His Defiant Desert Queen

by Jane Porter

  She had a beautiful body. He wanted her body. He wanted her.

  “Would you care to sit?” he asked her.

  “No. I think I’m better standing.”

  “Does what you need to say require courage?” he asked, wondering if she knew how beautiful she was. He doubted it. She was surprisingly modest. She had no airs or attitude. Someone in her family had done a good job raising her.

  “It depends on how you’ll take it,” she answered.

  “Then perhaps let’s not talk now. Tonight is special. Tonight is about pleasure.”

  “Tonight cannot happen without us speaking, Your Highness.”

  He sighed, an exaggerated sigh. The sigh was purely for show. He was playing with her, enjoying her fire. “Laeela, I confess I’m not pleased with the direction our relationship is taking. We do a lot of talking. Or more accurately, you do a lot of talking, and I seem to be doing a great deal of listening.”

  “You’re wrong, Your Highness. You actually never listen.”

  “I’m sure that’s not right. It seems like you talk a great deal.”

  “That’s maybe because you’re not used to a woman who has a brain and wants to use it.”

  “I see.” It required effort not to give in to the smile. “That might explain it, but I’m wondering if talking now will maybe interfere with our pleasure tonight? Perhaps we should wait and talk later.”

  “Most men probably never want to talk, Your Highness, but we must.”

  “Fine. You talk, and I will listen, provided there is no more of this Your Highness when we are in private. You’re my wife, about to come to my bed. I understand you must call me Your Highness in public, but we are alone at the moment, and my name is Mikael.”

  She blinked and wet her lips, her face awash in rosy color, her eyes a brilliant green in her lovely face, flashing fire.

  “Now, what is it you had to say?” he added, reaching out to touch her pink cheek.

  She just looked at him with wide green eyes and he savored the moment. “What is it?” he persisted. “Tell me.”

  She drew a quick breath. “I want you to make me a promise.”

  She was negotiating with him. Interesting. “Yes?”

  “I want you, as the king and leader of the Saidia people, to promise me that you will honor Saidia tradition, and the custom of your tribe.”

  He could see from the tilt of her chin that she expected him to fight her. She expected a problem. She was preparing to battle.

  “I always try to honor Saidia tradition,” he said.

  “Then promise to honor this tradition.”

  “Perhaps you need to tell me what it is, first.”

  She looked into his eyes and then away. She seemed to struggle to find the right words, and then she shrugged, and blurted, “If you cannot make me happy in the first eight days and nights of our honeymoon, I want you to promise to send me home, to my family. My people.”

  She’d shocked him. For a moment he could think of nothing to say.

  “During the tour you explained why the honeymoon is so important,” she continued. “It made sense to me, and it made me respect your culture more. I am grateful you come from a culture that believes a woman should be happy, because I, too, believe a woman should be happy. I believe all women should be happy, just as I believe all women should have a say in their marriage, and future.” She drew another quick breath. “I need to have a say in my future. I need my voice heard. You must give me my voice back.”

  “But you have your voice. I hear you quite plainly.”

  “Then give me a gift I will cherish, the gift of your word. Promise me I will be free to return home if you cannot make me happy.”

  “You doubt me?”

  “I won’t if you promise me I can trust you.”

  “I’ve told you my word is law.”

  “Then say to me, ‘Jemma, if you aren’t happy in eight days, I will put you on a plane, and send you back to London.’” Her green eyes held his. “That is all you have to do, and I will believe you, but I need a promise from you, or it is impossible to give you my body, or my heart, if I’m afraid, or full of fear and doubt.”

  He said nothing.

  “Mikael,” she added more softly, persuasively, “I need to know that I can trust you. I need to believe you will take care of me. Your promise is the gift of dignity and honor. Your promise means I feel safe and respected, and that gives us the basis for a future. Otherwise, we have nothing. And how can you build a future on nothing?”

  She was like a queen, he thought, watching her. Beautiful and regal. Proud, slender, strong. With her dark hair and stunning green eyes, she could easily be one of the great Egyptian queens. Cleopatra. Nefertiti. Ankhesenamun.

  If they had met under different circumstances, he would have made her his lover or mistress. He would have enjoyed spoiling her with gifts. He liked to spoil his woman, liked to please her. But he didn’t love. He didn’t want to love. Love complicated relationships. Love wasn’t rational.

  He was determined to be rational. He was determined to be a good king.

  She reached toward him, her hand outstretched. “Mikael, I need to know you have not just your best interest at heart, but mine, too.”

  He stiffened. “As king I have all my people’s best interests at heart.”

  “As my husband, you must have mine, too.”

  “I do.”

  Her hand lightly settled on his chest. “Then promise me, and I can meet you tonight with calm, and confidence, and hope.”

  He glanced down at her hand where it rested so lightly on his chest, just above his heart.

  He captured her hand in his, holding her small fist to his chest. His thumb swept her wrist. He could feel the wild staccato of her pulse. She was afraid. He didn’t like her fear. “You’ve no need to be afraid.”

