by Kate Hewitt
Zayed let the tent flap fall closed behind him with a rustle and she turned, scrambling to a standing position, her eyes wide. She had incredible eyes, a deep, stormy blue, fringed extravagantly with sooty lashes. He hadn’t expected those eyes, somehow.
Of course, he’d never seen a proper photograph of his bride, merely a few blurry images taken from a distance, since she’d been raised in virtual seclusion. They’d been betrothed when he was twenty and she ten, although it had been done formally, with a proxy, so they’d never met. Now did not seem like the most auspicious of introductions, but there was nothing to be done for it. Zayed squared his shoulders.
‘You have been made comfortable, I trust?’
She hesitated, her gaze searching his face, looking for answers. After a pause, she finally answered. ‘Yes...’ Her voice was both soft and husky, pleasant. That was good. So far he liked her eyes and her hair, and he knew her body was both slender and curvaceous from being nestled against it on horseback for several uncomfortable hours. Three things that he could be thankful for. He had not expected so much. Rumours had painted Halina as a melodramatic and slightly spoiled princess. The woman in front of him did not seem so.
‘But...’ Her throat worked convulsively, the words coming in stumbling snatches. ‘I don’t... I don’t...understand why you’ve...’
From behind them the tent flap rustled again and Zayed met the subtly questioning gaze of the imam he’d chosen to perform the ceremony. He would have preferred a civil service, but Malouf would dismiss a marriage that was conducted by a notary, and the last thing he could do was have Malouf dismiss this, the most important diplomatic manoeuvre he’d ever make.
‘We’re ready,’ he said to the imam, who gave a brief nod. Halina’s confused gaze moved from him to the man who would marry them.
‘What...what are you...?’
‘All you need to say is yes,’ Zayed informed her shortly. He did not have time for her questions, her concerns, and certainly not her protestations. They could talk after the vows were performed, the marriage finalised. Not before. He would allow nothing to dissuade him. Halina’s eyes had widened and darkened to the colour of a storm-tossed sea, her lips, rosy-pink and plump, parting soundlessly.
‘Yes,’ she repeated, searching his face, looking for answers. Did she not understand what she was doing here? It seemed obvious to Zayed, and it would soon be so to Halina when she made her vows. He could not afford to explain why he’d taken her, why they had to marry with such haste. Although his desert camp was well hidden, already Sultan Hassan could be sending his troops to take back his daughter. Zayed intended to have the marriage performed well before then.
Sensing his urgency, the imam moved forward and began the ceremony, speaking with quick fluidity. Zayed took Halina by her arm, firmly but with gentleness. She looked dazed, but Zayed hoped she’d adjust quickly. She knew they were engaged, after all. His methods might be unorthodox, but the end result would be the same as if they’d been surrounded by pomp and circumstance.
A silence descended in the tent and Zayed realised it was Halina’s turn to speak. ‘Say yes,’ he hissed and she blinked at him, still seeming confused.
‘Yes,’ she said after a second’s pause.
The imam continued twice more, and twice more Zayed had to instruct Halina to speak. ‘Say yes.’
Each time she murmured yes—naaam—her lips forming the word hesitantly.
The imam turned to him and Zayed bit out his three replies. Yes, yes, yes.
Then, with a little bow, the imam stepped back. Zayed’s breath rushed out in a sigh of satisfaction and relief. It was done. They were wed.
‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he told Halina, who blinked at him.
‘Alone?’
‘For a few moments, to ready yourself.’ Zayed hesitated, and then decided he would not explain things further. Not now, with the imam listening and Halina seeming so dazed. Later, when they could talk, relax even, he would explain more. There would be food and wine and conversation—a little, at least. Then he would tell her. Tonight was not merely the marriage ceremony but its consummation.
