Princess's Nine-Month Secret

by Kate Hewitt

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  Sheikh’s Pregnant Cinderella

  by Maya Blake

  CHAPTER ONE

  HIS EARS WERE playing tricks on him. They must be.

  Otherwise they wouldn’t have relayed the unconscionable message to his brain that—

  No.

  ‘Repeat yourself,’ Sheikh Zufar al Khalia, current occupant of the throne of Khalia, breathed softly at the short, bespectacled senior aide standing before him.

  The man shrank back, very much aware that his King’s lowered, even tones were far worse than his bark. Not that Zufar al Khalia, much accomplished, master strategist and all-round frighteningly intelligent head of the exulted royal family, needed to lower himself to such unseemly actions as barking.

  Marwan Farhat only managed to withstand his liege’s chilling tawny gaze for a handful of seconds before lowering his to the priceless Persian rug beneath his feet.

  ‘Now, Marwan,’ Zufar insisted.

  ‘We’ve been informed that your betrothed has disappeared, Your Highness. She’s not in her suite, and her maidservant thinks she’s been taken.’

  ‘Thinks? So there’s no actual evidence?’

  ‘Uh... I haven’t spoken to the servant myself, Your Highness, but—’

  ‘For all you know, my betrothed could be hiding somewhere in the palace, under the pretext of the foolish, pre-wedding nerves that normally afflict women on such a day, correct?’

  Marwan exchanged glances with the other aides. ‘It is possible, Your Highness.’

  Zufar heard the but not spoken, loud and clear. ‘Where is this maidservant? I wish to speak to her myself.’

  The senior aide grimaced. ‘Of course, Your Highness, but I’ve been informed the girl is quite hysterical. I don’t think it will be useful—’

  ‘Useful?’ The cold disbelief trapped in his chest expanded. ‘Do you see what I’m wearing, Marwan?’ Zufar drawled in the soft, deadly voice that usually hushed his subordinates into fearful silence, as he rounded the massive teak desk that had previously belonged to his esteemed grandfather.

  Marwan’s Adam’s apple bobbed again as he took in Zufar’s heavy burgundy-and-gold military uniform, complete with wide sash, epaulettes, and buttons made of solid gold. Where other men would have looked stiff and pompous, his King looked enviably elegant, his towering six-feet-plus height lending the uniform a regal stature few could emulate.

  The accompanying cloak hung on its own specially made frame nearby. Together they formed the King’s ceremonial wedding attire, commissioned on his twenty-first birthday for this one momentous occasion. Zufar al Khalia had cut a commanding figure since he hit puberty, but on this day he rose above all men into an exclusive realm of his own.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ he responded respectfully.

  Zufar tossed the white gloves he’d been about to put on before he was interrupted onto the desk, and advanced towards the men. He had their attention, but he needed to make sure that not a single syllable that fell from his lips would be misconstrued.

  ‘Have you seen the dignitaries and heads of states currently making their way to the Imperial Room? The fifty thousand citizens who’ve been camping in the capital for the past seven days in anticipation of this ceremony? The three hundred journalists and innumerable cameras waiting on the south lawn to televise this ceremony?’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness.’

  Zufar took a deep calming breath, certain that if he didn’t he would burst a blood vessel despite his supremely robust health. And that would be terribly unwise considering this was supposed to be his wedding day.

  ‘Tell me again why you think it would not be useful to discover the whereabouts of my betrothed as soon as possible?’

  Marwan clasped his hands before him, a gesture of supplication that did nothing to appease Zufar’s rising temper. ‘A thousand pardons, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I merely came to inform you that there might be a delay. Perhaps we can postpone the ceremony—’

  ‘No. There will be no postponement. You will find my betrothed immediately and this wedding ceremony will proceed as scheduled.’

  ‘Your Highness, the guards and all the servants have searched everywhere. She is not here.’

  A red haze washed across Zufar’s vision. His collar began to constrict him, blocking his airway. But he didn’t raise his hand to undo a button or in any way indicate his discomfort.

  He was the King.

  Since birth, streams of instructors and governesses had drummed long-suffering poise and decorum into him, with swift and merciless punishment delivered for stepping out of line. As for rash displays of emotion like the bellow of frustration that bubbled inside him? Those came with a week’s banishment to the winter palace on the northernmost part of Khalia with nothing but the frozen mountains and endless reams of Latin recitals for company.

  No, unfettered displays of emotion had been his father’s eminent domain.

  For Zufar and his younger brother and sister, it had been an emotionless existence in the strictest boarding schools in foreign lands. And during the holidays when they were allowed home, they would spend hours being groomed into becoming the perfect ambassadors of the Royal House of Khalia.

