These were words they did not use: Kind. Personable. Approachable.
They admired their ruler for his intelligence and foresight. Yet he seemed remote to them, closed off, even cold.
But no one complained of his rule. They would not have traded their inaccessible king for a thousand charismatic politicians.
Some doubted the reports of his elopement. Many had disbelieved the papers. "The story will turn out to be false," they warned. "King Ithnan is not a man to be led by his heart."
But the old women smiled.
The news their dispassionate king had thrown his new bride into isolation in the dungeon had shocked the nation. He did not seem capable of such an act. No one could imagine what evil act the woman had done to deserve the treatment. Debate had raged in the streets.
"She must have committed a crime," some said. "He would not have imprisoned her otherwise."
"Perhaps," others speculated "he has done this out of great emotion. Perhaps she had brought out some burst of feeling in him."
But the old women smiled.
The couple had appeared together the day the newspaper had printed the dungeon story, so some deemed the tale a rumor. Their new queen seemed happy and relaxed. She had waved to the crowds with open and honest enjoyment. They had fallen in love with her, and known instantly what their king had seen in her.
She balanced him, they realized. She would be more appropriate if she were from Zallaq, but for most of Zallaqi history, the harems had been full of exotic beauties from far-off lands. Most of their rulers had been of mixed origin anyway. And besides, the color of the mother's skin did not matter. What mattered was the color of the heir's eyes. So long as they were the amber of a desert djinni, all would be well.
Now, the celebration of the union was taking place, the traditional one hundred days after the elopement.
Inside the chapel, the groom waited with even less patience than his people.
Ithnan knew his role. He was to remain at the altar until Gwendolyn joined him. She would walk down the aisle in traditional red robes, heavily veiled, under a shower of yellow rose petals. Her feet, bare to symbolize her connection with the fertile earth, would jangle with gold and be painted with intricate henna whorls.
The ceremony was important to his people, he knew. He and Gwendolyn had not married in the usual way. They had done nothing the usual way, in fact. The optics of the ceremony were important, a way for the people of Zallaq to connect to their queen. Gwendolyn herself had said she did not care if she had a public ritual, and he believed her, but he felt she might later regret not having one.
Ithnan, however, truly did not care.
In fact, he wished the thing were over. He normally had great patience for such rituals, finding them soothing and full of purpose. He had not anticipated the amount of time required to plan and execute the ceremony. Nor had he counted on his ministers insisting on the traditional ten-day separation of bride and groom.
He only wanted to have Gwendolyn alone, to talk and share with her the day's events, as they had for three months. Preferably while naked, in his bed. Or on the couch. He would settle for the floor.
All eyes in the chapel—diplomats and rulers of nearly a hundred countries—were on him and all he could think of was Gwendolyn. He had been separated from her for far too long. He was the king. Why should he be deprived of anything he desired? Especially if what he desired was his own wife.
The weight of a hand on his shoulder brought him back to the moment.
"Akhi al-sagheer, your foot is tapping and you look as if you are about to lash out at someone."
Ithnan looked into his brother's eyes, so like their father's. And so like his own, he now recognized. Over the last three months, their relationship had progressed. His wife had been correct. They had much in common, and even if Walid believed Ithnan should abdicate to unite their two countries, he did not take active steps to fulfill their father's dream. As they worked together on the pipeline, Walid had even stopped mentioning the issue, except occasionally, and without much force. Ithnan had to admit he was beginning to see the advantages of having friendlier relations with Askar.
And, in this case, Walid, who was acting as his best man, was correct. Ithnan's toe, with a mind of its own, tapped with impatience. He could not seem to get the digit to stop.
"Why does the ceremony take so long?" As he asked, Ithnan recognized his question had no answer. "I want Gwendolyn back with me."
"Calm yourself, brother," advised Walid. "The day will be over soon."
"Not soon enough."
A roar erupted from the crowd outside the chapel. The noise was as thunder emerging from the earth, rumbling beneath his feet.
Gwendolyn. Her limo must have arrived at the chapel.
"Little brother," Walid hissed in his ear. "What are you doing?"
Doing? He was not doing—
He became aware he had left his appointed place at the altar. In fact, his feet had carried him halfway down the aisle toward the massive brass doors his bride would soon enter.
His brother followed him, striding purposefully to keep up.
Close to five hundred pairs of eyes also followed. The people in each pew rose to their haute-coutured feet as he passed. Most whispered to each other in confusion at the unexpected change to the schedule.
Without the permission of his mind, his body carried him onward. Ahead of him, members of the royal guard scrambled to open the three-story-tall chapel doors. He made a mental note to reward them for their good service in removing a barrier between him and his wife.
He saw her twenty paces away, stepping out of one of the royal limos. She shone crimson in the sun, like the deepest part of the heart of Zallaq. Golden sparks of light flickered from her gilded robe.
Her face, her lovely, precious face, was covered by a heavy veil. Even through the veil, he sensed her confusion at seeing him come toward her. She cocked her covered head in her usual way and put heavily hennaed fingers on her hips.
He wasted no time in stepping to her and lifting the veil between them.
