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‘It’s not.’
There was another moment of silence before he could bring himself to speak. ‘And what did you tell the journalist?’
She scraped her fingers back through her blonde hair and smirked. ‘I told him the truth. No need to look so scared, Suleiman. I mean, who in their right mind could possibly object to the truth?’
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said, biting the words out from between gritted teeth. ‘I am not scared—of anyone or anything. I think you may be in danger of mistaking my anger for fear, though perhaps you would do well to feel fear yourself. Because if the Sultan finds out that you have spoken to the western press, then things are going to get very tricky. So I shall ask you again and this time I want a straight answer—what exactly did you tell the journalist?’
Sara stared into the spitting blackness of his eyes and some of her bravado wavered, until she told herself that she wasn’t going to be intimidated. She had worked too hard and too long to forge a new life to allow these powerful men to control her. These desert men who would crush your very spirit if you allowed them to do so. So she wouldn’t let them.
Even her own mother—who had married a desert king and had loved him—had felt imprisoned by ancient royal rules which hadn’t changed for centuries and probably never would. Sara had witnessed for herself that sometimes love just wasn’t enough. So what chance would a marriage have if there was no love at all?
Her mother’s unhappiness had been the cause of her father’s ruination—and had ultimately governed Sara’s own fate. She hadn’t known that Papa was so obsessed by his English wife that he hadn’t paid proper attention to governing his country. Sara remembered that all too vividly. The Queen had been his possession and nothing else had really existed for him, apart from that.
He had taken his eye off the ball. Poor investments and a border war which went on too long meant that his country was left bankrupt. The late Sultan of Qurhah had come up with a deal for a bail-out plan and the price had been Sara’s hand in marriage.
When Sara’s mother had died and she had been allowed to go off to boarding school—hadn’t she thought that her father’s debt would just be allowed to fade with time? Hadn’t she been naïve and hopeful enough to think that the Sultan might just forget all about marrying her, as his own father had decreed he should?
Blinking back the sudden threat of tears, Sara tried to ignore the fierce expression on Suleiman’s face. She was not going to be made to feel guilty—when all she was doing was trying to save her own skin. And ultimately she would be doing the Sultan a favour—for surely it would damage the ego of such a powerful man if she was forced kicking and screaming to the altar.
‘I am waiting,’ he said, with silky venom, ‘for you to enlighten me. What did you tell the journalist, Sara?’
She met the accusation in his eyes. ‘I told him everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes! I thought it would make a good story,’ she said. ‘At a time of year when newspapers are traditionally very light on news and—’
‘What did you tell him?’ he raged.
‘I told him the truth! That I was a half-blood princess—half English and half Dhi’banese. You know the papers—they just love any kind of royal connection!’ She forced a mocking smile, knowing that it would irritate him and wondering if irritating him was only a feeble attempt to suppress her desire for him. Because if it was, it wasn’t working. ‘I told him that my mother travelled as an artist to Dhi’ban, to paint the beautiful desert landscape—and that my father, the king, had fallen in love with her.’
‘Why did you feel it necessary to parade your private family history to a complete stranger?’
‘I’m just providing the backstory, Suleiman,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows you need a good backstory if you want an entertaining read. Anyway, it’s all there on record.’
‘You are severely testing my patience,’ he said. ‘You had no right to divulge these things!’
‘Surely the Sultan wouldn’t mind me discussing it?’ she questioned innocently. ‘This is a marriage we’re talking about, Suleiman—and marriages are supposed to be happy occasions. I say supposed to be, but that’s quite a difficult concept to pull off when the bride is being kidnapped! I have to say that the journalist seemed quite surprised when I told him that I had no say in this marriage. No, when I come to think of it—surprise is the wrong word. I’d say that astonished covered it better. And deeply shocked, of course.’
‘Shocked?’
‘Mmm. He seemed to find it odd—abhorrent, even—that the Sultan of Qurhah should want to marry a woman who had been bought for him by his own father!’
She saw his fists clench.
‘That is the way of the world you were brought into,’ he said unequivocably. ‘None of us can change the circumstances of our birth.’
‘No, we can’t. But that doesn’t mean we have to be made prisoners by it. We can use everything in our power to change our destinies! Can’t you see that, Suleiman?’
‘No!’
‘Yes,’ she argued passionately. ‘Yes and a thousand times yes!’ Her heart began to race as she saw something written on his carved features which made her stomach turn to jelly. Was it anger? Was it?
But anger would not have made him shake his head, as if he was trying to shake off thoughts of madness. Nor to make that little nerve flicker so violently at his olive-skinned temple. He took a step towards her and, for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was about to pull her into his arms, the way he’d done on the night of her brother’s coronation.
And didn’t she want that? Wasn’t she longing for him to do just that, only this time not stop? This time they were alone and he could lie her down in front of that log fire and loosen her clothes and...
But he didn’t touch her. He stood a tantalisingly close distance away while his eyes sparked dark fire at her. She could see him swallowing, as if he had something bitter lodged in his throat.
‘You must accept your destiny,’ he said. ‘As I have accepted mine.’
