by Annie West
‘Now you’re offended. I’m sorry. I told Idris you mightn’t want me here, but he assured me there was no sentimental attachment between you. Please forgive me.’
She made to rise but Arden’s out-thrust hand stopped her. ‘No, please.’
A roiling wave of emotion surged through her. Idris’s words shouldn’t hurt. They were true. Anything they’d once felt for each other was long dead. And what had Ghizlan done but try to ameliorate a disaster?
‘I’m sorry.’ Arden swallowed hard. ‘I do appreciate you being here. It must have been difficult for you and it’s nice to have another woman here.’
‘I thought it might help. Plus it will take some of the fuel from the fire if it looks like I’m in London to support you instead of being on approval for Idris.’
‘On approval?’
Ghizlan’s face took on that smooth, unruffled expression that Arden now realised masked other feelings. ‘Our marriage was to build a bridge between our two countries that have feuded for generations. It was tied to a peace treaty and a trade agreement but still, we needed a little time in each other’s company to...test the waters.’
Arden blinked as something hot and jagged, something almost like jealousy, bit into her. But she jammed a stop on her imagination before she could wonder how far testing the waters went.
‘There’ll be hell to pay when I return home but meanwhile supporting you helps us both by deflecting the worst of the gossip.’
Arden looked into that beautiful face, so still and poised, and realised how much courage it took for the other woman to be here, smiling as if her hopes of marriage hadn’t been dashed so scandalously. If she...cared for Idris...
To her amazement, fellow feeling rose. She’d loved and lost him once and it had soured her on the idea of love ever since. But she’d never forgotten the pain. It still sideswiped her when she least expected it.
‘I like your thinking, Ghizlan.’ Arden hesitated then plunged on. ‘Maybe you could advise me a little about what to expect? I know nothing about protocol and ceremony, or even what I should wear.’
She looked down at the pretty pale blue dress that shimmered under the brilliant lights. It had appeared in her room this morning and she’d accepted it gratefully rather than face this ceremony in old denims.
If she let herself dwell on how unprepared she was, she’d hide away and never come out. Or work herself into a fury at how she was being railroaded. But it was too late for second thoughts.
‘You like the dress?’
‘It’s gorgeous. But I have no experience in buying expensive clothes and I have no idea what’s required for...’ Arden’s words faded as she saw the smile on the other woman’s face. ‘You picked this?’
Ghizlan shrugged. ‘Just gave a couple of suggestions. I thought, given how quickly this all happened you mightn’t have anything suitable for today.’
Arden blinked as gratitude welled. ‘You really are a nice woman, aren’t you?’
Before she could feel self-conscious about blurting out her thoughts again, Ghizlan gave a delighted laugh.
* * *
Idris followed the muted sound of laughter to see both women with their heads together. One dark, one golden, both beautiful, his rejected bride and his affianced bride.
His belly tightened at the thought of the frantic work he had still to do to salvage something from the debacle caused by Arden and Dawud. Relations with Ghizlan’s royal father were in tatters, as were the treaties they’d negotiated. Conservative elements in his own country were up in arms about his illegitimate son and his plans to marry an Englishwoman. Yet what alternative did he have?
Any other course would be ruinous.
Any other course would deprive him of his son and make Dawud an object of ridicule and gossip.
Any other course would deprive him of Arden.
He watched her lean in to talk with Ghizlan. The movement tugged her silk dress tight, outlining that slim, delicious figure he’d fantasised about all night.
With half an ear he listened to the conversation around him, the first steps in building a new rapport with representatives of Ghizlan’s father. Yet his attention was fixed on Arden. The woman he would marry.
For the first time since he’d agreed to consider taking a bride, he felt a sharp tug of eagerness.
Arden might be trouble on two beautiful, sexy legs. She had no pedigree, no dowry or influence in his region. Worse, she had no training for a royal role, no knowledge of diplomacy or the arcane ceremonies and rituals which still persisted at court.
Yet she was the mother of his son and for that alone would be accorded respect.
Except that wasn’t the only reason he would marry her, was it? Last night he’d confronted the uncomfortable truth that he couldn’t in all honesty marry Ghizlan when it was Arden he wanted in his bed.
Want was such a weak word for the hunger simmering within him. It might be just sex, but it felt alarmingly like a compulsion. Like the weakness all the men of his family shared, a weakness he’d thought he’d put aside when he took on the sheikhdom.
He must learn to conquer this weakness or master it. He intended to approach this marriage like any other contract. With a cool head and in total control.
CHAPTER SIX
‘AN AIR-CONDITIONED LIMOUSINE will drive you and your son to the palace, Ms Wills.’ Ashar, the Sheikh’s aide, smiled reassuringly from the seat beside her on the plane. ‘It’s a short drive and it won’t be long before you’re settling into your rooms to rest.’
‘Thank you.’ A rest sounded wonderful. Even here in the comfort of Idris’s private jet Arden hadn’t been able to relax.
