Bound to the Sheikh: An ancient debt. A deathbed promise. A marriage of duty and obligation. Desire too strong to control.

by Clare Connelly

  Sheikh Khalid was standing perfectly still and watchful.

  Yes, it must surely have been a test, to expose her to someone as rude and intimidating as the henchman had been.

  “Emira,” Khalid spoke, bowing his head towards her. His tone was pleasingly friendly, his voice deep but clear. The name sounded odd, but she remembered that Abigail had prepared her for this, too. Despite the fact they were not yet married, she was regarded as Emira simply by the fact she was engaged to the ruling Sheikh.

  Her smile was as natural as it could be in the circumstances, and she issued it with no idea how it changed her appearance completely. She returned his greeting with a tilt of her head.

  “My cousin Kaman,” The sheikh said, waving a hand towards the man-beast.

  She didn’t dare look his way again. “I apologise for my lateness. There was a delay at the airport.”

  “A delay?” The cousin, Kaman. She couldn’t tell if the deep throb of his voice was disapproval or disbelief, but its effect on her was the same regardless. Nerve-endings jangled and heat began to pulse through her.

  She didn’t look at him. How could she? “A problem with customs.”

  The sheikh’s eyes locked with Kaman’s, over her head.

  “Did you know about this?” Kaman asked and arrows darted down her spine.

  “I was not informed,” Khalid responded with a thoughtful nod.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sally said. Though it had worried her at the time; the possibility that the objections to her marriage were far more widespread than she’d appreciated. “The issue was sorted out efficiently enough.”

  “I will need to know more about this incident,” Kaman pressed, moving his large frame to her side, so that she had no choice but to look at him.

  “Do you think it could wait until I have properly been introduced to the man I am to marry?” Her query was loaded with a hint of simpering impetuousness.

  Kaman’s eyes were at war with hers. The challenge in them was unmistakable.

  “My cousin Kaman has been appointed as my intermediary,” Khalid spoke with a light deference. The bond between the two men was obvious. So too was the trust Khalid felt for the larger relative.

  Anxiety flooded her system. “Your intermediary?” What the hell did that mean?

  Khalid nodded. “Given the unusual nature of our betrothal, Kaman will conduct an initial vetting process.”

  “A vetting process?” She let the words sink into her exhausted, emotional brain. A vetting process? She looked from the Sheikh to his virile, masculine cousin, careful to keep the fear from her face.

  Was this possibly another test?

  “Tashana had undergone a lengthy process to ensure her … suitability … for this marriage,” Kaman’s voice was slow and rich. “With the wedding to take place in a matter of weeks, this process will not be possible to re-enact.”

  Sally’s heart was pounding against her rib cage. She had arrived in Tari’ell prepared to do her duty and marry the Sheikh. The very idea of having to jump through hoops to bring about the union was like adding flame to a gas can.

  Though it was obviously a directive from the Sheikh, she found it far more palatable to direct her insulted rage at the hulk of a man delivering her with this information. “Perhaps you misunderstood, sir,” she ground out from between gritted teeth. “My name is Saaliyah Ibarra. I am a descendant of the ancient desert Kings. Their blood runs through my veins. Beyond this, what vetting do you require?”

  The Sheikh’s laugh was unexpected, but he silenced himself quickly enough. He angled an almost apologetic look at his cousin. “Think of it as an orientation to the palace,” he said with a kindly softness. “It is in both of our interests to ensure we are compatible.”

  She didn’t want to be alone with the intimidating Kaman. The very idea made her stomach ache. She took a step closer to the throne. “Surely, sir, our getting to know one another would be better served by actually spending time together?”

  Khalid regarded her with a slow smile. “Perhaps you are right, Emira.”

  Kaman spoke brusquely, “And yet protocol dictates this step is taken first.” He fixed Sally with a look of cold contempt. “It would be wise to avoid taking up any more of the Sheikh’s time now.”

  His meaning was clear.