  On the rare occasion when his temper strained and attempted to get the better of him, like today, people took notice. And fled his presence at the earliest possible moment.

  Zufar gathered himself until his spine was a steel column, and fixed his eyes on Marwan. ‘You will take me to this maidservant now. I wish to hear what she has to say for myself.’

  The senior aide immediately bowed low. ‘Of course, Your Highness.’

  The palace guards stationed on either side of the door sprang forwards to open the double doors for him.

  The moment Zufar stepped into the hallway, he knew something was very, very wrong. The excited buzz that had
charged the air during the final preparations for the royal wedding had altered.

  Several staff members of the royal palace wore anxious expressions as they rushed back and forth. And while it was respectful to drop one’s gaze before the King, he noticed that every single one of the staff was actively avoiding his.

  The palpable tension raised the hairs on his nape. Beside him, Marwan also avoided his gaze. In fact, the man was doing everything in his power to extend his short strides in the rush to put self-preserving space between himself and Zufar.

  It would’ve been amusing had Zufar not felt in his very marrow that his impending nuptials were in jeopardy.

  Whispers around him grew as he entered the main part of the palace. As with most royal palaces, the women’s quarters were separated from the men’s by several wings. His own private rooms were to the west of the sprawling palace that sat on top of Mount Jerra.

  Quick strides took him across to the east wing. He ignored the bows and scrapes of his palace staff and extended family members as he walked, grim-faced, towards the guest suite that Amira, his fiancée, had occupied since her arrival at the palace three weeks ago.

  She was a daughter of his father’s oldest friend, and Zufar had been aware of Amira’s existence since he was a boy. But she was several years his junior and had clearly found him intimidating to the point of speechlessness at the best of times. He hadn’t taken much interest in her until his father had informed him of the agreement he’d made with Feroz Ghalib, Amira’s father, for them to marry.

  Even then, the wedding had been a distant future event, arranged by others and needing only a handful of meetings for the sake of appearances. Still, he’d taken his duty seriously and ensured during their meetings that she was at ease and not being forced into a union she didn’t want. Her assurances had satisfied him enough to accept that she would be his wife when the time was right.

  The medical report that had confirmed that she was healthy enough to bear his children had sealed the deal.

  Beyond that, he hadn’t given her much thought, although she’d been peculiarly distracted during their twice weekly dinners recently.

  But Amira was close with his sister and Zufar was confident that Galila would have informed him if there’d been a problem with the upcoming nuptials.

  Nevertheless, had he dropped the ball somewhere?

  He frowned.

  The burden of governing his kingdom was his first and only priority. It had needed to be, considering the chaos it had been left in by his father’s sudden abdication.

  Tight anger knotted inside him as he strode faster towards the suite of luxury rooms that were reserved for the Queen and other female members of the royal family.

  He wouldn’t think of his father today, or the fact that the ex-King had banished himself to the summer palace since his wife’s death and hadn’t spoken to his children in months. Zufar wouldn’t think of the sleepless nights and backbreaking work it had taken for him to keep the kingdom that had already been woefully neglected by his father from falling apart.

  Today, this hour, demanded his complete attention. His people yearned for a royal wedding. That was exactly what he was going to give them.

  The footmen stationed outside the Sapphire Suite spotted him and immediately threw open the doors.

  Zufar entered, then drew to a stop at the sight of the visibly distressed women in the living room. Two were babbling hysterically, and an older female servant was busy comforting another.

  ‘Which one is she?’ he demanded tersely. Eyes swivelled to him, followed predictably by shocked gasps and hurried comportment before the bows and scrapes and averted gazes commenced.

  Marwan hushed them, and then uttered a sharp query to the junior aide behind him. The younger man shook his head, throwing a furtive glance at Zufar. Marwan approached the older attendant and questioned her. Clearly nervous, she pointed to the inner chamber.

  Zufar strode towards smaller double doors, his temper frothing furiously in his chest. This time he pulled the doors open himself, bitter memories tossing themselves onto the pyre he was trying to contain as he walked into the huge, lavish chamber that had once been his mother’s domain.

  His gaze didn’t linger on the priceless keepsakes, furniture or decoration. He didn’t know which items in this room his mother had treasured and which gifts from his father and her secret admirers had been less favoured. He didn’t know her favourite book or the preferred flower arrangement for her private sitting room because he had never been allowed in here.

  On the rare occasions his mother had tolerated him, they had been in public where her pretended adoration could be captured for the world to see and praise and to provide moments of smugness as she perused the gossip rags. Beyond that, she’d never had a kind word for him or his siblings.

