Tamed: The Barbarian King

by Jennie Lucas

  She slept peacefully, like a child. The wind blew softly through the trees, rattling the leaves, brushing loose tendrils of dark hair across her face. She was wearing a fitted black sweater over a high-necked white shirt and a long black skirt. And below that—red canvas sneakers.

  Her lovely face was bare of makeup, and beautiful in its natural simplicity. Modest, simple, like a maid. She looked the part of a perfect wife and mother—the perfect heart of any man’s home. Of his home.

  He took a deep breath, calming down beneath the influence of her sweet purity, of her innocence. He smiled down at her. Then his gaze fell upon her hand, and he saw she still wore Hajjar’s diamond upon her finger.

  Jasmine’s dark brown eyes fluttered open. A smile lit up her face when she saw him. Her smile struck through his soul.

  “Kareef.” The sweet lilt of her voice washed over him like a wave of water. “Oh, how I’ve missed you today!”

  He sat next to her, taking her hands in his own. “I thought the day would never end.”

  “And once again, you’ve caught me in the royal garden.” Her expression became bashful, apologetic. “Where I should not be.”

  “The garden is yours,” he said roughly. “You have the right.”

  She tried to smile at him, but her expression faltered. She looked down at her hand, twisting the ring on her finger. “For now.”

  A spasm of unexpected jealousy went through him as he looked at that ring, the physical mark of another man’s ownership. “Take that off.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

  “Take it off.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not going to marry him tomorrow.”

  Her expression became mutinous. “I am.” She rose to her feet. “And if you can’t accept that—”

  “We won’t talk about it now, then.” He caught her wrist. “Just come to the royal banquet with me tonight.”

  She looked down at his hand on her wrist.

  “This is how we would be discreet?” she said. “Beside each other at the banquet, as lovers for all the world to see?” She shook her head. He saw tears in her eyes. “Admit I was right,” she whispered. “The palace separates us already. Let’s end this cleanly. We must part.”

  He looked at her with a heavy heart. How could he change her mind, when he himself could feel the truth of her words?

  But taking a deep breath, he shook his head. “One more night.”

  “It won’t change anything.”

  “Attend the banquet with me. Give me one last chance to change your mind, to convince you not to marry him. One last night.” He set his jaw. “Then, if you still wish to wed him—I will say farewell.”

  He watched her face as her expression struggled visibly between desire and pain. “You will divorce me?”

  “Yes.”

  “On your honor?”

  “Yes,” he bit out.

  She gave him a slow nod. “Very well.” She reached out to caress his cheek, then hesitated. She glanced wryly at her red high-top sneakers. “I will go get dressed.” She bowed her head, then looked up. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Until tonight, my king.”

  A half hour later, Kareef arrived alone to thunderous applause at the grand ballroom. Five hundred illustrious guests clamored for his attention, clamored for his gaze—and he still hadn’t thought of a way to convince Jasmine to remain his mistress. Because there wasn’t a solution.

  Jasmine wanted respectability. She wanted a family of her own. She wanted children.

  As king, what could he offer her—except disgrace?

  Greeting his honored guests, Kareef walked to the end of the long table, looking for one beautiful face. Where was she? Where had the vizier placed her? Without her calming presence, he felt like a trapped tiger in a cage, half-mad in captivity. He prayed to find her beside him at the table.

  But when he reached his place, he stopped.

  Seated on his left he saw the elderly king of a neighboring nation.

  Seated on his right was a beautiful blonde of no more than eighteen, bedecked in diamonds and giggling behind her hand as she stared up at him with big blue eyes. He instantly knew who she must be: Princess Lara du Plessis.

  Silently cursing his vizier, Kareef sat down. His hands clenched on the fine linen tablecloth of the table. He stared dismally at his plate setting of 24-karat gold-patterned china and crystal stemware filled with champagne. Where was Jasmine?