  Stop arguing.

  Stop being objectionable.

  Stop being Medouzan.

  Sally compressed her lips. “Fine,” she nodded, nervousness overtaking every other sensation in her body as she imagined being alone with this man.

  She turned to say something to the Sheikh, but he was already absorbed in conversation with another of his black-clad servants.

  And so she fell into step beside the powerful figure of Kaman as he walked out of the throne room, and deeper into the palace of Tari’ell.

  Sally knew she would regret not paying closer attention to the stunning details of the sixteenth century building. As a lover of art and history, and all things cultural, this building was a testament to a period of rich prosperity and enlightenment. In that moment of intense confusion, all she caught was a glimpse of highly polished white marble, gold leaf columns and windows that revealed a view of the jagged topped Allani mountains to the East.

  Beyond them – the province of Medouzan. Her home.

  Her step faltered as the sun crested like a golden ball of fire over the range, shooting arrows of warmth through the windows.

  Kaman caught her gaze and stopped walking. “The border of our land,” he murmured, moving back a step so that he was right beside her.

  She nodded. “I haven’t been here for so long. I’d almost forgotten …” Her breath caught in her throat for the second time that afternoon. She risked flicking a glance at him. The sun was dousing him in golden flecks of light; they danced over his breathtaking face like pixies in the breeze. She swallowed and returned her attention to the natural delineation of the Kingdom. “It’s so beautiful.”

  He had thought so for a long time. As a child he’d marvelled at the almost mystical seeming size of the snow-capped peaks. But for many years, they’d simply formed a fact of life. Incontrovertible and ever present, much like the hatred he’d been taught to feel for this woman and her destabilising family. His lips compressed in disapproval. Not of the marriage, which had been his idea. But of her.

  Her attention was rapt, completely captivated by the dusk-lit vista, and so he was able to observe her privately. She was not what he’d expected. Far different to her cousin, who had been obviously perfect for the part of Sheikha. He suppressed a sad smile as he thought of Tashana Ibarra, the woman who had been hand-picked for the likelihood she might bring stability to the troubled lands.

  Stability the region, perhaps, was not ready for, if her suspected assassination was anything to go by.

  So how could this woman – tiny, breakable and mousey – hope to handle the rigours of what would be expected of her?

  It was his personal opinion that she wouldn’t. Royal life was not for the faint of heart, and she was most definitely that. Far better to show her now that she wasn’t up to the task, rather than after a disastrous marriage.

  “Come,” he commanded, a new sense of purpose in his tone. “Let us begin.”

  For the sooner they began, the sooner it would all be over, and she would be out of the palace for good.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A light wind scampered off the desert in the distance, bringing with it a hint of warmth and sunshine. It rustled Sally’s chestnut brown hair, lifting it across her cheek. She dashed it away and settled back in the timber seat.

  Her companion had not yet spoken. His dark eyes were scrutinising her. She wondered what information he was gleaning – if any – from her appearance? Two weeks ago, she’d looked like a normal twenty one year old. A rigorous beauty regimen had seen her transformed into a twenty one year old princess wannabe. Hair that had come to her waist had been left long, but trimmed into a neater style. Some lay
ers had been shaped to flatter her angular face. Her brows had been threaded, her skin exfoliated and waxed, and her nails had been buffed until they shone like glass. The superficial changes gave her a little confidence, though not much, when faced with such obvious disapproval.

  A servant appeared as if from nowhere and set a tray on the table between them. A pot of tea was poured, and a delicate plate loaded with Turkish delights uncovered.

  “Eat something,” he murmured, crossing one ankle over his knee.

  “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” she said, regretting the note of apology in her voice.

  “These are a special delicacy of the region. They’re made using crumbed pistachio and orange rind.”

  She slanted him a look of muted derision. “I know what they are.”

  His fingers threaded together to form an apex and he rested his chin on it. “Tea, then,” he prompted.

