by Trish Morey
Her voice cracked on the last word and this time she dissolved into tears. He pulled her in, cradled her head against his chest and let her cry, her tears ripping at his soul.
He did not deserve her thanks. She had been right all along—he was a barbarian. He—who knew Mustafa better than anyone—had paid no heed to what she must have suffered at his half-brother’s hands. He had seen her rescue as a way of evening the score between them. And once she had been in his hands he had asked her nothing. He had demanded everything.
Worst of all, he had not believed her.
He was no better than his half-brother and that knowledge tore at his gut. He dropped his head to hers, pressed his lips to her hair. ‘I am so sorry, Aisha, that I did not believe you. I was so wrong.’
He lifted her tear-streaked face to his, kissed her damp eyes and the tip of her nose. ‘Can you ever forgive me for the way I have treated you?’
She blinked up at him, her soft lips parted, looking so lost and vulnerable, so very kissable, that he felt the kick all the way down in his groin. She gave a tentative smile, touched a slim hand to his chest and down his side, her fingers curling deliciously into the flesh of his buttock. ‘Maybe,’ she said hesitantly, taking his hand, putting it to her breast, her eyelids fluttering closed as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple.
‘Anything,’ he said as she set both her hands on him, exploring, tracing every detail, setting his skin alight, turning his voice to gravel. ‘Name it.’
‘Make me forget him. Make love to me again. I mean, when it is possible.’
He growled low in his throat and, still holding onto her, flipped onto his back so she straddled him, his eyes drinking in the sight of her rising up from him, his hands drinking in her satin-smooth skin.
‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes widening as she realised he was already primed beneath her, ‘I thought it would be too soon.’
‘No,’ he said as he encouraged her hips higher so he could position himself, loving the way she so naturally assisted with the movement of her lush body to find her centre. ‘With you, Aisha,’ he said, as he drew her down his long length, ‘anything is possible.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
FOR the first time in days she felt that things were finally going right and falling into place. They had woken in the tent to the sound of waves breaking on the shore. They had made slow, lazy love as the sun had risen over the horizon. They had held hands while travelling across the sands to the Blue Palace.
And now, sitting in the front row of the Blue Palace’s magnificent twelfth-century arched reception hall, grandly fitted out for the coronation of Al-Jirad’s new king, she felt not only happiness but immense pride as well.
For in front of her stood Zoltan, now only minutes from being crowned King of Al-Jirad. The building was full of assembled guests from countries near and far, and her father sat alongside, beaming widely, no doubt at the knowledge he would be keeping his crown and that the Jemeyan legacy and the pact between their two countries would live on.
As for Aisha? She was so full of the new wonders of love-making that she could not begin to describe how she felt: glowing. Buzzing. Electric, with a heightened awareness of all things of the flesh. For Zoltan had awakened in her the pleasures of the flesh in a way she had never dreamed possible. She smiled to herself, thinking of the latest way he’d pleasured her—asking her to don the gossamer-thin robe she’d been gifted, pleasuring her with his clever tongue and seeking lips before taking her again. Was there no end to his talents?
Not so far, apparently.
He had told her that with her all things were possible. Could it be true? Could they find love out of the madness of a forced marriage neither of them had wanted? Might Zoltan grow to love her as she so wished to be loved?
Last night he had made it seem possible.
Only one thing could temper her joy this day and it was that there was still no word from Marina. She tried to tell herself not to be surprised—it was Marina, after all, and she had never been one for protocol and obligations, especially when it involved anything remotely connected to duty. But still, after all that had happened, Aisha had so very much wanted to have the chance to talk to her sister again.
Around her the formalities dragged on longer than she expected, and she zoned out, listening with only half an ear. It was not entirely intentional, but there was only so much pomp and ceremony one could take in when one had other, much more carnal pleasures on their mind, and right now she had the memories of last night’s activities to savour as well as the upcoming night’s activities to anticipate.
And there was really no need to listen. It was all just a formality, after all. And it was all so long…
Until she heard the name of her island home mentioned, and the pact. She blinked into awareness and she realised why the ceremony was taking so long, because an extra segment had been added to the ceremony due to the unusual circumstances of the ascension, a series of declarations Zoltan was required to respond to.
‘And do you solemnly swear,’ the Grand Vizier said, ‘on the covenants of the Sacred Book of Al-Jirad that you have married a Jemeyan princess?’
She glanced from her father to Zoltan, not knowing she would be mentioned as part of this, and suddenly wishing she’d paid more attention, for neither of them looked surprised or perplexed.
‘I declare it to be true,’ Zoltan said.
‘And do you also solemnly swear, on the covenants of the Sacred Book of Al-Jirad, that you have impregnated with your seed the Jemeyan princess you have married so that Al-Jirad and Jemeya might both prosper into the future just as your family will prosper?’
‘I declare it to be true.’
