Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride

by Marguerite Kaye

  While the vast majority of the star-based legends which Constance and Kadar discuss are well documented, the legend of the sea people and the island of Koros are entirely the product of my own imagination. There are sea people mentioned in One Thousand and One Nights who can, unlike other mythical mermaids, walk and breathe on land, but the sea-siren aspect of the story came from tales told to me when I was a child of the selkies of the Western Isles—seals who shed their coats and lured the handsomest of the fishermen into the sea to their graves—and the mermaids with seaweed hair and a siren call, who sat on the rocks luring ships to a watery grave.

  Finally, more prosaically, a quick word on Kadar’s coronation—which, as the sharp-eyed among you might have noticed, is an ‘edited version’ of the coronation in the first book in this series, The Widow and the Sheikh. That itself was a very much adapted version of a real coronation: that of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953.

  As ever, there’s a great deal more geeky stuff I could mention, and no doubt some geeky stuff I’ve got wrong. I’m always happy to be corrected, and equally happy to answer questions, so do look me up on Twitter or Facebook if you’d like to chat about any aspect of this book, or indeed the Hot Arabian Nights series.

  Harlequin Presents® brings you a twenty-first century tale of seduction in the sands from USA TODAY bestselling author Susan Stephens!

  Sheikh Shazim Al Q’Aqabi must resist his instant attraction to mysterious dancer Isla Sinclair for duty is Shazim’s only mistress. Until Isla is revealed as the prize winner who will travel to the desert to work with him...making their chemistry impossible to ignore...

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  IN THE SHEIKH’S SERVICE

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  In the Sheikh’s Service

  by Susan Stephens

  Isla bringing up the past had really thrown Shazim, but work had always been his salvation. Thankfully, there was no shortage of work to do. They were still at the watering hole where he was separating the pregnant ibexes from the rest of the herd, when Isla joined him. She acted as if nothing unusual had happened between them. That suited him. They’d get more done.

  They worked side by side until the sun went down, and they worked on by moonlight. When the moon finally went behind a cloud, he called it a day.

  ‘That’s it. We’ll start again tomorrow.’

  They walked back together to the tent, but he stopped when he reached the supplies he’d decanted from his saddlebags.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Isla asked him.

  ‘Preparing to sleep beneath the stars...’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said awkwardly as he rolled out his sleeping mat.

  ‘I could sleep on the floor of the tent,’ he suggested tongue in cheek, ‘but I prefer to sleep out here.’

  ‘Then, so do I,’ she blurted.

  ‘You?’ He stared at her in astonishment. Even though she’d opened her heart to him, after her last brush with intimacy he had imagined Isla would want to forget being close to him. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You sleep under cover. You’re not used to sleeping rough.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I’m used to—’

  He cursed beneath his breath as she disappeared inside the tent, and then stared at the sky and asked for patience when she returned loaded down with blankets and cushions.

  ‘Let me,’ she said, dumping them on the ground so she could dip down to help him clear some rocks away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, glancing up.

  ‘What are you sorry for?’

  ‘For loading my troubles onto you—can we start again?’

  She took his silence for refusal. ‘Please?’

  She came right up to him, and looked so young and sexy. ‘Better not,’ he said.

  ‘But our working relationship’s still okay?’

  Her tone was anxious. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ he assured her. Bed made, he stood up.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay with that?’ she asked, flashing a dubious glance at his bedroll.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Taking hold of her shoulders, he brought her in front of him. The fire he’d made to combat the chill of a desert night crackled on, while the moon beamed down benevolently. Everything was as it should be, but he still got the feeling that everything in his rigidly controlled life was about to change.

  ‘I think you’d rather be with me, in the tent,’ she whispered.

  ‘Have you learned nothing?’ he demanded, putting her away from him. Impatiently, he toed the cushions into place.

  As she reached for him it became clear that she had not. And this time he’d call her bluff.

  Catching hold of her hand, he bit her palm gently, and when she gasped out loud he drew one of her fingertips into his mouth.

  The air between them was electric as Shazim drew her deeper into his erotic net. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and shakily as he dipped his head to lightly brush her lips with his. His kiss was like a question: did she want to carry on? Her answer was yes, most certainly. This time she reached up and laced her fingers through his hair to keep him close. Her senses were full of him. He intoxicated her. He tasted of all things good. He smelled of wood smoke and sandalwood, and the delicate balance between her fear of physical love and the growing sense that she was safe with him reached tipping point. Realistically, she was in the greatest danger of her life. Shazim’s destiny called him to greater things than a girl by a campfire in the desert. But she had no intention of spending the rest of her life wondering what a night with Shazim would be like.