  She reached forward and took one of the saucers. It made a jingling noise as she brought it to her lap. Her fingers were shaking and she hadn’t realised. Her startled eyes flew to his, embarrassed by the betraying gesture. His mocking smile sent a tingle down her spine.

  Yes, he’d noticed.

  There was very little this man wouldn’t notice, she suspected.

  She concentrated on the swirling pattern on the saucer.

  “You do not know the Sheikh,” he commented conversationally. “And yet you have agreed to marry him.”

  Her finger ran around the scalloped edge of her cup. “Yes.”

  “Why?” He leaned forward, his gaze intent on hers.

  She took in a shuddering breath. “I understand your job, Kaman, but I think this is a conversation better had with the Emir.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are aware he has tasked me with this interview.”

  “Interview?” She interrupted caustically. Her nerves were already shot to pieces at the idea of marrying into the Tari’ell royal family. The prospect of having to apply for the job was a little galling. “I have come here to marry the Emir. Not to be questioned by you.”

  “Yes.” He reached forward and grabbed a teacup for himself. It looked completely incongruous in his enormous hands.

  Powerful hands.

  Hands that could bring pleasure or pain with great ease. The thought came to her from nowhere. She gulped it away. “But why?”

  Her breath felt like it was being squeezed out of her lungs. She sipped her fragrant tea to buy some time. “Because I don’t believe you have any right to question me,” she deliberately appeared to misunderstand.

  His lip lifted in a smile. “You don’t? Even when such power has been vested in me by the Sheikh himself?”

  Warmth stole into her cheeks. “I am a princess of Medouzan. And though my family no longer lays claim to that title, and has been forced to live in exile for many years, there are many who regard my claim to the throne as equal to the Sheikh’s.”

  A muscle flecked in his jaw at her provocative statement. She had intended to shock him. Attack was the best form of defence, after all.

  “Your family was deposed almost two hundred years ago. Do you still credit that ancient right?”

  She laughed softly. “Yes. And so does the Sheikh, or he would never have sought a Medouzan bride.”

  “He sought Tashana as his wife.”

  Her eyes fluttered shut at the reference to the woman she’d loved, more as a sister than a cousin. “And when she was murdered, he came to me.”

  He nodded slowly, his mind processing her comprehension of the situation. He tried a different tact. “It doesn’t offend you, then, to slip into the role meant for another woman? Knowing that you would be a consolation prize only?”

  She sipped her tea again. It was lemon and lavender, one of her favourite combinations. Perhaps because she had drunk it as a small child. “I would never try to replace Tasha,” she spoke softly, her voice imbued with all of the love and memories she held in her heart. “Nobody could.” She blinked rapidly to avoid the stinging tears that were cloying at her throat.

  Another breeze lifted off the desert, and this time, it carried the song of a bird, high pitched and warbling. She trained her eyes in the distance, taking comfort from the certainty that she was back where she belonged.

  “Our people have been at war for two centuries. Too many have died and been displaced in this ancient rivalry. Your Sheikh has shown great compassion and foresight in suggesting this marriage. Peace between the Tari’ell and Medouzan is greatly desired – on both sides.”

  “Yes,” he agreed in an undertone. “Peace is indeed a lofty goal.”

  Something about his voice showed cynicism. “You don’t agree.”

  “On the contrary, I have been a supporter of the union from the first. The war is futile. There can be no winner when the country is repeatedly plunging closer to poverty and unrest. A marriage between our two people makes sense.”

  “And yet you challenge it.”

  “Do I?” He queried silkily, leaning his powerful frame forward. The same sense of unease crept over her, hand in hand with a throbbing low in her abdomen.

  She made a small noise of agreement. “You are trying to get me to change my mind.”

  “I am making sure you know your own mind,” he clarified stonily. “This marriage will not be easy for someone like you.”

  “I doubt a royal marriage is easy for anyone,” she attempted to defuse the attention with a humorous observation.

  “Least of all for someone who has been raised as English.”

