Now, now he must awake—before she witnessed his truth. But it was already out: a shout filling the silent night, his body rigid, the pounding of his heart, and then something unexpected.
The nightmare was all too familiar; what was unexpected was the comfort of her arms, the press of her lips on the back of his neck and the strange invasion of calm.
Layla had heard the bells fade as Baja and the maidens retreated to the servants’ quarters and they were left truly alone.
The marriage had been consummated.
Duty done.
Layla had never shared a bed—and though her body was tired, her mind was all too aware of the man beside her.
He had been holding her, but had turned away as sleep came. His back was towards her and she could hear his soft breathing, hear winds that were unfamiliar.
Each desert brought different songs; she had learnt that long ago—the vast planes and dunes and canyons delivered their own tune, and the Qusay Desert sang loudly now as she tried to block it out and sleep.
He really was beautiful.
Even asleep, even with his back towards her, even in the dark, she could sense his rare beauty—and he had had made her braver than she could have imagined. Because she didn’t resist when the urge hit. She reached out and ran her fingers along his shoulders, felt the muscle beneath the smooth skin, and she yearned for him to turn over, to hold her again, but he was deeply asleep—his breathing regular and slow—and he didn’t move at all at her touch.
So she was a little braver.
Tracing her path down his arm, and then to his wrist, she could feel the thick scars beneath her fingers, almost feel the pain, and then she felt him stir and quickly pulled her hand away, aware that she had intruded.
And then, from nowhere, the storm gathered and hit.
His fear was so immediate, so palpable, that for an instant Layla truly thought something had happened—something real, something so terrible that in a second she would see it too—like an earthquake, or a fire, or an intruder. As the tension ripped through him, as his heart raced and his body jerked, she expected him to leap from the bed, for the threat to become apparent.
All this was processed in seconds, and then came his shout, and realisation hit her.
His fear was real—the threat was present—but only for Xavian.
It was then she realised he was trapped in a nightmare, and she knew he would not want her to witness it, knew in that second that the polite thing to do would be to turn over, to pretend she had slept through his pain, that his shout had not roused her, to feign sleep when he sat up and turned on the light—but instead she held him.
She said not a word, just held him, kissed him gently on the back of his icy cold neck, held him till his heart slowed down, till his breathing calmed. and Layla knew that she held not just Xavian, but a secret.
A secret that must not be discussed.
A secret that was Xavian’s alone until he chose to share it.
CHAPTER FOUR
HE COULD not look her in the eye in the morning.
His slight headache would be relieved by coffee, but he felt embarrassed, ashamed, and he did not like those feelings.
As the maids came in and prepared the room for breakfast, he glanced over and watched a blush spread over her cheeks as the lamps were lit and she sat up and they fixed her pillows. The blush did not go as they placed a breakfast table over their laps spread with delicacies—fruits, yoghurts, delicate pastries, honeyed milk, coffee and jugs of fragrant tea. He was sure she was embarrassed that he had shouted out, but he blinked in surprise when, after the maids left, she clapped her hand over her mouth and let out a giggle. Her eyes widened in surprise as she admitted she was embarrassed—only it had nothing to do with his dream.
‘They bathe me, they dress me…’ She knew all that, yet she was still cringing that she was naked under the sheet with him, that the air was heavy with the scent of their lovemaking, and all she knew was what she said. ‘I don’t like them coming in here.’
He didn’t either.
She blushed again, but for a different reason, as he removed the table, climbed out of bed and stood naked before her.
‘What do you want to eat?’
She frowned at his question.
‘Pastry.’
‘And to drink?’
‘The sweet milk.’
She watched as he wrapped a robe around his hips, took the milk and coffee jug and the tiny cups off the tray and placed them by the bedside table. He took off the pastries and placed the plates on the bed and then, for surely the first time, the King cleared the table.
He carried the table outside, and she could hear the bells ringing as he took it along the tent corridor, then he returned, removed the robe and climbed back into the bed.
She knew what would happen.
She heard the bells again—Baja, no doubt, rushing to see what might be the matter—and then she heard his low, firm voice.
‘We are not to be disturbed.’
She could picture Baja, standing frozen, because the bells were silent for a moment, and then she scurrying off, and then there was just the sound of the table being taken and, Layla realised, they were truly alone.
‘This is our place.’ She looked over to him, looked him right in the eye, and now he could look at her there too, as she told him that here was a place for them—a place they could just be—and he was infinitely grateful for her lack of questions, of any need for an explanation as to what had occurred last night, so, so grateful for her unexpected acceptance.
‘So you have six sisters?’
He was lying on his side, drinking coffee and eating nothing. Layla sat up in bed and gulped sweet honeyed milk, devoured thick pastries. Breakfast had lasted for ages, just being with her and telling stupid stories—stories he had never shared before, because really there was no one he could share with. Like how Akmal listened at doors, how the name Akmal meant ‘perfect’ and Akmal thought that he was! Stupid stories, perhaps, except they were thoughts never before shared, little stories never before deemed important, and suddenly now they were.
‘Do you get on?’
