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‘Princess Aisha?’
CHAPTER FIVE
THE flowers fell from her hand as she turned, the vizier behind her bowing respectfully. ‘One of the maids saw you walking. Is there something in particular you were looking for, Princess?’ He glanced across at the pool, and she followed his gaze to where all four men were now gathered at the near end, laughing together, all four of them bronzed and built, with strong masculine features, all of them impressive in their own way. Once again she wondered whether they might be the same men who had helped pluck her from Mustafa last night. Her gaze returned to the enigma that was Zoltan. There was something about him that set him apart and that caused her pulse to trip. ‘You are a long way from your suite.’
She turned to see him watching her. ‘I was enchanted by the garden,’ she said, her cheeks blazing with embarrassment at being caught peering covertly from the shadows and now openly staring. ‘I did not know where the path would lead me. I was about to head back.’
He nodded. ‘Rani has brought your meal. Perhaps you would permit me to show you back to your suite?’ he said, and she knew it wasn’t a question. She also knew she wasn’t about to refuse.
‘Of course,’ she said, wanting to be as far away from the mystery that was Zoltan—the laughing barbarian with the gleaming skin, the man who would be her husband tomorrow—as she could get.
‘Princess!’
Too late.
She felt his call in a searing sizzle of heat down her spine, guilt-stricken that she had been discovered, a voyeur in the shadows, and not only by the vizier but now by Zoltan himself.
She wondered how much humiliation it was humanly possible to suffer in one day, for right now, the supply seemed endless. And this time she had no-one to blame but her own wretched curiosity.
Would he be angry with her for spying on him? Or would he laugh at her, the way he did, with unsubtle jibes, mocking words and that unmistakable upturn of his lips?
Either way, she hated him all the more for it. And she hated her own stupid lack of judgement for not leaving the moment she had realised he was here. Hated that he made her feel so off-balance and uncertain. Hated that he so badly affected her judgement.
She dragged in the scented air as she turned, praying for strength, steeling herself for the confrontation.
But nothing could have prepared her for the full impact of that near-naked body approaching. Her mouth went dry, her heart rate doubled and kept right on going, and her eyes didn’t know where to look. He was so big, his glistening golden-olive skin beaded with moisture, his chest sprinkled with black hair circling dark nipples before arrowing south, over a taut, hard-packed torso …
She dared not look too far south. Instead she focused on the white towel he had picked up and which he now used to pat his face dry as droplets continued to rain from the slicked-back tendrils of his hair. But the snowy whiteness of the towel only served to highlight the rich glow of his skin, to contrast against the darkness of his features, and would have been of much more help to her right now if he lashed it firmly around his waist.
‘You should have brought your swimsuit if you wanted a swim,’ he said, dismissing the vizier with a brief nod over her shoulder, before taking in the cool shell-top and her bare arms.
She realised he was not angry, as she had feared he might be, but was laughing at her again. Right now she would have preferred the anger.
‘Unless of course,’ he added, his dark eyes raking over her heated face, ‘you prefer swimming au naturel?’
‘No!’ Her prissy-sounding outburst escaped before she could stop it, just as she could no more prevent her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. The thought of being any more exposed to his scrutiny than she already was made her skin tingle and goose bump. But the thought of being naked in the same pool with him triggered an entirely new and more potent kind of reaction. She could already imagine the feel of the water cool against her tight nipples, the pull of the water tugging at her curls as it slipped between her aching, heated thighs.
She squeezed her legs together, wishing to God she’d bothered to find her jacket so that he might not witness any more of her body’s reaction to his presence, crossing her arms over her breasts so that they could not betray her. ‘I was just going for a walk,’ she said, her nails pressing into her arms, harder and deeper, while she wished fervently that he would use that damned towel and cover himself, if only so she was not so tempted to look there. ‘To clear my head.’
‘A good plan,’ he conceded, dashing her hopes when he balled the towel in one fist and flung it to one side. Yet another reason to hate him, she told herself, for any reasonable man would surely cover himself up in front of a lady—a princess. But this was clearly no reasonable man. He was a barbarian who had treated her, and continued to treat her, appallingly. Definitely a barbarian, arrogant, self-assured and clearly used to parading near-naked around women. So what if he managed to look almost human when he smiled and when he laughed? He did not smile for her, he did not laugh with her.
This man laughed at her.
And she hated him for it.
She might have told him that too, but just then he reached down before her and picked up the flowers she had dropped and long forgotten. ‘It is a good time to walk in the garden. All the evening flowers send out their perfume to sweeten our sleep and make us forget the heat of the day and let us dream of cooler seasons.’ Then he held the floral sprigs to his nose, breathing in their heady scent, closing his eyes for a second, giving her the chance to study him more closely—his sooty lashes and brows, the strong blade of his nose and the three long, red marks left so unashamedly by her own raking nails. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, surprising her again. And then he looked across. ‘Did you drop them?’
