Shipwrecked with the sheikh!
Sailing to India to marry a stranger, Constance Montgomery is shipwrecked off the Arabian coast of Murimon. The world believes her lost at sea, and only the kingdom’s ruler, Kadar, knows the truth. She’s honor-bound to leave, but the brooding prince tempts Constance to stay...
Kadar knows that no matter how beautiful Constance is, she is forbidden. But every moment with her seduces him, until temptation becomes torment! Kadar thinks he has no heart left to offer any woman... Can Constance prove him wrong?
Hot Arabian Nights
Be seduced and swept away
by these desert princes!
You won’t want to miss this new, thrillingly exotic quartet from Marguerite Kaye!
First, exiled Prince Azhar must decide whether to claim his kingdom and beautiful unconventional widow Julia Trevelyan!
Read
The Widow and the Sheikh
Already available!
When Sheikh Kadar rescues shipwrecked mail-order bride Constance Montgomery, can a convenient marriage help him maintain peace in his kingdom?
Find out in
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
Available now!
And watch out for two more tantalizing novels, coming soon...
To secure his kingdom’s safety, Sheikh Rafiq must win Arabia’s most dangerous horse race. His secret weapon is an English horse whisperer...whom he does not expect to be an irresistibly attractive woman!
Daredevil Christopher Fordyce has always craved adventure. When his travels lead him to the kingdom of Nessarah, he makes his most exciting discovery yet—a desert princess!
Author Note
The notion of having an astronomer heroine first occurred to me when I was researching Julia, the botanist heroine of the first book in this series, and stumbled across Caroline Herschel, sister of William—who discovered Uranus—in Richard Holmes’s brilliant book The Age of Wonder. I share my heroine’s sense of awe when looking up at the sky on a clear night—although, unlike Constance, when I first started on this book I had no idea what I was actually looking at.
It struck me, as I read up on the history of astronomy, that although today we know exponentially more—not only about our own galaxy but about the billions of others in the far-flung reaches of the universe—that the feeling of our humbling insignificance in the grand scheme of things, and the excitement of knowing there must be as yet undiscovered wonders out there, would be very similar to what she would have felt two hundred years before. In this sense I felt a true affinity with my stargazing heroine.
Sadly, living in Argyll on the west coast of Scotland, I find clear nights are a rarity, but writing this book has ignited a new passion that finds me huddled up under blankets in the darkest spot of the garden with my guide to the night sky. I should say at this point that my enthusiasm still far exceeds my knowledge, so any errors I’ve made in Constance’s celestial observations are entirely my own.
I hope you enjoy escaping to this romantic fantasy kingdom as much as I did when writing about it.
Marguerite
Kaye
Sheikh’s
Mail-Order Bride
Marguerite Kaye writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland. Featuring Regency rakes, highlanders and sheikhs in her stories, she has published almost thirty books and novellas. When she’s not writing, she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website, margueritekaye.com.
Books by Marguerite Kaye
Harlequin Historical
and Harlequin Historical Undone! ebook
Hot Arabian Nights
The Widow and the Sheikh
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
Comrades in Arms
The Soldier’s Dark Secret
The Soldier’s Rebel Lover
Princes of the Desert
(linked to The Armstrong Sisters)
Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem
The Governess and the Sheikh
The Sheikh’s Impetuous Love-Slave (Undone!)
The Armstrong Sisters
The Beauty Within
Rumors that Ruined a Lady
Unwed and Unrepentant
Stand-Alone Novels
Never Forget Me
Strangers at the Altar
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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For my nana, Mary Macfarlane Binnie, who bestowed her love of historical romance on my mum, who in turn imparted it to me. I hope you approve of my own modest efforts.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Historical Note
Excerpt from In the Sheikh’s Service by Susan Stephens
Excerpt from Miss Marianne's Disgrace by Georgie Lee
Chapter One
Kingdom of Murimon, Arabia—May 1815
Daylight was just starting to fade as he neared his journey’s end. He guided his deliberately modest caravan, consisting of the camel on which he sat and two pack mules, through the broad sweep of the valley floor where the largest of Murimon’s oases fed the fields and orchards, sheltered from the fierce heat of the desert sun by the serried ranks of date palms laden with their ripening fruit. Towering above, the crags of the Murimon Mountains he had just traversed provided further shelter, the silver-grey rock streaked with ochre, gold and umber glinting in the sun’s rays.
The small town which served the oasis was built into the foothills of the mountains, consisting of a steep jumble of houses and rooftops which clung precariously to the hillside, leaving every precious scrap of level land free for cultivation. The delicious aroma of roasted goat meat wafted on the faint breeze, along with the soft murmur of voices. There was precious little chance of him being recognised for who he was. His recently ended seven years of self-imposed exile and the kingdom’s state of hibernation due to the current period of deep mourning saw to that. But he kept his gaze turned away all the same, leading his camel and his little train of pack mules past the town towards the final mountain pass he must negotiate, keffiyeh pulled over his face leaving only his eyes uncovered.
