One Desert Night

CHAPTER FOUR

NABIL HAD HAD ENOUGH. He had thought that by agreeing to an arranged marriage he was going to make things easier. That all he had to do was to instruct his chancellor to find a suitable bride, agree to any terms her family proposed and proceed to the wedding ceremony. Now it seemed that the rituals and procedures would never end. Today he had expected to see the chosen candidates; pick one to become his wife. Instead he was weighing up possible treaties, the balance needed for peace.

Could this thing get more like a bidding war? His breath hissed in through his teeth as he tried to find the patience to listen to what Omar was now telling him. Had he spent the last ten years dragging the country into the present century only to find that his need for a wife would take it right back again to the dark ages it had been in when his father had ruled?

‘I understand,’ he said at last, driven to the end of his patience. ‘Give me the list.’

An impatient gesture of his outstretched hand brought the chancellor hurrying, passing the sheet of paper to him. One name jumped out at him at once, and he knew there had never been a choice. Not really. This had been inevitable from the moment he had put the bride search into motion. There might have been other names, but those had really had no weight to their candidacy. If he really wanted to secure the throne, to ensure peace, then there was only this one way he could go.

Jamalia; Farouk El Afarim’s eldest daughter.

Just a maid. I am with Jamalia.

Damn you, Zia, get out of my head! He needed to think clearly and with the image of the woman he’d met on the balcony haunting his thoughts, that was impossible. But it didn’t take much thought to know that an alliance with the El Afarims was the most valuable gift he could give to Rhastaan.

‘Is Jamalia here today?’

‘She is sire but...’

‘I will see her.’

A sound the older man made brought his head up fast. He could almost feel the force of his own glare reflected back at him from Omar’s eyes.

‘I will see her—and no one else. I know that it isn’t protocol—’ he emphasised the word sardonically ‘—for me to meet her as yet. But surely there must be some way I can see her without having to come face to face?’

‘There is a room—with a two-way mirror.’

‘That will do.’

* * *

‘Oh, Zia, why do you think we’re here? What is happening?’

‘How should I know?’

Aziza regretted the sharpness of her words as soon as they’d escaped her. She didn’t feel quite in control of her tongue, or her thoughts. She had been a bundle of nerves ever since they had set out on this second visit to the palace. If she thought she’d been apprehensive before at the thought of meeting Nabil again, now that she knew the sort of mature, powerfully sexy man he had become, just the thought of being in the same building as him tied her stomach in knots. Now this new development, the way they had been told to move to this room and wait, set her nerves on edge, making it difficult to breathe.

‘I’m sorry—but obviously I know no more than you.’

Jamalia was in a twitchy enough state as it was. Aziza wasn’t going to let on that she had her strong suspicions that the large mirror on the wall in which her sister was preening herself was in fact a window through which they could be observed by anyone who wanted to watch.

‘My hair’s a mess!’ Jamalia tugged at a lock of silky black hair, twisting it round her fingers as she made a petulant face at her reflection. ‘I knew I should have got you to do it instead of—’

‘Shall I do it now?’ Aziza volunteered hastily. Anything to distract her sister.

Dressing Jamalia’s hair was a skill she had learned from a very young age. She had hoped that if she made her father’s favourite look good then it might win her some of Farouk’s approval. That hadn’t worked, but at least Jamalia appreciated her efforts.

‘It won’t take a moment to braid these pieces, fasten them up at the sides.’

‘All right.’ Jamalia’s petulant expression eased as she watched her younger sister set to work on her hair. ‘Hmm—that doesn’t look half bad. And I tell you what would make it look even better...’

She was fumbling with her necklace as she spoke, never taking her eyes from the mirror as she lifted the necklace and placed it on her head.

‘Help me fasten it, Zia...’

In a moment, the heavy jewelled pendant was hanging in the centre of her forehead, right against the silky black of her hair.

‘See?’ Jamalia preened, turning her head to see the effect from both sides, smiling at herself—and possibly at their hidden viewer—as she did so. ‘The perfect look for the new Sheikha!’

It must be wonderful to have her sister’s total self-confidence, Aziza thought as she compared their two images in the mirror. But then Jamalia had always known she was beautiful, always been treated as the jewel in the family. Jamalia took after their father: tall, slender, elegant, stunning. They were so alike, it was no wonder Farouk had always favoured her. Beside her glamourous sibling Aziza felt like a small, rounded puppy, cuddly perhaps, but lacking the sort of pedigree Jamalia wore effortlessly. Because of that, it had always been made plain to her that it would cost her family an expensive dowry to marry her off.

You want me to kiss you, do you...? From the depths of her memory came the sound of Sheikh Nabil’s voice, dark with mockery and contempt, so clearly that she could almost believe he had come into the room behind them. You stupid little fool—you wouldn’t even know who you were kissing. What kind of man you wanted...