  As the meal was served, the elderly king on his left complained at length about some unfair customs tax between Qusay and his own country, and it was all Kareef could do to keep from turning his ceremonial dagger on himself, like a wolf chewing off his own paw to escape a trap.

  Then he felt the prickles rise on the back of his neck. And he looked up.

  Jasmine looked at him from the other side of the ballroom, as far away as she could possibly be. She’d been seated beside some plain woman dressed in brown and the fat, balding secretary of the Minister of the Treasury. No doubt a location that the vizier had arranged for her personally.

  She tried to give him an encouraging smile, but her eyes were sad. The shadows of the darkening ballroom beneath the candlelit chandeliers made everyone else disappear.

  She was so beautiful. And so far away.

  His heart turned over in his chest. Was this all it was to be, then? Was this all he could offer her? To be his secret mistress, fit only for clandestine trysts in his bedroom—instead of be the honored companion by his side?

  Kareef ate quickly and spoke in monosyllables to the elderly king and the giggling young princess when they forced a direct question upon him. The instant the musicians and fire dancers arrived in the ballroom, signaling the end of the banquet, the candles were put out to highlight the magic of the performance.

  Kareef threw his linen napkin on his plate and went to her.

  The shadows were dark and deep as he made his way through the ballroom. All the audience was mesmerized by the intricacies of a dance with flames and swords, set to the haunting melody of the jowza and santur. Kareef was invisible in the darkness. He passed many whispered conversations that he knew would never be spoken before the king.

  “…Jasmine Kouri,” he heard a woman hiss, and in spite of himself, he slowed to listen. “Spending every day with him at the palace—and nights, too, I wager. The king’s a good, honorable man but when a woman is so determined to spread her legs…”

  “And her an engaged woman!” came the spiteful reply. “She’s made a fool out of Umar Hajjar for wanting to marry her. You remember that scandal when she was young? She was bad from the start.”

  “She’ll get her comeuppance. Wait and see….”

  Hands clenched, Kareef whirled to see who was speaking, but the women’s voices faded and blended into the rest of the crowd. He saw only moving shadows.

  Oh God, give him an honest fight! A fight where he could face his enemy—not the whisper of spiteful gossips in the dark!

  He was still trembling with fury when he reached the lower tables of the ballroom. He whispered Jasmine’s name silently. He craved her touch, yearned to have her in his arms. He yearned to keep her safe, to somehow give her shelter from the cruel words.

  But when he reached for her chair, it was empty.

  The instant the musicians entered the ballroom with their guitars, dulcimers and flutes in an eerie, haunting accompaniment to dancing swords of fire in the abruptly darkened ballroom, Jasmine bolted from her seat.

  The banquet had been hell. She’d heard whispers and caught stares in her direction—some curious, some envious, a few hateful. It was clear that in spite of the fact that she and Kareef had neither kissed nor slept in the same bed since they’d returned to the palace, everyone already believed she was his lover. And they blamed her—only her—for that sin.

  On her right side at the table, a fat, balding man had leered at her throughout the meal. On her left, a plain woman had stiffened in her mousy brown suit a
nd pointedly ignored her for a solid hour.

  Jasmine had watched Kareef across the ballroom. He was clearly adored and praised by his subjects, and he accepted their attention carelessly, as his due.

  Kareef didn’t need her in his life, whatever he might say. He was surrounded by people begging for his attention, including the virginal blonde princess seated beside him. She was the type of woman he no doubt would marry—very soon.

  She’d fled as soon as the ballroom went dark. She’d been desperate to escape before anyone could see her tears. But as soon as she was in the hallway, she felt a hand on her shoulder and whirled around, her hands tightened into fists.

  Then her hands grew lax. Her body went numb.

  “Father,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  Yazid Kouri seemed to have aged in just the last few days, his once-powerful frame grown stooped and thin. He looked her over from her careful chignon to the black formal dress she’d borrowed from her old friend Sera for the occasion.

