Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

by Carol Marinelli

  Her hands were not soothing him now as they worked his tense muscles, and her questions were becoming too intrusive.

  ‘What happened here?’ She was trying to change the subject, trying to get over old resentments, so she asked a different question, tracing the thick dark scars around both his wrists with her finger.

  ‘I was sick as a child,’ Xavian answered, staring at the familiar scars, and though the water was warm, suddenly he was cold, remembering the reason for his distraction at the coronation, remembering Queen Stefania’s eyes widening when she too noticed his scars. Suddenly Xavian felt it imperative that he explain their presence to Layla, and that she believed him. ‘I was very sick. I had seizures…They had to tether me to the bed. Sometimes I would become delirious and wander…’

  ‘Oh.’ He could see the confusion in her eyes, and not for the first time Xavian was wondering too. ‘They tethered you?’ Her fingers were soft on the scars, tracing them, examining them just as he did at times, and her mind was surely asking the same questions as his. He had been a royal prince, the heir to the throne—surely there would have been nurses to watch him? Surely there had been no need to tether him? ‘What was wrong with you?’

  He pulled his wrists away.

  ‘What made you so ill?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Layla challenged. After all, she was to bear his child, yet she had been told none of this. ‘What was wrong with you?’

  Xavian hauled himself out of the bath, wrapped a cloth around his waist, and found that for the first time since their arrival in the desert he needed his space, needed to be alone—her probing, her questions, were getting on his nerves.

  ‘I am going to the desert today.’

  She didn’t understand the change in him. He left her shivering in the now tepid water, confused as to what had gone wrong. She wrapped a towel around her body and followed him out to the sleeping chamber, where he dressed unaided.

  ‘I thought we were going to spend time…’

  ‘You do not want to,’ Xavian pointed out. ‘I suggested we dismiss the staff, take time to get to know each other, but you are concerned with who will prepare your meals…’

  ‘No,’ Layla said slowly, certain that wasn’t what had upset him so much. It was only when she had asked about the scars that his mood had changed. ‘I am not worried about the meals…’

  ‘You are worried about who would bathe you.’

  ‘You said that you would bathe me…’

  He was dressed now, in white robes that would reflect the harsh heat and accentuated his dark skin and unshaven jaw. She stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a robe, refusing to just be quiet. ‘How long will you be…?’

  He laughed then—a mirthless laugh that was unfamiliar to her. ‘Why? Are you worried that you might burn the dinner?’ The huge tent was too small, her eyes too intense and her presence too invasive. He needed to be out of there. ‘I will return when I choose to.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE desert helped. Out here in the silence he could breathe, he could think, even if he did not want to.

  He had accepted the explanation when, as a child, he had asked his mother about the scars.

  ‘You were such a sick child, Xavian.’ Tears had filled her eyes as she’d tried to answer his many questions. ‘You were so feeble, so ill—and then, when you were seven, it was like a miracle. Slowly you improved…’

  And she had told him about his sickly ways, about the seizures, but always more questions had remained. As a young teenager, clever, curious, he had spoken with the palace doctor as he was about to be taught to desert race in a Jeep.

  ‘Can I drive?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have seizures…’

  ‘Not for years Xavian,’ the doctor had said. ‘You grew out of them.’

  He walked, for hours he walked, and then he sat—stared at the golden landscape that he ruled—and then he looked down, pulled back the sleeves on his robe and stared at the dark raised scars, turning his wrist over and asking again: who would bind a royal Prince with rope?

  He could feel the rope. He sat there and the desert was more patient than his parents, because it let him ask rather than silence him.

  Here he could think, could go deep inside himself, and he often did.

  On his parents’ death he had wandered for days, asking for wisdom to guide his people, asking for knowledge.

  He had been here last year, when his mind had been black, though before the tragedy of his parents’ end.

  Returning from Aristo, from the coronation of Queen Stefania, he had come here for peace. He had not deliberately ignored Layla that day; he had actually hoped to speak a few words to her, to find out a little about the woman he would inevitably marry. But the coronation had brought up strange feelings, but not memories, for he could picture nothing.

  Feelings Xavian had known it would be safer to ignore—and he had tried.

  He had flown to Europe, had partied, had played the part of playboy prince with zeal, yet nothing had quietened his rising unrest.

  And now, as Xavian sat alone in the desert, he found himself hoping for silence, for his racing mind to still—except the roar of the wind through the canyons seemed to be calling for him to listen, and the golden sands seemed to be shifting, tossing him as if on the ocean…He could hear a child’s laughter. It must surely be the wind, but there was no mistaking the playful shrieking. Sitting still in the desert, he could taste a rare freedom—glimpse it, touch it—and he couldn’t blame it on dreams this time, because his eyes were wide open.

  Layla had soothed him, but she had unsettled him too.

  She had brought something familiar to his soul—something he could not place, something that made him question everything now.

  He would allow no more questions.

