by Annie West
“I now belong to you.”
He will finally claim his inheritance!
Four years after inheriting—and liberating—a concubine, powerful ruler Sayid is shocked to see the transformation of Lina. No longer shy and naive, Lina is a feisty, irresistible woman. And Sayid has never wanted anyone more! But he’s duty bound to his country, and Sayid can only commit to a brief affair. Will Lina accept his outrageous proposal of a week in the royal bed?
Growing up near the beach, ANNIE WEST spent lots of time observing tall, burnished lifeguards—early research! Now she spends her days fantasising about gorgeous men and their love lives. Annie has been a reader all her life. She also loves travel, long walks, good company and great food. You can contact her at [email protected], or via PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.
Also by Annie West
The Sinner’s Marriage Redemption
Seducing His Enemy’s Daughter
A Vow to Secure His Legacy
The Flaw in Raffaele’s Revenge
The Desert King’s Secret Heir
The Desert King’s Captive Bride
Contracted for the Petrakis Heir
The Princess Seductions miniseries
His Majesty’s Temporary Bride
The Greek’s Forbidden Princess
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Inherited for the Royal Bed
Annie West
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-07228-1
INHERITED FOR THE ROYAL BED
© 2018 Annie West
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk
This one is for you, Grace Thiele: your very own sheikh story.
I love your unbounded enthusiasm for my sheikhs, which makes me want to write more.
And a huge thank-you to Ana Neves for your language assistance.
You’re a gem!
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Extract
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
THREE MEN STRODE through the gleaming marble corridors of the Emir’s palace.
Past the great council room where the walls were hung with decorative displays of lances, swords and ancient muskets. Where brightly coloured martial standards hung as if waiting for the next call to arms.
Past sumptuous banqueting halls and audience chambers. Past colonnaded courtyards filled with pleasure gardens, the tinkle of fountains loud in this still hour after midnight. The only other noise was the march of boots.
Past the studded medieval door to the empty harem and another that led to the passage carved down, through the very rock of the citadel, to the vast treasure chambers and dungeons.
Finally they reached the corridor to the Emir’s private suite.
Sayid paused. ‘That will be all for now.’
‘But, sire, our orders are—’
Sayid swung round. ‘Your orders change tonight. Halarq is no longer on the brink of war.’
Saying it aloud still sounded unreal. Halarq had been on the verge of war most of his life, principally, but not solely, with the neighbouring kingdom of Jeirut. It was why every male was armed and trained to defend his country to the death.
Sayid thought of all those years primed for conflict. Of unending border skirmishes and casualties. Of missed opportunities to invest in better lives for the people, as opposed to diverting energy and funds into armaments.
His mouth firmed. If he achieved nothing else, he, Sayid Badawi, the new Emir of Halarq, had done that—brought peace. Later, when it sank in, he’d rejoice. Tonight all he wanted was to lay his head on a pillow for the first time in three days and find oblivion.
‘But, sire, our duty is to protect you. We spend the night at the guard stations outside your suite.’ The soldier nodded towards the other end of the long arched corridor.
‘The palace is guarded by your colleagues on the perimeter and by the latest security technology.’ Sayid’s uncle, the previous Emir, had spent lavishly on his own protection and comfort, as well as on armaments.
It was a shame he hadn’t been as ready to spend on his people.
Still the guards didn’t shift. Sayid’s patience frayed. ‘Those are my orders,’ he barked. His eyes narrowed and the guard blanched.
Instantly Sayid’s anger eased. The man was only trying to do his duty as he understood it. Questioning the orders of the Emir would, in the past, have met with terrible punishment.
‘Your devotion to duty, and to your Emir, is noted and appreciated.’ He surveyed both men, giving them time to absorb that. ‘But our security arrangements are changing. Your commander will brief you on that later. In the meantime, it’s my desire, and my order, that you return to the guard hall.’ He didn’t wait for a response but turned away.
‘That will be all,’ he said as he strode down the corridor, his dusty boots leaving marks on the graceful inlaid patterns underfoot.
Silence. They hadn’t attempted to follow.
Sayid filled his lungs with the cool night air wafting from a nearby courtyard. This was the first time he’d been alone in days. The first time he could allow himself to relax.
