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

by Clare Connelly

  She matched his posture, leaning forward in her seat. “It’s not that I didn’t have a plan for my life. It’s that dwelling on it now serves no purpose.”

  He watched as she arranged her dainty features into a mask of defiance. There was something hauntingly lovely in her face, though initially he’d dismissed her as plain-looking. He had been wrong. Her eyes weren’t a mousey brown, they seemed to glow with the warmth of chocolate and gold. Her nose had a little lift at its tip, and her lips were generous and pale pink in colour. But would she be a suitable Sheikha?

  “You do not believe in love, like so many women of your culture?”

  “My culture?” She queried with a ringing clarity to her voice. “My culture is your culture, and yes I believe in love. I think it would be a sad, empty soul indeed which didn’t admit the existence of such a profound emotion.”

  Old wounds burned in his soul. “And yet you would marry a stranger despite this.”

  “I marry because of this,” she retorted with a ferociousness that completely surprised him. Under his dark watchfulness, she made a visible effort to regain her equilibrium. “Love comes in all shapes and sizes. I love my family and I love my country. This war must stop.” She furrowed her brow. “I’m not simplifying the problem. I know that one marriage alone will not have the power to erase decades of hate.”

  “So why do it?”

  She blinked at him as though he was mad. “Because someone has to do something.”

  He nodded slowly.

  “The Sheikh came up with this idea. And Tasha was brave enough to agree to it.”

  “So you are honouring her memory, in taking her place in the marriage?”

  “Yes.” She jutted her chin. “And I hope I don’t detect mockery in your tone.”

  He didn’t respond, leaving her wondering exactly how he viewed her decision.

  “What is it that worries you?” She asked quietly. “That I’ll fall in love with the Sheikh? Or that I’ll crave the love he won’t give me?”

  She’d surprised him. He was, momentarily, lost for words. “Both.”

  She drained her lukewarm tea and placed the cup down on the table. She’d been sitting for much of the day. From the flight to the car and now here. She stood, crossing to the edge of the balcony. Grass ran far beneath them, spreading into the distance until it met desert sands. The sun was low in the sky now, a shimmering ball against an azure blue backdrop.

  “You needn’t worry, on either score,” she said finally.

  “You are so certain you won’t come to love him?”

  She angled her face towards Kaman. “Nothing is certain,” she shrugged. “But I know this marriage is little more than a business transaction. Or a peace treaty, if you will. I’m being bartered – willingly – in the hope of bringing some unity to our people.”

  He settled back in his chair. She was petite and doll-like. Her long brown hair had been braided and wrapped around her head, forming a crown. She wore only a simple pair of diamond earrings and the engagement ring Kaman’s servant had delivered to her family. She toyed with it now.

  “An heir will be required. And sooner, rather than later.”

  The hint of colour that crept from her neck and into her cheeks fascinated him.

  “I anticipated as much.” The tip of her tongue darted out and traced her lower lip. Something heavy shifted in his chest. She was brave. The description exploded in his brain, and it was unwelcome.

  “And even this does not offend you?” He moved to her side, aware that their size difference must have made her uncomfortable.

  “I …” She lifted her clear eyes to his face and blinked away again almost immediately. “I would prefer to discuss that with the Sheikh.”

  His lips lifted in a tight smile. “And the Sheikh wishes me to discuss it with you now. You are young. And I presume inexperienced?”

  Her blush deepened and her eyes remained locked on the desert in the distance. Pink lips didn’t move.

  “You have no hesitation in conceiving a child almost as soon as you are married?”

  Her throat moved in a knot as she swallowed. “I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured finally.

  His eyes flared. “You don’t want a physical relationship? You believe a marriage in name alone will be enough to bring about peace?”

  Her expression was anguished. “I am willing to do whatever it takes to make this work,” she said haltingly.

  He shifted his position, so that their torsos were brushing. Startled eyes flew to his face. “What are you doing?”

  He dropped his focus to her lips. They were trembling slightly. Of its own accord, his thumb ran across her mouth. It was warm and soft beneath his touch. “Have you ever been kissed, Emira?”

  If it was possible, her expression became ever more alarmed. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

  “Even when the Sheikh has asked me to personally evaluate your suitability?”

  Her lips parted in surprise at the direction his statements were tending. And he moved. Dominating and swift, he crushed his mouth to hers, claiming her as his – though she wanted only to belong to the country and the people she loved so dearly. His tongue invaded her warm mouth, driving awareness into her body with every touch. It was a kiss that stopped everything. The air ceased to hum around them, birds no longer sung. Even the sun froze in the sky, powerless to continue its trajectory in the wake of such a moment.

  She had never been kissed.

  How could she have been?

  A princess of the Ibarra family, she was hardly at liberty to do anything that might bring disapproval. Her whole body jolted into being. Her blood pounded through her veins and her soul burst through her. The feelings that were besieging her were frightening for their strength.

  His hands didn’t touch her. Only his mouth made contact with her body, but it was enough. It sent her spiralling into a strange awareness. A burning torrent of lava was pouring through her.