‘Then you have fulfilled the covenants of the Sacred Book of Al-Jirad and I declare…’
But Aisha heard nothing more. For her blood had turned to ice and the thunder of it in her ears drowned out the proceedings while her mind focused on the words you have impregnated with your seed the Jemeyan princess…
He had been required to impregnate her before the ceremony take place, as part of his requirements to become king?
The blood in her veins grew even colder. Was that what their trip away to Belshazzah had really been about, even while he had told her it was merely to get to know each other better?
For he must have known he would need to sleep with her before the coronation. The vizier would have told him.
He must have known.
Yet he hadn’t told her. He’d let her think that it didn’t matter how long it took, so long as they were married and gave the impression of sleeping together.
He’d let her think that she could take her time to get to know him.
He’d let her think she had a choice.
But he had known!
All the time he had known. She thought back to their time at Belshazzah, and to the skilfull way he had given her space and then reeled her in again, like a fisherman playing a fish. Giving it line, letting it think it was free, only to reel it back before letting it run again. He’d done the same with her, letting her think she had space, letting her walk alone, letting her make choices. But she’d been on a line all along and he’d known that all he had to do was reel her in and impregnate her.
She shuddered at the very sound of the word. It sounded so cold, formal and clinical. It sounded a million miles from what she thought they had been doing that day.
And all the time he had let her believe that it had meant something.
What had he told her? It’s never been that good for me. She had wondered then whether he was telling her the truth, wanting in her heart to believe it but so scared to.
He had wanted her to believe it too. So she would become the biddable, complicit wife he needed.
And she had wanted so much to believe him. When would she learn?
She felt sickened, physically ill, and when she gasped in air to quell the sudden unwanted surge of her stomach her father frowned across at her and
she did her best to send a reassuring smile back in his direction. It would not be the done thing for a Jemeyan princess to throw up at her own husband’s coronation.
Somehow she made it through to the end of the ceremony, avoiding eye-contact as she placed her arm on his, stiff and formal, as the royal party departed.
Somehow her legs managed to carry her all the way from the ceremony to the balcony of the palace.
Somehow she even managed to smile stiffly at the crowd gathered in the square spread out below to celebrate their first sight of the new King and Queen of Al-Jirad.
Their cheers didn’t come close to touching her. The only word she heard over and over in her mind was impregnate.
‘You seem tense, Aisha.’
‘Do I?’
She had suffered through the interminable state reception, putting up with inane small-talk and diplomatic and ultimately meaningless mutterings with as much grace as she could muster. But now, as she removed one of the heavy chandelier earrings from her lobe, she could enjoy a brief respite in their suite as they changed before a formal dinner.
Or she could have enjoyed it, that was, if Zoltan hadn’t also been there. She pulled the other earring loose and dropped it to the dressing table in a clatter, just wanting the heavy weight gone from her ear, and wishing that the heavy weight on her heart could be so easily discarded.
Across the room Zoltan stopped tugging at his tie. ‘It appears the stress of becoming queen is getting to you.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘So maybe you need to relax.’
‘And what did you have in mind?’ she said, the taste of bile bitter in her throat. ‘Perhaps a little impregnation to calm me down and turn me back into your oh-so-biddable wife?’
He blinked. Slowly. His jaw set. ‘Is that what you’re upset about, the wording of the ceremony?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s ancient. It is required by the texts.’
‘As, it seems, was the need to impregnate me before the coronation.’
‘Aisha,’ he said, coming closer, putting his hands to her shoulders, ‘don’t be like this.’
‘Don’t touch me!’ she said, brushing his hands away. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew before we went to Belshazzah that you had to get me to sleep with you.’
‘Princess,’ he said, holding out one hand to her. ‘Aisha, what is the point of this? It is already done. Did you not enjoy it?’
Her chest heaving with indignation at his inference that everything must be all right if the sex was any good, she demanded, ‘What would have happened if you had not impregnated me before the coronation? If your answer to that question in the ceremony had been no?’
His jaw ground together, his eyes glinted. ‘I would not have been crowned king.’
‘And you knew that all the time we were at Belshazzah.’
‘I knew.’
‘And not once did you bother to tell me.’
‘I tried. I was going to—’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘It’s the truth! I was going to—’
‘No! You told me you were taking me there so we might get to know each other, because the palace was too big, too public. You never once told me it was so you could secure the throne by ensuring I slept with you in time for the coronation. Don’t you remember what you told me in the car on the way, that you didn’t need to go to so much trouble to get into my pants because you could so easily find a dark corner in the palace to perform the task?’
‘“Getting into your pants” are your words. They were never mine.’
‘Don’t get semantic, because playing with words won’t work in this case. It doesn’t matter which words you use. Because when it all comes down to it that’s what you needed, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Getting into my pants—impregnating me with your seed—only that would ensure you the throne.’
‘I never lied to you,’ he said, ‘just because I didn’t tell you the intimate details of the pact.’
