Czytaj książkę: «Desert Prince's Stolen Bride»

CHAPTER ONE

HE CAME IN through the window.

Olivia Taylor looked up from the blanket she’d been folding, her mouth dropping open in wordless shock. She was too surprised to be scared. Yet. He was dressed all in black, his body underneath the loose garments tall, lithe and powerful. A turban covered his hair but beneath it Olivia saw his face and the determination blazing in his steel-coloured eyes.

She drew a breath to scream when he moved swiftly towards her and slipped a hand over her mouth. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said in Arabic, his tone brusque and yet also strangely gentle. It took her a moment to make out the words; she’d learned some Arabic living in the Amari household, but it was still of the schoolgirl variety. She’d been hired to speak only English to the three youngest Princesses.

He continued speaking and her shocked mind struggled to understand. ‘That is my solemn vow, and I will never break it. Just do what I say and no harm shall ever come to you. I swear it on my life.’

Olivia stood there rigidly, his hand on her mouth, the scent of his skin in her nostrils. He smelled of horse and sand and sweat and musk...and, strangely, it was not unpleasing. Her mind was spinning with terrifying numbness, around and around, unable to latch onto any coherent thought. She couldn’t think. She could barely breathe. Shock gave way to fear, making her dizzy. It was as if everything were happening underwater or in slow motion, yet far too fast, because already the man was propelling her to the window, and somehow she was going, going, her legs weak as water, her insides sliding around like jelly, her mind a blank canvas of fear and shock.

Halina was in the next room. The door wasn’t even closed, not properly. She could hear her friend humming under her breath. How could this be happening? She’d only come in here, to Halina’s bedroom, to put away her evening gown and tidy up a bit. Halina had just returned from what she’d claimed was an interminable dinner with her parents to discuss her future. Her fiancé. Olivia knew Halina didn’t want to get married, and certainly not to a rebel prince she’d never met.

‘He’s practically an outlaw,’ she’d said as she’d thrown herself on the sofa in her sitting room with a gusty sigh. ‘A criminal.’

‘I heard he went to Cambridge,’ Olivia had countered mildly, used to her friend’s theatrics, and Halina had rolled her eyes, determined to play up to whatever audience she had.

‘He’s been living in the desert for ten years. He’s probably gone completely savage. I don’t even know if he speaks English.’

‘If he went to Cambridge, I’m sure he speaks English. And in any case your parents don’t want you to marry him until his title is fully restored and he’s back in the capital, in his palace,’ Olivia had reminded her. She’d been governess to Halina’s three younger sisters for four years, and she was well versed in all the family’s hopes and plans.

Halina had been engaged to Prince Zayed al bin Nur since she was ten years old, but a decade ago his family’s rule had been overthrown by a government minister—Fakhir Malouf—and Prince Zayed, only just returned from university, had been forced into exile in the desert to fight for his throne.

Civil war had happened in spurts and bursts over the years, Zayed’s band of rebels to Malouf’s crack troops. Halina’s father had insisted on honouring the betrothal, but only when Zayed’s power was fully restored...and who knew when that would be?

But surely this man had nothing to do with that. Why did he want her? Why was he here?

Already he was at the window, one hip braced against the ledge, one hand gripping her upper arm, the other still over her mouth. She could taste the salt on his skin. His breath fanned her ear as he spoke, making her shiver.

‘Please, do not be afraid.’

Strangely, she believed him. He didn’t want her to be scared—and yet he was abducting her. Her frozen brain finally thawing into gear, Olivia started to struggle, her body arching against the man’s as she attempted, uselessly, to free herself from his hold.

‘Don’t do that.’ The words were quiet and lethal as his grip tightened on her, his hands like iron bands on her body. Inflexible and impossible to break, yet still strangely gentle. Olivia stilled, her heart thudding, knowing instinctively if she didn’t escape now there would not be another good opportunity. And if she didn’t escape...

Her mind blurred and blanked. She could not imagine what this man wanted with her, what he intended.

