Claiming His Desert Princess

by Marguerite Kaye

  He kissed her. And then he pushed himself higher inside her, and began to thrust slowly, rousing new sensations inside her. Another thrust, and her instincts took over. She moved with him, watching every sensation on his face reflecting what she was feeling. He thrust again, harder, and she wrapped her legs around him. This pulsing, throbbing, climb to her climax was different. She tightened around him, making him groan, making herself shudder, and again he thrust, and again, becoming more urgent, higher, harder, faster, his kisses wild, her hands digging into his back, her breathing harsh, until she could hold on no more and cried out, and he cried out too, pulsing, shuddering, saying her name over and over as he spilled inside her, and there had never, ever been anything so perfectly, beautifully right.

  * * *

  They lay silent and sated for a long time, their skin damp, clinging to each other, shipwrecked on the shore of their lovemaking. The night was long, filled with tenderness and plans and moments where they simply stared in wonder at each other.

  ‘I keep thinking I’m dreaming,’ Tahira said several times.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ Christopher said.

  * * *

  As dawn broke and the sun made a collage of pinks and crimsons and orange just for them in the sky, they emerged from the tent. The air was salty, fresh. The sand was damp beneath her feet. Tahira turned to her husband and smiled. ‘My final wish come true. To wake in the desert. Though I could never have imagined anything quite so perfect. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’ He kissed her.

  ‘I will never, ever tire of your kisses,’ Tahira said.

  Christopher smiled. ‘The first of a thousand, a million kisses,’ he said. ‘A lifetime of kisses.’

  ‘A lifetime. A new life. One that deserves a clean start,’ Tahira said. Taking him by the hand, she led him into the cool, tempting waters of the oasis. ‘I seem to remember you promising to teach me to swim, Husband.’

  ‘I am a man who always keeps his promises, Wife,’ Christopher replied with a loving smile.

  * * * * *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  you won’t want to miss the

  first three books in Marguerite Kaye’s

  HOT ARABIAN NIGHTS miniseries

  THE WIDOW AND THE SHEIKH

  SHEIKH’S MAIL-ORDER BRIDE

  THE HARLOT AND THE SHEIKH

  Historical Note

  If you happen to follow me on Twitter, you’ll know the tag for this book was #spysheikh.

  Reading Deborah Manley and Peta Ree’s biography of Henry Salt, Artist, Diplomat, Egyptologist, provided the inspiration for my hero, Christopher. My own fascination with the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb, which began with a project in primary school during which I made a papier-mâché death mask (the pinnacle of my artistic endeavours), and my love of the Indiana Jones films, helped flesh out Christopher’s character. And reading about the renegade explorer and diplomat Richard Burton in Mary S. Lovell’s excellent biography, A Rage to Live, inspired Christopher’s career—though I’ve made him a significantly more successful mineral surveyor than Burton.

  Having been unable to find a definitive date for the introduction of the term archaeologist, I’ve used it interchangeably with antiquarian. If this is, as I suspect, anachronistic, then I apologise, and similarly for my use of the term sarcophagus in an Arabian context, which I suspect might be inaccurate but which I felt was best suited to the ambiance I was trying to create inside the tomb.

  One of the most moving descriptions of the ‘custom’ of the aristocracy to hand their inconvenient illegitimate progeny over to a wet nurse and a most uncertain fate was in Amanda Foreman’s Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. Mike Leigh’s brilliant film, Secrets and Lies, deals with the consequences of modern-day adoption. Watching it again recently, the parallels with history struck me, as they so often do. To what extent are we defined by our genes, rather than our upbringing? What makes us uniquely us? Reading over N. M. Penzer’s book The Harem when researching this series, I came across the Courtyard of the Princes, where the sultan’s illegitimate sons were effectively imprisoned for life, lest they threaten the legitimate line, and the idea for poor Christopher’s back story began to take shape. I most sincerely hope that I’ve done it justice.

  Other historical snippets: the library in the royal palace is that of St Florian’s, which I have pictures of on my Pinterest board; to my knowledge, there are no such books as The Garden of Delights or The Art of Love, though I’ve loosely based them on a reading of The Perfumed Garden (translated by Burton as The Scented Garden); my description of the baths in the royal palace are inspired by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Turkish Embassy letters as well as Penzer’s Harem; and thanks go to Penzer again, for Tahira’s clothing and the translated names for each item.

  Any errors or oversights are, of course, my own. There’s a comprehensive list of my reading on my website, www.margueritekaye.com. I have had such fun writing the Hot Arabian Nights quartet. I do hope that you’ve found Christopher and Tahira’s story a fitting conclusion to the series. But if you’ve still got an appetite for the seductive world of Regency Arabia then watch this space for my new quartet which opens up in a glittering new fantasy kingdom and a highly unusual marriage of convenience.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from BOUND BY THEIR SECRET PASSION by Diane Gaston.

