by Trish Morey
He pulled them out, intending to fling them in the nearest bin, when her neat handwriting caught his eye. Of course she would have neat handwriting and not some scrawl, he thought, finding yet another reason to resent her. She had probably been tutored in perfect script from an early age.
He didn’t intend to read any of it, but he caught the words ‘foolish’ and ‘naive’ and he thought she must be talking about him, compiling a list of his faults.
That would be right. She had sat here on her wedding night and made a list of his failings—and to her sister, no less. No wonder it was such a long letter.
So what did his little princess really think of him? This should be amusing.
But as he read it wasn’t amusement he felt. It was not him she was calling a fool. It was herself, for wishing she could choose a marriage partner, for ever thinking that she might one day marry a man for love, a good man who would love her for who she really was.
A ball formed in his gut, hard and heavy. He knew he shouldn’t read on, but he could not stop. And he felt sick, knowing he was not that man she had wished for, and knowing that she saw herself as flawed when life and circumstances had conspired against her, when he knew it wasn’t life she should be blaming. For he was the one at fault, he was the man who had shattered her dreams.
And he still wasn’t sure why he cared.
When had duty got tangled with desire? Maybe about the time he had realised she was who she had said she was—an innocent.
Or maybe about the time duty had tangled with need.
Aisha.
All she had wanted was a man to love her the way she should be loved. Those words had meant nothing to him before. Her hopes and wishes had been like so much water poured on sand, for they had been thrown together, strangers, and what did it matter what either of them wanted when neither of them had a choice?
But he knew her now, better than before, and seeing her thoughts written down so clearly, knowing how she’d been hurting all that time…
The ball in Zoltan’s gut grew heavier, and heavier still as he saw her call herself naive for saving herself for some mythical and ultimately non-existent male, and as she apologised to her sister for all the times she’d thought Marina had tossed her virginity away lightly, because at least she’d chosen who she’d gifted it to. For it had been hers to give, and she’d been the one to make that decision, and now Aisha applauded her, even envied her, for she would never experience that privilege.
But beyond that she was sorry, she wrote, that she had ever considered herself something special for the choice she had made. A choice that had clearly backfired spectacularly.
The ball in Zoltan’s gut grew spikes that tore at his vital organs.
She thought she wasn’t special? She was the most special of them all.
A woman so perfect and pure that he had felt honoured that he had been the one to receive her precious gift.
Yet clearly that wasn’t how she had felt. And, even though she had come willingly to him that night, ultimately she had had no choice. No wonder she felt so cheated and betrayed now. No wonder she had not hung around long enough for him to explain.
She had lost her most guarded possession to a barbarian who had apparently taken it out of duty and purely to satisfy the dusty requirement of some ancient covenants.
And now she was gone and all he was left with was that memory. It killed him to realise that he had never told her what that day had meant to him, had never put into words how wondrous that experience had been. He cursed himself that he had assumed she must have known how he felt. For surely she must have known?
Why the hell hadn’t he told her?
Why hadn’t he thought to warn her of the ancient declarations in the coronation ceremony before she could imagine how he felt about what they had done, that he had been merely impregnating her?
And he remembered her frosty demeanour, her shutdown expression. He had wounded her so deeply. It destroyed him to think he had hurt her and that she might still be hurting.
He replaced the pages on the desk. He should not have read as much as he had; in truth he should not have read anything, but he was not sorry that he had. For now he knew what he must do. He must go to Jemeya and seek Aisha out. He must explain; he had to tell her what he felt for her, he must seek her forgiveness. For he had to get her back.
He had to.
Still, he wasn’t sure why.
Only that he had to.
And from the mists of time he remembered those words his uncle, the King, had told him, the only positive lesson from his youth that had stuck. ‘Choose your battles, and choose them wisely.’
He would go to her today. Tell her that he was sorry. Ask her if she could trust him enough to give him one more chance. Because this battle was worth fighting. This battle was one he could not afford to lose.
He could not let Aisha go. He could not bear the thought of her not being here with him.
Behind him the door was pushed open. ‘Excellency,’ the vizier uttered with relief, ‘I have been looking for you everywhere. You must come quickly, there is news.’
For a heartbeat he hoped that Aisha had changed her mind and returned of her own accord.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘It’s Mustafa,’ the vizier said. ‘He has taken Princess Marina hostage.’
Zoltan’s blood ran cold.
As much as he hated his half-brother, his first thoughts went to his wife.
Aisha.
How would she feel when she learned the news? How terrified she would be, knowing what kind of man was holding her beloved sister.
Aisha had already suffered enough at the hands of his half-brother. She had suffered more at his own clumsy and ham-fisted efforts to possess her. He could not bear her to suffer more.
He would not allow it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AISHA was sick with fear, sick with worry. Mustafa had Marina, had taken her hostage on her way to the coronation. Even though her father swore that she would be rescued and brought safely back to Jemeya to be reunited with her family, and despite the relief of learning that her two children were safe at home with their nanny, Aisha wondered when this nightmare would ever end.
The only positive thing that Aisha could see was that at least worrying about her sister took her mind off thinking about Zoltan.
