by Trish Morey
Which was a shame, really, because he was much easier to hate when he was. And she didn’t want to find reason not to hate him, because then she might be tempted to wonder.
But no. She shook her head, shaking out the thought. She didn’t wonder. She didn’t care. She didn’t want to know what it would be like to be made love to by a man like this one, who clearly was no virgin himself, who had no doubt had many lovers and who probably knew all about women and what they might enjoy.
‘Is something wrong, Princess?’
She looked up at him, startled. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Because you made some kind of sound, kind of like a whimper. I wondered if there was something wrong.’
‘No.’ She turned away, her cheeks burning up. ‘I’m fine, just sick of sitting down. Are we nearly there?’
Thankfully they were. A cluster of tents had been erected below a stand of palm trees in preparation for their arrival, one set apart from the rest.
‘Is that one mine?’ she asked, half-suspecting, half-dreading the answer.
‘That one is ours, Princess,’ he said, pulling open her door and offering her his hand to climb from the car. ‘It would not do to let everyone know the true state of our marriage.’
‘But I told you …’
He found it hard not to grind his teeth together. So she had—how many times already? Did she think he wanted to be reminded how much she did not want to lie with him? ‘I am sure you will be more than satisfied with the sleeping arrangements.’
She looked down at his hand, as if assessing whether he was telling the truth. ‘Fine,’ she said, finally accepting his offer of assistance. ‘But, if not, then I will not be held accountable for the bruise on your ego.’
‘I’m sure my ego can take it, Princess. It is the damage you do to the monarchy that is my more immediate concern, and indeed the damage you could do to your own father’s. So perhaps you might keep that in mind.’
Her face closed, as if she’d pulled all the shutters down to retreat into herself.
So be it.
She might be used to having things all her way when she was at home leading her sheltered spoilt-princess life, but she was here now, she was his wife, and she would start doing her duty and acting like his wife before they left and before the coronation. Nothing was surer.
Still, for what it was worth, he let her lead the way into their tent to inspect the sleeping arrangements, to check out the large sofa that could double for a bed if needed, and the large bed he was hoping would be the only sleeping arrangement required.
Besides, following her was hardly a hardship. Not when he had the chance to check out the rhythmic sway of her hips under the coral-coloured abaya she wore today.
As he followed her he could not work out whether he liked her dressed more like this—in a cool cotton robe that only hinted at the shape beneath, but did so seductively and unexpectedly when a helpful on-shore breeze ventured along and pushed the fabric against her shape—or in trousers, like she’d worn that first day at the palace, that fitted her shape and accentuated her curves.
Then again, he hadn’t yet seen her without her clothes. And, while he’d felt the firmness of her flesh under his hands, and felt the delicious curve of her belly and roundness of her bottom hard against him, there was still that delicious pleasure to come.
Now, there was something to think about.
She turned, her hand on the tent flap, just about to enter. ‘Did you say something?’
‘No,’ he said, struggling to adjust to the conscious world. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I thought you said something. Though, now I think of it, it sounded more like a groan. Are you sure you’re all right?’
But before he could find the words to answer, she had angled her head to the notes being carried intermittently on the breeze. ‘What’s that?’
Never had he been more grateful for a change of topic as he strained his ears to listen. The knowledge that she had made him so oblivious to his own reactions was a cold wake-up call. He could not afford to let such lapses happen, not if he was to be King.
And suddenly the notes made sense on the breeze and reminded him of something he’d been told. ‘There is a camp of wandering tribes people nearby. A few families, nothing more. They will shortly move on, as they do.’
‘They are safe, then, these tribes people?’
And he realised that even to ask that question showed she wasn’t as unconcerned at the thought of being recaptured by Mustafa as she wanted him to think.
‘They would not be here if they were not. But they have been advised of our coming and they value their privacy too. So rest assured, Princess, they will keep their distance and they will not harm you.’
She’d only been here an hour and already she loved it. Being on the coast meant on-shore breezes that took the sting from the heat of the day and made being on sand a pleasure, rather than torture—at least if you had taken off your sandals to paddle your feet in the shallows.
And she hadn’t minded a bit when Zoltan had had to excuse himself to take care of ‘business’, whatever that meant. Because it gave her the chance to truly relax. Despite all the beauty of this place, the endless sapphire waters, the calming sway of palm trees and the eternal, soothing whoosh of tide, there was no relaxing with that man about.
But still, she was glad she had come. Already, without the overwhelming weight of the palace and the duty it carried, she felt lighter of spirit. She knew there was no way of evading that duty for long. She knew she could not forever evade the chore that life had thrown her way.
But for now the long beach had beckoned her, drawing her to the point at the end of the peninsula, and she was thinking it was time to return when she heard it, the cry of a child in distress.
It came on the breeze, and disappeared just as quickly, and for a moment she thought she’d imagined it or misread the cry of a sea bird, and already she’d turned for the walk back when she heard it again. Her feet stilled in the shallows. A child was definitely crying nearby and there was no hint of any soothing reply to tell her anyone had heard or was taking any notice.
She swivelled in the shallows, picked up the hem of her abaya in one hand and ran down the beach towards the headland as fast as she could.
