Susan Mallery - The Sheikh & the Bride Who Said No

by The Sheikh

  If.

  Cleo shifted to the edge of the sofa and laced her hands together. “I’m not sure how to say this delicately, so I’m just going to blurt it out. Something’s up.

  You’re obviously unhappy. You’re back early and Murat isn’t with you. Given how you two came to be married and all, Billie and I were wondering if you wanted to talk. You don’t have to, but we’re here to listen.”

  Daphne bit her lower lip. She did want to confide in someone, but…”You’re both in very different places.”

  “Okay.” Billie looked confused. “I know you mean more than us sitting on the sofa and you sitting on a chair.”

  Daphne couldn’t help laughing. Cleo stared at Billie and rolled her eyes.

  “She means we’re in love with our husbands and she’s not sure she is.” She glanced at Daphne. “Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew that,” Billie said. “I guess you have a point. But Murat isn’t so bad, is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Daphne realized it was the truth. That while she hated what he’d done to her—how he’d used circumstances and manipulated her to get what he wanted—she wasn’t sure how she felt about the man himself.

  “There’s the whole ‘going to be queen thing,’” Cleo said. “Does that count for anything?”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” Billie said. “Daphne has more depth than that.”

  Cleo sighed. “I actually wasn’t asking you.”

  “Do you two ever stop arguing?”

  “Sure,” Cleo said. “When we’re not together.” She linked arms with her sister-in-law. “Billie and I have fabulous chemistry. I love sniping at her more than almost anything. It’s like a sporting event.”

  Billie nodded. “Jefri and Sadik have gotten used to never getting a word in edgewise when the four of us have dinner.”

  “Shopping is a complete nightmare for the guys,” Cleo said. “We have credit cards and we know how to use them.” She disentangled her arm. “How can you not want to be a part of this?”

  “You’re tempting me.”

  “More than being queen?”

  Daphne curled up in the chair and leaned her head against the back. “I remember when I was here before. I was so young, just twenty, and engaged to Murat. The thought of being queen really terrified me. I was sort of a serious kid, and I knew there would be huge responsibilities. I didn’t think I could ever manage.”

  “And now?” Billie asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s a part of me that thinks I could really help Murat. He doesn’t have anyone he can confide in. Not to say anything against his brothers.”

  Cleo and Billie looked at each other, then at her. “I know what you mean,” Cleo said. “Sadik is in meetings with Murat and that kind of thing, but he only has to worry about his own area of expertise. Murat has all the responsibility. King Hassan is handing over more and more of the day-to-day ruling. So a wife he trusted could help lighten the load.”

  “Maybe. I think I could make a difference. As much as I don’t get along with my family, I have to admit I’ve been raised to be married to a powerful man.”

  “How nice not to have to learn what fork goes where,” Billie grumbled.

  Daphne grinned. “It’s a skill that has served me well.”

  “So you’re okay with the office of queen, which means the problem lies with Murat himself,” Cleo said. “I think you’re going to have to solve that one on your own.”

  Daphne knew she was right. “I appreciate the support.”

  Billie slipped to the edge of the sofa and leaned close. “I’m about to say something I shouldn’t, but I have to because I feel bad about what happened.

  Cleo, you can’t tell anyone. Not Zara or Sadik or anyone.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Billie nodded and stared at Daphne. “If you want to leave, just tell me. I can get you on a plane and back to the States in five hours.”

  Daphne thought of the long flight over. “How is that possible?”

  Billie grinned. “We’d take a jet. No luggage room, but plenty of speed. I need an hour’s notice. That’s all. If it gets bad and you need to run, I’ll take you.”

  Daphne felt her eyes start to burn. These women didn’t even know her and yet they were willing to offer so much support.

  “I appreciate the offer. I doubt things will come to that, but if they do, I know where to find you.”

  The women left after lunch. Daphne walked into the gardens and admired the bronze artwork there. Her favorite piece stood in the center of a large, shallow pool. A life-size statue of a desert warrior on the back of a stallion. As she studied the power in the horse’s flanks and the fierce expression on the warrior’s face, her fingers itched to be back in clay. She wanted to make something as wonderful as this.

  “If only I had that much talent,” she said ruefully. But she still enjoyed the process. She had time for that here. Time for many things she enjoyed.

  She sat on a bench and raised her face to the sun. Now that she was alone, she could admit the truth. She missed Murat.

  Despite his imperious ways and how he made her crazy, she missed him. She wanted to hear his voice and laughter. She wanted to watch him work and know that his strength would one day be their children’s. She wanted his touch on her body and her hands on his.

  So when exactly had she stopped hating enough to start caring about him? Or had she ever hated him? What did she do now? Accept what had happened and move on?

  Her heart told her no. That giving in would mean a lifetime of never being more than an object in his life. She wanted more than his rules and wishes. She wanted him to care. To woo her. To love her.

  She dropped her chin to her chest as the truth washed over her. She wanted him to love her enough to come after her, instead of always letting her go so easily. She wanted to know it was safe to fall in love with him.

