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

by Clare Connelly

  In the three weeks since they’d arrived in the RKH, he’d upheld his promise. Maintaining his distance, receiving his updates from Zahrah to assure himself that Daisy was coping, and that she was well. He’d organised medical appointments to ascertain her physical health, and that of the baby. And he’d managed the politics of their marriage like a bull at a gate. A top PR firm was engaged to sell the message in the media. This was a new age for the country and his marriage to Daisy Carrington symbolised a step forward with the west. Reaction had been, for the most part, positive. Though there were some quarters that publicly questioned his choice and voiced great offence that the Sheikh of the RKH should turn his nose up at the two women who had widely been known to be candidates as his prospective Emira.

  As for those women, he’d met with each privately, and to them he’d sold it as a love story.

  ‘I was not prepared for how I would feel to meet her. I wish I had been able to resist, but there were greater forces at play.’

  It had been easy to sell that message. It hadn’t been love at first sight with Daisy, but it had been infatuation, and that was equally blinding.

  There were those who seemed to accept his choice to marry an American, but not Daisy. Stories about her had run in the press. Fewer in the RKH papers, which were generally respectful of the palace and its privacy, but, in the blogs and cheaper tabloids, derisive pieces about her status as a divorced woman had been printed. Someone had found photos of her first wedding, so he’d seen her smiling up at her first husband, and something inside him had fired to life, filling him with darkness and questions. He wanted to know about this man she’d married—by choice. The man she must have loved at some point, even if she didn’t now.

  And he’d wanted to silence the stories that speculated on all sorts of things in Daisy’s life before him, things he knew to be false without having had the conversations. Rumours that she’d travelled across America with a rock band, the inference being that she’d slept with the whole slew of musicians. Suggestions that her role at the hotel had been to appease guests in whatever manner she found suitable. And yes, the inevitable suggestion that this baby wasn’t actually his.

  He had read them with fury at first and, as the weeks went by, with muted anger and disbelief and, finally, with guilt and regret. She didn’t deserve this.

  ‘Has she read them?’ he’d asked Zahrah on the fifth morning.

  ‘I believe so, Your Highness.’

  A grim line had lodged on his lips and it hadn’t lifted since, and after three weeks of feeling as if he wanted to see her, to ensure she was okay, but resisting that impulse because she’d asked it of him, he was close to the breaking point.

  So it wasn’t precisely Malik’s fault that they argued. Sariq had been ready to unleash his fury at anyone who looked at him the wrong way, let alone what Malik said.

  ‘You cannot blame these people, sir. She is not suitable and it will take time for the country to adjust their expectations.’

  Fire had filled Sariq’s blood. ‘In what way is your Emira not suitable?’

  Malik hadn’t appeared to realise he was on dangerous ground. ‘Her nationality. Her marital status. Her pedigree.’

  ‘If I have no issue with these things, how dare you?’

  Malik’s head jerked back. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I did not mean to offend you. I have spent my life protecting your interests...’

  ‘My interests are now her interests.’

  Malik was silent.

  ‘You will organise a ball. Invite the parliament and foreign diplomats. It’s time for the people of Haleth to meet my wife.’

  Malik dipped his head but it showed scepticism.

  ‘She is pregnant with my child.’ Malik scraped his chair back and moved towards the open doors that led to the balcony. A light breeze was lifting off the desert, bringing with it the fragrance of sand and ash, and a hint of relief from the day’s warmth. ‘I wish, more than anything, that it hadn’t been necessary to marry her.’ His shoulders were squared as he remembered the way he’d had to bully Daisy into this. Regret perforated his being. ‘She is now my wife. That’s all there is to it.’

  It was another baking-hot day. Daisy stood where she was, on the balcony that wrapped around this segment of the palace, staring out at the shimmering blue sky and desert sands that seemed to glow in the midday sun until a raised voice caught her attention. She turned in that direction right as a door pushed open and Sariq strode out, his frame magnetic to her gaze, his expression like thunder.

  She stayed right where she was, frozen to the spot, her eyes feasting on him, her brain telling her to move, her blood insisting that she stay. It had been three weeks since she’d seen him. True to his word, he’d left her in peace, and she knew she should have been gratified that he’d respected her wishes, but deep down she felt so lonely, and so afraid.

  Emotions she’d never show him, though. She tilted her chin in defiance. At least he looked as surprised to see her as she felt to see him. His chest moved with the force of his breathing; it was clear he was in a bad temper.

  But why?

  The raised voices—had one belonged to him?

  Her mouth felt dry, and that had nothing to do with the arid desert climate.

  He stared at her as though he was trying to frame words and she stared back until the silence became unbearable. What did she have to say to this man, anyway?

  His eyes roamed her face in a way that sparked fires in her blood. How she resented his easy ability to do that! She felt her nipples pucker against the lace of her bra and her abdomen clenched hard with unmistakable lust. A biological response that she had no intention of obeying.

  A bird flapped overhead, its wingspan enormous, drawing Daisy’s gaze. She watched as it circled the desert and then began to drift downwards, its descent controlled and elegant.

