The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

by Sandra Marton

  “He’s been staring at me for two days!”

  Qasim felt a muscle knot in his jaw. Megan was right. He’d seen the son of a bitch watching her, but he’d told himself it was just an attempt to provoke him. Why would Ahmet, the most traditional of the tribal leaders, be interested in a foreigner?

  He’d been the last to swear allegiance to Qasim after his father’s death. Ever since, they’d played a game of wills.

  How stupid he’d been, to think this was just another round.

  “Why didn’t you stop him when he put his arm around me?”

  “What did you think I was doing?” Qasim said grimly. “You heard me talking to him. Didn’t it occur to you I was telling him to take his hands off you?”

  “You could have done more than tell him.”

  “It was a duel of wills.” His mouth thinned. “He understood that if he touched you intimately, I’d have killed him.”

  “All that, in one little scene?” Megan snorted with contempt. “I think you have an overblown idea of your power, Sheikh Qasim.”

  “If I did,” he said coldly, “Ahmet’s men would have broken down that door twenty minutes ago. I’d be dead and what was left of you would be rotting in the desert.”

  The words rang with quiet conviction. Megan shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.

  “Then—then what do we do now?”

  Qasim looked at her. She was pale, so pale that a tiny line of freckles he’d never noticed stood out clearly across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was a wild mass of curls framing her face. In the awful struggle in the meeting room, someone had half-torn off one of her sleeves, exposing the delicate curve of her arm.

  Something seemed to expand inside his heart.

  How beautiful she was. How brave. And how good she’d been, his Megan. He could only imagine what fortitude it had taken for her to play the part of a timid woman, sitting on that silly little stool, never speaking, never lifting her head, returning to this room in isolation each night and awakening each morning, knowing she had to pretend she was of no more importance than the walls.

  He’d been proud of her…but he’d known it couldn’t last.

  And when she reacted to the pig who’d nudged her with his foot, he’d been torn between ordering her to behave and pulling her into his arms and kissing her.

  You see? he’d longed to say, this is what a woman should be like. Beautiful, and intelligent, and not afraid to speak her mind.

  He hadn’t, of course. He had his nation to think of. He needed Ahmet’s support for his plans. There was ore in these mountains and a small, painfully old-fashioned operation that mined it. He had plans already sketched out for a road, a small airport, a new smelter. None of it would destroy the vast, wild hills but would, instead, bring prosperity to a part of Suliyam that still lived with the poverty and diseases of ancient times.

  And then Ahmet had touched her. Grabbed her wrist.

  God, he’d wanted to kill him!

  All that had stopped him was the cold realization that Ahmet’s actions were part of a plan. The man wanted Megan, yes, but he wanted a confrontation with Qasim even more.

  This was a test, then. Another grinding of will against will. He could not let Ahmet win, not with such high stakes. A fight here, where Ahmet ruled, and he’d die. Qasim had always known he might have to give his life for his country; he was prepared to do it, but not if it meant letting Ahmet and his followers impose their brand of cruel leadership on the rest of the kingdom…

  Not if it meant letting him take Megan as a plaything.

  So Qasim had forced himself to seem unruffled, even when Ahmet slid his meaty arm around Megan’s waist.

  Do not touch her, he’d said calmly. It would not be wise.

  I think it would be, Ahmet had answered with a nasty smile.

  It would not be, Qasim had told him. I brought my people here in the spirit of friendship. Would you repudiate that friendship, Lord Ahmet? If so, you must also be prepared for the consequences.

  Check and mate, he’d thought, reading cold acquiescence in the man’s face. One last dance of those meaty fingers, meant, Qasim knew, to save face…

  And then Megan had taken matters into her own hands, and almost gotten both of them killed.

  And he…hell, even as he’d figured he might have to fight his way out of the room, he’d felt his heart swell with pride at her courage.

  How had this contrary female become so important to him in so short a time?