‘I said I wouldn’t hurt you.’ The faintest edge of impatience had entered the man’s low, steady voice. ‘This is for the best, for both of us.’ Which made no sense at all. There was no best for her in being kidnapped. How had this man been able to climb in through the window of Halina’s bedroom?

The royal palace in the desert kingdom of Abkar was several miles from the capital city, remote and guarded by a high stone wall, patrolled by dogs and soldiers. Hassan Amari took no chances with his precious, beloved family. And yet here was this man, dark, strong, utterly in control. Something had gone very wrong at some point and Olivia couldn’t imagine why or how.

The man turned her towards him. His face was very close, his lashes surprisingly long and lush, his eyes not merely grey, as she’d first thought, but a startling, mossy grey-green. His cheeks, nose and mouth were all hewn of harsh lines, giving Olivia an even stronger sense of the grim determination and inflexibility she’d seen in him from the moment he’d come through the window.

‘I will keep you safe.’ Looping a rope around her waist, he heaved her over the window to plummet down into the desert darkness.

The breath whooshed from Olivia’s lungs and she was too startled to scream as the air streamed past, her heart suspended in her chest. Then the rope jerked taut and she landed with a heavy thud in another man’s arms. He righted her quickly, her feet on the ground, but before she could scream he had covered her mouth with a scarf and tied it.

The man who had come in Halina’s bedroom was scaling down the side of the palace wall, as stealthy and graceful as a panther. He landed lightly on his feet, his grey-green eyes narrowing at the sight of the gag on Olivia’s mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ the other man said in a low voice. ‘I did not want her to scream.’

The man nodded shortly as Olivia’s mind whirled.

What was going on? Why had they taken her?

The man looked back at her, a faint smile curving that rugged mouth. ‘Come,’ he said and, taking her by the elbow, he drew her towards several horses that were tethered by the palace wall.

Horses? How on earth were they going to get out of the palace on horses? The only way was through the front gates, tall and towering, topped with iron spikes and guarded by Sultan Hassan’s private soldiers.

The man heaved her up on a horse and Olivia sprawled inelegantly across its back. She’d never ridden, unlike Halina and her sisters, who had been practically raised on horseback. The man quirked an eyebrow, seeming almost amused by her ineptitude, and then righted her, swinging up to straddle the horse behind her so she was nestled closely between his hard-packed thighs.

He snaked one arm around her waist to draw her even more tightly against him; Olivia could feel his heart thudding against her back, the heat of his body warming her right through. His scent invaded her senses. She’d never been so close to a man before.

‘Let’s ride,’ the man said in a voice that managed to be both soft and commanding, and they headed off, Olivia watching in disbelief as they rode right through the palace gates, not a soldier in sight. Had these men taken over the palace? Had there been some kind of attack and no one had even realised?

As soon as they were clear, the man took off her gag.

‘I am sorry for that. I did not want you to be treated so roughly.’

Which made no sense. He was her kidnapper. But Olivia couldn’t ask any questions now, not with the wind streaming past and the sand flying into her eyes. The man slowed the horse down to tie the scarf around her hair and cover her mouth. ‘There. That is better,’ he murmured into her ear, sending shivers racing across her skin.

Olivia was conscious of the hard wall of the man’s chest she was leaning against, his arm wrapped so snugly around her she almost felt safe. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and they were off again, flying across the sand.

The hours blurred into one another as they kept riding, the man holding her all the while, her body starting to ache from the constant jostling.

The moon was a silver crescent high above them, the sky a garden of stars sending silvery shadows across the desert sand, the only sound the steady thud of the horses’ hooves.

At some point Olivia fell into an uneasy doze, her head resting against his chest, which seemed impossible, considering her precarious situation, but the constant, teeth-jarring movement had exhausted her.

She woke with a jolt when their gallop slowed, the man’s arm relaxing on her only slightly. Olivia blinked warily; a few flickering lights emerged like pinpricks in the darkness. She heard low, murmuring voices but couldn’t make out the words. It had taken concentration to understand everything the man had said to her in Arabic, and Olivia thought she must have missed or misunderstood some words.