  He lay back and stared at the blue sky…His eyes closed against the bright sun and as his hand slid from his taut, flat stomach, instead of meeting sand, it met water and his fingers dipped into the cold of the ocean. This propelled him to sit upright, and as he stared at his dry hand, expecting to see droplets, he knew that it was happening again, that the madness was creeping in closer…

  This was Qusay’s ruler?

  He didn’t want to be mad, and he didn’t want to think, and neither did he want to listen—because he was scared he might now get answers.

  As darkness fell the emerging night sky led him back to the different escape of his desert tent and his new bride.

  The tent was softly lit as he entered. The ghastly qanoon struck up the moment he set foot inside. The candles flickered and the table was laid, but Layla was not there waiting.

  ‘The Queen was tired,’ a nervous servant explained. Nervous because a good wife would have waited up for him. ’She has retired for the night.’

  Xavian wasn’t hungry now, and he wasn’t tired either.

  Restless with energy, he walked into the sleeping chamber and saw that she was feigning sleep.

  ‘I know you are awake.’

  Her eyes remained closed but she shrugged. ‘Then you should know that I pretend to be asleep because I don’t wish to speak with you.’

  At close to midnight, her honesty brought a rare half-laugh from Xavian, and only then did she open her eyes to him.

  ‘It is late,’ Layla pointed out. ‘You are wise enough to know the desert is dangerous at night…’

  ‘I am used to the desert.’

  ‘Not at night, with no supplies, out alone…’

  He was alone.

  With this he was alone.

  Xavian turned off the lamp and climbed into bed beside her, but even as the music stopped still his mind would not rest. He had spoken with the palace doctor recently, and it had taken courage to do so. He had told him his fears and the doctor had warned him not to discuss it with anyone—told him that a feeling of déjà vu was sometimes a mild form of seizure. He had given him pills, small pills, that Xavian had acce
pted but silently refused to take.

  He did not trust the doctor.

  Ah, but wasn’t paranoia another sign of insanity?

  He rolled onto his side and tried to close his eyes.

  And he could not trust Akmal—how could he tell that pompous little man that at times he, the King, had doubts as to the state of his own mind?

  ‘Xavian?’ Bolder in the dark, relieved that he was home, wanting the row to end, Layla did not wait for an invitation. Her hands reached for him, her body coiling around his, but he halted her hand with his wrist, pushed her away and then lay tense and angry in the dark as he felt her confusion beside him.

  He closed his eyes, willed sleep, but every time he drifted off he felt again as if he were on water, lying in the middle of the desert…He felt the rise and fall of the ocean beneath him, felt the sun scorching his body. There was nowhere to go for Xavian—and no mistress chambers to send her to here.

  Here in the desert, no matter how he fought it, he was steadily going insane—and there was nothing he could do. Fear, a fear he had never known before nor would ever admit to, meant that it was he that reached for her now, because she was soft and warm, breathing and real and alive.

  ‘Xavian, what is wrong…?’ He heard the question in her voice, but he couldn’t answer, because he didn’t know, so he crushed her questions with his lips.

  Layla had been scared when he had been out so long, scared when he had returned in this black mood, nervous and unsure when he had climbed into bed beside her, and shamed when he had rejected her. But now, when he covered her, when his mouth crushed her so hard she could not breathe, there was no fear, no trepidation. She felt it again—felt a different facet of what she had so recently discovered.

  Her body, and the delicious flare of them together.

  She was confused, but she wasn’t scared—she knew at some level that this man, her husband, needed what she could now give him.

  He was pushing up her nightdress, her face was swathed in muslin, and her arms were lifting as he discarded it.

  He tasted of salt and desert, so potently male. Unshaven, his rough mouth sought hers, his knees pushing her thighs apart. But she fought him. Not his body, but his speed—because she needed escape too. She rolled his body till she was on top, her thighs straddling him, and Xavian was not impressed.

  He wanted escape. He had sought her, and now this…

  Prolonged lovemaking he did not need tonight…Maybe later, but not now…

  Except she was kissing his sulking mouth, and then down his chest, licking at his dark nipples and biting his flesh, tasting his unwashed skin, and all the while he felt her, tight and tender around his centre…He could feel her soft breasts brushing on his skin and he wanted to touch them, pushed her back so that he could…

  And for Layla it was a revelation that she could be so bold—deny him, almost, and yet prolong the moment too. Because he was touching her now, touching her breasts with one hand, and stroking her there with the other.

  She lost her rhythm, but he held her hips, guided her to his tip and then pulled her hard down his long length. And he did it again and again, till she was the one who was urgent. She was crying his name as he joined her, as wave upon wave hit, and he pressed deep into her until she was limp, then pulled her into his arms beside him.

  He lay in the dark, with the wind howling around—a shrieking desert wind that dragged the sane from their beds in search of its call—and there was no desire to investigate. Nothing Xavian wanted at this moment but this—no questions, no confusion…

  He could almost ask her.

  He could smell the sweet oils of her body, could feel her soft breast heavy in his hand, hear her deep, regular breathing…and maybe he had his wish, his answer.

  With her beside him each night maybe sleep would come more easily, because somehow she let him rest, let him dream. And then he heard his own voice.

  ‘Why would they tether me with rope?’