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  Bound by Their Secret Passion

  by Diane Gaston

  Chapter One

  Christmas Day 1816

  Lorene leaned back against the soft leather seat of the carriage. Outside snowflakes fluttered down from a sky almost milky white from the light of the moon. The snow on the fields glowed and the sounds of the horses’ hooves and the carriage wheels were as muffled as if passing over down pillows. It was the perfect end to a perfect day, a day-long visit with her two sisters, their husbands and the man she adored.

  Thank goodness her husband had refused to come with her.

  Her husband, the Earl of Tinmore, a man in his seventies and at least fifty years her senior, had forbidden her to spend Christmas Day with her sisters at their childhood home, Summerfield House. Lorene had defied her husband’s dictate. She’d walked the five miles to Summerfield House that morning. Snow had been falling then, too, but the cold merely filled her with vigour and made her feel more alive.<
br />
  How different it was at Tinmore Hall where she had to kill every emotion merely to make it through the day.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ the man seated next to her asked.

  She turned to him and her heart quickened as it always did when looking at him, Dell Summerfield, the Earl of Penford, the man who had inherited her childhood home. His blue eyes shone even in the dim light of the carriage. His well-formed lips pursed in worry.

  She could not help but stare at those lips. ‘I suspect he will be asleep. He retires early, you know.’ She did not have to explain that she spoke of her husband.

  ‘What of tomorrow?’

  She loved his voice, so deep, like the lowest notes on the pianoforte, felt as well as heard.

  How silly to have a schoolgirl’s infatuation at the advanced age of twenty-four, especially since she was a married lady and he’d merely been civil.

  No, he’d always been more than civil.

  He’d been kind.

  The last thing she wanted was for him to worry about her. Or to think of her. He must never know how much she thought of him. Or how much his kindness towards her meant to her.

  She smiled. ‘The worst I will endure is a tongue lashing, but I might earn one of those for choosing the wrong dish for breakfast, so I am very used to it.’

  Dell frowned and glanced away.

  ‘It is equally as likely he will say nothing,’ she added quickly. ‘One never knows.’

  Dell had insisted upon returning her to Tinmore Hall in his carriage and insisted on accompanying her. Lorene treasured these rare moments alone with him when she could pretend they were the only two people in the world and that she had not been forced to choose marriage to Tinmore.

  Although no one had forced her. She had approached Tinmore and offered herself to him. She’d done so because her father had left his children penniless and Lorene could think of no other way to help her sisters and half-brother. She’d promised to marry Tinmore and to devote herself to his comfort for the rest of his life. In exchange he agreed to provide generous dowries for her sisters and enough money for her brother to purchase a captaincy.

  Nothing turned out as she’d thought, though. Her sisters and brother found happiness, but who could say it was not in spite of Tinmore, instead of because of him?

  Their happiness was a sufficient prize for Lorene, though, even if the cost had been her own happiness.

  ‘I did have the most lovely day,’ she said to Dell.

  She’d felt close to her sisters again. She’d basked in the joy they shared with their husbands.

  And in being near Dell.

  He turned back to her, his gaze meeting hers and warming her all over. ‘I am pleased.’

  Once when she’d been a child caught in a thunderstorm, lightning struck a tree near her, so close she’d felt the crackle of the bolt around and through her. Sometimes it felt like that lightning bolt crackling when she was with Dell.

  How silly was that?

  The carriage reached the iron gates of Tinmore Hall and their gazes broke away. The cupolas of the huge country house came into view, like wagging fingers chastising her.

  She’d done nothing wrong, though, except to defy her husband who had no good reason to keep her from Summerfield House. It certainly had not been wrong of her to want to spend Christmas Day with her sisters at their childhood home. Her infatuation with Dell had nothing to do with it. Besides, being enamoured of Dell was her secret and no one would ever know of it.

  Especially not Dell.

  When the carriage pulled to a stop in front at the entrance, the butler opened the door. Dell climbed out and turned to Lorene. She clasped his hand, so warm and strong, as he helped her descend the carriage steps.

  He walked her up the stone steps to the massive mahogany door where the butler waited.

  ‘Thank you, Dell,’ she murmured, not daring to look at him.

  He stepped back and she crossed the threshold into the hall, where her husband stood leaning on his cane and shooting daggers from his eyes.

  * * *

  Dell watched Lorene disappear through the doorway. He hated to relinquish her to that old man who was her husband and who neglected or scolded her in turn. Life could be cruelly fleeting. One should cherish those nearest and dearest while one could.