His brother would not have countenanced travelling in such a low-key manner. Butrus would have ridden in regal splendour at the head of a caravan of magnificent proportions designed to proclaim his majesty, to encourage his people to pay homage to their ruler, to marvel at and to revere him, to bask in the opulent glare of his princely person. But Butrus was dead. He, Kadar, was Prince of Murimon now. Ostentation sat uneasily with him, though he was beginning to realise that his personal views quite often differed from those of his subjects, and their expectations of him.
Three short months Kadar had reigned, and the full gamut and weight of re
sponsibility he had been forced to assume were becoming clearer. Responsibilities that would never have been his, had fate not twisted and turned so cruelly. He had returned from his exile to attend his brother’s wedding as an honoured guest. Instead, he had attended his funeral. Kadar’s domain was no longer the palace library he had more or less inhabited while growing up here, but this entire nation. People and not books were his subjects. Instead of studying and interpreting the complex legal systems, both ancient and modern, of other lands, for other rulers, he must apply the laws of this land himself, sitting in judgement on a royal throne rather than interpreting dusty tomes in a seat of learning.
Emerging from the narrow pass onto the plateau, Kadar brought his camel to a halt. Below him lay the palace, the wide courtyard already lit by the lanterns hanging in the distinctive rows of palm trees which stood guard with military precision at the entrance to the palace itself. The serpentine road which wound down the cliffs to the port was also lit, lamps winking in the fast-fading light, like stars greeting the dusk. And below that, the two enveloping arms of the harbour, the dark mass of ships and the vast sweep of the Arabian Sea.
The sun was setting on the horizon, a golden orb casting streaks of vermilion, scarlet, orange and dusky pink into the sky. The rhythmic swish of the waves on the shore was like a whispered lullaby. It was the sea he had missed most in his years abroad. No other sea was so brightly blue, scenting the air with that unique combination of salt and heat. Kadar took several deep breaths. The relatively short journey to a neighbouring kingdom he had just completed, his first official state visit, had changed him irrevocably, forcing him to accept that his wishes, his desires, were no longer relevant. Or rather the outcome of this visit had done so. He was a prince first now, a man second. His unwanted inheritance must take priority over all else. Accepting custody of the kingdom he had always loved, he could reconcile himself to that. But as to the stranger he had inherited as a bride...
No! Every instinct rebelled. The echoes of the past, the dark, painful memories which he had travelled half the world to escape, still had the power to wrench at his heart. He could not endure it. Yet he must, and he could.
He must not draw comparisons between the past and the present. He must not dwell on the similarities, must focus on the differences. For a start, this particular woman had made her indifference to him very clear, a sentiment he reciprocated entirely, despite her beauty. It ought to make it easier. No need for pretence. No requirement for false declarations of emotions he was incapable of feeling. Not now. Not ever again.
It ought to make it easier, and yet still he struggled to reconcile himself to this passionless contract. He must steel himself. He must remember that this wedding was what his people demanded, his country required. To honour his brother’s memory by fulfilling his brother’s vision of a new royal dynasty and a suitable heir. And more importantly for Kadar, a large dowry, money with which he could transform Murimon, bring it into the nineteenth century, implement his own golden vision for his people’s future.
Yes, he could do that. It was a huge personal sacrifice, but it was one worth making.
Arabian Sea—three weeks earlier
The storm had been gathering ominously on the horizon for some time. Lady Constance Montgomery, standing in what had become her habitual position on the deck of the East Indiaman sailing ship Kent, watched as the grey clouds mustered, rolling onto the distant stage one after the other as if in response to some invisible cue.
They had been at sea for nine weeks. Captain Cobb reckoned it would be another three before they reached their destination, Bombay. Only three more weeks before Constance would meet, for the first time, the prominent East India merchant who was to be her husband. No matter how hard she tried, she was still unable to prevent that sickening little lurch in her stomach every time she was reminded of this call of duty that took her halfway around the world.
She had resisted this marriage which was convenient for all but herself. She had reasoned. She had come up with any number of alternatives. She had even, to her shame, resorted to tears. But when all her stratagems failed, when it became clear that her fate was sealed, she had resigned herself to it. Boarding the Kent at Plymouth, she had felt as if she was jumping off a cliff rather than stepping onto a ship, her eyes screwed shut to avoid the ground rushing up to meet her. The ground, in the form of this arranged match, was not rushing, but it was inching inexorably closer as the East Indiaman sailed across the ocean on fickle winds, edging ever nearer to Bombay. Constance had begun to dread their arrival. This marriage—or any marriage for that matter—ran counter to all her inclinations.
