Then he excised that regret from his soul. He couldn’t let her return to her life. He had a duty to his country to fix the mistake he’d made all those years ago, when he’d put his own feelings ahead of what was best for his nation.
It was a mistake he would not make again.
‘Yes,’ he said, making his voice hard. ‘That is exactly what I am saying.’
Temper glittered in her eyes, stronger this time. ‘What about me? What about my wishes? What if I don’t want to marry you?’
He met her furious blue gaze. ‘I am afraid that you do not get a say. If you do not agree, I will keep your father here.’
She took a little breath, her jaw tight. ‘Then maybe he’ll have to stay here. He might even like it. It might be just the kind of thing he’d enjoy.’
It was a bluff and they both knew it.
‘Are you saying that your father would enjoy being cut off from his colleagues?’ Tariq asked. ‘From his position as professor? He is an eminent man. He is used to having respect—used to having intellectual discourse with his peers. How will he cope being cut off from all of that? And what will he think of your choice? Because as much as I am choosing for you, you are choosing for him.’
That lovely lush mouth of hers tightened again, and the glow of anger in her eyes was even more intense. She wasn’t so much a fall of moonlight now but an angry storm, full of lightning and thunder. A passionate woman.
You will enjoy exploring just how passionate.
Oh, yes, he would. Very much so.
Oblivious to the tenor of his thoughts, she said angrily, ‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’
‘Of course. I am the king.’ He softened his voice to mollify her. ‘It will not be so bad, ya amar. As my wife, you will be sheikha. You will have access to my wealth and power. You may live whatever life you choose as long as it does not threaten this country or its people.’
She remained determinedly unmollified. ‘Essentially, though, I will still be your prisoner.’
‘You will be my prisoner whether you marry me or not.’
His patience was beginning to fray now, because people generally did whatever he wanted them to do, and if he told them to jump they asked How high? They did not sit there arguing with every word he said.
‘The only thing you have to do, Miss Devereaux, is determine your choice of cage.’
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARLOTTE SAT ACROSS from the Sheikh, conscious of only one prevailing emotion: anger.
She simply could not believe what he’d said.
Marry him? Marry the king?
Her heart was fluttering like a furious bird in her chest, her pulse wild beneath her skin, and she had a horrible feeling it wasn’t only anger that she was feeling. But, since anger was preferable to anything else, she clung on tightly to it.
He’d explained why he’d chosen her and yet it still didn’t make any sense.
Yes, she was a nobody, with no connections—a foreigner, an outsider. But did he really need to keep emphasising how alone and common she was? Or was that in order to make her feel isolated? So that she felt she wouldn’t have any choice but to marry him?
Not that his motives were the most important thing right now.
Not when all she could think about was the word ‘marriage’.
It made her feel cold all over. Because all she could think about was her parents, screaming at each other. And when they hadn’t been screaming, there had been dreadful silences full of resentment and bitterness.
Not all marriages were like that, she knew, but her parents’ marriage had put her off for life, and nothing she’d seen so far had made her want to change her mind—still less the thought of being married to this...complete stranger.
She didn’t want to marry him.
She didn’t want to marry anyone.
You might not have a choice.
It certainly seemed that way, since it was obvious he felt very strongly about protecting his country. In fact, the way he’d spoken about his purpose had fascinated her, and she’d been intrigued by the conviction glowing in his eyes.
Until he’d spoiled it by telling her that she was going to be his wife.
He was staring at her now, apparently impervious to the anger rising inside her. The planes and angles of his face were impassive, his golden stare cold. He looked like a god of ancient times, weighing the contents of her soul, determining whether she would go to heaven or hell.
Except that it was she who had to make the decision. Or at least he’d given her the illusion that she did. And illusion it was, since either she married him or he kept her father in Ashkaraz.
How is this any different from you staying here in return for your father’s freedom?
It was very different. Before, she’d imagined she’d simply be allowed to have a life here—and, though she hadn’t thought about that life in any detail, it hadn’t seemed as depressingly final as marriage.
She had a brief vision of herself doing something completely and uncharacteristically violent, such as hurling the contents of her wine glass in his face or upending the table, but that felt far too close to something her mother or her father might have done, so she ignored it.
Instead, she forced herself to sit very still, her jaw tight, her back rigid. ‘And if I decide to be a prisoner and not marry you?’
The food she’d eaten sat uncomfortably in her stomach. His straight dark brows drew together and the effect made her breath catch. He was forbidding in his black robes and that slight frown only made him more so.
‘Then you are quite welcome to return to the cell you escaped from.’ His voice was as dark and deep as the ocean. ‘And your father with you.’
A quiver went through her. Return to that small, cramped, bare room? With the bucket in the corner? And the hard bed? And her father too... He would hate it and she knew he would. The horrible Sheikh was right. He would hate being cut off from his colleagues, from his work, from his life back in England.
Another thing to blame you for.