  He turned toward her again. Her tear, like the tails of shooting stars, had left silvery streaks on her cheeks.

  “Qasim?” she said in a whisper. “What do we do now?”

  Qasim closed the distance between them in a few quick steps and gathered her gently into his arms. He heard Hakim’s soft gasp, knew his men were staring, but he didn’t give a damn.

  For the first time since he’d ascended the throne, he was a man and not a king.

  “Megan,” he said softly, and when she lifted her face to his, he kissed her with all the tenderness in his heart. She sighed, leaned into his embrace and kissed him back.

  “Stay here,” he murmured, his lips an inch from hers. “Keep the door barred until I return.”

  “No! Qasim…”

  He cupped her face and silenced her terrified protests with another kiss.

  “I’ll come back for you, kalila. I swear it.”

  She gave him a blurry smile. He brought her hands to his mouth and pressed kisses into the palms. Then he barked out a command to Hakim, to the pilot, to the two guards, unbarred the door and left the room.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DEAR God, what had she done?

  Megan stood before one of the tall, narrow windows that looked over the mountains. Gray fog covered the barren plain, moving inexorably toward the walled city like a poisonous cloud.

  Where are you, Qasim? Where are you?

  Hours had gone by since the heavy wooden door had slammed behind him and still there was no word.

  Time was moving as slowly as the fog. She felt helpless. Useless. The worst of it was that it was all her fault.

  Qasim had warned her that working with him would be tough. No problem, she’d said, or words to that effect, and she’d glibly promised to follow all the demeaning rules of his country.

  She’d been lying. To herself and to him.

  What she’d really intended was to teach his people a thing or two about the proper role of women in civilized society.

  Then they’d reached this awful place and she’d discovered that what he’d been trying to tell her was that parts of his kingdom had nothing to do with civilization as she knew it. And she’d done her best to keep her promise. She’d kept her mouth shut. She’d behaved.

  If only she hadn’t been forced to sit on that stool. If only Hakim hadn’t acted like a self-important prig. If only Ahmet hadn’t noticed her…

  Damn it, why was she trying to come up with excuses? Sure, those things had worked their way under her skin, but she’d been in the business world long enough to learn to roll with the punches. Her very first job with a prestigious firm, she’d traveled to Philadelphia with her boss. He’d stayed in an executive suite and arranged for her to have a connecting room.

  “Makes things more convenient,” he’d said, and she, innocent that she was, hadn’t realized what that meant until she’d heard him rattling the doorknob in the middle of the night.

  Meg? he’d called. I have something here that will interest you.

  She’d lain frozen in silence, pretending she didn’t hear him, and the next morning he’d acted as if nothing had happened and, damn it, so had she because she was afraid of losing her first really good job.

  Lots of men still believed all it took was power to turn a woman into a conquest.

  She could have dealt with the situation. She should have dealt with it, especially since Qasim had warned her.

  What she couldn’t deal with was the way Qasim had ig
nored her. Okay. Maybe he had no choice when they were with the others. She understood that. But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t found a minute to come to her room. Talk to her. Take her hand, as he had just before he’d ridden off with Ahmet’s men. Tell her everything would be fine…

  Megan closed her eyes.

  Tell her he missed her. Wanted her. Longed for her, as she longed for him.

  She turned from the window. She was thinking crazy thoughts, but didn’t experts say that stress had weird effects on people? Hakim, for example, was standing like a statue in the same place he’d been when Qasim left.

  She couldn’t understand the aide’s behavior. Why had he let the man he called his master face whatever waited outside this door alone? Until now, Hakim had stayed at his heels like an obedient spaniel. Why had he abandoned him now?

  Hakim swung toward her, eyes filled with hatred.

  “I would never abandon my lord,” he snarled, and Megan realized she’d spoken aloud.

  “But you did. You let him face those barbarians all by himself!”

  “The sheikh ordered me to stay here. I cannot disobey an order.”

  “Not even if it might save his life?”

