After dinner she was inundated with gifts of vibrant fruit baskets, decorated sweet cakes and fragrant teas, flowers and little bottles of oil as traditional music floated on the air. Aisha dutifully explained the symbolism behind each of the gifts, how they strengthened the couple’s love for one another or brought fertility to the marriage. Cressida tried her best to ignore her discomfort at the thought of accepting such beautiful gifts, as neither love nor fertility would play a part in her marriage. She wished she could just tell them all not to make such a fuss, that she was not a real bride. That this was not the romantic fairy tale elopement that it seemed. She had always hated being in the spotlight and it seemed impossible to avoid as the women argued over her hairstyle and made final adjustments to her wedding clothes.
As night fell across the encampment, Cressida was finally left alone in her bridal tent. She could feel the strain in her cheeks from the polite smile that she had kept plastered on her face all afternoon. Her reflection in a nearby mirror showed dark shadows under her eyes, making her already pale skin seem even more translucent. She exhaled slowly, removing the pink scarf that covered her hair and combing it out with her fingers while ignoring the rising anxiety within her.
She had not been aware of any scandal in Zayyar’s past when she’d committed to the marriage, but it made sense if that was the reason why Sheikh Khalil would go so far for a bride with Western ties. She had known from the bare facts available on the Internet that he was a widower, but, apart from a few vague news articles, that seemed as far as the information went. There was no further mention of the Sheikh’s activities in the years since then. But she had noticed the way his staff hurried around him on the plane...as though he was a man to be feared.
So why did she not feel that same fear when she looked at him? She thought of the shivers that had run down her spine as he’d held her close on the horse ride across the desert, mere hours before. She had felt the opposite of fear; she had never been more excited in her life. She closed her eyes, placing one hand on her chest to feel the steady beat of her heart. No, she most definitely was not afraid to marry the Sheikh. She was more afraid of the intense attraction she felt every time he came close. Five years was a long time to spend trying to maintain her distance. He would find it easy, no doubt.
She straightened her shoulders, meeting her own gaze in the mirror once more. This was a job, she reminded herself. This was her duty. She would prove her loyalty to her family once and for all and make up for the mistakes she had made in her youth. Then she would be free to live her own life without guilt. She would be free of constantly feeling like a failure.
She moved to her bed, burying herself under the silk coverlet and closing her eyes tight. He had been her first kiss—it was only natural that she would be slightly affected by that milestone. She was not made of stone, much as she had tried to pretend she was. But she would not fail at this. If a cold, distant marriage of convenience was what the Sheikh of Zayyar wanted, then that was exactly what he would have.
* * *
The royal events team had worked quickly under pressure, creating a simple space that mixed elements of Western and Zayyari wedding cultures. Already the PR officials were drafting articles for the handful of magazines and newspapers who would be ‘leaked’ the news of the secret nuptials. The Princess had been right. A large wedding would not have had half as much impact as this would.
Their marriage was to be a seamless union of east and west, a romantic desert fairy tale...or something like that. He had stopped listening to the event planner after she had begun talking about using sand as symbolism for their everlasting love. Little did they know how very far from the truth that was.
Khal stood in the heavy stillness of the desert air, watching as the sun began to dip low in the sky as evening fell upon them. The sand burned orange outside the intimate wedding tent and on the light breeze he could smell the fragrant pink flowers that had been arranged in vases and overflowing baskets all around the encampment in celebration. He picked one from a basket, simply to have something to do with his hands while he waited.
Priya had ordered similar flowers for their wedding day, he mused, the thought catching him off guard. He had ordered thousands of the blooms to celebrate their first anniversary. He crushed the delicate blossom in his hand, letting it fall to the ground as though it burned him. Of all the places for this farcical ceremony to take place, of course it would be here—they were in the very spot his parents had married. The sacred heart of his tribe and all the beliefs they held dear. A grand statement to the people of Zayyar, according to the team of advisors who had planned everything.
Priya had wanted a grand event, opting for a lavish three-day celebration in the Grand Palace. He steeled himself, willing his mind to change course. He could not think of his first wife, not when he was set to marry another at any moment.
Once they had arrived in the camp the day before, he had not wasted time in dispatching his fiancée to the women of the tribe, simply to put distance between them after the torture of the journey from the jet. In hindsight, opting to have her soft warm curves cradled between his thighs on horseback for an hour had not been his cleverest idea. He’d spent the afternoon riding across the desert to clear his head, cursing the lack of freezing cold lakes in their vicinity. He was not a teenager. He would not have his position made weak by his physical desire for the woman set to become his wife.
It was his own fault, for not taking a mistress in the years since Priya’s death. He had always found an excuse not to move on—there had always been some battle to fight. Whether it was trying to find out the truth behind his wife’s death or working against the economic repercussions of the rumours that had plagued him in the aftermath—that he had somehow been responsible for his wife’s sudden demise.
