Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

by Carol Marinelli

  It was the third letter.

  The first had offered condolences on the death of his parents and invited him to stay as a guest at the Calistan palace.

  Xavian had not responded. That letter he had burnt.

  Then another had arrived, to thank him for the Qusay people’s gift on the birth of their son, Prince Zafir.

  Still Xavian had not replied, though he had kept the letter for a few days, taking it out and reading it over and over till finally it had been tossed into a fire.

  And now this.

  There was nothing untoward about it, Xavian told himself as he read the letter for perhaps the hundredth time. He did not know what he sought from the words. There were hundreds such letters, offering good wishes, yet Xavian couldn’t help himself reading between the lines of this one…

  His bride was waiting for him, he was already unforgivably late, yet still he pondered over the page.

  It was a formal letter from King Zakari of Calista and his wife Queen Stefania of Aristo. Their union had reunited the Kingdom of Adamas. So why, Xavian pondered, had Zakari, instead of using the Adamas crest, chosen instead to write on Calistan paper? Xavian stared at the coat of arms, ran a finger over the crest, and could not fathom why it troubled him, it just did.

  He had been troubled since Queen Stefania’s coronation, since she had looked into his eyes and he had registered shock…

  No, Xavian told himself, not shock. She had been close to fainting, and he had spoken to her till her husband had realised there was a problem and gently led her away. She had been pregnant, as it turned out, which explained everything.

  Except it didn’t.

  Because the trouble in his soul had started before Stefania had greeted him—as King Zakari had made his way down the line. The rapid beat in his heart had started…a rapid beat that woke him at night, that was here again at this very moment.

  Though he could not quite accept it as such, it was fear.

  ‘All is ready, Your Highness.’ Xavian didn’t turn his head as Akmal, his vizier, came into his suite. ‘Your bride awaits.’ He could hear the slightly uneasy note in Akmal’s voice—after all, his bride, Queen Layla of Haydar, had been waiting for a while now, the proceedings were ready to commence, and yet the groom so far had not made an appearance. Akmal had come yet again to the royal chamber himself, to ensure nothing untoward had occurred, only to find the groom where he had left him last time—still standing at the French windows, still holding the letter and staring broodingly out to the ocean.

  ‘I will be there shortly.’

  ‘Your Highness, may I suggest…?’

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Only then did Xavian turn, his black eyes furious at the intrusion, shooting the aide down and reminding him who was King. Dressed in the full military uniform of Qusay—superb olive cloth, his chest decorated with medals, his legs encased in long black leather boots, a sword at his side and golden thread holding on his kafeya—Xavian cut an imposing figure. But then, Xavian always did—standing six feet two, with broad shoulders and a strong, muscular frame, he did not need medals or swords or royal gold braid to command respect.

  ‘She can wait till I am ready.’

  ‘Your Highness.’ Akmal knew better than to argue, so instead he gave a small bow and left. Alone again, Xavian carried on gazing out to the ocean.

  She would wait. Xavian knew that.

  She had already waited a decade for this day. Betrothed to her since childhood, he should have married her ten years ago, but he had chosen not to—he had concentrated on enjoying his freedom instead.

  Only now it was over.

  Xavian walked out onto the balcony and wished that it gazed to the desert, not the ocean. To the desert, where he found rare peace, to the desert, where he would take his bride tonight.

  How weary he was at that thought.

  Since his parents had been killed in a plane crash, his advisors had been working overtime. His playboy ways were to end—he was King now, and kings did not live as princes. Kings married and produced heirs, and it was time for Xavian to do the same. After three months of deep mourning, the wedding that he had been putting off must now occur.

  It would be a subdued affair, given the circumstances—huge celebrations deemed inappropriate so soon after the country’s loss. The people would be informed tomorrow that the King had married, and he would retreat with his bride to the desert before the official reception. After another suitable period of mourning the coronation would take place, and then the people would celebrate. A double celebration, perhaps? The elders had been light on discretion: nine months from the wedding, it would be nice to have a prince on the way.

