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...

by Clare Connelly

  “Looking for something?” Tariq’s voice, unmistakable, made her freeze. Guiltily, she spun towards him, and at the sight of him in just a pair of cotton boxer shorts, her breathing became laboured. A million things were on her mind but leaning indolently against the door frame, so gloriously strong and desirable, meant that only one thought was left in her brain. Desire.

  Damning her stupid body for wanting him despite the complicated situation they found themselves in, she looked away, trying to swallow down the wave of hunger.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” her voice was strained.

  A frown creased his face. “You must.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not that easy, your highness. I can’t just shut my eyes and drift off. My mind was racing.”

  He nodded slowly. “I was wrong to upset you as I did. Please forgive me.”

  “For what, Tariq?” She sighed. “For cheating on me with my aid? Or for suggesting I would actually try to hide our baby from you?”

  “We will not discuss it now.” He walked past her into the kitchen and retrieved a cup of something pale from the fridge. “Drink this.”

  “What is it?” She eyed it suspiciously.

  “It’s coconut milk and nutmeg. A guaranteed cure for sleeplessness.”

  “If you say so.” She took a sip of it. “It’s delicious.” She drank more then passed the empty cup back to him.

  “I came here for a tea.”

  “That’s caffeinated.”

  “I know. It just reminds me of my mum.”

  His expression was neutral, carefully so. “Rebecca, I’m sorry that you are pregnant. Not that we will have a baby, of course, but that you must stay when it is obviously the last thing you want.”

  She looked away from him, hurt making it hard to speak.

  “Whatever you might think, I don’t for a minute regret this baby.” Still keeping her eyes averted, she said, bleakly, “Good night, Tariq,” and left the kitchen without a backwards glance.

  The next week passed in a blur. The pregnancy was confirmed by an obstetrician, an American woman named Doctor Gainor, and incredibly, life seemed to have returned to some sort of normality for Rebecca. By tacit agreement, she began working more closely on the education reform initiative, and being based in the city meant she could meet with various officials and advisors more frequently than before. Her team of assistants had been brought down, with the noticeable absence of Monique. Instead of soothing her, the glaring omission of the woman she’d come to regard as a friend and ally filled her with sadness. Her absence was an ever-present reminder of Tariq’s infidelity, and if it weren’t for the pressing policy work, she would have given into full blown despair.

  As it was, she found that if she pushed herself from early morning until dinner time, she was so exhausted that she collapsed into bed each night, without a moment to think of whose bed her husband was in.

  The city of Fattid was beautiful. Her first impression had been correct. Ancient Souk markets were cluttered at the base of modern high rises, and the people were an eclectic mix of Assanians and foreigners, all happily jostling through life, side by side.

  The smell of the city is what she noticed most keenly. Spices and sunshine, she liked to think, gave the air a balmy fragrance that made her soul soar. The palace was set apart from the hustle and bustle of Fattid by an enormous security fence. But even if it weren’t, the general respect towards the ruling house seemed so complete, that Rebecca never felt unsafe.

  She leaned across her desk, a pretty ornate piece of carved timber with a dark blue marble inlaid top. The surface was cool beneath her bared arms. She flicked the gauzy curtain back, sighing as her eyes scanned the brightly topped tents that were set up just beyond the palace’s walls. A makeshift market with Bedouin traders was bustling and she suddenly longed to explore it herself.

  “Fatima,” she said, not looking away from the window. “I’d like to go to that market. Can you arrange a security escort for me, please?”

  “Of course, ma’am,” the small blonde assistant said smilingly, disappearing from the room to carry out her Sheikha’s wishes.

  Rebecca returned her attention to the document she’d been trying to come to grips with all morning. A study in school attendance levels by region, compared to socio-economic averages, was important, but her brain was foggy from days and days of digesting so many other similar research studies.

  Her turquoise highlighter paused above a page that she’d already read several times, she forced herself to concentrate. A short while later, the door opened and with gratitude, she resealed her pen and stood. She wasn’t making any headway; the best thing for it was to stretch the legs and clear her head.

