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

by Clare Connelly

  ‘It’s ample,’ he agreed with a small shift of his head, but his eyes were dark and they bore into hers.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she whispered quietly. ‘You don’t want this to be a real marriage. You told me that at the embassy that night.’

  He pulled a face. ‘I wasn’t referring to sex.’

  ‘No?’

  His features shifted for a moment. ‘I have known, all my life, that I would never love whomever I married. That’s what I was referring to that night. So far as I’m concerned, sex is just a biological act. It can be shared without any true danger of intimacy.’

  She felt as though her chest were being cleaved in two. She stared up at him, unable to explain the pain that was lashing her, or its source. But on some level, she found his assertion to be repugnant.

  ‘And intimacy is bad?’

  ‘It’s not bad. It’s simply not part of the equation for me. I accepted a long time ago that my duty to my country would require me to choose this path.’

  He brought his body closer, so his broad chest was pressed to her breasts, and her nipples tingled painfully in anticipation. ‘But sex? Sex without emotion, without love, can still be amazing.’ He lifted a hand to her face, holding her still, and she caught her breath, waiting for him to kiss her, certain he would.

  She felt his needs as surely as she did her own, his desire palpable, his body hardening against hers. Nothing moved, even the very air of the desert stood still, waiting, expectant.

  ‘However, I swore I would keep my distance.’ He dropped his hand and, with obvious regret, moved away from her. ‘And I intend to honour that promise.’

  It took several moments for her breathing to achieve anything close to normal.

  ‘I have given you space, since you came to Haleth.’

  Still, she couldn’t speak.

  ‘But three weeks without a sighting of the new Queen has left a hole for the media to fill. It’s time for my people to begin a relationship with you.’

  Her heart began to speed for a different reason now and anxiety caused a fine bead of perspiration to break out on her forehead. It took her several moments to remember how to form words. ‘Do you mean...like an interview or something?’

  ‘An interview is a good idea.’ He nodded, no sign of the conversation they’d just had, which had left her all kinds of shaken up, in his handsome face. ‘But initially, there is to be a ball. My parliament and foreign diplomats will attend. The event will be held in your honour.’

  Whatever she’d been feeling moments ago was gone completely. ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Do you intend to stay hidden here for ever?’

  She considered that. Did she? These last three weeks had been blessedly quiet but she’d been cognisant of the fact she was dodging her responsibilities, hiding from the world she knew to be out there.

  ‘Do you care? About the rumours?’

  He frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘So why does it matter?’

  ‘Rumours in foreign papers that speculate on matters I know to be false? This is laughable. But you are the Emira of the RKH and my people must respect you; they must accept our child as their future ruler.’

  A prickle of danger shifted through her. ‘You’re worried they might not? That this baby might not be accepted as your heir?’

  ‘I’m not worried.’ Nor did he look it. ‘But I do not wish your life, or his, to be harder because of steps we could easily take now to smooth the way of this transition.’

  It all made so much sense. She knew she should agree, but agreeing with Sariq stuck in her craw, so she maintained a somewhat dubious silence.

  ‘Malik is organising the ball. I’ll have Zahrah notify you of the details in due course.’

  He couldn’t sleep. Hours after he’d last seen Daisy, and he felt a curdling sense of foreboding, a kernel of worry he couldn’t dispel. Telling himself he was being melodramatic, he threw his sheet back and stood, pacing to the small timber piece of furniture against the wall, lifting the ancient pewter jug and pouring himself a glass of water. In the distance, through the open doors of his bedroom, he could hear the familiar call of the nuusha bird, the night creature’s song a cross between a bell and a whip. It was delicate and resounding, reaching across the desert from their nesting grounds in the cliffs of sand to the west of the palace.

  He’d promised her he wouldn’t touch her, but, oh, how he’d ached to do exactly that. When he’d seen her that afternoon, her cheeks pink from the heat, her hair so beautifully intricate but in a way he’d needed to loosen, so that he could remember the way it had fallen around her face when they’d made love...

  He shouldn’t think about that. He couldn’t. Those nights were from a different lifetime, when he was free to act on impulse and she to indulge her desire.

  He’d promised he wouldn’t touch her and yet he’d come so close that day. He’d ached to kiss her. He very nearly had. And now, memories of her kept him awake, tormenting him, so he had a keening sense to go for a run, or a ride, to leave this gilded cage of a palace, to throw off the expectations incumbent upon him and be his own man. For one night. He strode onto the balcony, his eyes finding the looming shape of the caves, tracing their outline, wondering if he could absent himself from the palace for the four days it would take to make the round trip. There was an oasis there; he’d camped at its edges often.

  Her strangled sound of surprise was barely audible at first, swallowed by the gentle breeze and the bird’s cries.

  It was as though he’d thought of her so hard and so often that she’d miraculously appeared before him. She wore a simple cream shift, barely covering her beautiful body, so he strained to keep his eyes on her face rather than allowing them to dip to the swell of cleavage revealed there. After their contact that day, seeing her like this was the last thing he needed. Knowing he had to be strong didn’t alter the fact he wanted, more than anything, to drag her against him and make love to her.

