The Prince's Harem Box Set: The Prince's Harem Books 1-5

by Carly Roberts

  My eyes filled with tears.

  “Do you not like it?” he teased, reaching out to stroke my hair.

  “It is beautiful,” I sniffed. “It is the best present I have ever had.”

  “You can wear it tomorrow. You will have to buy yourself a nice new dress to put it on.” He chuckled and slipped it back into the bag, then lay down next to me again.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, clutching the bag in my hand.

  “You deserve so much more.” He leaned forward and kissed me, then bent to kiss the head of our daughter. “You gave me a gift I will never be able to match.”

  “I don’t need anything,” I said. “Only you.”

  “Even so. I would like you to come with me to the observatory some nights,” he said. “I would like to show you more of what the sextant can do, and the discoveries we have made. Would you like that?”

  “I would love that!”

  “I thought so.” He grinned. “Also, I have a feeling after listening to you sing that you might have an ear for languages. It would please me if you were to meet with my translators and learn some of the languages of the lands with which we trade. Would that interest you?”

  “It would, my Prince. You cannot know how much.”

  He nodded and yawned. “That is good. I will make the arrangements tomorrow.”

  I snuggled down into the pillows, feeling a wave of contentment I had never felt before as he lifted Rasha’s little feet and kissed her toes, then talked to her in a sing-song voice as he told her how much he loved her pretty outfit, and how beautiful she was.

  Tonight, we had indeed started over again. Maybe wishing on a star had worked.

  The Reluctant Princess

  The Prince’s Harem: Book 4

  by Carly Roberts

  Chapter One

  I had been travelling for months across the desert, and my mouth was filled with dust.

  Luckily I’d had a carriage for a good part of the journey, although once we’d reached Persia I’d had to travel by camel for weeks. Even the veil I’d been told I had to wear across my face failed to stop my teeth grinding on sand.

  Needless to say, I was not in a good mood. I had not been in a good mood since I left my home, but my temperament was growing even more disagreeable as we approached Amul, where I was due to meet my new husband.

  My marriage to Prince Tashfin ibn Ali, the Samarkand Prince, had been arranged by my father. It was the third of three partnerships I had neither sought nor had any hope of enjoying.

  When I was fifteen, I married a French count. The best thing that could be said about that relationship was that he was away a lot, so I rarely had to spend time with him.

  I did my best to settle in my new home, but only six months into the marriage the Count was killed in an accident. The childless English widow was hastily whisked back to England, only to be sent away to be married again, this time many miles away in a land called Bavaria.

  My second husband was forty years older than me, fat, ugly, and pompous. There was not a single thing about him that I liked, except for the fact that other than when he visited my bed to heave himself upon me twice a week, he left me alone, and thus my life there was relatively comfortable.

  When he died on my twenty-first birthday, I hoped that either I would be able to stay in Bavaria, or I would be able to return home finally to England. I should have known better. Goods from cities on the Silk Road including the famous Samarkand glass were in great demand, and my father—ever the astute businessman—did not hesitate to seal a deal with me as part of the bargain.

  Thus instead of heading north from Bavaria, I took the road south and east, and now, many moons later, I approached the city where the Prince was to meet me and travel with me to his city.

  We arrived at Amul as the sun was going down. I’d thought we would stay the night in the Palace of the ruler of Amul, but to my surprise we circumvented the settlement and headed for a group of large tents that had been pitched on the easternmost side of the city, outside its walls.

  I did not bother asking why this was. The men I travelled with were resentful at having to make the long, arduous journey and did not share their plans with me. I had one woman to wait upon me, but she was sullen and silent, and would be returning to Bavaria once I had been safely delivered.

  I did not complain. I was used to being alone. English was my first language, although I could also speak French, but I had discovered when I arrived in southern France that the dialect used there was very different, and they had all refused to speak English to me.

  When I’d arrived in Bavaria, I’d not spoken the language at all, and again nobody had made the effort to learn mine. It had taken me many weeks to understand even a tiny amount of what they were saying, and many months before I felt confident enough to speak in their tongue.

  Because of this, I had learned to keep myself to myself, to say little, and to make the best of a difficult situation. It would be the same this time, I knew—more months of being unable to understand anything being said, and lonely years spent trying to amuse myself while the world continued around me as if I didn’t exist.

  I was determined to be strong, but a deep resentment had been growing in me from the moment we left Bavaria. Anger bubbled in my stomach that I was constantly treated with little more respect than an expensive carpet that had been traded before being dumped in the back of a cart.

  I could not remember the last time anyone had spoken to me with kindness and affection. I had learned to cope without it, but that did not mean I didn’t miss it or want it.

  In my castle in Bavaria, I had just begun to feel comfortable, and although I did not have any friends, there were some women there who passed the time of day with me. Here, again, I would be alone amongst strangers, married to man I neither loved nor wanted, and forced to share his bed—an act I had grown to hate over the years.

  Both of my husbands had taken pleasure from my body without a thought to my comfort. Sex with both of them had frequently hurt, and the most I could do was let them get on with it and try not to cry until they had finished their disgusting act and left me alone.