Most of the time.
She picked up her childhood bear, from where it winked at her on its shelf, and hugged it, wandering to the window of her bedroom, the treasured bedroom she had yearned so desperately to return to. She looked out over the cliffs of her island home to the shoreline of Al-Jirad in the distance. For there lay another palace that stood encircled by sandy deserts ruled by a king she had once imagined she had felt something for.
Two days now she had been back in Jemeya, and she could not deny the truth any more, for each passing day piled a heavier weight on Aisha’s heart than the one that had gone before. The fact Zoltan hadn’t tried to stop her from leaving, the fact he had let her return to Jemeya in the first place—didn’t that say something about how little he actually valued her as his wife? Didn’t the fact he hadn’t come after her speak for itself? Surely she had been right to leave when she had, no matter what her father had tried to tell her?
Two days. A world ago, it seemed now. And her time with Zoltan could almost be some kind of dream. Imaginary. Unimportant.
Except then she remembered the touch of heated hands and the brush of a whiskered cheek against her breast, the thrust of him deep inside her, and she knew that so long as the memories remained in her mind there was no way she could ever easily forget him.
Damn him.
Damn herself!
For now she was here, back in her own room where she had always maintained she wanted to be, and after the places he had taken her it seemed a hollow victory indeed.
A spoilt princess?
Maybe Zoltan had been right all along. For, yes, she still felt betrayed and manipulated, b
ut when things hadn’t gone her way she’d as good as stamped her feet and run away.
Fool.
She looked down at the bear in her arms. Maybe it was time she grew up. Maybe instead of sitting here locked away in her room, waiting for Zoltan to make a move, she should be the one to make an effort, to reach out with an olive branch. After all, they were married and bound together. They had slept together—made love together. And no matter what she had spat out in her anger to Zoltan, there was no way she did not want to feel his body between her thighs again.
Maybe, if that was to happen, it was time for her to reach out to him, and if he didn’t want her back, well, she wasn’t an inexperienced virgin with dreams of falling in love with the man of her dreams any more. She was a woman. She would cope with whatever happened.
But first she owed it to herself to try.
There was a commotion outside her room, raised voices and someone shouting her name, and then the door was flung open and her father burst through, the smile on his face a mile wide, and next to him, her beaming sister.
‘Marina!’ she cried, and flung herself into her open arms.
It was a noisy reunion, filled with laughter and tears of joy, and it was only when her father went off to order a feast that Aisha had the chance to draw Marina aside to talk. They curled their feet beneath them on a sofa overlooking the sea and held hands as they had done ever since they were children.
‘I was so afraid,’ Aisha confessed. ‘Did he hurt you? Mustafa, I mean. He must have been so angry that he had lost me.’
Her sister patted her hand and for a moment her eyes grew serious, the muscles in her face tight. ‘He was angry. And bitter. He delighted in telling me in how many ways he would have me.’ Her eyebrows raised. ‘And in great detail.’
Aisha shuddered, remembering her own ordeal, and her sister put a hand to her arm, squeezing it.
‘But don’t worry. I now know why he had to spell it out. Because, my dear sister, it seems the man is impotent.’
‘So why did he say those things? Why did he take you?’
She shrugged. ‘I think he knew there was nothing he could do to challenge the ascension but he still wanted to frustrate things. I’m sure he was hoping the coronation would be delayed. As it was, apparently the news didn’t make it to the palace in time.’
She patted the back of Aisha’s hand where the remnants of the henna tattoos were still just visible. ‘Which reminds me, you are a queen now, and a married woman! Congratulations. Zoltan is such a wonderful man. You must be so happy.’
She shook her head. ‘No. Please don’t,’ she said, pressing her lips together, tears once more springing to her eyes, but this time not from joy.
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘It’s off. I left him. I don’t know if he’ll want me back.’
‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘I left him.’
‘How could you do that? Didn’t he rescue you from Mustafa?’
Aisha could sit no longer. She jumped up and walked slowly to the window to where the sandy coastline of Al-Jirad appeared as a thick white line in the distance, all the while trying to make sense of all her actions, trying to remember why leaving him was so necessary. ‘That was only so he could become king. Everything he’s done, it was to become king. That’s all he wanted. He didn’t really want a wife. He told me that. And he didn’t want me.’ She spun around, clutching her hands together. ‘And, before you say anything, it’s been two days now since I left his palace and he hasn’t bothered to so much as contact me. So, you see, he doesn’t care.
‘I will contact him, though,’ she said, before scraping her bottom lip with her teeth. ‘I’ve decided to try to make it work, if he wants to try.’
Her sister’s eyes opened wide. ‘You have no idea, do you? Nobody told you.’
‘Told me what?’
‘That Zoltan couldn’t call you because he was too busy rescuing me.’
‘What?’
‘It’s true. How do you think I got away if not for Zoltan and his friends?’ She looked up at the ceiling and blew out a breath. ‘Bahir included, as it turns out. Seeing him again was a blast from the past, I can tell you.’
‘You know Bahir?’ she said, distracted.
