The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

by Lynne Graham

  Fully dressed, Tilda was pacing the floor. Sporadic outbreaks of gunfire and the extraordinary amount of air traffic had frightened her into wondering if the palace was under attack. When silence had fallen, she had finally succumbed to the most sickening fear that Rashad had not reappeared because he had been taken prisoner, wounded or killed. Her response to that suspicion was much more emotional than she would have liked to admit and had informed her that her hatred ran only skin deep. While it was perfectly all right to loathe Rashad when he was in front of her and enjoying full health, when she was assailed by a vision of him lying somewhere hurt and unattended she felt sick and wanted to rush to his aid. For that reason, she was on the very brink of disobeying orders and leaving the room when the door opened.

  ‘Where on earth have you been all this time?’ she shot at Rashad in instant fury at his reappearance, when it became immediately obvious that her fears had been nonsensical: not a strand of his luxuriant black hair was out of place and his superb tailored suit was immaculate. ‘I’ve been frantic with worry!’

  ‘Why?’ Rashad asked, ebony brows pleating.

  ‘The gunfire…your instructions…all those jets and helicopters flying in and round about!’ Tilda slung at him shakily.

  ‘There is no cause for alarm. Natural caution urged me to ask you to stay here. But the outbreak of excitement was a celebration and the result of a misapprehension.’ Rashad shrugged a broad shoulder with something less than his usual cool. ‘The misunderstanding is entirely my fault. The whole country thinks that I have brought you back to Bakhar as my wife.’

  Tilda was so taken aback by that information that she simply stared at him, noting that his lean, strong face was unusually pale and taut. ‘For goodness sake, why would anyone think something like that?’

  ‘Circumstances have conspired to make it the only acceptable interpretation of events,’ Rashad pronounced with great care. ‘I acknowledge that I did wrong in bringing you here. No woman has ever travelled home to Bakhar with me before. The intervention of the press in London and their awareness of our previous relationship only added strength to the rumour that you are, at the very least, my intended bride.’

  Tilda blinked. ‘So what now?’

  Rashad frowned. ‘According to my father we are already married in the eyes of the law, because I referred to you as my woman in front of witnesses.’

  Puzzled by the first part of that explanation, Tilda easily picked up on the second part and slung him an angry look of disdain. ‘You called me that? When?’

  ‘Before we alighted from the jet. But I can put my hand on my heart and swear on my honour that I intended no insult to you.’

  ‘Of course you did-you described me as your woman as though I was a possession! It’s medieval!’

  ‘You feel as though you belong with me. I meant that you were part of my life,’ Rashad growled. ‘Now you are in truth a part.’

  ‘In the eyes of the law…we’re already married?’ Tilda parroted in sudden shock as his original meaning finally sank in on her. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘Many years ago, my grandfather abducted my grandmother and created a huge scandal. He always acted first and thought afterwards. To smooth matters over it was considered necessary to pass a law that allowed him to claim that she was his wife from the moment he said she was in the presence of witnesses. That law relates only to the royal family and it has not been repealed.’

  ‘But such behaviour and laws of that sort are still downright medieval! With relations like that, I’m amazed that you had the nerve to criticise my family.’ Tilda shook her head in a daze, her thoughts tumbling about in turmoil while she attempted to reason with clarity. ‘Well, the obvious solution to all this ridiculous confusion is that you just tell the truth. You are, after all, very fond of telling me that lies are always unacceptable to you.’

  As that proposal was made, a tiny muscle pulled taut at the corner of Rashad’s unsmiling mouth. ‘The truth would now appear to be that, according to Bakhari law, we are legally married.’

  ‘If that is so, I really do think that it would serve you right,’ Tilda admitted helplessly. ‘But, as I wouldn’t stay married to you even if you had a gun to my head, the divorce can’t come quick enough!’

  ‘This is a serious matter.’

  A bitter edge had already entered Tilda’s thoughts and coloured them. She was remembering how madly in love she had been five years earlier. In those days she would’ve made any sacrifice to marry her desert prince. Were they really and truly married? No doubt that fact explained why he was as grave as though he were attending a funeral. She was obviously the very last woman alive that he would have willingly chosen to be his wife.