  But how? How did she convince a man who believed he was invincible that it was all right to be vulnerable once in a while? How did she get him to open up to her? How did she get him to give her his heart?

  She touched her stomach. If she was pregnant, she had her lifetime to figure it out. If she wasn’t, then time might be very, very short.

  Which did she want? If she had to choose right now, which would it be?

  Murat couldn’t remember the last time he’d been drunk. He usually didn’t allow himself to indulge. As crown prince it was his responsibility to be alert at all times. But tonight he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  He’d waited all day for Daphne to return, but she had not. Even as he and his people rode deeper into the desert, he watched the sky for a helicopter that did not come.

  He should never have ordered the helicopter. He knew that now. If he’d ignored her outburst, she would still be with him. But her reluctance to accept their marriage as something that could not be changed made him furious. How dare she question his authority? He had honored her by marrying her. It was done, and they needed to simply move forward.

  But did Daphne see it that way? Was she logical and grateful? No. She constantly fought him, making life difficult, looking at him with accusations in her eyes.

  He reached for the bottle of cognac and poured more into his glass. The smooth liquid burned its way down his throat.

  Time, he told himself. He had time. Unless she wasn’t pregnant. Then she would leave as she had before.

  Do not think about that, he told himself. She would not leave again. He wouldn’t permit it. Nor would the king.

  The sound of muted footsteps forced his gaze from the fire. He watched as several of the tribal elders approached, bowed, then joined him by the fire.

  “Will you be attending the camel races tomorrow, Your Highness?” one of the men asked.

  Murat shrugged. He had wanted Daphne to see them, but now…”Perhaps. After the morning petitions.”

  “The council sessions went well today,” ano
ther said. “Your justice, as always, provides a safe haven for your people.”

  Murat knew the compliments were just a way to ease into the conversation the old men really wanted to have with him. He thought of how Daphne would listen attentively, all the while secretly urging them to get to the point.

  She played the games of his office well. She understood the importance of ritual and tradition, even when she didn’t agree with it. Unlike many women he had met, she would have patience for tribal councils and diplomatic sessions and negotiations.

  “You made an interesting choice with Aisha,” the first man said. “To give her to Barak.”

  He decided to help them cut to the chase. “The decision was a gift to my bride.

  It was her request that the young lovers be allowed to start a new life.”

  “Ah.” The elders nodded to each other.

  “Of course,” one of them said, “a woman sees with her heart. It has always been the way. Their tender emotions make them stewards of our households and our children. But when it comes to matters of importance, they know to defer to the man.”

  Not all of them, Murat thought as he took another drink. He wondered what Daphne would make of being called the steward of his household. The title implied employment and a distance between the parties far greater than in a marriage.

  One of the elders cleared his throat. “We could not help but notice the princess has left us. We hope she was not taken ill.”

  “No. Her health continues to be excellent.”

  “Good. That is good.”

  Silence descended. Murat stared into the flames and wished the old men would get to the point, then leave him alone.

  “She is American.”

  “I had noticed that,” Murat said dryly.

  “Of course, Your Highness. It is just that American women can be strong-willed and stubborn. They do not always understand the subtleties of our ways.” The man speaking held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Princess Daphne is an angel among women.”

  “An angel,” the others echoed.

  “Not the word I would have chosen,” Murat muttered. She was more like the devil—always prodding at him. If he wasn’t careful, she would soon be leading him around by the nose.

  “Have you tried beating her?” one of the men asked.

  Murat straightened and glared. The old man shrank back.

  “A thousand pardons, Your Highness.”

  Murat rose and pointed into the darkness. “Go,” he commanded. “Go and never darken my path again.”

  The man gasped. To be an elder and told to never show his face to the prince was unheard of. The old man stood, trembling, then crept away into the night.

  Murat sank down by the fire and looked at each of the six remaining men. “Does anyone else wish to suggest I beat my wife?”

  No one spoke.

  “I know you are here to offer aid and advice,” he said. “In the absence of the king, you are my surrogate family. But make no mistake—Princess Daphne is my wife. She is the one I have chosen to be the mother of my children. Her blood will join with mine and our heirs will rule Bahania for a thousand more years.

  Remember that when you speak of her.”

  The men nodded.

  Murat turned his attention to the fire. As much as Daphne frustrated him, he had never thought to hit her. What would that accomplish? He already knew he was physically stronger. Old fools.

  “Do you know why the princess left us?” one of the men asked in a soft, timid voice.

  Interesting question. Murat realized he did not know. One minute they had been fighting and the next she was gone.

  “She angered me. I spoke in haste,” he admitted.

  “You could demand her return,” a man said.

  Murat knew that he could. But to what end? To have her staring at him with anger in her eyes? That was not how he wished to spend his days. Yet to spend them without her was equally unpleasant.

  “The prince wishes her to return on her own,” another man said.

  Murat squinted at him through the flames. He was small and very old. Wizened.

  “The elder speaks wisely,” he said. “I wish her to return to me of her own accord.”

