“Breakfast,” he nodded towards a low-level table on the far side of the tent, where a platter of fruits and cold meats had been set out.
“I’m starving,” she nodded, heading straight for the pomegranates. She sat down on the ground, her legs folded beneath her, and Tariq watched her enjoy the red fruit.
“Do you like your engagement ring?” He asked distractedly, while she ate.
She paused, spoon halfway to her mouth, and looked down at the enormous diamond that graced her ring finger.
“I haven’t really thought about it.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It’s very big.”
“Yes. I think if ours had been a normal relationship, and I’d met you before proposing, I would have chosen differently.”
She leaned back against the goose feather cushions. “Oh? You don’t think it suits me?”
“No.” He responded simply. “It’s a little ostentatious for you.”
She dropped her eyes. Of course it was too beautiful for her. She swallowed down on the bitterness that his words had unconsciously prompted. A commoner like her shouldn’t be toting around a ring this size. It was almost indecent. But she wasn’t a commoner anymore. She was his wife, Queen of Assan, and the ring was befitting of such a role.
Tariq had learned to be observant, and he was now especially observant of his wife. His comment had offended her, and yet he knew she didn’t like the ring either. He had frequently caught her looking at it with a frown playing about her lips. The four carrat diamond dwarfed even her long, slender fingers. If he could have chosen, he would have selected something more delicate, and with a blue gemstone to mirror her spectacularly crystal eyes.
But this weekend, he wanted to learn what made her face withdraw like that. What unpleasant thought took her away from him, and where she went to.
“Come,” he held a hand to her, and saw that her mood was still introspective. He squeezed her hand when she placed it in his. “Lie on the bed.”
She threw him a reproachful look, and he grinned wolfishly.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Very well,” she said, curious in spite of herself. She went across to the bed that had been made on the floor of the tent. It was softer than a cloud. She sighed a little as she sank back into the pillows. Tariq, holding a small vial in the palm of his hand, straddled her hips and gently undid the waist tie of her robes. He parted her clothes, and Rebecca sucked in a deep breath as his hands pressed into her naked stomach.
“Not what I think, huh?” She said a little breathlessly, desire hot in her body.
“No,” he traced the circle of her belly button wistfully. “I am going to massage you. Turn over.”
“Oh...” she rolled a little inelegantly, as he only lifted himself up from her waist just enough to make it possible. When she was back on the bed, he dribbled the liquid from the vial over her back.
“It’s warm!” She squealed as it trickled down her sides.
He murmured his agreement. Then, strong, firm hands pressed into her shoulders, tenderly rubbing her flesh, kneading her body.
She sighed as his ministrations moved from her shoulders to the small of her back, and his thumbs worked in circular motions to relieve the muscular tension that pooled there. Then, lower still, his thumbs crept into the waist band of her underpants and pressed into the surprisingly tender flesh just above her buttocks.
“The camels,” he said, when she bucked a little at the pressure. “They aren’t particularly kind to the arse.”
Then, he massaged the back of her thighs, her calves, and finally, her feet, rubbing the soles until she was more relaxed than she could imagine.
“This is heaven,” she sighed quietly.
She was relaxed. Good. That had been his aim. It was a test of his stamina to resist kissing her now. She looked so perfect, like his own elfin goddess, but resist he must.
“Roll over,” he said, clearing his throat.
Languidly, like her body suddenly lacked sufficient bones, she flipped on to her back. Somehow, he’d disposed of her bra, and she didn’t even remember that happening. Tariq began to work backwards, now, starting with her delicate ankles, he rubbed her shins, and her thighs. His thumbs brushed against her underwear, teasing her entrance. He watched, fascinated as she bit down on her lower lip as he got close, and he desperately wanted to satisfy her there, now.
But, again, he didn’t. Sex was easy for them. Talking was more difficult. A sure fire way to emerge from the weekend with no greater knowledge of what made his wife tick was to give in to his bodily craving. Oh, he’d be satisfied as hell physically, but he was starting to realise that without a better understanding of her mind, they would always be at a cross purpose.
With monumental will power, he transferred his attentions to her breasts. He poured more of the warm orange oil onto her beautiful mounds and concentrated on rubbing it into the soft skin. “Tariq...” she whispered, her eyes flying wide to stare at him.
“I can stop, if you want me to.” His smile was teasing and it made her heart flip over in her chest.
“No,” she breathed out slowly, sucking her lip between her teeth. “Don’t stop.”
She lowered her lashes and breathed in deeply as his ministrations pleased and relaxed her at the same time. Unbelievably, she felt her eyes getting heavy and she struggled to look up at her husband. He was watching her, his handsome face expressionless, his eyes glinting appraisingly in his face.
“I’m tired!” She accused with a small, nervous laugh.
“The first time a woman has fallen asleep in my bed,” he drawled cynically.
She felt embarrassment flare inside of her but she was not going to indulge it. Their night had been late and the morning early.
“Sleep, dear Rebecca,” he echoed her thoughts. “You look exhausted.”