The man slowed the horse to a stop and slid off it in one easy movement before turning to her.

Olivia gazed down at him, uncertain and suddenly desperately afraid. They had arrived at some kind of destination, and she had no idea what was going to happen now. What this man was going to do with her. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, that he would keep her safe, but why on earth should she believe him?

‘Come down,’ he said quietly, and his tone reminded Olivia of the way Sultan Hassan talked to a frightened mare. ‘No one will hurt you. I gave you my vow.’

‘Why...?’ Her voice came out in a croak; her throat was as dry as dust, sand speckling her lips and skin. ‘Why have you taken me?’

‘For justice,’ the man replied. He reached for her, his hands gripping her arms with that gentle strength she’d felt before. ‘Now, come down. Eat, drink, refresh yourself. And then we’ll talk.’

Olivia’s feet hit the ground and her legs nearly gave way. She hated being so feeble, but she’d never ridden a horse before and they’d been galloping for several hours. Her thighs chafed and her muscles ached. She felt as if she could collapse right where she stood. The man caught her, swearing under his breath.

‘I thought you knew how to ride.’

‘What?’ Olivia blinked at him in surprised confusion. Why would he think that? ‘No, I don’t know how. I never learned.’

‘It seems my intelligence was wrong on one point, at least.’ He turned away before she could reply. ‘Suma will see to you.’

* * *

Zayed al bin Nur strode towards his tent, his body aching from the hard ride and his heart thudding with the heady pulse of triumph. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. He’d successfully kidnapped Princess Halina Amari from behind the seemingly impenetrable walls of the royal palace. All that remained now was to seal the deal and make her his bride.

His mouth curved grimly as he thought of his future father-in-law’s fury. Abducting Princess Halina had been a massive risk, but a calculated one. Hassan Amari knew Zayed’s cause was just. And Zayed knew he needed the full support of the neighbouring kingdom of Abkar to wage war against Fakhir Malouf, the man who had taken his throne...and murdered his family.

The old rage settled in Zayed’s gut, ice-cold and iron-hard with the passage of time, a familiar and almost comforting weight as he ducked under the flap and went into his tent. His advisor and friend, Jahmal, scrambled to attention.

‘My Prince.’

‘Have the preparations been made?’

‘Yes, My Prince.’

Zayed shrugged off his travel-stained cloak and tore the turban from his hair, running his hand through the spiky mass to dislodge the grains of sand. ‘Thank you. I am giving my bride half an hour to rest and refresh herself, and then we will go ahead with the ceremony.’

Unease flickered across Jahmal’s face but he nodded. ‘Yes, My Prince.’

Zayed knew his closest advisors had been deeply unsure about the risk he was taking. They were afraid of invoking Hassan Amari’s wrath, even of starting another and far more damaging war with a neighbouring country they counted as their ally. But they didn’t have the same fury and fear driving them as he did. They didn’t remember the tortured screams of his brother and father as they’d burned to death in a helicopter that had pirouetted to the ground in flames. They didn’t see his mother’s shocked face when they closed their eyes, feel her unending grief, the memory of her dying in his arms a burden they would carry to his last breath. They didn’t wake in the darkness, a silent scream of terror and rage bottled in their throats as the vestiges of a nightmare clung to their shattered minds and they were forced to face another bleak dawn, an unending day of fighting for what always should have been theirs.

No, they didn’t understand. And no one ever would. This civil war would go on and on with no end in sight unless Zayed did something drastic and definitive. Fakhir Malouf would continue to set his country back decades, oppressing his people with his hopelessly backward schemes. Zayed had to act. And this had been the only option open to him.

There were worse things than a rushed wedding. He was honouring his betrothal vow, that was all. Halina would learn to accept it. Shrugging out of his dusty garments, Zayed prepared to meet his bride.