  “I heard you’re planning a trip to the markets.” A statement. Not a question.

  Tariq.

  Rebecca turned to face him, her fingers fidgeting nervously by her side. She’d barely seen him all week. As always, just the sight of him made her heart race.

  “I presume you’ve come to stop me?” She responded waspishly, lifting her chin defiantly.

  “Incorrect. I’ve come to accompany you.”

  “You?” She squeaked a little breathlessly.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  Her eyes flew to Fatima, who was staring beyond them to the cloudless blue sky revealed by the large windows. Rebecca inclined her head. “If you aren’t too busy...”

  His amber eyes regarded her mockingly. “I’m not. Are you ready now?”

  She nodded. Clearing her head was not going to be possible with this man by her side. Wishing she could develop an immunity to her husband’s sex-appeal, she walked across to join him. Up close, her nostrils were tickled by the unique fragrance he wore. She’d heard that scent was unmatched when it came to stimulating memory, and his was burned into her mind.

  “These markets pop up from time to time. They move from city to city.” He explained as they moved through the palace corridors.

  Walking beside him, his warmth emanated through his dark charcoal suit and made her legs feel a little unsteady.

  They travelled the rest of the way in silence. A detail of two security officers joined them as they emerged from the palace and crossed the manicured courtyard leading to the outer walls.

  As soon as the gates were opened, they emerged into the scurry of people trawling the tents for treasure. Rebecca froze, her feet planted to the spot, as she took in the incredible charm of the displays. Some stalls sold fabrics; bolt after bolt of brightly coloured cloth displayed artfully from gold hooks swamped her eyes with visual sensation. Spice stalls jostled for business side by side, each with pyramids of colourful sand-like towers of each individual seasoning. The aroma was incredible. Pets were for sale too, or perhaps they were livestock, she wondered, listening to the cacophony of chickens and sheep, side by side. Jewellery, too, beautiful and obviously hand-made.

  Tariq’s fingers wrapped around hers, squeezing to get her attention. “It is busy today,” he said by way of explanation. “Do not let go of my hand. Although I do not generally worry about security, I don’t want to be separated from you.”

  She would have said something pithy if it weren’t for the happiness the market had kindled inside of her. So she simply nodded.

  “Come.” He urged her gently down one of the alleyways, pausing when she did, to look at books or knickknacks or local delicacies. Whilst the crowds seemed to part for them, showing that they were recognised, there was a deferential respect that prevented people from approaching them.

  “Your people love you,” she observed after they’d walked the market from one end to the other.

  “Our people,” he corrected quietly, observing her with a sidelong glance.

  “Mmm,” her response was noncommittal, and to remind him of their war footing, she asked with a saccharine sweetness, “How is Monique?”

  His eyes flared with an emotion she didn’t understand. “I haven’t seen her.”

  �
��Is that supposed to make me feel better? A week of abstinence?” Then, with a dramatic pause. “Although, I suppose that a week without Monique doesn’t necessarily mean a week of abstinence.”

  He squeezed her hand, his eyes were loaded with disapproval. “This is not the time nor the place for this conversation, Rebecca.”

  “It’s not a conversation I want to have, anyway.” She answered bleakly, turning away and trying to focus on a row of traditional carpets that were for sale in a stall across the way. But the pleasure of the markets had evaporated with their spat. “I’d like to return to the palace.”

  “Fine by me,” he answered, leading her away from the markets and back towards the palace. Once inside the gates, he turned to one of his security guards and fired off something indecipherable in rapid Arabic. He did not let go of her hand, and when she went to walk ahead, he pulled her back to his side. “Wait, Sheikha.”

  With a wave, he dismissed the security officers and led her through the courtyard garden to an enormous sycamore tree with a wrought iron seat beneath.

  “What do you want?” She asked huffily.

  “We are long overdue for this conversation.”