  ‘I expect it is serious. But if I’m married to you, then I must have some rights.’ Her beautiful eyes concealed by her lashes, she turned her head away from him, determined not to reveal that she was upset. ‘Or have you got another list of threats to hold over me to ensure that I do exactly as you want me to do?’

  That candid question hit Rashad like a bucket of icy water on hot skin. Until she had come back into his life, he had never threatened a woman, nor ever dreamt that he might do so. Now he was confronted head-on with his harsh treatment of Tilda. Once, she had betrayed his trust and inflicted a wound for which he had never forgiven her. But that, Rashad acknowledged heavily, was no defence for a misuse of power to mete out punishment. His father’s talk of marriage and the photo of Tilda with Jerrold had reawakened Rashad’s bitter anger and encouraged him to pursue what he believed to be justice. But from the instant he had seen Tilda again, far less acceptable motives and desires had powered him. No longer could he marvel at the disastrous consequences that he had unleashed on both of them.

  ‘No. There will be no more threats.’ His lean and darkly handsome face sober, Rashad surveyed her with dark, unreadable eyes. ‘I should never have used coercive tactics.’

  Surprised by that total turnaround, Tilda lifted her pale blond head. ‘You’re admitting that?’

  ‘I can do nothing less when I look at the situation I have created. I was in the wrong and for that I apologise.’ Voicing those words of sincere regret cost Rashad a great deal of pride for he had never had to apologise before. ‘I harboured anger from the past and it blinded me to what was right.’

  Tilda could only think of her own anger, nourished and kept alive by hurt. She thought of the fact that she had never let any man so close to her again. She thought of how she had felt just minutes earlier when she had been afraid that he might have been injured. A giant tide of fear engulfed her at that point as she appreciated that her feelings for Rashad ran much deeper than was safe or sensible.

  ‘I will never threaten you again,’ Rashad promised her levelly. ‘Instead, I am asking you for your co-operation.’

  ‘Are we really and truly married?’ Tilda prompted uncertainly.

  ‘Yes,’ Rashad confirmed.

  ‘But I expect you’ll do whatever it takes to get us out of the marriage as fast as you possibly can,’ Tilda remarked in a tone that was a tad brittle.

  Rashad studied the wall to one side of her with frowning attention. Divorce would entail her departure from Bakhar. He discovered that that prospect had no appeal for him whatsoever. Surely, he reasoned, a hasty marriage and an even hastier divorce would only compound the errors he had made? A marriage was a marriage, no matter how it had been entered into. In the same way a wife was a wife, deserving of his support and respect. He should at least try to make a success of their alliance, he decided with sudden purpose. He would have to learn to put all memory of her past behind him.

  ‘A quick divorce is not an option I would wish to choose.’ Rashad rested dark golden eyes, gleaming with renewed energy, back on her. ‘There is no reason why we should not attempt to make the best of our predicament.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Suddenly maddeningly aware of the smouldering appraisal resting on the swollen contours of her pink mouth, Tilda tensed. Without w
arning she found that she was reliving the melting pleasure of his hungry mouth roaming over her breasts and the pulsing ache at the secret heart of her body. She sucked in a fractured breath, embarrassed by her susceptibility.

  Taut with arousal, Rashad made a valiant attempt to overcome the barrier of his fierce pride and build a bridge that might take him from coercion to acceptance. He moved closer. ‘Waking or sleeping, you are in my every thought. My hunger for you is no greater than yours for me. I want to be with you.’

  Tilda swallowed the lump in her throat and hated herself for being tempted. But he was only interested in getting her into bed. That was all he had ever been interested in, she told herself wretchedly. Yet her body still tingled with the sexual responsiveness that only he could awaken. It incensed her that she knew exactly what he was talking about. Every day, every hour, her every thought was centred on him, to the point of obsession. But that was a truth she despised and would never admit to him.