  Don’t miss

  IN THE SHEIKH’S SERVICE by Susan Stephens,

  available August 2016 wherever

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  Copyright © 2016 by Susan Stephens

  Keep reading for an excerpt from MISS MARIANNE’S DISGRACE by Georgie Lee.

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  Miss Marianne's Disgrace

  by Georgie Lee

  Chapter One

  England, September 1820

  The crack of shattering porcelain cut through the quiet. Miss Marianne Domville whirled around to see Lady Elling
ton, Dowager Countess of Merrell, on the floor amid shards of a large chinoiserie bowl. Moments ago the bowl had been resting on the edge of a table while Lady Ellington had walked about the room, admiring the Italian landscapes adorning the panelling.

  ‘Lady Ellington!’ Marianne rushed to her companion. ‘Are you all right?’

  Mrs Stevens, their new friend, knelt on the Dowager’s other side. Together, they helped Lady Ellington to sit up. Next to her lay a large sliver of the broken bowl, the razor-sharp edge rimmed with red from where it had sliced Lady Ellington’s upper arm.

  ‘I—I don’t know,’ Lady Ellington stammered. She clasped the wound as blood seeped through her fingers and ran down over the elbow to stain the top of her satin gloves. ‘I tripped on something and somehow knocked the bowl to the floor when I fell.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Marianne tried to look at the injury, but Lady Ellington twisted away.

  ‘You needn’t fuss so much,’ she chided in a shaky voice. ‘It’s just a scratch, nothing more.’

  ‘Then allow us to examine it.’ Mrs Stevens reached over and gently peeled Lady Ellington’s fingers away from the wound. Her lips tightened as she studied the wide and bleeding cut.

  ‘This needs immediate attention.’ She pressed her handkerchief over it.

  Lady Ellington winced and a fine perspiration spread out beneath the line of her light-blonde hair streaked with grey.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Marianne asked as the embroidery on the linen blurred with red. One of her schoolmates at the Protestant School in France had cut herself this deeply. It had become inflamed and she’d gone from a lively child to resting in the churchyard in the space of two weeks. For all Marianne’s misfortunes, none would equal losing Lady Ellington.

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Stevens reassured in a motherly tone. ‘But the wound must be closed. Fetch my son. He used to be a naval surgeon. He’ll see to it.’

  ‘But he wasn’t at dinner.’

  ‘He came in after we withdrew and is probably with the men. Go quickly. I’ll stay with Lady Ellington.’

  Marianne rose on shaky legs and walked in a fog of worry out of the study. She turned down one hall, then paused. The heavy sauce from the fish course twisted in her stomach. This wasn’t the way. As she doubled back, the sweep of her footsteps on the carpet dulled the panicked thud of her pulse in her ears. She hadn’t paid much attention when she’d followed the ladies to the study after leaving the sitting room. She’d been too busy fuming over Miss Cartwright’s snide comments to concentrate on what turns they’d made to reach the distant room.

  ‘Where’s a footman when you need one?’ They’d been as thick as fleas along the wall at dinner and in the sitting room afterwards. Now there wasn’t even a lowly maid scraping out ashes in any of the empty rooms flanking the hall. Lady Ellington might bleed to death before Marianne found her way back to the other guests.

  No, she’ll be fine. All I need to do is find Mr Stevens.

  She turned a corner and the door to the wide front sitting room came into view. She exhaled with relief and rushed towards it, careful not to run. She didn’t want to fly into a fit of worry, not with Lady Ellington relying on her to keep a level head. Hopefully, the men hadn’t lingered in the dining room.

  No such luck.

  The women looked up from around the card table as Marianne stepped into the doorway. Their faces were no warmer or more welcoming then when she’d left them fifteen minutes ago.

  ‘Can we help you, Miss Domville?’ Lady Cartwright drawled, as if it hurt her to be polite.

  ‘Lady Ellington has injured herself and is in need of help. I must find Mr Stevens.’

  ‘Sir Warren,’ Miss Cartwright corrected, her lips pulling back over one crooked front tooth as she laid a card on the pile in the centre, ‘is in the dining room with the men.’

  ‘I’ll call a footman to summon him. After all, it can’t be too serious,’ Lady Cartwright sneered under her breath to Lady Astley and Lady Preston who sat with her at the card table.

  ‘No, thank you, I’ll fetch him myself.’ Marianne made for the dining room, not about to lose time waiting for these hard women to decide whether it was more important to put Marianne in her place or to help Lady Ellington.

  She didn’t remember the hallway being so long when Lady Ellington had walked beside her, chatting gaily with Mrs Stevens about the new Italian landscape paintings they were about to view. Marianne quickened her pace, stumbling a little over a wrinkle in a rug before righting herself.