Tonight’s ebullient celebrations with every Halarqi clan leader, regional governor and warlord, plus most of their fighting men, had been
on a monumental scale. The plain beyond the city walls was filled to the brim and the scents of festive cooking fires drifted through the whole city. Every so often the crackle of rifle fire indicated the celebration continued. They’d probably still be at it as dawn broke.
Whereas he’d be up at sunrise, in the office he hadn’t had time to make his own since his uncle’s death, immersed in the paperwork and diplomatic detail that would put flesh on the bones of the peace agreement. A peace that guaranteed the borders, the safe passage of travellers and even, potentially, trade and mutual development between Halarq and Jeirut.
Sayid’s pace slowed and he smiled, the action tugging his cheek muscles taut.
Who could blame his people for celebrating? He’d do the same if he weren’t weary from the long negotiations with Huseyn of Jeirut. And from keeping his more bellicose generals in check long enough to prevent provocation and violence. Some had thought, despite his military record and his reputation for decisive action, he’d be easily swayed into supporting his predecessor’s war plans. But Sayid’s priority was his people, not the posturing of old men who thought others’ lives expendable.
Reaching the Emir’s private suite, he entered, a sigh of relief escaping as the tall door closed behind him. Alone, finally.
Sayid strode through, past the study and the media room, through the vast sitting room and lavish private dining parlour, to the bedroom. His eyes went immediately to the vast, beckoning bed. Its cover, embroidered in the royal colours of blue and silver, was pulled back invitingly. The overhead light was off, leaving only the gentle glow of a few decorative pierced lamps.
He rocked to a halt, tempted to forget about the state of his clothes and just topple onto the mattress as he was. He’d be asleep within seconds.
Instead he crossed the spacious room towards the bathroom. He’d shower first.
Sayid pulled off his clothes as he walked, his tension easing as the hand-stitched layers came off. The fine cotton of his shirt masked a jaw-cracking yawn as he tugged it up, over his head, rolling his shoulders in appreciation as he felt cool night air brush his flesh.
He was about to toe off one boot when something made him pause. He stilled, his weight on one foot, his senses prickling at the certainty something was out of place.
A lifetime’s training as a warrior, always aware, put him on alert.
Something was wrong. He was certain in less time than it took to form the thought.
It would serve him right if he’d dismissed his guard only to find himself under threat in his own chambers. The youngest and shortest-lived Emir of Halarq in all its history. That would be a fine epitaph!
Keeping his movements easy, Sayid wrapped the cotton of his discarded shirt around his left hand and forearm. The cloth wouldn’t stop a bullet but might deflect a knife in a pinch. He didn’t spare a glance for the long silvered scar running up that arm from his wrist to well past his elbow. It proved a well-honed knife could easily cut through several layers of clothing.
Slowly he turned, nostrils flared to capture any unusual scent, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkened corners of the room.
Nothing. Exhaustion must be interfering with his perception.
Sayid swung right around towards the bed again and—
He stiffened, his hand going to the ceremonial but razor-sharp dagger at his hip.
‘Who are you?’ The words issued through clenched teeth. ‘What are you doing here?’
As he spoke the figure in the dark corner beyond the bed rose. A small figure, its outline blurred by a swathe of fabric wrapped around its shoulders and over its head.
Having risen, the person immediately bowed low in a silent gesture of obeisance.
Sayid’s senses screamed a warning. What would have happened if he hadn’t noticed that still, silent figure hiding in the corner? Would they have waited till his back was turned in the shower, or he was fast asleep, to slip a knife between his ribs?
Had he been foolish to write off his dead uncle’s preoccupation with security? The man had been dangerously paranoid and increasingly erratic but he’d been wily.
‘Come here!’
Instantly the figure glided closer.
‘Sire.’ A soft, whispery voice feathered his skin like a lover’s caress. Another bow. This time when the figure straightened, it tugged off the enveloping blanket.
Sayid stared.
His privacy had been invaded by a dancing girl? He shook his head. Did weariness play tricks with his vision?
Women in his country didn’t dress like this. Women in Halarq dressed modestly. Some covered their hair but all covered their bodies.
This one didn’t.
Heat speared his belly and drilled into his groin as he surveyed her. She wore a low-slung skirt that fell in gauzy folds from the curve of her hips. He clearly saw long slim legs through the fabric. She shifted and a glimpse of toned, honey-coloured thigh appeared through a slit in the skirt.