CHAPTER TWO
OLIVIA FELT AS if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole into some awful, alternative reality. She had no idea what was going on; in the tent she’d only understood one word of Arabic out of three, if that. It had seemed as if some official kind of ceremony had been performed, but Olivia had no idea what it could be. And the man had insisted she keep saying yes—but to what? Perhaps he was preparing a ransom demand to the royal family, and wanted her to proclaim she was unharmed.
And she was unharmed, but she was also confused and more than a little scared. Who was the man with the terse manner and the gentle eyes? What did he want from her? And what was going to happen next?
The woman who had helped her to bathe and dress earlier, Suma, fetched her from the tent and led her to another, this one luxurious in every detail. Suma handed her some gauzy fabric and Olivia took it uncomprehendingly. Judging by the way Suma mimed her actions, she was meant to change once again. Olivia glanced down at the garment she held, a nightgown of near-diaphanous silk embroidered with gold thread. She had no idea why she had been given such a revealing and exquisite garment but she was afraid to think too much about it.
She couldn’t ask Suma; the older woman spoke a dialect of Arabic that was virtually incomprehensible to Olivia. They’d communicated by hand gestures, clumsy miming and the occasional understood word; there was no way she could ask the smiling, round-faced woman what was going on, or why she’d been given this nightgown. Not that Suma would tell her, anyway.
The tent she’d been led to was both sumptuous and spacious, with a mattress on a dais that was spread with hand-woven quilts of silk and satin and scattered with pillows. Candles flickered in torches and the desert wind made the tent rustle quietly. In the distance Olivia could hear the nickering of horses, the occasional low voice.
Suma left her alone to change and Olivia stood there, clutching the nightgown to her, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do now. Escape seemed unwise in the dark; she couldn’t ride and they were hours from anywhere. Putting on a slinky, near-transparent nightgown also seemed unwise; the last thing she wanted was to be less dressed.
She put the nightgown on the bed, running her damp palms down the side of the blue robe she’d changed into earlier as she tried to think of a way out of this. Would the man come back? Did he speak English? If he did, perhaps she could demand some answers. Not that he seemed a man to acquiesce to anyone’s demands, and Olivia doubted she’d be brave enough to give them.
Suma returned with a platter of fruit and cheese, as well as a jug of something, a carafe of water and two golden goblets. It was all very civilised, Olivia acknowledged with wry incredulity. She was being treated as an honoured guest rather than the prisoner she was...but she still had no idea what her abductor intended to do with her, and thinking too much about it made her stomach churn and bile rise to the back of her throat.
The older woman caught sight of the nightgown Olivia had left on the bed and frowned. She gestured to Olivia to change, and Olivia shook her head.
‘No...la,’ she said, speaking as firmly as she could. Her Arabic was clumsy but insistent. ‘I do not want to wear that.’
Suma’s frown deepened and she made wild gestures with her hands as she let forth a stream of incomprehensible dictates. Clearly Suma wanted her to wear the gown very much.
‘Yes,’ Olivia cut across her, having understood at least one word she’d spoken: jamila. ‘It is very beautiful. But I do not want to wear it.’
Suma scowled. Olivia almost felt apologetic for disappointing her. Was she being reckless, by refusing the nightgown? What if it made the man angry? But why on earth would he want her in it in the first place? A question she could barely bear to ask, much less answer.
With a huff, Suma shook her head and then disappeared. Olivia let out a gusty sigh of relief. She reall
y did not want to parade around a desert camp of strange men in a diaphanous nightgown that looked like something a bride would wear on her wedding night.
She paced the luxurious confines of the tent, wondering if anyone was going to come in to see her and explain what on earth was going on. What did they want from her? If they thought Sultan Hassan would pay a hefty ransom for her return, she suspected they would be disappointed. Hassan was fond enough of her, but she was just an employee.
And if they wanted her for something else...
Swallowing convulsively, she tried not to give in to panic. She wanted to see the man with the gentle eyes again, although something about his fiercely determined manner made her half hope he wouldn’t come in. When he was near her it felt as if he were taking all the air, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. And Olivia knew she needed all her wits about her now. Somehow she had to figure out why she was here...and then she had to figure out how to escape. Both felt impossible.