  The tiny man nodded. “But she will not. Women are like the night jasmine. They offer sweetness in the shadows, when most of the world slumbers. Other flowers give their scent in the day, when all can enjoy them. A very stubborn flower.”

  “So now what?” Murat asked.

  “Ignore her,” one man said. “Give her time to get lonely. She will be so grateful to see you when you do return that she will bend to your will.”

  An interesting possibility, Murat thought. Although Daphne wasn’t the bending type.

  “You could take a mistress,” another suggested. “One of the young beauties who travel with us. A man does not miss the main course when there are many sweets at the table.”

  He shook his head. Not only was he not interested in any other woman, he had given his word. He would honor his vows until his death.

  “A flower needs tending,” the little old man said. “Left alone it grows wild, or withers and dies.”

  The other elders stared at him. “You wish Prince Murat to go to her? To go after a woman?”

  Murat was equally surprised by the advice. “I am Crown Prince Murat of Bahania.”

  The old man smiled in the darkness. “I do not believe her ignorance about your title and position are at the heart of the problem.”

  Daphne had said much the same thing.

  “The gardener yields to the flower,” he continued. “He kneels on the ground and plunges his hands deep in the soil. His reward is a beauty and strength that lasts through the harshest of storms.”

  The cognac had muddled Murat’s brain to the point that the flower analogy wasn’t making any sense. “You want me to what?”

  “Go to her,” the old man said. “Provide her with fertile soil and she will bloom for you.”

  If Daphne grew anything it would be thorns, and she would use them to stab him.

  Go to her? Give in?

  Never. He was a prince. A sheik. She was a mere woman.

  He reached for the bottle, then stood abruptly and stalked into his tent without saying a word. When he reached the bedroom, he stood in the silence and inhaled the scent of Daphne’s perfume.

  How he ached for her.

  “Go to her,” the old man had said.

  And then what?

  Daphne stood her ground with the servants and basically bullied them into helping her set up her art table and supplies in the garden of the harem.

  “But the crown prince said you were not to return here,” one of the men said, practically wringing his hands.

  “I’m not moving in,” she said, trying to be as patient as possible. “I just want to work here. It’s quiet, and the light is perfect.”

  With a combination of prodding, carrying most of the stuff herself and threatening to call the king, she got her supplies in place and finally went to work.

  The clay felt good against her bare hands. She had a vision for what she wanted the piece to be, but wasn’t sure if her talent could keep pace with her imagination. Sleeplessness made her a little clumsy—she’d spent the past three nights tossing and turning—but she reworked what she had to and kept moving forward with the piece.

  The sun had nearly set when she realized she’d had nothing to eat or drink all day. Dizziness made her sink onto the bench in the garden. But the swimming head and gnawing stomach were more than worth it, she thought as she stared at the work she’d accomplished so far. She could—

  “I forbade you to come to this place.”

  The unexpected voice made her jump. She stood and turned, only to see Murat stalking toward her.

  “I left specific instructions,” he said. “Who allowed you to return to the harem?”

  He wore a long cloak over his riding clothes. The fabric billowed out behind him, making
him seem even taller and more powerful than she remembered.

  She’d missed him. The past seventy-two hours had passed so slowly. Only getting back to her art had kept her sane. She longed to hear him, see him, touch him, but now as he stalked toward her, she wanted to ball up the unused part of her clay and throw it at him.

  “I’m not giving you any names,” she told him. “And for your information, I’m simply using the garden as my art studio. I can’t get the right light in our suite, and the main gardens are too busy. All those people distract me. The harem isn’t used, so I’m not in anyone’s way.”

  He glared at her. “You are still living upstairs with me?”

  “I was, but I have to tell you, I’m seriously rethinking that decision.”

  She wiped her hands on a towel and walked away.

  Murat watched her go. On the helicopter flight back to the palace, he had thought about all the things he would say to Daphne when he saw her. They had been soft, conciliatory words designed to make her melt into his arms. When she wasn’t in their suite, he had gone looking for her, only to be told she was in the harem.

  He had thought that meant she had moved back, but he had been wrong. Now what?

  He walked out of the garden only to find his father entering the harem. King Hassan shook his head.

  “I just passed your wife. She seemed to be very annoyed about something.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  His father sighed. “Murat, you are my firstborn. I could not wish for a better heir. You have been born to power and you will lead our people with strength and greatness. But when it comes to Daphne, you seem to stumble at every turn. You must do better. I worked too hard to get her back here and into your life to have you destroy things now.”

  Chapter 14

  Daphne reached the suite she shared with Murat in record time, but once there she didn’t know what to do with herself. She wanted to burn off some of the excess energy flowing through her. She wanted to throw something, but everything breakable was far too valuable and beautiful.

  After pacing the length of the living room twice, she stopped by the sofa where one of the king’s cats slept. Petting a cat or dog was supposed to be calming, she reminded herself. She stroked the animal and scratched under its chin, but still her blood bubbled within her.