It was only when she rounded the rocky outcrop at the end she found the child sitting in the sand and wailing. She looked around and saw no-one, only this young girl squealing and clutching at her foot. Her bleeding foot.
‘Hello,’ she said tentatively as the girl looked up at her with dark, suspicious eyes, her sobs momentarily stopping on a hiccup. ‘What’s wrong?’
The young girl sniffed and looked down at her foot, saw the blood and wailed again.
Aisha kneeled down beside her. ‘Let me look,’ she said. She took her foot gently in her hands and saw a gash seeping blood, a broken shell nearby, dagger sharp, that she must have trod on with her bare feet.
‘Ow! It hurts!’ the young girl cried, and Aisha put a hand behind her head, stroking her hair to soothe her.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to wrap this up and it might hurt a little bit.’ She looked around, wishing for someone—anyone—to appear. Surely someone must realise their child was missing and take charge so she didn’t have to? Because she had nothing with her that might help, and the swaying palm trees offered no assistance, no rescue.
‘Where is your mother?’ she asked, once again scanning the palms for any hint of the girl’s family as she ripped the hem of her abaya, tearing a long strip from the bottom and yanking it off at the seam. She folded the fabric until it formed a bandage she could wrap around the child’s foot.
‘Katif was crying. And Mama ran back to the camp and told me to follow.’ And then she shrieked and Aisha felt guilty for tying the bandage so tight, even when she knew the girl was upset about not being able to follow her mother and her mother not coming back.
‘Your mother knows you are okay,’
she soothed, sensing it was what the child needed to hear. ‘Your mother is busy with Katif right now, but she knew I would look out for you and she could check on you later.’
The girl blinked up at her. ‘You know my mother?’
There was no way she could lie. ‘No, but I know she is good to be taking care of Katif, and I know someone will be here soon for you.’
And even as she spoke there was a panicked cry as a woman emerged running from the trees. ‘Cala! Cala!’
‘Mama!’
‘Oh, Cala,’ she said, relief evident in her voice as she fell to the sand and squeezed her child tightly in her arms. ‘I am so sorry, I did not see you fall behind.’ And then she noticed the improvised bandage on her daughter’s foot. ‘But what happened?’
‘I cut my foot on a shell. This lady found me.’
For the first time the woman took notice of Aisha. ‘The wound will need cleaning before it can be properly dressed,’ Aisha offered. ‘There was not much I could do here.’
The mother nodded, her tear-streaked face caked with sand. ‘Thank you for taking care of her. Katif was screaming again; he’s sick and I don’t know what’s wrong with him but I had to get him back to camp and I thought Cala was right behind me.’ She gulped in air as she rocked her child in her arms. ‘I was so afraid when I realised she was missing. I was so worried.’
Aisha stroked her arm. ‘It’s all right. Cala is fine.’ She looked over her shoulder, thinking that she should be getting back. ‘I must go. Will you be all right getting back to camp?’
‘Of course,’ the mother said, letting go of her child for a moment to take Aisha’s hand and press her forehead to it, noticing the torn hem of her robe. ‘Oh, but you have ruined your abaya.’
‘It is nothing, really. I have many more.’
And the woman really looked at her this time, her eyes widening in shock, tears once again welling from their dark depths. ‘Blessings to you,’ she said, prostrating herself on the sand before her as her wide-eyed daughter looked on, contentedly sucking on two fingers of her hand. ‘Bless you.’
‘What are you doing?’ she asked Zoltan when she returned. All the way back she had felt the sun warm her skin. All the way back she had felt the warmth of the woman’s blessings in her heart.
Now she found Zoltan sitting at a desk under the shade of a palm tree, a massive tome before him.
He barely looked up from his study. ‘It was too hot inside the tent.’
‘No, I mean, what are you reading?’
He looked up then, suddenly scowling when he saw her torn robe. ‘What happened to your abaya?’
She looked down. ‘Oh, there was a child on the beach. She’d cut her foot.’
He leaned back in his chair, his frown deepening. ‘And so you tore your robe?’
She shrugged. ‘There was nothing else to use.’ And then she remembered. ‘Is there a doctor somewhere close?’
This time he stood. ‘Are you hurt, Princess?’
‘No, not for me. There is a child—a baby, I think. It sounds like he should be seen by a doctor. The mother is worried.’ He was looking at her strangely. ‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing. And yes, Ahab—one of the chefs—has some medical expertise. I will ask him to visit the camp, to see if there is anything he can do.’
She nodded, majorly relieved. ‘Thank you. It is probably worth him checking the cut on the girl’s foot too, in case there is still some shell lodged inside.’ She looked down at her torn robe. ‘I should get changed.’
He watched her turn, wondering about a spoilt princess who would tear her own abaya to make a bandage for a child she didn’t know. A stranger.
And he didn’t want her to go. He slammed the book shut. He’d had enough of crusty old prose for one day. Besides, he was supposed to be getting to know her.
‘Princess, seeing you’re getting changed.?’
‘Yes?’
‘Now that the sun is past its worst, I was thinking of taking a swim to cool down. Would you care to join me?’
