Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

by Liz Fielding

  Again.

  She kicked off her shoes as naturally as if she'd been doing it all her life, stepped inside and stood, her head on one side, waiting for him to speak.

  Speech was not enough. He touched his fingers to his forehead, his heart, bowed to her beauty, her honour, her courage. 'You are, in every sense of the word, a princess, Violet Hamilton.' Then, 'Give me your hands.'

  She held them out and he picked up the Blood of Tariq and placed it across her palms, held his own hands beneath them.

  'By this act, Princess, you honour your family. They should be proud to call you daughter.'

  'Should? That suggests they might not be best pleased that I'm surrendering this to you.'

  He did not want to frighten her with the truth, but since she was not a fool he tilted his head, acknowledging that she might have a point.

  'Will I meet them? Will they be here?'

  'Ahmed al Sayyid, patriarch of his tribe-your tribe-is sitting at my grandfather's right hand.' And given the slightest opportunity, he thought, would seize the chance to move over and drag his country back into the Dark Ages. His sons would be there, too. And if he failed to surrender the Blood of Tariq, she would be doubtless given to one of those cousins as a wife. Without the option to say no… 'He will expect you to bow to him, acknowledge him.'

  'But I shouldn't expect a hug and a Hi, kid, welcome home…?'

  'I'm afraid not.' Then, because time was short, 'My grandfather is sitting at the far end of the majlis. You should walk straight down the room, looking neither to left nor right, holding out the khanjar so that everyone can see it. Bow to Ahmed first. Then bow to my grandfather and place the knife in his hands. I will be with you every step of the way,' he said, and the tension seemed to slip away from her a little. Then, 'Do you remember what I promised you, Princess?'

  She looked up at him. 'I remember,' she said. Then, fear darkening her eyes, 'Something has happened. What is it?'

  'There's no time to explain. Do you trust me to do exactly as I promised, Princess?'

  Violet looked up at him, her extraordinary eyes searching his as if looking for something. Whatever it was, she must have found it, because she said, 'I am here. I have flown thousands of miles, placed myself

  entirely in your hands, because you assured me that you would protect my friends.'

  'And you, Princess. Protect you.' With every breath in his body. And he would, no matter what the cost. Honour-more-demanded it. 'After my grandfather thanks you in both Arabic and English, I will speak. When I turn to you I will ask you a question, you will answer nam. No matter what happens, you must do that. Do you understand?'

  'Nam,' she repeated. 'What does it mean?'

  'Yes.'

  'I see. Am I allowed to ask what the question is?'

  To his intense relief, the huge carved doors to the majlis swung open, making further explanations impossible.

  'Three times,' he said urgently. 'I will ask and you will answer.' Letting go of her hands, he stepped back, then, as she moved forward, he took his place at her side.

  Fayad walked beside Violet towards his grandfather, his heart pounding. On either side of them he was aware of a stirring as the tribal leaders, elders, people's representatives rose to honour the khanjar. Or was it Violet, the very image of a Sayyid, who sent audible Shockwaves through the reception room?

  She faltered only once, catching her toe on the edge of one of the carpets that were laid over each other, and he reached out to steady her.

  Beneath her sleeve, despite her stately progress, she was trembling, and he did not let go, keeping his hand possessively on her elbow. Staring down Ahmed al Sayyid who, as leader of the second most powerful tribe of his nation, was indeed at his grandfather's right hand.

  Violet stopped in front of the two men, bowed her head to acknowledge Ahmed, then, taking Fayad by surprise, instead of bowing to his grandfather, she knelt before him, extending the khanjar, and, eyes cast down, placed it into his hands, saying simply, 'In the name of Fatima al Sayyid I return the Blood of Tariq to its rightful place.'

  Ahmed al Sayyid was scowling furiously at her, but his grandfather smiled.

  'Thank you, child. Welcome home.'

  Ahmed rose to his feet, but before he could speak Fayad, following Violet's dramatic example, joined her on his knees and, reaching for her hand, took it and declared, 'I call upon you all to witness that I take Violet Hamilton al Sayyid as my wife.' Then he turned to her and said, 'Do you accept me as your husband?'

