Crowned At The Desert King's Command (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Jackie Ashenden

  The corridors were silent but for the sound of the guards’ boots on the tiled floor. Her own steps were muffled by the pair of silver slippers she’d put on, which had come with the robes.

  She tried to take note of where they were going, but after a few twists and turns, more stairs and more long corridors, she gave up, looking at the high arched ceilings instead, and the glittering tiles on them that caused the light to refract and bounce. They were beautiful, and she got so lost in them that for a couple of minutes at least she forgot that she was going to meet the terrifying man who was king.

  Eventually the hallway opened up, and to her delight Charlotte found herself stepping out into the colonnaded garden she’d seen through the windows of the Sheikh’s office. The air was as cool and soft as the silk she wore, and laden with the scent of flowers and the gentle sound of the fountains splashing.

  The woman led her along a path to the central fountain itself, and then stopped and gestured.

  Charlotte’s breath caught.

  In the dim twilight, tea lights in exquisite glass holders leapt and danced. They’d been set on a low table, their flames illuminating the multitude of cushions set on the ground around it and glittering off glasses and cutlery. Bowls full of food sat on the table—sliced meats and dips and more of the flatbread.

  It was like something straight out of one of her favourite books, The Arabian Nights, and for a second she could only stand there and stare.

  Then she became aware of the man sprawled on one of the cushions at the table, watching her. He rose as she approached, fluidly and with grace, until he towered over the table and her, the candle flames making his golden eyes glow.

  He wasn’t wearing the suit trousers and shirt she’d seen him in earlier that day but black robes, their edges heavily embroidered in gold thread. They suited him, highlighting his height and the broad width of his shoulders, and the sense of power that rolled off him in waves.

  The flickering light illuminated his face, and his features were set in a fierce sort of expression that made her heart race. He wasn’t angry now, it seemed, but he’d definitely decided something—though what it could be she had no idea.

  What jailer set out a beautiful dinner like this if a prison cell was all that awaited her? It didn’t make any sense.

  ‘Welcome, Miss Devereaux.’

  His deep voice prowled over her skin, soft and dark as a panther.

  ‘Thank you for joining me.’

  Charlotte resisted the urge to shift on her feet, uncomfortable as his intense gaze roved over her. She didn’t know how she knew, but she had the sense that he liked what he saw. Which made it difficult to think.

  ‘Well,’ she said stoutly, pulling herself together. ‘It wasn’t like I had a choice.’

  The corner of his hard mouth curved and for a second Charlotte couldn’t do anything but stare at him, her breath catching at the beauty of his smile.

  ‘That is true,’ he acknowledged. ‘But I am glad you came without the necessity of guards dragging you.’

  It was very clear that if she had refused then, yes, the guards would have dragged her to meet him.

  Fear flickered through her, and the old urge to run away and hide gripped her. But she ignored it, steeling herself. Best to get this out of the way first.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she began formally. ‘I’ve been thinking and I want to—’

  ‘Please,’ the Sheikh interrupted, gesturing to the table. ‘Sit.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Charlotte’s palms were sweaty, her heart showing no sign of slowing down. She needed to say this and fast—before she changed her mind. ‘I know that you’ve decided not to let my father and me leave, but I have a request to make.’

  His expression was impassive. ‘Do you, indeed?’

  ‘Yes, I think—’

  ‘Sit, Miss Devereaux. We shall have this discussion as we eat.’

  ‘No. I need to say this now.’ She took an unsteady breath, meeting his fierce golden stare. ‘If you let my father go, I’ll stay here. And I’ll do so willingly.’

  Tariq said nothing, watching Charlotte Devereaux’s pale face in the flickering candlelight. It was obvious she’d been thinking hard in the time she’d been cooling her heels in the sheikha’s suite. And he had to admire her courage; it couldn’t be easy, facing a lifetime in a strange land, even if it meant her father went free.

  But that was good. She would need that courage and she would need strength too, for the role he would give her. The sheikha would need both.

  She certainly made a pretty picture, standing there in the robes he’d chosen for her. The silver-blue suited her pale skin and deepened the colour of her eyes. She’d clearly washed her hair, and it lay soft and loose over her shoulders and down her back, the pale mass curling slightly.

  He was pleased she’d worn the robes, and pleased that she’d decided to make an effort. Because that was all part of his plan.

  The council had been in an uproar at his abrupt choice of wife, as he’d expected, so he’d deliberately had the robes sent to her, and then had her walked through the palace so everyone could observe the picture of quiet elegance and strength that she presented.

  He hadn’t been certain she would wear the robes, or that she wouldn’t make a fuss about attending his dinner, but he’d counted on her English manners preventing her from making a scene and so far he’d been proved right.

  He was pleased with that too.

  And now she’d just volunteered to stay willingly if he let her father go, which made things even easier.

  Don’t feel too pleased with yourself. You haven’t told her about the marriage yet.

  No, he hadn’t. He’d hoped to take his time with his proposal, feeding her the excellent food his chefs had provided and pouring her wine from his extensive cellars. And then perhaps some civilised conversation to set her at ease.