  He gave a harsh laugh. “Why did you come back here?”

  “You know why—”

  “I thought you’d at last become a respectable, dutiful girl.” He shook his head, his black eyes suspiciously bright. “Why would you agree to marry a respectable man, only to betray him with the king before you have even spoken your vows?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand!”

  “Tell me you’ve never lain with the king,” he said. “Tell me it’s just an ugly rumor, and I’ll believe you.”

  Blinking fast, she looked away. Her father’s disappointment hurt her so badly she could hardly bear it. “I’ve betrayed no one except myself. There is no shame if I am with the king, not when he…not when we…”

  Not when we’re married. But the words caught at her throat. She couldn’t reveal their secret. The king’s word of honor was admired around the world. How could she reveal that he’d hidden such a secret for thirteen years?

  As a girl, she’d remained silent to protect him.

  As a woman, she still would.

  “You see nothing wrong in sleeping with a man who is not your husband?” her father continued, his voice sodden with grief. “That sort of behavior might be acceptable in the modern world, but not in our family. Your sister needs you. Marry Umar. Return to New York with your new husband and family. Help Nima raise her child!”

  Jasmine’s jaw dropped. “You’ve spoken to her?”

  “She called us two hours ago.” He looked away, his jaw clenching. “She says she doesn’t know how to be a mother. She’s threatening to give the child to strangers when it’s born! She’s scared. She’s so young.”

  Fury suddenly raced through Jasmine, fury she could not control. She raised her head.

  “Just as I was!” she cried. “I was sixteen when you threw me out of our family, out of our country!”

  “I was angry,” he whispered. Tears filled his bleary eyes. “I had different expectations of you, Jasmine. You were my eldest. You had such intelligence, such strength. I took so much pride in you. Then…it all fell apart.”

  Her heart turned over in her chest.

  “Go back to New York as a married woman. Steady Nima with your strength.” His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Tomorrow, I will be in Qais, expecting to see a wedding.”

  Turning to leave, he stopped when he saw Kareef standing behind them, his body tense in the ceremonial white robes.

  Her father’s face went almost purple. Distraught, he raised his fists against the much taller, stronger man. “I should kill you for the way you’ve shamed my daughter!”

  Kareef didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there, waiting to accept the blow.

  Her father dropped his fists. Tears streaked down his wrinkled face.

  “You’re no king,” he said hoarsely, his voice shaking with grief. “You’re not even a man.”

  Turning on his heel, he stumbled down the palace hallway.

  Jasmine watched him. When he was gone, she crumpled. Kareef pulled her into his arms and held her fast as she cried.

  Softly stroking her head, he looked down at her, cupping her face with his hands. His eyes were deep and dark as he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. He took a deep breath. Then his shoulders fell in resignation.

  “Come with me,” he whispered.

  In the ballroom behind them, she could still hear the eerie music and shouts of the performers behind the closed doors. But Kareef led her down the dark hallway, passing several servants who pretended not to notice, who pretended not to see that the king had left his own banquet with a woman who belonged to another.

  Kareef took her down the hallway into the east wing, into his bedchamber. Closing the door behind them, he set her down on the enormous bed.

  Sitting on the bed beside her, he leaned over and kissed her. Tears streamed unchecked down her face as she kissed him back with all her heart. Everything she felt for him, all the tenderness of a young girl’s dreams and the fire of a woman’s desire, came through in her kiss.

  His enormous gilded bedroom was dark. The balcony window was open, and a hot desert wind blew in from the garden, along with the noise, sudden explosions of laughter and applause from the ballroom on the floor below. But they were a world apart.

  Gently, tenderly, he lay her back against his bed and made love to her one last time. The ecstasy of her body was as sharp as the pain in her heart.

  I love you, her soul cried. I love you. But she knew her love changed nothing.

  When he brought her to aching, gasping fulfillment, she wept. For a moment, he held her tightly against his chest, in his arms, as if he never wanted to let her go.