  Ahmed took a step towards him, but his grandfather raised a hand to stop him.

  She looked at him for what seemed a lifetime, and then she said, 'Nam.'

  He repeated his statement and again said, 'Do you accept me as your husband?'

  'Nam.'

  And a third time.

  'Nam…'

  Around them the room erupted in uproar, but he scarcely noticed as Violet lifted one of her exquisite brows a millimetre, as if to ask, What have I done?

  He responded by lifting her hand to his lips, and murmured, 'You have just accepted me as your husband.' Then, raising her to her feet, he could not fail to miss the barely concealed smile of satisfaction on his grandfather's face as he embraced him, embraced Violet, with the words, 'Welcome, daughter…' Then, 'Give me your hand, Fayad.'

  He extended it, expecting the old man to take it, hold it, but instead he raised it, placed the khanjar into it, holding it there for a long moment before turning to the majlis with the words, 'Salute your new Emir.'

  Then he let go, stepped back, leaving Fayad centre stage.

  It was pure theatre, and it occurred to him that when it came to playing games his grandfather had a fifty year head start on him.

  He had been desperate to see him with a new wife-had used the threat of Ahmed al Sayyid to manipulate him. And now it was done, and he'd got his own way, he would retire to the mountains to spend his remaining days tending his soul, leaving his rivals with no choice but to smile and embrace not only Fayad's marriage, but his new position as ruler of Ras al Kawi.

  His only thought was for Violet, who, when she realised what he'd done, would believe he had used her.

  For an hour they stood, side by side, while every member of the majlis came to embrace him, make their bow to Violet, touch the khanjar.

  She kept up a smile throughout, never faltered. Only someone who'd seen the real thing would know that it was a mask. And heaven alone knew what she was thinking behind it.

  Finally it was over and, his hand beneath her elbow, he was able to escort her through the line of clapping elders.

  The moment the doors closed behind them the smile vanished and she turned on him. 'Wife?' she breathed.

  'It was necessary-'

  'So that you could have your crown? Why didn't you tell me?

  'There was no time…'

  'No time? What happened to weeks of showering me with dowry to prove how much you value me?' she demanded, sweeping his attempt at explanation aside. 'The gold, the jewellery, the cloth? Actually, just the cloth would have done. I'm a dress designer, and cloth is always welcome, but then you didn't know that, did you? You didn't ask about my ambitions, about my life. You only care about your own.'

  He hadn't asked because he knew. He knew all her history. But somehow he didn't think this was the moment to tell her that.

  'In a crisis,' he said quietly, calmly, 'when the situation demands it, a declaration before witnesses serves the purpose.'

  'Does it count if the bride hasn't a clue what's going on?'

  'If you'll just listen, I will explain,' he said, taking her hand, moving her towards the door. This was not the place to be overhead having an argument with his bride.

  She dug in her heels.

  'How? You get a country and I get a cut-price registrar and two witnesses job. Is that all I'm worth?'

  'I will tell you what you're worth,' he said, looping an arm around her waist and picking her up, carrying her over the thres
hold, leaving her shoes, leaving his.

  He was determined to make her listen, to explain that a divorce would be as simple as the wedding, that all he'd done was protect her. But not here, where anyone might hear.

  'Whatever happened to my much-vaunted chance to say no?' she demanded, kicking out in an attempt to free herself, furious, hammering on his shoulders, his back. 'I trusted you, but your words are worth nothing, Fayad al Kuwani. I gave you your khanjar and you used it to buy your country. Used me to buy the alliance of the Sayyid.'

  'Will you just listen to me?' he thundered. Forget calm. Forget quiet reason…

  'Oh, that's right. Shout. The male answer to everything.'

  'Violet, this isn't helping-'

  'It's helping me.' She lifted her head, looked down at him. 'So, Your Emiri Highness? What happens now? I'm supposed to go away and get swaddled in veils, is that it? Sit on the white sheet and wait for you to come and unwrap me?'