  But, judging from the fear in her pretty blue eyes and the way she had her hands clasped together, spinning it out might not be such a good idea. Her finely featured face was set in lines of determination and she was standing very straight, as if bracing herself for a blow, so maybe he should deliver it. A quick, clean strike.

  The candlelight glittered off the silver in her robes and glimmered in her lovely hair, making her look like a fall of moonlight in the darkness of the garden. And it prompted something to shift uncomfortably inside his chest—something that felt a lot like sympathy.

  Which was wrong. He couldn’t afford to be sympathetic. He had been sympathetic with Catherine the night he’d found her weeping beside this very fountain, and his heart—the traitor—had twisted inside his chest at the sight of her tears.

  Sympathy was not the only thing you felt that night, remember?

  Of course he remembered. How could he forget? He’d also been angry, burning with a frustrated rage that he hadn’t been able to control. A volatile cocktail of emotion that had turned dangerous in the end.

  He wouldn’t do that again.

  He had to be hard, cold. Ruthless. He couldn’t risk being anything else.

  ‘That is certainly a brave request,’ he said, ignoring the tightness in his chest. ‘You might change your mind when you hear mine.’

  She blinked in surprise. ‘Y-Yours?’

  Tariq dropped his gaze to the cushions opposite. ‘Sit down, Miss Devereaux.’

  He didn’t make it sound like anything less than the command it was, and after a brief hesitation she took a couple of faltering steps towards the table, then sat down awkwardly on the cushions.

  Satisfied, he sat down himself, studying her pale face. And, even though he thought he’d shoved aside that brief burst of sympathy he’d experienced, he found himself pouring her a glass of the cool white wine and then putting a few tasty items of food on a plate for her.

  It was the custom in Ashkara
z for a prospective groom to woo his potential wife by feeding her, so the dinner had been organised very deliberately, to make sure everyone knew exactly what his intentions were. But right now all he was conscious of was that she was quite pale, and that possibly the food he’d had sent to her room hadn’t been enough. She really needed to have something more substantial—especially given what he was going to tell her.

  He pushed the wine glass in her direction, and then the plate of food. ‘You should eat.’

  Her pretty mouth tightened, full and lush and pink. ‘No, thank you. I’m not hungry.’

  Her chin had lifted and there was a slight but unmistakable glow of defiance in her blue eyes.

  Faintly amused by her show of spirit, despite himself, he nearly smiled. ‘If you want to spite me, there are other, better ways of doing so.’

  Colour tinged her cheeks. ‘Oh, yes? And what are those?’

  ‘Any number of things—but if you think I am going to tell you what they are, you are mistaken.’

  She narrowed her gaze, ignoring the food and the wine. ‘Excuse me, Your Majesty, but what is all this for? This dinner? The rooms I was locked in? These...clothes?’

  One small hand went to the embroidered edge of her robe, the tips of her fingers running over it. She liked it, he could tell, even though she probably didn’t want to.

  ‘I thought I was your prisoner.’

  ‘If you were truly my prisoner you would be back in that jail cell.’

  ‘But you said I was to be here indefinitely. That I was—’

  ‘That is part of the request I have to make,’ he interrupted calmly. ‘Though perhaps you should have a sip of wine and something to eat before we discuss it.’

  Little sparks glittered in her eyes. ‘Like I said, I’m not hungry.’

  Well, if she didn’t want to eat he certainly wasn’t going to force her, and nor should he draw this out any longer than he had to.

  What happened to a quick, clean strike?

  She and her white face had happened.

  She and the sympathy that seemed to sit in the centre of his chest whether he wanted it to or not.

  ‘Do not eat, then.’ He shoved that sympathy aside once again. ‘It makes no difference to what I have to say to you.’

  Her gaze narrowed even further, but she didn’t speak, merely sat on the cushions, as straight-backed and dignified as the sheikha she would soon be.

  ‘The safety of my country is of paramount importance to me, Miss Devereaux,’ he began, holding her gaze so he could see that she understood. ‘And protecting it is my purpose as king—a purpose I take very seriously indeed. So when the safety of my country is compromised I must take certain steps.’

  ‘I see. Such as keeping me here, despite the fact that I’m not a threat?’

  She was still angry, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. Not when she didn’t know the history of the country she was dealing with.

  Or your role in it.

  But she didn’t need to know that. No one did. It was enough that he was working to fix the mistake he’d made, and fix it he would.

  ‘It is not you who gets to decide what is a threat to Ashkaraz and what is not.’ He didn’t bother to hide the chill in his voice. ‘That is my decision.’

  Again, colour crept through her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. ‘You were talking about certain steps. What are they?’

  ‘Keeping you here is definitely one of them. But there are other threats to my kingdom that have nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Okay—fine. I get that. But I still don’t understand what this has to do with giving me dinner.’

  ‘A kingdom can be threatened from within as well as without. And there are certain families who put themselves first, over the people of this country.’

  He could feel the anger gathering in him again. Cold and terrible anger at the web of alliances that had been forged purely for personal gain and how those very same people who had taken advantage of his father’s generosity now looked to take advantage of his.