  Xavian had been advised by Akmal to refrain from sexual encounters for a week prior to the wedding—to ensure his seed was plentiful and potent. It was advice Xavian had absolutely chosen to ignore.

  Always it was plentiful!

  This was a business arrangement and no more. Haydar was struggling under a woman’s rule, and Xavian’s strong, albeit occasional presence would help guide the troubled country.

  Of course he would take a mistress—several, perhaps.

  He had no intention of sleeping alone at night.

  The unease Xavian felt now wasn’t down to wedding nerves, and it wasn’t pride that made him deny that he was uneasy. Long before the wedding had been announced, long before his parents had been killed, there had been a deep unrest in his soul.

  Trouble he could not define.

  A place within that he didn’t want to visit.

  Sometimes as he stood and stared at a letter, as he did now, searching for clues that surely didn’t exist, he actually though he was going mad.

  Sometimes at night he would wake with his heart racing. He would feel the beauty in the bed beside him, feel her coil around him, yet he would shrug her off, get up and dress himself, or send her to the mistress chambers. It was not how he wanted to be seen. His heart was racing now, his breath tight in his chest as his black eyes studied the rolling ocean. He felt nausea rising as if he were out there. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, could feel his body rolling with the waves. The thick scars on his wrists burnt and itched, as they did at times. His eyes scanned the vast ocean, searching for what he didn’t know, and then he dragged his gaze away, willed his heart to slow down, for the madness to stop. He comforted himself not with the thought of a virgin bride, but with the solace of the beckoning desert.

  Yes!

  He would get the wedding over with, take her to the desert, consummate the marriage and then tomorrow he could wander—tomorrow he could take guidance from the heart of the land he now ruled and ask it to bring him peace.

  Happier now, he walked from the balcony and through his chamber, the letter still in his hand. He paused at a thick pillar candle and stood watching the heavy cream paper curl and the Calistan crest flare as the flames licked around it. Then he tossed it into the ancient fireplace—just as he had done with the other letters—and with that ritual over he headed to his wedding.

  As he opened the door Akmal practically fell inside. Xavian paused for long enough to give his vizier a withering look, and then strode confidently through the palace, past the paintings of his ancestors, down the long corridor and out to the gardens, ready now to get on with his duty.

  The elders were seated, but stood when he entered,

  His bride did not look round. She stood in a shimmering gold robe, her head veiled, and kept her eyes down as Xavian approached.

  He was not looking forward to this!

  Haydar was rigid in its ways. The women were covered and robed till they were wed. But even the generous layers of fabric could not disguise her rather rotund shape.

  Joy and double joy, thought Xavian wryly. A fat, inexperienced lover to impregnate. Was there no end to his duties?

  In a rare concession to modern times the Haydar elders had agreed the announcement would be accompanied by photos—this was not a time for grand feasting
and celebration, but it was still much needed good news for the people of Haydar and Qusay.

  The judge spoke, asking Layla if she would be a loyal wife, if she would serve her husband, provide him with children, nurture him and their offspring.

  Her voice was soft when she agreed.

  Again the judge asked her.

  Again she said yes.

  For the third time it was repeated, and Xavian watched her eyes blink, though still she did not look up at him—as was right.

  ‘I will.’

  And then it was Xavian’s turn.

  Would he provide for her?

  It was all that was asked, and only asked once.

  A King did not have to repeat himself.

  ‘Yes.’

  She glanced up, and the eyes that met his were a deep violet, then long black lashes swept down again. Xavian found himself slightly appeased—they were clear and bright and really rather pretty—perhaps he could ask her to keep them open tonight!

  It was over in moments. Their eyes had met for less than a second, yet that was the image that had been captured and would be beamed around the world in the morning. Sheikh King Xavian Al’Ramiz of Qusay and now of Haydar, and his bride Sheikha Queen Layla Al’Ramiz of Haydar and now Qusay.