Then the tent flap opened and there he was, those grey-green eyes glinting in the candlelight. He was dressed as he had been before, in loose trousers and a long shirt of bleached linen that emphasised the powerful, rippling muscles of his chest and thighs.
Olivia tried not to gulp. She folded her arms and lifted her chin, which was just about all the defiance she had in her. Gazing into that penetrating stare felt like looking at the sun. ‘I wish to know why you have taken me here,’ she said in English. Surprise flared across the man’s face like a ripple in water and then was gone.
‘Your English is very good.’
That was because she was half-English. Although as the daughter of a diplomat she’d been raised around the world, her father had been English and that was the language she’d always spoken. ‘I prefer English to Arabic.’
‘Do you?’ His own English was flawless, his tone impossible to decipher. A frown marred his brow for a moment and then smoothed out. ‘Why have you not changed?’ he asked, with a nod at the nightgown discarded on the bed.
‘Why would I want to wear that?’ she flung at him. His mouth quirked, impossibly, into a smile. He was actually amused.
‘Because it is comfortable? And beautiful. You are, as a point of fact, very beautiful.’ He moved past her to a low table flanked by two chairs and the tray with the platter of food on top of it. ‘Come, have something to eat and drink.’ He gestured to the low folding chair across from him. ‘Sit down, be comfortable.’
Olivia could only gape. She was beautiful? No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever even noticed her before. Why him? Why now? What did he want?
He sat down himself, seeming utterly relaxed...and utterly appealing. A tingle went through Olivia just from looking at him. Dark, close-cropped hair, those beautiful eyes the colour of peat, a straight nose and a mobile mouth, the lines and angles of his face both harsh and arresting. As for his body...it was lean and long, every inch of it pure, powerful muscle. Even sprawled in a chair he radiated strength and energy, power and grace. He was like a jungle cat, ready to spring, eyeing her with a sleepy, knowing, hooded gaze. He could devour her if he wanted. The knowledge flashed through her, certain and strangely thrilling.
She felt a tremor of fear, but with it a pulse of something else. Something almost like desire. He had such a languid look in his eyes. No one had ever looked at her like that. She’d spent her life in the shadows, half pretending to be invisible, ignored by her busy, widowed father, and then keeping to the sidelines of school life.
Since becoming the governess to the Amari Princesses four years ago, she’d been even more in the background, which she hadn’t minded. That was where she was used to being, making sure she was quietly useful, keeping out of the way of people who were busier or more important than she was. Blending into the background felt both safe and comfortable, and it was only in this heightened, surreal moment she realised how dull it had always been. How dull her whole life had been, as if she had been waiting all along for something to happen. And now it had.
You’ve been kidnapped, she reminded herself with both fierceness and panic. This is not some romantic adventure. This man has abducted you. You need to escape.
‘I want you to release me.’
The man arched an eyebrow. ‘Where? Into the desert?’
‘Back to the palace.’
His expression shuttered although he remained relaxed. ‘You know that is impossible.’
‘How would I know that?’
He made a gesture towards the entrance of the tent, one Olivia couldn’t decipher. What, exactly, was he referring to? ‘Too much has happened. Now, come.’ He reached for the jug and poured them both goblets of what looked like water, but when he added something from another jug the liquid turned milky-white. Olivia eyed it askance.
‘What is that?’
‘Arak, mixed with water. It changes colour when diluted. Surely you have had it before?’
‘No.’ The only alcohol she had had was the occasional sip of champagne at Christmas or New Year when she was a teenager.
‘Come, taste it. It is quite refreshing.’ He smiled at her, flashing very white, very straight teeth. Olivia stayed where she stood. She could not sit down and have a drink with this man. He’d kidnapped her. ‘Well?’ He held the glass out for her, waiting.
‘For understandable reasons I am reluctant to take any food or drink from you.’
