by Maisey Yates
Hassan put his arm around Jamilah’s waist and led her down the corridor, away from Adham and herself.
“I am happy for them,” she said quietly as they moved out of sight.
“It is the right thing for Hassan to do. When a child is involved. Consideration has to be given to that.”
“What about to him and Jamilah? To the fact that they love each other?”
“What does love matter, Isabella? The kind of love between men and women, lust, that fades with time? It is easily broken, abandoned for a thousand insignificant reasons every day. But a marriage that serves a purpose, that is bigger than the two people involved, that marriage has a chance.”
“So you don’t believe that Hassan and Jamilah will stay together?”
“They have their child. I believe that will bond them.”
“But not their feelings for each other?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Are you saying you don’t believe in love?”
His expression calmed, his eyes suddenly looking beyond her. “You remember, Isabella, we talked about life experience. I have had my share. I have seen much of people—of what the human heart is capable of. Immense greed, unimaginable cruelty. Those things choke love out, kill it where it grows. I have not seen that elusive emotion conquer anything, but I have seen it used against people. I believe love has the power to weaken.”
“That’s terribly sad, Adham.”
“You’re young, Bella. You see life as full of wonderful possibilities because you have been given protection by your family—protection from the ugliness in life. But love did not save my parents, Isabella. Do you know, the men that killed my parents … they did not see my mother hiding in the garden, not at first. They used my father to draw her out. Used her love for him, exploited it.”
“Adham.” Her voice cracked.
“She could have survived if she had used her mind instead of her heart. No matter what, they were not going to free my father. There was nothing she could have done, and in the end they were both killed.”
She saw now where Adham’s rigid control, his seeming absence of emotion, came from. He felt it necessary for survival—for the survival of others. And he had honed those defenses, made them so solid, so impenetrable, that she had no hope of breaching them.
“What if it were Hassan? Wouldn’t you try to save him?”
“It is different. It is my duty to protect Hassan. I am trained to do so.”
She wanted so badly to go to him, to wrap her arms around him and offer him the comfort of her body, offer him whatever he needed. But she stayed still, rooted to the spot, unable to face the rejection that would come if she made a move toward him.
“There is an event this evening,” he said, changing the subject suddenly. “Other sheikhs, leaders of some of the larger tribal groups, are coming to the palace. I am to hear their concerns for their communities, listen to their needs, You will attend, of course.”
“Of course,” she said dryly.
“You will find suitable clothing laid out for you on your bed.” He did not look at her when he said that.
Anger flashed through her. “So you’re going to choose my clothing now? “
“Clothing that fits the event, your position, the customs of your new country. You may wear what you like in other circumstances.”
It was a small concession, but one that meant something to her.
“Thank you.”
“I’m not a tyrant, Isabella.”
“I know that.”
“Then don’t look at me as though you expect me to be.”
“Do you want honesty, Adham? I don’t know what to think. I don’t know where we stand, or how you will want your wife to behave. I don’t know what you want from me.”
He looked at her, his gaze assessing. “I’ll give you honesty, since you gave it to me. I don’t want a wife. But I do want to do what is best for my people, for your people. That is as far as my expectations of you will go. Otherwise you’re free to do as you like.”
She had a feeling he looked on that as a gift of some kind, as though he had handed her freedom. But it was impossible. Hearing that he didn’t want her hurt worse than she had imagined it would. She hadn’t thought that the verbal confirmation would be more difficult to handle than the physical signs, but it was. Much worse.
“I know you’ll do what’s best for everyone, Adham,” she said tightly. “You always do.”
“Not always.”
“Well, that’s done now. We can’t go back. And there’s no point in dwelling on it now.”
“I don’t intend to repeat my mistakes.”
He strode away, and she stood, rooted to the spot. She was a mistake? Even now that they were going to be married she was nothing more than a mistake?
He had said they would see if she was pregnant or not. Did that mean he only intended to sleep with her to ensure that she produced an heir? When she’d faced marriage to Hassan she would have welcomed that, but with Adham … the thought of him coming to her bed out of duty.
She dashed away the tears that were falling down her cheeks and went to her room. She had to pick one of her pre-selected outfits so that she would be ready to present herself as a proper sheikha. Present herself as a woman her fiancé might be proud to have on his arm.
Adham disliked state functions. Diplomacy was not his strong point, as he had been told more than once since childhood. He shifted, trying to ignore the discomfort he always experienced when wearing the traditional Umarahn robes. He preferred Western-style clothing to the billowing garb of his ancestors, but meeting with tribal leaders required him to observe tradition in a way he was not accustomed to.
One thing he did discover was that he enjoyed talking to the people. Enjoyed finding out what their needs were, and knowing that he could help them with those needs in an immediate fashion. Being the High Sheikh would have many rewards, but the sacrifices were great. Already he chafed for the freedom of the desert. But that way of living was past.