‘Have you? Did “accepting your destiny” include kissing me on the night my brother was crowned, even though you knew I was promised to another?’
‘Don’t say that!’
The strangled words sounded almost powerless and Sara realised she’d never heard Suleiman sound like that before. Not even after he’d returned from his undercover duties in the Qurhah army, when he’d been thirty pounds lighter with a scar zigzagging down his neck. People said he’d been tortured, but if he had he never spoke of it—well, never to her. She remembered being profoundly shocked by his appearance and she felt a similar kind of shock washing over her now.
For it was not like looking at Suleiman she knew of old. It was like looking at a stranger. A repressed and forbidding stranger. His features had closed up and his eyes were hooded. Had she really thought he was about to kiss her? Why, kissing looked like the furthest thing on his mind.
‘We will not speak of that night again,’ he said.
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ she questioned. ‘You weren’t so moralistic when you touched me like that.’
‘Because most men would have died rather than resist you that night,’ he admitted bitterly. ‘And I chose not to die. I hadn’t seen you for six long years and then I saw you, with your big painted eyes and your silver gown, shining like the moon.’
Briefly, Suleiman closed his eyes, because that kiss had been like no other, no matter how much he had tried to deny it. It hadn’t just been about sex or lust. It had been much more powerful than that, and infinitely more dangerous. It had been about feeding a hunger as fundamental as the need to eat or drink. It had felt as necessary as breathing. And yet it had angered him, because it had seemed outside his control. Up until that moment he had regarded the young princess with nothing more than indulgent friendship. What had happened that night had taken him completely by surprise. He swallowed. Perhaps that was why it had been the most unforgettable kiss of his life.
‘Didn’t you realise how much I wanted you that night, Sara, even though you were promised to the Sultan? Were you not aware of your own power?’
‘So it was all my fault?’
‘No. It is not your “fault” that you looked beautiful enough to test the appetites of a saint. I blame no one but myself for my unforgivable weakness. But it is a weakness which will never be repeated,’ he ground out. ‘And yes, I blame you if you have now given an interview which will bring shame on the reputation of the Sultan and his royal house.’
‘Then ask him to set me free,’ she said simply. ‘To let me go. Please, Suleiman.’
Suleiman met the appeal in her big violet eyes and for a moment he almost wavered. For wasn’t it a terrible crime to see the beautiful and spirited Sara forced to marry a man she did not love? Could he really imagine her lying in the marital bed and submitting to the embraces of a man she claimed not to want? And then he told himself that Murat was a legendary lover. And even though it made him feel sick to acknowledge it—it was unlikely that Sara would lie unresponsive in Murat’s bed for too long.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said, but the words felt like stone as he let them fall from his lips. ‘I can’t allow you to reject the Sultan; I would be failing in my duty if I did. It is a question of pride.’
‘Pride!’ Angrily, she shook her head. ‘What price pride? What if I refuse to allow him to consummate the marriage?’ she challenged. ‘What then? Won’t he skulk away to his harem and take his pleasure elsewhere?’
He flinched as if she had hit him. ‘This discussion has become completely inappropriate,’ he bit out angrily. ‘But you would be wise to consider the effect of your actions on your brother, the King—even though I know you never bother to visit him. There are some in your country who wonder whether the King still has a sister, so rarely does she set foot in her homeland.’
‘My relationship with my brother is none of your business—and neither are my trips home!’
‘Maybe not. But you would do well to remember that Qurhah continues to shoulder some of your country’s national debt. How would your brother feel if the Sultan were to withdraw his financial support because of your behaviour?’
‘You bastard,’ she hissed, but she might as well have been whispering on the wind, for all the notice he took.
‘My skin is thick enough to withstand your barbed comments, princess. I am delivering you to the Sultan and nothing will prevent that. But first, I want the name of the journalist you’ve been dealing with.’
She made one last stab at rebellion. ‘And if I won’t tell you?’
‘Then I will find out for myself,’ he said, in a tone which made a shiver trickle down her spine. ‘Why not save me the time and yourself my anger?’
‘You’re a brute,’ she breathed. ‘An egocentric brute.’
‘No, Sara, I just want the story spiked.’
Frustration washed over her as she recognised that he meant business. And that she was fighting a useless battle here.
‘His name is Jason Cresswell,’ she said sulkily. ‘He works for the Daily View.’
‘Good. Perhaps you are finally beginning to see sense. You might learn that co-operation is infinitely more preferable to rebellion. Now leave me while I speak with him in private.’ He glanced at her as he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.
‘Go and get your coat on. Because after I’ve finished with the journalist we’re heading for the airfield, where the plane is waiting to take you to your new life in Qurhah.’
CHAPTER THREE (#uf3217de5-5ea5-58c9-ba8e-a609f28a72d3)
THE FLIGHT WAS smooth and the aircraft supremely comfortable but Suleiman couldn’t sleep. For the past seven hours during the journey to Qurhah, he had been kept awake by the tormenting thoughts of what he was doing.
He felt his heart clench. What was he doing?
Taking a woman to a man she did not love.
A woman he wanted for himself.
