cool marble of the altar. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I want you for my wife. Say you will be mine. Say you will give me that most precious gift, my darling, your innocence.’

  ‘It is yours. It was always yours. Make love to me, Khalid. Please. I’ve been waiting all my life for you.’

  It was the promise he needed. She was all he would ever want. Reverently, he removed each piece of her clothing, trailing kisses over her skin as he did so, each one landing as delicately as a butterfly, each one adding to the slow build of anticipation. Her neck. Her arms. Her breasts. The indent of her waist. The slight curve of her belly. Her knees. Her ankles. Her feet. The tender skin on the inside of her thighs. The marble was cool on her back. Goose bumps prickled where Khalid’s lips brushed her skin. She felt revered, worshipped, adored and utterly alive.

  Khalid removed his tunic, allowing it to pool at his feet on the floor of the temple. A shaft of sunlight slanted down through the ruined roof, bathing them in its glow, suffusing Juliette’s skin with a golden glow, rendering her like the goddess she reminded him of. Her hair, like an obsidian river, streamed down onto the floor. Her eyes were wide, focused entirely on him as he stood proudly erect before her. She arched her back, lifting the hard peaks of her breasts invitingly. He knelt between her legs to take one breast, then the other into his mouth, sucking hard, relishing the surge of pleasure etched on her face as he did so, feeling the same surge echoing, tightening his manhood.

  ‘Juliette. My princess. My goddess,’ he murmured as he tilted her towards him, caressing the already moist pink folds of her sex, his tongue, echoing the touch of his fingers, licking her full lower lip.

  ‘Khalid. My prince,’ she murmured, pulling him towards her, yearning for the ultimate coupling, for the two of them to become one. He kissed her hard, deeply, and thrust slowly, carefully. She felt as if she were unfolding. There was no pain, only a tightness which intensified the shivering, shimmering ecstasy of his entry. His shaft forged its way deeper, higher, a combination of velvet and steel, and she enveloped him, tilted up to open farther for him, gasping with pleasure at the way he filled her, and continued to fill her.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist. He kissed her again, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth, as his shaft thrust inside her. She felt tense and hot. He thrust again, and she felt as if she were climbing, climbing with him, urged higher, to some magical peak. Again he thrust, encouraging her to move with him, quickly finding a rhythm together, climbing steeper, higher with each thrust until she could go no more, until she was there, on that mountaintop, dizzyingly high, achingly full, unable to stop herself from tumbling headlong, crying out his name as she climaxed, clutching him closer, closer as he too came, spending himself deep within her, melding them together, inextricably bound by silken ties of passion and love.

  They lay thus, on the altar for some time, the sunlight making of them one burnished golden image. Finally, Juliette opened her eyes. She smiled, a sated, blissful smile which was entirely charming, which stirred Khalid to his depths. ‘You don’t think Shal’aal will be offended by our actions, do you?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Khalid said, kissing her mouth, revelling in the way her lips were already swollen from his kisses, his shaft stirring responsively. ‘I think this altar was designed specifically for this purpose.’ He kissed her again. His erection hardened. ‘We should pay homage to Shal’aal again, I think.’ Gently, he began to do just that.

  It was only later, when she opened her eyes, looking idly round at the walls of the temple behind her, that she spotted the tiny niche. Hidden in the shadow of a pillar, it could only be seen from the altar, at this precise angle. At first she thought it was a sunbeam which coloured it gold, but then she realized that the sun had moved. The alcove itself was lined with gold, like a tiny keyhole, only a strange shape. A womanly shape.

  ‘Shal’aal!’ Juliette exclaimed. ‘Khalid, look. It has to be. Look!’

  And it was. Carefully, Juliette placed the little idol in the niche. She fitted perfectly. Standing back, not a trace could be seen of her behind the pillar, yet the atmosphere in the temple seemed to have changed. ‘She has come home,’ Juliette said, smiling shyly up at Khalid.

  Khalid smiled lovingly in return. ‘Like you and I, she has found her true destiny.’

  ‘You will think it foolish, but I feel as if, by returning her, I have made some reparation for the wrongs Papa was compelled to commit. Can we leave her here, where she belongs? It would mean a lot to me.’