His future bride was late—a fact he was grateful for. He had not found any more control over his libido since leaving her earlier that day. He still ached for her.
He turned his attention to the Sheikh of one of the larger nomadic groups, who was talking about a need for traveling schools, finding better ways to transport water. That was when he spotted a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and looked up.
Isabella was standing in the doorway of the throne room, her exquisite body draped in rich silk, her dark hair left loose, strands of silver chain woven through it, adding an ethereal shimmer to her glossy black locks. Her eyes were darkened with black kohl, her lips red to match her gown. The style was traditional and modest, yet on her. She looked like the essence of temptation, a call to sin that any man would be hard pressed to resist.
As she moved across the room the heads of every tribal leader turned sharply, their eyes fixed on her womanly form as she walked toward him. Her hips swayed, an enticing rhythm, and her eyes were full of sensual promise.
And she was his.
Mine.
She didn’t offer him a smile as she came to join him. Her expression was neutral, much more guarded than he was used to seeing. He had hurt her earlier, with his admission that he did not want a wife. But she had to understand that he would not be the sort of husband to her that Hassan would have been.
He would be faithful, and he would give her children. But he did not know how to give the love of a husband. The love of a father. She and her children deserved both, and it galled him to know that he could not give it. Had it been up to him he would have spared her, but the need for their marriage remained. Which meant that she had to sacrifice more than she might have.
But hurting her in that way … it had made him ache to see her eyes so full of pain.
He put his hand on her lower back and felt her stiffen beneath his touch. She had not done that in a long while. She had grown to enjoy his
touch, and now she recoiled from it. His body took it as a challenge when it should be pleased. He needed distance, needed time for whatever enchantment she had woven around him to wear off before he went to her bed again.
He raised his hand and the room fell silent, awaiting his word. “This is my future bride—your future Sheikha. Principessa Isabella Rossi. The union between she and I will bring about an alliance with Turan that will benefit both countries.” He continued, outlining all that each nation stood to gain from the marriage, while the sheikhs looked on, nodding their heads in approval.
Isabella offered the onlookers a wide smile—one he suddenly wished were directed at him. Then she did something no other sheikha would have done. “I am honored to be in your service,” she said. “Umarah is a wonderful country, and I look forward to learning all that I can about my new home. Thank you for welcoming me.”
He did not know what the response would be to a woman speaking, but the men only nodded, clapping and laughing at the end of her speech.
Afterward, they spoke to Isabella as well as to him, telling her specifically about the needs of the women and children in their groups.
When they sat down to dinner Isabella took her place at his side. “You should smile more,” she whispered—the first words she’d spoken to him all evening.
“I should?”
“I’ve told you that before.” Conversation and music swirled, loud and boisterous around them, as food was placed on the table.
“I don’t know that the people expect their High Sheikh to smile.”
“It’s always better to talk to someone who smiles than someone who simply glares at you.”
“I don’t glare.”
“Yes, Adham, you do.”
“Do I glare at you?”
“All the time.” A smile tugged the corner of her gorgeous red mouth. He was glad to see it—glad to see her smile again instead of that blank, serious expression. Perhaps that was what she felt when he smiled. A sense of pride, as though she had accomplished something.
“I will try not to.”
She reached her hand up and touched his forehead, as though she were smoothing out the lines. “I think it’s permanent.”
He gripped her hand, moved it to his cheek, held it there. The look in her eyes changed, her pupils expanding, the pulse in her wrist fluttering fast beneath his fingers. An answering pulse pounded in his groin, his body hardening for her.
He dropped her hand, disgusted with himself. That he could get an erection in a room full of people, at an important political event, only told him just how badly he was failing at regaining his control. Never before had a woman distracted him from the task at hand. But Isabella near … her skin so soft, her scent tantalizingly sweet, that lush body that he knew was so tight, that fit him so perfectly, close enough for him to touch, to taste … was a temptation he was not able to combat.
He turned his attention to the man next to him and began discussing mundane tax laws—anything to tone down his body’s reaction to his future Sheikha.
Isabella had every man in the room eating out of the palm of her hand by the end of the evening, and as the men filed out they all bowed—a show of reverence and submission rarely given to women—offering her hospitality should she ever be traveling near their encampments.
She was a valuable political asset—something he had not fully appreciated about her when he had first met her. He had assumed she was immature, had thought her youthful enthusiasm would be a drawback, and yet he saw now that that wasn’t the case. She was naive, yes, but that only added to her charm, made her seem disarming and sweet, and her enthusiasm, her ready smile, made people want to be with her, talk to her.
No matter who she was conversing with she gave them all of her focus, all of her attention, and she did it with such an air of interest that whoever she was speaking to felt at the center of her universe. She was an asset that most politicians would dream of.
She leaned against the doorframe, exhaustion evident on her face. She looked so beautiful there, the light from the palace making a halo around her dark hair from behind, the moon casting a silver glow on her golden skin. There was still a lingering warmth in the night air, the scent of sun on sand not yet faded.