When she nodded, because her throat was suddenly too tight to speak, he gently tugged one of the flowers and slipped it into the tumble of her hair behind her ear, presenting her with the rest of the scented bouquet.
‘I should go,’ she said, taking them and already backing away, disturbed beyond measure by even just the brush of his fingers in her hair, the touch of his fingers against hers. She was unsettled by his proximity and how it put all of her senses on high alert. Confused by a man who suddenly seemed once more like her rescuer of last night, the man whose warm body she had huddled against, rather than the barbarian who had attacked her today and so mercilessly dismantled her defences.
How could a man she hated on such a fundamental level stir such feelings within her?
For this was the same man, she battled to remind herself, the same ruthless man who had only rescued her so he could be king. But of course he could afford to look more relaxed now. He had no need to argue with her because he had got what he had wanted. He knew that she had been forced into compliance with this marriage, that she knew she had no choice. He knew she wasn’t going anywhere and that he had won.
He didn’t want a wife.
He just wanted to be king. She just happened to be the one who could make it possible. She was merely the means to an end.
Oh yes, there was good reason why he could laugh and smile with his friends now and afford to be more civil to her, and that knowledge only served to fuel the burning hatred she felt for him. Because he assumed she was a done deal. He assumed that, once her father had told her straight, she would do what she was required to do without any more complaint and become his compliant bride.
Like hell.
And that thought gave her strength.
It gave her back the power to be herself. ‘You are busy and I am interrupting,’ she said. But when she looked over to the pool and scanned its surrounds for the proof to support her argument, she found it empty, the sapphire surface of the water unbroken, his friends nowhere to be seen. She frowned. How had they left and she not even noticed? For now she was alone here with him, with him wearing nothing more than a stretch of black lycra. She looked down at the flowers in her hand and swallowed, trying hard to focus on them and not let her gaze wander from the detail of their cleverly sculpted petals, the delicate curve, the subtle shading of colours. Anything that might stop her gaze or her focus from wandering further afield where she might catch a glimpse of his powerful legs or that bulging band of black lycra hinting at what lay below. ‘I really have to go.’
‘So you said.’ He smiled, enjoying the start-again stop-again nature of her icy armour. For a moment she’d seemed to be regaining some composure, some of that haughtiness he’d witnessed in the library, but now once again she seemed unsure of herself, almost confused, like an actor having trouble staying in character.
How long had she been standing in the shadows watching? What had she been thinking that turned her cheeks such a deliciously guilty shade of red?
Whatever it was, she didn’t look haughty now, like she had when she had marched so erect and cold from the library. She looked shy and vulnerable, a woman again, rather than an ice princess. A woman who didn’t seem to know where to look.
‘Is something wrong, Princess? You seem—agitated.’
She looked up at him then, her once kohl-rimmed eyes now a smudgy grey and overflowing with exasperation. ‘You could cover yourself! I’m not used to talking to a near-naked man.’
‘Only watching them, apparently,’ he said, while secretly pleased to hear it. He didn’t want to think of her with other men. She would have had them. God, she was nearly twenty-four—of course she would have had them. But at least, unlike her sister, she had chosen to be discreet about them.
‘I didn’t know you were here!’
‘And when you did, you left immediately.’ He was already reaching for the towel he’d flung down earlier. In one smooth movement he had it wrapped low around his hips and knotted it tight. He held his hands out by his sides. ‘Is that better?’
‘A little,’ she said, though still her eyes skated away every chance they got. ‘Thank you. And now I must go.’
‘Stay a moment longer,’ he said, enjoying his prickly princess too much to let her go just yet. She was a strange one, this one, moving through a range of emotions and reactions too fast for him to keep up with or to understand, frustrating him to hell because he didn’t know what he was dealing with on the one hand, intriguing him on the other. ‘There are some friends of mine you should meet. Or meet again, without their masks this time.’ Then he glanced over his shoulder, wanting to call them over so that he could introduce them, surprised when he found they had disappeared without his noticing. More surprised that they were not already queued up to congratulate the woman who had left her mark on him not just once but twice in the space of twenty-four hours.
Maybe they had realised that this was his battle and his alone and it was better to leave him to it. Not that they wouldn’t relish the opportunity to rub it in every chance they got.
But there would be time to introduce her to them tomorrow at the wedding and maybe by then the marks on his face and hand would have faded and they might have forgotten.
And maybe camels might grow wings and fly.
More likely they were just hoping that by tomorrow she might have added to his list of injuries.
‘Your friends have gone,’ she said. ‘And so must I.’
On an impulse he didn’t quite understand himself, but knowing his friends would understand a rapid change of plans, he almost asked her to dine with him.