  “That is not the same thing as a promise.”

  “You are still getting to know me, but you will discover I am a man of my word. I do not make rash promises, nor do I break my commitments.”

  She bit her lip and looked at him from beneath her long dark lashes. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means I have eight days to make you happy.”

  He could see her bite down harder, her pink lip turning white in the center, where her teeth pressed into the tender flesh.

  He both envied and pitied the spot.

  Once she was completely his, he would suck and lick that poor lip to make amends. His body hardened in anticipation. He would very much like to suck and lick all of her. He would like to feel her tighten beneath him, and then shatter. “But I also understand your mistrust of men. Your father abandoned you, and then your fiancé did the same. You’ve been surrounded by men who only think of themselves, making rash promises, which is why I can safely give you my word that I will make you happy.”

  “And yet, if you cannot, you will let me return to London?”

  His dark gaze raked her, appreciating the jut of breasts and swell of hips beneath the thin kimono. “Yes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BACK IN HER ROOM, Jemma couldn’t look at herself as she stepped into the beautiful fitted white satin gown. It was too soft and sensual to be a wedding gown, and yet the slinky satin somehow managed to give the impression of a long and Western style bridal gown. The wedding night without the traditional wedding ceremony.

  She sucked in a nervous breath as the maid fastened the dozens of tiny hooks in the back of the long dress, and then with shaking hands, she attached the diamond and pearl earrings to her earlobes.

  She couldn’t believe how her stomach flip-flopped as she stepped into her white-beaded silk shoes. Designer shoes. They fit like a glove.

  Jemma glanced at herself in the dressing table mirror. Sh
e looked like a bride dressed for the bedroom.

  And wasn’t that exactly what she was? She was being prepared for her husband’s bed. Oiled and scented and bejeweled for his pleasure.

  But earlier, in his room, when he’d taken her hand, she hadn’t felt fear. She’d actually liked the way his touch made her feel. He was strong and warm and it was such a small thing, this linking of fingers, and yet significant. Touch was powerful. His touch was surprisingly comforting.

  And now she was curious about tonight. But not afraid.

  * * *

  Mikael arrived at Jemma’s suite of rooms at eight o’clock and he watched her cross the sitting room floor, as she moved toward him, her head high, her eyes wide, the large diamond teardrops swinging from her earlobes, the brilliant cuts in the stone casting tiny dancing lights in every direction. Her gown molded to her body, the delicate straps and cups of the dress revealing smooth shoulders and the swell of her breasts before hugging her flat tummy and the lush curve of her hips and butt.

  His narrowed gaze slid over her tall, slender body, appreciating how the satin caressed her, and yet he could also see her without the luscious satin, remembering that stunning glimpse of her when she’d dropped the fur coat during the shoot, and how the full shape of her breasts had been revealed.

  The impact of her physical beauty had shocked him. He’d had such a visceral reaction there on the sand dune. He’d been furious—outraged—but he’d also felt a wave of pure possession.

  Mine, he’d thought.

  He’d wanted to cover her. Take her away from everyone. He’d told himself it was duty, responsibility, a response to a wrong.

  Now he wondered if it was more than that.

  Mine.

  He held out his hand to her. She gave him her hand. It was shaking. He took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth, just as he had earlier, but this time he kissed the back of each finger. “Eight days and nights.”

  “And it all starts now?”

  “Yes.”

  He swung her into his arms then and carried her down the connecting halls until they reached the entrance to the Bridal Palace.

  “We are here,” he said, pushing the door open and carrying her inside to a room that glowed with hundreds of white candles.

  Jemma spotted the bed, surrounded by more candles, and looked the other way. “Are we going to bed now?”

  “No.” His deep voice sounded amused. “I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since our late lunch. Wouldn’t you prefer a bite to eat first?” he asked, setting her on her feet.

  “Yes,” she said quickly. “Please.”

  Mikael took her hand and led her past the dozens of candles illuminating the immense bed, to the opposite side of the room, where a door opened to a private courtyard fantastically transformed into a tropical garden with a manmade grotto and splashing waterfall. Dozens of candles lined the walkway, and more candles outlined the steps to the grotto and door.

  It was warm in the garden, and fragrant with orchids and lilies and Mikael pulled her close to his side as he led her along the narrow path lined with candles, down an even more narrow stone staircase to a secret room inside the grotto where a table had been set for them among a sea of pale blue silk cushions.

  The grotto was made entirely of stone and illuminated with a dozen blue glass lanterns that hung from the pale ivory stone ceiling. Water lapped in a small pool while above them came the sound of rushing water tumbling through over the waterfall.

  “This is unbelievable.” Jemma breathed, taking a seat among the cushions, very aware of Mikael as he sat down next to her.