Perhaps because she wasn’t used to people waiting on her. Misha, their temporary nanny, had taken Dawud to another cabin in the luxurious aircraft so Arden didn’t have the distraction of a toddler who’d crush her new designer suit. Yet instead of revelling in the luxury of some quiet time Arden felt deprived. Of course she could have gone to him, but deep down she realised her stress wasn’t about Dawud, it was about her fears for the future.
What had she done, agreeing to leave London and marry Idris? Could she marry him and trust him to do what was best for Dawud?
Logic reminded her Idris wasn’t the carefree, careless young man who’d left her bereft and struggling. She’d seen the change in him. Yet she couldn’t stifle unease.
Everything had happened so fast, the betrothal ceremony, the blur of new faces as Idris’s personal staff were introduced. The shopping trip with Ghizlan to a famous couturier who’d opened his doors just for them while stony-faced security men kept the press at a distance.
Resigning from her job by phone had been a surreal experience. Her boss had read about her ‘adventure’ and had been agog for news. Arden was left with the unsettling suspicion she’d be more valuable to the business now she was an almost-VIP and potential drawcard than ever before. As for closing up the flat—it had been done for her. Idris had spoken to Hamid before she could, explaining she wouldn’t be returning.
Of everything that had happened in the last few days, that was the worst. It felt as if her life had been ripped away. She’d poured in hours of work and what little cash she had, turning it into a warm, bright home, full of treasured memories.
It didn’t matter that everything was done efficiently and with exquisite politeness by the royal staff. Beneath every courteous query about her preferences lay a stark, terrifying truth.
She had no choice in anything that mattered now. She’d agreed to marry Dawud’s father and their lives would be dominated by that from now on.
‘I’m sorry.’ She blinked and focused on the royal aide. ‘You were saying?’
‘I asked if you’d like some water or anything else. You look pale and we’re about to land. If you’re ill...?’<
br />
Arden shook her head. ‘I’m okay, thanks. Just tired.’
‘Then I’ll leave you alone for now.’ Ashar nodded and melted away.
Arden’s lips twisted. Wasn’t that the perfect indicator of what this royal marriage would be like? It wasn’t her soon-to-be husband asking about her well-being. Idris had excused himself as soon as they boarded and headed into a study off the main cabin. She’d barely seen him since she’d agreed to marry him. It was left to his ever-watchful staff to be concerned for her.
Arden straightened her shoulders. She didn’t need their concern. She could do this. She had to do this.
No matter how tough, no matter how challenging her new life, she’d face it like she’d faced everything else life threw at her.
After a lifetime solo, one important thing had changed. She was no longer alone. She had Dawud. He was more precious to her than anything, even phantom memories of first love and heartbreak.
She did this for her son.
Arden turned to look out of the window, staring at the misty blue mountains that rose in the distance, jagged and forbidding. Below her a broad, tawny plain sprawled to the coast where white sand edged a turquoise sea.
Zahrat. Legendary for its fiercely independent people and its arid vastness of desert and rugged mountains.
Despite her determination to be strong, Arden couldn’t repress a fervent wish that she and Dawud were safely back in London, leading their familiar, ordinary lives.
* * *
From astride his horse Idris surveyed the people lining the streets that wound through the capital. Every man, woman and child, it seemed, had come out to see their Sheikh make his traditional entry to the city.
And to see his son, and the Englishwoman who’d soon be their Sheikha.
As decreed by custom, there was no applause, no shouting, merely bowed heads as he passed. Yet that didn’t stop the crowd craning for a view of the vehicle following him, the car carrying Arden and Dawud.
He’d wondered how the news of his ready-made family would be taken. Not that anything would deter him from his duty to marry.
His people were proud and traditional. No doubt the older, more conservative ones would frown about a foreign bride. Yet he noticed a few silken banners, a customary sign of rejoicing, flying in the street. Turquoise for the sea that bordered Zahrat and scarlet for the desert at sunset, or, as popular belief had it, for the blood of their enemies, shed whenever the Zahrati defended their land.
Idris was musing on this sign of welcome when the Captain of the Royal Guard rode close.
‘Highness. The car. It’s stopped.’
Instantly alert, Idris whipped around, pulling his horse to a halt.
There was no sign of a problem yet his heartbeat quickened, his body tense, ready for action as he scanned the street for signs of an ambush. Security was a necessity these days, yet in his homeland Idris had always felt his bodyguard was more to satisfy tradition than because of any threat.
But if anyone were to threaten Dawud and Arden—
The rear door of the limousine opened and she emerged, the afternoon sun turning her hair to spun rose gold. The quiet crowd seemed to still completely. The silence grew complete so the thud of his horse’s hooves as it pranced towards the car filled the void. That and the rough pulse of blood in his ears.
What was she doing? No stop had been scheduled. Was she ill? Was his son ill?
Idris vaulted from his horse, thrusting the reins into the hand of a nearby guard, then slammed to a halt.
That was why the cavalcade had stopped?
Arden crossed to the side of the street where the onlookers crowded in the shade of an ancient shop awning. Near the front of the packed group one single person had ignored tradition. A girl, no more than six or seven by the look of her skinny frame. She sat in a wheelchair, gripping a straggly bouquet of flowers, her eyes huge as Arden approached.
