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The next morning Elena had sent a letter to Aziz, suggesting they meet. He’d agreed and, with a candour borne of urgency, they’d laid out their respective positions. Elena needed a husband to satisfy her Council; Aziz needed to marry within six weeks of his father’s death or he forfeited his title. They’d agreed to wed. They’d agreed to a convenient and loveless union that would give them the spouses they needed and children as heirs, one for Kadar, one for Thallia.
It was a mercenary approach to both marriage and parenthood and, if she’d been an ordinary woman, or even an ordinary queen, she would have wanted something different for her life. But she was a queen hanging onto her kingdom by a mere thread, and marriage to Aziz al Bakir had felt like the only way to keep clinging.
But for that to happen, she had to get married. And to get married, she had to escape.
She couldn’t get out of the car, so she needed to wait. Watch. Learn her enemy.
‘What is your name?’ she asked. The man didn’t even look at her.
‘My name is Khalil.’
‘Why have you taken me?’
He slid her a single, fathomless glance. ‘We’re almost at our destination, Your Highness. Your questions will be answered there, after we are both refreshed.’
Fine. She’d wait. She’d stay calm and in control and look for the next opportunity to gain her freedom. Even so terror caught her by the throat and held on. She’d felt this terrible, numbing fear before, as if the world were sliding by in slow motion, everything slipping away from her as she waited, frozen, disbelieving that this was actually happening...
No, this was not the same as before. She wouldn’t let it be. She was queen of a country, even if her throne was all too shaky a seat. She was resourceful, courageous, strong.
She would get out of this. Somehow. She refused to let some rebel insurgent wreck her marriage...or end her reign as queen.
* * *
Khalil al Bakir glanced again at the woman by his side. She sat straight and tall, her chin lifted proudly, her pupils dilated with fear.
Admiration for the young queen flickered reluctantly through him. Her attempt at escape had been reckless and laughable, but also brave, and he felt an unexpected sympathy for her. He knew what it was like to feel both trapped and defiant. Hadn’t he, as a boy, tried to escape from his captor, Abdul-Hafiz, as often as he could, even though he’d known how fruitless such attempts would be? Deep in the desert, there had been no place for a young boy to run or hide. Yet still he’d tried, because to try was to fight, and to fight was to remind yourself you were alive and had something to fight for. The scars on his back were testament to his many failed attempts.
Queen Elena would have no such scars. He would not be accused of ill-treating his guest, no matter what the frightened monarch might think. He intended to keep her for only four days, until the six weeks had passed and Aziz would be forced to relinquish his claim to the throne and call a national referendum to decide who the next sheikh would be.
Khalil intended to be that man.
Until that moment, when the vote had been called and he sat on the throne that was rightfully his, he would not rest easy. But then, he’d never rested easy, not since the day when he’d been all of seven years old and his father had dragged him out of his lesson with his tutor, thrown him onto the sharp stones in front of the Kadaran palace and spat in his face.
‘You are not my son.’
It was the last time he’d ever seen him, his mother, or his home.
Khalil closed his eyes against the memories that still made his fists clench and bile rise in his throat. He would not think of those dark days now. He would not remember the look of disgust and even hatred on the face of the father he’d adored, or the anguished cries of his mother as she’d been dragged away, only to die just a few months later from a simple case of the flu because she’d been denied adequate medical care. He wouldn’t think of the terror he’d felt when he’d been shoved in the back of a van and driven to a bleak desert outpost, or the look of cruel satisfaction on Abdul-Hafiz’s face when he’d been thrown at his feet like a sack of rubbish.
No, he wouldn’t think of any of that. He’d think of the future, the very promising future, when he, the son his father had rejected in favour of his mistress’s bastard, would sit on the throne of the kingdom he’d been born to rule.
Next to him, he felt Queen Elena tremble.
Twenty taut minutes later the SUV pulled up at the makeshift camp Khalil had called home for the last six months, ever since he’d returned to Kadar. He opened the door and turned to Elena, who glared at him in challenge.
‘Where have you taken me?’
He gave her a cold smile. ‘Why don’t you come out and see for yourself?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took hold of her wrist. Her skin was soft and cold and she let out a muffled gasp as he drew her from the car.
She stumbled on a stone as she came to her feet, and as he righted her he felt her breasts brush his chest. It had been a long time since he’d felt the soft touch of a woman, and his body responded with base instinct, his loins tightening as desire flared deep inside. Her hair, so close to his face, smelled of lemons.
