Sheikhs: Rich, powerful desert kings and the women who bring them to their knees...

by Clare Connelly

  “Yes.” He reached forward and grabbed a teacup for himself. It looked completely incongruous in his enormous hands.

  Powerful hands.

  Hands that could bring pleasure or pain with great ease. The thought came to her from nowhere. She gulped it away. “But why?”

  Her breath felt like it was being squeezed out of her lungs. She sipped her fragrant tea to buy some time. “Because I don’t believe you have any right to question me,” she deliberately appeared to misunderstand.

  His lip lifted in a smile. “You don’t? Even when such power has been vested in me by the Sheikh himself?”

  Warmth stole into her cheeks. “I am a princess of Medouzan. And though my family no longer lays claim to that title, and has been forced to live in exile for many years, there are many who regard my claim to the throne as equal to the Sheikh’s.”

  A muscle flecked in his jaw at her provocative statement. She had intended to shock him. Attack was the best form of defence, after all.

  “Your family was deposed almost two hundred years ago. Do you still credit that ancient right?”

  She laughed softly. “Yes. And so does the Sheikh, or he would never have sought a Medouzan bride.”

  “He sought Tashana as his wife.”

  Her eyes fluttered shut at the reference to the woman she’d loved, more as a sister than a cousin. “And when she was murdered, he came to me.”

  He nodded slowly, his mind processing her comprehension of the situation. He tried a different tact. “It doesn’t offend you, then, to slip into the role meant for another woman? Knowing that you would be a consolation prize only?”

  She sipped her tea again. It was lemon and lavender, one of her favourite combinations. Perhaps because she had drunk it as a small child. “I would never try to replace Tasha,” she spoke softly, her voice imbued with all of the love and memories she held in her heart. “Nobody could.” She blinked rapidly to avoid the stinging tears that were cloying at her throat.

  Another breeze lifted off the desert, and this time, it carried the song of a bird, high pitched and warbling. She trained her eyes in the distance, taking comfort from the certainty that she was back where she belonged.

  “Our people have been at war for two centuries. Too many have died and been displaced in this ancient rivalry. Your Sheikh has shown great compassion and foresight in suggesting this marriage. Peace between the Tari’ell and Medouzan is greatly desired – on both sides.”

  “Yes,” he agreed in an undertone. “Peace is indeed a lofty goal.”

  Something about his voice showed cynicism. “You don’t agree.”

  “On the contrary, I have been a supporter of the union from the first. The war is futile. There can be no winner when the country is repeatedly plunging closer to poverty and unrest. A marriage between our two people makes sense.”

  “And yet you challenge it.”

  “Do I?” He queried silkily, leaning his powerful frame forward. The same sense of unease crept over her, hand in hand with a throbbing low in her abdomen.

  She made a small noise of agreement. “You are trying to get me to change my mind.”

  “I am making sure you know your own mind,” he clarified stonily. “This marriage will not be easy for someone like you.”

  “I doubt a royal marriage is easy for anyone,” she attempted to defuse the attention with a humorous observation.

  “Least of all for someone who has been raised as English.”

  She tilted her head to the side, in a habit she’d developed when she was deep in thought. “No, that can’t be it.”

  He raised his brows to encourage her to continue.

  “Tasha was also raised in London. My foreign-ness can’t explain your hostility.”

  “Am I hostile?”

  Her laugh was short and succinct. “Absolutely.”

  He ground his teeth together. “Your cousin had a year to prepare for this. She had a natural bent for performance, and she was looking forward to taking up this role.”

  Sally pursed her lips at his assertion. While Tashana had been as outgoing and confident as she’d appeared, the idea of the royal wedding had terrified her. It showed the depths of her courage that she’d agreed to it.

  He didn’t notice her shift in focus, and continued, “She was instructed in the ways of statehood. The arts of diplomacy and royalty. What about you?” He turned it back on her. “Why do you think you are qualified for this?”

  She swallowed, but her throat remained parched. “I don’t know,” she answered finally. “I can’t say. I’m not like Tasha.” Her frown brought small lines to her forehead. “She was effortlessly unique. I don’t believe, for even a moment, that I am more qualified than she. Not for a second would I claim to have a greater right to this than she did. Tasha would have been a wonderful Emira.” Tears threatened and she swallowed bravely. “But she died before she could have the chance to prove me right.”

  Sally focussed her shimmering green gaze on an arrangement of flowers on the other side of the balcony. She waited until her emotions had settled. “I am taking her place without any expectation of ever being more than a place holder.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m not an idiot. I know I don’t look like her. I know I’m not attractive in the ways she was.” She shook her head slowly. “But I am an Ibarra. I have the same blood in my veins. I hope that the Sheikh’s marriage to me will do exactly what his marriage to Tasha would have.”

  “Which is?” He pushed, not wanting to analyse her speech in greater detail.

  “To bring peace to our people. It’s all I want. We are more alike than we are different. You grew up to the west of the mountains, and I to the east. We heard the same nursery rhymes and the same songs. Our connection to the desert and these mountains is identical. We were raised staring at the same stars. My hope is that my marriage to your sheikh will remind people of our similarities.”

