by Annie West
As the new Emir, he had a lot of work to bring the country into the current century.
‘The previous Emir is dead.’
Sayid had believed the women in his uncle’s harem had been sent away as the old man’s prostate illness worsened and he became impotent.
‘I know, s...sir. He died soon after my arrival and I never met him.’ Her eyes flickered to his, then away. ‘My condolences on your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Sayid felt neither loss nor sorrow at his uncle’s death. The old man had been a poor steward for their country and personally deplorable, a mean, brutal voluptuary. ‘But with his death, you are free to go. You’re not required here.’
Huge violet eyes met his. Was that fear he read there? ‘Oh, no. You misunderstand. That is—’ she swallowed, dropping her gaze to the floor as if afraid she’d said the wrong thing ‘—not misunderstand, of course.’
She shook her head and a lock of glossy dark hair slid over her shoulder, curling past her breast all the way to her waist. For the life of him, Sayid couldn’t tear his gaze from it.
‘I can’t leave, sir. It’s all been arranged.’ She curved her lips in a tentative smile that didn’t show in her eyes. ‘With your uncle’s death I now belong to you.’
CHAPTER TWO
IF LINA HAD thought Sayid Badawi had looked stern before, he was positively thunderous now. His brow scrunched in a furrow of disapproval and his honed jaw clenched as if biting back an oath.
Yet the gleam of those dark eyes and the sudden flare of his nostrils spoke of something more intimate than fury.
Masculine awareness.
Lina knew something about that. She’d witnessed the way men had reacted to her mother’s beauty. And since Lina herself had reached puberty she’d seen a similar look from the men who’d occasionally visited her home.
She swallowed hard.
Not her home now. Her uncle’s home.
Yet unlike her male cousins, who didn’t just look but who tried to touch, the Emir kept his hands to himself.
Lina dropped her gaze, as she’d been taught. But without the magnetic draw of those dark, glittering eyes to distract her, she became far too aware of the rest of him.
A long, lean body that tapered from straight shoulders down via an intriguing display of bronzed skin and taut muscle to narrow hips that thankfully were still covered in pale trousers. Nor could she help but notice the muscled strength of his thighs. A rider’s thighs. The only thing marring the perfection of his toned form was a pale scar extending down one arm.
Lina didn’t know whether to blame the shock of finally being alone with the man who was to be her master, or her first sight of a half-naked man. Or perhaps his stunning attractiveness. But she felt light-headed. Her breathing came too fast and her thoughts scrambled.
She’d arrived at the palace expecting to be at the beck and call of a much older man, renowned for his short temper and unforgiving nature. Instead she found herself bequeathed to a man in his mid-twenties whose looks would make any woman sigh. He was fit and handsome. But more, there was an inner strength about him and a quality she couldn’t name, yet read in his proud face with its heavy-lidded eyes, strong nose and square, solid jaw.
Whatever it was, it made sensation fizz and burst through her veins. Was she ill? Coming down with a fever? She’d never felt like this before.
‘Lina?’
She darted a look at his face. Clearly he’d spoken and she hadn’t responded. A chill clamped the back of her neck and skittered all the way down her spine. Was his temper as volatile as the old Emir’s? Her aunt had told hair-raising tales of what awaited if she didn’t do exactly as commanded by her royal master, no matter how difficult or...unfamiliar.
‘Sir?’
‘I said you are not needed here. You can return to your home.’
Lina blinked, her eyes widening in dismay. She’d been horrified by the whispered gossip about what the previous Emir would expect her to do for him. Had wondered if some of the suggestions were even physically possible. But to be dismissed from the palace! That held its own terrors.
She swallowed, pain slicing as if her throat closed around a sharpened blade.
‘Please, sir. I can’t.’
Belatedly she lowered her gaze, knowing it was her place to obey, not argue. Her uncle and aunt had warned time after time that she must learn humility and silence. They’d made it their business to try turning her into a mute, obedient damsel. They would be horrified if they could hear her.