He saw a slideshow of emotions flash over her eyes: uncertainty, fear, even a glimmer of panic, but then she gave a longing look out at the ocean, where the water sparkled and beckoned and promised cool, clear relief under the dipping sun.
He recognised the moment she decided before she’d said the words, in the decisive little pout of her lips.
‘Yes,’ she said, with a nod. ‘Why not?’
It’s only a swim, she told herself as Zoltan went to instruct Ahab and she changed into her swimsuit. In bright daylight and in clear sight of the beach.
It wasn’t as though he could actually try anything.
But that didn’t stop her skin from tingling as she pulled on her tangerine-coloured one-piece, didn’t stop the tiny hairs on the back of her neck from lifting or stop her remembering how good he had looked wearing nothing but a black band of lycra.
Only a swim.
She belted a robe around herself and tugged it tight before pinning her hair up. If she got into the water before he returned to get changed himself, it wasn’t as though he would even see her.
The beach was deserted. She dropped her towel and sunglasses on one of the recliners that had been put there expressly for their use, and, with a final look over her shoulder to check that Zoltan was nowhere to be seen, she slipped off her robe and padded to the sea.
It was warm in the shallows, so no shock to the system, the temperature dropping as the water deepened, cool currents swirling around her knees and sliding inexorably higher with each incoming wave. She waded deeper into the crystal-clear sea, her hands trailing through the water by her sides until her thighs tingled with the delicious contrast of cool and heat and she dived under an incoming wave to truncate the exquisite torture.
She was a goddess. There was no other way to describe her that could possibly do her justice. And he thanked whatever gods were watching over him that had brought him to this part of the beach at this particular moment in time. He’d witnessed her furtive glance over her shoulder and watched her wade into the sea, all long, honey-gold limbs and sweeping curves, the sweetly seductive roll of her hips like a siren’s call.
He growled low in his throat.
He had never been one to resist the call of a siren. Even one who at the same time appeared so timid and shy. Why was she so nervous around him? Because she knew what was in store for her?
No. Because she knew what she did to him and she wished it wasn’t so.
Because she felt it herself.
He watched her strike out in the water, swimming expertly along the shore, long, effortless-looking strokes, measured and effective, the kick of her feet propelling her along.
Dressed in that colour she looked like a luscious piece of fruit.
A piece of fruit he could not wait to sample.
And as his groin ached and tightened he thought that maybe this swim wasn’t going to provide quite the cooling-off he’d had in mind.
The water was delicious, the repetitive rhythm of her strokes soothing in its own way, and a swim was turning out to be a very good idea. Until something grabbed hold of her ankle and pulled tight.
She screamed and tugged and whatever it was let go. She came up spluttering, coughing sea water, and pushed a tangle of hair out of her eyes.
‘You!’ she said between coughs when she found Zoltan standing there grinning at her. ‘It’s not funny. You scared the hell out of me.’
‘Did you think you’d caught a shark, Princess?’
‘A shark would be preferable,’ she spat back and dived under the water to swim away. He was alongside her when she came up for air. ‘It’s a big ocean, you know. Go find your own bit to play in.’
‘Your strap is twisted,’ he said, ignoring her frustration and building on it by putting a hand to her shoulder, slipping his fingers underneath the strap and gently turning it up the right way. She gasped as his fingers brushed her skin, turning it to goose bumps
and her nipples to hard peaks as he left his hand there longer than he needed. ‘That colour suits you, Princess. You look good enough to eat.’
Nothing could stop the heat from flooding her face or the heavy, aching need pooling between her thighs. He was so big before her, so powerful, his shoulders broad, his chest dripping wet, and it was all she could do not to reach out a hand and feel if his skin felt as good as it looked.
She yanked her eyes away, looked to the shore. ‘I should go back.’
‘Already?’
‘I had a head start. And I need to wash my hair.’
He smiled one of those wide, lazy smiles that made his face look boyish, even a little bit handsome. ‘So you did. But of course you must go, Princess. Such a pressing need must be urgently addressed.’
She knew he was laughing at her but she almost didn’t mind. Worse still, she almost found herself wishing he would make her stay. Which made no sense at all.
CHAPTER NINE
HER hair was almost dry when he found her brushing it in a chair under the palms. The air was filled with the scent of lamb on the spit and at first she assumed it must be time to eat.
‘You have a visitor, Princess,’ he said. ‘Or several of them, to be more precise.’
‘Me?’ She put her brush down and followed him.
They stood in a small group, looking uncertain and talking quietly amongst themselves—a woman holding a baby, a man alongside and a little girl holding a small package in her hands.
The girl from the beach.
When the woman saw her she broke into a wide smile, tears once again welling in her eyes, but it was the man who stepped forward. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said with a bow. ‘I told Marisha this was a bad time, but she insisted we come and thank you both. But you see, the helicopter comes soon after dawn tomorrow morning.’
She looked across at Zoltan to see if he understood and the mother came forward. ‘Princess, Katif needs a small operation—his coughing has torn his muscles and they need to stitch it up so he will not cry any more. They are coming to take us to the hospital and I will not have a chance to thank you again.’
