No. Now she was just getting fanciful—but it was difficult to avoid it when that same Malik was standing in front of her now, with a question on a face grown harder and yet more beautiful over the years.
‘I will ask you once more, Sorrel,’ he said silkily. ‘And then never again. Will you marry me?’
CHAPTER TEN
OF COURSE she said yes. What else could she say?
Sorrel had loved Malik since the year dot—long before he became his Serene Highness the Sheikh—and she loved him still. Despite his moods and his arrogance and his icy control, she couldn’t just switch that love off like a tap—no matter how hard she might try.
Yet what could have seemed like a fairytale was most emphatically not. There was none of the romance or celebration or joy associated with such an occasion. They discussed it with the same kind of emotion with which they might have discussed the takeover of a business.
The first thing he did was kiss her—but it was a perfunctory kiss, like the rubber stamping of a contract—and the next thing he did was ring for Fariq, who bowed and congratulated him with a face so shadowed that Sorrel couldn’t tell whether or not he was pleased.
‘Sorrel must be assigned another room immediately,’ Malik said, and Fariq bowed once more and went off to do the Sheikh’s bidding.
‘Why?’ whispered Sorrel.
Malik’s black eyes narrowed. ‘Because there shall be no more temptation before the wedding.’
Sorrel laughed uneasily. What better night to consummate their relationship than this, and get properly close to him? This had to be some kind of joke, surely? Then she saw his look of determination and realised that it was nothing of the sort. ‘But what difference does it make now?’ she demanded. ‘We’re engaged!’
‘It makes all the difference in the world, Sorrel,’ he retorted. ‘For it is custom and tradition that the Sheikh should marry a woman who is intact.’ He saw her wince at his choice of word, but it was too late to take it back. Her eyes were big and blue and appealing, and the look in them had the power to make him ache…
‘Malik—’
He halted her with a fierce look, remembering how defenceless he had felt beneath the merciless onslaught of her hands and her mouth when she had seduced him before dinner. And he resented that feeling—just as he resented her for having caused it—even while his body shivered with the erotic memory of it. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he warned softly. ‘I know that you want to demonstrate your newfound sexual confidence, and you will have every opportunity to do so, but it will have to wait until afterwards. I want to do this properly.’
‘And if I disobey you?’ She flicked her blonde hair back. ‘If I come over there and take you in my arms?’
His black gaze was steady. She must learn two lessons: that his wishes were paramount and that she must never, ever disobey him. ‘Then there will be no marriage—for no such contract will take place unless I can present the betrothal to my people with a clear conscience.’
‘No one will actually know if I’m a virgin, Malik!’
‘You will know. And I will know. And that is what matters. You will come to me pure and unsullied on our wedding night.’
He saw her look of hurt disappointment and steeled his heart against it. Because suddenly events felt as if they were overtaking him—as if the order he had created in his newly made life was in danger of slipping into chaos if he did not take control. His senses felt raw—as if the layers with which he protected himself were slowly being peeled away to expose the man beneath.
Malik swallowed down his desire, and the anger that she could make him feel this way—but most of it he put down to frustration. At least it wouldn’t be much longer. He intended to order that the wedding take place as quickly as possible. His mind skated ahead. There would have to a few changes made in the laws governing his choice of bride—but what the hell? He was the law!
‘Trust me, Sorrel—the wait will be worth it,’ he murmured. ‘By the time I take you to my bed it will far surpass all our expectations.’
She had wanted comfort and reassurance as much as anything else—though Malik seemed to think this was simply about sex. And yet could she really blame him if he did? After all, hadn’t she behaved in a way which deep down he must disapprove of? Kharastani women were not brought up to think of themselves as sexual equals—and, while Malik might desire her with an intensity which had banished all reason, would he have any genuine respect left for her? When desire dimmed what would be left to sustain a marriage?
But it was too late for doubts—and royal brides-to-be weren’t allowed to have them anyway. She had given him her answer and she must honour that.
And by the time they arrived back in Kharastan preparations for the wedding and the deluge of interview requests from the world’s press meant that she didn’t have a minute to call her own, so her doubts were pushed away.
She quickly began to realise that her life was going to be very different from now on.
Someone from her schooldays had sold a very unflattering photo of her wearing a pair of shorts to the newspapers—and people that Sorrel hardly remembered were suddenly coming out with old ‘quotes’ which she didn’t recognise as the kind of thing she’d ever said.
Then there was the added pressure of a leak to the press that Laura and Xavier were expecting a boy. The first Sorrel knew about it was when she was giving a rare, pre-wedding interview and was asked, “Will you be trying for a baby straight away?”
It seemed that no subject was deemed taboo. Now that she was seen as a piece of public property her life had changed for ever. And things within Kharastan itself had changed, too—something she hadn’t anticipated.
For years Sorrel had had the run of the palace, and felt totally at ease there. She had always swum in the Olympic-sized pool and petted the Akal Teke horses in the stables, wandered in the beautiful gardens and generally felt that it was her home.