  It flew beyond her sight and so she looked away, back to Sariq. He was frowning now, but still regarding her with the full force of his attention, as though he could understand her if only he looked for long enough. But she didn’t want to be understood.

  Swallowing to bring much-needed moisture back to her mouth, she said quietly, ‘Excuse me,’ before turning and heading into the blessed cool of the tiled sitting room of the palace. Her heart though wouldn’t stop hammering. She knew their suites of rooms were in close proximity, but she hadn’t realised this balcony was shared by both. It seemed to create a greater intimacy than she was comfortable with. She used this space often, particularly in the evenings when the sting of the day’s heat had dropped, and she was able to sit beneath the blanket of jewels dotted through the inky night sky, reading or simply existing, quiet and contemplative.

  ‘Daisy.’ His voice held a command. She ignored it. ‘Daisy.’

  Damn it. He was closer now, his voice right behind her. She stopped walking and turned, but she was unprepared for this—the full force of attraction that would assail her at his proximity. But attraction was beside the point—she wouldn’t give in to that again.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled. ‘Sariq.’

  ‘Yes, Sariq?’

  He latched his gaze to hers and her pulse throbbed through her. Still, he stared, and for so long that she wondered if he had any intention of speaking. She was about to turn away from him anew when his gaze dropped to her stomach and a hint of guilt peppered her mood. She was pregnant with his child, and he’d spent three weeks away from her. Naturally he was curious.

  ‘I’m fine. The baby’s fine, too. We had a scan two weeks ago.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  And then, a smile lifted one corner of his lips, a grudging smile that wasn’t exactly born of happiness. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t involve myself in the medical care of our child?’

  Their child. T
his had nothing to do with her.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘This wasn’t included in your report?’

  ‘Basic health information.’ He shrugged with ingrained arrogance. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘What more is there of consequence?’

  His brows knitted together. Her tone was unmistakably caustic. ‘You’re happy?’

  She couldn’t help the sceptical laugh that burst from her. ‘Really?’

  ‘Zahrah says you’re settling into your routine well?’

  Daisy ignored the prickle of betrayal that shifted inside her. Everyone in this palace reported to Sariq. It shouldn’t surprise her that the servant she’d begun to think of as a friend was doing likewise. ‘My routine involves being pampered around the clock. I don’t imagine many people would struggle with that.’

  Frustration, though, weaved through her words.

  ‘But you do,’ he insisted. ‘You don’t like it.’

  Her expression was a grimace. ‘I’m more comfortable doing the pampering than I am being spoiled. I don’t need all this.’ She lifted a hand to her head, where her blonde hair had been braided and styled into an elaborate up-do. ‘I’m not used to it.’

  ‘You’ll become used to it.’

  A mutinous expression crossed her face. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes.’ And then, more softly, ‘You’re aware of the media stories?’

  Pain sliced inside her being. She wrenched her face away, unable to meet his eyes. Some of the stories—most, in fact—had been absolutely appalling. ‘Are you wondering how many are true?’

  He said a word in his own language that, going by the tone and inflection, was a bitter curse. ‘I am asking how these preposterous stories have affected you. This has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘You don’t care that I’m a rock star groupie?’

  ‘I don’t care about any of it.’ But something in his eyes showed that to be a lie. He wasn’t being completely honest to her, and she hated that. She hated that he might have read the headlines and believed them, that he might believe she’d made a habit of sleeping with guests of the hotel. After everything she’d been through with Max, Daisy had made a point of remaining guarded with members of the opposite sex.

  The irony of these stories—when she’d been a virgin on her wedding night, and slept with no one since her divorce—filled her with a desire to defend herself. Except Sariq didn’t deserve that. What did it matter if he thought her promiscuous? Who cared? As if he hadn’t had his share of lovers in the past?

  There was only one element of the stories that she cared to contradict. ‘You are the father.’

  A look of anger slashed his features. ‘I know this.’

  She bit down on her lip then, staring out at the desert. ‘We were together two nights, but it was enough for me to see inside your soul, Daisy Al Antarah.’ It was the first time her new name had been spoken aloud to her and it sent a frisson of response shuttling down her spine. ‘I saw you and I wanted you. I seduced you. There was nothing practised about your responses to me. I am aware that I put you in the position of doing something outside your usual comfort zone.’

  Which meant what? That she was bad in bed? Great. It was a silly thing to care about in that moment. A thought not worthy of her, so she relegated it to the back of her mind.

  ‘I should have seen the signs. Perhaps I did, and chose to ignore them.’

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Your inexperience, your innocence.’ He shook his head, as though he were angry at himself. ‘I knew you were out of your depth and I ignored that because it suited me, because I wanted you, and now we must both pay the price for that.’

  Something like pain clenched her heart, because his regret was heavy in the tone of his words, but, more than that, she could feel it emanating off his frame. ‘You don’t want me here.’

  He shifted his gaze to hers without speaking.

  ‘You wish this hadn’t happened, that we weren’t married.’

  A muscle jerked in his jaw and he regarded her silently. When the air between them was unbearably thick with tension, Daisy took a small step backwards, intending to leave, but his hand on hers stilled her.