Firmly Khalil moved her away from him. He had no time for lust and certainly not with this woman.
His right-hand man, Assad, emerged from another vehicle. ‘Your Highness.’ Elena turned automatically, and Khalil smiled in grim satisfaction. Assad had been addressing him, not the unruly queen. Even though he had not officially claimed his title, those loyal to him still addressed him as if he had.
He’d been surprised and gratified at how many were loyal to him, when they had only remembered a tousle-haired boy who’d been dragged crying and gibbering from the palace. Until six months ago, he had not been in Kadar since he’d been ten years old. But people remembered.
The desert tribes, bound more by tradition than the people of Siyad, had always resented Sheikh Hashem’s rash decision to discard one wife for a mistress no one had liked, and a son he’d already publicly declared illegitimate. When Khalil had returned, they’d named him sheikh of his mother’s tribe and had rallied around him as the true ruling Sheikh of Kadar.
Even so, Khalil trusted no one. Loyalties could change on a whim. Love was capricious. He’d learned those lessons all too painfully well. The only person he trusted now was himself.
‘Queen Elena and I would like some refreshment,’ he told Assad in Arabic. ‘Is there a tent prepared?’
‘Yes, Your Highness.’
‘You can debrief me later. For now, I’ll deal with the Queen.’ He turned to Elena, whose panicked gaze was darting in every direction, her body poised for flight.
‘If you are thinking of running away,’ he told her calmly, switching to English as the language they both knew, ‘don’t bother. The desert stretches for hundreds of miles in every direction, and the nearest oasis is over a day’s ride by camel. Even if you managed to leave the camp, you would die of thirst, if not a snake or scorpion bite.’
Queen Elena glared at him and said nothing. Khalil gestured her forward. ‘Come, have some refreshment, and I will answer your questions as I promised.’
Elena hesitated and then, clearly knowing she had no choice, she nodded and followed him across the camp.
* * *
Elena took stock of her surroundings as she walked behind Khalil. A few tents formed a rough semi-circle; she could see some horses and camels tethered to a post under a lean-to. The wind blew sand into her face and her hair into her mouth.
She held her hands up to her face, tried to blink the grit out of her eyes. Khalil pushed back the folds of the tent and ushered her inside.
Elena took a steadying breath, trying to compose herself. The only thing she could do now was learn as much as she could, and choose her moment well.
Khalil moved to the other side of the tent, gesturing to an elegant teakwood table and low chairs with embroidered cushions. The outside of the tent had been basic, but the interior, Elena saw as her gaze darted around, was luxurious, with silk and satin furnishings and carpets.
‘Please, sit down.’
‘I want answers to my questions.’
Khalil turned to face her. A small smile curved his mouth but his eyes were cold. ‘Your defiance is admirable, Your Highness, but only to a certain extent. Sit.’
She knew she needed to pick her battles. Elena sat. ‘Where is Sheikh Aziz?’
Irritation flashed across his chiselled features and then he gave a little shrug. ‘Aziz is presumably in Siyad, waiting for you.’
‘He’ll be expecting me—’
‘Yes,’ Khalil cut her off smoothly. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘He received a message that you were delayed.’ Khalil spread his hands, his eyes glittering with what felt like mockery. ‘No one is looking for you, Your Highness. And, by the time they are, it will be too late.’
The implication was obvious, and it made her breathless with shock, her vision blurring so she reached out and grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. Calm. She needed to stay calm.
She heard Khalil swear softly. ‘I did not mean what you obviously think I meant.’
She looked up, her vision clearing as she gazed up at him. Even scowling he was breathtaking; everything about him was lean and graceful. Predatory. ‘You mean you aren’t going to kill me,’ she stated flatly.
‘I am neither a terrorist nor a thug.’
‘Yet you kidnap a queen.’
He inclined his head. ‘A necessary evil, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t believe any evil is necessary,’ Elena shot back. She took another steadying breath. ‘So what are you going to do with me?’
It was a question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered, yet she knew ignorance was dangerous. Better to know the danger, the enemy. Know your enemies and know yourself, and you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles.
‘I’m not going to do anything with you,’ Khalil answered calmly. ‘Except keep you here in, I hope, moderate comfort.’
One of the guards came with a tray of food. Elena glanced at the platter of dates and figs, the flat bread and the bowls of creamy dips, and then looked away again. She had no appetite, and in any case she would not eat with her enemy.