  “What conversation is that?” She intoned hollowly, crossing her arms across her chest to still the shivering response that was overtaking her.

  “The one where I correct your erroneous assumption about my relationship with Monique.”

  Her eyes flew to his face, and for the briefest of moments, she felt hope bubble inside of her, but it burst just as swiftly. “I don’t want to hear lies, Tariq. The truth is hurtful enough, but attempting to play me for an even greater fool – I will not tolerate it.”

  He sighed. “Rebecca, I am not a man who plays with the truth.” He placed his forefinger beneath her chin and lifted it with the lightest touch, wanting to communicate the truth with his words and his eyes. “Monique and I dated. But it is in the past. When you accepted the contract of betrothal, I considered myself a married man and I ended it.”

  She bit down on her lower lip. “And yet you kept her within convenient reach, working for me? That makes no sense.”

  “I regret not telling you this sooner. I will admit to a certain... resentment at having my life planned out for me by my parents. Initially, I showed less interest than I could have in the details of your staff.” With a self-deriding grimace, “I presume my mother thought Monique would be an excellent choice of individual to teach you how to look after me, given that she and I had been – close – for several years.”

  “Several years!” She banged her palm against her forehead. “This just goes from bad to worse.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Do you love her?”

  He seemed to be searching for the right words.

  But Rebecca spoke on, her eyes flashing with pain. “Of course you love her. You dated for years. No wonder you were so unwilling to make our marriage a reality. Oh, Tariq, you should have told me this before we married. If I’d thought for one minute that you were in a serious relationship...”

  He held his hand up to interrupt her flow of distraught babble.

  “It was not a serious relationship. Both Monique and I were completely aware that we were simply bed-warming. While I think she is a perfectly acceptable woman, I never had any serious interests, and nor did she.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You have a habit of calling me a liar, Sheikha, and it is one I do not appreciate.”

  “I am not saying you’re lying. Just that you’re surprisingly naive. There is no way she would have dated you for years and not developed more serious yearnings. Why would she want to work for your wife?” She wrung her hands in front of her, feeling even worse now that she knew the truth.

  He shrugged. “I suppose because my mother requested it, and refusing a royal request is not generally a smart thing to do.” Then, with another lift of his shoulders, “She may also have been curious about the woman who supplanted her.”

  “Oh, God, Tariq, this is a nightmare. I had no idea I was walking into any of this.” Stricken, she ran a hand through her hair, dislodging it from the long blonde plait she wore over one shoulder.

  “Monique and I had a relationship of convenience. It ended as civilly as it began. And it ended before we married. I am a man of my word, and I promised you my fidelity on our wedding day.”

  A knot formed in the pit of her stomach. “But you wanted me to go. If it weren’t for the baby, I’d be back in England and you’d be looking for your own wife. A wife of your choosing. Someone more suitable...”

  “Not someone more suitable, Rebecca. Someone who chooses to be my bride, and queen. Someone who doesn’t have their arm twisted so far up their back that they can’t possibly say no.” His words were devoid of emotion, and yet she felt overcome by grief. A sob welled in her throat but she swallowed it back.

  “Like Monique?”

  His lips compressed but he kept his voice calm. “Monique is nothing to do with us, Rebecca. It was over before I met you. The reason I wanted you to leave Assan had nothing to do with her. It was all about you. I wanted you to be happy, Rebecca. Happy and living a life of your choosing.”

  She wrapped her arms around herself again, looking up at his face. “And you?”

  “And I would... spend the rest of my life regretting my behaviour towards you, but at least I would know that I had done the right thing by you in the end.”

  “And what, pray tell, is the right thing by me?” Her eyes tried to read his face but he was expressionless.

  “Setting you free. Against my own will, having the strength to let you go.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, her confusion was obvious.

  “I suppose divorce after such a short time would be frowned upon.”

  His laugh was harsh. “Frowned upon? Perhaps. I didn’t give much thought for what others might think, though.”