“Where did you learn to work a room like that?” he asked.
She shrugged, not looking at him, keeping her eyes fixed on a distant point out in the desert; that unusual reserve that she seemed to be showing only to him was back. “We held many diplomatic events in Turan, and traveled to several outside of the country. I told you, I speak many languages and I often conversed with dignitaries in attendance. I was trained to be a royal wife.”
“And you were trained well.”
“Yes. I was. I enjoy that part of it, really. I like people. I like hearing about their lives, their dreams and struggles. One thing I’ve found is that people usually want the same things, no matter how different they are.”
“I have never spent a lot of time getting to know people,” he said, realizing how true it was.
Other than Hassan, he didn’t count anyone as his friend. He’d had affairs with women over the years—nothing permanent, nothing serious. And he hadn’t wanted those connections. Hadn’t wanted to be close to anyone. Yet Isabella seemed to want to know anyone and everyone. She was so open, so exposed to anyone who might try and hurt her.
“I don’t know that I’ve really gotten to know very many people. Being royalty, it seems like you’re always … separate. But I’ve gotten to be a small part of a lot of people’s lives. I like that.”
“I thought you were very selfish when we first met,” he said, remembering how he had assumed she was a spoiled little rich girl, whining about moving from one palace to the next. “But that was the only moment in your life you’ve ever spared for yourself, wasn’t it?”
She laughed softly, a small amount of warmth returning to her face. “I did sneak out shopping with my sister-in-law once. She didn’t know we were sneaking, poor thing. That turned out to be a bad idea too.”
“You think now that your time in Paris was a bad idea?”
“I don’t know, Adham. I learned to want a lot more than I did before I left. Different things than I thought I wanted.”
“Freedom from the an arranged marriage?”
She pushed away from the doorframe, her eyes, which had been avoiding him, locked onto him now. “No. I learned to want things I had ignored—things I had never thought I would truly desire. How could I when my husband had been chosen for me? There was never a reason to look at another man, never a reason to want to know about … sex.”
She touched his arm, the brush of her skin sending a shock of kinetic energy through him, straight to his groin, making him totally hard in an instant.
“Being with you … that was when I learned what it was to want.” She licked her lips and lust kicked him. Hard. “That was the other moment in my life when I was selfish,” she finished on a whisper.
He gripped her wrist, backed her against the door, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of her neck, pressing a kiss to her flesh, damp from the heat, tasting the salt of her skin, the essence of Isabella. His Bella. His.
A small moan escaped her lips and he caught it with his mouth, kissing her hard, devouring her. And she met him, her tongue thrusting into his mouth, her body moving against him, the restrictive fit of her red gown keeping her movements slight.
She tried to spread her legs wider, tried to move that sensitive part of her body against his hardened erection, to give them both the release they so desperately craved. Desire burned in him, wild, uncontrolled.
He gripped her hip, running his hand around to the curve of her bottom and down to her thigh, taking hold of the intricate beaded design on the gossamer fabric and tugging hard, tearing the material so that she was able to move with more freedom. She bent her knee and he lifted her leg, wrapping it around his calf as she leaned back against the doorframe, moving her body sensually against
him.
He was ready to come then and there—from her delighted moans of pleasure, from the slick of her tongue against his, from the heat that radiated at the apex of her thighs, a heat that he knew signaled her readiness for him. One more decisive tear of that demure dress and he could sweep it aside and thrust into her.
“Apologies.” A nervous voice brought him out of his sensual haze and he moved away from Isabella, turning to see a young man standing in the corridor, his eyes downcast. “Sheikh Hassan is on the phone and wishes to speak to you.”
He looked at Isabella, who had pressed herself tightly to the doorframe, her eyes squeezed shut, her cheeks flushed pink, her breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath she took. Her dress was torn from her thigh down past her knee, revealing smooth golden skin—skin he’d had his hands on only moments ago, that he wanted to have his hands on again. Even now, with a servant standing there looking on, he wanted to finish what they had started. What they had started in a public place in the palace while they were still unmarried.
The Umarahn people would expect a certain code of conduct from their High Sheikh and his Sheikha, and while most of the modern people would assume they were not abstaining, they would still find it distasteful to know that he had nearly taken Isabella against the palace wall, with doors opened to the desert.
No more distasteful than they would find it that he had taken her virginity on the floor of a tent in the middle of the desert while she’d been engaged to their beloved Hassan.
“Goodnight, Isabella,” he said, turning away from her.
He heard a sharp catch in her breathing, knew she was holding back a sob, but he kept walking. He could not afford to let her control him—could not afford to let his need for her get so out of hand that he forgot everything for the pursuit of the pleasure he could find in her body. He could not afford to lose focus even for a moment.
He had seen the damage it could cause. And he wanted no part of something that could be that destructive.
CHAPTER TEN
“AGAIN you do not have your ring on.” Adham’s deep voice was full of censure.