  She tilted her head to the side, in a habit she’d developed when she was deep in thought. “No, that can’t be it.”

  He raised his brows to encourage her to continue.

  “Tasha was also raised in London. My foreign-ness can’t explain your hostility.”

  “Am I hostile?”

  Her laugh was short and succinct. “Absolutely.”

  He ground his teeth together. “Your cousin had a year to prepare for this. She had a natural bent for performance, and she was looking forward to taking up this role.”

  Sally pursed her lips at his assertion. While Tashana had been as outgoing and confident as she’d appeared, the idea of the royal wedding had terrified her. It showed the depths of her courage that she’d agreed to it.

  He didn’t notice her shift in focus, and continued, “She was instructed in the ways of statehood. The arts of diplomacy and royalty. What about you?” He turned it back on her. “Why do you think you are qualified for this?”

  She swallowed, but her throat remained parched. “I don’t know,” she answered finally. “I can’t say. I’m not like Tasha.” Her frown brought small lines to her forehead. “She was effortlessly unique. I don’t believe, for even a moment, that I am more qualified than she. Not for a second would I claim to have a greater right to this than she did. Tasha would have been a wonderful Emira.” Tears threatened and she swallowed bravely. “But she died before she could have the chance to prove me right.”

  Sally focussed her shimmering green gaze on an arrangement of flowers on the other side of the balcony. She waited until her emotions had settled. “I am taking her place without any expectation of ever being more than a place holder.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m not an idiot. I know I don’t look like her. I know I’m not attractive in the ways she was.” She shook her head slowly. “But I am an Ibarra. I have the same blood in my veins. I hope that the Sheikh’s marriage to me will do exactly what his marriage to Tasha would have.”

  “Which is?” He pushed, not wanting to analyse her speech in greater detail.

  “To bring peace to our people. It’s all I want. We are more alike than we are different. You grew up to the west of the mountains, and I to the east. We heard the same nursery rhymes and the same songs. Our connection to the desert and these mountains is identical. We were raised staring at the same stars. My hope is that my marriage to your sheikh will remind people of our similarities.”

  He
rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw, and was quiet for a long time. His eyes were locked to hers, clashing with her gentle softness as though he might be able to break her down with the strength of his look.

  The doors to the balcony were high and rounded at the top. To either side was a gold lion, modelled in a predatory stance. Their eyes glittered black, reminding her of the man opposite.

  “And what of love?”

  His question, after so long a stretch of silence, surprised her. “Love?” She couldn’t help the short laugh of surprise that escaped her lips.

  “Yes.” He was impatient. He leaned forward and she caught a hint of his cologne.

  It made her insides clench in fierce recognition. “Did the sheikh love Tashana?” The visage of her cousin clouded her eyes. She blinked to clear it.

  His smile was perfunctory. “He recognised her abilities.”

  Sally’s heart turned over. Be brave, she urged herself. “Abilities you do not believe I possess?”

  Exasperation flitted in his eyes. “You are twenty one.”

  “I’m aware of that fact,” she retorted waspishly.

  “The man you are hoping to marry is twenty eight. He has spent his whole life learning to rule this country.”

  Fascinated, Sally crossed her legs, a gesture that drew his attention – briefly – away from her face. “Learning is a funny thing. You can be endlessly trained for something, and still not know until the crucial moment whether you have the abilities required.” She swallowed her sigh. “I don’t doubt Tasha would have made an excellent Sheikha. She was brave and beautiful and kind and clever.” The wobble in her voice angered her. She took a pause to control her rioting emotions. “And their marriage would have had as good a chance as mine to bring about the beginning of peace. If Tasha lived, she would have married your Sheikh and I …”

  He leaned even further forward. “Yes.” It was a hiss. “What would you have done, had this not been thrust upon you?”

  Her smile was perfunctory. “I don’t know.”

  “I find it hard to believe that, at twenty one, you didn’t have a plan in place for the life you wanted to lead.”