The Secret Kept From The King (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  ‘You underestimate the power and hatred of these people.’ He lifted a hand, touching the back of his fingers to her cheek so lightly that she had to fight an impulse to press into his touch.

  ‘But no one knew me.’

  ‘They would have found you. Both of you. Believe me.’

  His hand dropped to her stomach. ‘I know we each want what is best for our child, Daisy.’

  He was right. On that point, they were in total agreement.

  ‘Tell me what you want from me, when we are married,’ he said quietly. ‘What will make this easier for you?’

  It was an attempt at a concession. She bit down on her lip, with no idea how to answer. The truth was, she really couldn’t have said. She had so many questions but they were all jumbling around her head forming a net rather than a rope, so she couldn’t easily grasp any single point.

  ‘I just need space,’ she said simply. ‘Once we’re married, I need you to leave me alone and let me get my head around all this. And then, we’ll have this conversation.’

  He looked as though he wanted to say something but then, after a moment, he nodded. ‘Fine. This, I can do.’

  Daisy’s head was spinning in a way she doubted would ever stop. From the short wedding ceremony at the embassy to a helicopter that had flown them to a private terminal at JFK, to a plane that was the largest she’d ever been on that was fully private. It bore the markings of the RKH and was, inside, like a palace. Just like the embassy, it was fitted with an unparalleled degree of luxury and grandeur. A formal lounge area with large leather seats opened into a corridor on one side of the plane. Sariq had guided Daisy towards it and then gestured to the first room. ‘My office, when I fly.’ A cursory inspection showed a large desk, two computer screens and a pair of sofas.

  ‘A boardroom, a cinema,’ he continued the inventory as they moved down the plane. ‘A bathroom.’ But not like any plane bathroom she’d ever been on. Then again, they’d been short domestic flights from one state to the next, never anything like this. A full-sized bath, a shower, and all as you’d find in a hotel; nothing about it screamed ‘airline’.

  ‘Here.’ He’d paused three doors from the end of the plane. ‘It’s a twelve-hour flight to Shajarah. Rest.’

  She’d looked into the room to see a bed—king-size—made up sumptuously with cream bed linen and brightly coloured cushions. She still wore the dress in which she’d said her wedding vows—in English, out of deference to her, but at the end in the language of Haleth. She’d stumbled while repeating the words and her cheeks had grown pink and her heart heavy at the enormity of what was ahead of her. She would need to learn this language, to speak it with fluency, to be able to communicate with her child, who would grow up hearing it and forming it naturally.

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  Except she was. Bone tired and overwhelmed.

  ‘There are clothes in there.’ He gestured towards a small piece of furniture across the room, but made no effort to leave her. His eyes were locked to hers and her pulse began to fire as feelings were swamped by instinct and she wanted, more than anything, to close her eyes and have things go back to the way they used to be between them. She remembered the feeling of being held by him, his strong arms wrapping around her and making her feel whole and safe. But there was no sense seeking refuge from the man who had turned her life upside down.

  ‘Thank you.’ A prim acknowledgement. She stepped into the room, looking around, then finally back to facing him. Just in time to see him pull the door closed—with him on the other side of it.

  Alone once more, she still refused to give in to the tears that had been threatening her all day. She blinked furiously, her spine ramrod straight as she walked across the room, pulling open the top drawer of the dressing table and lifting out the first thing she laid her hands on. It was a pair of pants, and, despite the fact they were a comfortable drawstring pair, they were made of the finest silk. Black, they shimmered as she held them, and at their feet there was a fine gold thread, just like the robes he wore. A matching shirt was beneath the pants. With long sleeves and a dip at the neck, it was like wearing water—so comfortable against her skin that she sighed. The engines began to whir as she pulled the blankets back and climbed into bed. She was asleep before the plane took off.

  Daisy would have said she was too tired to sleep, but she slept hard, almost the entire way to the RKH. She might have kept sleeping had a perfunctory knock at the door not sounded, wrenching her from dreams that were irritatingly full of Sariq. His smile when they’d talked, his laugh when she’d made a joke. His eyes on her in that way of his, so thoughtful and watchful, intent and possessive, so her blood felt like lava and her abdomen rolled with desire.

  And then, the man himself stood framed in the door of her room and her dreams were so tangible that she almost smiled and held a hand out to him, pulling him towards her. Almost. Thank goodness sanity intervened before she could do anything so stupid.

  ‘Yes?’ The word was cold. Crisp. He didn’t react.

  ‘In two hours, we will land. There is some preparation you will need to undergo, first.’ His eyes dropped lower, to her décolletage, and she was conscious of the way the shirt dipped revealing her flesh there, showing a hint of her cleavage. ‘You must be hungry.’

  The last words were said in a voice that was throaty.

  ‘I’m not.’

  Disapproval flared in his features but for such a brief moment that it was gone again almost immediately, so she thought she’d imagined it. ‘Come and join me while I eat, then.’

  ‘A command, Your Highness?’

  Silence. Barbed and painful. Her stomach squeezed. ‘If that’s what it takes.’ He looked at her for a moment longer. ‘Two minutes, Daisy.’