His reward was a frowning bride. Even frowning, hers was the most beautiful face he'd seen in ten days. He breathed in the subtle scent of lemon soap.
"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be waiting in there, mister." Gwendolyn lifted a hand to point at the chapel, setting dozens of gold bracelets jangling.
"I attempted to restrain him, sister," Walid offered. "But he seemed determined."
"Well, what good are you, then?" she asked, a smile coming to her face.
Walid's whole form tensed, his eyes narrowing dangerously. No one spoke to the ruler of Askar in such a way.
Dread turned Ithnan's gut to solid rock. He shifted his body to put himself between his father and Gwendolyn—
No. No, he reminded himself. Not his father. His brother. Walid. Walid, who would never harm Gwendolyn, no matter her insolence.
Gwendolyn grinned wider at his brother. The split second of tension from dissipated.
"I will attempt to be of better service in future," Walid said, quite seriously. "I shall wait for you inside."
Then, with a nod toward each of them, Walid turned on his heel to return to his place at the altar.
Ithnan swallowed hard. Walid was not his father. And Gwendolyn had her ways. He could trust both of them. Utterly.
He simply needed to be reminded of that fact every so often.
No doubt Walid would smooth things over with the official overseeing the ceremony, and his presence would reassure the guests the ritual was continuing as planned.
Which gave Ithnan a few moments alone with Gwendolyn. In front of the thousands of people watching them.
"How are you?" he asked her.
"Uhhhm..." Gwendolyn drew the word out. To others, the informal language might be at odds with her heavily painted face and ceremonial garb. The combination brought a smile, reminding him of their first real conversation, on the balcony of the palace. "I'm fine.
How are you?"
"I am fine," he responded.
"Sure, sure," she said. "Did you come all the way out here, seeing me before you're supposed to, freaking out the guests inside, and screwing up the timing of a ceremony your entire staff has been working on for weeks to ask me how I am?"
Why had he left his assigned place? Ithnan looked for the answer inside himself, and drew an uncharacteristic blank. "I believe so. We haven't spoken for ten days."
"We spoke an hour ago on the phone," she pointed out.
"True," he had to admit. "But I could not wait any longer to see you."
Gwendolyn gave him a confident look. "Probably for some solid, logical reason."
"I cannot think of any," he admitted.
A few heartbeats passed, silent but for the cheers of the thousands of people in the crowd. Gwendolyn watched him with something enigmatic in her expression, saying nothing. She still wanted to know what he meant by coming out to greet her. In typical Gwendolyn style, she gave him the space to find the answer on his own.
He was once more struck by how perfect she was for him. The one woman—the one person—who had seen how his past had made him what he was. She accepted him, but she also challenged him to see the good others were capable of. She had proven worthy of his trust, but she had also forced him to recognize he could trust other people. Feeling so out of control was uncomfortable, but he was reaping the rewards, not just with Gwendolyn, but also with his brother. He had hired Jibril back, giving him another chance. His security chief had accepted, but also changed. No more uniforms. And Ithnan found his orders questioned on a regular basis. He was attempting to find this refreshing and not irritating.
But none of those reasons explained why he had left the chapel to see her a mere moment sooner than he would have if he had stayed at the altar.
"If I did not come out here for a logical purpose—" The line of reasoning was sound, and shocking. He had not left his place at the altar out of logic, but out of pure emotion. He considered for a moment the rational way to proceed. He should give Gwendolyn his arm and escort her inside. Anything else would make a fool of him.
And yet, what good was being the king of your own country if you could not do what you pleased on occasion?
He continued, "—I must have come out here to do this."
With those words, he took his wife in his arms and kissed her deeply in front of all his people.
The crowd's roar could be heard for miles. Too loud to hear what the groom said to the bride when he finally released her. Many swore his lips formed the words "I love you." Whatever he said, those words earned him another kiss.
"Will you take this now?" he asked, removing the Heart of Zallaq from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. In the sun, the jewel shone to the full height of beauty, as did his bride. "Whether or not you wear the Heart, I assure you, you will always have mine."
"And you have mine," she said. "You stole my heart once, along with the rest of me, but now I give it to you freely."
The crowd raised its voice again as their king fastened Zallaq's greatest jewel around their queen's neck. And if the new bride's hand covered her lower belly protectively as he husband escorted her into the ceremony, only the old women noticed it.
And smiled.
FIFTEEN
Epilogue 2.0
"I am a guest of Sheikh Walid al Kalam." Noelle Oldrich put as much ice in her voice as she could muster, which was a lot considering her twenty-six years of being the richest girl in the room. "And you will return me to the dining room immediately."
The uniformed guard who had whipped her away from dinner folded impressive arms across his chest like the genie of the lamp. She glanced around the room for anything she could use to defend herself. Maybe the dagger-like letter opener on the huge dark oak desk? The top-of-the-line Apple laptop? Could she hit him over the head with that Tiffany lamp?
Not unless he agreed to bend down to let her reach his skull.
Well, crap.
The guard, who had a surprisingly soothing voice for a man his size, responded to her with a slew of Arabic.
"Oh no, don't pretend you don't speak English." She inched closer to the letter opener, sliding her Ferragamos across the floor so they wouldn't tap-tap on the marble. "That's the oldest trick in the book."