In her slim-fitting straw-coloured suit that gleamed subtly under the fierce sun, Arden probably looked like a creature from another world to the girl.
The sight of Arden, cool and sophisticated with her high heels and her hair up, had stolen his breath when he’d seen her earlier. The air had punched from his lungs as desire surged, as fresh and strong as it had been years ago. Desire and admiration and something else, some emotion that was tangled up in the fact she’d borne his child. His responsibility to protect. His.
His visceral reaction had been possessiveness. The desire to claim her, and with far more than words, had sent him into retreat. He’d taken a separate vehicle to the airport and on the plane had immersed himself in work. Keeping his distance meant keeping control.
Arden stopped before the girl and crouched down, saying something he couldn’t make out. He strode across, his steps decisive on the ancient cobbles.
The girl whispered something, shyly smiling, and held out the flowers which, he saw now, were no more than a collection of wildflowers such as grew in the rare fertile areas near the city. One of them, yellow as the sun, looked like a dandelion.
But Arden held them carefully, as if they were the most precious bouquet.
‘Shukran jazīlan, Leila.’
The little girl’s face lit up and from the clustering crowd murmurs rose.
Idris stopped, stunned. Arden spoke his language? He listened, amazed, as she went on, haltingly but competently, to ask where the girl lived.
The conversation was short, for soon the child noticed him and grew too shy to speak.
Idris repressed a frown. The girl’s reaction wasn’t surprising. People didn’t address the royal Sheikh unless invited, yet he couldn’t help but feel like a big, black thundercloud, blotting out the sun and marring their rapport. Especially when Arden looked over her shoulder, her mouth compressing when she saw him.
He didn’t want her to look at him like that. He wanted her to look at him with the dazed longing he’d seen too briefly the day he’d kissed her at her front door. Or, better yet, with that expression of awe and bliss he remembered from years ago, when she’d been eager for him, especially in bed.
His thoughts horrified. Here, on the main street of his capital, under the gaze of thousands of his subjects, he was fretting over a woman. He was caught in a morass of political and diplomatic difficulties because of the current scandal—every waking moment he was busy negotiating a minefield of trouble and trying to salvage the peace treaty—and he let himself be distracted.
Arden stood and turned, her expression this time blank. Which, absurdly, made Idris clamp his jaw tighter as he took her arm and escorted her to the car.
She felt surprisingly fragile beneath the fine fabric of her new clothes, making him even more aware of the imbalance of power between them. He told himself they were both victims of circumstance. He did only what he must for the sake of his child and his country. But he disliked the reminder of Arden’s fragility, the fact she’d given up everything she knew to come here, an unwilling bride.
He paused, breathing deep, searching for the sense of calm and control that had eluded him since Arden had burst back into his life.
With careful courtesy he helped her into the car, gave a few instructions to waiting staff, then stalked around the car and got in.
* * *
Arden’s eyes widened as Idris took the far corner of the back seat. Even with Dawud’s child seat between them Idris dominated the rear of the huge limo.
He’d looked larger than life astride his gleaming horse and to her dismay her heart had done crazy flip flops as she watched him through the windscreen. She’d never seen him in traditional dress and was amazed how the horseman’s outfit with loose trousers tucked into long boots, a white headdress and light cloak had turned the most attractive man she’d ever seen into the stuff of pure fantasy.
The f
antasy had died when she’d turned to find him looming over her like a disgruntled bear. He couldn’t have made it clearer that she’d broken some taboo by getting out of the car and talking to little Leila.
Arden refused to apologise. Her heart had caught at the sight of the little girl and that one tiny token of welcome after kilometres of staring, silent, obviously disapproving people.
‘Are you going to tell me off now or wait till we get to the palace?’ She glanced at the closed window shutting them off from the driver and bodyguard in the front.
‘Tell you off?’ His words were abrupt, as if jerked from him.
Arden rolled her eyes and turned. He looked as forbidding as he had out on the street but stupidly some weak, utterly female part of her found him compellingly handsome. Her gaze dropped to his sculpted lips, now in a flat line, and she had the crazy impulse to lean over and kiss him till his pent-up fury disappeared.
That was one impulse she would not give in to!
She opened her mouth to speak but a sound stopped her. She whipped her head around to stare at the people crowding the street. The noise, a high-pitched, rhythmic trill, swelled, surrounding them, making the hairs on her arms prickle upright.
‘What’s that?’ Reflexively one arm shot protectively across the front of the seat where Dawud slept.
‘It’s all right. It’s nothing to worry about.’ Idris’s deep voice reassured. ‘Quite the opposite. It’s a sign of approval.’
‘Approval?’ Her head jerked around as the car slid forward.
Idris’s lips quirked at one corner. Not quite a smile but the closest she’d seen to one in days, and even that had been directed at Dawud, not her.
‘Don’t look so worried. Approval of you.’
‘Me?’ She turned back to look out of the window, watching the faces slide by. ‘Why? Because I spoke to that little girl? Surely it’s not such a big deal.’ In the UK it wasn’t unusual for VIPs to talk with people who’d waited patiently to see them. Besides, Arden was a long way from being a VIP. She felt like an imposter in this procession.