Now she was watched. She was no longer just Sorrel—the blonde Englishwoman who had worked her way into the affection of the Kharastani people by virtue of her long association with the royal family. Now she was to become the Queen, and people began to be guarded whenever she was around. Gone for ever was the spontaneity and freedom of her life, and with hindsight she could see how much she had taken those simple pleasures for granted.
But she had accepted Malik without any terms or conditions on her part. She had not asked for his love—probably because she knew he would not lie about it, or pretend to feel something he didn’t. And the alternative—a life without Malik—was something she wasn’t prepared to contemplate. Not now that she had tasted temptation in his arms…
Her face was icy with terror as she dressed for her wedding, and her isolation seemed to mock her once she had dismissed the maidservants, afraid that emotion might get the better of her and that she might break down in front of them—an unforgivable crime for a Queen-to-be.
The immense silence seemed to deafen her, and it had been a long time since Sorrel could remember feeling quite so lonely as she did at that moment—which was ironic, really, given that she would soon have a husband. But it was at times like this that you really noticed the lack of a family—and Malik’s words came back to her. Through the sudden blur of tears she saw her golden and scarlet reflection looking back at her from the mirror—wishing above all else that her parents could have seen her today, in all her wedding finery.
And Malik was right—how proud her father would have been that she was marrying the Sheikh.
Yet would Sorrel’s perceptive mother have noticed the faint sadness which clouded her daughter’s blue eyes? Or observed the very real anxiety which was making her skin feel cold and clammy?
The fear that she had leapt too hastily at Malik’s unexpected proposal and was now worried that she was going to live to regret it.
How she wished that she had had the courage to ask her husband-to-be about just what kind of marriage he was anticipating.
But she had not had the opportunity to ask him—and now it was too late. The guests were assembled and waiting, and in an hour she would no longer be Sorrel, who didn’t know where in life she fitted in, but Queen, married to a man who didn’t love her.
A rap at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Sorrel opened it to find her two sisters-in-law standing there, carrying her bouquet which had been freshly gathered from the palace gardens that morning.
The two women had arrived with Malik’s half-brothers a week ago, and Sorrel had been showing them the hidden treasures of the country while Malik locked himself away in his office to deal with the border dispute with Maraban and the constitutional changes thrown up by their marriage. He had made sure that they were never alone—and even at the formal dinners which had been held every night in the run-up to the ceremony barely more than a few words had passed between her and her fiancé.
Laura looked glowing—especially compared to the night Sorrel had seen her in Paris. Her sunset-coloured hair was woven with creamy stephanotis, and a jade silk coat-dress disguised all signs of her pregnancy. Sorrel wondered how she must have felt about the hospital leaking the result of her scan—but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate for her to ask.
‘Look at these!’ exclaimed Alexa, Giovanni’s wife, as she put the bridal bouquet down on a carved mulberry dresser. ‘Aren’t they the most beautiful roses you ever did see?’
‘Mmm!’ Sorrel picked them up and sniffed at them dutifully, but when she looked up it was to find Laura staring at her, and she wondered if she had seen her fingers trembling.
‘Are these just normal pre-wedding nerves, Sorrel?’ Laura asked softly.
‘Well…’ Sorrel flashed the smile she had been practising in front of the mirror all week, hoping that it would convince Laura as well as the rest of the waiting world. ‘Does the word “normal” ever apply where the Ak Atyn family is concerned?’
Laura smiled back. ‘I guess not!’
‘Come on—we’ve come to walk with you to the ceremony,’ Alexa said to Sorrel. ‘Are you ready?’
Sorrel bit her lip. Was she?
Every woman dreamed of her wedding day, and Sorrel had lived out this fantasy many times. Of moving slowly towards Malik, her eyes downcast and her head weighted by the circlet of flowers which surrounded a diamond crown.
When she reached him, she looked up into his eyes—her heart leaping with love as she issued one last small prayer that he would be smiling the kind of smile that his dream-like counterpart always had. But her prayers remained unanswered, for his face was as serious as she had ever seen it—the black eyes flinty and cold.
Was he regretting it too? she wondered.
The maulvi began to read aloud the vows in the classic combination of the formal, the spiritual and the legal which was at the heart of every marriage ceremony, no matter what religion. Deeply profound words that Sorrel’s shaky voice stumbled over once or twice as she repeated them.
They each sipped from the goblet of life—a thick and sweet mixture of pomegranate flavoured with something no one could pronounce properly, but which tasted a bit like Turkish Delight.
She shivered as Malik tied the traditional double loop of silver and black beads around her neck—supposed to protect the marriage against evil—and then they were man and wife at last.
The guests dropped deep bows and curtsies as she and the Sheikh passed through the high-vaulted room to a courtyard decked with garlands, where traditional lute players sat strumming by one of the smaller fountains.
Outside, they stood in the bright sunshine, and Malik raised her fingers to his lips.
‘So you are my Queen at last,’ he murmured, his face shadowed by the flowing headdress he wore. ‘And although you have just promised to obey, I see that already you have broken your promise to me.’
Sorrel’s eyes widened, startled, her fingers flying to her throat—hurt that his first words as her husband should be those of reprimand. ‘I have?’