‘Is that so?’ Irritation flashed across his face. ‘I think the time for such petulant gestures has surely passed?’
Petulant gestures? Olivia bristled even as she recognised a grain of truth in the words. She was hungry and thirsty, and she didn’t really think he’d drugged the food. There was no point spiting herself as well as him.
Her chin tilted at a haughty angle that belied the trepidation she felt, she walked over and sat down opposite him. She took the glass he held out, her fingers brushing his and sending another tingle like lightning through her. Her arm jerked in response, everything in her flaring white-hot. The man noticed; Olivia saw it in the brief gleam in his eyes and she felt a rush of embarrassment. She was so innocent, so gauche. She could not even hide it. And the fact that she should be attracted to him, her captor...
It was both weak and wrong.
‘Taste.’ His voice was a low, lazy drawl.
Olivia raised the glass to her lips, conscious of the man’s gaze resting on her, so languorous and speculative, and she took a cautious sip. ‘It tastes like liquorice.’
‘It is the anise. Do you like it?’
She took another sip, feeling the fire blaze down her throat and into her belly, warming her right through. ‘I...I don’t know.’
He laughed softly, the sound winding seductive tendrils around her. She took another sip, craving the courage it provided even as the practical part of her told her drinking more was most unwise. The last thing she wanted to do was let her defences down in front of this stranger, magnetically appealing as he was. He was also dangerous—that Olivia knew for certain, felt all the way to her bones—and getting drunk was definitely not a good idea right now.
‘So you have never had arak,’ he mused. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to a new experience.’
‘Are you?’ With a slightly unsteady hand Olivia returned the half-drunk glass to the table. She’d only had a few sips and yet already she was feeling the effects of the alcohol, her mind pleasantly blurring at the edges, her body relaxing. That was undoubtedly a bad thing, especially with the way the man was looking at her, with a mix of speculation and, yes, desire. Just as she, impossibly, unwisely, desired him.
A thrill ran through her like an electric shock at the realisation. She was naïve, yes, and completely innocent, but even she could see the heat in his eyes, although she could hardly credit it. That such a man, a powerful, sensual, attractive man, would want her...
But she shouldn’t want to be wanted, not by a stranger who was most certainly a threat. Confusion chased desire, leaving her emotions
in a ferment. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, looking away from that heat-filled gaze.
‘In the desert.’
‘I know that, but where? Are we still in Abkar?’
There was a pause while he cocked his head, his gaze sweeping over her thoroughly, leaving heat and awareness in its wake. He wasn’t touching her and yet everything prickled; it was as if parts of her body were stirring to life for the first time. Her breasts, her thighs, her lips. She felt weirdly, achingly conscious of them all, that persistent tingle going right through her, impossible to stop or ignore, obliterating common sense, rational thought.
Disconcerted, Olivia reached for her glass. She’d have just one more sip of the anise-flavoured arak, that was all. She needed a distraction from this unwelcome and overwhelming reaction.
‘No, we are not in Abkar,’ he said, his gaze still resting on her, considering, assessing. ‘We are in Kalidar.’
The country of Halina’s fiancé, Prince Zayed al bin Nur. Was her abduction related to Halina’s impending marriage? Was the minister in power, Fakhir Malouf, behind it? Fear trembled in her breast at the prospect and her fingers clenched on the goblet. She had heard terrible things of Malouf, a man who seemed to possess neither mercy nor kindness. This man hardly seemed like a minion of Malouf...but who was he?
The man must have noticed the fear tensing her fingers and flashing in her eyes, for he leaned forward, his gaze blazing silver for one heart-stopping second. ‘I have told you, you need never be afraid of me. I know we have had an inauspicious beginning, but you can trust me on that.’
‘You kidnapped me from the palace,’ Olivia pointed out, glad her voice didn’t tremble as her insides did. ‘Why shouldn’t I be afraid of you? And why on earth should I trust you?’
‘Such means were necessary. Unwelcome, I grant you, but very much necessary.’