Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1)

by Manda Mellett

  I risk a glance at him. Dawn must be breaking because there is just enough light to see him studying me intently. He stays silent, waiting for me to carry on.

  “On my eighteenth birthday, I went to a pub with a few friends from college. Suddenly he appeared. He’d found me. I’d stayed in one place too long.”

  “Benting?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?” he asks when I don’t resume immediately.

  I take a deep breath. “He took one look at me and, in front of my new friends, told me that I was completely useless to him. He’d made plans for me, but I was so fat and ugly he’d have to shelve them. He said he had no idea how I’d turned out the way I had – my mother being such a beauty. He told me he’d been right: an atrocity like me should never have been born.”

  As I spoke, Nijad folded his arms around me. He tensed as I finished my story.

  “He told you that?” He sounds incredulous, his voice full of anger.

  “Yes. His exact words. Well, it wasn’t news. I’d had acne from an early age, possibly down to the stress of being moved around so often. New girls, particularly chubby, unattractive ones, are often bullied at school. I didn’t make friends easily.”

  “You didn’t have a good childhood.”

  “Mum did what she could to protect me. I didn’t understand at the time. And she was so intent on keeping me safe, well, she wasn’t the most demonstrative of people. But I survived, and she loved me in her own way. I think I was a disappointment to her too. She’d been a model and there was no way I was walking in her footsteps.” I pause, and in the dark I grin, thinking about my passion. “It wasn’t all bad; there were always the horses.”

  “Horses?”

  “Yup.” My smile makes my voice lighter. “I soon discovered animals don’t criticise, and horses and horsey people don’t care if you’re chubby and spotty. No one looks good on a cold, wet morning, shovelling muck on the muck heap. Wherever we went, I used to find a yard that was happy to accept my help. They were always looking for someone willing to help clean out, tack up, and lead the learners around. I got paid in riding lessons.”

  “Do you still ride?”

  “No, I gave it up when Mum died.” My voice catches as I continue my tale. “A year before she died we moved for the last time. But it wasn’t until that night three years later I found out how right Mum was to try to keep me hidden from my father. His plans were to marry me off to one of his contacts as part of a business deal. He saw me as a possession, but when he met me in the flesh, well – to say I was a disappointment to him is an understatement. He’d expected me to inherit my mother’s looks. He disowned me.”

  “For fuck’s sake!” he swears, and then adds something in his language that sounded vicious.

  Suddenly I laugh. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Your family wanted revenge, but you’ve done exactly what he wanted: married me off for his profit.”

  He stays quiet for a while and I don’t know what he’s thinking. Just as I start to worry he moves his weight over me, his hands cradling my face, stroking down and over my scars. “I don’t lie, Cara,” he tells me forcefully. “I’m attracted to you. Fuck, after what we did earlier you must know that. I don’t think you are fat, or ugly.”

  He puts his hand over my mouth as I take a breath, ready to speak.

  “At eighteen you might still have had puppy fat, and your scarring was possibly worse, but you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. Feel how attracted I am to you.” Taking my hand in his, he pushes it down to where he’s sporting a very impressive erection. “I know you’ve been forced into this marriage with me, and I have no idea where we’re going to take this. But believe me, in no way do I find you or your looks a disappointment to me. You are more than I expected.”

  He’s so soft, so kind, so comforting. And I can’t deny the hardness of the cock underneath my hand. But I’m still anxious.

  “Nijad, I can’t be enough for you. I don’t know what to do. You have so much experience, and I have none …”

  “Stop, stop right there.” He leans over and brushes his lips against mine, his hand moves down, covering my breast, his fingers teasing my nipple. I squirm in his arms. He chuckles. “You’re so responsive, Cara. I love the way you respond to me. Just let yourself go and follow my lead. I’d rather have you in my bed than any experienced courtesan.”

  He doesn’t wait for my response. He just takes my mouth again and kisses me, his hands exploring my body, and all I can do is follow his lead as he takes me again to those heights again I’d thought impossible to reach.