Half an hour later, freshly bathed and shaven, he ducked into the tent where he had ordered Suma to bring Halina to wait. His eyes adjusting to the flickering candlelight, he saw that she sat on a silken pillow with her back to him, narrow and slender, her hair streaming down it in a dark, damp river. She wore a loose robe of deep blue embroidered with silver thread that engulfed her slender figure but still reminded him of how she’d felt in his arms, slender and light. A surprising surge of desire arrowed through him. This marriage was about politics, nothing more, but it had been a long time since he’d lain with a woman.

Zayed let the tent flap fall closed behind him with a rustle and she turned, scrambling to a standing position, her eyes wide. She had incredible eyes, a deep, stormy blue, fringed extravagantly with sooty lashes. He hadn’t expected those eyes, somehow.

Of course, he’d never seen a proper photograph of his bride, merely a few blurry images taken from a distance, since she’d been raised in virtual seclusion. They’d been betrothed when he was twenty and she ten, although it had been done formally, with a proxy, so they’d never met. Now did not seem like the most auspicious of introductions, but there was nothing to be done for it. Zayed squared his shoulders.

‘You have been made comfortable, I trust?’

She hesitated, her gaze searching his face, looking for answers. After a pause, she finally answered. ‘Yes...’ Her voice was both soft and husky, pleasant. That was good. So far he liked her eyes and her hair, and he knew her body was both slender and curvaceous from being nestled against it on horseback for several uncomfortable hours. Three things that he could be thankful for. He had not expected so much. Rumours had painted Halina as a melodramatic and slightly spoiled princess. The woman in front of him did not seem so.

‘But...’ Her throat worked convulsively, the words coming in stumbling snatches. ‘I don’t... I don’t...understand why you’ve...’

From behind them the tent flap rustled again and Zayed met the subtly questioning gaze of the imam he’d chosen to perform the ceremony. He would have preferred a civil service, but Malouf would dismiss a marriage that was conducted by a notary, and the last thing he could do was have Malouf dismiss this, the most important diplomatic manoeuvre he’d ever make.

‘We’re ready,’ he said to the imam, who gave a brief nod. Halina’s confused gaze moved from him to the man who would marry them.

‘What...what are you...?’

‘All you need to say is yes,’ Zayed informed her shortly. He did not have time for her questions, her concerns, and certainly not her protestations. They could talk after the vows were performed, the marriage finalised. Not before. He would allow nothing to dissuade him. Halina’s eyes had widened and darkened to the colour of a storm-tossed sea, her lips, rosy-pink and plump, parting soundlessly.

‘Yes,’ she repeated, searching his face, looking for answers. Did she not understand what she was doing here? It seemed obvious to Zayed, and it would soon be so to Halina when she made her vows. He could not afford to explain why he’d taken her, why they had to marry with such haste. Although his desert camp was well hidden, already Sultan Hassan could be sending his troops to take back his daughter. Zayed intended to have the marriage performed well before then.

Sensing his urgency, the imam moved forward and began the ceremony, speaking with quick fluidity. Zayed took Halina by her arm, firmly but with gentleness. She looked dazed, but Zayed hoped she’d adjust quickly. She knew they were engaged, after all. His methods might be unorthodox, but the end result would be the same as if they’d been surrounded by pomp and circumstance.

A silence descended in the tent and Zayed realised it was Halina’s turn to speak. ‘Say yes,’ he hissed and she blinked at him, still seeming confused.

‘Yes,’ she said after a second’s pause.

The imam continued twice more, and twice more Zayed had to instruct Halina to speak. ‘Say yes.’

Each time she murmured yes—naaam—her lips forming the word hesitantly.

The imam turned to him and Zayed bit out his three replies. Yes, yes, yes.

Then, with a little bow, the imam stepped back. Zayed’s breath rushed out in a sigh of satisfaction and relief. It was done. They were wed.

‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he told Halina, who blinked at him.

‘Alone?’

‘For a few moments, to ready yourself.’ Zayed hesitated, and then decided he would not explain things further. Not now, with the imam listening and Halina seeming so dazed. Later, when they could talk, relax even, he would explain more. There would be food and wine and conversation—a little, at least. Then he would tell her. Tonight was not merely the marriage ceremony but its consummation.