The Inherited Bride

by Maisey Yates

  She was engaged to be married.

  But she wanted another man with a ferocity so strong that it made her feel as though her heart was being torn in two.

  Adham paced the length of his office, his body raging at him, his blood pounding hard through his system. He was still hard. He wanted her with a need that defied anything he had known before, a desire that rocked all the control he had so carefully built up over the years.

  He and Hassan had been thrust into adulthood, into power, in their early teens. Hassan, the oldest by two years, had assumed the throne; Adham had taken control of the military, of national security. Both of them had been required to put away childish things and embrace manhood, embrace control. Sacrifice, duty and honor.

  But this … girl … this virginal princess, with the face of an angel and a body that could make a man lose every last shred of sanity, had cracked it—had made him do something he had sworn he would not.

  He’d left the little temptress sitting in the living room, her black hair tumbled wildly over her shoulders, her eyes bright with desire and embarrassment. He didn’t trust himself to be in the same room with her—didn’t trust that he would not press her back into the soft couch, settle between her thighs so that she could feel his hardness against the place he knew ached for him. He wanted to cup those luscious breasts again, then tease her nipples, explore them more thoroughly. He’d felt their aroused peaks against his palms and he longed to see them—the shape of them, the color—to taste them with his tongue, suck them into his mouth.

  He swore violently and picked his mobile phone up from the desk, dialing his brother’s number. There was no answer. Little wonder. Hassan was a busy man, and difficult to access at times. At the moment Adham knew he was steeped in diplomatic negotiations, and the delicate process of changing and signing new laws. Just another reason Adham was grateful that the ultimate leadership of his country had not passed to him.

  He was a man who needed action, needed to physically see and ensure that Hassan and his people were safe from harm. It was why he had been glad of a military position rather than assuming a diplomatic role.

  And now action was needed—with or without Hassan’s blessing. He could not stay with Isabella any longer. Not with his control so dangerously cracked. Even now it had not returned to him. Even now he longed to take her, fill her, possess her, make her his woman.

  The last few days had been hell. She had paraded her sexy little body for him at the department store, had teased him with the thought of her in that brief lingerie.

  It had been far too long since he’d had sex. He needed to get rid of his charge and contact one of his ex-mistresses as quickly as possible, so that he could soothe his raging libido.

  He opened the office door and saw that Isabella remained where he had left her, knees drawn up to her chest, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders in a shiny curtain. She straightened when he came out of the office, her expression wary, her cheeks flushed.

  “We’re leaving,” he said tightly.

  “What? Where?”

  “We’re going to Umarah. To the palace. To Hassan.”

  “But … why?”

  “Why?” he said roughly. “I shall tell you why, amira. Because back on the street I was thirty seconds away from stripping you of your jeans and taking your carefully guarded virginity against a wall.” The words were torn from him, his voice raw. “You may be able to betray your word to the High Sheikh in such a way, but I will not.”

  “I.” Her pretty mouth dropped open, her blue eyes wide.

  Good. She was shocked—as he had intended. He had been intentionally crude in order to show her who she was dealing with, show her the disparity between them.

  “I don’t want to leave,” she said quietly, those wide eyes filling with tears.

  “I do not care what you want,” he said coldly, the roaring of his blood making the words harsh. “We are leaving. Now.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  ADHAM’S private plane touched down in the Umarahn capital of Maljadeed just before dark. Even with the sun disappearing behind the flat, rock-hewn mountains on the outskirts of the city, it was the hottest weather Isabella could ever remember experiencing.

  The limo that was waiting for them at the airport was air-conditioned, providing immediate relief from the thick, stifling air. The road system was clearly new and expensive—a sign of a thriving infrastructure. It wound through the city, which was still alive with movement despite the late hour. The marketplace was bustling with people selling their wares. The smell of street food and spices mingled together. Crumbling buildings were backed by high-rises, supermarkets next to craft stalls, mixing the old world and the new in a way Isabella had never seen before.

  It was a strange place, void of anything familiar. And it was to be her home.

  It was a frightening thought—and much more real than it ever had been before. She’d known that she was going to marry Hassan, known that Umarah was destined to be her home, since she was ten years old. But facing it now … seeing how different the city was, how different the road systems were, how strange and foreign the marketplace and the clothing on the people milling around … it was difficult to imagine her life here—what it would be like not only to change homes, to be married, but to change cultures, languages.

  She swallowed, longing to draw strength from Adham, to lean against him and have him shield her. But she couldn’t. He had made it plain that contact between them was impossible, and he was right. She knew he was. She was engaged to Hassan and she had always planned to honor that—had never even contemplated betraying him.

  It was because Adham was a known entity in a land of unknowns. That was all. Nothing more. There couldn’t be more.

  The palace came into view, set in the middle of everything and shrouded partially by a high stone wall. The dim light made the palace glow purple, the domed roof a pale yellow. She imagined that during the fiery heat of the day it was an intense sight.