  He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, and was quiet for a long time. His eyes were locked to hers, clashing with her gentle softness as though he might be able to break her down with the strength of his look.

  The doors to the balcony were high and rounded at the top. To either side was a gold lion, modelled in a predatory stance. Their eyes glittered black, reminding her of the man opposite.

  “And what of love?”

  His question, after so long a stretch of silence, surprised her. “Love?” She couldn’t help the short laugh of surprise that escaped her lips.

  “Yes.” He was impatient. He leaned forward and she caught a hint of his cologne.

  It made her insides clench in fierce recognition. “Did the sheikh love Tashana?” The visage of her cousin clouded her eyes. She blinked to clear it.

  His smile was perfunctory. “He recognised her abilities.”

  Sally’s heart turned over. Be brave, she urged herself. “Abilities you do not believe I possess?”

  Exasperation flitted in his eyes. “You are twenty one.”

  “I’m aware of that fact,” she retorted waspishly.

  “The man you are hoping to marry is twenty eight. He has spent his whole life learning to rule this country.”

  Fascinated, Sally crossed her legs, a gesture that drew his attention – briefly – away from her face. “Learning is a funny thing. You can be endlessly trained for something, and still not know until the crucial moment whether you have the abilities required.” She swallowed her sigh. “I don’t doubt Tasha would have made an excellent Sheikha. She was brave and beautiful and kind and clever.” The wobble in her voice angered her. She took a pause to control her rioting emotions. “And their marriage would have had as good a chance as mine to bring about the beginning of peace. If Tasha lived, she would have married your Sheikh and I …”

  He leaned even further forward. “Yes.” It was a hiss. “What would you have done, had this not been thrust upon you?”

  Her smile was perfunctory. “I don’t know.”

  “I find it hard to believ
e that, at twenty one, you didn’t have a plan in place for the life you wanted to lead.”

  She matched his posture, leaning forward in her seat. “It’s not that I didn’t have a plan for my life. It’s that dwelling on it now serves no purpose.”

  He watched as she arranged her dainty features into a mask of defiance. There was something hauntingly lovely in her face, though initially he’d dismissed her as plain-looking. He had been wrong. Her eyes weren’t a mousey brown, they seemed to glow with the warmth of chocolate and gold. Her nose had a little lift at its tip, and her lips were generous and pale pink in colour. But would she be a suitable Sheikha?

  “You do not believe in love, like so many women of your culture?”

  “My culture?” She queried with a ringing clarity to her voice. “My culture is your culture, and yes I believe in love. I think it would be a sad, empty soul indeed which didn’t admit the existence of such a profound emotion.”

  Old wounds burned in his soul. “And yet you would marry a stranger despite this.”

  “I marry because of this,” she retorted with a ferociousness that completely surprised him. Under his dark watchfulness, she made a visible effort to regain her equilibrium. “Love comes in all shapes and sizes. I love my family and I love my country. This war must stop.” She furrowed her brow. “I’m not simplifying the problem. I know that one marriage alone will not have the power to erase decades of hate.”

  “So why do it?”

  She blinked at him as though he was mad. “Because someone has to do something.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “The Sheikh came up with this idea. And Tasha was brave enough to agree to it.”

  “So you are honouring her memory, in taking her place in the marriage?”

  “Yes.” She jutted her chin. “And I hope I don’t detect mockery in your tone.”

  He didn’t respond, leaving her wondering exactly how he viewed her decision.

  “What is it that worries you?” She asked quietly. “That I’ll fall in love with the Sheikh? Or that I’ll crave the love he won’t give me?”

  She’d surprised him. He was, momentarily, lost for words. “Both.”

  She drained her lukewarm tea and placed the cup down on the table. She’d been sitting for much of the day. From the flight to the car and now here. She stood, crossing to the edge of the balcony. Grass ran far beneath them, spreading into the distance until it met desert sands. The sun was low in the sky now, a shimmering ball against an azure blue backdrop.

  “You needn’t worry, on either score,” she said finally.

  “You are so certain you won’t come to love him?”

  She angled her face towards Kaman. “Nothing is certain,” she shrugged. “But I know this marriage is little more than a business transaction. Or a peace treaty, if you will. I’m being bartered – willingly – in the hope of bringing some unity to our people.”

  He settled back in his chair. She was petite and doll-like. Her long brown hair had been braided and wrapped around her head, forming a crown. She wore only a simple pair of diamond earrings and the engagement ring Kaman’s servant had delivered to her family. She toyed with it now.

  “An heir will be required. And sooner, rather than later.”

  The hint of colour that crept from her neck and into her cheeks fascinated him.

  “I anticipated as much.” The tip of her tongue darted out and traced her lower lip. Something heavy shifted in his chest. She was brave. The description exploded in his brain, and it was unwelcome.

  “And even this does not offend you?” He moved to her side, aware that their size difference must have made her uncomfortable.

  “I …” She lifted her clear eyes to his face and blinked away again almost immediately. “I would prefer to discuss that with the Sheikh.”