  Chapter 13

  Cara

  Next time I open my eyes, daylight is seeping through the walls of the tent and, as sleep retreats, my brain starts to kick into gear as I realise I’m alone. The fact hits me like a blast of cold water. I turn over on to my stomach, leaning on my elbows and putting my head in my hands. In the hard light of day, I start to feel ashamed. I’ve lost my virginity to a complete stranger. Someone I know little about except that he has a virile body, and knows how to use it. My face reddens as I think about the night before, unable to deny I enjoyed every minute. Blushing, I recall his touch which caused the unfamiliar soreness between my legs, and the slight ache in my overused muscles. How many times did he bring me to orgasm? Too many to count!

  But now it’s day, and I’ll have to face him. Sitting up, I look to the empty side of the bed and reach out my hand; the sheets are cold. He must have left me some time ago. I bite my lip. After the closeness in the dawn hours, I didn’t expect to wake on my own. His absence causes me to wonder. What will he expect or think of me in the harsh light of day? Is my role just to be a wife at night, a convenient bed partner? Or will I be involved in his life and, if so, what on earth can I expect that life to be? I can’t begin to imagine day-to-day living in this lonely small desert camp, so far removed from my work and my home. Just what will I be expected to do as the wife of a desert sheikh? The thought of snuggling back down into the bed and pulling the covers over my head to shut out the world seems extremely attractive, but then it strikes me: that was the old Cara. Something changed last night, something more than losing my virginity. I’ve spent far too long hiding away from the world. I can’t totally suppress my fear of this strange new life, but beneath that is excitement, an eagerness to embrace it. I was so frightened when I was kidnapped and brought here, but what have I got to go home to? Whatever my daytime relationship will be with Nijad, wouldn’t I prefer to experience a new way of living? Why not make the most of this new opportunity? I smile. My accountancy skills may not be in high demand in the desert, but I am apparently now a sheikha. Surely that must count for something?

  Feeling certain sheikhas don’t hide away under the bed sheets, I pull myself up with a new determination. Immediately my eyes fall on an object by the side of the bed. I pick it up, curious. It’s a sheath with straps, and a handle is sticking out. I pull on it and expose a small, very sharp, dagger. Covering my mouth with my hand, I can’t stop a shout of laughter escaping as I realise my husband has fulfilled his promise with this unusual gift. As I handle its light weight, I understand that this present signifies he trusts me. The keenly honed blade could do serious damage, unlike the fruit knife of the night before. And the fact he remembered hasn’t escaped me. Feeling light-hearted and still giggling,

  Seeing a robe obviously laid out for my use, I get out of bed and put it on, then make my way to the small, simple bathroom I find set up at the rear of the tent. There’s a mirror hanging on the wall and I automatically lower my eyes to avoid it. Then I hesitate. I’ve avoided looking directly at my reflection for too long. Was Nijad right? Have I changed? I try to raise my eyes, try to face it, but seven years of avoidance is a hard habit to break. Stupidly, I return to the bedroom and take hold of the dagger in its sheath, and then come back to the bathroom. I grasp the soft leather, gaining strength from it, remembering his words in the middle of the night. It still takes all my will power
to set my line of vision on the glass in front of me, but I do it. I look into the mirror – and find a stranger looking back. A different face, thinner. I run my hand down the scarring that covers my skin. It’s still there, but somehow it’s not as prominent as I remembered. I reach out my hand, touching the reflection as if to make sure it’s mine. Hunter was right, I have changed. I’m not that eighteen-year-old girl my father had insulted. Is this really me? Slowly I watch a smile come to my face. It is me! I put my hand over my mouth to suppress the giggle, feeling a weight lifted from me, and a new determination.

  Pulling my hand back I notice a new toothbrush has been put out. I set about cleaning my teeth and relieving myself, unable to stop myself glancing at my reflection every now and again. I wouldn’t be gracing the cover of a magazine any time soon, but neither would I be sending children screaming for their mothers! I laugh again. Jeez! It took being kidnapped for me to realise I’d changed.