Almost, except he stopped himself at the last moment. For the dinner he had planned with his friends would take no time at all, and then he would be back to his books and his study, which was where he needed to be if he was ever going to be prepared for the requirements of his new role.
Whereas dinner with this woman? Who knew where that would lead, given the startling turn events had taken today? He didn’t even know how it had happened. But he did remember the feel of her in his arms, the way she’d turned so suddenly from a rigid column of shock to lush feminine need with just one heated, molten kiss. Would he be tempted to linger if he dined with her to-night, tempted to make her truly his before she became his bride? It made no difference to him.
But then he remembered the cold slash of her claws down his cheek.
He did not need another reminder of how much she objected to this marriage, certainly not before the wedding. And they would be married soon enough. She would be his tomorrow night in every sense of the word, and he could wait that long. He didn’t need another battle at this stage, not when he had already won the war.
‘Then good night, Princess,’ he said with a bow. ‘Sleep well. And when next we meet, it will be at our marriage.’
And he let her go. He watched her turn and walk purposefully away from him, watched the sway of her hips as she moved through the arched walkway to where Hamzah joined her to guide her back to her suite along the archway walk.
He turned away before she disappeared, cursing duty and all that came with it—the duty that forced him into this situation, the duty that insisted he marry this particular woman at this particular time, the duty that meant he would spend his night trying to memorize a crusty old book rather than burying himself in the body of a woman who looked and walked like a goddess. A woman who apparently hated the thought of doing her duty even more than he did.
Or maybe she just needed a bit more time to get used to the idea. That would make sense. He’d had three days since being informed of the disaster and what its implications were—that he should prepare himself for the fact he could be the one to inherit the throne. She’d had little more than that number in hours. And, even though her father had told her there was no other course of action, of course she would still be in denial, wanting to wish away her fate.
So maybe it was a good thing he had not asked her to dine with him. Because now she would have this night by herself, this one last night to enjoy her freedom.
And tomorrow, and for all the nights that would follow, her duty would be clear. Her duty would be with him.
In his bed.
CHAPTER SIX
‘IT IS time, Princess.’
Startled, Aisha looked up from the cushioned seat where it seemed a hundred willing hands had been busy making the final adjustments to her veil and make-up until only a moment ago, whereas now she felt only the cold fingers of dread clawing at her insides. Surely it could not be time for the ceremony already? The day had passed in a blur of preparations, starting with a warm, oil-scented bath and moving on a seemingly never-ending conveyor-belt of sensual indulgences: a massage that had promised to soothe the tightness between her shoulders and yet had proved ultimately futile, before a facial, manicure and pedicure and the delicate, tickling touch of the henna artist creating golden swirling patterns on the backs of her hands and feet, a gesture of her acceptance of the Al-Jiradi ways.
It had all taken hours, yet surely it could not already be time? But the hands of the mantel clock offered no respite. Rani was right. The ceremony would begin in less than ten minutes.
She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling physically ill despite having barely eaten a thing all day.
‘Do not be nervous, Princess,’ reassured Rani. ‘You look beautiful.’ Clearly she mistook her reaction for normal pre-wedding jitters. But how could this be normal wedding nerves when most brides actually chose to get married? Or at least had a say in who they married. No, there was nothing normal about this marriage. Even if the mirror that Rani suddenly produced and held in front of her made her gasp.
She blinked, and looked again. Was that woman in the mirror, that woman adorned in golden robes, with her dark hair twisted with ropes of pearls and curled behind her head, really her? Her eyes looked enormous, rimmed with kohl and shimmering with glitter, her lips plumped and gloss-slicked ruby red. She looked every bit a real bride.
The enormity of what she was being forced into was like a lead weight on her chest. Married to a stranger. A despot.
A barbarian who cared nothing for her, but only what she could do for him.
What a waste it had been, feeling relief at escaping from Mustafa’s slimy-fingered clutches, for here she was, being forced to marry yet another arrogant captor.
One of the other women tinkered with the fall of her veil, while Rani searched her face for any flaws. ‘You look perfect, Princess. Sheikh Zoltan will not be able to resist his new wife.’
Oh hell! She jammed her lips shut. It was either that or bolt for the bathroom, with metres of golden embroidered silks fluttering in her wake, to throw up the few sips of sweet tea she had managed to swallow.
She clamped her eyes shut and concentrated, swallowing down on the urge, concentrating on her breathing. She would not let that happen. She was a princess of Jemeya, after all. She would not shame her father or her country in such a fashion.
Instead she willed her body to calm until she was back in control again, smiled the best she could at the waiting group of women all glowing with satisfaction with the results of their handiwork, and said with only a hint of irony, ‘Then we must not keep Sheikh Zoltan waiting.’