  So intent was she on making her point that she'd forgotten to struggle and, with a nod to the driver, he bundled her into the back of a waiting limousine.

  They were cut off from the world, even from the driver, who was hidden behind a darkened wall of glass, but Violet was not frightened.

  She was furious.

  She'd given Sheikh Fayad everything he wanted. Fallen for all that fake sincerity. Believed him.

  And here she was with a man-a virtual stranger- who'd tricked her into marrying him. Sitting in his lap, his arm around her, his breath warm against her hair.

  Fight. She'd fight…

  'You'd better be wearing body armour!' she warned.

  And without warning Fayad laughed. How dared he laugh at her? 'I've married a cat,' he said. 'I'd always heard that Sayyid women fight like tigers.'

  'I'm not Sayyid. I'm a Hamilton…'

  'No, you're not, Violet. You're mine. You'll always be mine…' And he kissed her. Not gently. Not to distract her from some painful moment. But like some desert lord who, having captured his prize, aroused by the chase, was determined on making her his.

  And that he was aroused she was in no doubt.

  But that was his problem, not hers.

  Her problem was that as his kiss became deeper, the satin pleasure of his tongue giving rather than taking, it was not him she was fighting but her own body's shockingly urgent response.

  Need…

  Desire…

  She felt hampered by far too many clothes. The long skirt, the thaub, were encumbrances, not just holding her down but keeping them apart. She wanted freedom to move, wanted to feel his hand, his hot mouth upon her skin, upon breasts tight with need. Wanted him to soothe the heavy, yearning ache between her thighs.

  She wanted, she discovered with a jolt of under-, standing, to be blissfully and repeatedly… overwhelmed.

  And then, as swiftly as it had begun, it was over. But although the car had come to a standstill he did not move. Did not speak.

  Fayad closed his eyes, for a moment just drinking in the pleasure of Violet, warm against him. Feeling once more the power of desire surge through him for the first time since the death of his family.

  To the outside world he had seemed to recover. Carry on. Work for his country, his people. But inside everything that he was as a man had died on that day.

  And now Violet had responded to him.

  Angry, of course. She had every right to be. But above her anger was desire, hot and potent…

  But to take advantage of that was beneath him.

  For a moment he had forgotten himself. Had said that she was his. But that was not so. On the contrary. While she would always own a part of him, he had not taken her as his wife to bind her to him, but so that she could be free.

  'Your house in London is now in your name, Violet,' he said, returning to reality. 'It is being remade. When it is done you will have a home in which you can be comfortable.'

  'No…' Then, 'I don't understand.'

  'You gave me everything you had. It is little enough in return. When you go home, I hope you will not think too badly of me.'

  'You are sending me away?'

  Dear God, she made it sound as if he were doing her an unkindness. If she knew how hard it would be to let her go. To walk away now…

  'Not yet. Your house will not be ready for several months. It needs rewiring. New plumbing. You have dry rot…'

  'It's a wonder it's still standing…'

  'It will be as new. Until then, for form's sake, you will stay here.'

  'And do what?'

  'I promise nothing is expected of a new bride except to keep her husband happy.'

  'Which means?'

  He turned to her. 'Her husband will be happy if she is happy. That is your only duty. To be happy.'

  'I don't understand.'

  She never would.

  'And then you'll have a house with good friends near you. A divorce settlement.'

  'Divorce!'

  He managed a smile. 'Divorce, you will be pleased to learn, is as easily done as marriage. It will be as if it had never happened.'

  'Apart from the fact that you're now Emir.'

  'Apart from that,' he agreed. 'You will return home, go back to college, found your fashion house if that is your wish.'

  Violet slid from his arms, from his lap, to the seat beside him. 'I see.'

  He'd done it again. Stilled her protest with a kiss. And where moments before all she'd felt was liquid heat, now there was ice.

  'How soon?'

  'Three months.'