  “Then why would letting me go be against your own will? I would have thought you’d be delighted to be free of me.” She had spoken the words that had been zinging around in her brain for over a week. Her adoptive parents hadn’t wanted her, and now her husband didn’t either. At least now he had the opportunity to spell it out to her.

  He pulled her into his arms, and because she was at sixes and sevens, she didn’t resist. “The first time I saw you, I felt knocked sideways, Sheikha. I’d seen photographs, and I knew you were attractive, but I was not prepared for just how graceful and captivating you would be in the flesh.”

  “Me?” She squawked, angling her face up to look at him.

  “You.” He squeezed her more tightly around the waist.

  “But you seemed so aloof....”

  “I will deny this to anyone but you, but I was afraid. Afraid of how I could want a woman I’d never met before, how I could be so completely under your spell at first sight. It had never happened to me before, and I ran about a thousand miles from such a novel sensation. I thought I would be able to cope better if I thought ill of you. So I looked for reasons not to like you.”

  “Like calling me a gold-digger? A prostitute?” She reminded him stoically, the words still smarting despite the admission he had just made.

  “Don’t remind me.” He shook his head with self-derision. “When we were together, I felt like I would do anything you asked of me. The power you have over me terrified me. It still does, Rebecca. And in the back of my mind, I always wondered what provenance had delivered you to me. How had I come to have you for my wife? I knew how I felt about you from early on, but until I knew how you felt, I lived in a state of torture.” He exhaled slowly. “Then, on our abortive honeymoon weekend, my worst fears were realised. You could never love me. Not when you’d been brought here against your will. Your true will. I’d selfishly used you, used your body, taken advantage of your sweetness, and all because you were given no choice in the matter.” He dropped his arms and stepped back from her. “I had become everything I loathed in men.”
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  She found breathing difficult. “I... I ... are you saying this because of the baby? To keep me here?”

  “Rebecca!” He intoned crossly. “I am bearing my soul to you and immediately you believe that I’m delivering you a fiction.”

  She nodded. “It just doesn’t seem possible. Are you saying that you told me to leave because you truly wanted to do what was best for me?”

  “Of course. What other reason could there be?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought you were bored of me. Or bored of being married to an English woman you’d never wanted.”

  “No, Rebecca. I don’t know what we will work out when our baby is born, but if you want to leave Assan, we will work out a way to make it work.”

  “Leave Assan.” She nodded again, so confounded by his admission that she couldn’t find any words.

  “Are you saying that’s what you’d like to do?” His words were empty of emotion.

  “You big idiot!” She laughed. “No, that’s not what I want to do.” She reached up and touched a finger to his mouth, tracing it around his lips. He closed his eyes, his lashes brushing against his cheeks. “The way you felt when you first saw me... Tariq, I felt it, too. You’re right when you say marrying you was a way of running away. I needed to escape Winona and Greg, and suddenly, this betrothal gave me a way out. But it was more than that. I knew that my parents and grandfather had willed it, and in marrying you, I felt, ridiculously perhaps, brought closer to them.

  “Then, I saw you, and my whole world fell apart. I had never known desire. I’d always thought I was immune to the attractions of the opposite sex. And Winona had made certain I had no tickets on myself, no ego to make me feel confident of my ability to attract a man.” Her tone was light, but the hurt ran deep, and Tariq laced his fingers through hers reassuringly.

  “Winona is a woman devoid of any good.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. In any event, the second I saw you, any reason for marrying you evaporated. All I cared about was getting to know the man who I was tying myself to for life.”

  He looked down at her thoughtfully. “You have no point of reference, Rebecca, but at least a great sex life is a good starting point. If you are attracted to me, do you think you will in time come to love me as I do you?” Then, with a shake of his head. “Perhaps not as I love you, as I don’t think such love can be learned, but love me in some fashion? I know I’m selfish to ask it, but I don’t think I’m strong enough to let you go again.” Tariq was unaccustomed to such self-deprecation but, having started down this path, he knew he had to travel it completely.