  ‘I...’ Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips, just as it had earlier that day. His cock hardened.

  ‘You couldn’t sleep,’ he murmured, knowing he should stay where he was, even when other forces were pushing him forwards, closing the distance between them.

  She shook her head. Her hair was loose now, just as he’d wished it to be, and the breeze caught at the lengths, lifting them so a skein of the moon’s light cut through it. Silver against gold. Magic and captivating.

  When he’d read the articles, only one had caught his attention, only one had played on his mind as being worthy of examination. ‘Tell me about your ex-husband.’

  Even in the scarce light thrown by the full moon, he could make out the shift in her features, their arrangement into a mask of surprise, at first, and then hesitation.

  ‘Max? Why do you want to know about him?’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  Her smile was cynical. ‘I’m not like you, Sariq. Love is the only reason I would have ever married anyone.’ And then, quickly, with a look of mortification, ‘Present circumstances excluded, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She turned away from him then, but her profile was all the more alluring for she was hiding herself from him. He had to move closer to see her better. He caught a hint of her delicate fragrance and his body tightened. His fingers ached to reach for her.

  ‘And what happened to this great love, then?’

  She angled her face to his, her clear eyes analytical, studying him in a way few had ever dared. It was unusual for Sariq to have an equal. Most people feared his power even when he wielded it so rarely, but Daisy was unflinching in his presence, and always had been.

  ‘We got divorced. End of story.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Her voice rang with discontent. ‘All the gory details?�
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  ‘The pertinent ones at least.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t want to tell me?’

  A flicker of a frown. He wanted to smudge his finger over her lips, but didn’t. ‘Is it relevant?’

  ‘It’s...of interest.’

  She turned back to the view, her eyes following the sound of the bird in the distance. For a long time, she was quiet, and it was easy for Sariq to believe she had no intention of speaking. But then, finally, after a long exhalation, as if gearing herself up to discuss the matter: ‘We met shortly after my mother died. I inherited. Not a lot—our house and her small investment portfolio. Enough for me not to have to worry about money for a while. It was her dearest wish that I pursue my musical career and I promised her—’ Daisy paused, her voice becoming gravelled, her throat moving beneath his gaze as she swallowed fiercely so he felt a surprising urge to comfort her. ‘I promised her I would. It was one of the last things I said to her.’

  She was going to cry. He held himself rigid, adhering to his promise, but, oh, how that cost him when his arms were heavy with a need to drag her against him, to offer her physical comfort to her emotional wounds.

  ‘After my father left, I stopped playing. I couldn’t bear to any more. It was something we shared.’ Her smile lacked warmth; it was a grimace of pain masquerading as something else, something brave when he could feel her pain. ‘But then Mom got sick—’ she frowned ‘—and it was one of the only things I could do to get through to her, to help her, so I played and I played and when she was well, she’d beg me never to give up. She’d beg me to play so everyone heard.’

  Every answer spawned a new question. What had happened to her mother? Where had her father gone? They’d been so open and honest in New York, it had been easy to ask her whatever he wished, and he’d been confident she would answer. But there were barriers between them now, necessary and impenetrable, so he didn’t ask. He stayed on topic even when a part of him wanted to digress.

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Max loved my playing too.’ Her words were scrubbed raw. ‘And I loved to play for him.’

  Something moved in Sariq, and he wasn’t naïve enough to pretend he didn’t know what it was. Jealousy. He had listened to Daisy play and wished, on some level, that she were playing just for him.

  ‘Max had a lot of big dreams. But they were... I helped him as much as I could. I trusted him implicitly. He was my husband, why wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t have married him if I hadn’t.’ Her eyes lifted to his and the strength of the ghosts there almost knocked the breath from his lungs.

  ‘And?’ His word held a command, there was that imperative he was used to employing, but it was born now not of regal title so much as a desperate hunger to comprehend. Something terrible had happened between them, he could feel it, and it was vital that he understand it.

  ‘He lied to me.’ The words were filled with bitterness. ‘He didn’t love me, he loved my inheritance and the implicit trust I had in him. Trust that led me to add him as a signatory to my accounts, that meant I never questioned his transactions. It wasn’t until I began to prepare for the Juilliard that I realised he’d taken everything. Everything.’

  Sariq was completely silent but inside, her explanation was exploding like the shattering of fine glass.

  ‘Not only had he cleared my accounts, he’d taken out a mortgage on Mom’s home, which I had owned clear of debt. I had to sell it, but that debt is still there, so I’m chipping away at it as best I can but...’

  ‘It’s onerous,’ he supplied, after a moment, sympathy expressing itself in his tone.

  ‘You could say that.’ A bitter laugh. Then, her hand lifted to her throat, where a delicate line of diamonds ran across the detailing at the neckline of her nightgown. ‘I suppose that’s not one of my problems now.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Relief spread through him, because this was something real and palpable he could do, to relieve at least one of her worries. ‘Have Zahrah provide Malik with the details and he shall clear this debt.’