  In any case, she had much more important things to worry about. Within the space of an hour every seeming certainty had vanished. It seemed shameful to her that she should long to walk into his arms and forget everything both past and present because of passion. What would sharing a bed with Rashad fix or clarify? Where were her pride and her common sense? First and foremost, she was in Bakhar for the sake of her family. She reminded herself that she had yet to see evidence that the threat against their security had been lifted.

  ‘What I need right now is the assurance that that eviction order has been cancelled,’ she murmured tautly.

  A faint rise of dark blood marking the angular line of his classic cheekbones, Rashad fell still. ‘It has been.’

  As the tense pool of silence gathered Tilda worried uncomfortably at her full lower lip. ‘And the house-has it been signed back to my mother?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The outstanding loan has been settled?’

  Rashad inclined his proud dark head in immediate acknowledgement.

  ‘I would like to see all that in writing.’ Tilda closed her restive hands together in front of her. In an effort to conceal her discomfiture, she was struggling to be as businesslike as he had once urged her to be.

  ‘If that is your wish. I will ensure that you see the documentation.’ Affronted though he was by that lack of trust in his word, Rashad made no further comment. He told himself that he should not be surprised that financial matters were her first consideration. Had he not always known that money meant more to her than anything else? He could not quell the rise of his distaste.

  Tilda’s fingers curled in on themselves too tightly for comfort. ‘And I would also like to see the proof you said you had of my affairs with other men.’

  Rashad veiled his icy gaze, determined not to surrender to that particular demand. Confronting her with unassailable evidence of her youthful promiscuity would only antagonise her at a time when he needed her co-operation. If she refused to conduct herself as his wife, his father and the rest of his family would be, at the very least, severely embarrassed. Indeed, all too many innocent people were at risk of suffering the consequences of his bad judgement and lack of foresight.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

  He looked apologetic and he sounded apologetic, but Tilda was not convinced. She was parting her lips to tell him so when he voiced an apology at the interruption and answered his mobile phone.

  His lean bronzed profile taut, he compressed his wide, sensual mouth. ‘My sisters, Durra and Tibah, have arrived.’

  In a large reception room downstairs she was immediately approached by two fashionably dressed women, who looked to be in their forties and, as such, a good deal older than Tilda had expected. Both spoke excellent English and greeted their brother with an affection laced with deferential restraint.

  ‘The king has asked that you bring Tilda to him today so that he can meet her.’ A small plump brunette with a bustling air, Durra greeted Tilda with warm words of welcome.

  ‘There are a great many preparations to be made,’ Tibah added with enthusiasm. ‘The next few weeks will be very exciting! I do hope you can come now. We try not to keep our father waiting.’

  Tilda noticed that Rashad looked very much as though he had been carved out of solid granite. Her heart and self-image slowly sank to her toes while she kept a resolute smile pinned to her taut mouth. She was painfully aware of Rashad’s low opinion of her and felt that he could only loathe the prospect of introducing her as his bride to the father he esteemed. His siblings regarded him with barely concealed tension until he inclined his sleek dark head in agreement. He clapped his hands and a servant appeared from beyond the door. He issued instructions.

  ‘We will leave immediately,’ he murmured without expression.

  His sisters flew back to Jumiah with them. The Great Palace where the royal family lived was situated several miles outside the flourishing capital city. As soon as the helicopter landed, Durra and Tibah parted from Rashad and Tilda to return to their apartments within the palace complex. A vast carved stone building enhanced by formal gardens and fountains, it was a much newer property than Tilda had expected to see and she made a surprised comment.

  ‘The old palace was badly damaged during the war. It had also taken on unfortunate associations after two decades of my great-uncle’s misrule,’ Rashad explained. ‘This new palace was built as a symbol of hope for the future.’

  ‘It’s colossal but very impressive.’ Tilda shot him a strained glance and suddenly abandoned the stilted conversation in favour of honesty. ‘Is there no way I can avoid having to meet your father?’

  His stubborn jaw line clenched hard. ‘In wishing to admit you so immediately to his presence, the king seeks to honour you.’