  As I approached the largest tent in the group, my throat tightened and my stomach clenched into a hard knot. Tears stung my eyes, although I refused to let them fall. I did not want this. Why did I always have to do what men told me? Would there ever be any happiness in the world for me?

  The men with me dismounted from the camels and held the neck of mine while I also slid awkwardly from the saddle. I stood there, too stiff, sore, and tired to look around at the view or think of anything but my own misery.

  The front flap of the tent lifted, and several men walked out. Like most of the men I had seen so far in these lands, they wore long tunics over loose trousers, favoring bright colors rather than the dull dark blues and browns I had grown used to at the Bavarian court.

  A couple of the women who had resented my position there had teased me when they’d heard whom I was going to marry. “The men from the desert smell of camel dung and garlic,” they had said. “Their skin shines with oil and their hair is slick and greasy. They are harsh and cruel to their women.”

  I’d doubted that my new husband could be more harsh or cruel than my first two, although I hadn’t said anything at the time. Now, though, panic rose within me at the notion that maybe I had been wrong. My second husband had slapped me occasionally when I had displeased him, but neither of them had beaten me. What if my new husband chose to take out his anger on me? Who would stop him?

  The Prince’s men came over, and to my surprise they bowed. One of them said something, then walked backward to the tent, gesturing for me to follow.

  I hesitated and turned to say goodbye to the men and the woman who had accompanied me all the way from Bavaria. They were already walking away, however, leading their camels toward the city, no doubt with the aim of staying somewhere more comfortable for the night.

  I watched them go, saying nothi
ng, then turned back to the man who was waiting for me to follow. His expression flickered with pity, and he surprised me again by giving me a gentle smile and beckoning once more.

  Lifting my chin, I walked forward, ducked under the flap, and entered the tent.

  Actually, it was less like a tent and more like a small house. High enough to stand up in, the interior was lit with the glow of several dozen candles placed in holders around the place, kept safe under glass bowls. The luxuriousness of the tent made me blink—it was almost as sumptuous as the palace of the French count I had been married to!

  Thick carpets lined the floor, and sheets of shining colored silk hung from the roof of the tent to partition it into individual areas, providing privacy to the various people inside. The main “room” in which I stood housed a large table covered with documents and quills, bowls of fruit—pomegranates, dates, pistachio nuts, and others I didn’t recognize—and cups made from fine Chinese porcelain, which I had heard about, but never seen.

  The place smelled exotic—of musk, frankincense, and sandalwood, the beautiful colors of the silks and carpets a treat for my sore eyes.

  Still, I was too tired to appreciate the finer details. I stopped in front of the desk and looked around for the man I was to marry. There were several men present, but their clothes—although well-made and finely stitched—bore no jewels or furs or anything else I would have thought a Prince of these lands might wear.

  There were also two women present. They wore the most beautiful tunics I had ever seen, made from silk and velvet, bearing intricate embroidery, and stitched with gemstones and brocade. They also wore veils across their faces that revealed only their eyes.

  One of them came forward and, to my complete and utter shock, she spoke in French. Although her speech was halting, she spoke it well enough for me to understand.

  “Welcome,” she said. She placed a hand on her breastbone. “I am Nedira.” She was tall, about the same height as me, and although only her eyes were visible, they were striking, fringed with dark lashes, suggesting a beautiful woman lay beneath the veil. Her arms bore many gold and jeweled bangles. Her skin was a creamy brown color, very different to my English rose.

  My jaw had dropped and I was gaping like a fish. I closed it with a snap. “I am Eleanor,” I said.

  She smiled. “I know. You have had a very long journey, Eleanor. You must be glad to have arrived.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say to that. Instead of answering, I glanced around the room, although I had already established that the Prince wasn’t there. “Where is Prince Tashfin?”

  “He has been away these last few days in battle, but we had news not long ago that he will arrive here very soon.” Nedira turned to introduce the young woman beside her, who was studying me with a curious, not unfriendly stare. “This is Farah. She also speaks French, although I am better.” She laughed, and Farah rolled her eyes.

  “Welcome,” she said. Shorter than Nedira, her eyes had a mischievous look to them.

  “Who are you?” I asked, not sure how to phrase the question. “Are you the Prince’s servants?”

  The two women exchanged an amused glance. “No…” Nedira said slowly. “We are also his wives.”

  I stared at them. “His wives? I do not understand.”

  “In our country it is the custom for a man to take more than one wife,” Nedira explained.

  My jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. “But that is…” I had been about to say against the law, but of course it obviously wasn’t against the law in this country. “How many wives does he have?” I asked, infuriated that nobody had told me about this.

  “You are number five,” Nedira said.

  My spine stiffened, and the resentment and anger that had been boiling in my stomach like a stew left on the fire rose up and threatened to choke me. Wariness crossed their expressions, so my anger must have been evident.

  Unfortunately, at that moment the sound of raised voices came from outside the tent. Someone threw back the flap, and then the entrance darkened with figures. Several men came in. They were all dressed in armor, but I knew immediately which one was the Prince.

