‘Y-yes,’ she said slowly as she waited for the rest of the story to unfold.
‘And Malik was never the same man after she was sent away—’
‘Is that Malik the Magnificent?’ she asked tentatively.
Khalim narrowed his eyes. ‘How on earth did you know that, Rose?’
‘I read about it, of course—in the chapter about your ancestors.’
He smiled, thinking that she would make a wonderful Princess of Maraban! ‘His heart was not into ruling after that. He complied with convention and took a Marabanesh wife, but was left a bitter and empty shell of a man.’ His eyes met hers with a candid light. ‘My father did not want to see history repeating itself.’
‘History or destiny?’ she echoed softly, and her eyes lit up with a glorious sense of the inevitable. ‘Or maybe even predestination, as though all this was somehow supposed to happen all along.’
‘Predestination?’ His deep voice lingered thoughtfully on the word, and he nodded. ‘Yes. It exists. It’s what drives us all. It’s why I met you, Rose.’
The love from his eyes dazzled her, and she gazed up at him. ‘What on earth can I say to something as beautiful as that?’ she whispered.
He smiled. ‘Say nothing, sweet Rose. Just kiss me instead.’
EPILOGUE
THE late afternoon air was warm and scented as Rose and Khalim alighted from the smoky-windowed car and made their way towards their apartments—situated in the grandest part of the palace. And where once she had been taken to see Khalim’s father as he lay dying.
Rose was grateful to have met him, no matter that the visit had been brief. It pleased and warmed her to know that he had had the perception and the wisdom to override convention and to let their wedding take place.
And what a wedding!
The whole of Maraban had gone absolutely wild with excitement, happy that their leader should have found a woman to love at last, and proud of the pale, blonde beauty of his Rose.
Guy had been delighted to be best man, and Sabrina her maid of honour, and all of Rose’s family had been flown out to Maraban in some style. They had feasted and celebrated for three enchanting days, crushing lavender and rose petals beneath their feet as they danced, and at the very end of the celebrations Rose and Khalim had ridden through Dar-gar on their Akhal-Teke horses. Rose’s mount in a pure white—as white as the winter snows—and in such contrast to Khalim’s Purr-Mahl.
For he had insisted that she learn to ride—had even insisted on teaching her himself. And what a hard taskmaster he had proved to be—not satisfied until she could gallop alongside him with a fearlessness which matched his own.
Never satisfied…and yet always satisfied.
It was the same in their marital bed on silken sheets which whispered and wrapped themselves around their entwined bodies. Would their passion for each other never abate? she sometimes asked herself in helpless wonder as she came back down to earth from some remote place of pleasure which Khalim had taken her to.
She hoped not.
He touched a light hand to her elbow as a golden shaft of sunlight turned her hair to pure spun gold. ‘Tired?’ he asked softly, thinking how all the people had warmed to her that afternoon. As they always warmed to her. For his Rose had a gentle understanding which made people instantly love her.
As he loved her, he thought fiercely—loved her more than he would have thought possible to love another person.
‘Tired?’ Rose smiled up at him dreamily. ‘No, of course I’m not. It was a wonderful afternoon. Wasn’t it?’ she asked him, a touch anxiously.
‘You know it was.’ They had been to the opening of the newly refurbished Maraban Orphanage, now named after its princess. No announcement had ever been officially made, but word had got around on the grapevine of Rose’s generous donation when she’d still been living in London, when she had believed her relationship with Khalim to be over.
‘Such unselfishness,’ his mother had cooed, totally in thrall with her daughter-in-law herself. As were his sisters. In fact, everyone. Well, almost everyone.
Khalim allowed a wistful smile to play at the corners of his mouth.
Except for Philip, of course. Philip had tendered his resignation a year after Rose had become Princess, even though both she and Khalim had asked him to reconsider.
But Philip had shaken his dark, handsome head, the green eyes enigmatic, giving little away.
‘I cannot,’ he had demurred.
‘It isn’t me, is it, Philip?’ Rose had asked him.
He gave her a fond smile. ‘Never you, Princess,’ he had murmured. ‘But I am part of the past, it is time for me to go. Your new emissary must be someone who will engage in your joint future. Think about it. You know that what I say is true.’
Yes, Khalim had known—Philip’s insight had been one of the reasons he had made him his emissary. And even Rose had known that, too—though she was sad for a little time, because she herself had become fond of the cool Englishman and his connection with her old life.
The doors to their apartments were opened and they went inside, Khalim giving a swift shake of his dark head to the robed figure who looked enquiringly at him. He wanted to be alone with her.
Because Rose had seen very early on in her marriage that absolutely everyone wanted a piece of Khalim, and that unless she put her foot down their time together would be limited indeed. And so—to much outrage at first—she had insisted on having their own kitchen built inside their private apartments.
‘I don’t always want to be served food,’ she had told Khalim stubbornly when he’d tried to oppose her plan. ‘Sometimes I want to cook myself, for just the two of us, the way I used to when we lived together in London, remember?’
He’d smiled. ‘How could I ever forget?’
‘And, of course, for you to cook for me!’ She had seen his look of outrage and slanted him a provocative smile. ‘We don’t want you forgetting how to fend for yourself, do we, my darling?’
‘Oh, Rose,’ he had moaned, helpless in the capture of that smile.
He watched her now as she moved with such elegant grace towards the kitchen, and followed her, wondering whether he should take her to bed now, or later. That was the trouble and also the joy of their relationship—he never stopped wanting her. But his powers of self-control had been sorely tested.
Today, her flaxen hair was complimented by the lavender silk of the gown she wore, and he looked at her with a slightly jealous pride. Too bad that they were now having to contend with hordes of foreign journalists eager to capture the beauty of the Marabanesh princess. His Rose was going international, while he wanted her all to himself! And yet deep in his heart he knew that she gave herself completely to him. And always would.
She turned to find him watching her and thought that right now was just the moment to make her gift to him. ‘Khalim,’ she said softly, in perfect Marabanese. ‘Shall I make some mint tea for us to drink?’ And she thought that she would never forget the look on his face as he stared at her with a kind of dawning wonder.
‘Rose?’
She continued speaking in his native tongue. ‘I’ve been having lessons,’ she told him shyly. ‘From Fatima. Whenever you’ve been dealing with affairs of state, I’ve been poring over my dictionary! And Fatima says I’m almost fluent and that I—’
But she couldn’t say any more on the subject, because he had swiftly crossed the room, and had pulled her into his arms and was looking down at her with a fierce and tender love.
‘Were the gods looking down on us the day I met you, Rose?’ he demanded heatedly. ‘And were they Jupiter and Venus?’
‘I expect so,’ she said demurely, because she knew just what he wanted when he looked at her like that. What she wanted, too, more than anything else.
She gave herself up to his kiss. Well, the mint tea could always wait.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-1996-4
SURRENDER TO THE SHEIKH
First North American Publi
cation 2002.
Copyright © 2001 by Sharon Kendrick.
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Surrender to the Sheikh Page 18
