His Defiant Desert Queen

by Jane Porter

  Mikael’s gaze followed the play of sunlight and shadows over her body. She looked lithe and lovely in her clothes. He was looking forward to getting her out of them. He wondered what she’d be like in bed.

  “Do you really hate him?” he asked, reaching for a date and rolling it between his fingers.

  “My father?” she asked, clarifying his question.

  “Yes.”

  Her shoulders twisted and she looked away, turning her head so that he could see just the curve of her ear and the line of her smooth jaw. “He did terrible things,” she whispered.

  Mikael said nothing.

  Jemma drew a deep breath, her chest aching, her heart blistered. “But no, I don’t hate him. I hate what he did to us. I hate what he did to those who trusted him. But he’s my father, the only father I’ve ever known, and years ago, when I was little, he was like a king. Handsome, and charming and powerful, but also fun. For my fifth birthday, he brought the circus to me. We had a whole circus set up in our front yard with a big top tent, and acrobats and clowns and everything. He organized that. He made it happen.” She sighed. “My parents divorced just before I turned six. I didn’t see him very much after that.”

  “So he was a good father when you were little?”

  “In a young child’s eyes, yes. But during the divorce the battle lines were drawn and I, due to my age, went to Mother. All of us went with Mother, except Morgan, who chose to live with our father.”

  “Do you know why your parents divorced?”

  Jemma hesitated. “I think he wasn’t faithful.”

  “Was the divorce quite bitter?”

  “Not as acrimonious as it could have been. They divided up kids and property and went on with their lives.”

  “But neither married again.”

  “No. Mother was too upset—she’d loved my father—and he didn’t want to lose any more assets.”

  “This is why love marriages are dangerous. Far better to go in with a contract and no romantic illusions, than enter the marriage with impossible hopes and dreams of a fairy tale relationship that can’t exist.”

  “But in an arranged marriage there is no love.”

  “Love isn’t necessary for a good marriage. In fact, love would just make things more difficult.”

  “How shall I fulfill...my duties...without love?”

  For a moment he was baffled, and then amused. Her point of view was so peculiarly Western. As if only those who had a romantic relationship could find satisfaction in bed. “Love isn’t necessary for physical pleasure.”

  * * *

  Jemma saw him rise from the cushions and walk around the table. She swallowed hard as he approached her, not knowing where to look, or what to do. Her heart was pounding and her brain felt scrambled.

  “Marriage isn’t all bad,” he added quietly, circling her. “Our marriage will honor you. You are my queen. The first lady in my land. There will be no more public scorn. No more shaming. You will be protected.”

  His voice was a deep, low rumble, the pitch husky and strangely seductive. Jemma turned her head, watched his mouth. His firm lips suddenly fascinated her. “Until you take your next wife,” she said, feeling almost breathless.

  “Would you feel differently if you were my only wife?” he asked, reaching out to lift a dark strand of hair from her eyelashes and tuck it carefully behind her ear, his fingertips then caressing the curve of her ear before falling away.

  His skin had been so warm, and his touch had been light, fleeting, and yet she’d felt it all the way through her, a ripple of pleasure.

  Aware that she’d never survive, not if she remained this close, Jemma moved away, crossing to the far end of the pavilion where the light was even more dappled. “Are you saying I would be your only wife?” she asked.

  “I never planned on taking more than one wife,” he answered.

  “If you hoped to reassure me, you’re not succeeding.”

  “Do you need reassurance? Is that what this is about?” He was moving toward her again, walking slowly, confidently, relaxed and yet still somehow regal.

  Jemma’s heart hammered harder as he closed the distance. She didn’t feel safe. She didn’t feel comfortable or in control.

  He didn’t stop walking until he was directly in front of her, less than a foot away. “There is always anxiety on a honeymoon,” he added, his voice dropping, his tone soothing. “It is natural to feel fear...even reluctance. But you will soon realize there is nothing to be afraid of. You will discover you can trust me. That you are safe with me. Safe to explore your fantasies.”

  “No!” Her voice spiked as she put a hand out to stop him, unable to imagine exploring any fantasies with him. This was so overwhelming. “This is too much, moving too fast.”

  She pushed past him to leave the pavilion and step into the sun. She felt his gaze follow her. “You need to give me time,” she insisted. “You need to let me come to terms with everything.”

  “You’ve had the day.”

  She spun around. “No, it’s not even been a full day. I was asleep until just a couple hours ago. You’re not being fair. I need time. Time to accept the changes. Time to accept this new future.”

  “You will have that time, but you do not need to spend it alone. I think it is essential we spend time together, forming a relationship, and creating the foundation for our future.”

  She made a soft sound of protest. “How do you expect us to have a relationship when there is no give or take? When you make the demands and insist on compliance? How can we have anything when you have all the power and control?”

  “My power will never be used to hurt you. My power protects you, just as it protected you on the shoot, and then again in Haslam.”