  While the other two remained near the entrance, he walked forward to stand before me. Tall—much taller than me—he had broad shoulders made even bigger by his armor. He wore a thigh-length tunic made from metal plates interspersed with pieces of mail over thick woollen trousers, and he carried a conical-shaped helmet under one arm, very different from the cylindrical ones I’d seen before. A sword hung by his side with an unusual curved blade.

  It wasn’t his armor that made my eyes widen and my breath leave my body, though. I’d seen plenty of knights before in England, France, and Bavaria. But I’d never seen a man like the one who stood before me.

  He had thick dark hair and a neat dark beard and mustache. His skin was brown, a shade darker than Nedira’s, and he had captivating dark brown eyes, warm and sensual, that brought heat rising to my cheeks as his gaze traveled from my face down my body to my toes and then back up again.

  There was something about him I hadn’t seen in any other man—a zeal, a sense of passion and excitement that radiated from him. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. This was the man I was supposed to marry?

  The Prince held my gaze for what felt like hours but could only have been seconds. Then he bowed, elegant even in his armor, before straightening and giving me a dazzling smile.

  “Welcome, Lady Eleanor. I am very glad you have arrived at last, and I am sorry I was not here to greet you.”

  “You speak French,” I said softly, my heart pounding.

  He gave a small laugh. “Of course! It is important that we are able to talk, do you not think?” His eyes danced with amusement. “Although I hope you will teach me English after we are married—it is a language I have yet to master. Nedira has a better ear for it than I have, so you must promise to teach me more words than you teach her.”

  He was teasing me. He was being kind, trying to put me at ease. I was completely flummoxed—I couldn’t remember the last time a man had behaved toward me in such a way.

  Then I glanced at Nedira and Farah standing to one side. His other wives. He had four wives already! The fury that had been bubbling away inside me erupted.

  “I do not want to marry you,” I blurted before I could stop myself.

  Chapter Two

  The eyes of the two women standing next to us almost fell out. I would have found it comical if I wasn’t so upset.

  I waited for the Prince’s brow to darken, for him to yell, or even to strike me. He did none of those things. His eyebrows rose, and then—placing his hands behind his back—he turned to the others in the room and said something in his own language, presumably translating what I’d said.

  The men who had been in the tent when I arrived gasped, while behind me one of those who had accompanied the Prince whistled, and the other gave a wry chuckle.

  The Prince turned back to me. He studied me for a long moment, and I had the feeling he was going to tell me to just turn around and leave if that was what I wanted so much.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he demanded, “Lower your veil.”

  For a long moment I did nothing. I wanted to defy him, to prove that I was not his and never would be.

  He stared at me as though there was no chance in the world that I wasn’t going to do what he commanded. Clearly, he was a man used to giving orders to his wives and his men, and it was obvious that both of us knew I wasn’t strong enough to keep up the challenge.

  Lifting my chin, I unwrapped the veil from my head and lowered it. My chest heaved with emotion as I stood there like a prize heifer being sold at a market while he surveyed me.

  His expression softened, and his eyes warmed, but he didn’t say anything.

  Instead, he sighed. “Give her a hot bath,” he told Nedira. “Something to eat. And put her to bed. She looks ready to drop.”

  “Do not speak as if I am no
t in the room!” I yelled.

  He glared at me. “We will speak again tomorrow, when you are feeling more reasonable.”

  “I am perfectly reasonable now!”

  He ignored me. “I will bathe and change in the other tent,” he told Nedira and Farah. “And I will return later.”

  Without another word, he turned and strode out, the two men behind him following.

  I stared at the women, who looked totally shocked at the fact that I had confronted him. My heart sank. What had I done? Angered the man I was probably going to have to marry before we were even wed! I was so foolish!

  My lip trembled, and I burst into tears.

  Nedira sighed and gestured to the man who had first welcomed me when I arrived. She directed him in her own language, then said, “I have asked him to fetch hot water. The Prince is right. A bath and then bed is what you need.”

  “I don’t need a bath,” I sobbed.

  They ignored me, and I stood in the middle of the tent trying to compose myself while they filled a large metal tub with hot water heated in pails over the fire outside. The tub lay in one of the screened-off “rooms”, out of sight of the men in the tent. Nedira brought a clean tunic and laid it over a chair, while Farah sorted through some scented oils and added them to the water.

  I noticed that they both removed their veils once the men with the Prince had departed. Presumably they were comfortable revealing their faces to the other men in the room.

  “Come,” Nedira said, gesturing to the bath. “You will feel better afterward.”

  The truth was that I did want a bath and I was bone tired, but I didn’t want to admit they were right. In the end, they bullied me into stripping and getting into the bath. Once my feet stepped into the silky, scented water, however, I gave in and sank into it with a long groan.

  I felt as if I had months of sand and dust ground into my skin, and I didn’t complain when Nedira and Farah took it upon themselves to scrub my back and soap the rest of my body until my pale skin glowed.