‘Sometimes.’ Layla laughed. ‘But never all at the same time!’ She saw his confused frown. ‘Always I am talking to one or two and not talking to one or two others, yet always we are worrying about one another—right now they are probably all worrying about me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am here…’ He watched as her hunger vanished, watched the pastry that had been relished return to its jewelled plate. ‘They need not worry, of course. They know you are a good provider and that you will be a good husband and give me heirs.’ She gave a tight smile and turned her violet eyes to him. ‘They have no need for concern. I would though, from my husband, prefer more.’
She broke the mould in so many ways.
She challenged him, she satisfied him, and she offered him something else—something Xavian was fast realising came rarely to a King and must have long been rare for her too…
Conversation.
Real conversation that could not be overridden by status. A mind and a voice that could not be swayed by title.
Never—not once, not even for a moment—had he expected that his bride, his duty, the confines of being King, would bring him this.
This…
It was an honour to be King, of course.
From shooting, to deportment, to military prowess, he was the most honoured, he had been told.
The one.
The chosen.
And yet as he’d shot down a clay pigeon, and then a falcon, and then proved himself in combat, honour had had no meaning. Over and over he had been told how he felt, told who he was and told how to be.
Last night, though, he had felt chosen for himself.
And she wanted more. Xavian, though, was not sure he could give something that he did not know.
Himself.
‘Do you wish you had brothers?’
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He shook his head. ‘It is a waste to wish for something you cannot change—anyway, I have three cousins—we played a bit as children…they are like brothers.’
‘One is Kareef?’ Layla checked, because she knew a little of his cousins. ‘Do you see him much?’
‘He is busy ruling Qais. We talk occasionally.’
‘And the middle one?’
‘Rafiq,’ Xavian went on quickly. There were still some things that were not up for discussion. ‘He is a businessman, always working, travelling.’ She saw his slight, uncomfortable swallow. ‘I do not see Tahir,’ he said, before she asked, so that the subject could be changed. ‘He has been gone for some time…’
‘Then they are not like brothers.’ Layla said. ‘Or rather, not brothers you are close to.’
‘As I said,’ Xavian said tartly, ‘you cannot miss what you do not know.’
‘I cannot imagine not having my sisters to talk to,’ she whispered, questioning the wisdom of being too honest. ‘Of course there are things I would not dare tell them…Baja knows some…’
“Like what?’
She shook her head, but his curiosity was piqued now.
‘What does Baja know that you cannot tell your sisters?’
‘Nothing.’ If he would not give more, then neither would she! Layla had forgotten her own rules—last night’s poppyseeds had made her tongue loose, and she bit on it to will it quiet.
‘Tell me…’
‘No.’
‘You can…’
‘I can’t.’
‘You could.’
Yet still she hesitated, her true feelings too volatile to share just yet, even with the man who was her husband. So she offered him a seed, one she hoped he would treat kindly—just a small seed for now, instead of the vast garden of her mind.
A little seed about a stupid teenage moment when she had once wondered about a man…a visiting prince. Oh, nothing had happened, save that she had giggled and thought too much about him, but as she told him she braced herself for the sting of his hand on her cheek, as Baja’s had done. Yet the sting did not come, just his lips, and then a rare apology for keeping her waiting so long.
And little by little, despite her own rules, she started to trust him.
Layla didn’t turn on her laptop—and neither did Xavian wander out to the desert.
The world could wait, because new priorities had been established.
No matter the clinical decisions behind their coupling, their parents—unwittingly, perhaps—had got this so right.
It was no longer just about business.
Baja was beside herself at first. She had feared for her Queen because of this brute who had been imposed upon her. She took the poppyseeds out of their nightly elixir, reduced the quantity of pine nuts, but the potency of the first drinks refused to wear off. Her mistress was almost stupefied—even a couple of mornings later, as she was bathed, Xavian was all Layla could talk about.
‘He’s wonderful, Baja…’ Layla said as a maiden washed her hair. ‘We talk about anything.’
‘What do you tell him?’ Baja checked, her shrewd eyes narrowing.
‘Lots of things,’ Layla said, her chin jutting out in defiance. ‘He is my husband; surely I can trust him with anything?’
‘I will finish…’ Baja took the jug from the maiden and instructed her to leave, pouring the water over and over Layla’s hair just a touch less gently than the maiden had, and Layla could sense Baja’s questions. She could feel her tension even before she spoke. ‘You know my concern is only for you.’
‘I know that,’ Layla said, feeling the soapy water sting her eyes, and then Baja’s bony fingers rubbing oil into her scalp.
‘You are always so careful…’
‘I am,’ Layla agreed through tight lips.
‘Of course you are…’ Poor Baja. She tried so hard to choose her words carefully. Even though she had raised Layla since her mother’s death, was her only true confidante and could speak to the Queen in ways others would never, still she had to exert caution. ‘But he is ruler of another land. His heart belongs to the people of Qusay,’ Baja said. ‘Always he will put them first.’
‘As is right,’ Layla said, because her people always had to come first too.