  Tilda went pink with discomfiture. ‘You misunderstood my meaning. Oh, never mind.’

  ‘My father is a kind man. Not unreasonably, he has assumed that there is honest affection between us.’

  The backs of Tilda’s eyes stung in receipt of that sardonic reminder but she lifted her chin. To add insult to injury, Rashad proceeded to give her several tips on how to be polite and respectful in the presence of Bakhari royalty. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my manners,’ she told him tightly. ‘I’m not going to be rude.’

  ‘I did not intend to cause offence.’ Rashad was merely annoyed that she should have to enter such a crucial meeting without any preparation whatsoever.

  Feeling wretchedly unsuitable for the honour being extended to her, Tilda was ushered into the audience room. King Hazar was a tall, spare man in his sixties, garbed in traditional robes that added to his quiet aura of dignity. The kindliness of his unexpectedly friendly smile took her aback and instantly released the worst of her tension. He welcomed her to Bakhar in slow, careful English, embraced his son with enthusiasm and informed Tilda that he would be happy to regard her as another daughter. Very polite conversation ensued about the sights of Oxford, as well as the vagaries of the English climate. It dawned on Tilda that, far from being aghast at or even worried by his son’s sudden marriage to an Englishwoman, the older man seemed genuinely delighted.

  Under cover of this gentle dialogue, she studied Rashad from below her lashes. His lean bronzed profile was lit by the sunshine piercing the window behind him. As if aware of her attention, he turned his arrogant dark head. His tawny gaze met hers and her tummy performed an instant somersault of response. Colouring, she dragged her attention from him again. Goodness, he was gorgeous, she thought helplessly, and she was married to him. Really and truly married. The shock of that was still sinking in. With difficulty she returned her concentration to the conversation.

  Rashad was wondering to himself exactly why his royal parent was so overjoyed by his supposed marriage. Had the older man feared that his son would remain single for the rest of his days? Was almost any wife better than no wife on his father’s terms? Was that why not a single awkward question had yet been asked of either of them?

  T
he king said that it was of great importance that Tilda receive support and guidance to enable her to feel at home within the royal household and in the country beyond the palace walls. ‘Unlike your late mother, your wife will lead a life in the public eye,’ his father remarked gravely. ‘It is only sensible that Tilda should be helped to prepare for that role in advance of your wedding.’

  What wedding? Tilda almost asked, just managing to bite back the startled query, for she was very much afraid of saying the wrong thing. She stole another covert glance at Rashad and noted that he seemed quite unfazed by that same reference. She suspected that he might be rationing information on a strict need-to-know basis and resentment stirred in her.

  ‘I’m not convinced that Tilda should take on a public role,’ Rashad countered.

  Tilda tried to ignore Rashad’s lack of enthusiasm for her taking on the responsibilities that went with being his wife. Naturally he felt like that, she told herself impatiently. There was no need whatsoever for her to take that personally. Unhappily this common-sense conviction did not prevent her from feeling cut to the bone and deemed a loser before she even got to run the race.

  His father looked amused. ‘My son, you cannot marry an educated and accomplished young lady and hope to keep her all to yourself. Why, the crown office has already had a request for your wife to open the new surgical wing of the hospital next month! All such matters will be more easily dealt with if Tilda has had the opportunity to study our history, etiquette and language, so that she may be comfortable wherever she travels within our borders.’

  In the aftermath of the revealing meeting, Tilda was in a tense and unhappy daze. It appeared that some big fancy wedding was in the offing to satisfy convention. The very idea of that made her feel uncomfortable, because she was no actress. What was more, pretending to be Rashad’s wife promised to be a serious challenge. Evidently it was regarded as something of a full-time occupation if she was to be put in training for the role. But, worst of all, Rashad was expecting her to take part in a massive pretence and enact a cruelly deceptive masquerade to fool people who were trustingly offering her sincere affection and acceptance. His family all seemed so nice! In her opinion only a truly horrid and insensitive person could feel anything other than guilt-stricken.