It was her sister’s turn to shrug, as a strange bleakness filled her eyes. ‘It was a long time ago. I’m not sure he wants to remember it either.’ She blinked and smiled. ‘But that’s not the point right now.’ She uncurled her long legs from underneath her and padded to where her sister stood. Aisha was still shocked from the revelation that Zoltan had been busy rescuing her sister all the time she’d been thinking he had written her off; still trying to work out why he had done that when there was no risk to his reign. He hated Mustafa, it was true, but why would he risk everything to rescue her sister? Unless.
A tiny and no doubt futile glimmer of hope sparked into life. Unless he had done it somehow for her. But no; he didn’t want her.
‘The thing is, dear sister,’ Marina said, taking her hands in hers, ‘what are you going to do now?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, her heart racing, trying to assimilate and understand everything her sister had told her about Zoltan, everything that made no sense, except that it was Zoltan, and in a way it did. Who else had a grudge against Mustafa and felt he had to prove himself at every turn? Who else would delight in humiliating him further? ‘I was going to get in touch anyway.’
‘Well, maybe you’ll get your chance in a few minutes.’
Realisation skittered down her spine in a tingling rush. ‘He’s here?’
‘He said he wanted to freshen up before he saw you. He said he smells of horse.’
‘I like the way he smells,’ she mused out loud.
Her sister smiled. ‘Maybe you could start by telling him that.’
‘My father told me I’d find you here.’
They were in the library, all four of them, freshly showered and looking dangerously dark and sexy. And one of them looked darker and sexier than all the others as he perched on the edge of a desk. He watched her, with those impenetrable dark eyes, his jaw clamped shut, his expression closed.
One by one the other men peeled away, Bahir slapping him on the back, Kadar on the shoulder. Rashid uttered a quick, ‘Later,’ and with a bow of their heads in her direction they were gone.
He stood and bowed his own head. ‘Princess,’ he said. ‘Queen.’
She looked up at him, at this man she had once had and lost, at the dark planes and sharp angles of his face, and wondered how she could ever have thought he wasn’t the most handsome man on the planet. How had she missed such an obvious fact? She wished she could have flung herself into his arms, as she had done with Marina. But if he rejected her, if he pushed her away, she would die.
‘I came to thank you. For rescuing Marina.’
‘Your sister is well?’
She nodded. ‘Very well, and very grateful. We all are.’ She searched for something else to say, something to broach the veritable abyss that seemed to stretch between them. And then, because she needed to know if the tiny spark in her heart would be fanned into life or would quickly be extinguished, she went on. ‘Why did you do it and not leave it to someone else? Why did you risk yourself on such a rescue now that you are king?’
He dragged in a breath. ‘I should never have left Mustafa free to continue to make trouble, after what he had attempted with you. He is the worst kind of opportunist. He saw an opportunity when King Hamra’s entire family was wiped out and he kidnapped you to try to steal the crown.’
She frowned. ‘You don’t think he—?’ She stopped. It was too ugly a thought to entertain, too horrible, even for someone like him.
‘Do I think he was behind the crash from the start?’ He shook his head. ‘No. I wondered that once too, but no. Mustafa is a bully, he always has been. But even he would not be capable of murdering so many of his own family. The early reports from the crash investigators se
em to support that it was a tragic accident. So, like I said, he saw the opportunity to seize the throne and he took it by kidnapping you.
‘And then when that went wrong he saw the chance to frustrate the coronation by taking your sister hostage. I promise he won’t try anything again, not where he is now, but how could I do nothing when I felt responsible for what had happened, for letting him go after what he had done to you?’
‘Oh.’ She looked at the floor as the tiny spark of hope fizzled out. ‘I see.’ He felt responsible. But he would. When would she ever learn? When would she stop her silly dreams and hopes getting in the way of reality? ‘Well, thank you.’
‘And, of course, there was the consideration that Marina is your sister.’
She warily lifted her head. ‘Because she is now sister-in-law to the King?’
‘More than that. I knew you would be upset. I know how much your sister means to you.’
She blinked up at him, touched beyond words, the beginnings of a tentative smile forming on her lips, the spike of tears behind her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and then wondered why she’d said that when she’d been intending to thank him again. And then she realised it didn’t matter if he rejected her apology out of hand and never wanted to see her again—she owed him this apology. ‘I’m so sorry for causing you so much trouble.’
‘It was Mustafa—’
‘No—for being such a spoilt princess. I’m sorry for leaving you the way I did. My father tried to talk sense into me but I wouldn’t listen. I thought you didn’t care that I’d gone, but all that time you were out there finding my sister.’
She squeezed her eyes shut and put her hands over her face, feeling the dampness on her cheeks from the tears that would be contained no longer. ‘I’m such a fool.’
She felt his arms close around her, felt herself pulled against his chest, and the sheer joy of it brought forth a fresh burst of tears.
‘Aisha,’ he said, stroking her hair, pressing his lips to it.
She lifted her tear-streaked face, blinking away the moisture in her eyes, and he swept the hair from her face with his fingers. ‘You’re not still angry with me?’ she asked.