‘You have fought hard to lead, Layla,’ Baja said, working the oil through long raven locks. ‘If the King knew how it wearies you…’ She paused for a moment, worked the oil in, before tentatively going on. ‘He would, of course, want to help you.’
‘I am not going to hand over my kingdom…’
‘Of course not. The sapphire mines are plentiful, and you know the good you can do,’ Baja said, and Layla closed her eyes.
She knew what Baja was hinting at. Haydar had so much untapped potential, and it was Layla’s dream to see her country prosper, to mine wisely, to build hospitals and schools. Would Xavian’s dreams be the same? Would his vision be as strong for her people?
‘He is a powerful King,’ Baja mused. ‘But a King can never have too much power.’
‘I am not going to hand it over…’ Layla could blame the tears in her eyes on the sting of the soap. ‘But if he knew how it tired me, knew of the burden, surely sharing with my husband—?’
‘Secrets are the weapon of men…’ Baja interrupted. She had crossed the line and would take the punishment, because she was scared for her Queen and scared for her land. ‘Your secrets are his power. Guard them wisely.’
Layla did not chastise Baja, because even if she didn’t like what she heard she did value her opinion, and she knew as she sat in the bath and let the oil soak into her hair that the old lady spoke without malice.
She wanted so much for her people. Haydar was her passion, and there was no one who would fight for it in the way that she did—certainly not the King of another land.
Baja was right. It was imperative she separated her heart from her head.
A loving husband, a sensual lover, perhaps a friend too—but maybe Xavian did not need to know all that was in her mind.
As Baja filled a jug to rinse her hair again, she watched the old lady’s shoulders stiffen as the drapes were parted and in walked the King.
‘Allow me.’ He took the jug from Baja and stood till she had left. Layla, wondering if he had heard them talking, sat tense in the still water as Xavian came over and slowly poured the water over her hair.
‘You are not supposed to see my preparations.’
‘Why?’ Xavian asked.
‘I should come to you only when I am beautiful.’
‘You are beautiful now,’ Xavian said, and she was: oiled and wet and warm. How tired he was of protocol, of the maidens, and of the servants who invaded their space, of Baja, who sat in silent guard around her.
‘I am sick of the staff,’ Xavian admitted broodingly, disrobing and climbing in the bath to join her. ‘Sick of Baja hovering, and tired of that qanoon playing every night.’
Layla giggled. ‘It is tiresome at times.’
‘We could dismiss them.’
Layla’s eyes widened.
‘All of them,’ Xavian said. ‘We could send them back to the palace…’
‘Who would bathe me?’ Layla gave a nervous laugh, but his hands answered that.
‘Who would prepare our meals?’
‘Us.’
‘I don’t know…’ Alone with him, without Baja to steady her…He was so consuming, so dangerous to her principles, that she truly didn’t know what to do, so instead she continued to bathe him, as he did the same to her. ‘We will tell them to be more discreet,’ Layla settled for instead, cupping her hands and pouring water on his tense shoulders. ‘I am used to having people around, I guess—you should try having six sisters!’ She felt him relax under her tender hands, and he even laughed as she told him more stories about her and her sisters, and the trouble they’d caused their maids as children.
And, in a rare, unguarded moment, he told her some tales too.
‘I reme
mber going to my cousins—always they were arguing, fighting. Only sometimes they were laughing…Then I would return to the palace, and it was then that I missed my brothers,’ Xavian said, then frowned at the slip of his own tongue and corrected himself. ‘It was then that I missed having brothers.’
‘So you can miss what you have never had!’ Layla smiled, glad that he was being more open, even if she was scared to be. ‘What about school?’ Layla asked. ‘Did everyone want to be friends with the future King?’
‘I was taught at home.’ His black eyes met hers and he was honest. ‘Yes, it was lonely.’
He was more tender than passionate, and it was his words that were intimate—thoughts that would bind them closer together. And little by little, despite Baja’s warnings, it felt so right that she told him more, trusted him more. Layla even told him about Noor, because soon he would be in Haydar and all the family knew. But there was no raised eyebrow, and his response surprised her.
‘Are they happy?’
‘Yes.’ Layla blinked at his response. ‘Ahmed loves Noor in many ways, just not in the intimate way that a husband should. They had to marry; they have been betrothed since childhood.’
‘Like us?’
‘Like us.’ Layla nodded. ‘It is better that Ahmed trusted her with his secret. Now they both have wonderful lives, and their people are happy.’
Xavian was pensive over their lost years. ‘Perhaps if we had met sooner, if we had spoken…’
‘We have met,’ Layla corrected him. ‘I stood beside you in the line-up at the Aristan Coronation. I was hoping you would at least acknowledge me, but after the Queen passed by…’ Even now she blushed at the humiliating memory. ‘You snubbed me, as I recall.’
‘I did not…’
‘You did.’ Layla choked on the anger that suddenly filled her. She didn’t want to probe old wounds, but he had hurt her. ‘You looked straight through me.’
‘I had other things on my mind that day.’
‘Like what?’ Still her anger burnt, because that was another year he had denied her. ‘What could have been so important that day that you could not turn and smile to your betrothed?’
Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen Page 5
