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Prologue

LAYLA did not close her eyes as the handmaidens veiled her. Instead, she watched in the mirror as, one by one, her generous cleavage, her pale legs and the delicate henna tattoos disappeared beneath the golden layers of the jewelled gold dress. Then she stared as her long raven hair and her made-up face, her rouged cheeks and full lips also disappeared—till all that was left were her eyes.

Eyes that blinked nervously as the realisation hit— when these veils were removed, this time there would be none of the usual relief. It would not mean she was home at her palace in Haydar, where she could relax. No, when these veils were removed it would be before her new husband—she would be in the Qusay Desert, on her wedding night.

King Xavian Al’ Ramiz, the man she had been betrothed to since her childhood, had after all these years decided to honour that commitment and finally summoned her to be his bride.

He had kept her waiting—and, more importantly for Layla, he had kept her country waiting.

Her life had been—was—but a holding pattern.

Layla was the eldest of seven girls. Her mother had died trying to produce a male heir—Layla had heard the sobs and anger as each gruelling birth yielded yet another poor crop—and the deeply traditional Haydar people had, with each birth, further balked at the idea of being ruled by a queen.

Ah, but her father had been wise. A deal had been brokered many years ago with the King of Qusay, whose marriage had produced only one son, that the two would marry. Xavian would step in and appease the people of Haydar, and of course they would produce a son—who would one day rule both lands.

Since the union had not been forthcoming, on her father’s death Layla had become Queen. The elders had wanted her to rule in name only, so that they could advise her and keep the ways of the people safe, but she’d intended to take her role seriously. She had asserted herself—refusing to sign or add voice to anything that she didn’t agree with.

And as for her early betrothal—why, Xavian had been too busy being a bachelor to give up his ways. It had taken his parents’ death to force his hand—and she had grown up a lot while waiting for his summons to marry. Layla had ruled her land her way, and responsibility had made her wise. Xavian had left it too late to demand compliance, for she would not lie down now and meekly hand it all over to a man who had no real interest in either her kingdom or in her as a wife.

His parents’ recent death had clearly prompted an urgent reappraisal, and the playboy Prince had returned from Europe and stepped magnificently into the role of King of Qusay. A born leader, despite his private loss, he was leading his people through grief-stricken times—Layla knew, because Layla had watched. They had never once spoken, she had seen him only from a distance and merely heard about his decadent ways, but more recently she had made time in her busy schedule to follow him more closely—recording and watching his speeches, which were eloquent and commanding. He was Prince Xavian no more, but a true king.

And a king needed a bride.

It was a business deal.

Layla was aware of that, and yet as she had watched him from afar, watched the man who would one day be her husband live his wild, debauched ways, she had been jealous rather than angry. Jealous that it was all right for Xavian to take lovers, to live wild and free, while she waited.

She was twenty-six.

And tonight, finally, it was her turn.

Tonight, whether or not it was a business arrangement, a convenient betrothal, even if they would for the most part spend their lives apart, tonight he would take her to the Qusay Desert.

Tonight Layla would face her husband…She was suddenly glad of the veils, because beneath them she blushed…Tonight King Xavian Al’ Ramiz would become her lover.

Her only lover.

Bizarrely, she wished that he were just a little less good-looking, that the face she had tracked in newspapers, on television and on the Internet did not have such brooding, haughty appeal. How she had scrutinised his features—pausing the footage at times and catching her breath as his black eyes stared back at her. He looked royal—from the straight Roman nose to the razored cheekbones, to the lush, thick black hair that fell into perfect shape. He was from good lineage.

He had an aura too—a natural confidence, a presence that surrounded him. She herself had witnessed it, unseen from a distance, when their schedules had had them attending the same functions. Layla, hidden behind a veil, had watched her husband-to-be, hoping those black eyes might seek her out, that he might give her a smile or even a brief acknowledgment—anything that might indicate curiosity towards his future wife.

He had given her nothing.

Less than nothing. He had stood beside her at the Coronation of Queen Stefania of Aristo last year and quite simply ignored her.

The shame of that day still burnt—his disregard, his obvious boredom at their forthcoming union still humiliated Layla even now.

‘Your Highness…’ She screwed her eyes closed in impatience as, now that she was veiled, Imran, one of her many advisors, came into her room to deliver some last-minute concerns, to detail some points, to request final instructions in his nasal voice, before his Queen took a rare week off from official duties.

‘And we need an urgent signature on the amended sapphire mine proposal…’

It was her wedding day!

But duty had to come first, and as Queen of Haydar there was much duty. An entourage had come with her to Qusay for the wedding: a team of advisors, along with handmaidens and her chief lady-in-waiting, Baja.

Oh, how the advisors and elders rued the day the Queen had first voiced her opinion, had refused to just say yes and let them continue on with the ways of old. Instead, to their displeasure, Layla continued to assert herself—which meant reminding them constantly that, as Queen, all decisions were ultimately hers…

It was wearying, exhausting in fact, to be constantly checking and double-checking facts and figures, knowing that her so-called team were permanently on the alert for weakness, for that moment when they could slip a document past her unnoticed, when her eyes might miss a small sub-clause…They wished that Haydar might remain staid and unchanged, instead of embracing the many opportunities the rich land offered her people.