  Tinmore’s raspy voice rose as the door closed. ‘A visit with your sisters, eh? A tryst with your lover, more like! I’ll show you—!’

  The door closed.

  Dell froze.

  Lover?

  Ridiculous! She’d gone to see her sisters, nothing more, and Tinmore very well knew that.

  Dell called to the coachman, ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

  Without bothering to knock, he opened the door.

  The butler jumped back and Tinmore’s eyes bugged in surprise. ‘How dare you, sir!’

  Tinmore stood at the bottom of the grand staircase. Lorene was halfway to the first landing.

  ‘Lord Tinmore, you are mistaken—’ Dell began.

  Lorene interrupted him. ‘There is no need to explain. Please, Dell.’ But her panicked voice did not reassure him.

  Tinmore pounded his cane on the marble floor and waved her away. ‘Go to your room.’ He pointed his cane at Dell. ‘I will speak with you.’

  Tinmore led him to a small drawing room, not the opulent one Dell had visited before when calling at the house to do his neighbourly duty to Tinmore, but one reserved for lesser callers and tradesmen.

  ‘Sir, you misunderstand.’ Dell started to speak as soon as he entered the room.

  ‘I completely comprehend, Penford. You have been carrying on with my wife since last Season and then you have the gall to invite her to your house—’ His words were slurred, as if he’d imbibed too many spirits.

  ‘So she could be with her sisters at Christmas,’ Dell broke in. ‘And the invitation included you.’

  ‘Hmmph!’ Tinmore lifted his nose. ‘That was merely a ruse. You knew I would not come.’

  ‘I knew no such thing.’ Although Dell had not been sorry Tinmore refused to come. The man put a pall on everything.

  Tinmore’s hairy eyebrows rose. ‘Do not take me for a fool. You were constantly attending her in town, at every social event to which we were invited.’

  Of course Dell had approached her. Was he not obligated as a gentleman of her acquaintance? Because of some distant ancestor, he’d inherited her father’s estate. Surely that was reason enough to do her a kindness. ‘You left her alone, sir.’

  Tinmore’s face turned red and his voice rose to a shout. ‘You dare to criticise me when you are the one carrying on!’

  Was Tinmore demented? Did he not know how difficult it had been for his wife at those balls and routs? The scandals of her parents and of her marriage to Tinmore caused most of society to shun her. Tinmore could have eased those times for her with the strength of his status.

  If he’d have remained at her side.

  ‘There has been no carrying on!’ Dell’s voice rose above Tinmore’s. ‘Your wife has done nothing but visit with her sisters. As you would have seen had you come with her.’

  ‘Humph!’ Tinmore lifted his nose. ‘Her sisters are as scandalous as their parents. That is why I forbade her to go; that and to forbid her to be in your company.’

  Dell met Tinmore’s glare. ‘You forbade her to go? I received an acceptance of the invitation with your signature.’

  Tinmore’s gaze faltered. ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘At the last minute.’ To be as cruel as possible, Dell suspected.

  Tinmore knew Lorene was devoted to her sisters. She’d married Tinmore so her sisters and brother would have advantages denied them when their father left them penniless. Tinmore knew she would want to share
Christmas Day with them.

  God knew Dell would have done anything to share another Christmas with his family. Nothing would have kept him apart from them.

  Nothing except death.

  Tinmore sputtered. Dell had forgotten him for a moment.

  ‘You seek to evade the truth, Penford,’ Tinmore accused. ‘That you are making love to my wife behind my back!’

  Dell leaned down to glare into Tinmore’s rheumy eyes. ‘This is nonsense, sir, and you well know it. I’ll hear no more.’

  Dell turned away and strode to the door. He made it to the hall before hearing Tinmore’s cane tapping after him. ‘Do not walk away without my leave! I have more to say to you—’

  Dell glanced to the stairway and saw Lorene still standing there. How much had she heard? He hurried on to the door which was opened by the butler.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Tinmore, advancing on him.

  Dell walked outside on to the stone steps. Tinmore still came after him.

  ‘You stay away from my wife!’ Tinmore swung his cane at Dell.

  Dell caught it before it struck him in the head.

  Tinmore released his grip on the cane and clapped his hands against his head. He uttered a high-pitched cry as he stumbled backwards. Dell reached out to catch him, but Tinmore slipped on the snow-slick surface and tumbled down the steps. He hit the cobbled ground, his head smacking against the stones.

  And he was still.

  Copyright © 2017 by Diane Perkins

  ISBN-13: 9781488021268

  Claiming His Desert Princess

  Copyright © 2017 by Marguerite Kaye

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