‘You can if I tell you.’ The Emir’s tone was brusque, allowing no room for argument.
Lina felt herself stiffen as the enormity of her situation hit her. The freedom he offered, no, commanded she take, was an illusion.
She was utterly alone, with nowhere in the world to call home and no one who cared for her. She had no rights, no call on his compassion. She was nothing to him, or to anyone else.
Everything she’d been taught told her to nod, to back away and make herself scarce, for it wouldn’t do to disobey the man who held her fate, even after he’d washed his hands of her.
He shifted and she sensed his impatience for her to be gone.
Yet Lina knew once she left this room she’d never be allowed to enter again. Once out of the palace she’d be on the street, literally, with no resources, no friends and not even a scrap of respectable clothing.
She shuddered, imagining what would become of her.
Clasping her hands before her, willing them not to shake, she took a fortifying breath, which reminded her of the hated clothes she wore as her breasts swelled against the low-cut top.
‘Sir.’ She swallowed and lifted her chin. The Emir had already begun to turn away. He’d dismissed her and that meant she must go.
Except Lina couldn’t.
‘Well?’ Ebony brows angled down above that imperious nose and his dark-shadowed jaw was set at an angle that warned his hold on patience was precarious.
She tilted her face higher, meeting his narrowed gaze. ‘I have no home to go to, sir. Not any more. Or any family.’ She bit her lip, refusing to let it tremble. ‘Could I be allowed to remain in the palace? I’m a hard worker. I can make myself useful at any task. In the kitchens, the laundries, the...’ She paused, racking her brain, wondering what the multitude of royal servants did all day. ‘I can sew and embroider too.’ Not well enough, as her aunt was fond of reminding her. But then she didn’t do anything well enough for her aunt.
‘You must have a home. Where did you come from?’ No softening in the austere masculine beauty of that sculpted face. But at least he’d paused to listen. Her heart throbbed a hopeful beat.
‘From the home of my father’s brother, sir. But that door is no longer open to me.’ It took everything Lina had to stand erect, meeting his gaze headlong, when harsh memories bombarded her. Of becoming little more than a slave in her own home.
The Emir sighed and lifted his hand to rake his fingers through his short hair. Intriguingly, the movement made muscles swell and tug in his arm, shoulder and chest. Lina had never before realised that such a simple movement could be so spellbinding.
But then she’d never seen a man like the Emir, naked or clothed.
He sighed and turned away. Abruptly her straying thoughts focused sharply. He was walking away, leaving her to her fate. Fear and despair vied with indignation. Lina was sick of fate, in the form of the men who had ruled her destiny, ignoring her.
Yet instead of continuing to the bathroom, he merely flung open a wardrobe and withdrew a shirt.
‘Here.’ The white garment flew through the air towards her. ‘Put that on and sit down.’
Lina’s fingers tightened convulsively on soft white cotton. So finely woven it was translucent. Only the finest material for the leader of the nation.
‘Go on.’ He nodded at the garment
in her hands, then turned towards the bed. For a second she thought he was going to sit there, till he abruptly changed direction and headed for an armchair, sinking onto it with a sigh.
Hurriedly, Lina lifted the cotton over her head, pulling it down till it covered her almost to the knees. She had to roll up the sleeves to free her hands.
No doubt she looked like a child playing dress-up.
She puzzled over why the Emir thought the extra layer necessary. It was true, she was more comfortable with the bare skin of her waist and breasts covered, but from what she’d observed of men, they enjoyed such displays.
Unless the Emir wasn’t interested in women?
The startling thought kept her rooted to the spot. Surely not! Such a waste that would be. Besides, there’d been that shimmer of heat when he’d looked at her before. It had been unmistakable.
She darted a curious glance at the man who would decide her future. He wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he’d shut his eyes, which gave her time to take in more of his appearance, to see beyond that grave masculine beauty to the weariness bracketing his eyes and mouth. The slight droop of his head. The slump of that long frame in the cushioned chair.