‘Thank you, Assad,’ Khalil said, and the man bowed and left.
Khalil crouched on his haunches in front of the low table where Assad had set the tray. He glanced up at Elena, those amber eyes seeming almost to glow. They really were the most extraordinary colour. With his dark hair and tawny eyes, that lean, predatory elegance, he was like a leopard, or perhaps a panther—something beautiful and terrifying. ‘You must be hungry, Queen Elena.’
‘I am not.’
‘Then thirsty, at least. It is dangerous not to drink in the desert.’
‘It is dangerous,’ Elena countered, ‘to drink in the presence of your enemies.’
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Very well, then. I shall drink first.’
She watched as he poured what looked like some kind of fruit juice from an earthen pitcher into two tall tumblers. He picked up the first and drank deeply from it, the sinuous muscles of his throat working as he swallowed. He met her gaze over the rim of his glass, his eyes glinting in challenge.
‘Satisfied?’ he murmured as he lowered his glass.
Elena’s throat ached with thirst and was scratchy from the sand. She needed to stay hydrated if she was going to plan an escape, so she nodded and held out her hand.
Khalil handed her the glass and she sipped the juice; it was both tart and sweet, and deliciously cool.
‘Guava,’ he told her. ‘Have you had it before?’
‘No.’ Elena put the glass back down on the table. ‘Now I am refreshed.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So you intend to keep me here in the desert—for how long?’
‘A little less than a week. Four days, to be precise.’
Four days. Elena’s stomach knotted. In four days the six weeks Aziz had been given to marry would be up. He would lose his right to his title, and Khalil must know that. He must be waiting for a chance to seize power.
‘And then?’ she asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘That is not your concern.’
‘What will you do with me?’ Elena rephrased, and Khalil sat down in a low-slung chair richly patterned with wool, regarding her with a rather sleepy consideration over the tips of his steepled fingers. Elena felt her frayed nerves start to snap.
‘Let you go, of course.’
‘Just like that?’ She shook her head, too suspicious to feel remotely relieved. ‘You’ll be prosecuted.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You can’t just kidnap a head of state.’
‘And yet I have.’ He took a sip of juice, his gaze resting thoughtfully on her. ‘You intrigue me, Queen Elena. I must confess, I’ve wondered what kind of woman Aziz would choose as his bride.’
‘And are you satisfied?’ she snapped. Stupid. Where was her calm, her control? She’d been teetering on a tightrope for her entire reign; was she really going to fall off now?
But maybe she already had.
Khalil smiled faintly. ‘I am not remotely satisfied.’
His gaze held her and she saw a sudden gleam of masculine intent and awareness flicker in his eyes. To her surprise and shame, she felt an answering thrill of terror—and something else. Something that wasn’t fear, but rather...anticipation. Yet, of what? She wanted nothing from this man but her freedom.
‘And I won’t be satisfied,’ Khalil continued, ‘until Aziz is no longer on the throne of Kadar and I am.’
‘So you are one of the rebel insurgents Aziz mentioned.’
For a second Khalil’s gaze blazed fury but then he merely inclined his head. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Why should you be on the throne?’
‘Why should Aziz?’
‘Because he is the heir.’
Khalil glanced away, his expression veiled once more. ‘Do you know the history of Kadar, Your Highness?’
‘I’ve read something of it,’ she answered, although the truth was her knowledge of Kadaran history was sketchy at best. There hadn’t been time for more than a crash course in the heritage of the country of her future husband.
‘Did you know it was a peaceful, prosperous nation for many years—independent, even, when other countries buckled under a wider regime?’
‘Yes, I did know that.’ Aziz had mentioned it, because her own country was the same; a small island in the Aegean Sea between Turkey and Greece, Thallia had enjoyed nearly a thousand years of peaceful, independent rule.
And she would not be the one to end it.
‘Perhaps you also know, then, that Sheikh Hashem threatened the stability of Kadar with the rather unusual terms of his will?’ He turned back to her, raising his eyebrows, a little smile playing about his mouth.
Elena found her gaze quite unreasonably drawn to that mouth, to those surprisingly lush and sculpted lips. She forced herself to look upwards and met Khalil’s enquiring gaze. There was no point, she decided, in feigning ignorance. ‘Yes, I am well aware of the old Sheikh’s stipulation. It’s why I am here to marry Sheikh Aziz.’