  “You say you will protect me, but you forget what I’m sacrificing...my independence, my career, my friends, my hopes, my dreams.” She shook her head. “But how do I know you will truly protect me? How do I know I can trust you when you use your power to subjugate my will?”

  He looked at her, eyebrows lifted. “Because I’ve given you my word. My word is law.”

  “In Saidia, maybe. But I’m not Arab or Bedouin. I’m American. And my father said many things, but as we both know, he meant none of them. Damien said more things, promising me love and safety and security, and he didn’t mean them, either. So no, I don’t trust you. But that’s because I don’t trust men. How can I? Why should you be any different?”

  He didn’t speak, but this time he was listening. Carefully. Closely.

  “You want a good wife,” she said breathlessly. “Well, I want a good husband. I want a kind husband. You say you have integrity and strength. How do I know that? You must allow me to discover the truth myself. You need to allow me to develop trust. And that will take time. You must give me time to prove you are indeed a good man, a strong man, not a liar or a cheat.” She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. “I understand that my family owes your family something. But I think you owe me something.”

  “You will have my wealth, and more riches than you can imagine.”

  “I don’t want riches! Money doesn’t buy happiness.” Her fist went to her chest. “And I want happiness. This last year has been awful. Damien didn’t break me, but he broke my heart. He hurt me so badly and I’m not ready for more pain.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “Hope,” she whispered. “I want hope.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to believe that if this...marriage...is not good for me, if you are not good for me, you will set me free.”

  He said nothing. She could tell she’d surprised him. Caught him off guard.

  “I cannot spend my life here in Saidia an unhappy hostage. I can’t imagine you’d want such a woman for your wife, either
. For that matter, I can’t imagine your mother would want you to make your wife so terribly unhappy.”

  “Do you know anything of my mother?” he asked, his voice sharp.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you learned who I am, and where I’ve come from. Follow me.”

  Jemma trailed after Mikael as he exited the courtyard. They traveled through a maze of hallways. Every time she was sure he’d turn right, he turned left. When she anticipated him turning left, he went right. The Kasbah halls seemed to be circular. It made no sense to her.

  Finally he stopped in a spacious hall topped with a skylight and opened the tall door. “This is my personal wing,” he said. “It includes a bedroom, office and living room, so I can work when here, should I need to.”

  She followed him through the tall door into a handsome living room. Wooden panels had been pulled back from the trio of windows and sunlight flooded the room, making the pair of low sapphire velvet couches glow and the gold painted walls shimmer.

  They continued through the living room into another room, this one also bright with natural light as one entire wall was made of glass doors.

  The room itself was sparsely furnished, the buff stone walls unpainted, and the plush carpet beneath her feet intricately woven of pale gold, faded blue, and a coral pink.

  A low couch was on one side of the room while an enormous dark wood desk inlaid with pearl dominated the other side, positioned to face glass doors with the view of a spacious, but Spartan courtyard.

  He crossed the floor to the desk, opened a drawer, and drew out a small jeweled picture frame. He held the frame out to her. “This is my mother at twenty-three, just two years younger than you are now.”

  She took the frame from him. The woman was young and blonde and very beautiful. She had straight bangs and high, elegant cheekbones. Her long hair hid one shoulder and her blue eyes were smiling, laughing, up at the camera.

  “She’s...so fair,” Jemma said, brows tugging as she studied the laughing beautiful girl with straight white-blonde hair.

  “She was American.”

  Jemma’s head jerked up. Her gaze met his.

  He nodded once. “Your mother was descended from a Mayflower family. So was my mother. She was American as apple pie.”

  Jemma felt a lump grow in her throat. She looked back down at the photo, noting the girl’s swimsuit and cover up and the blue of the sea behind her. “Where was this taken?”

  “The Cote d’Azur. My father met her when she was on holiday with friends in Nice. My father swept her off her feet. They were married within months of meeting.”

  “She’s so beautiful.”

  “She was young and romantic and in love with my father...as well as in love with the idea of becoming Saidia’s queen.”

  Jemma handed the framed photo to him. He put it back in the drawer. “My father betrayed her trust,” he said quietly. “And then your father betrayed her trust. Which is why I promise you, I will not betray you. I am a man of my word. And if I vow to provide for you properly, I will. Over time our marriage will hopefully heal the rift between families and countries. It won’t be immediate. It might not even happen in our generation, but I hope that it will be better for our children.” He studied her, expression fierce, resolute. “We begin our journey as husband and wife tonight, by sharing our first meal together in the Bridal Palace.”

  Jemma’s throat ached. She felt close to tears. “Would your mother approve of what you’re doing?”

  “Leave her out of this.”

  “How can I?” she choked. “You don’t!”

  “One day you will understand the importance of honor. One day when we have our children—”

  “No!”

  “That is fair. You are right. I will save the talk of children for later. Instead let us focus on tonight, and how we shall retreat to the Bridal Palace, for the first of our eight nights. For the next eight nights, I will pleasure you.”