As Rebecca felt herself slide into the heavenly land of nod, his words barbed a little, but she was too wrecked to refute the insult. He was right, she did look exhausted, but she wished for the hundredth time that she weren’t so plain and ordinary looking. How much better she would have felt in their marriage if she could have at least believed that he would have been proud to have her on his arm.
In a conventional relationship, such silly considerations would not matter, but theirs was no ordinary match. To Tariq, he would never be able to get past the idea that she’d only married him to secure a share of his wealth. Rebecca, on the other hand, would always feel that she’d trapped him into a marriage that he wished had never been made. He’d married her out of respect and duty to his parents, and out of a Kingly obligation to secure the lineage. They were unpleasant ruminations to shuffle through and even in her sleep, Rebecca, tossed and turned, letting out a pained murmur occasionally that had Tariq looking over sharply from the small laptop he’d brought to work on.
The smell of charcoal and a heady blend of spices woke Rebecca some time later. She blinked her eyes, trying to guess from the lighting what time it was. It was bright, daylight, somewhere in the middle of the day. The heat was disorienting and it took her a moment to rediscover her bearings as she slowly regained consciousness. The luxurious tent – a sanctuary, Tariq had called it – was empty, but she could hear hissing from outside.
She slid from the bed, and, realising that she was still half-dressed, pulled a cotton dress on for modesty. Tariq had assured her this was a private bolthole, but she wasn’t going to risk it. He was sitting beneath a large palm tree, a coal barbecue in the sand, with fish flaming on top.
He heard her part the heavy curtains of the tent and he watched her slow progress towards him. He didn’t smile. In a simple dress, with her hair down and face free of make up, she looked very young, very innocent, and very beautiful.
He flipped one of the fish purely as a distraction.
“This smells beautiful,” she said once she’d reached his makeshift fire. “I didn’t realise you could cook.”
“This is not cooking so muc
h as flaming. It’s as easy as it gets,” he said with a shrug, pointing to the charred skin.
“Ah, and for a moment there I was feeling special.” She said with a hint of self-mockery, sitting herself down across from him. She surveyed the scene over her shoulder. Sand dunes, so white they almost hurt the eyes to look at, and a sky of the deepest azure, bled into the turquoise oasis just by their feet. She was squinting when she turned her attention back to him.
“Here,” he removed his sunglasses and handed them to her immediately. “You have the sun in your eyes,” he stalled her rejection and thrust them towards her once more.
“Thank you.” She slipped them onto her eyes, feeling instantly better for the glare having been shielded. “What time is it?”
“Noon.”
He lifted the fish from the coals and placed them on one large wooden plate. Wordlessly, he handed her a fork and held the platter towards her.
She was suddenly ravenous and she lifted a little of the delicate white flesh to her mouth, inhaling the combination of spices before biting into it. “Delicious,” she said approvingly. “I don’t care what you say, I call this cooking.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying I might be able to find a job as a chef if my first choice of career fails?”
She threw him a droll smile. “That might be stretching it a little.”
He clasped his hands to his chest, pretending to have been wounded by her words, earning a genuine smile from Rebecca.
They ate in a companionable silence until the fish was all gone. “This whole place, you cooking fish,” she gestured towards the oasis, “It’s like something out of a fairytale.”
“Do you believe so?” He queried lightly, pouring them a blackcurrant tea spiced with quince peel.
“Something my grandfather used to tell me, when I was a small girl.” She twirled her hair while she tried to recall the gist of a tale told many times but long ago. Like whispers in the dark, she could hardly catch the thread of the story. “A malevolent genie who threatened a fisherman... and somehow ends in multicoloured fish being cooked in the royal kitchens...”
“I know it well.” He nodded slowly. “Did your grandfather read you Arabian children’s books often?”
“Yes, looking back, I suppose he did. Perhaps as a result of his friendship with your father.” She said thoughtfully.
“Or perhaps to prepare you for this life?” He suggested, watching her over the rim of his mug.
Her eyes flashed with the briefest hurt, but she disguised it quickly, a smile bright on her lips. “I doubt he would ever have believed I would go through with it. He was in awe of my stubborn streak. Only my mother could persuade me to toe the line. My father and grandfather were particularly weak when it came to my wishes.” She dropped her gaze and he had a sense that she’d shared more than she’d intended.
“And yet you did.” He pointed out carefully.
“Did what?”
“Go through with it. Your grandfather and parents are dead. It was my father and your grandfather who shared the great bond, the magical friendship. You had no need to carry on with the marriage purely to fulfil their wishes.”
“Unlike you,” she couldn’t resist replying, bitterness making her tone acidic.
He dipped his head in assent. “You seem to hold it against me that I married you because my parents wished it. Why does it bother you so?”
She shook her head hotly. What a fool she was! How could she admit to him that her vanity was offended? That his willingness to marry a woman he obviously did not want was almost bordering on an insult. “The idea of being forced into marriage is... foreign to me.”
He laughed. “You’re so contradictory you’re making my head spin. You don’t agree with arranged marriages and yet you walked blithely into one. How is what you did any different to what I did?”