  Realising I’ve been dallying, I turn to the shower. Well, if you can call it that. It isn’t very powerful, little more than a trickle really, but it’s a luxury I wouldn’t have expected to find in the desert wilderness. Once washed, I feel invigorated and bubbly inside. I’m a new person; my marriage has given me a second chance and I’m determined to take it and make of it what I can. Wincing slightly from my husband’s amorous attentions the night before, I re-enter the main tent to find I’m not alone.

  “Good morning, Sheikha.” Lamis greets me with a bow and a friendly smile. “Your breakfast.” She waves a hand at food laid out on a flat table. “Eat, and then you dress.” A broad grin appears on her face. “His Excellency, the sheikh” – she pauses as if trying to find the right words in English – “is moving your clothes to this tent.”

  She’s apparently making an important point, but I don’t get it. As I put my head on one side in a universal gesture of uncertainty she continues, “You are living in the sheikh’s tent, Your Highness. Not living in different tent.”

  As Lamis leaves, I ponder her announcement. Sharing Nijad’s tent? Lamis made it sound like it wasn’t the original intention, and that Nijad must have changed his plans. Not wanting to read any more into it than I should, I can’t help the whisper of pleasure inside me. It certainly sounds we were going to live separately, but that now I was to stay with him. Though my knowledge of the man is, admittedly, limited to his rather impressive prowess in bed, the implication that perhaps he’s willing to try to make this a real marriage – or, at least, give the relationship a go – makes me happy. Or is it just sex, and he wants me available in his bed? Oh, bloody hell! Don’t overthink this, Cara.

  I’m starving, and by the time Lamis returns I have demolished the food that has been brought for me and am just finishing my coffee. After a nod of appreciation that I’ve cleared the plates entirely, Lamis turns to me.

  “You are wearing this today for the sheikh.”

  She lays clothing out on the bed. I’m excited to note there is delicate and feminine underwear along with the rest of the attire. Today I feel different, I feel like a woman, and I want to dress for my man. I touch the beautiful lace garments and smile, and then pick up the soft white cotton trousers and run my fingers over them. There’s also a white tunic with embroidery along the edges. The clothes are luxurious, feeling and looking expensive, the quality worthy of a sheikha. I don’t refuse Lamis’s assistance as she helps me dress, and I’m pleased to discover the clothing feels as comfortable as it appears. I’m just smoothing down the cloth, admiring how well it all fits, when the man who’s never been far from my thoughts this morning enters the tent.

  I glance up to see him at the entrance, standing watching me. My first thought is how stunning he looks, tall and regal. I swallow rapidly, suddenly nervous in front of the man I’d been intimate with in the small hours. How should I behave with him in the cold light of day? It doesn’t help that his expression is unreadable.

  When she catches sight of her sheikh, Lamis bows deeply and greets him in Arabic. Then, continuing in English for my benefit, she informs him, “We are finishing, Excellency.” Quickly she turns back to me. “You are wearing this now.” She helps me put on a headdress.

  “Show her how to wear it as a veil,” Nijad says lazily. The first words he has spoken in my presence this morning.

  I flinch, turning to him with pain in my eyes, my previous delight and excitement vanishing as the implication of his words slices through me like a knife.

  “You want me veiled,” I whisper. I make no argument. I just lower my head in acceptance. After closing my eyes briefly, I find the strength from somewhere, just as I always do. I nod at Lamis and wait to be shown how to hide my pockmarked face from the world.

  An angry exclamation gets my attention. Nijad walks over to me, his face furious. His hands grab my arms and he shakes me. With a raised voice he tells me forcefully, “You think I want to hide you, don’t you? Have you forgotten everything I said last night? In the desert we use veils for protection from the sand, not to hide our faces. Now tell me what I told you.”