Charlotte swallowed. She’d tried so hard to be good for him, but sometimes she wondered if it would ever be enough. Perhaps this sacrifice finally would be? After all, it was her mistake that had got them into this mess.
You’re seriously contemplating marriage to this man?
Maybe. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. Her parents had once thought themselves in love, and that was why it had gone so wrong—or at least that was what her father had told her. Love turned toxic, was a recipe for disaster.
This would be a different kind of marriage from the one her parents had had right from the start, since she barely knew this man, let alone loved him. There would be no toxic emotion since she had no emotion about him to begin with.
That’s a lie.
Charlotte chose to ignore that particular thought.
Her hand shook as she reached for her wine glass, taking a sip of the cool liquid. It was pleasantly dry, as she preferred her wine to be, and soothed her aching throat.
The Sheikh merely watched her with those predatory tiger’s eyes.
‘Why are you bothering with this?’ she snapped in sudden temper, uncomfortable and not knowing what to do with herself. ‘The dinner? The robes? Why are you even bothering to ask me? When you could simply drag me down the aisle and make me say “I do” right now?’
‘Because I am not a monster—even though I might appear to be one. And I thought you would appreciate at least the illusion of choice.’
‘Yes, well...’ She put the glass down with a click, splashing the wine slightly. ‘I don’t appreciate it.’
He tilted his head, watching her. ‘You are angry.’
‘Of course I’m bloody—’
‘Angry rather than scared. Why is that?’
She didn’t want to answer. Beca
use she had a horrible feeling that she was, in fact, scared, and that if she thought too much about it she’d end up scurrying away like a frightened mouse. And she couldn’t do that. Not in front of a predator like him.
Instead, she clutched her courage and lifted her chin higher. ‘There’s not much point in being scared, is there? That’s not going to get me very far.’
‘Anger will not either,’ he pointed out. ‘Though anger is a far more useful emotion.’
‘It’s not very useful right now. Especially since I’m assuming that emptying my wine glass in your face will result in my death?’
Unexpectedly a flicker of something crossed his features. It was gone too fast for her to tell what it was, but she caught the gleam of it in his eyes, fierce and hot and completely at odds with the cold expression that had been there before.
It was almost as if he liked her anger, even approved of it, which was a strange thing to think. Yet she couldn’t shake the thought, and for reasons she couldn’t have explained knowing that somehow eased her fear and bolstered her courage.
‘I would not recommend doing it.’
A thread of something she didn’t recognise wound through this dark voice.
‘So, I take it you accept my proposal?’
She glared at him. ‘Do you need my acceptance?’
‘No.’ There was no sympathy in the word, and yet no triumph either. It was simply a statement of fact.
‘So why the need for all...’ she waved a hand to encompass the table and the robes she wore ‘...all of this?’
The fierce glow in his eyes was still there, and the way he sat back on the cushions, large and muscular and dangerous, sent an inexplicable thrill arrowing down her spine.
This man was going to be her husband.
And you know what that means, don’t you?
It should have occurred to her before, and yet it hadn’t—the realisation that marriage didn’t just mean standing up and vowing to love one another till death do you part. There was another part of a relationship that marriage brought, wasn’t there? A part she’d had no experience with whatsoever.
Sex.
An unfamiliar feeling twisted, right down deep inside her, and though fear was a part of it, it wasn’t the only part. There was something else too—something to do with that thrill at the warmth of his body she’d experienced earlier that day and the feel of his arm beneath her hand. The awareness of him, of the amount of space he took up, an entirely physical awareness...
Her mouth went dry and she wanted to look away, suddenly sure that he could see exactly what she was thinking, exactly what realisation she was only just now coming to. Because those golden eyes would see everything.
She reached for the wine again, picking it up and taking another desperate sip to moisten her throat, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.
He couldn’t want her to have sex with him, surely? She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t experienced. He would have his pick of lovely women as king, and he definitely wouldn’t ever have picked her—not if she hadn’t turned up so conveniently out in the desert.
He’s mentioned securing the succession.
Yes, he had, but still...
‘You have a question?’
His voice wrapped around her, velvety and soft in the darkness, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘Ask me.’
She should, she knew that, but she couldn’t bear the thought. She didn’t know what she would do if he told her that, no, sex with him would not be required. Or what she would do if he said that, yes, it would.
Probably burst into flames with embarrassment either way.
‘N-No,’ she stuttered. ‘I don’t have a question.’
She steeled herself to meet his gaze. And she didn’t understand the glitter in his eyes, because it looked like anger, and yet she didn’t think it was. It was far too intent, far too focused.
‘Open your mouth, ya amar,’ he ordered quietly.
It was not what she’d expected him to say and it took her by surprise—so much so that she’d already opened her mouth to obey him before she realised what she’d done.
Snapping it shut almost immediately, she gave him a suspicious look. ‘Why?’
He leaned forward and picked up one of the strawberries sitting in a silver bowl. ‘It is the custom in Ashkaraz for a prospective groom to feed his chosen bride. So open your mouth, Miss Devereaux, and signify your acceptance.’