  His lips lifted in a tight smile. “And the Sheikh wishes me to discuss it with you now. You are young. And I presume inexperienced?”

  Her blush deepened and her eyes remained locked on the desert in the distance. Pink lips didn’t move.

  “You have no hesitation in conceiving a child almost as soon as you are married?”

  Her throat moved in a knot as she swallowed. “I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured finally.

  His eyes flared. “You don’t want a physical relationship? You believe a marriage in name alone will be enough to bring about peace?”

  Her expression was anguished. “I am willing to do whatever it takes to make this work,” she said haltingly.

  He shifted his position, so that their torsos were brushing. Startled eyes flew to his face. “What are you doing?”

  He dropped his focus to her lips. They were trembling slightly. Of its own accord, his thumb ran across her mouth. It was warm and soft beneath his touch. “Have you ever been kissed, Emira?”

  If it was possible, her expression became ever more alarmed. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

  “Even when the Sheikh has asked me to personally evaluate your suitability?”

  Her lips parted in surprise at the direction his statements were tending. And he moved. Dominating and swift, he crushed his mouth to hers, claiming her as his – though she wanted only to belong to the country and the people she loved so dearly. His tongue invaded her warm mouth, driving awareness into her body with every touch. It was a kiss that stopped everything. The air ceased to hum around them, birds no longer sung. Even the sun froze in the sky, powerless to continue its trajectory in the wake of such a moment.

  She had never been kissed.

  How could she have been?

  A princess of the Ibarra family, she was hardly at liberty to do anything that might bring disapproval. Her whole body jolted into being. Her blood pounded through her veins and her soul burst through her. The feelings that were besieging her were frightening for their strength.

  His hands didn’t touch her. Only his mouth made contact with her body, but it was enough. It sent her spiralling into a strange awareness. A burning torrent of lava was pouring through her.

  She wanted more. More of this. So much more.

  But it was wrong! This man was the cousin of her fiancé.

  The realisation was the bucket of ice water she needed. It squashed the warmth and filled her with remorse. She stepped away from him, so distracted by her own feelings that she didn’t notice the two dark slashes of colour high in his cheeks. Nor the way he stood, completely still, as though he too was shocked by what had just happened.

  “You won’t do that again,” she said coldly, her fingers shaking a little as she ran them over her hair. “You might have been instructed to appraise my suitability as a royal bride, but I do not think the Sheikh would have expected you to take it that far.”

  He still didn’t speak. His face was set like stone; those harsh features completely immovable.

  “I trust I’ll have your personal recommendation?” She enquired, stepping further away from him.

  “I will think on it.”

  Her heart dropped.

  The foolishness of coming to this country with the expectation that it would be smooth sailing filled her with incandescent embarrassment. Of course it wasn’t going to be an easy path to navigate.

  They had been at war a long time. And it now appeared that the Sheikh’s most trusted advisor was against her.

  Tari’ell was met by mountains to the east, and desert to the south and west. In the North, there was ocean, but it was a long way from the palace, and no refreshing sea breeze reached them to break up the relentless heat and humidity.

  Saaliyah fanned her pink face with her hands, staring out at the moonlit desert.

  Her memories of this land were fragmented. Her family had fled when she was only eight years old. Her recollections were peppered with magical evenings under the stars, as her Bedouin ancestors had lived. Firelight dances and mythical murmurings of tales that were kept out of print. Stories of their people that were so sacred they could only be sp
oken, rather than written.

  This palace was familiar, yet different. The spices in the food spoke to her, and yet she couldn’t remember her favourite dish. Over the years, Saaliyah had lost much of her connection to this beautiful and ancient land.

  Being back was odd.

  Particularly as she was back in such an uncertain capacity. Was she to officially become Emira? Or to return to London, rejected by the Sheikh who had approached her for this union?

  Something sweet floated past her. The fragrance of a bud that was better at night. She breathed it in deeply.

  He’d kissed her.

  The memory made her stomach squeeze.

  He’d kissed her, and it had sent her whole body into an abyss of sensation that she hadn’t ever imagined possible.

  The way he’d felt – so big and powerful against her slight frame – would stay with her forever.

  And yet she stood on the balcony outside her suite of rooms, praying that he would tell the Sheikh she would make a good wife. That she was ready for the duties that becoming Emira would carry.

  It was late when a knock sounded on her door. She looked inside, past the palatial bed, to the white and gold doors that provided access. She sighed, sending the desert one last soulful glance, and then padded back into her room.

  She’d discarded the uncomfortable dress of earlier that day and opted for a pair of linen pants and a casual cream shirt. She had not been expecting any further interruptions. Even Abigail was safely tucked into her room next door.

  “Good evening.” The servant bowed low, waving his hand to the floor in an obsequious manner. “I apologise for the late interruption, but his royal highness, the exalted Sheikh Khalid ash-Hareth has requested an interview.”

  Her heart turned over in her chest. “Oh.” She looked down at her casual outfit. “Certainly. Please inform the Sheikh I’ll be there shortly.”

  “I apologise, madam, but he was quite explicit that you should come immediately.”