  The long-awaited union was now official.

  ‘We will leave for the desert in an hour…’ For the first time he addressed his wife. ‘I trust my staff are being helpful?’

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes still downcast, she gave only a brief nod.

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ He attempted conversation, at least tried to put her at ease, but all he got for his efforts was either a nod or a shake of her head. She was refusing to give him even a glimpse of those pretty violet eyes, and Xavian gave a hiss of irritation.

  ‘I will see you in an hour.’

  Clearly, Xavian thought, stamping up to his suite, the clip of his boots ringing out on the polished marble floor, it was going to be an extremely uneventful night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘I AM not spending a month there!’ Xavian frowned at Akmal as his dresser helped him out of his military uniform and into desert robes in preparation for his honeymoon. ‘I agreed only to a week in Haydar.’

  ‘I understand that, Sire, but our advisors are merely responding to what they have heard from the people…’ He gave a slightly uncomfortable swallow. ‘The Queen was checking the press release and asked that—’

  ‘What?’ Xavian’s head spun round. He had been admiring himself in the mirror, but Akmal’s words demanded curt response. ‘Why would you worry her with such details?’

  ‘She asked to see it.’ Akmal’s lips pursed tightly, so tightly it took a moment for him to release them enough to continue speaking. ‘She has also asked that you stay for a month in her land…She feels that the people of Haydar will want to see their new King in residence for a while, so they can fully grasp that you are there for them too. They need this union, Sire…’

  Xavian was less than impressed. A week in the desert—that he accepted was necessary. A week: with his new bride at nights, and wandering in his desert by day. After the reception, to appease the people, he had agreed to spend a week in Haydar—where he would formally greet his new people, sign essential documents, and then, apart from necessary formal appearances and the occasional night together at her fertile times, they could get on with their own jobs.

  There was unrest in Haydar, though. Xavian knew that. The meek, silent woman he had just married would hardly command respect from her aides, let alone her people. But Xavian was tough. At times there was immense pressure from his elders, from Akmal—just a complete resistance to change—but Xavian was a strong ruler, assured in his role. He never doubted, never questioned that he was right. Yes, he listened to his advisers, he pondered, sought counsel from the desert at times, but always he made his decisions—and once they were made he would not be swayed.

  No one would dare try.

  It must, though, Xavian decided with a smirk, be hell being Queen!

  ‘Two weeks…’ Xavian made a rare compromise, but Akmal’s brow knitted into a worried frown, for he had already spoken with the Queen. ‘Tell her I am prepared to stay in her country for two weeks…’

  ‘I think that a month in Haydar would be wiser…’ A soft voice filled the room, and the dresser and Akmal stood aghast as Layla walked, uninvited and unannounced, into the King’s chambers!

  ‘You cannot be here…’ Akmal was across the room in a flash, ready to scurry her out, but violet eyes halted him. That voice not so soft when she spoke next. ‘You will address me as Your Highness…’ Still veiled, she stood very still as Akmal bowed deeply. The poor man was clearly torn between royal protocol and protecting his master—only Xavian wasn’t annoyed, in fact he was thoroughly enjoying himself, a rare smile dusting his lips as Akmal struggled to appease them both. ‘Your Highness, I was about to come to you, to inform you of the King’s decision.’

  ‘How tiresome…’ She was no longer looking at Akmal. Instead her eyes held Xavian’s and the smile slid from his face. ‘That a husband and wife must speak through advisors.’ Still she held Xavian’s eyes. ‘Could you inform the King that regretfully, on this detail, the Queen cannot compromise—the people of Haydar need to see that their new King relishes his role, that he wants to help lead them, and a brief visit isn’t going to appease them.’

  ‘Your Highness…’ Akmal duly started to relay her words. ‘The Queen has—’

  ‘Silence!’ Xavian snapped to his vizier. ‘Leave us.’ As Akmal shooed out the dresser he walked slowly to where she stood, but she didn’t move, barely blinked. Only her eyes were visible, and this time they did not lower as he approached.