Oh, dear! She had promised herself not to pick over it all again. The deed was done, the deal had been made—for a business transaction by another name this marriage most certainly was. The exorbitant sum of money Papa required to save the estates had been despatched by Mr Gilmour Edgbaston. The goods, in the form of Constance, were in transit in the opposite direction. ‘And there’s no point in railing against your fate,’ the most expensive piece of cargo on the ship told herself firmly. ‘The only thing to be done is to make the best of it.’
An excellent resolution and one, she had persuaded herself before she sailed, which was quite achievable. But before she had sailed, she had been bolstered by Mama’s happy smiles and confident assertions that Constance was doing the right thing. Now, very far from home indeed, with far too much time to consider the reality of the situation, she was not at all sure that Mama’s simple philosophy that money was the root of all evils and the source of all happiness had any foundation at all. Not that she had ever believed it. She’d simply had no option but to pretend to do so, because Papa had given Mama no choice, and so Mama had been forced to demand this ultimate sacrifice of her daughter.
It hurt. It hurt a great deal more than Constance had ever permitted Mama to see. A great deal more than she cared to admit even to herself too, so she endeavoured not to think about it and she succeeded, mostly. Save that here she was again, dwelling on it most pointlessly. ‘When my time would be a great deal more productively spent dwelling on how I can make sure my marriage does not become a prison cell in which I must serve a life sentence,’ she told herself sternly.
Her heart sank. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to force herself to feel positive about something so very negative. She had three more weeks at sea. Three last weeks of freedom, and three more weeks to make the most of the spectacular stargazing opportunities the long sea journey had granted her as they travelled under unfamiliar skies, crossing the equator into the southern hemisphere before crossing back into the northern hemisphere again on this final part of the journey.
Mind you, it was doubtful whether she’d see anything of value through her telescope tonight, Constance thought. The clouds had merged into one roiling mass now, an angry pewter colour, dense iron grey at the centre. Around her on the deck the crew were struggling with the rigging. The calm deep blue of the Arabian Sea, with its crystal-tipped waves, like the clouds, seemed to be forming into one foaming mass, a more sinister sea which moved in one great rolling motion, sending the Kent high above the horizon before plunging low, into the depths of the swell.
Constance retreated into the lea of the main mast in the middle of the ship, but spray soaked her face and travelling gown. Above her, terrifyingly high on the crow’s nest, a sailor signalled frantically to the crew.
‘Best get down below decks, your ladyship,’ one of the ship’s officers told her. ‘We’re going to head in towards the shelter of the coast, but I’m not sure we’ll be able to outrun the storm. It’s going to get a tad rough.’
‘A tad?’ Staggering as the Kent crested the swell like a rearing stallion, Constance laughed. ‘That sounds to me rather an understatement.’
‘Aye. So you’d best get below sharpish. If you thought the Bay of Biscay was rough, I assure you it was noth
ing to what’s heading our way. Now if you’ll excuse me.’
The ship listed again. Above her, the mast creaked alarmingly. Barefooted Jack Tars clung tenaciously to the sodden decks, going about the business of steering the huge three-master towards safer waters. Several of the soldiers of the Thirty-First Regiment of Foot, en route to a posting in India, were helping out, looking decidedly unsteady in comparison to the sailors, but Constance was the only civilian left on deck. The wives and children of the soldiers and the twenty other private passengers including Mrs Peacock, the returning merchant’s wife whom Papa had paid to act as companion and protect his daughter’s valuable reputation during the voyage, were all safe and dry below.
She really ought to join them. It was becoming treacherous on deck, but it was also incredibly invigorating. Here was a breath of true freedom. Constance found a more secure spot under the main mast, out of the way of the crew and mostly out of sight too. Though her stomach lurched with every climb and dip, she had discovered very early on in the voyage that she was an excellent sailor, and felt not remotely ill. Spray, heavy with salt, burned her skin. Her hair escaped from its rather haphazard coiffure, whipping her cheeks, blowing wildly about her face. The wind was up now, roaring and whistling through the rigging, making the sails crack. The ship too was protesting at the tempest, the timbers emitting an oddly human groan as they strained against the nails and caulking which bound them together.
The spray had become a thick mist through which Constance could make out only the very hazy outlines of scurrying sailors. The ship listed violently to port, throwing her from her hiding place, sending her sliding out of control across the deck, saved only when her flailing hands caught at a rope. The swell was transformed into terrifyingly high walls of water which broke over the decks. Clutching desperately at her rope, she was dimly aware of other bodies slipping and sliding around her. The ship listed again, this time to starboard. Men cried out, their voices sharp with fear. Below decks, women were screaming.
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