This time there was no doubt about the sharp-edged glitter in his eyes. It was all challenge. And even though she didn’t want to obey him, she felt something rise up inside her in response.
It was just a stupid strawberry. And maybe it was a custom here, but it didn’t mean anything to her.
It means you accept that you will marry him.
Well, she had no choice about that. And if she had to stay here indefinitely surely it would be better to stay here as the sheikha—whatever that meant—than it would be as a prisoner in a cell.
And who knew? If she was queen maybe she could even change things for herself. Influence him to open up the borders so she could go home eventually. It was an idea. She didn’t have to simply bow to his wishes for ever.
The decision hardened inside her and she caught his gaze with hers, letting him know that she wasn’t going to lie down and be his doormat no matter what he thought. Then she leaned forward slightly and opened her mouth.
A flame leapt in his eyes, and though she didn’t know what it meant, something deep inside her did, and it was making her heartbeat race, all her awareness focus abruptly on him.
He held out the strawberry, brushing the fruit along her mouth at first, tracing her lower lip in an almost-caress that made her mouth feel full and oddly sensitive, made another little shiver snake down her spine.
She went still as he did it again, this time tracing her upper lip with the strawberry before placing it gently in her mouth and holding onto the stem.
‘Bite down, ya amar,’ he ordered, and she did, sweetness bursting onto her tongue. Then he withdrew his hand, taking the stem with it, his fingers brushing her lower lip and leaving a trail of hot sparks in its wake.
Charlotte swallowed the strawberry, but she wasn’t concentrating on the taste. All she could feel was the brush of his fingers on her mouth, and she nearly raised a hand and touched her lips herself.
He was watching her, and she didn’t know what he’d seen in her face but something had satisfied him, she was sure. That hot, golden glow was burning in his eyes again and she still didn’t know what it meant.
You do. Come on.
Maybe. But she didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about why her mouth felt so sensitive and why her heart was beating so hard. Why there was an unfamiliar ache down low inside her.
‘Well?’ she said thickly, trying to pretend that ache wasn’t there. ‘Is that all I need to do, then?’
He dropped the stem back in the bowl ‘That is all.’
‘Good.’
Her hands were shaking and she didn’t like it. Suddenly all she wanted was to be alone, away from here. Away from him.
‘I—I’m tired, Your Majesty. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to...’ She gestured at the doorway into the palace, then pulled at her robes, getting awkwardly to her feet without waiting for his agreement.
He rose far more fluidly than she and her heartbeat became a roar as he moved around the table towards her, all tall, dark muscularity, the hem of his robes flaring out around his booted feet.
‘Oh, no...it’s okay.’
She took an unconscious step back, as if putting some physical distance between herself and him would separate her from the strange feeling careering around in her chest. A feeling that she suspected might be excitement even though it also felt like fear. A feeling she
didn’t want, whatever it was.
‘I can find my way back myself.’
The Sheikh stopped, candlelight flickering off the gold embroidery of his robes, and she thought she caught amusement in his eyes. But then it was gone.
‘Very well.’ He raised a hand and instantly the robed woman stepped out of the shadows of the doorway, as if she’d been standing there waiting for his command all this time. ‘Amirah, please escort Miss Devereaux back to her suite.’ In the darkness his eyes gleamed, a tiger on the prowl. ‘Sleep well, ya amar. Tomorrow you will be busy.’
Heartbeat thumping, Charlotte let herself be led away.
‘Excuse me, Amirah,’ she said hesitantly as they went down the echoing, dimly lit corridors. ‘What does ya amar mean?’ It had been bothering her.
‘It means “my moon”,’ Amirah murmured. ‘Or “my most beautiful”. It is an endearment.’
Charlotte felt her cheeks get hot. His “most beautiful”? Well, that was a lie. She wasn’t beautiful and she certainly wasn’t his.
But soon you will be.
Charlotte ignored the shiver that went down her spine at the thought.
It wasn’t excitement. It just wasn’t.
* * *
She didn’t see the Sheikh over the next couple of days, which was a good thing. And she might have spent those days pacing around in her suite, reflecting over and over on the wisdom of her decision, had not Amirah turned up at her door the next day, informing her that she was now to be Charlotte’s assistant and had been asked to help her with the list of tasks His Majesty had assigned to her. Then she’d brandished said list and Charlotte, craving distraction, had grabbed it with some relief.
The Sheikh had asked her to familiarise herself with the history, customs, people and language of Ashkaraz, which made sense since she was going to be queen. And since she’d always found learning interesting she’d thrown herself into study with abandon, especially as it involved spending a lot of time in the beautiful library she’d been taken to when she’d first got to the palace.
There were also culture and protocol lessons—which she found very interesting too—not to mention a lot of scrubbing and oiling of her body—which she found less interesting—including plucking and face masks and hair wraps. The beautification process for an Ashkarazi bride, apparently.
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