He exhaled hard. He was a man. He had needs. And this was clearly the result when one suppressed those needs for too long. His fiancée was the very last person he could afford to desire right now. And the duty their marriage was based on made his situation even more difficult. He had demanded fidelity of her for the duration of their marriage; it was only fair that he offer the same loyalty himself. He would not risk the credibility of their union simply to slake his lust elsewhere.
His jaw felt as if it was made of stone as he heard a hush fall around the small gathering inside the tent. The event planners signalled that the bride was about to arrive. Khal stepped directly underneath two pillars swathed in snow-white gossamer fabric and watched as the small congregation of people appeared over the dunes. The single photographer who had been granted press access to the camp stepped forward, lens primed to catch the story of the year.
Khal kept his breathing steady, determined to play the part of calm groom. The people believed this to be a true marriage, after all. A romantic elopement between their King and his beautiful Western Princess. She was somewhere in the middle of the women, walking the same path that this tribe had walked for centuries. His jaw tightening painfully, he turned away and waited.
She reached his side with a whisper of silk flowing in the breeze, bringing the scent of jasmine and vanilla to his nostrils. Khal looked down and felt his breath catch for a moment. She was beautiful; there was no doubt. Pale porcelain skin offset by a shimmering golden wedding robe and heavy bejewelled veil. Was it a trick of the light or did her blue eyes seem to glow as she met his gaze?
Inhaling past the sudden tightness in his chest, he took his bride by the hand and began repeating his vows, his eyes never leaving hers. Part of the vows included a short sentence in Zayyari; he watched the concentration on her face as she vowed to be his for the remainder of their lives, a strange feeling within his chest as she did not stumble over the thick syllables of his native language. Their eyes met as the celebrant spoke of loyalty and devotion, of sharing a lifetime with one another. He looked in her eyes as the weight of their vows hung heavy in the air. And yet, as she
promised to be true, he knew she spoke the truth. A strange feeling of calm came over him as he slid a wedding band onto her slim finger. A sense of complete victory.
Kisses not being customary at Zayyari weddings, they sealed their vows with a symbolic touching of foreheads. All too soon, he left the wedding tent with his new wife by his side to the rapturous applause of the small crowd. He watched as the new Sheikha bowed her head in delicate thanks as men and women complimented her beauty and good fortune in a language she did not understand.
Sayyid appeared by his side, clapping one hand on his back in solidarity. ‘You seem happy, my King.’
‘Do I?’ he murmured, keeping watch as Cressida bent to take the hands of a group of children gathered around her. Security was tight and the people of the camp were peaceful, but still he resisted the urge to drag her away to privacy.
‘You have barely taken your eyes away from your new bride. Am I to assume your concern is that she does not run away?’ Sayyid smiled good-naturedly.
Khal smiled at the joke, brushing it off. He watched her because she was in a new country, entering a new life. He wanted her to feel at ease. And if he seemed happy it was because everything was going to plan, the lightness in his chest was a result of sealing a deal months in the making and securing the political future of his kingdom. Nothing more. He ignored his Chief of Security’s raised eyebrow and returned to his wife’s side as they continued to the celebration.
* * *
She had been told that celebrations in the camp usually lasted well into the night but not long after they had finished dining Khal leaned into her ear. ‘Now it is time for us to make our exit and move to the ceremonial wedding tent.’
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. ‘Just the two of us?’
‘Don’t look so excited, my Queen.’ He made a motion with his hands to his guards that they were leaving before extending his hand to her. ‘We must at least appear to be newlyweds who cannot wait to tear each other’s clothes off.’
Cressida cleared her throat, staring at his outstretched hand and willing herself to stop being such an absolute coward. ‘Can the King not make an exception to tradition?’
‘Tradition is important to me,’ he said simply. ‘And it is even more important to the people of this sacred tribe. My family’s tribe.’
‘Of course.’ She nodded, looking around at the small gathering of men and women, seeing how they looked towards their Sheikh’s every move. And hers too, she realised with a sudden jolt. She had not thought much of the responsibility that came with her marriage. She was the Queen now, Sheikha of the realm.
Gulping, she stood as gracefully as she could muster. Khal bowed his head to the crowd once and she copied the motion, trying not to jump as the men suddenly shouted their approval in guttural tones. Raucous applause and what she presumed to be words of encouragement followed them across the sand as she followed Khal, flanked by four silent guards. The jewels on her veil tinkled gently as she moved forward, her skirts gathering around her legs with the effort of trying to keep up with the pace of the men and their much longer legs. Thank goodness she had not been forced to wear heels as well as the intricate dress.
From the outside, the tent had seemed just like the one she had stayed in the previous night. But as they stepped through the entryway Cressida went completely still.
If she had ever been the kind of person to hold romantic notions about her wedding night, this would probably be a fairy tale come to life. Swathes of jewel-toned fabrics cascaded from the intricately patterned roof, softly lit by traditional lamps and coloured lanterns. More lanterns provided a glow at strategic points around the space. Warm, luxurious Persian-style rugs carpeted the entire floor and the sensual scent of incense wafted through the air. But what drew her eye most was the enormous canopied bed of luxurious shimmering golden cushions that dominated the room. Filled with satin tasselled throw pillows and covered in bright red rose petals, it was as though it were created simply for the act of deflowering one’s new bride. The thought made her gulp audibly.
