by Jane Porter
The same pink as her nipples.
His body hardened, remembering her earlier, modeling, and naked beneath the fur coat.
She had an incredible body.
He would enjoy her body. But he’d never like her. Never admire her. She wasn’t a woman he wanted for anything beyond sex and pleasure.
He pictured her naked again. He’d certainly find pleasure in her curves and breasts and that private place between her legs.
“So it’s house arrest,” Jemma said. “Seven years. Would the sentence start tonight? Tomorrow?”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” he answered.
Her green eyes widened. Her lips parted and for a moment no sound came out and then she shook her head, a frantic shake that left no doubt as to her feelings. “I will not marry you. I will not!”
“It’s not up to you. It’s my choice.”
“You can’t force me.”
“I can.” And silently he added, I could.
Just like that, the idea took root.
He could marry her. He could force her to his will. He could avenge his mother’s shame. He could exact revenge.
For a moment there was just silence. It was thick and heavy and he imagined she must hate it. She must find the silence stifling because she was completely powerless. She had no say. He would decide her fate. She would have to accept whatever he chose for her.
He found the thought pleasing.
He liked knowing that whatever he chose, she would have to submit.
She with the lovely eyes and soft lips and full, pink tipped breasts.
“But you do not wish to marry me,” she whispered. “You hate me. You wouldn’t be able to look at me or touch me.”
“I could touch you,” he corrected. “And I could look at you. But I wouldn’t love you, no.”
“Don’t do that to me. Don’t use me.”
“Why not? Your father used my mother to bring shame on my family name.”
“I’m not my father and you’re not your mother and we both deserve better. We both deserve good marriages, proper marriages, marriages based on love and respect.”
“That sounds quite nice except for the fact that I don’t love. I won’t take a wife out of love. I will take her out of duty. I will marry as it is my responsibility. A king must have heirs.”
“But I want love. And by forcing me to marry you, you deprive me of love.”
“Your father deprived my mother of life. I’m Arabic. A life for a life. A woman for a woman. He took her. I should take you.”
“No.”
“Saidia requires a prince. You’d give me beautiful children.”
“I’d never be willing in bed, and you said even in a forced marriage, the sex is consensual.”
“You’d consent.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’d beg me to take you.”
“Never.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re wrong. And I will prove you wrong, and when I do, what shall you give me in return?”
Jemma rose from the table, and went to the doorway. “I want to go. I want to go now.”
“I don’t think that’s one of my options.”
* * *
Jemma didn’t know where to look. Her heart raced and her eyes burned and she felt so sick inside.
This wasn’t what she’d thought would happen. This wasn’t how she’d imagined this would go. Jail was bad. Seven years under house arrest boggled the mind. But marriage?
The idea of Sheikh Karim forcing her to marry him made everything inside her shrink, collapse.
She’d thought the last year had been horrific, being shunned as Daniel Copeland’s daughter, but to be married against her will?
Her eyes stung, growing hotter and grittier. She pressed her nails into her palms, determined not to cry, even as she wondered how far she’d get if she bolted from the house and ran.
Marrying Mikael Karim would break her. It would. She’d been so lonely this past year, so deeply hurt by Damien’s rejection and the constant shaming by the media, as well as endless public hatred. She couldn’t face a cold marriage. She needed to live, to move, to breathe, to feel, to love...
To love.
It was tragic but she needed love. Needed to love and be loved. Needed connection and contact and warmth.
“Please,” she choked, the tears she didn’t want filling her eyes, “please don’t marry me. Please just leave me here in Haslam. I don’t want to spend seven years here, but at least in seven years I could be free and go home and marry and have children with someone who wants me, and needs me, and loves me—” She broke off as Sheikh Azizzi entered the room behind her.
The village elder was accompanied by two robed men.
Jemma pressed her hands together in prayer, pleading with Mikael. “Let me stay here. Please. Please.”
“And what would you do here for seven years?” he retorted, ignoring the others.
“I’d learn the language, and learn to cook and I’d find ways to occupy myself.”
Mikael looked at her, his dark gaze holding for an endless moment and then he turned to Sheikh Azizzi and spoke to him. Sheikh Azizzi nodded once and the men walked out.
“It’s done,” Mikael said.
“What’s done?”
“I’ve claimed you. I’ve made you mine.”
She backed up so rapidly she bumped into the wall. “No.”
“But I have. I told Sheikh Azizzi I’ve claimed you as my wife, and it’s done.”
“That doesn’t make us married. I have to agree, I have to speak, I have to consent somehow...” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Mikael, bewildered. “Don’t I?”
“No. You don’t have to speak at all. It’s done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He rose and stalked toward her. “And like this,” he added, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her out of the house, into the night.
Outside, the convoy of vehicles were gone. Villagers clustered near a kneeling camel.