The man was exhausted.
* * *
Sayid opened his eyes to see the girl dart into his bathroom. What the devil was she up to?
He was about to follow when she emerged, carrying a bowl of water. She sank to the floor before him in a show of fluid grace that made him wonder if she really was a dancer, as that scanty costume suggested.
Savagely he ignored the scorching trail of desire searing through his belly. He reminded himself he’d learned to master his impulsive, carnal nature.
Yet, to his chagrin the addition of his shirt did nothing to hide her allure. With fatigue testing both his patience and his willpower, it had seemed safest to cover her up so he couldn’t see that too-inviting expanse of honey skin, the alluring dips, swells and hollows of her breasts, waist and hips.
Sayid hadn’t reckoned on her being just as sexy, if not more, wearing his shirt. Because it was his shirt? It conjured a sense of intimacy, as if she were a lover who’d already shared her body with him. The thought snagged in his brain, stirring heat in his groin.
The extra covering hinted at her shape, the fine fabric clinging here and there, teasing with what lay beneath.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice emerged brusque, making her jump, yet she didn’t back away.
‘Helping with your boots, sir.’ She’d put the bowl to one side and reached forward as if to touch him, then halted, clearly waiting for permission.
‘Look at me.’ He was tired of the tradition that deterred people from daring to look their ruler in the face. Besides, it made it more difficult for him to read their thoughts.
Violet eyes met his. A burst of dark colour so deep it seemed Sayid could fall into it. Beautiful eyes, wide and slanted at the corners, giving her the look of a woman with secrets, or whose face was made for smiling.
There was no smile now. She still wore that tense expression, as if her flesh had shrunk around her bones, making her look wary, even scared, except the firm angle of her chin belied fear.
‘How old are you?’ The question wasn’t the one he’d planned.
‘Seventeen, sir.’ She swallowed, then licked her bottom lip as if nervous.
A mere teenager. A judder of regret vibrated through him. Seventeen and scared despite her determination not to show it. While he was twenty-five and, right now, felt old beyond his years.
Sayid couldn’t accept the invitation to let her serve him in any way he wished. Having a woman who’d been ordered to serve him was utterly unpalatable.
Or it should be.
Yet despite exhaustion part of him was disappointed. For Lina, with her pouting lips, her intriguing air of composure despite her nerves, and her outrageously luscious body, made the blood roar in his veins and heat stir. After all, he was descended from generations of marauding warriors, used to taking whatever they wanted, including women.
‘May I help you with your boots, sir?’
‘Very well.’ If it helped her to feel useful, he wouldn’t object. It would be tough getting her to speak if she were frozen into silence.
So he leaned back against the padded chair and stretched out one leg towards her, watching as she scooted closer, cradling the boot in her hands then drawing it off as carefully as if it were something precious and fragile.
Both boots, both socks were removed and set aside. Then she moved the bowl, lifted his legs one at a time and placed them in warm water.
Instantly Sayid felt some of the tension locking his muscles release.
‘Thank you, Lina.’ Her startled gaze told him she wasn’t accustomed to thanks. ‘Now, tell me about yourself.’
Again that flare of confusion in her stunning eyes. Whatever her story, she wasn’t used to being asked about herself. She hesitated then moistened her lips with her tongue in a way that sent tension flicking through him like a whip.
‘My name is Lina Rahman. My father was Headman of Narjif.’
Sayid nodded. He knew the distant town and he’d met her father last year as he toured the provinces. A serious man and a traditionalist, set in his ways. But that didn’t explain why he’d send his daughter as a gift to Sayid’s uncle, a man notorious in his younger days for his womanising, and more lately, for his irascible temper.
‘You have siblings?’
A dimple appeared in her cheek as if she bit it. ‘Sadly no. My parents weren’t blessed with sons, only me.’ Clearly she repeated something she’d heard many times. Yet Sayid was pleased to see she met his gaze, not so shy now.