‘All of this can wait!’ Layla fixed Imran with a stare. ‘I will sign nothing today.’ She watched his lips tighten. ‘It can all wait for my return.’

‘The drilling is due to commence…’

‘It will commence on my return!’ Layla snapped. ‘When I have read the amendment and if I then approve it.’ Yet, despite her strong words, she could feel tears sting her carefully kholled eyes—tears she would never let Imran see, so she turned to the window and stared out to the Qusay ocean.

It was her wedding day!

Surely, surely, she had earned the right to be nothing but a woman for one day and one night?

Seemingly not!

‘We also need to discuss extending the King’s visit to Haydar…’ Imran was relentless.

‘There can be no discussion, till we are married,’ Layla responded with her back still to him, knowing that if he saw weakness Imran would pounce. ‘Now, if you will kindly let me get on with the small matter of my wedding, I can soon turn my full attention back to Haydar.’ He was dismissed, but still stood there, and Layla knew what was coming. Over her shoulder she spoke first. ‘Let me just reiterate: nothing, and I mean nothing, is to be approved in my absence.’

‘Of course,’ Imran replied smoothly. ‘Though naturally, if it were pressing, you would trust your Committee of Elders…’

‘Imran.’ Her tears had dried, and her eyes were steady when she turned and faced him. Her voice, like her orders, was crystal-clear. ‘I am taking my computer with me, and if for some reason I cannot be contacted by that medium, you will get in a helicopter and visit me in the desert.’

‘I would have thought you would prefer not to be disturbed,’ Imran attempted.

‘I have told you before, Imran—never presume to know my thoughts.’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’

He left then, and, even though it was but a moment from her wedding, the knot of tension in her stomach was reserved for Imran.

‘Breathe, Layla,’ Baja said gently.

Baja, dear Baja, who stayed silent in meetings but heard everything. Baja, who saw the tears she cried some nights. Baja, the only person who truly understood the daily weight on her shoulders.

‘He will use the time I am away to do something…’ Layla said.

‘He would be a fool,’ Baja said. ‘Your orders were clear.’

‘They twist my words.’

‘Then write them down.’

She was so grateful for Baja, for her wisdom, her patience, and almost absolutely Layla trusted her.

Almost—because Layla had long ago learnt that the only person she could truly trust was herself.

‘I will.’

‘First, though,’ Baja said, ‘you are to marry.’

She was led through the Qusay palace, its corridors lined with ancestral portraits. It was easier to think of a painting on a wall, to focus on the wide doors that were being opened or listen to the swish of her veil as she walked, than to attempt to comprehend that in just a moment she would be beside him.

The desert heat hit her as soon as she stepped outside. She was led down a white path and through manicured gardens—a true desert oasis. Tiny birds like jewels coloured the trees, their wings flapping as rapidly as Layla’s eyelashes as finally she stood and waited for her groom.

The marriage service would be small—next week when, as was Haydar tradition, she was unveiled as a married woman, they would be presented to dignitaries and rulers at a formal reception, but for today it was only the judge and senior elders from both lands that would bear witness.

She stood in the relatively cool shade of an orange tree, smelt the fragrant blooms of the gardens, listened to the continual trickle of the fountains, and still she waited.

He had kept her waiting ten years, so what did ten minutes more matter? Layla asked herself.

Or another ten!

A chair was brought for her, but Layla refused. Instead she stood, burning in shame—could this man make it any clearer how little regard he had for her?

She wanted to walk.

She wanted to turn her back on tradition, to demand transport, to tell him where he could shove his business arrangement.

‘The King will be here shortly.’

She stared down at her hands, saw her fingers tightly knotted, had to physically plant her feet to the ground to stop herself turning and walking—had to purse her lips behind the veil to prevent herself from saying something that her people would surely regret if she did.

‘Perhaps Your Highness should sit…’ Again the chair was suggested. One of the ancient judges was already sitting and fanning himself. Perhaps they would bring out refreshments, Layla thought wildly, or cut up the oranges from the heavily fruited trees. And then they could all stand around sucking their quarters as they discussed what to do when a King refused to appear for his own wedding.

This was the hell of duty.

To stand.

To be shamed.

To wait.

Layla would take it for her people—would go ahead with this union if that was what tradition dictated—but she swore to herself as she stood there, pale and close to fainting, yet still refusing to sit, that he would pay for his offensive behaviour.

If he thought he could treat her so poorly, if he thought she would meekly comply, would trot along by his side and follow his orders, then that was his misfortune.

King Xavian should have done his research more thoroughly. Should have known that behind these veils was a strong, proud woman.

That behind the throng of elders and aides was a ruler who was strong—too strong, according to them.

Tonight she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his behaviour. He had no idea what awaited him, Layla thought, a small smile of satisfaction spreading over her lips. But it soon faded…

As still he made her wait.