  She wanted more. More of this. So much more.

  But it was wrong! This man was the cousin of her fiancé.

  The realisation was the bucket of ice water she needed. It squashed the warmth and filled her with remorse. She stepped away from him, so distracted by her own feelings that she didn’t notice the two dark slashes of colour high in his cheeks. Nor the way he stood, completely still, as though he too was shocked by what had just happened.

  “You won’t do that again,” she said coldly, her fingers shaking a little as she ran them over her hair. “You might have been instructed to appraise my suitability as a royal bride, but I do not think the Sheikh would have expected you to take it that far.”

  He still didn’t speak. His face was set like stone; those harsh features completely immovable.

  “I trust I’ll have your personal recommendation?” She enquired, stepping further away from him.

  “I will think on it.”

  Her heart dropped.

  The foolishness of coming to this country with the expectation that it would be smooth sailing filled her with incandescent embarrassment. Of course it wasn’t going to be an easy path to navigate.

  They had been at war a long time. And it now appeared that the Sheikh’s most trusted advisor was against her.

  * * *

  Tari’ell was met by mountains to the east, and desert to the south and west. In the North, there was ocean, but it was a long way from the palace, and no refreshing sea breeze reached them to break up the relentless heat and humidity.

  Saaliyah fanned her pink face with her hands, staring out at the moonlit desert.

  Her memories of this land were fragmented. Her family had fled when she was only eight years old. Her recollections were peppered with magical evenings under the stars, as her Bedouin ancestors had lived. Firelight dances and mythical murmurings of tales that were kept out of print. Stories of their people that were so sacred they could only be spoken, rather than written.

  This palace was famil
iar, yet different. The spices in the food spoke to her, and yet she couldn’t remember her favourite dish. Over the years, Saaliyah had lost much of her connection to this beautiful and ancient land.

  Being back was odd.

  Particularly as she was back in such an uncertain capacity. Was she to officially become Emira? Or to return to London, rejected by the Sheikh who had approached her for this union?

  Something sweet floated past her. The fragrance of a bud that was better at night. She breathed it in deeply.

  He’d kissed her.

  The memory made her stomach squeeze.

  He’d kissed her, and it had sent her whole body into an abyss of sensation that she hadn’t ever imagined possible.

  The way he’d felt – so big and powerful against her slight frame – would stay with her forever.

  And yet she stood on the balcony outside her suite of rooms, praying that he would tell the Sheikh she would make a good wife. That she was ready for the duties that becoming Emira would carry.

  It was late when a knock sounded on her door. She looked inside, past the palatial bed, to the white and gold doors that provided access. She sighed, sending the desert one last soulful glance, and then padded back into her room.

  She’d discarded the uncomfortable dress of earlier that day and opted for a pair of linen pants and a casual cream shirt. She had not been expecting any further interruptions. Even Abigail was safely tucked into her room next door.

  “Good evening.” The servant bowed low, waving his hand to the floor in an obsequious manner. “I apologise for the late interruption, but his royal highness, the exalted Sheikh Khalid ash-Hareth has requested an interview.”

  Her heart turned over in her chest. “Oh.” She looked down at her casual outfit. “Certainly. Please inform the Sheikh I’ll be there shortly.”

  “I apologise, madam, but he was quite explicit that you should come immediately.”

  “Oh, he was, huh?” She bit down on her lip in silent consternation. While she hardly felt dressed for an audience with her prospective husband, the fact that he was beckoning her so soon was positive.

  She backtracked to the mirror and took a few moments to neaten her hair, then straightened. Outwardly she appeared calm, but her insides were fluttering.

  The servant led the way through the marble tiled corridors of the guest wing and into the more lavishly decorated royal apartments.

  With every step she took, Sally’s nervousness increased. She had come to Tari’ell to marry the Sheikh, and now? She was about to find out if he wanted that after all.

  What if the devastatingly handsome cousin had said she wasn’t suitable? What if he’d said … what if he’d told the Sheikh what had happened between them? Memories of the kiss seared to the centre of her soul.

  The hopes and dreams of her family and her people felt heavy on her slender shoulders. She moved quietly through the hallways, until the servant paused outside a set of gold doors. He knocked three times, and then stepped back, his hand lifted in a salute while he stared into the distance.

  The door opened inwards, and another servant in matching attire took the same stance.

  “Should I go in?” She asked in a sotto voce. When neither servant so much as batted an eyelid, she took in a deep breath for courage and took a step through the doorway. It was a spacious sitting room, with ornate furniture, decorative mirrors and a chandelier right in the centre. It dangled into the centre of the room, loaded with sparkling crystal and shimmering glass.

  But there was no one there.

  She looked from one door to another, a frown on her face as she contemplated what to do next.

  A breeze rustled in at that moment, billowing a sheer cream curtain through the opening in the wall.

  A balcony! Just like hers, she thought, walking towards it on autopilot. Her fate was beyond those billowing curtains.

  She saw him immediately.

  It was him.