  Taken aback by his vehemence, I’m not certain what he’s expecting me to say. I look into his angry face but see no threat there, only disappointment that I hadn’t believed him. As he waits for my answer, his hands move to my face and caress it gently. I swallow and tell him shyly, “You said you found me attractive.”

  There’s little conviction in my voice and he hears it. His fingers grip me harder, almost roughly. “I think the word I used was beautiful! I never want to hear you say anything derogatory about yourself again. Do you understand me?” The look I give him obviously isn’t very convincing because suddenly he grabs my hair in a firm grip that’s only just this side of painful. He pulls my head back, forcing me to look up at him while taking my hand and pushing it down between us until it’s resting against a very noticeable erection.

  “Feel me. I’m harder than fucking stone from just looking at you. Now do you believe how fucking stunning and sexy I find you?”

  I feel my eyes go wide as, ignoring the presence of the servant, he moves my hand along his length. He hisses through his teeth to show me the effect I’m having on him and, if it’s possible, he grows even more rigid under my touch.

  “If we had time I’d show you how beautiful you are, but we haven’t.”

  He releases my hair and moves my hand away, grimacing as he adjusts himself through his robes. Looking down he sees my dazed acceptance of his declaration and, satisfied, he nods. A smile spreads across his face. His anger dissipates as though it was never there, but he still uses the voice that makes my insides quiver as he speaks again.

  “The next time you say, or even think, anything like that I will spank you.” Amusement dances in his eyes. “And that’s a promise, wife.”

  His display of dominance doesn’t scare me. In fact, it does the opposite, his threat causing a throb of arousal in me, and I’m feeling ridiculously happy, as well as turned on, as I smile up at him.

  “Yes” – I hesitate, wondering what I should call him, but to hell with it, we’re married aren’t we? What need for formality? – “Nijad, husband.” His eyes gleam, showing his pleasure, and then he leans over, taking my lips in a kiss that leaves me in no further doubt that he does, by some miracle, find my looks acceptable.

  We are interrupted by a delighted gasp that causes us both to swing round. My hand goes to my mouth. Lamis is standing there, grinning like the cat who caught the proverbial canary, holding the bedcovers in her hand. I rush over and try to pull them over the bottom sheet to hide it again. Blood rushes to my cheeks as embarrassment floods through me, and the servant and I tussle with the covers.

  Laughing, Nijad puts his arms around me, pulling me back. When I look up at him to protest I see he is grinning from ear to ear as he stares at the small patch of blood in the middle of the bed.

  “Lamis, leave us.”

  Dismissed, she bows and departs. Nijad turns his hold into a hug, pulling me into his body an
d resting his chin on the top of my head.

  “Be proud, Sheikha. It’s a sign you were pure when you came to me, and that you had saved yourself for your husband.”

  My mortification makes me annoyed with him, and I want to thump him.

  “I didn’t save myself; no one else wanted me! And you didn’t really – you had no choice.”

  “Sheikha,” he starts in a very light-hearted tone. “Do you honestly want to be spanked? Because you’re asking for it. If you are pregnant, then there will be no doubt that the baby is mine. My true heir.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” I protest.

  He gives a long-suffering sigh and then laughs, giving me a quick, playful swipe on my backside.

  “Ouch!”

  It hadn’t hurt, but I rub where his hand landed to make a point. He just smirks.

  “Oh, I can do much worse than that, Sheikha.”

  Pulling me to him again he touches his lips to mine, and then presses against them more forcefully, his tongue pushing, demanding entrance. I open for him and he ravishes my mouth. I love the taste of him, his unique sensual flavour with a hint of coffee. My arms come up, round his neck, and I touch his silky soft hair, confined today in a tie. Our kiss deepens and I’m wrapping myself around him as though I’ve lost all control. His hands grasp my elbows and he pushes me away from him. We are both breathing fast. Holding me at arm’s length he tells me, regretfully, “Much as I’d like to continue this, we can’t. I’ve got a surprise for you. Come, now.”