  “Obedience to him is not a matter of choice. You have no understanding of us, Miss O’Connell, or you would not question my actions.”

  “You have no understanding of what could be happening beyond that door, and damn your obedience!”

  “Lord Qasim ordered me to watch over you.” Hakim’s mouth thinned. “I assure you, had I the power, I would not chose to do so.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that. Why do you despise me, Hakim? I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “You have bewitched the sheikh. He does not see it, but I do. You have clouded his thoughts.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “He forgets that his duty is to Suliyam.” Hakim came toward her, fists clenched at his sides. “Your witchcraft started when you wrote words in a document that made him want to change our way of life.”

  Megan threw out her hand, as if she were brushing aside a stinging insect. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I made projections, estimated costs. Any changes for this—this godforsaken piece of earth come from Qasim, not me.”

  “And you show him disrespect. You refer to him by name, as if you were his equal.”

  “I am his equal,” Megan snapped. “We don’t scrape and bow to anyone in my world.”

  “That is the problem, Miss O’Connell. You think your world is the standard by which others must live, just as you think you know my lord. You do not! Soon, your witchcraft will wear off. You are only a female. In the end, his strength will be greater than any of your spells.”

  “I’m not going to listen to another—”

  Hakim grabbed her arm. “You are a temporary diversion in the sheikh’s life. Though he may bed you, I can promise that you’ll never gain his heart.”

  “Touch me again,” Megan said, grimacing as she twisted out of his grasp, “and I might just treat you to one of my so-called spells, you miserable old—”

  A fist pounded against the door. Megan forgot Hakim, forgot everything when she heard Qasim’s voice.

  “Open up!”

  Hakim started toward the door but she ran past him, slid the heavy bar free and flung the door wide.

  “Qasim,” she said happily, “Oh, thank God! I was afraid—”

  “Nothing to be afraid of,” Qasim said, and lurched sideways. “Nothing at…”

  He fell toward her. Megan closed her arms around him but his weight was too much. The best she could manage was to slide slowly to the floor with him still in her arms.

  “What did they do to you?” she whispered. “Qasim?”

  “Caz,” he said thickly, eyes closed and a loopy grin on his face. “You might as well call me…”

  A snore rattled from his throat. Megan’s eyebrows drew together. She bent over the man in her lap, sniffed…

  “He’s drunk,” she said, looking up at Hakim in disbelief.

  Hakim sighed. “That is good.”

  Good? It was good that Qasim had been drinking with his pals while she almost lost her mind imagining what had happened to him? That she’d been blaming herself for whatever awful fate had befallen him? That she’d been terrified she’d never see him again, never hear his voice, never feel his mouth on hers?

  That such things had seemed to matter only made her angrier. She let Qasim’s head down none-too-gently and shot to her feet.

  “Be careful,” Hakim snapped, rushing to ease a pillow under the sheikh’s head.

  “If this is good,” Megan said grimly, “then you’re right. I guess I really don’t understand this country.”

  “It is not complicated.”

  “Oh, I think it is. Your sheikh goes off to be—to be drawn and quartered, and instead—”

  “No one draws and quarters his enemies anymore,” Hakim said, so seriously that she blinked. “Not even sheikh Ahmet.” Hakim nodded toward the bed as he undid the top few buttons of Qasim’s shirt. “Get that blanket.”

  She wanted to tell him to get it himself, but why play the role of sullen child? She was angry enough not to give a damn if Qasim froze to death, but she yanked the blanket from the bed and dropped it over him.

  So much for thinking he’d been defending her or worried about her.

  “There.” Hakim waved his hand to the other men as he rose to his feet. “We will leave you now, Miss O’Connell.”

  “That’s fine. Just don’t think you can go without taking your sheikh with you.”

  “His highness will probably sleep for several hours. You may send for me when he awakens.”

  “Wait just a damned minute! You’ve got it wrong, pal. You may call me when he awakens, and only so I can tell your fearless leader what I think of him.”