  “And what happens after that eighth night?” Jemma asked tartly. “Do you disappear into your suite? Return to Buenos Aires? What happens then?”

  “You are in control for the next eight nights. You get to pick a different pleasure each evening, or the same pleasure, or...no pleasure.”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  He saw her expression, correctly reading her confusion. “According to Saidia law, the first eight nights are the groom’s. The next eight nights are the bride’s. The Saidia bride doesn’t have to take her husband into her room, or her bed, for any of the next eight nights, unless she wants to. What happens during the second eight nights is entirely her choice.”

  “What is the point of that?” Jemma asked.

  “It was to teach a randy bridegroom not to be selfish in bed, and provide an incentive for the groom to be patient and tender with his new bride, pleasuring her so thoroughly that she’ll hunger for her husband’s touch.”

  Jemma’s cheeks were on fire again. Heat coursed through her, her skin prickled, suddenly almost too sensitive.

  Mikael’s dark eyes met hers. “And I assure you, I intend to please you so thoroughly you’ll beg me to return to your bed for every night of your eight nights.”

  She drew a slow breath, head spinning. Everything inside of her felt tight, tense.

  “I have never heard of any honeymoon being so purely...carnal and erotic.”

  “It might sound like that, until you remember that most royal brides brought here were innocent virgins, carried here against their will. As I told you, it was customary for the royal groom to kidnap a bride from one of the rival desert tribes. The honeymoon was his chance to win his bride’s affection, and loyalty, before he took her home with him. But, if he couldn’t win her affections by the end of the sixteen days, then she could leave him without repercussions or shame.”

  That last bit caught Jemma’s attention. “She could choose to go home?”

  “If he couldn’t make her happy in their sixteen days together.” He reached out, stroked the sweep of her cheekbone, making her skin tingle. “I will please you,” he said, quietly, decisively. “I promise to satisfy you completely.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed, heart pounding. She’d loved Damien and she’d been quite sure Damien had loved her, but he’d never been overly concerned with pleasing her. Pleasuring her.

  She couldn’t quite get her head around the idea that Mikael was promising to satisfy her completely.

  Sexually.

  Fulfilling her every fantasy.

  “You are making a lot of promises,” she said unevenly, her mouth drying.

  “They are promises I fully intend to keep.”

  “I worry that you are...unrealistic.”

  His hard expression softened. Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “I worry that your expectations are too low.” His lips curved faintly. “Perhaps it’s time I show you the Kasbah? This is no ordinary desert palace. Its outer walls hide a secret palace.”

  “A secret palace?” She looked at him, intrigued. “What does that mean? That there’s a palace within the palace?”

  “Yes. That is exactly what I do mean. Would you like to see? I can take you on a tour of the Bridal Palace now if you’re interested.”

  The Bridal Palace? Was that its real name? Her eyebrows arched. “I’m very interested.”

  He smiled. “Good. We will start the tour with the rooms near your suite.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY LEFT HIS ROOMS, and walked through the maze of halls and corridors with Mikael giving her the history of the palace as they returned to her wing. “This Kasbah is known in Saidia as the Bridal Palace. For hundreds of years this is where the king of Saidia brought his new bride after the wedding ceremony. It is where the royal couple honeymoons, an
d where the king or prince would introduce his virgin bride to the pleasures of the marriage bed.”

  Mikael pointed down one hall, which led to the entrance of the Kasbah. “The bride would arrive, and pass through the same entrance you passed through last night, and then be escorted by her new maids to this wing. On arrival, the bride would be bathed, massaged with fragrant oils, then robed and taken to the first chamber, the white chamber—a room hidden off your room—which historically has been called the Chamber of Innocence. In the Chamber of Innocence, the groom claims his bride, consummating the marriage. In the morning, the bride is transferred to a different suite.

  “Here,” he added, walking down another hall to a different corridor and taking a turn to the right. “This is the Emerald Chamber.” He opened the only door in the corridor and stepped back to let her have a look. “This is where the bride and groom spend their second day.”

  Jemma carefully moved past him to glance around the room. The walls were glazed green, the floor was laid with green and white tiles. The bed was gold with green silk covers and a dozen gold lanterns hung from the ceiling.

  “There’s a courtyard attached,” he said. “The garden is fantastic, and the pool looks like a secret grotto.”

  They stepped out of the room, into the hall. They walked in a circular pattern, continuing right, down another hall to another door. “The Amethyst Room,” he said, and it was a room of purple and gold, even more luxurious and exotic than the Emerald Chamber.

  “There are eight rooms like these,” Mikael said. “In this section of the Kasbah, the rooms have all been laid out in the shape of a large octagon, with a shared garden in the center. Some of the rooms also have a private courtyard, too. Each of the rooms are significant because they represent a different sensual pleasure.”

  He’d just opened a door to the Ruby Chamber but she didn’t even look inside. She stared at Mikael, stunned, and fascinated. “Seriously?”