  Her stomach bottomed out, her heart twisting in her chest. She was about to come face to face with the man she was to marry. About to meet the Sheikh who had gifted her with his ring. The man she did not want. While she stood next to the man she’d grown to desire. The man who was slowly winding his way around her heart with his hardened demeanor and his battle scars.

  Adham opened her door for her and she got out of the limo, trying to avoid brushing against his hard body. She was too weak for that. She couldn’t touch him without betraying how much she wanted him, how much she ached. And she did—her stomach, her heart and her head hurt.

  Suddenly the thought of being separated from Adham made her want to sink to her knees and weep, made her want to cling to him in desperation. She had no idea what it meant, only that it seemed like life or death.

  She kept her arms tightly at her sides to discourage him from placing his hand on her. If he touched her, even by accident, she would shatter. She noticed he was holding himself rigid too, his jaw tense, his entire body locked tight, his muscles strained as though he were engaged in a physical war.

  But that horrible, flat look in his eyes made it impossible to read what he was truly thinking. Only the tension in his body made her aware that there was anything behind the stony mask he wore. She hated it. Hated that she couldn’t read him. Hated that what she needed more than anything was comfort. From him. Comfort she was certain he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give to her.

  She gripped her arms, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. Nerves swept over her. She swallowed convulsively, trying to keep from crying. She felt ridiculously weak, and she also felt like her life was ending.

  They walked up a long walkway lined with ash trees that were immaculately trimmed, as was the bright green lawn. The greenery was a show of the High Sheikh’s wealth, Isabella assumed. Water in a desert nation was likely worth more than gold or oil.

  The double doors to the palace were opened by two armed guards who stood still, faces stoic, as she and
Adham passed them and walked into the outer chamber.

  The palace in Turan was beautiful, but it was comprised of hand carved stone and antique, woven tapestries, sedate next to the inlaid marble that covered the domed walls and ceiling in the entryway of the Umarahn palace. The floors were black high-gloss tile, the walls a deep green and blue, with fine gold filigree separating the different stones. There was so much color—color that was designed to show the riches of its owner.

  “So,” she said, exhaling, “this is my palace?”

  A short laugh escaped Adham’s lips. “Indeed it is, Principessa.” The Italian version of his usual name for her made her heart trip. His accent was more pronounced when he spoke Italian—a language he was obviously less comfortable with than English. She found it very sexy, his heavy Arabic accent putting a unique stamp on her native language.

  She turned her face away from him sharply. There was no point in lingering over all the things about Adham she found attractive. Not when she was about to meet her future husband.

  She gritted her teeth, fighting the sting of tears again.

  A man dressed in flowing robes came sweeping into the room, and Isabella’s heart sank. But as he walked closer she could see that it was not her fiancé. She’d only seen a couple pictures of Hassan, but she remembered his face.

  “Numair.” Adham inclined his head.

  “Sheikh Adham,” the other man returned.

  So she’d been right. He was nobility of some kind, an important man. Not simply a bodyguard.

  “I am here to see High Sheikh Hassan. I bring him his bride.” Adham’s words were clipped, his manner formal.

  Numair looked to the side, as though he were reluctant to look at Adham directly. “Hassan is not here. He is on retreat.”

  Adham stiffened. “And how long will he be gone?”

  This time Numair turned shifty eyes to her. “He is to be … delayed until the wedding, I’m afraid.”

  “I see. Please bring someone to show the Princess to her room.”

  Relief washed through her. She didn’t have to face Hassan. Not today. Not for another two months. But she was still to be confined to the walls of the palace. Would Adham leave her here alone? The idea made her stomach churn with nerves.

  “You will not accompany me?” she asked, hating the obvious fear that edged her voice.

  “It would not be appropriate,” he said tightly, not looking at her, his eyes fixed ahead, his hands locked behind his back. “Hadiya will show you to your chambers.”

  A small girl with glossy dark hair and a sweet smile came into the room as if on cue. “Salaam, “ she said, inclining her head, and Isabella returned the greeting.

  Isabella followed Hadiya, but she was powerless to stop herself from looking back at Adham. His eyes were fixed on her, intensity blazing from them. She felt the heat burn through her, her stomach contracting sharply. She whipped her head back around and turned her focus to where she was headed, her heart thundering madly.

  “These are the women’s quarters,” Hadiya said. “Men are not allowed.” A slight sparkle lit her dark eyes. “Of course they do not always follow the rules.”

  Would Adham? He was a man who seemed to live to enforce rules, to ensure that honor was upheld. Which probably excluded visits to the women’s quarters. She wasn’t sure how to handle that. It felt as though he was her lifeline.

  Isabella could only offer a weak smile.

  “The High Sheikh had this room prepared for you months ago—for after the wedding.”

  Isabella nearly sighed with relief. She would have her own room. In her own wing of the house. That way, at least, she would have some space from her husband. The word made her stomach clench.

  Hadiya opened a massive door and revealed a spacious room draped in swathes of fabric in rich, saturated colors. They hung from the ceiling, and were draped so that they gathered around the bed like an extravagant canopy. There were doors that led out to what looked like a walled garden. So this was her cage. It was gilded nicely. She would say that for it.