  He pulled the door shut before his frustration could become apparent. But he was frustrated. In his entire life, he’d never known someone to be so argumentative just for the sake of it. Sariq was used to being obeyed at all times, yet Daisy seemed to enjoy countermanding his words.

  And when they were in the RKH? While the country was famously progressive in the region, there was no getting away from the fact it was still patriarchal and mired in many of the ways of the past. Her flagrant flouting of his wishes would raise questions he’d prefer not to have to answer.

  Couldn’t she see that their situation required special handling? It was as undesirable to him as it was to her—but what choice did either of them have? She was carrying his child, the heir to the RKH. This marriage, living together as man and wife, was the only solution to that situation.

  He had to make her understand the difficulties inherent to her situation without terrifying her. He pressed his back against the door, closing his eyes for a moment, so that he saw his father again and a darkness filled him. He didn’t want to think about what his father might say about this. Sariq was Emir now. The safety and prosperity of the kingdom lay on his shoulders, and his alone.

  Alone again, Daisy flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling, his command wrapping around her, making breathing difficult. She wasn’t hungry, but she was thirsty—the thought of coffee was deeply motivating—and yet she stayed where she was, an emptiness inside her. And she knew why.

  The Sariq of her dreams had been the man she’d fallen into bed with, the man who had bewitched and made her feel alive for the first time since Max. But he was gone, and there was only this Sheikh in his place. All command and duty. The juxtaposition was inherently painful.

  She bit down on her lip, not moving, the emptiness like a black hole, carrying mass of its own, weighing her down, holding her to the bed. She lay there for a long time, certainly past the allotted two minutes, and at some point, she heard the door open.

  She didn’t realise she’d been crying until he said something, a curse, and crossed to the edge of the bed, sitting down on it heavily and moving his hand to he
r cheek, gently wiping away the moisture there. His expression was grim, his eyes impossible to read, but his fingertips were soft and determined, moving to remove the physical signs of her emotions.

  ‘I would do anything in the world not to have had to do this,’ he finally said, the words dragged from him.

  She knew that to be the truth. This marriage wasn’t what he wanted either. He was as trapped by their baby as she was. ‘I know that.’ She pushed up to sitting, dislodging his touch, lifting her own hands to wipe at the rest of her cheeks.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She was glad her voice sounded clear. ‘I’ve just been more prone to emotions since I got pregnant. It’s out of my control.’

  It didn’t exonerate him. He continued to look at her as though he were fighting a battle with a superhuman force. He hated this. She was openly expressing her disbelief, he was holding his deep inside him, but there was no doubting that both of their lives had been torn open by this pregnancy.

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  His jaw clenched. ‘Will you eat something?’

  His words were so reminiscent of the version of him she’d known in New York that for a moment she let herself slip back through the cracks of time, cracks that yearning had opened wider. ‘I’d kill for a coffee.’

  ‘Murder is not necessary,’ he responded immediately. ‘Though I could understand if you felt a little driven to it.’ A joke. A smile teased the corner of her lips but her mouth and heart were too heavy to oblige.

  ‘Come.’ He stood and her stomach rolled.

  She nodded slowly. ‘I’ll just be a moment.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘I’m coming. Honestly.’

  A crisp nod. ‘Fine. This preparation is important, Daisy. It’s for your sake, so you know what to expect.’

  Anxiety shifted through her. ‘Okay.’

  In the bathroom—smaller than the main one she’d passed—she took a moment to freshen up, brushing her hair and teeth, washing her face and applying a little gloss to lips that felt dry courtesy of the aeroplane’s air conditioning. But she worked quickly, aware that time was passing, bringing them closer to the RKH and her future as its queen.

  He was in the main living space of the plane, but he wasn’t alone. Six men and three women were sitting with him, each dressed in suits, so that in contrast Sariq in his robe looked impossibly regal and forbidding. When she entered, all eyes turned to her, yet she felt only the slow burn of Sariq’s.

  ‘Leave us.’

  Their response was automatic. Everyone stood, moving past Daisy, pausing briefly to dip their heads in a bow that was deferential and unsettling. When she turned back to Sariq, he was standing, still watching her.

  ‘Some members of my government,’ he explained.

  ‘Women?’ She moved to the table, deliberately choosing a seat that was several away from him, preferring a little physical separation even though it did little to quell the butterflies that were rampaging through her system.

  ‘This surprises you?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘The RKH is not so out of step with the west. Women hold the same rights as men.’

  A woman appeared then, carrying a tray, which she placed in front of Daisy. The aroma of coffee almost brought a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. It was so familiar, so comforting, that she smiled with genuine pleasure at the attendant.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Ha shalam.’ The attendant smiled back, encouragingly.

  ‘Ha shalam means thank you,’ Sariq explained.

  Daisy repeated it.

  ‘This is Zahrah. She will be your primary aide.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Your Highness.’ Zahrah bowed as the others had, but lower, and she lifted Daisy’s hand in her own, squeezing it. Her eyes were kind, her smile gentle and friendly. The woman was beautiful, with glossy dark hair, long, elegant fingers, and nails painted a matte black. Daisy’s heart swelled. Something like relief flooded her.