She scoffed, indignant at the way he could worm his way around the truth. ‘Not openly, perhaps. You didn’t tell me what you knew. Instead you let me think that sleeping with you was my choice, that I had some say. While all the time you knew the clock was already ticking.
‘Your lie was a lie all the same. It was one of omission.’
‘Princess. Aisha, listen.’
‘No! I am through with listening to you. Do you have any idea how betrayed I feel right now? How shattered that you could not entrust me with the details of my own future?’ She put her shaking head in her hands before she raised her head and flung her arms wide. ‘No. I am done with it, just as I am done with you and anything to do with you.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I have had enough of this farce of a marriage. I want out of it.’
‘You can’t just walk away from this marriage. You are bound to me just as I am bound to you.’
‘Why shouldn’t I walk away? You’re king now. You don’t need me any more. Don’t try to tell me that the Sacred Book of Al-Jirad, the font of all knowledge and power, would prevent a queen who has been lied to and manipulated from escaping the chains of her captives? I am sure the wisdom of the ages would be on her side. And, if not, I am sure the weight of modern justice would support her.’
‘Even though you have not yet finished your duty? You have yet to deliver the necessary heirs expected of this union.’
She tossed her head. ‘Who knows, maybe there is a little bastard prince already implanted in my womb.’
‘We are married. He would not be a bastard.’
‘You don’t think so?’ From somewhere she managed to dredge up a smile. ‘Though maybe you’re right. Maybe he won’t take after you. In any event, I am not staying here in this place a moment longer. I am going home to Jemeya.’
‘You forget something, Princess—you need to supply two heirs.’
She raised her chin. ‘So send me your sperm, Zoltan, and I will gladly save you any more pretence and any more of your lies and I will happily impregnate myself!’
He’d always known she was shallow. Zoltan crashed through the air as he strode down the passageway towards his suite, sick of a night spent making excuses, tired of explaining the new queen was unfortunately ‘indisposed’.
She wasn’t indisposed. What he’d really wanted to tell people was that she was a spoilt little princess who wanted everything all her own way—expected it—as if it was her God-given right. Well, he’d never wanted this marriage in the first place himself. He was better off without her. He would cope just fine. He tugged at the button at his collar, needing more oxygen than the suddenly tight collar allowed.
But—damn—maybe not Al-Jirad.
He would have to talk to Hamzah, find out how the queen’s sudden absence would change things, to see if there was a workable way around her absence. There was nothing he could recall in the Sacred Book of Al-Jirad, but Hamzah would know the legalities of it all. Although her father would no doubt talk her around eventually; he was as hard-nosed about doing one’s duty as anyone when it all came down to it. He had promised Zoltan tonight when they had exchanged a quiet word earlier on that he would soon talk sense into his precious daughter’s head.
Wall hangings fluttered as he passed like a dark storm cloud, creating turbulence in the formerly serene air.
And the thing that made him angrier than ever, the thing that made him steam and fume, was that for just one day, just a few short hours, he had actually believed that this marriage might work.
He’d actually believed they had something that could take this marriage beyond the realms of duty and into something entirely more pleasurable.
Fool!
He’d been blinded by sex, pure and simple. So blown away by the delights of her sweet, responsive body, he’d forgotten what he was dealing with: a skin-deep princess who wanted the entire fairy-tale, from the once-upon-a-time to the happy-ever-after. When was she going to realise this was real
life, not the pages from some child’s picture book?
He paused as he came to the door of her suite, wondering if she’d already had her belongings removed and shipped. Nothing would surprise him.
He pushed open the door. It was silent inside and eerily dark with the closed curtains, only the light from the still-open door spilling in. There was no trace of her. He crossed the floor to her dressing room and tugged open the door. Nothing. She’d had them pack every single thing and wasted no time about it. They had taken every trace, until one might think she had never been here at all.
He ground his teeth together as he contemplated her mood when she had given the instructions to collect her belongings. Clearly she did not consider her return to Jemeya to be in any way temporary. Clearly she had no wish to be here. Maybe he should cut his losses and let her go. He would be well rid of her. He would have to ask Hamzah if that was an option that could be tolerated.
He was on his way out when his passing caused something to flutter, like loose papers riffling in the breeze, and he turned towards where the sound had come from. He pulled open a curtain, let light flood in and found them straight away. There were some loose papers on a desk tucked haphazardly under a blotter. He frowned, remembering a letter she’d been writing the night they’d been married when he’d come looking for her; remembering the way her fingers had shifted the pages as she’d looked down at them. The rushed packers had not done such a thorough job after all.
He pulled them out, intending to fling them in the nearest bin, when her neat handwriting caught his eye. Of course she would have neat handwriting and not some scrawl, he thought, finding yet another reason to resent her. She had probably been tutored in perfect script from an early age.
He didn’t intend to read any of it, but he caught the words ‘foolish’ and ‘naive’ and he thought she must be talking about him, compiling a list of his faults.