“Who is that for?” Jemma choked, struggling in Mikael’s arms.
He tightened his grip. “Settle down,” he said shortly. “Or I’ll tie you to the camel.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“You don’t think so?” he challenged, stepping through the crowd to set her in the camel’s saddle.
The leather saddle was wide and hard and Jemma struggled to climb back off but Mikael had taken a leather strip from a pouch on the camel and was swiftly tying her hands together at the wrist, and then binding her wrists to the saddle’s pommel.
The crowd cheered as he tethered her in place.
“Why are they cheering?” she asked, face burning, anger rolling through her as she strained to free herself.
“They know I’ve taken you as my wife. They know you aren’t happy. They know you are ashamed. It pleases them.”
“My shame pleases them?”
“Your shame and struggles are part of your atonement. That pleases them.”
“I don’t like your culture.”
“And I do not like yours.” He scooted her forward in the saddle, and then took a seat behind her, his big body filling the space, pressing tightly against her. “Now lean back a little.”
“No.”
“You’ll be more comfortable.”
“I can assure you, I would not be comfortable leaning against you.”
“We are going to be traveling for several hours.”
She shook her head, lips compressed as she fought tears. “I hate you,” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave a tug on the reigns and the camel lurched to its feet.
; The villagers cheered again and Mikael lifted a hand, and then they were off, heading for the gates and the desert beyond.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY RODE FOR what felt like hours through an immense desert of undulating dunes beneath a three quarter moon. The moon’s bright light illuminated the desert, painting the dunes a ghostly white.
Jemma tried to hold herself stiff and straight to avoid touching Sheikh Karim but it was impossible as time wore on, just as it was impossible to ignore his warmth stealing into her body.
A half hour into the journey she broke the silence. “Where are we going?”
“My Kasbah. My home,” he said. “One of my homes,” he corrected.
“Why this one?”
“It is where all Karims spend their honeymoon.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know what to think, or feel. So much had happened in the past few hours that she felt numb and overwhelmed.
Part of her brain whispered she was in trouble, and yet another part hadn’t accepted any of this.
It didn’t make sense, this forced marriage. She kept thinking any moment she’d wake up and discover it a strange dream.
Her captor was big and solid, his chest muscular, his arms strong, biceps taut as he held her steady in the saddle, his broad back protecting her from the cold.
He struck her as powerful but not brutal. Fierce and yet not insensitive.
In a different situation she might even like him. In a different situation she might like the spicy exotic fragrance he wore. In a different situation she might find him darkly beautiful.
But it wasn’t a different situation. There was no way she could find him attractive, or appealing. She wasn’t attracted to him, or the hard planes of his chest, or even aware of the way his muscular thighs cradled her, pinning her between his hips and the saddle’s pommel.
They lapsed back into a silence neither tried to break. But an hour later, Mikael, shifted, drawing her closer to him. “There,” he said. “My home.”
Jemma stared hard into the dark, but could see nothing. “Where?”
“Straight in front of us.”
But there was nothing in front of them. Just sand. “I don’t see—”
“Watch.”
The brilliant moonlight rippled across the desert, bathing all in ghostly white.
And then little by little the desert revealed a long wall, and then a bit later she was able to see shapes behind the wall. The shapes became shadowy clay buildings.
In the middle of the night, in the glow of moonlight, it looked like a lost world. As if they’d traveled back in time.
She sucked in a nervous breath as they approached massive wooden gates cut into the towering clay walls. Two enormous gas lanterns hung on either side of the dark wooden gate, and Mikael shouted out in Arabic as they reached them, and just like that, the gates split, and slowly opened, revealing square turrets and towers within.
Robed people poured into the courtyard as the gates were shut and locked behind them.
They were lining up before the first building with its immense keyhole doorway, bowing repeatedly.
“What’s happening?” she whispered.
“We’re being welcomed by my people. They have heard I’ve brought home my bride.”
The camel stopped moving. Robed men moved forward. Mikael threw the reins and one of the men took it, and commanded the camel to kneel.
Sheikh Karim jumped off the camel, and then turned to look at her. His gaze held hers, his expression fierce. “What we have just done is life changing. But we’ve made a commitment, and we shall honor that commitment.”
Then he swung her into his arms and carried her through the tall door of his Kasbah, into a soaring entrance hall, its high white plaster ceiling inset with blue and gold mosaic tile.
He set her on her feet, and added, “Welcome, my wife, to your new home.”
* * *
A slender robed female servant led Jemma through the Kasbah’s labyrinth of empty halls. The maid was silent. Jemma was grateful for the silence, exhausted from the long day and hours of travel. The last time she’d glanced at her watch it had been just after midnight, and that had to be at least an hour ago now.