  ‘She will help you ease into this,’ Sariq continued. ‘To learn the language and customs of my people, coordinate your schedule, oversee your needs.’

  ‘I think I’ll need a lot of help,’ Daisy murmured, lifting her brows, the words directed towards Zahrah.

  ‘You’re too modest, Your Highness.’

  ‘Please, call me Daisy,’ she insisted.

  In response, Zahrah smiled and bowed once more before leaving the cabin.

  ‘She won’t do that.’

  It took Daisy a moment to understand what he meant.

  ‘Do you remember in New York, how hard you found it to use my name?’

  Daisy sipped her coffee without answering.

  ‘And you are a foreigner with very little understanding of royalty and its power. Imagine having been raised to serve the royal family, as Zahrah was. Deference is ingrained in her. Do not let it unsettle you. Being treated like this is something you will have to become accustomed to.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can—I’m just a normal person. I can’t imagine being treated as anything other than that.’

  ‘In the RKH, you are equal to only one person. Me. To everyone else, you are like a goddess.’

  A shiver ran down her spine. ‘And this is how you were raised? To see yourself as a god?’

  ‘I don’t see myself that way.’ His response was swift and there was a heaviness to the words. ‘Gods have unlimited power. I do not.’

  ‘I’m glad you realise that.’ The words were delivered drily but a smile flicked across his lips, widening the cracks into the past. She gripped onto the present with both hands, refusing to let herself remember what that weekend had been like. It was a lifetime ago, and they were two different people. Then, they’d been together by choice. Now? Circumstances required it, that was all.

  ‘When we land, there will be a small group of photographers, vetted by the palace. You will step out of the aircraft first, onto a platform, where you will stand alone a moment and wave. It will be morning in Haleth, and not too warm yet. I will join you once they have had a moment to take a photograph of you alone. Protocol dictates that we do not touch, publicly.’

  She lifted a brow. ‘That seems somewhat arcane, given I’m pregnant with your baby.’

  ‘It is as it is.’ He lifted his shoulders.

  ‘Fine by me.’ She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes for a moment as the flavour reached inside her, comforting her, bringing peace to her fractured soul. ‘I’d prefer it that way, anyway.’

  His eyes flashed with something she couldn’t interpret. Mockery? Frustration? Pain? She blinked away.

  ‘You are afraid.’

  ‘Of you? No.’

  ‘Not of me.’ He didn’t move, but his words seemed to wrap around her. ‘Of yourself.’

  ‘What?’ She took a gulp of coffee.

  ‘You are afraid of wanting me, even after what’s just happened.’

  Her heart began to thud inside her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and there was a silent plea on her features, a look of confusion and uncertainty, and, yes, of want. Of need.

  He stood then, bringing himself to the space beside her, propping his bottom on the edge of the table and spinning her chair, so she was facing him. ‘We should not have slept together.’ His hand lifted to her hair, running over its find gold ends as though he couldn’t help himself. ‘I knew I wanted you the moment I saw you, and yet you should have been off-limits to me.’ His hand dropped to her cheek. ‘Just as I should have been to you. And yet we couldn’t stop this.’

  She swallowed, her throat shifting with the movement. His hand dropped to her shoulder, his thumb padding across the exposed bone there. ‘I want to promise you I won’t touch you again, but I am afraid too, Daisy.’

  The admission surprised her.

  ‘I am terri
fied of how much I want you, even now. Even when I know you must hate me for bringing you here, for railroading you into this marriage.’

  Her mouth was so dry. She could only stare up at him, but his confession was tangling her into a thousand knots.

  ‘I do hate what you did,’ was all she could say.

  His eyes swept shut, briefly, his lashes thick and dark against his caramel skin. Her stomach hurt. Her heart ached. Her body was alive with fire and flames and yet inside there was a kernel of ice that refused to budge.

  ‘I can conquer this,’ he said simply, dropping his hand and standing. ‘I had no choice but to marry you, but I will not sleep with you again. You have my word.’ His hand formed a fist at his side as though even then he was having to force himself to rail against his instincts and not touch her. ‘You do not need to fear this.’

  Oh, but she did. She was terrified of how she wanted him. Hearing him be so honest about his own struggles made her acknowledge her own—inwardly at least. Yes, she wanted him. Even as they’d said their vows her insides had been heating up, her body acknowledging that, in him, she had met her perfect match.

  But she could barely admit that to herself, let alone to him. ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

  So prim! So formal! Good. Let him think she was grateful for this reprieve instead of desperately wanting to contradict his edict.

  If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. ‘Let’s keep going. There is much you need to know before we land.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN NEW YORK, he’d made a promise to her. Space. Time. Freedom to think, away from him. And he intended to uphold it even when the knowledge that she was in the palace, only a wall separating them, had him wanting to go to her, to speak to her, to see her, to assure himself she was okay. Yet he had made this promise and it seemed small, in the scheme of all that he was asking of her, and therefore vital that he respect it.