  But he wasn’t here to dwell on the subject of his mother.

  He trained his focus on the figure hunched over near the headboard of the vast bed. She was so slight he almost missed her.

  Had it not been for the drab, body-shrouding beige clothes that painfully and distastefully stood out against the gold and cream bed linen, he would’ve mistaken her for one of the pillows or part of the rich drapery that decorated the four-poster bed.

  As he advanced towards her he noticed that her slim shoulders were shaking. Another few steps and the small sniffles of her quiet sobs reached his ears.

  Zufar stifled his curse before it ripped free.

  He didn’t care for weak women. He cared even less for weak, crying women.

  Behind him, Marwan clicked his tongue sharply.

  The figure jumped up, stumbled over her long, shapeless skirt, and immediately tumbled to the floor in a graceless heap at Zufar’s feet.

  He waited, impatient breath slowly spilling through clenched teeth, for her to rise. But she didn’t seem interested in regaining her feet. Instead, she was developing an almost mesmerised interest in his shoes.

  He took a step forwards, hoping to dislodge her hypnosis. When that failed to work, he cleared his throat.

  ‘If that is a shoe fetish you’re exhibiting, may I suggest you indulge in it another time? When the reputation of my kingdom isn’t at stake, perhaps?’ Zufar drawled.

  A sharp intake of breath, then, finally, she raised her head.

  Large, tear-soaked dark eyes rose from his feet, and plotted an excruciatingly slow journey up his body. By the time they reached his face, her expression was creased into abject horror.

  Coupled with a face blotched and bloated with tears and a mouth frozen in an unattractive O, she was the most unsightly girl Zufar had ever seen.

  ‘What is your name?’ he bit out, praying she could actually string enough words together to answer.

  She didn’t respond. She simply stared up at him, her horror intensifying by the second.

  ‘Do you not hear your King addressing you, girl?’ Marwan demanded sharply.

  Her mouth closed. She swallowed noisily, but still uttered no word.

  Zufar’s fists started to curl. Almost a year’s worth of meticulous planning hung in the balance because of one tear-streaked, dumbstruck girl.

  About to move, he paused as her gaze darted to his fists and she recoiled.

  The sight of her naked fear struck an uncomfortable chord in him. He breathed out and slowly unfurled his fingers. There would be no coherent conversation with her unless he found a way to defuse some of her fear, he realised.

  He sensed Marwan moving towards her and held up his hand. ‘Leave us,’ he instructed.

  Marwan made a small sound of surprise. ‘Are you sure, Your Highness?’

  Zufar’s lips tightened. ‘Leave. Now.’

  The room emptied immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on the girl crouched before him, and slowly extended his hand towards her. Again, her gaze darted between his face and his
hand, as if terrified he would do something unpredictable. Like bite. Or strike.

  He frowned.

  She reminded him of the skittish colts in his stable. The ones that demanded substantial time and patience to respond to his commands.

  Except he was in gross negative supply of either today. His marriage ceremony was scheduled to commence in less than two hours.

  Zufar leaned down and extended his hand further. ‘Stand up,’ he instructed, firming his voice.

  She placed her hand in his, scrambled upright, and immediately gasped and dropped his hand as if she’d been scalded.

  He ignored her reaction, his gaze moving over her, confirming that the drabness indeed extended from the top of the dishevelled tufts of dark hair peeking out of her beige scarf to the soles of her feet.

  Except, she wasn’t a girl as he’d initially surmised.

  She was long past adolescence, if the pronounced swell of her chest and the hint of curves beneath the clothes were any indication. She came up to his chin in her flat, tasteless shoes, her covered arms slender and her jaw holding a delicate strength.

  His eyes were drawn to her chest again. It was just her agitated breathing that was snagging his attention. Nothing else. He stepped back, folded his hands behind his back and assumed a gesture of ease that never failed to work on his horses.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked again in a lower voice.

  Her gaze dropped to the ground and she mumbled.

  ‘Speak up,’ he said.

  Her chin jerked up a little, but her gaze remained, once again, on the tips of his shoes.

  ‘Niesha Zalwani, Your Highness,’ she repeated.

  Her voice was soft, smoky and lyrical, if a little too timid for his dwindling patience. But at least he was getting somewhere. He had a name.

  ‘What is your role here?’

  ‘I—I’m... I was a chambermaid until last week, when I was added to Miss Amira’s personal staff.’

  ‘Look at me when I’m addressing you,’ Zufar drawled. It took an interminable age for her head to rise once more. But eventually, her gaze met his, then promptly flitted down to rest on his nose. Zufar prayed for strength and continued, ‘Where’s your mistress?’