‘He sent you to my uncle? To the old Emir?’
‘No!’ She shook her head and another long strand of dark hair slid over her shoulder to fall in a sinuous curve over her breast. ‘My father is dead. It was his brother who sent me. He and his wife.’
Sayid frowned. ‘And your mother?’
‘She died years ago. If she’d been alive she would not have sent me away.’ Her voice grew stronger with an echo of what might have been indignation. Lina took a small towel from her shoulder and laid it neatly across her knees. Then she lifted his foot and placed it on the towel, her movements sure and deft.
Sayid watched as she patted his foot dry then propped it, heel down on her thigh. With a firm, rhythmic movement she rubbed her thumbs over his sole, finding and working pressure points. Sayid felt warmth rise and spread, not only through his foot but his whole body. His tired eyes flickered and his aching muscles eased as pleasure rushed through him.
‘You’ve done this before.’
‘For my father.’ Her features softened a fraction.
‘Not your uncle?’
Instantly she stiffened, her mouth turning down at the corners and her forehead crinkling. ‘No. It would not be appropriate. My aunt specifically forbade me to touch any of my male relatives.’
‘There is more than your uncle?’
Her thumbs pressed so hard that the massage bordered on pain rather than pleasure. ‘My uncle and aunt have three sons.’
‘And you wanted to touch them?’ For some reason Sayid disliked the idea.
‘Ha! I’d rather touch a flea-ridden, spitting camel with diarrhoea than one of them.’
Sayid bit down a smile, weariness abating as curiosity rose. His demure little gift wasn’t nearly as demure as she seemed.
‘I see. They wanted to touch you.’
Lina nodded, her nostrils flaring in distaste. Her breasts rose high against his shirt as she breathed hard.
‘They accused me of leading them on! Of tempting and teasing, when I never even looked at them. I avoided them as much as I could. But that wasn’t enough. They said I wore perfume deliberately to entice them. That they could smell it when I left
my room and it was an invitation for them to follow me.’
In her indignation Lina had forgotten to be cowed or careful. Fire flashed in her fine eyes and her cheeks blushed a soft rose.
Though he deplored their behaviour, Sayid understood too easily why her cousins found her such a temptation. Nervous and cowed she was lovely. Animated, she was glorious.
Even he, bound by his obligation as her ruler, as her host, and by his own honour, felt the dangerous undertow of attraction.
She was young, vulnerable and in his care. Unlike his dead uncle, Sayid didn’t believe people should be given as gifts or treated as expendable.
No wonder her relatives had packed her off to the capital. To keep temptation away from the males of her family. He guessed there was little love lost between Lina and her aunt and uncle.
‘Were there no other relatives willing to take you in?’
Her gaze dropped. She concentrated on drying his other foot and massaging it. Again Sayid felt the tug and release of taut muscles and tendons, and a glorious feeling of well-being. He’d never had a foot massage and was rapidly suspecting it might be addictive. Yet to his consternation the stirring in his loins indicated an inconvenient but growing arousal at odds with that wave of relaxation.
‘My uncle moved his family into my father’s house. And I have no other relatives. Even if there were, my mother...’
She paused so long Sayid wondered if she’d continue.
‘My mother had been a dancer. Much younger than my father. She was not...approved of locally. No one else came forward to offer me a home when my father died.’
Sayid stared at her downcast face, at bone-deep beauty that even tightly pursed lips and a scowl couldn’t mar.
With a nation to rule, a government to revamp and peace to establish, Sayid didn’t have time for one lost girl.
Yet nor could he dismiss her. An orphan, without a family who’d care for her and, by the sound of it, a town that didn’t want her, that was biased against her because of her mother, she’d been given away like a commodity. That easy disregard for people without the means to protect or support themselves was something he abhorred. He’d seen it too often under his uncle’s rule.