  Not the Sheikh, but his cousin. And though she was very angry with him for the way he’d interrogated her and then kissed her, she felt a thump in her heart as she looked upon his back. His hair was down now. Freed from its bun, it fell in thick waves to below his shoulders. He was wearing loose black pants and a dark shirt. He looked sinful and sexy.

  He turned when she emerged, his dark eyes pinning to her instantly. He examined her as though she were little more than an object. Insolently, his gaze drifted from her hair, to her make-up-less face, and the casual clothes she wore.

  She had an excellent game face, he thought with surprising admiration. Though he somehow just knew she was terrified, she was looking at him as if they were about to discuss something completely inconsequential.

  “I was told the Sheikh wanted to see me,” she said finally, her accent distinctly English.

  He turned his whole body to face her. “Yes.” He waved a hand at one of the chairs. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “I’d prefer to wait until the Emir is available,” she demurred, dropping her gaze from his face.

  “Sit down, Sheikha,” he spoke with a firm insistence.

  “Where is he?”

  “My cousin? His room is on the other side of the palace.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink. “Do you mean to tell me you summoned me here? Pretending to be the sheikh to get me to your private quarter at this time of night?”

  He dipped his head. “You were keen to have a resolution to matters.”

  Her heart turned over. It couldn’t be good news, if this man had been given the task of ending things.

  So what? She would go back to her normal life, and this whole debacle would be cleared up.

  He moved with a panther like grace to a table in the corner. There was something so uniquely confident about his gait. She’d never known anyone like him. With every step he seemed to emanate courage and confidence.

  He poured two glasses of wine into large goblets and handed one to her. Though she rarely drank, she took it gratefully.

  “We believe your cousin was assassinated. There are factions in our country who do not wish for a union to exist between our two people.”

  At the mention of Tashana, Sally’s throat began to burn with unshed tears. “I know.”

  “That objection still exists. Despite the lasting good that might come from this marriage, it may well be dangerous. Are you certain that you would take up that responsibility? You are young. It will be a duty that will define the rest of your life.”

  She acknowledged with an unsteady tilt of her head. “My life is already defined by duty.” And though she had every reason to think ill of this man, she found herself confiding in him. “My childhood was far from normal. I grew up in London, but I didn’t really belong. I was never allowed to socialise with my school friends. Not properly. I was an outcast.” She sipped the wine for something to do. “I need a purpose.”

  He leaned against the railing, wondering at this tiny woman who wanted to change the world.

  “A purpose?” He let out a small laugh despite the seriousness of his mood. “Why not go to university, like anyone else your age?”

  Her fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt. “Is that what you want?” How the question cost her! She felt an ache in her gut at the sudden realisation that this man was so against the union.

  He crouched down on his powerful haunches, stretching his pants over the muscular expanse.

  “What I want?” He probed, his dark eyes lightly teasing her.

  She bit down on her lip. “We kissed.” She swallowed past her mortification. “And I’m going to marry your cousin. Won’t that be weird for you? When we get married? Him and me, I mean. Not you and me.”

  His laugh, deep and rumbling, sent tiny darts down her spine. “No.”

  She lifted a finger and hooked it around her hair. “I see.”

  He laughed again. “I doubt that.”

  “Is it just that I’m Medouzan? Is that why you disapprove of this?” She had to know. He woul
d forever be the first man she’d ever kissed.

  His mouth, still creased into a smile, slowly straightened. He put a hand on her knee, and goose bumps immediately broke out on her skin.

  His voice was contemplative when he spoke. It was in such contrast to the arrogant, overbearing man she’d met earlier that day. “Do you see those trees over there?” He nodded towards a long line of pines. They were tall and dramatic. She’d noticed them the moment she’d arrived at the palace, for the way they formed such a strong border to the palace.

  “I’m young, not blind,” she quipped.

  His small smile was acknowledgement of her words. “They are very ancient.” His dark eyes flashed to her, to be certain she was listening. “They are cypress pines, planted almost five hundred years ago, when one of the ruling Sheikh’s wives died. Back then, our rulers had up to five wives at a time, but legend has it, this was his favourite. He mourned her for two long years, and at the end, had a line of Cypress pines planted in her honour.”

  She nodded slowly. “So you don’t want me to marry the Sheikh in case I end up as his least favourite wife?” She was able to joke only because she knew the practice of Sheikh’s taking multiple wives had died decades earlier in Tari’ell.

  His hand on her leg was warm and soul-stirring. He stroked her distractedly. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “I grew up here. In this palace. When I was ten years old, I decided to try my strength against one of those trees.” He shot her a look that she didn’t understand. “They are as big as twenty men at their base. It took a very long time to saw it through.”

  Her eyes were knitted together. She could imagine him as a child. He would have always been strong and capable. Like her, perhaps he grew up feeling out of step because of his obvious differences to his peers. “But why?”

  He shook his head. “I was ten. A child. I wanted to see if I could bring it down. And I did.”

  “You did?”

  He took her hand and pointed it to a discernible gap in the wall of green. “Right there. Can you see?”

  The moon was angled right through the gap in the hedge. She nodded slowly, her eyes floating to his face. “Why are you telling me this?”