Crowned at the Desert King's Command

by Jackie Ashenden

  Of course he knew. It was a perennial theme.

  ‘The succession does not have to be dealt with now.’

  But the other man’s dark gaze was far too perceptive. ‘I understand why you have been reluctant, sire. After Catherine, who would not be? But, forgive me, you are not getting any younger. And Ashkaraz needs an heir.’

  Something dark coiled tightly in Tariq’s gut. He didn’t want to think about this now. In fact, he never wanted to think about it. And it didn’t help that the old man was right. Ashkaraz did need an heir. He just didn’t want to be forced into providing one. The fact that it was all to do with Catherine and what had happened between them he knew already, but it didn’t make him any less reluctant.

  A ruler had to separate himself, keep himself apart, and that had always seemed to him the very antithesis of marriage. But then, a royal marriage didn’t require much involvement beyond the getting of an heir. Or at least, that was what his father had told him. And since Tariq’s mother had died when Tariq was young, and he’d never had an opportunity to observe a marriage for himself, he had no reason to disbelieve him.

  Certainly, though, if he wanted to secure the future of his country an heir would need to be provided whether he liked it or not—or, indeed, whether any of the candidates presented for the begetting of said heir were suitable or not.

  And they weren’t. None of them were.

  ‘If you want an heir, then you must bring me better candidates for a bride,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘There are no more suitable candidates.’ Faisal seemed unmoved by his impatience. ‘As our borders are closed we have removed ourselves from the world stage, so you cannot get a bride from elsewhere.’

  Again, his advisor wasn’t wrong. About any of it.

  Tariq bared his teeth. ‘Then where do you suggest I get a bride from? The moon?’

  As soon as he said the last word a memory caught at him...of a lock of hair the colour of starlight showing from underneath a black and white scarf. Hair that had caught on his black robes as he’d lifted her onto his horse.

  There is your answer.

  It was a preposterous idea. Marry the little Englishwoman he’d found in the desert? An archaeological assistant. A woman who wasn’t rich or titled? Who wasn’t anyone important in any way? A nobody?

  She is perfect.

  The thought stuck inside him like a splinter.

  Catherine hadn’t been a nobody. She’d been a rich American from a wealthy family, beautiful and privileged. She’d certainly thought herself entitled to the love of his father the Sheikh, and when that Sheikh hadn’t given her what she wanted she’d set her sights on the Sheikh’s teenage son...

  She’d been greedy, and his father, fully aware of that greed, had kept the secrets of his country’s wealth from her. But Tariq hadn’t.

  She’d promised to stay with him for ever if only he’d tell her how Ashkaraz had got so rich.

  And so he’d told her.

  A week hadn’t even passed before her family and the companies they’d owned had begun to put pressure on Ashkaraz and its parliament, demanding oil rights for themselves by bribing a few of the right people.

  It had nearly ripped his country apart.

  But Charlotte Devereaux had only her father, and a mother who’d moved away long ago. There were no brothers or sisters. No elderly relatives. There’d be no one to come after her and try to grasp a piece of Ashkaraz’s wealth. And, because she wasn’t associated with any of the families here either, there’d be no family members in Ashkaraz trying to get rich.

  Yes. She was perfect.

  You would like her in your bed too.

  The memory of her heat next to him coiled itself tightly inside him. That would not be...unwelcome. It would be a good outlet for his physical desire and, because she was an outsider, he would never be in danger of wanting more than that. She would remain a constant reminder of his failure with Catherine. A constant reminder of the dangers of emotion.

  The government wouldn’t be happy, and the old families whose influence he was trying to negate would be even less so. But he wasn’t here for their happiness. He wasn’t here for divisiveness or self-importance. For one family putting itself above another.

  He was here to protect his people, and the government would have to accept his choice of wife whether they liked it or not.

  The only issue remaining was how to get her to accept it. Because if she hadn’t liked the thought of being held here indefinitely, she would like the thought of being married to him indefinitely even less.

  Then again, he wasn’t just anyone.

  He was the king.

  And he had her father. If he made letting the old man go conditional upon her agreeing to marry him she’d naturally have to accept.

  He’d have a suite of rooms set aside for her here in the palace, as befitted her future station, and she’d have access to his considerable wealth and power.

  Her life here would be very comfortable indeed.

  Certainly better than a shared flat in Clapham.

  In fact, the more he thought about it, the better the idea became. Marrying Charlotte Devereaux would solve a great many of his existing problems.

  ‘Not the moon, sire,’ Faisal said, oblivious to Tariq’s stillness and silence. ‘We shall simply have to—’

  ‘No need,’ Tariq interrupted, pushing himself away from his desk. ‘I have a suitable candidate in mind already.’

  Faisal didn’t often appear shocked, but he certainly seemed so now. ‘I thought you said you had none?’

  ‘One has suddenly occurred to me.’ Moving around the side of his desk, Tariq sat down. ‘Call a meeting of the council,’ he ordered, and then smiled. ‘I have an announcement to make.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHARLOTTE WAS TAKEN to what was quite obviously a library—and, given that it was a very beautiful library, she wasn’t quite as scared as she otherwise might have been.