  “Sheikh Qasim drank with Sheikh Ahmet.”

  Megan folded her arms and smiled with her teeth. “A brilliant deduction.”

  “That means they held a successful negotiation.”

  She looked down at Qasim. He’d rolled onto his side and was sleeping soundly as a baby.

  “How? By drinking each other under the table?”

  “They drank,” Hakim said coldly, “because they solved their differences. That is how it was done in the old days. And, in the old days, to drink less than the man who was your enemy was to insult him.”

  “In other words, what we see here is an example of good manners.”

  Hakim nodded. “It is so.”

  “Good manners,” Megan said again, and rolled her eyes. Would she ever make sense of any of this? Still, the threat to their safety was over. She could, she supposed, let Qasim sleep it off on the floor. It was only that she felt a knot of anger each time she looked at him. No matter what Hakim said, the negotiations couldn’t have been very difficult, not if they ended in a party.

  “Miss O’Connell? You will send for me when my lord awakens.”

  “With pleasure.”

  She took a chair to the window, carefully placed it so her back would face Qasim, and sat down. She heard the door shut; after a minute, despite what Hakim had said about successful negotiations, she went to it and slid the heavy bar into place.

  Qasim was still sleeping. Caz. He’d told her to call him Caz.

  She looked down at him again, at the thick, dark lashes lying against his tanned skin. He looked peaceful, content, not at all concerned at how she’d worried…

  At the anguish she’d suffered, imagining him hurt or dead.

  Megan rose to her feet. She knelt next to Qasim, stroked his hair back from his forehead, and touched her hand to his cheek.

  “I’m glad you’re safe,” she whispered. “Very, very glad.”

  Gently she brushed her lips over his.

  Then she sat by the window, stared out at the fog-shrouded plain and wondered what was happening to her because something was, something she didn’t understand, didn’t want, h
ad never wanted.

  When darkness came, she lay her head back and drifted off to sleep.

  Caz came awake all at once, heart pounding, fighting his way out of a nightmare that involved himself, Ahmet and a room choked with the stench of alcohol.

  He blinked, forced his eyes open, and groaned. Bloody hell. He was lying on the floor. What…?

  And then he remembered. Ahmet. His unbelievable demand. His response. The endless hours of finding a way out of a situation that could, in an instant, turn into disaster…and then the solution and the glass after glass of a clear liquid that had the smell of rotten potatoes and the kick of a mule.

  His head felt as if it were going to explode. Slowly, carefully, he sat up and looked around him. A single oil lamp flickered on a low table. This room wasn’t his. It was Megan’s. Yes, he saw her now, asleep in a big chair near the window.

  His heart turned over as he thought of what he had to tell her. How would she deal with it? She was brave—he’d never known a woman with more courage. And she was intelligent. With luck, she’d understand what he’d done, why he’d done it, that he had no choice and neither did she. Yes, she’d say, of course, I’ll do it if I must.

  She might even lift her arms to him, whisper that it wasn’t such an awful fate, that what they had to do might be—might be—

  “Idiot,” Caz mumbled, and tore his eyes from her.

  Megan wouldn’t tell him anything but what he deserved. She’d say he was an arrogant fool for having gotten her into this mess, but she’d agree to the terms he’d set.

  It wasn’t as if either of them had a choice.

  He took a steadying breath and got to his feet. A red-hot lance of pain drove through his skull. There had to be a way to clear his head. He had to, before he told Megan that they—that he and she…

  Black coffee. There was an earthenware pot of it on the table. It was cold and would probably taste like old socks, but he needed caffeine and to hell with the taste. Sugar, too. That would help. Caz filled a cup with viscous black liquid, added six misshapen lumps of raw sugar, stirred the resultant mess and slugged it down. He gagged on the last mouthful but a couple of deep breaths helped keep the stuff in his gut. Then he poured another cup and went through the whole process again.