  ‘I will not have it,’ he went on, his voice on the edge of a growl. ‘I will not have my council or my government divided, and I will not have one family being awarded more importance than another.’

  Her defiance had melted away, and he saw a bright curiosity burning in her eyes. ‘No. I can imagine not. But I’m not sure what this has to do with me.’

  He bared his teeth. ‘If you let me finish, I will tell you.’

  She gave a little sniff. ‘I wasn’t interrupting. Please, go on.’

  Her hand moved to the wine glass and she picked it up, taking a sip. Then she looked down at the plate he’d set in front of her and idly picked up an olive, popping it into her mouth.

  Clearly she was hungrier than she’d said. Satisfaction moved through him that she was finally eating the food he’d presented to her, allaying his anger somewhat.

  ‘I need a wife, Miss Devereaux,’ he said, watching her. ‘The royal succession must be ensured and my council wish this to happen soon. But I will not give in to factions—which means I cannot choose a bride from within my own country. There is no shortage of candidates, but none are suitable.’

  Her brow wrinkled as she put the olive pit on her plate, then picked up another olive, chewing thoughtfully. ‘That’s unfortunate. Can’t you choose a bride from outside the country?’

  ‘Our borders are closed—so, no, I cannot.’

  ‘That’s very unfortunate, in that case.’ Once she’d finished the olive she picked up some flatbread, dipping it in the hummus he’d spread on her plate. ‘Isn’t there anyone you can choose?’

  ‘Not from among the candidates that have been put before me. They all have families who are greedy, grasping. Who want political influence.’

  ‘You can’t just tell them no?’

  There was no anger at all in her expression now. Her attention was focused on the puzzle of finding him a wife. And if she found it strange that he was discussing it with her, she didn’t show it.

  Why are you explaining yourself to her? You are the king. Your word is law. Simply tell her she will be marrying you and be done with it.

  The thought needled at him. Because explaining was exactly what he was doing and he wasn’t sure why.

  Perhaps it had something to do with her initial fear and then that little spark of defiance. And the way she’d absently started eating, no matter that she’d made a point of telling him she wasn’t hungry.

  There was something artless and innocent to her that he found attractive, and it was very much the opposite of what he was used to from the people around him. They were all greedy, all wanted something from him, and they were never honest about it. They lied and manipulated, as Catherine had done, to get what they wanted.

  No wonder his father had taught him that isolation was the best lesson for any ruler. To rely on his own judgement and not be swayed by anyone or anything, still less the promptings of his own heart.

  Once he’d thought his father had been wrong—but that had been before Catherine, before he’d learned otherwise, and now he filled his heart with marble and his will with steel. Nothing got through. Nothing made him bend.

  How does that explain the sympathy in your heart for this woman?

  He didn’t know. And he didn’t like it.

  ‘I cannot “tell them no”,’ he said flatly. ‘Not outright. That would cause more division and dissension, so I must be cautious.’

  She frowned. ‘Then how are you supposed to find a wife?’

  Did she really have no idea what he was leading up to? Did she really not understand?

  Tariq searched her face, seeing only puzzlement. ‘I have found one.’

  Only then did something flicker in her eyes—a flash of apprehension. ‘Oh?’

  He stared at her, looking for what he
didn’t know. ‘You are not going to ask me who it is?’

  Her mouth opened and then closed, and then she tore her gaze from his, looking down at her plate. Her hands dropped to her lap. The candlelight glittered off her pale lashes and her hair, giving her an ethereal, fragile air.

  And that strange feeling in his chest, that sympathy that wouldn’t go away, deepened. He fought it, because it couldn’t gain ground in him. He wouldn’t let anything like it take root inside him again.

  There was silence and he waited.

  Because she’d guessed—he was sure of it—and he wanted her to say it.

  ‘You can’t...’ she murmured, not looking up. ‘You can’t mean...me.’

  ‘Can I not?’

  Her lashes quivered against the smooth, pale skin of her cheeks and she went very still, tension radiating from her. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said eventually.

  ‘What is there to understand? I need a wife, Miss Devereaux. I need the succession secured and I need my council happy. And I need to put those aristocratic families seeking to use their position to their advantage back in their place.’ He paused, making sure that soft, weak feeling inside him was gone. ‘I had no suitable candidates, no prospect of any, and then you turned up. You are perfect for the role.’

  There was more silence, broken only by the splashing of the fountain. She didn’t move, kept her gaze on the table, but he could almost feel her shock.

  ‘You have no family except your father,’ he went on. ‘And, more importantly, you have no family here. Which means there will be no one using you to better themselves or their position. You are an outsider with no connections, and that makes you ideal.’

  Her long, pale throat moved. ‘But...but I’m just a woman you picked up in the desert. A nobody.’

  ‘Which is precisely why you are perfect.’

  She looked up suddenly and he thought he saw a flicker of hurt in her eyes. But then it was gone and the anger was back.

  ‘You can’t marry me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but you just can’t.’

  ‘Give me one good reason.’