His gaze rose to a bare midriff, deliciously curved into a tiny waist, then up to a cropped, sleeveless top of shiny material that clasped her like a second skin. It was cut low, showing off the upper slopes of enticing breasts that rose and fell with her rapid breathing.
Sayid’s throat closed as if he’d gulped down half the eastern desert. His fingers stretched then curled into fists, bunching at his sides.
Competing impulses warred.
To command she cover herself instantly.
But that wasn’t his first reaction.
To reach out and touch that inviting body.
Yes. That.
To haul her against him and revel in the pleasure a woman’s soft body could afford a man wearied by days, no, weeks of achieving the impossible—first keeping his uncle from invading Jeirut, then, on his uncle’s death, finding a way to ensure a lasting peace between nations that were traditional enemies.
His gaze rose further, taking in a face of extraordinary loveliness. Dark hair, unbound, was pushed behind her shoulders. Her breasts, pert and high, rose shakily with each breath.
Imagination told him her skin would be warm silk, soft and pleasurable.
Sayid, like his uncle before him, was a man of strong desires, with a predilection for pleasure. Yet, unlike his dead uncle, Sayid prided himself on ruling his sensual side. He’d seen what unbridled self-indulgence did to a man. He had no intention of following his uncle down that path. Instead he emulated his father who’d been a warrior prince, bound by an unshakeable code of conduct. A man who channelled strong appetites into a drive to protect and serve his people.
‘Look at me.’ The command was overloud. But Sayid’s control over his body was sorely tried.
Instantly her bowed head tilted up.
Sayid registered another unseen body blow. This time to his solar plexus. For her eyes were unlike any he’d seen. They were the colour of wild violets in the mountains. Darker than blue, softer than purple.
He scowled. Not only was she remarkably pretty, she was young—too young to be alone in his room.
‘Who are you?’
‘Lina, sire.’ Again that low bow, which now, to his horror, made his groin grow tight and hard, for he got an eyeful as she bent forward. It looked as if her breasts might pop free of her top at any moment.
‘Don’t do that!’
She blinked, emotion he couldn’t read flashing across her features. Then it disappeared as she lifted her chin to look somewhere near his shoulder, her hands clasped neatly before her. ‘Do what, sire?’
‘Bowing. Don’t do it again.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But sire! You are the Emir. It wouldn’t be seemly—’
‘Let me be the judge of seemly.’ Sayid raised a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at too-tight muscles.
‘Yes, sire.’ Yet her brow twitched as if in disagreement and he’d sw
ear she bit her lip as if to stop herself saying more.
‘Don’t call me that, either.’ His uncle might have enjoyed constant reminders of his status as ruler of the nation, but Sayid had heard the title too often from too many toadying courtiers trying to ingratiate themselves. It grated.
He’d give a lot to talk with someone who didn’t bow and scrape. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing fatigue shortened his temper.
His mouth kicked up at the memory of his tense negotiations this week with Huseyn of Jeirut, the man known as the Iron Hand. There’d been no bowing and scraping then. The man was the toughest negotiator Sayid had met, as well as a formidable warrior. Yet, despite the weight of responsibility on their shoulders as they worked towards a peace deal for their nations, Sayid had enjoyed the stimulation of dealing with the man.
Halarq, under the rule of Sayid’s uncle, hadn’t been a place where people spoke their mind. The palace was full of advisers trained to agree with their Emir, rather than advise without fear or favour.
Yet another thing Sayid aimed to change.
‘As you wish...sir.’
He opened his mouth then shut it. ‘Sir’ was marginally better than ‘sire’. What did it matter anyway? He was so tired he’d allowed himself to be distracted.
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
‘I’m Lina. I’m here to serve you—’ her gaze skittered away to fix on a point beyond him ‘—in any way you wish.’ She swallowed, the movement accentuating her long slender throat and the beauty of her pale gold skin.
For a dazed second Sayid’s brain snared on the idea of nuzzling her fragrant flesh. He caught the scent of roses on her skin and wondered how she’d taste.
The temptation was so alluring, he stepped back to be sure he didn’t act on it. She stiffened at his movement, revealing a tension she fought to hide.
‘Who sent you?’
‘My father’s brother. He sent me as a goodwill gift to the previous Emir.’
A goodwill gift! Sourness filled Sayid’s mouth. That was the sort of nation his uncle had ruled. Where a woman could be treated as a commodity. Old memories stirred, leaving a rancid taste on his tongue.
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