  Then he slowly rose from the bed. He put on his clothes. Without looking at her, he went to an antique, jeweled chest beside the bookshelf. He twisted a key in the lock and opened it. Reaching inside, he pulled something out and returned to where she sat, clothed and numb on the bed.

  He held out her emerald necklace, dangling it from his hand. She stared at the green facets of the stone, without moving.

  He took her hand and placed the emerald in her palm, folding her fingers over the gold chain.

  She heard the ragged gasp of his breath. Then his posture became hard as granite. He placed his hand over hers. When he spoke, his voice was deep and cold, echoing in the cavernous royal bedchamber.

  “Jasmine, I divorce you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE next morning, Jasmine stepped out of the helicopter, craning her neck to stare up at the modern, gleaming racetrack that split the desert flatlands from the wide loneliness of the blue sky.

  Qais. The desert she loved. But now the freedom had a sting. Horizons stretched out around her, mocking her as she stood dressed from head-to-toe in clothes chosen for her by someone else.

  Her clothes had finally arrived from Paris, and she was now dressed to please her future husband, in a belted red silk dress from Christian Dior, Christian Louboutin black heels, a black vintage Kelly bag and a wide-brimmed black-and-white hat. Her beautiful designer clothes felt like a costume from the 1950s, stylish and severe.

  She no longer had freedom here. Not even in the clothes she wore.

  Jasmine looked up at the glass stadium that Kareef and Umar had built together. It wasn’t the only thing the two men would soon share. When the Qais Cup was over, her wedding would begin.

  Kareef followed her with the rest of his bodyguards and assistants. She saw him hesitate, then grimly push forward. What more was there to say?

  He’d already given the bride away.

  Jasmine stared at his tense, muscular back as he walked ahead of her. She memorized the turn of his head, the line of his jaw. The shape of his supremely masculine body as he walked in his white robes.

  Unwillingly, she remembered the feel of his naked body against her own. The sweet satisfied ache of pain as he possessed her, the way her lips felt bruised from his kiss, her inner thighs scratched from
the sandpaper-roughness of his jaw. The memory made her body tighten with a rush of heat, even as her soul shook with the anguish of loss.

  With a deep breath, she forced herself to look up.

  Rising from the desert, the glass stadium competed with the blinding sun for brilliance. But even the desert sun couldn’t burn away the taste of Kareef, the exotic scent of his skin. It couldn’t burn away the memory of his hard body covering hers. Or the look in his blue eyes last night when he’d spoken the words to divorce her.

  “My dear.” Umar stepped forward from a private side door of the stadium and leaned forward to kiss her cheek gently. “I am so glad to see you at last.”

  In spite of his words, he looked pale. As he pulled away from her, she made no move to kiss him back, no attempt to even smile. “Where have you been, Umar?”

  Umar’s pale cheeks turned pink. “France,” he muttered. “There was a family emergency. With Léa.”

  “With your nanny?” Jasmine said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. Fine,” he said with an uneven smile. He seemed strangely nervous and jittery compared to the urbane, sophisticated man she knew.

  Turning away, he started walking, practically running toward the door, though propriety demanded that the king should have gone first. They had to hurry to keep up with him, or else be left behind.

  “And that’s all you have to say to me?” she demanded.

  “The race is about to start.” Umar glanced back at her, his nose wrinkling like a rabbit’s before he sighed. “When it’s over, we’ll talk.”

  Jasmine stared at him. Had he heard the rumors about her and Kareef being lovers? Did he no longer wish to marry her?

  Was he going to abandon her at the altar, to her family’s eternal shame?

  “Wait,” she choked out. “Whatever you’ve heard, I can explain—”

  “Later.” Umar hurried toward the door. “Your family is already here. I had them seated in a place not too far from the royal box, in a place of honor.” He paused. “I’ll be sitting with my children in the box next to yours. You’re in the royal box with the king.”