  She froze, her body screaming at her for something she couldn’t fathom. ‘Don’t you wish that, Daisy?’

  Wish what? She swept her eyes shut for a moment, gathering thoughts that had been scattered by his simple touch. As she stood there, his thumb began to move slowly over her inner wrist, sending pins and needles scuttling through her veins.

  ‘I...’ She darted her tongue out to moisten her lower lip at the same moment she opened her eyes, so she saw the way his attention was drawn to her mouth and the flame of desire began to spark harder.

  ‘This marriage is the last thing either of us wanted.’ The words were soft, and yet they cut something deep inside her. ‘When we met in New York, I was in a deep state of grief.’ Her heart softened. ‘I was weak, where you were concerned. I wanted someone to take the pain of loss away, and you did. When you came to my bed, it obliterated everything besides my need for you.’

  She stared up at him, her heart thudding in her chest. Her head and her emotions were at war with one another. Everything she knew she felt about men and love and sex demanded that she pull away from him, but instincts and feelings were holding her right where she was, a flash of sympathy making her want to comfort him and reassure him even when she doubted he deserved that.

  ‘I wanted to be with you,’ she said quietly, absolving him of the guilt of feeling that he’d overruled her in some way. ‘Believe me, if I hadn’t, I would have been perfectly capable of shutting down your advances.’

  He lifted his other hand, reaching it around behind her head to the pins that kept her style in place. ‘You had to do so many times, I suppose.’

  Pain shifted inside her. ‘The articles aren’t true.’

  ‘We’ve covered that.’ Each pin he removed, he dropped to the ground, so there was a quiet tinkling sound before he moved on to the next. ‘That doesn’t mean you weren’t the object of interest from many guests before me.’

  A hint of heat coloured her cheeks, because he was right. ‘From time to time. But I’ve always found it easy to deflect unwanted attention.’

  ‘To fade into the background,’ he remembered, moving to the fourth pin, loosening it so a braid began to fall from her crown.

  ‘As my job required of me.’ Why did her voice sound so husky, so coarse?

  ‘And you tried to do this with me.’ Another pin dropped.

  It shouldn’t have been biologically possible, but somehow Daisy’s heart had moved position, taking up real estate in the column of her throat. ‘Not hard enough.’

  His eyes narrowed by the smallest amount. Another pin dropped. And another. When he spoke, he was so close his breath warmed her temple. One braid fell completely. His gaze moved to the side as his fingers worked at freeing it completely, so half her hair hung loose about her face. ‘Do you think you could have done anything that would have put a stop to what we shared?’

  It was hard to speak with her heart in her throat. ‘Are you saying you wouldn’t have taken “no” for an answer?’

  The other braid fell. ‘I’m saying you weren’t capable of resisting what was happening between us.’

  She wanted to defy him, to deny that fiercely, but there was a part of her that knew he spoke the truth. ‘You’re wrong.’ The words were feeble.

  He ignored them. ‘So step away from me now.’ He loosened the braid. She held her breath, staring up at him, fierce needs locking her to the spot when her brain was shouting at her to draw back, to show him that he was wrong about her, that she was very much in control of her responses to him.

  But she wasn’t and never had been, and she hated that.

  Challenge lay between them, sharp
like a blade. The air was thick and nothing could ease it. Breathing hurt.

  ‘I told you I wouldn’t touch you.’ His fingers loosened her hair. A breeze lifted it so some ran across her cheek. ‘I intend to honour that promise until you release me from it.’

  Her harsh intake of breath sounded between them. That wasn’t fair. She couldn’t want him—she sure as heck shouldn’t—but her knees were trembling and heat was building between her thighs, whispering promises she desperately wanted to obey.

  ‘Sariq.’ She didn’t know what she wanted to say, but his name seemed like a good place holder, and she liked the way it felt on her lips, as though it were a promise. But of what?

  ‘If I kissed you...’ he moved his hand to her lips, padding his thumb over her flesh ‘...we’d be in bed within minutes. If we even made it that far.’

  Her temperature spiked at the vivid imagery.

  ‘Just like in New York.’

  Her lips parted.

  ‘You see, your body tells me a story, habibte. I see desire in your eyes, with how wide they flare and how dark your pupils are. Your cheeks are pink, your breathing rushed as though you have run a marathon. Your breasts move quickly as you try to fill your lungs, and your nipples...’ he dropped his gaze ‘...have been begging for my attention since I stopped you from leaving this room. If I touched your most intimate places, I would feel your heat and need for me against my palm, just as I did in New York.’

  She sucked in a ragged breath.

  ‘It would be easy for me to kiss you and make you forget the path you’ve chosen, just as I did in America. It would be easy for me to override your instincts and make you mine. But you would hate me for that, wouldn’t you?’

  Would she? She couldn’t say. She was a mess.

  ‘You think forcing me to marry you isn’t already sufficient grounds for hate?’

  The anger of her statement surprised her, though it shouldn’t. She felt backed into a corner—lashing out was a normal response.