  ‘Have my people call your people?’ she murmured, shifting to face him, so their bodies were only two or three inches apart.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Her features compressed with exasperation, and then her eyes lifted over his shoulder, so he wanted to reach out and drag her face to his, to look into her soul through their green depths. ‘I thought I loved him, but, over the years, I’ve given it a lot of thought and, honestly, I think I was just so grateful.’ The words were laced with self-directed anger.

  ‘Why grateful?’

  ‘When my dad left, it was easy to believe it had been my fault, that I was in some way unlovable. Then Mom died and I was all alone, and it was terrifying and empty and quiet. When Max appeared, he seemed to worship me. He was so full of praise and flattery and couldn’t bear to be away from me.’ She shook her head. ‘It cooled once we were married. Now I see why: he got what he needed from me, but I was so grateful still, and I kept telling myself everything would be okay when my instincts were warning me all along.’

  ‘Were you able to recoup any of the money?’

  ‘He lost it.’ She gripped the railing with one hand; the other remained at her side, as if weighted there by the burdensome diamond wedding ring he’d placed on her finger. ‘Or hid it so well I didn’t have the means to find it.’

  ‘And so you took a job working at a hotel, trying to chip down a massive debt by waiting on demanding guests?’

  ‘They weren’t all demanding,’ she corrected.

  ‘If the debt is the size you’re implying, surely that would have been a fool’s errand?’

  ‘What were my other options?’ she pushed, a hint of steel touching the words. ‘To accept defeat? To let him win?’

  Her fierce fire stirred something to life in him.

  ‘Many would have.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘No, not you.’

  She swayed forward a little, but not enough. He remembered the way she’d felt that afternoon, her soft curves against his hard edges, and he wanted, more than anything, to feel that again. And then what?

  The flicker of flames would convert to so much more. They would touch and he would kiss her, and then carry her to his bed where he’d spend the entire night reminding her that, aside from her pregnancy and their marriage, there was something between them that was all their own. But there couldn’t be. All his life he’d understood the danger that came from caring for one’s spouse. His father had been destroyed by his mother’s death. Sariq would never care for anyone enough to feel their loss so keenly. His country deserved such sacrifice—his duty demanded that of him.

  And perhaps she intuited the strengthening of his resolve, because she blinked, her huge eyes shifting to his with a look he couldn’t comprehend, and then she stepped backwards, wrapping a single arm across her torso. ‘It’s late and I’m tired. Goodnight, Your Highness.’

  She was gone before he could remind her to call him Sariq.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE READ THE intelligence report with a frown on his face that gave little of his anger away. But inside, a fury was unravelling that would know no bounds. ‘And they were arrested at the border this morning?’

  ‘Two security agents intercepted their vehicle as it crossed into the old town of Rika.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘To the teeth.’

  Sariq’s expression was grim. ‘Where are they being held?’

  ‘In the catacombs.’

  ‘Fine.’ He scraped his chair back. ‘We shall go there now.’

  Malik’s displeasure was obvious. ‘But, sir, the ball begins in an hour...’

  ‘The ball will wait.’ The words were louder—harsher—than he’d intended. With an effort, he brought his temper under control. ‘These men were intending to kill m
y wife, were they not?’

  ‘That is the charge, yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘Then before I parade my wife in front of a slew of people, I would like to ascertain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they have no links to anyone in attendance this evening.’

  ‘The guards will investigate this.’

  Sariq held a hand up to silence his oldest, most loyal advisor. ‘That is not sufficient. In this, I will not delegate.’ He stalked towards the door. ‘Come, Malik.’

  Daisy wasn’t sure what she’d expected. In the hotel in America, the ballroom was impossibly grand, with tall columns and exceptional art, but even that was nothing to this. A wing of the palace stood vacant of all furniture. The walls were gold, and each was decorated with an ancient piece of art. Flower arrangements were placed on marble pillars at regular intervals, so the air was rent with sweetness. At the end of the enormous room, glass doors had been thrown open to reveal a dance floor made of white marble tiles. While there were fairy lights strung across it, nothing dimmed the beauty of the desert night, the brightness of the stars that shone down on them. The music was traditional, lyre, flute and sitar combining to create an atmospheric and intriguing piece.

  Daisy hovered above it all, waiting in the wings, safe from being seen, her anxiety at the role she must play increasing with every moment that passed.

  ‘He won’t be much longer,’ Zahrah, standing a little way away, murmured soothingly.

  Daisy made an effort to relax her expression, even attempting a smile. ‘It’s fine.’

  The music continued and, below her, beautifully dressed guests milled, champagne in some hands, iced tea in others. Some of the women wore western-style ball gowns with enormous diamonds and jewels at their throats. Others wore ornate gowns and robes, the delicate, bright scarves arranged over their hair, adding mystery and intrigue to their appearance.

  Daisy had worn what Zahrah had provided her with. ‘It was the Emira’s,’ Zahrah had explained.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His Highness’s mother.’