“I didn’t have a choice!” She snapped, and then immediately wanted to recall the words.
But Tariq pounced. “No one could force you to go through with a betrothal. It was a contract of intention only. There was nothing binding. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for you to simply tear it up and walk away.” He was prodding her mercilessly, aware that she was distressed but too focussed on the answers he could sense were so close to being revealed to stop his interrogation. “If arranged marriages are so repugnant a notion to you, why not simply do that? Say no? Carry on with your life as though you’d never heard of me?”
“My life!” She shook her head sadly, all the fight deflating out of her at his logical words. “You really wish I had done that, don’t you?” She stood angrily, dusting sand from her bottom with hands that shook slightly.
He followed suit, and when she would have walked away, he kept pace with her. At the door to their tent, he grabbed her wrist. “Stop walking away from me, damn it, Rebecca.” A muscle ticked in the side of his jaw, and she turned her face away, finding it difficult to look at him.
“I’m sorry!” She said stonily, but inside, she was a jumble of angst. “I’m sorry I can’t be the perfect wife you need me to be. I’m sorry that I’m your wife at all, when you obviously wish I’d never agreed to marry you. I’m sorry that our parents planned this union and I didn’t refute it. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Is that what you want to hear? If I had any other option, believe me, I would not have gone through with a wedding to a man I didn’t know for all the gold in the world.” It was as though anger had surged through her body and was tearing her apart. Her usual control was blown to smitherines by the intensity of feeling.
“All the gold in the world,” he derided slowly, “an interesting turn of phrase.”
“For God’s sake, Tariq, get it through your thick royal skull. I would have married a pauper if I thought it would get me out of the hell I was living in.”
He had wanted answers. He’d pushed her to the point of distress, and now she’d finally revealed something of her true reasons for marrying him, he found he got no satisfaction from the revelation. A searing rage flashed in front of his eyes. Something unpalatable was making his ears ring, and his hand clenched by his side.
But his voice, when he spoke, was calm. “And what, pray tell, was that hell you were so desperate to escape?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rebecca sobbed lightly, and squeezed her eyes shut. She’d gone this far, she might as well finish it off.
“My parents.” She answered limply, pulling her hand free from his grip and wrapping her arms protectively around her body.
He frowned. “Your parents? You’re twenty four years old, Rebecca. What can your parents possibly have to do with this?”
She opened her eyes and stared past him, looking but not seeing the pristine water glistening in the midday sun.
“I don’t know if I could ever make you understand what they were like, Tariq. It would be hard for anyone to comprehend but you, who has always been adored and coddled... you would find it impossibly foreign.”
He pressed his lips together. “Try me.”
She shrugged. “They resented having me foisted on them. They never wanted children. When mum and dad died, they became very unwilling guardians to me. Had they not done so, I would have been sent to a foster family until a permanent place became available.”
“You may have imagined they felt that way. Perhaps you misunderstood,” he suggested slowly.
She shook her head fiercely. “They told me. On several occasions. It was no secret that I was the bane of their life.” Her expression assumed a faraway quality and Tariq knew she was reliving a painful chapter of her past. “I tried so hard to please them, but nothing I did was ever good enough. My mum – my real mum – had always been so adoring. She’d spoiled me, and I guess I had warped ideas about myself.” Her tone was self-derisive.
“You were ten years old. Surely you were entitled to a little self-confidence?”
She waved a hand dismissively through the sun warmed air. “It doesn’t matter now, d
oes it? It’s a lifetime ago.”
While his expression was unreadable, his voice held a note of steel. “It matters to me. You’re saying that they made your life so unbearable you thought marriage to a complete stranger from a foreign country was a more palatable alternative. I’m having a hard time believing it, to be honest. I would like you to explain it to me.”
She heaved out a defeated sigh. “What good would it do?”
“Talk,” he demanded, taking her elbow and steering her back to the shade of the palm tree. She leaned against the thick trunk and stared up at his intensely watchful eyes.
He crossed his arms across his broad chest, waiting for her to speak. Finally, she opened her pale pink lips. “I think my mum and my aunt always had a strange sort of rivalry. They weren’t close, by any stretch of the imagination. When my parents were killed, Winona did what she saw as her duty. I wish now that she’d left me to be raised by anyone but her.”
“Were they abusive? Did they hit you?” He asked through clenched teeth.
“No, no,” she shook her head violently. “They weren’t like that. Their abuse was of an emotional nature.” She passed her palm across her eyes.
He thought of her dancing, and her misplaced belief that she was not talented. “They’re the ones who told you you’d never become a professional dancer,” he murmured watchfully.
She nodded. “Amongst other things, yes.”
“For whatever reason they chose to tell you such lies, why did you believe them?”
“I told you, Tariq, you’ll never understand. To be told every day that you’re no good, that you’re too tall, too pale, too slow, untalented, eventually, that just becomes a truth.”
The only sign that he’d digested her words was a slight tightening around his lips. “Why not move the hell away as soon as you could?”
The Sheikh's Arranged Marriage: The only thing worse than falling in love with the man she'd married was knowing he would never feel the same... Page 11