  ‘I don’t think it foolish at all,’ Khalid said, kissing the palm of her hand. ‘Shal’aal has returned to her rightful home. It is time for you and me to do the same. I cannot wait to claim you as my wife.’

  ‘And I cannot wait, either, my love. Who knows, maybe Shal’aal will bless our union with the gift of children?’

  ‘Then the sooner we start the better,’ Khalid said, taking her in his arms once more.

  Epilogue

  Six weeks later

  Ramiz al-Muhanna, the newly crowned Prince of A’Qadiz following the untimely death of his brother in battle, watched the wedding parade with more than a hint of disapproval. It was plain that his neighbour, Prince Khalid, was besotted with the beautiful Frenchwoman but Westerners had no understanding of the traditions of Arabia, no respect for their culture, in Ramiz’s opinion. Despite Prince Khalid’s assurance that his bride’s father had been forced by his own government to raid A’Qadiz’s precious sites, as far
as Ramiz was concerned, this Westerner was not to be trusted any more than any other.

  Nor were such women suitable wife material, with their foolish expectations of true love, and their outrageous demands for attention. A wife was for the production of heirs, nothing more. Prince Khalid, Ramiz thought wryly, was in for a shock if he expected this Juliette de Montignac to observe the long-established borders which delineated a woman’s sphere of influence from a man’s. She did not look like a woman who would willingly confine herself to the harem.

  As the wedding procession passed by the podium on which Ramiz sat, along with the other most honoured guests, the glow of happiness which emanated from the bridal pair was almost palpable. Dressed from head to toe in scarlet and gold, her inky black hair flowing down her back, her ankles and wrists jangling with golden bells, the bride, Ramiz was forced to concede, looked enticing. Beside her, Prince Khalid in the royal blue, had eyes only for her.

  Ramiz, alone in the enormous crowd of guests, was untouched by the spectacle. The violent death of his brother Asad having brought to an end Ramiz’s role as A’Qadiz’s foreign emissary, threw him, unexpectedly, into a much more testing role as A’Qadiz’s ruler, one which occupied his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else. Were it not for the need to cultivate every neighbour as an ally, he would have spurned the invitation to attend this wedding, but Prince Khalid was too important a man to offend.

  As the Bedouin priest said the final blessing and Prince Khalid lifted the veil to reveal his bride, her face alight with love, the courtyard of the royal palace in which the ceremony had taken place erupted with applause. Though the betrothal, when it was first announced, had caused a great deal of offence amongst the various factions with eligible daughters, Ramiz had to admire the sheer brilliance of Prince Khalid’s robust defence of his choice. Juliette de Montignac had been selected for him by the goddess Shal’aal. By pure coincidence, Ramiz was sure, a rare yellow diamond, the biggest anyone had ever seen, had been discovered in the excavations of the temple in the ruined city of Persimmanion. It was a sign, Prince Khalid told his people, and his people believed him. A diplomatic triumph, Ramiz conceded with reluctant admiration as he watched the prince kiss his bride lingeringly on the lips before presenting her to his people, glowing with pride.

  Rose petals showered down on the couple. Applause rang out. Ramiz, Prince of A’Qadiz, watched the spectacle without seeing it, waited impatiently for the throng to move forward to the banqueting rooms, for the bridal pair to distribute the golden coins to the waiting children, for the whole affair to be over. His handsome face concealed beneath the gold-edged white silk headdress, Ramiz was already planning the journey back across the desert in his mind. His desert, his kingdom awaited him. There was much to attend to. There were disputes to settle, enemies to slay, allies to appease. The affairs of state lay heavily upon his broad, muscular shoulders.

  As Prince Khalid and the new Princess Juliette sat down together to partake of the wedding feast, Ramiz made his excuses and called for his caravan to be readied. He did not know what the Fates had in store for him but he was ready to meet any challenge thrown at him, supremely confident in his ability to prevail. Duty had called him. He was ready.

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  Born and educated in Scotland, Marguerite Kaye originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practice, a decision which was a relief, both to her and the Scottish legal Establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

  The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living, a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

  Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-0643-4

  The Sheikh’s Impetuous Love-Slave

  Copyright © 2011 by Marguerite Kaye

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