  ‘I have considered your request.’ Xavian’s voice was ominously calm. ‘And, as I take my new duties seriously—’

  ‘So seriously,’ she interrupted, ‘that you could not even be bothered to turn up to your wedding on time!’

  How dared she?

  She should not question him, should not even let on that she had noticed. Instead she should be proud—proud that the King of Qusay was now her husband—yet he was being greeted with complaints and demands.

  ‘I had my reasons for being late.’ He did not need to offer even that, and he certainly did not have to tell her his reasons, so why was there still silence?

  He had never had to offer an explanation—his decisions, his word, his presence always sufficed. Did she really think he was going to stand there and discuss reasons?

  She was waiting for an explanation.

  A mirthless smile spread over his face at her barefaced cheek. Maybe he should tell her, watch her reaction when she found out that her new husband sometimes thought he was going insane—that at times the scars on his wrist burnt so fiercely he thought his skin might rip open, that at times, when sitting quietly, sometimes he could swear he heard a child laughing? He could just imagine her appalled reaction—especially when he told her that he thought that the child was him!

  ‘You left me waiting for close to an hour.’ Her eyes never left his. ‘And you offer me no explanation—yet you expect me to accept that you take your duties seriously. Today was a duty!’ Layla lips were tight beneath her veil. ‘And you carried it out dreadfully.’

  ‘Silence!’

  His hand splayed as he considered slapping her.

  In that instant Xavian, who had never struck a woman—would never strike a woman—considered slapping her. Yet in rapid self-assessment he realised the anger that rose within was in fact directed at himself.

  He had carried out his duties badly today. Always meticulous, always thorough, he had, on this rare occasion, been tardy. Rarely did he concede, but to be a good ruler sometimes it was necessary. And so, rather than slap her, he did something rare.

  ‘It was not about you.’ He saw two vertical frown lines appear between those probing eyes. ‘It was not about keeping you waiting, or shirking my duty, or making a
mockery of the marriage…’ Xavian could hear the words coming from his mouth, yet he could scarcely believe they were his, that for the first time he was explaining himself.

  Some of himself.

  ‘A letter arrived…’ He saw those lines deepen. ‘I should have left it for later. I knew it might well distract me.’ He swallowed before continuing. ‘And it did.’

  He had offered little explanation, but she knew it was more than he had ever given before, and after just a brief moment of hesitation she gave a courteous nod.

  ‘I am sure you have a lot on your mind,’ she conceded. ‘I, too, missed my parents today, but your loss is more recent. I accept your apology.’

  He hadn’t actually apologised, Xavian wanted to point out—or had he? Did sorry actually have to be said for it to count as an apology?

  Xavian continued. ‘If it will please the people to have more time with their new King then I will grant you your month. Of course the people of Qusay will also want time with their new Queen. I suggest that after the desert, instead of heading straight to Haydar after the formal reception, we spend a week here first.’

  What was he doing? Xavian’s mouth was moving, calm words were being spoken, yet his mind was racing—he was committing himself to six weeks: a week in the desert, a week here, a month in Haydar. Six weeks with her…six weeks when it should have been two…six weeks with this woman who had so boldly challenged him…six weeks with a woman who had not lowered her eyes, who even now dared to hold his gaze as she responded in soft tones.

  ‘I would be honoured to spend time getting closer to the people of Qusay.’

  ‘Good,’ Xavian clipped.

  Still she looked at him, and Xavian was sorely tempted to pull back the veil, to see his bride, to reveal the woman who would be his bedfellow for the next few weeks. But of course, he did not. Instead he opened the door, and again Akmal practically fell into the room.

  ‘I trust you heard that?’ Xavian said. ‘We shall remain in Qusay for a week after the reception, then the Queen and I will be in Haydar for a month. You can release that information with the wedding photo.’