The silent maid led Jemma down one hallway to another, until they reached a white high ceilinged room with walls covered in delicate ivory latticework. The bed’s silk coverlet was also white and stitched with threads of the palest gold and silver, while silver and white silk curtains hung on either side of the tall French doors which opened to a courtyard of ivory stone and planters filled with palms, gardenias and white hibiscus.
The room wasn’t huge but it was opulent, elegant, and blissfully serene, an inviting, soothing oasis after a grueling and frightening day.
“Tea? Refreshment, Your Highness?” the maid asked in polite, accented English.
Your Highness?
Jemma glanced behind her, expecting Mikael to be there. But no one stood behind Jemma. The room was empty.
And then it hit her. The maid was speaking to her. They all knew she’d married Mikael, then. They all knew she was his bride...
Would he come to her tonight? Did he expect to consummate the marriage tonight?
Jemma sank down on one of the white sofas in the sitting area, no longer sure her legs would support her.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’m fine. I think I just want to sleep.”
“Shall I draw you a bath before I leave?”
Still dazed, Jemma nodded. “Yes, please.”
A few minutes later the maid had gone and steam wafted from the bathroom, fragrant with lilacs and verbena.
Jemma entered the grand white marble and tiled bathroom with the gleaming gold fixtures, the sunken tub illuminated by a multitude of dazzling crystal chandeliers above.
Awed by the grandeur, she stripped off her dusty robe and gritty clothes and slid into the water for a soak.
The hot scented bath felt so good after the jarring camel ride that Jemma was reluctant to leave the bath until the water began to cool. By the time she finally pulled the plug, she could barely keep her eyes open another moment.
Wrapped in an enormous plush white towel she returned to her bedroom, not at all sure what she’d wear to sleep in, and there on the oversized bed was a simple white cotton nightgown with lace trim at the shoulders and hem.
Jemma slipped the nightgown over her head, gave her long hair another quick towel-dry and then climbed beneath the soft smooth cotton coverlet, desperate to sleep. She didn’t even remember trying to fall asleep. She was out within minutes of turning off her bedside lamp.
She was still sleeping deeply when woken by a firm, insistent knock on the outer door.
Opening her eyes, she frowned at the dimly lit room, confused by what she saw. It took her a moment to figure out where she was. Sheikh Karim’s Kasbah.
And then she remembered—she’d married him.
Or so he’d said. She didn’t feel married. She didn’t feel anything at all but sleepy and numb.
Jemma slid her legs from the bed and slipped on the white robe she’d seen draped over a chair before she answered the outer door.
It was Mikael.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
She tucked a tangled strand of hair behind her ear. “Afternoon?”
“It’s after two.”
“Is it? I can’t believe it.”
“I’ve ordered coffee to be sent to you, and then you’re to join me for a late lunch in the east pavilion. Don’t be late.” He turned and walked toward the door, but Jemma followed.
“That sounds rather rude, Sheikh Karim,” she said, following after him. “Is that how you speak to all your women?”
He glanced at
her. “I’m accustomed to being in charge.”
“That’s fine, but you don’t need to be quite so aggressive. A little kindness and courtesy can go a long way.”
“I thought I was being kind and courteous by sending coffee to you.”
“Yes, but then you ruined it by ordering me to join you, tacking on a warning not to be late. It would have been much nicer if you’d simply asked me to join you in thirty minutes.”
“Kings do not ask, Jemma. They command.”
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t marry a king. I married a man. That is, if we are truly married...”
“We are married. Quite married. As married as one can be in Saidia,” he said, cutting her off, and walking back toward her. “But if it takes our consummating the marriage to feel married, then so be it. Tonight I will take you to my bed and there won’t be any question in your mind afterwards.”
“That’s not what I want!”
“How do you know? You’ve never been in my bed. I think once you are there, you’ll like it very much.” And then he was gone.
* * *
The next half hour seemed endless to Jemma. He was planning on consummating the marriage tonight?
But she didn’t even know him.
She couldn’t imagine having sex with him.
He couldn’t be serious.
And yet here she was, in the Kasbah, being waited on hand and foot, so she didn’t doubt him anymore. He wasn’t a man who made jokes. He meant what he said, which meant...
He intended to bed her tonight.
Jemma’s clothes from last night had been washed and dried and returned to her. She dressed in the short skirt and blouse, and then slipped her feet into her high wedges. Her hair was wild, a thick tangle of waves from falling asleep with it still wet, and she subdued the waves as best as she could, pulling the long mass into a ponytail and then adding some fat silver bangles to her wrist and simple silver hoops to her ears. Not very fancy but it was the best she could do.
And then the maid knocked on the door. She’d returned to escort Jemma to lunch, leading her through the maze of hallways and halls to a door that led outside to a beautiful walled garden shaded by palms with a tiled fountain in the center of the courtyard.