  He’d come to her tonight not in traditional Saidia robe and head covering, but in black trousers and an elegant dress shirt and once seated at the table, he proceeded to roll the sleeves of his shirt back on his muscular forearms, and then open the shirt another button at the collar, revealing a hint of bronzed skin just below his throat.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  She swallowed hard. He’d shocked her earlier in the towel, but it was just as shocking to see him now in Western clothes. He didn’t look like a sheikh. He just looked gorgeous.

  He looked at her. “You don’t think so?”

  “No, you look...quite...good,” she murmured, thinking good was a total understatement. He looked fantastic.

  “Quite good,” he repeated, lips curving slightly. “I will take that as a compliment coming from you.”

  “I’m sure you are complimented all the time. You must know you are very beautiful for a man.”

  He laughed then. It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh, really laugh, and the flash of his straight white teeth against his bronzed skin, and the crinkle of his eyes made her heart race.

  “I don’t get complimented very often,” he said.

  “No? Why not?”

  “I think people might be afraid to pay me compliments.”

  She arched a brow. “What do you do? Chop off heads?”

  “No. But I have a reputation for being no-nonsense.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  His teeth flashed again but he said nothing else, and for the next hour staff came and went, bearing platters of food until the low table was covered. Chicken with tomatoes and honey. Lamb cutlets, tangy beef, coconut rice, a tagine of yam, carrots and prunes.

  After the past several days of stress, Jemma was glad to just relax, and eat, and sip her wine. Mikael was his most charming tonight. During dinner he told her stories, amusing stories. “You said earlier you’re not a fan of jewels and clothes,” he said, leaning against the cushions. “So what do you like? Art? Antiques? Cars?”

  “Books.” She could see she’d surprised him. “I love to read.”

  “Fiction?”

  “Fiction, non-fiction, everything. Although when I was a girl, I only wanted to read romances. My mother was convinced I’d run off and join the circus or something equally risky and foolish.”

  “What will she think when she discovers you’ve married me?”

  “She’ll be horrified.”

  He didn’t seem to like that. “Why?”

  “Because our cultures are too different and she’d be worried that I’d be trapped in a life where I couldn’t be myself, and the lack of freedom would make me desperately unhappy.”

  “That’s quite specific.”

  “Morgan’s short, unhappy marriage made quite an impression on all of us.”

  “And yet the day of her wedding she seemed ecstatic.”

  “Exactly. But Morgan was so infatuated with Drakon that she didn’t ask any hard questions about what her life would be like in Athens, and their marriage was a shock for her. She ended up bitterly unhappy as a new bride in a new city and their relationship quickly fell apart.” Jemma smoothed a wrinkle from her satin skirt. “Mother had warned her that life in Greece, as the wife of a Greek shipping tycoon wouldn’t be easy, not for an independent American girl who is accustomed to making decisions for herself. And so I’m quite sure my mother would be even more upset if I turned around and married a Saidia sheikh.”

  Mikael said nothing for a long moment. “Even if it improves your situation?”

  It was Jemma’s turn to fall silent.

  “I’m aware your brother is the only Copeland who has any financial assets left,” Mikael added. “And the only reason he does, is because he lives in Europe, and his assets couldn’t be seized, but your government will go after him. What he hasn’t yet lost due to scandal, will soon be taken by your government.”

  “Maybe it won’t happen,” she said, not really believing it herself.

  He gave her a skeptical look. “Isn’t that the same thing you said about your mother’s home? And didn’t the government
just take that?”

  Jemma drew a short breath. It had been one thing losing the house on St. Bart’s and the lodge in Sun Valley, but it was painful losing one’s childhood home. Jemma had lived in the Greenwich house from the time she was six until she’d left for London. And maybe she didn’t live at home any longer, but it was still her home. It was where she liked to picture her mother, where they all came together to celebrate Christmas or a special occasion.

  The government shouldn’t have taken the house a month ago. It was her mother’s, from the divorce. But apparently her father’s name was on the title, too, and that was all they needed to seize it.

  “It’s not been easy for my mother, no,” Jemma said roughly, unable to look at him, the pain fresh and sharp all over again. “But she’s lucky she has a few friends who have stood by her. She’s relying on their kindness now.”

  Jemma didn’t tell the entire truth.

  Yes, a few friends had stood by her mother. But the rest had dropped her. The majority had dropped her. Just like most of Jemma’s friends had disappeared, too. It happened to her sisters as well. She had no idea if her brother, Branson, was abandoned. He’d never talked about it, even though he, too, lived in London. But then, Branson never revealed anything personal. He’d always been private and self-contained, so self-contained, that Jemma hadn’t been comfortable going to her brother this year and asking for help, or a loan, or even a friendly ear. Instead she’d struggled to handle it all—the shame from her father’s duplicity, and the pain of being rejected by the man she loved more than life itself.

  She felt Mikael’s fingers on her cheek. She stiffened and drew back, then realized he’d touched her because he was wiping away tears. Her tears.

  She hadn’t even realized she was crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning away to hide her face.

  He turned her face back to him and gently swept his thumb across her right cheek, and then her left. His expression was troubled. Brooding. “Do you cry for your mother?”