  She glared at him. 'And what am I supposed to do for three months? Since pleasing my husband will not exactly fill my days?'

  He glanced at her as if he might just change his mind about that.

  'Don't worry about it,' she said hurriedly. 'I'll think of something.'

  'Good.' Then, 'Of course you could help me break a few eggs.'

  'Over your head?'

  'What I had in mind was more in the nature of metaphorical eggs. My first action as Emir will be to announce that schooling is to be compulsory for girls, and it would be fitting if, as wife of the Emir, you were to lift the first spade of soil to mark the foundation of the Violet al Sayyid School for Girls.'

  'Not al Kuwani?'

  'Our women do not change their names on marriage.'

  'Handy. It means you can really rub Ahmed al Sayyid's nose in it.'

  'In what?' he asked. Then shook his head. 'You might be less sympathetic if I tell you that he would have taken you to his compound tonight if I had not intervened.'

  'He couldn't do that!' Then, when he didn't agree, 'Could he?'

  'He is your kin. The head of your family. My grandfather could not have stopped him without causing

  dissension. I should have foreseen the possibility…' He closed his eyes, as if to shut out how close a call it had been. 'Marriage was your only means of escape.'

  And his promise to protect her would have left him no option but to act as he did.

  'He would have demanded the Blood of Tariq as dowry, wouldn't he?'

  He nodded.

  He didn't say whether he would have surrendered it, and she didn't ask. To lose it would have weakened him politically. Maybe lost him the throne. What was his word to one woman-the kin of his enemy- against that?

  'He was staring at me at the airport when we arrived.' She shivered, and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out to her again.

  Instead he turned abruptly away, and in doing so answered any question she cared to ask.

  'I wish I'd never found the wretched thing. It would have saved a lot of trouble all round.'

  'Maybe. But it worked out well enough in the end. My grandfather has what he wanted. He is happy.'

  She waited for him to say that it suited him, too, but he didn't. Well, he'd already gone to great trouble to explain that it was the last thing he'd wanted.

  The marriage part, anyway.

  His kiss, his arousal, his "you are mine" was no more than
a reaction to her resistance. She'd challenged his masculinity. He'd overcome her…

  Her only mistake had been to succumb too quickly.

  She'd had the power to get what she wanted and had let it slip through her fingers. Not nearly Arab enough…

  'Your grandfather won't be happy when you divorce me,' she said, pushing him. Testing him.

  'I don't believe he'll be with us long enough to be disappointed.'

  Her pride melted. 'He's really that sick?'

  'It was only what he perceived as my stubbornness in defying him that was keeping him alive.'

  'Why would you defy him? It's not as if you had to go out and find your own bride…'

  'I was not ready.'

  Damn it, he was still grieving for his wife. His son. And now he was about to lose a beloved grandparent. She was close enough to her own loss to understand what his feelings must be, no matter how little he showed.

  Then she frowned.

  'But…'

  But if his grandfather was only weeks from death, why would Fayad use her when the Emiri throne was so close?

  She let slip a very unprincesslike word.

  She'd got it all wrong.

  Everything.

  'This wasn't about becoming Emir, was it? You really did do it entirely for me?'

  'I gave you my promise that I would protect you.' He climbed from the car, offered her his hand. 'Go in now. Leila will be waiting.'

  Go… 'But won't she expect…?' She stopped, blushing with confusion.

  'She will expect me to build you a house, make you a dowry. Three months between the wedding and the marriage is not long.' Then, seeing her confusion, 'Just because the wedding was unconventional, it does not mean that the marriage formalities will not be observed.'

  He leaned forward, kissed her forehead.

  'I will see you tomorrow.'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Three months had seemed an impossibly long time, and yet they flew by. Leila, now officially installed as her lady-in-waiting, was with her always, teaching her Arabic, the ways of Ras al Kawi.

  She'd met Fayad's family, and was now taken to their heart, included on parties at the beach, shopping trips with his sisters. From being a girl with a family of one, a woman on her own, she was suddenly part of a huge extended family.