Malik’s mouth curved into an odd kind of smile. How brittle she looked—as if she might snap if he took her into his arms. ‘I was teasing,’ he said softly. ‘You promised to always wear your hair down for your Sheikh, remember?’ His eyes glittered with dark sexual promise. He was wishing that he could take her in his arms and kiss her properly—but propriety must be observed. At least until they were in their bedchamber. ‘But I shall unpin it myself later—when we are alone.’
She stared up at him, scarcely able to believe that she was now his wife. Wanting to pinch herself to check that she was really alive and not still dreaming. Wanting some kind of reassurance that she hadn’t just done the most foolish thing. ‘Malik, I’m terrified of doing the wrong thing.’
‘There is no need. I shall teach you—as I have taught you everything else.’ He thought how long she had been forced to wait for the pleasure she craved, and sought to put her mind at rest. ‘You are a sensual and willing pupil, Sorrel.’
Did he think that everything came back to sex? she thought in despair. Or maybe this was the punishment for young women who announced that they wanted a lover—afterwards they would never be taken seriously. ‘I meant…I’m scared that people won’t accept me.’
He tipped her chin up with the tips of his fingers and stared down into the beguiling blue shimmer of her eyes. ‘How can you be?’ he asked simply, shaking his head so that the flowers in his own headdress shimmered like butterflies in the bright sunshine. ‘When you look so perfect, and everyone is so happy about our marriage.’
‘Are they, Malik? Really?’
‘Yes. Really. They have watched you grow and they have seen how much you love our country. Why would you know even a second of doubt about the ceremonies today, when you could almost write a book about Kharastani protocol?’ He shrugged as he saw her still needing to be convinced. ‘Oh, there will always be people who think that I should have married a woman of pure blood—but it is up to you to win their hearts and prove them wrong. You may look like a foreigner, but you certainly don’t act like one. You’ll be fine, Sorrel—but you must learn to disguise your doubts and to hide your true feelings behind the patina of confidence. That is what your people expect of you—indeed, what I expect of you. So, come, let us go and greet our guests.’
She took his arm and they walked into the feast to the sound of fanfare and the flutter of rose petals—both Western touches which had been ordered by Malik for his new bride. But for Sorrel the day proved to be something of an endurance test.
All those things he’d just said about having to hide her feelings—she’d known that was what she must do, at least on an intellectual level. She was aware that Malik did it all the time—certainly in public. But was he going to carry on doing it in private, too? Were the two of them allowed to have feelings—or was everything supposed to operate on some lofty, superficial level, where extremes of emotion weren’t encouraged?
But you’ve made your wedding bed—and now you have to lie in it!
He had not forced her to marry him. He had asked her coolly and calmly and she had agreed. She had walked into the marriage as an adult—so she had better start behaving like one. No one got everything they wanted in life—maybe this was enough.
Their bedchamber was lit with candles and scented with cedarwood and amber—both rich and earthy notes, believed by Kharastani custom to enhance the fertility of every bride-to-be on her wedding night.
As Sorrel slipped the sheer cream organza gown over her head, she began to understand a little of some of these old rituals. Suddenly she understood the necessity behind Malik’s insistence that she come to him untouched on this significant night. She was the wife of the King—of course she must be pure.
‘Sorrel?’
She heard his soft, deep voice—rich as honey, with its distinctive accent which never failed to send shivers down her spine—and turned to see him standing there, shimmering as if lit from within, in his cloth of gold with his belt and his sword slung around the
narrow line of his hips.
‘Yes, Malik,’ she whispered.
He walked over to her, cupping her face in his hands and then touching them to the intricate confection of her hair, still crowned with the diamond circlet. ‘I want to unpin your hair,’ he said, his voice unsteady.
Carefully, he lifted off the glittering crown and laid it down, and then he set about removing the pearl pins, one by one—so that her hair began to tumble down around her shoulders, strand by strand. It was slow and sexual and highly symbolic of what was about to come. It was like every fantasy come to life—Malik, her husband, his handsome face focussed entirely on the task in hand. When her hair was finally freed he ran his fingers through it greedily—like a man who had discovered treasure.
‘I have dreamed of this moment,’ he said softly.
So had she. But now that it was upon her Sorrel felt stricken by a terrible shyness. This was no longer an erotic fight for equality in a Parisian bedroom, but an ancient submission of wife to master.
It was a union fuelled by convention, and by Malik’s urgent need for an heir—but it would never be fanned by the flames of love. And yet surely that did not preclude a kind of tenderness between them—the kind that could never have existed during the cold-blooded arrangement of her sexual education? Did their longstanding friendship not count for something in the bedroom?
‘Malik,’ she whispered.
‘Ah, Sorrel,’ he said, his voice roughened with the urgency of self-denial. He had wanted her so badly, and for so long, and yet he knew that he must make this memorable for her, since it would colour her opinion of sex for evermore. But, by the desert storm, he was aching!
‘Do you know how I have hungered for this moment?’ he demanded. ‘How night after night I have thought of this—and you—naked and pale in my arms and in my bed? And you have thought of me in the same way,’ he stated with satisfaction.
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