  Ornate carved wooden bookshelves lined the walls, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, and there were low couches and divans scattered here and there, strewn with brightly coloured silk cushions. Small tables stood near each couch, the perfect height for cups of tea, and if reading palled there was always the view. Because, like the office she’d been in, the library faced the beautiful walled garden and through the open windows the liquid sound of the fountains played.

  It was an extremely pleasant place to sit, even with the two armed guards on either side of the door, though it was an odd choice for a place where the Sheikh might keep a prisoner. Not that she was complaining, since it was a million times better than the jail cell she’d expected to be dragged back to.

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been there, but it was enough time for her to have inspected the bookshelves and found quite a few English language books in various genres. She would have been happy to curl up with one on one of the divans.

  She’d had enough time to wonder, too, what was going on and what the Sheikh was going to do with her.

  She should never have threatened him—that had been a mistake. She couldn’t think why she had done so, or even where her bravery had come from. She’d only been conscious that for some reason she affected him, and she’d let that little taste of power go to her head.

  And now both she and her father would pay for it.

  The fear she’d been ignoring collected inside her once more, and it was still there when hours or minutes later—she wasn’t sure which—the guards took her out of the library and down some more of the echoing, beautifully tiled and arched hallways. They passed glittering rooms and ornate alcoves, went down some elegant staircases and past yet more colonnaded gardens and fountains.

  The Sheikh’s palace was beautiful, and if she hadn’t been afraid for her life she would have loved looking around it. But she was afraid, a
nd all the beauty around her only made her more so.

  She had very much hoped she wouldn’t be taken back to that jail cell, and she wasn’t. Instead she was shown into a series of interconnected rooms like a hotel suite, with big French doors that opened out into yet another walled garden, though this one was smaller. It had a fountain, too, and delightful beds of roses and fruit trees. The rooms were tiled in subtle, glossy variations of white, giving the walls a lovely textured feel. And there were more beautiful silk rugs on the floors dyed in deep, jewel colours, and low couches to sit on strewn with silken cushions.

  Charlotte tried to ask the guards what was going on, why she was there and not in a cell, but either they didn’t speak English or they’d been instructed not to speak to her, because they ignored her questions, leaving her alone in the rooms before going out and locking the door behind them.

  So, still a prisoner, then, but now her cage was a gilded one.

  After they’d gone she explored a little, finding that one of the rooms had a huge bed mounded with pillows standing against one wall, while another contained a beautiful tiled bath and a large shower.

  She couldn’t understand why the Sheikh was holding her here, in rooms that seemed more appropriate for a visiting head of state than for some illegal alien he’d picked up unconscious in the desert.

  None of it made sense.

  Left with nothing else to do, Charlotte paced around the main living area of the suite, her brain ticking over. She didn’t know why she was here and not in a cell, and she didn’t know what was going to happen to her or her father other than that the Sheikh wasn’t letting either of them go.

  That made her feel cold inside—not for herself, but for her father. He was an eminent professor with a career back in London, and lots of friends and colleagues, and he would hate to be separated from any of it.

  Especially when he finds out that all of this is your fault.

  The cold inside her deepened.

  She’d been the one to break the window and go looking around outside. If she had simply stayed put, then her father would be safe and so would she. Maybe they’d even be on their way back to the border and none the wiser about Ashkaraz.

  But that wasn’t what had happened.

  And if it’s your fault, then it’s up to you to fix it.

  That was true. But how?

  She came to a stop in front of the windows, looking at the pretty rose garden outside, thinking.

  There really was only one way to fix it. She was the one who’d blundered out onto the street and seen what she shouldn’t have, not her father. He was blameless. Maybe she could convince the Sheikh to let him go if she agreed to remain here? She didn’t have a career, like her father did, or friends. No one would miss her.

  Your father wouldn’t miss you either.

  Charlotte pushed that thought aside, hurrying on with her idea. The professor surely wouldn’t argue with her, and she could reassure him that everything was fine so he wouldn’t think she was being held against her will. She could reassure the British authorities too—keep them away from Ashkaraz’s borders, appease the Sheikh.

  An unexpected shiver went through her as she thought of him again. Of his intensely masculine, powerful physical presence. His large hand over hers, his palm burning against her skin. The hard muscles of his forearm and his fierce golden stare. The anger she had sensed burning inside him no matter how cold his expression.

  Could she appease a man like him? Did she have the power? But she’d got to him in some way earlier, she knew it, so maybe she could do it again.

  If she wanted to save her father she would have to.

  And what about you? Staying in a strange country all alone for the rest of your life?

  Charlotte ignored that. She’d deal with it later. Right now, making sure her father was safe was more important.

  The time ticked past and she spent it exploring the small suite of rooms and admiring them in between wondering what on earth was going on and trying to keep her feelings of panic at bay.