‘Leave us,’ Khal commanded after two of his men performed a sweep of the tent’s surprisingly large quarters. Once again, she felt slight unease at the level of security that preceded every move they made. She wondered at the reason for it; Zayyar had been at peace for almost a quarter of a century. But, before she could think too much of it, two things suddenly stopped her in her tracks. One, they were completely alone in the most romantic place in the entire world. And two, her new husband had removed his headdress and was shrugging out of his robe with surprising speed.
CHAPTER FOUR
NAKED FROM THE waist up, the man was like one of the statues she would stare at in the palace gardens when she lived in Monteverre. He had the body of a warrior, not a pampered king. He wore his hair long and unruly under the traditional head covering. Cressida whirled to put a few more feet of space between them, pretending to be suddenly interested in the array of fresh drinks and fruit laid out in the small dining area.
When she looked up once more, he had changed into a simple robe and loose drawstring pants, leaving only part of his chest bare. She gulped, looking away from the smooth mahogany skin and wondering when on earth she would regain control of her mind again.
‘A robe has been laid out for you as well, and a private area for you to change.’ He remained facing away from her, of which she was thankful. She moved quickly behind the screen, immensely grateful that her Zayyari bridal gown was nothing like the Western million-buttons-down-the-back variety. One simple zip ran down the side seam and she was free, stepping out of the pool of fabric and hanging it carefully.
It was a beautiful gown, so simple and elegant that she had almost felt beautiful for the first time in her life. She had spent a lifetime being the ugly duckling, always comparing herself to her more attractive sisters. Eleanor and Olivia had vibrant red hair like their famous grandmother, the late Queen Miranda, who had once been named the most beautiful woman in the world. Cressida hadn’t even inherited her mother’s pale blonde locks, instead ending up with an in-between shade of ash-blonde that was entirely forgettable. But the shade of her wedding gown and the sparkling amber jewels that adorned it had made her glow from head to foot.
A standing mirror faced the screen; she angled her body sideways, hardly believing that the woman in the glass was her own reflection. Her lingerie was the same dusky golden shade as her dress but stitched with shimmering embroidery that drew the eye to the illusion of her much fuller breasts. Closing her eyes firmly at the thought, she pulled the buttery soft silk robe over her shoulders, crossing it at the waist and noting that it was significantly shorter than the male version. No drawstring trousers were provided for the bride, it seemed, leaving her legs completely bare from mid-thigh downwards.
Perhaps it was the sensually charged décor of the tent or simply the overwhelming romance of the day in general, but suddenly she felt flushed and hyper-aware of the silk material as it moved against her skin. She felt a strange tightening in her solar plexus at the thought of stepping beyond the screen and revealing her ensemble to the man who was now her husband. She wanted him to see her, she realised with sudden heat in her cheeks.
She wanted him to look at her like he had in London and she wanted to find out just what it felt like to have his hands on her again. But it was unlikely that whatever madness had existed in the dark in London would be present now. He had made it clear that they would not have a true marriage, had he not? With a shake of her head she pulled the robe as tight as it would go, successfully covering most of her cleavage but still leaving much of her legs on show. Opting to leave her hair down, she took a deep breath and stepped back into the open space of the tent, only to find Khal standing opposite her, the ridiculously sensual bed spread out between them like a battlefield.
If only she could have simply turned tail and ducked back behind the screen, just to avoid the
treacherous pang of heat that ran down her spine. His eyes raked over her, moving slowly to take in her hair, her breasts, then finally resting upon her bare legs.
Unable to stand still under his scrutiny, Cressida willed herself to move past the bed, turning her back on him on the pretext of pouring herself a glass of water.
‘If you plan to continue skittering around me it is going to be a long night.’ He sat down and sprawled back on the bed, hands interlocked behind his head as he surveyed her.
She moved forward, stumbling over her words as she nervously twisted the tie of her robe between her fingers. ‘I can sleep on the futon if you’d like to take the bed.’
‘And have all of the servants know we spent our wedding night apart?’ He sat up, both hands braced on his knees. ‘We will share a bed for tonight.’
Cressida nodded once. ‘Of course. I didn’t think...’
‘Am I so frightening?’ He watched her, waiting.
She placed her glass of water on the table, still twisting one ribbon of her robe around her finger. ‘I am not afraid of you. I suppose I’m a little overwhelmed by all of this.’
His brow furrowed. Without warning, he stood and walked to a low table in the middle of the tent where an elaborate tea service had been laid out. He poured the steaming dark liquid into traditional cups and handed her one. ‘You seemed to enjoy the festivities this evening. I had worried the Old Zayyari style might be a little far from what you are used to.’
Cressida smiled. ‘I adored every moment. I have not travelled much before so this is all so new, but in a good way.’ She took a sip of the strong brew, feeling it warm her through. ‘I’m impressed at how quickly your team arranged everything.’
Claiming His Replacement Queen Page 5