  “Thank you, Hadiya,” she said.

  The girl inclined her head. “I’ll bring your things in later.”

  “Thank you,” Isabella repeated, somewhat inanely.

  When Hadiya left Isabella fought the urge to give in to her grief. Instead she walked across the high-gloss jade floor and went to stand at the window, pulling the heavy blue drapes back. The garden was lovely—an oasis with man-made waterfalls and flowering trees and bushes. There was a carved stone bench in the middle of all of it.

  It was clear that real effort had been put into the space, although it hadn’t been tailored to her likes and dislikes specifically. It was simply an elaborate space designed to please any woman. And she did like it, so it would be childish to find fault with it simply on principle.

  She pressed her forehead against the glass, felt the heat from outside, and hoped that it might warm the chill that was spreading through her.

  “Isabella.”

  Adham’s husky voice made her pulse jump. She turned and her heart stopped. He was standing there, her bags in his hands.

  “I thought men weren’t allowed here,” she said.

  “We aren’t.” He set her bags down at the foot of the sumptuous bed.

  “You’re breaking the rules. Doesn’t that violate your code of honor? “

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  He nodded curtly, and she hoped that the devastation she felt wasn’t evident on her face. “I have other business to deal with.”

  “Babysitting another princess?”

  A small smile curved his lips. “You’re the only one.”

  “Good.” And she meant it. She didn’t want to think of him with another woman. Although just because he wasn’t princess-sitting it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to find a woman. One of the women he had an arrangement with.

  “We’re installing a new rig in our oil fields. I like to be on site for major events like that.”

  “You do so much, Adham,” she said. “What have I done?”

  “You’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. You have a picture.”

  “Yes.” Now it really did feel as if tears were imminent. Her throat was aching with the effort of holding them back. “I don’t have a picture of you, though.”

  “Bella.” he said, the name so soft and sweet on his lips that her body shuddered.

  “Just one.” She reached for her purse and pulled out her camera, aiming it at him. His facial expression didn’t change.

  “Didn’t anyone teach you that you need to smile for pictures?” she asked.

  Then he smiled, and she felt a tear escape as she captured the moment she’d so longed to see. “You should smile more,” she said softly, touching the screen, the image of Adham.

  “I don’t smile?”

  She shook her head. “Not enough.”

  “I used to.”

  “What happened?”

  A shadow passed over his handsome face, his dark eyebrows locking together. “I had to grow up much faster than I should have. That life experience we’ve talked about. I know you feel you’ve been overprotected, but trust me, Bella, it is better than seeing what I have seen.”

  His hand flexed as he lifted his arm, as if he meant to touch her, but then he dropped it, clenching his hand tightly into a fist. “I’ll see you again at the wedding.”

  He turned and left there, alone, feeling as though something inside her had broken.

  “Where are you?” When Hassan finally answered his phone, Adham was on the point of losing his temper with his older brother.

  “I’m at the summer palace.”

  Adham tamped down a surge of annoyance. His brother was at their recreational home—a place they had gone as children for vacations. Before they had lost their parents.

  “Well, I am here in Maljadeed, with your bride, only to discover that you are not.”

  “You were suppose
d to entertain her in France.” His brother actually sounded angry—a rarity.

  Adham’s pulse quickened at the thought of how he might have kept Isabella entertained had they stayed in Paris. She had become too great a temptation. Hassan was the most important person in his life, the last remaining member of his family and his king. Betraying him was unthinkable. Isabella was only a woman, a beautiful woman, but beautiful women were plentiful. He would be able to find another one now, to help take the ravenous edge off his libido.

  “She wished to come here.” A lie, but in the circumstances he felt it a well-justified one.

  “I cannot come back just yet.”

  “And I cannot stay here, if that is what you have in mind.”

  “Adham, please stay with her. I would not ask this of you if it were not so important.”

  “What is so pressing that your bride becomes my responsibility?”

  There was a long stretch of silence before Hassan spoke again. “I am with Jamilah.”

  “Jamilah”

  “She is … I am in love with her, Adham. And soon I must marry Isabella. Jamilah will not have me then. She has told me. She will not be my mistress—and, believe me, I have begged her to change her mind. But what can I do? The contract is signed. I need these last moments. I cannot leave her now.”

  His gut response to his brother’s pronouncement was anger. Anger at the thought of Isabella being betrayed, that his brother was willing to be unfaithful to Isabella once he had made vows to her. He shut it off, ignored it. His loyalty lay with Hassan, not Isabella.

  “And you intend me to stay here with your fiancée while you toy with your girlfriend?”

  “I am not toying with her,” Hassan said, his voice rough. “I have only these two months; do not ask me to sacrifice them.”

  “I would not,” Adham said, clipped.

  “Then stay with Isabella, so she does not feel abandoned. I cannot imagine she would wish to be left there at the palace with no one but staff to keep her company.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You could take her to see some of the city. Show Isabella her new home. I’ll bet she would enjoy seeing the oasis at Adalia.”