It was to be a brief affair—just a small gathering, she had been advised—in deference to the recent demise of the royal family, which was the reason why it was being held here at this palace rather than the Blue Palace. The actual coronation would be held there in a few more days after the traditional mourning period, but his wedding now would cement Zoltan as the next king.
The ceremony itself was painfully brief. Her stomach still in knots, she was led slowly to a gilded ballroom where both her father and Zoltan stood waiting for her at the front of a small gathering of guests and officials, already seated at low tables for the feasting to follow. She searched the faces looking at her but failed to find her sister amongst them and felt a bubble of disappointment that she hadn’t bothered or been able to attend. But that was her sister and it was half of why she loved her so much. Instead of following convention and trying to do the right thing, Marina made her own rules and lived by them, and she didn’t blame anyone else when they went wrong.
Maybe her sister had been right all along.
The attendees fell silent and rose as one as she arrived, and to the sound of music, the beat of drums, the stringed oud and the haunting ney reed pipe, she moved across the room and forward to her fate. Her father nodded and beamed at her approvingly, partly, she knew, the smile of a man who had not seen his daughter for a few days, but also the smile of a man who would keep his crown. And she could not find fault with him for that. He had been born to be king. He knew nothing else. Jemeya knew no other way.
Besides, he was her father and she loved him, and so she did her best to warm her frozen face and smile back, not sure whether she had succeeded.
The other man stood a good head taller, and she almost missed her step when she saw the evidence of her nails still clear on his cheek. She lifted her gaze higher, saw his dark, assessing eyes on her, and felt an instantaneous rush of heat blossom in her bones and suffuse her flesh with what she saw there.
Oh, there was still the resentment, hard-edged and critical and matching the unrelenting set of his jaw. There was still the smug satisfaction at achieving what he had set out to do in order to become king. But it was the savage heat she saw burning inside those eyes that started fires under her own skin. A savage desire.
For her.
Her gaze dropped to the floor as she took those final, fateful steps. She could not breathe. Could barely think. Was only half-aware as the music ceased except for the drumming, only to realise it was her own heartbeat she was hearing. And then someone—the vizier?—uttered something and took her hennaed right hand and placed it in her father’s palm. After barely a handful more words, her wrist was lifted and passed to Zoltan’s waiting hand and, as easily as that, it was done. She was married.
Somewhere outside a cannon boomed, while inside the music resumed, brighter now and faster, signalling the end of the formalities and the start of the wedding celebrations and the feasting to come, but the music washed over her; her father’s congratulations washed over her.
She was married.
They were led to their seats. She went as if in a daze, and all the time Zoltan kept hold of her hand, his warm fingers wound tightly around hers, almost as if he feared she would run if he let go. Foolish man. He should know there was nowhere for her to run now.
There was no escape.
She was married.
But she would not look at him, afraid that if she did she might once again witness that burning need and feel that potent reaction in her own body.
His thumb stroked her hand and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the warmth from his touch coursing up her arm. Why did he do that?
She did not want to feel this way. She hated him. She must not feel that way. And yet still her flesh tingled and burned, her breasts felt plumped and heavy and her thighs bore an unfamiliar ache …
It was not fair. And while she grappled with the reactions of a traitorous body, she was barely aware of the staff descending from every direction, filling glasses and delivering steaming platters until the table was sagging under the weight of food that she knew must smell wonderful and taste delicious. But she smelt nothing, could bring herself to taste nothing.
‘Perhaps you might smile,’ Zoltan leaned close to say.
Through the fog of her senses, she heard the bite in his voice, the rebuke, and it woke her from her stupor. This was Zoltan next to her, the barbarian sheikh. If she had witnessed need in his eyes, it was the need to possess her to take the crown of Al-Jirad. That was what she had witnessed in those greedy eyes. Nothing more.
She pulled her hand from his and used it to reach for her water so he could not take it back and stir her senses with the gentle stroke of his thumb again. ‘Perhaps I do not find reason to smile.’
‘This is our wedding day.’
She glared at him then, allowed her eyes to convey all the resentment and hatred she had for him and for being forced into this position. ‘Precisely!’ she hissed. ‘So it is not like there is anything to smile about.’
A muscle in his jaw popped. His eyes were as cold and flat as a slab of marble, and she knew at that moment he hated her, and she was glad. There would be no more hand stroking if she could help it.
She sipped her water, celebrating her good fortune, but her success and his fury were short-lived, his features softening at the edges as he scooped up a ripe peach from a tray of fruit. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, running his fingers over the velvet skin of the peach almost as if he was caressing it, holding it to his face to breathe in its fresh, sweet scent. ‘There’s always the anticipation of one’s wedding night to bring a smile to one’s face, wouldn’t you say?’