  At last the doors opened, admitting two exquisitely robed women. One carried a tray of food, the other an armful of silvery blue fabric. The woman with the tray put it down on a small table near the window, while the other laid the fabric across a low divan nearby.

  ‘Tonight you will dine with His Majesty, Sheikh Tariq Ishak Al Naziri,’ said the woman near the tray in lightly accented English. She gestured at the fabric spread out on the divan. ‘His Majesty has provided suitable attire for you and some refreshment in the meantime. I will come and collect you at the designated hour.’

  Charlotte stared at the woman in astonishment. Attire? Refreshment? Dining?

  What on earth was going on?

  ‘But why?’ she burst out. ‘And what about my father? Why am I being kept here? What does the Sheikh want with me?’

  But the woman only smiled and shook her head, and then she and the other woman turned around and went out, leaving Charlotte alone again.

  Okay, so clearly no one was going to answer her questions. Which meant she would have to get answers from His Majesty Sheikh Tariq himself. And she was not going to be put off again by his golden stare and his gentlemanly wiles. She would insist he answered her and then she’d request that he send her father home.

  The thought made her feel a little better, so she helped herself from the small tray of food—flatbread still warm from the oven and spicy dips, along with some fresh fruit. Once she’d eaten, she wandered into the bathroom to examine it in greater detail—and then decided that if the Sheikh was housing her in such luxurious accommodation she was going to take advantage of that fully.

  So she stripped off her dirty clothing and had a long, hot shower, using delicious rose-scented body wash and shampoo. After her shower, wrapped in a big fluffy white towel, she went back into the living area where the ‘suitable attire’ had been spread over the divan near the window.

  The ‘attire’ proved to be very pretty robes in silvery blue silk, with roses embroidered around the edge in heavy silver thread. Charlotte put out a hand and gently touched the fabric. It was cool and soft beneath her fingertips. But he’d provided this for her, and part of her didn’t want to wear it purely because he’d told her to. Part of her wanted to turn up to this dinner in her own filthy clothes and to hell with him.

  But she didn’t allow herself such petty rebellions these days—plus, there was no point in angering him needlessly. Not when she had her father’s safety to consider as well as her own. Also, she didn’t know his country’s customs, and causing offence purely because she was angry would be stupid.

  Better to wear the robes...be polite, courteous. And then tell him what was what.

  Besides... She stroked the fabric again, enjoying the feel of it. The robes were beautiful and she’d never worn anything like them before. Princesses in fairy tales always wore beautiful dresses, and as a child she’d often wished she could have a beautiful dress too. But her mother had never been particularly interested in what Charlotte had wanted. She’d never been interested in Charlotte at all.

  You’re a prisoner in a strange country, with no idea of what the future will hold for you, and yet you’re thinking about how nice it will be to wear a pretty dress?

  Well, why not? Her own clothes were filthy, and who knew what was going to happen to her afterwards? She might never get the opportunity to wear a pretty dress ever again.

  Dropping the towel, Charlotte dressed herself in the robes, feeling the fabric deliciously cool and smooth against her skin. Then she went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom and adjusted the material. She looked...nice, she had to admit. And she felt a little more in control now she was clean and dressed—even in ‘suitable attire’.

  If she was going to beg a favour from a king, she’d better look the part.

  The robed wome
n didn’t come back for a long while, and Charlotte tried to fill in the time by examining every inch of her suite and then by having a small nap.

  At last the light began to fade, and then a knock came at the door. It opened to reveal one of the robed women.

  Charlotte pushed herself up from the divan she’d been sitting on, her heart thumping hard in her chest. The woman gave her a brief survey and there was a satisfied look in her eyes that made Charlotte feel a tiny bit better. Obviously her choice to wear the robes had been a good one.

  ‘His Majesty will see you now,’ the woman said. ‘Please follow me.’

  Nervously clasping her hands in front of her, Charlotte did so, noting the two guards that fell into step behind her as she left the suite.

  The corridors were silent but for the sound of the guards’ boots on the tiled floor. Her own steps were muffled by the pair of silver slippers she’d put on, which had come with the robes.

  She tried to take note of where they were going, but after a few twists and turns, more stairs and more long corridors, she gave up, looking at the high arched ceilings instead, and the glittering tiles on them that caused the light to refract and bounce. They were beautiful, and she got so lost in them that for a couple of minutes at least she forgot that she was going to meet the terrifying man who was king.

  Eventually the hallway opened up, and to her delight Charlotte found herself stepping out into the colonnaded garden she’d seen through the windows of the Sheikh’s office. The air was as cool and soft as the silk she wore, and laden with the scent of flowers and the gentle sound of the fountains splashing.

  The woman led her along a path to the central fountain itself, and then stopped and gestured.

  Charlotte’s breath caught.

  In the dim twilight, tea lights in exquisite glass holders leapt and danced. They’d been set on a low table, their flames illuminating the multitude of cushions set on the ground around it and glittering off glasses and cutlery. Bowls full of food sat on the table—sliced meats and dips and more of the flatbread.