Restlessly, he moved noiselessly around the craft, wishing that there were somewhere to look other than at the sleeping Sara. But although he could have joined the two pilots in the cockpit or tried to rest in the sealed-off section at the far end of the plane, neither option appealed. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from her.
He wondered if the silent female servants who were sitting sentry had noticed the irresistible direction of his gaze. Or the fact that he had not left the side of the sleeping princess. But he didn’t care—for who would dare challenge him?
He had fulfilled the first part of his task by getting Sara on board the plane. He just wished he could shake off this damned feeling of guilt.
Their late exit from the cottage into the driving rain had left her soaking wet for she had stubbornly refused to use the umbrella he’d opened for her. And as she had sat shivering beside him in the car he’d fought the powerful urge to pull her into his arms and to rub at her cold flesh until she was warm again. But he had vowed that he would not touch her again.
He could never touch her again.
He let his eyes drift over her.
Stretched out in the wide aircraft seat in her crumpled jeans and sweater, she should have looked unremarkable but that was the very last thing she looked. He felt his gut tighten. The sculpted angles of her bone structure hinted at her aristocratic lineage and her eyelashes were naturally dark. Even her blonde hair, which had dried into tousled strands, looked like layered starlight.
She was beautiful.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
His heart clenched as he turned away, but his troubled thoughts continued to plague him.
He knew the Sultan’s reputation. He knew that he was a charismatic man where women were concerned and that most of his former lovers still yearned for him. But Murat the Mighty was a desert man and he believed in destiny. He would marry the princess who had been chosen for him, for to do otherwise would be to renege on an ancient pact. He would marry and take his new bride back to the Qurhahian palace. He would think nothing of it.
Suleiman winced as he tried to imagine Sara being closed off for ever in the Sultan’s gilded world and felt a terrible darkness enter his heart.
He heard the small sound she made as she stirred, blinking open her eyes to look at him so that he found himself staring into dark pools of violet ink.
Sitting up, she pushed her tousled hair away from her face. Was she aware that he had been watching her while she slept, and that it had felt unbelievably intimate to do so? Would she be shocked to know that he had imagined moving aside the cashmere blanket and climbing in beside her?
She lifted her arms above her head to yawn and in that moment she looked so free that another wave of guilt washed over him.
What would she be like when she’d had her wings clipped by the pressures and the demands of her new position as Sultana? Did she realise that never again would she wear her faded blue jeans or move around anonymously as she had done in London? Did she realize—as he now did—that this trip was the last time he would ever be permitted to be alone with her?
‘You’re awake,’ he said.
‘Top marks for observation,’ she said, raking her fingers back through her hair to subdue it. ‘Gosh, the Sultan must miss having you around if you come out with inspirational gems like that, Suleiman.’
‘Are you going to be impertinent for the rest of the journey?’
‘I might. If I feel like it.’
‘Would a little tea lighten your mood, princess?’
Sara shrugged, wondering whether anything could lighten her mood at that precise moment. Because this was fast becoming like her worst nightmare. She had been bundled onto the plane, with the Sultan’s staff bowing and curtseying to her as soon as she had set foot on the private jet. These days she wasn’t used to being treated like a princess and it made her feel uncomfortable. She had seen the surreptitious glances which had come shooting her way. Were they thinking: Here’s the princess who ran away? Or were they thinking what an unworthy wife she would make for their beloved Sultan?
But the most troubling aspect was not that she was being taken somewhere against her will, to marry a man she didn’t love. It was the stupid yearning feeling she got whenever she looked at Suleiman’s shuttered features and found herself wishing that he would lose the uptight look and just kiss her. She found herself longing for the closeness of yesteryear, instead of this strange new tenseness which surrounded him.
She could guess why he was behaving so coolly towards her, but that didn’t seem to alleviate this terrible aching which was gnawing away at her heart, despite all her anger and confusion.
‘So. How did your “chat” with the journalist go?’ she asked. ‘Did he agree to kill the story?’
‘He did.’ He slanted her a triumphant look. ‘I managed to convince him that your words were simply a heightened version of the normal nerves of a bride-to-be.’
‘So you bribed him, I suppose? Offered him riches beyond his wildest dreams not to publish?’
Suleiman smiled. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Frustratedly, Sara sank back against the cushions and watched Suleiman raise his hand in command, instantly bringing one of the servants scurrying over to take his order for tea. He was so easy with power, she thought. He acted as if he’d been born to it—which as far as she knew, he hadn’t. She knew that he’d been schooled alongside the Sultan, but that was all she did know—because he was notoriously cagy about his past. He’d once told her that the strongest men were those who kept their past locked away from prying eyes—and while she could see the logic in that, it had always maddened her that she hadn’t known more about what made him tick.
She took a sip of the fragrant camomile brew she was handed before putting her cup down to study him. ‘You say you’re no longer working for the Sultan?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So what are you doing instead? Doesn’t your new boss mind you flitting off to England like this?’
‘I don’t have a boss. I don’t answer to anyone, Sara. I work for myself.’
‘Doing what—providing bespoke kidnap services for reluctant brides?’
‘I thought we’d agreed to lose the hysteria.’
‘Doing what?’ she persisted.