Yeah. Knock it off, you scurvy swab.
"I knew it. You can speak English." But the voice sounded like it came from much closer than the guard, who stood respectfully at the door. Sounded almost like a whisper in her ear. "And did you just call me a scurvy swab?"
"I did no such thing," the guard responded. In flawless English, of course.
She wasn't letting him get away with that one. "I heard you."
A slight blush coloring jutting cheekbones, he reached up to adjust the twisty white wire coming out of his ear.
On the other hand, she highly doubted the guard had an American accent. Or the tone of an eleven-year-old girl, like the voice had.
"All will become clear in a moment." The guard didn’t move, didn't even blink. Just stood blocking the only escape route she could see...
Avast, landlubber, look behind you.
That voice... No time to worry about where it was coming from now. Instead she glanced over her shoulder. There. Right behind her. Another exit. A smaller door leading to the right. It wouldn't go to the main corridor with its vaulted arches like the big door did, but that door went somewhere. It was even open an inch. She didn't have much hope, but she might as well give it a shot.
"I don't want to wait a moment." She switched up her shuffle, aiming for the open door now. She just needed that guard to turn away, even for a second. Then she'd be gone, so fast. If only she was in her running capris instead of floor-length sequins. Even if the off-the-shoulder couture gown did minimize the athletic thighs that made her step mother roll her eyes. In her running gear, he'd never catch her. "Take me back to my parents now."
The guard raised a finger at her in a classic "wait a minute" gesture.
How dare he ignore her, even for a second... Wait. No. She needed him to ignore her for a second. She practically bounced in place as adrenaline surged and time slowed. He raised his hand, cupping the twisty Secret Service-style wire thing dangling from his ear.
Her chance... this was it.
As slowly as if he was moving through Jell-O, the guard looked away, concentrating on whatever noise was in his ear.
She was ready.
Balancing on her toes so the three-inch heels wouldn't clack on the mosaic tile floor, she launched toward the open door. Hope and adrenaline surged.
Right until she saw her way blocked by something sturdier than a mere wooden door.
She skidded to a halt an inch short of face-planting into the sternum of His Majesty Sheikh Walid al Kalam, undisputed, hereditary, absolute ruler of the desert Kingdom of Askar.
He was also the undisputed, hereditary, absolute ruler of hotness. And a prince of being aloof, commanding, and entitled. But at the same time, he'd invited her and her parents to visit his country, provided insane hospitality, and even welcomed them to the palace tonight, so what was up with the hot-and-cold treatment?
He looked down his imperial nose at her, his distinct amber-ringed eyes (a genetic legacy of a djinni in his ancestry, legend had it) narrowed in apparent disapproval.
"Miss Oldrich." His luscious, tempting lips formed the words, made them look like a kiss.
Nothing else, just her name. As if she should understand what was going on from two words she heard every day. He nodded over her head—the extra height he had on her, even with her heels, making that not really a problem. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the guard making a discreet exit.
So. Whatever was happening right now? The way she'd been called away from dinner with her parents and the sheikh for an urgent phone call and then dumped in this room? Not a mistake. Not an error. Not a misunderstanding. She should have known. Nothing happened in this palace
without him knowing. Without his permission.
Something hardened inside her, prepping for a coming battle.
The sheikh sidestepped her, leaving her escape route completely open. Oh, the arrogance. He didn’t even bother telling her not to try leaving. He just had the confidence that she wouldn't, not with him in the room.
And he was right, damn him. If he left the door unguarded, she knew it wasn't an escape route at all.
He lowered himself into the padded oxblood leather chair behind the imposing desk. "Miss Oldrich," he repeated. With a nod at one of the two chairs across from him. "Please seat yourself."
She could give orders, too. "Take me back to my parents."
He flicked his eyes to the computer screen. Like she didn't matter. "That is not possible."
"Explain."
That made him look back at her. Perhaps with a bit more interest. And a muscle tic in his jaw. Apparently no one talked to him that way.
Oh well, she thought, with an unsympathetic mental shrug.
He leaned back in his chair. "I can have a drink brought to you, if you desire."
I desire a lot of things, she nearly said. But that didn't sound quite right, and she managed to swallow the words before they came out.
Instead, she just waited. For that explanation, he owed her. And just for fun, she crossed her arms under her boobs, shoving them up in a way she knew nine out of ten guys liked.
"Please, sit."
The phrase had the word please in it, and yet still sounded like an order.
"Do I have a choice?"
He lowered his eyelids. "You may stand for our interview if you please, but your feet may become weary, as you may be here for some time."
As much as she wanted to defy him, the balance of power tilted toward him. Not the time for defiance. She took up the chair and gave him her best death stare. "Define here."
"You come to the crux of the matter, Miss Oldrich." As he placed his arm on the desk, the lamp's glow glinted off the signet ring on his pinky, treating her to a flash of ruby light. "It is my pleasure to invite you to join us in the Red Palace for a stay of unknown duration. I am not, however, extending the same honor to your father and his wife."
Handcuffed to the Sheikh, Too Page 20