  The deep laugh of men muffled by the double oak doors punctuated the growing whispers of the ladies congregating in the sitting-room doorway behind Marianne. They gasped in shock, practically sucking the air from the hallway as Marianne pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

  They weren’t the only ones who were stunned. The footman jumped in front of her so fast, he almost lost his wig.

  ‘Miss, you shouldn’t be here.’ He shifted back and forth to block her view, as if she’d walked in on the men dancing naked in front of the buffet.

  ‘Move aside, I must see Sir Warren.’ She slipped around the ridiculous footman and headed for the table.

  The men were too lost in a weedy fog of tobacco and fine port to notice her. All the candles but those at the far end of the long table of Lady Cartwright’s ridiculously long dining room had been extinguished, deepening the smoky shadows outside the circle of light.

  ‘I tell you, Warren, it’s an investment you can’t miss.’ Mr Hirst thumped the table in front of him. His words were thicker and more slurred than when he’d rattled on to her at dinner about his intention to import a new type of tobacco from North Carolina. He’d pleaded with her to speak to Lord Falconbridge about investing in his venture, addressing her breasts more than her during the discussion. The noxious little man. His lust was all she’d come to expect from most gentlemen. Carnal pleasure was the only thing the men who’d streamed through Madame de Badeau’s entrance hall had ever wanted from her and they’d despised her for not giving it to them.

  The men on either side of Mr Hirst nodded in agreement, except for Lord Cartwright who slumped forward on the high polished table, snoring beside an empty wine glass.

  ‘You could make a fortune,’ Mr Hirst insisted.

  ‘Rupert, I’ve already made a fortune with my novels,’ the man who must be Sir Warren replied. He sat with his back to Marianne, a glass of port held at a languid angle to his body.

  ‘Sir Warren,’ Marianne called out, interrupting his leisure.

  Chairs scraped and men coughed and sputtered as they hurried to stand. Even Lord Cartwright was hauled to his feet by Lord Astley. Lord Cartwright’s bleary eyes fixed on her.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you doing in here?’ he sputtered, wavering and nearly falling back into his seat before Lord Astley steadied him.

  ‘I need Sir Warren. It’s urgent.’

  ‘I’m Sir Warren.’ The man with his back to her set his drink on the table and turned.

  She braced herself, ready to receive from him another chastising look like the others had flung at her, but it wasn’t there. Instead, his deep-green eyes were wide with the same surprise filling her and it dissolved all of Marianne’s sense of urgency. He was tall, with a broad chest she could lay her head on, if she was inclined to embrace people, which she wasn’t. His long, sturdy arms ended in wide hands with slender fingers tinged a slight black at the tips. He was taller than the other gentlemen with long legs and narrow hips. The softness of the country hadn’t set in about his flat stomach beneath his waistcoat or along the line of his jaw shadowed by the first hint of light stubble. He wore his blond hair a touch longer than the other men with a few strands falling forward over his forehead. There seemed something more professional man than gentleman in his bearing. Although his clothes were fine, they weren’t
as tidy or well pressed as the other gentlemen’s and his cravat was tied, but the knot was loose.

  Unlike his companions, he didn’t appraise her large breasts, which she did her best to hide beneath the chemisette and high bodice. Instead he waited patiently for her to explain herself, like Mr Nichols, the old vicar at the Protestant School in France used to do whenever he’d caught her being naughty. Where had this man been at dinner? With him by her side instead of old Lord Preston, she might have actually enjoyed the overcooked lamb.

  The rest of the men weren’t so kind, brushing her with their silent disapproval and more lurid thoughts.

  ‘How can I be of assistance?’ Sir Warren prodded, snapping her out of her surprise.

  ‘You must come at once. Lady Ellington has cut herself badly and needs your help.’ She reached out, ready to pull him along to the study before she dropped her hand. To touch a man, even innocently, was to encourage him and she needed his assistance, not his ardour.

  His smile faded like the last flame licking at a coal in a fireplace. He slid a glance to Mr Hirst. It was a wary, troubled look like the ones Mr and Mrs Smith used to exchange during Marianne’s first month at their house when they’d been forced to tell her Madame de Badeau still hadn’t written.

  Hollow disappointment crept into her already knotted stomach. Sir Warren wasn’t going to help her. Like every other reputable gentleman, he’d swiftly but politely decline any involvement with her before rushing across the room to avoid the taint of her and her reputation.

  How petty.

  She opened her mouth to shout him down for not having the decency to rouse himself from propriety long enough to help an ailing woman, but he spoke first.