  There was a long silence, and he knew she couldn’t answer, but she lifted his hand and he felt the cool of her lips press into the angry wound. Then he heard his voice again.

  ‘I’m starting to remember.’

  He felt her pause, and then heard her question. ‘Remember what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  All she knew was that this was vital, that this demanded her full attention—which, as Queen, she was used to giving. So she sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. As light flooded the room she watched his expression shutter and realised how foolish she had just been—because she had acted as she would for duty, not as a wife, and certainly not as a lover. She should have lain in the dark and held his hand but it was too late for that now.

  ‘What are you starting to remember?’

  ‘Leave it.’ He rolled on his side, and this time it wasn’t a gesture of trust nor a compliment.

  ‘Xavian?’

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  And it was at that moment Layla realised she had lost him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GLIMPSING the palace from the helicopter, Layla caught her breath. In the late morning sun it glowed like a jewel. The shells and semi-precious stones set in the palace walls all caught the light, and it shimmered on the edge of the desert like an oasis.

  She had seen it on her arrival, proud and tall, set on the headland, but had been too nervous about the wedding to take it all in. Now, as they came in from the desert rather than over the ocean, it looked different—everything was different. A married woman now, she no longer needed to be veiled, but it was more than that. The man beside her had not only awoken her sexuality but had given her something else, something unexpected, for she loved him.

  As closed and as guarded as he was, she loved him.

  ‘It is beautiful….’ Layla said to the man who sat beside her, staring broodingly ahead.

  But Xavian just shrugged.

  She wasn’t at all sure that Xavian even wanted her love. She had never had a relationship and had no touchstone, no marker to guide her. Their lovemaking was wonderful—she had woken only this morning to Xavian spooned in behind her, had been deep in the forest of orgasm before she had opened her eyes—but even by the time they had bathed and dressed she had felt his detachment. The man who sat beside her now was just so far removed from the man she was sure she had glimpsed. He was more than a closed book, he was a full library’s worth, and if she lived for ever there would still be parts unread.

  Over and over she rued the decision she’d made to flood the room with light that night, because now he had plunged her into the dark.

  Oh, they spoke, but about nothing—nothing that was important, anyway. She corrected herself. They did speak about important things, like palaces and kingdoms, it was just that these things suddenly had no importance to her any more.

  Her eyes flicked to Baja, who clearly saw nothing amiss with Xavian’s detached demeanour. Baja had told her to neither expect nor want more, but still Layla did.

  Though Xavian took her beyond her wildest dreams at night, Layla was greedy—not just for his body, but for the company of his mind. There had been no harsh words since that night, but every day since, Xavian had risen before sunrise and gone out into the desert, coming home long after dark. The closeness, the sharing that had started to emerge, had been abruptly withdrawn. Each morning when she awoke, emotionally he was gone.

  ‘People are already here!’

  Even from the sky, Layla saw the palace was a hive of activity. She could see the private jets and helicopters that told her some of the royals and dignitaries had already arrived for tomorrow’s reception, but the bride and groom would not have to meet with them until the formal function and Layla was rather relieved. A week away and she hadn’t even turned on her computer, or spoken with her aides, and there would surely be plenty to do!

  ‘I wish my sisters were arriving today…’ Her eyes scanned the jets, trying to make out the crests as they drew closer, but Xavian showed no int
erest in joining her in this game.

  On landing, to save their grand entrance for tomorrow, they were taken to the senior royal wing of the palace that was off-limits to guests, and Xavian showed her dutifully around—from lush gardens to secret doors and passages and the sleeping chamber where, when Layla was in Qusay, they would rest together. It was stunning—the bed so huge and so exquisitely furnished that it should have taken centre stage, but it was a sunken bath by the French doors that caught the eye.

  ‘You can bathe and look out to the ocean if you so desire,’ Xavian said, opening the doors to reveal the beach in all its glory. Then he saw her aghast face. ‘No one can see you.’

  ‘What if someone is walking on the beach?’ Layla checked, walking out onto the balcony with him.

  ‘This cove is for our use only,’ Xavian explained. ‘These stairs are the only access. There is another stretch of beach that is exclusive to the palace, but this is just for us.’

  It really was beautiful. The stunning design assured complete privacy—their whole wing was angled so that no one could glimpse them. Even the air and sea traffic, Xavian explained, was routed to avoid this section of the palace.

  ‘Though for now….’ Xavian started, just as Layla spoke too.

  ‘I am afraid that I need to…’ She gave a tense smile as they spoke together. She hated the new awkwardness between them, and nodded for Xavian to go first.

  ‘I need to do some work. Hopefully it will not take long, but after a week away…’

  ‘I was about to say the same thing,’ Layla admitted. ‘There will be much for me to attend to.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘There will have been a lot of activity while I was away.’

  ‘Activity?’ Xavian frowned.

  ‘It does not matter.’

  It was back to business and she knew it—not just in work, but in their marriage too.

  ‘I will have an office prepared for you.’

  ‘It should already be arranged,’ Layla said, ‘I asked my staff to ensure there was one ready for my return.’