Did Jamalia know what sort of a husband she would get in this man? Did she understand—or did she even care? It seemed that all her sister cared about was the title of Sheikha, the ceremonial role, the wealth and luxury that would come with it. At least her sister wouldn’t be pushed into a totally subservient place as Nabil’s wife, as might have happened in the past. In the ten years since his first wife had died, the Sheikh had worked ceaselessly it seemed to ensure that women had a better life, more equality. Hadn’t she longed to take advantage of it herself, to be able to go to university to study languages? Another mark against her, in her father’s opinion. After all, who would want to marry a bluestocking, someone who spent so much of her free time with her books? At least she’d learned to drive and enjoy the independence that gave her, while her sister had never bothered to take driving lessons.

But then of course, if she became Queen, Jamalia would never need to steer her own vehicle. She would have a sleek, luxurious, armour-plated official car at her disposal, together with a professional chauffeur, on duty day or night, whenever she wanted him.

Jamalia as Queen... Why did her stomach seem to drop, her nerves clench, at just the thought? Not at the thought of her sister as Sheikha—but as Nabil’s wife.

* * *

‘That is the woman you mean?’

Nabil was already turning away from the two-way mirror through which he had been observing the two women in the room beyond them. He had seen enough. If the truth was told he had seen more than he had ever wanted or expected.

He had never anticipated that he would see her. That the woman who had plagued his thoughts would be there in the room with his prospective bride. Well, of course he had known that this Zia was Jamalia’s maid. She had said so herself. But he hadn’t known that Zia would be here, now, with Jamalia when he had come to see her today. He had expected Jamalia’s mother to be acting as chaperone and instead had found himself staring straight at Zia.

And that had thrown everything off-balance.

It had forced him to remember the heavy throb of his blood when he had been talking with Zia on the balcony. The way that the soft scent of her skin, mixed with some light floral fragrance, had drifted towards him on the night air, making him think of the secrecy of a bedroom, soft sheets...

Damn it to hell! Even now he was thinking of her—of Zia—when she should be the last thing on his mind. Perhaps he should have taken her to bed on that night—when she had been practically begging him to do so—and got this sensual itch out of his system.

‘Sire?’ Omar was waiting for him to continue. ‘And she is the woman of your choice?’

‘She...’ This was getting worse. He’d almost said yes to Omar’s selection of a bride when his mind had been full of some other woman. Of bedding his prospective bride’s maid.

Clearing his thoughts with a brutal shake of his head, he brought his mind back into focus.

‘No. No, she’s not.’

How could he ever marry Jamalia when as his Queen she would surely bring her maid with her? And yet how could he now refuse to take Jamalia as his wife and risk insulting her father by rejecting his beautiful daughter?

He could see why Jamalia had been selected. She was stunning; there was no doubt about that. She would look magnificent as Queen. But he wanted more than a queen, someone who would give him an heir to his throne. He also wanted someone who would be a mother to his children. He hadn’t acknowledged how much that mattered to him until now. Until he had seen Jamalia preening in the mirror, her total sense of entitlement reminding him of nothing so much as his own mother.

Having been the child of a woman who loved her role as Queen so much that she had never had time for her son, he never wanted any child of his to go through that. He had seen his parents for perhaps an hour or less each week. Times when he had been brought from the nursery, spruced up and groomed, ready for the formal occasion that spending time with his mother had always been. Brought into her private sitting room, he’d had to bow the requisite three times before he could even approach her. And he had always known that the delicate touch of her hand on his head as she commented on how he had grown was one of the two gestures of ‘affection’ she would allow him.

The other was when his brief time was up and his nurse had prepared to escort him from the room. Then his mother would bend her head towards him, wreathing him in the overpowering scent of her perfume, and offer him her powdered cheek for his kiss, allowing him only the lightest, briefest, moment of contact for fear that the contact might smudge her immaculate make-up.

And then he was dismissed.

Small wonder then that the death of both his mother and father in the helicopter crash had barely touched him. How could he miss people who had created him but yet had been barely present in his life? The death of his old nurse, two years later when he was sixteen, had had a far more dramatic effect on his life.

That was not how he wanted the future to be for his children. Having seen how Clemmie was with her son and daughter, he wanted that sort of mothering for any child of his. And something about Jamalia’s self-absorption scraped over his skin like sandpaper.

‘No?’

Clearly Omar thought he had lost his mind—or at least come close to it. But the truth was that he felt more clearer-headed than he had in a long time.

‘But, sire—the treaty...’

He didn’t need reminding about the importance of the treaty, but now, remembering the time he had spent in Farouk’s home when he’d been twelve, he also knew why, unconsciously, he had been avoiding all contact with the man’s older daughter. Told that he was spending some time with an important family, his mind had caught on the word family, hoping that there might be someone who might become a friend. Or that the El Afarims could at least show him something of what a family life might mean.

Instead, it had been plain that the visit was more one of diplomacy and state. Even then, there’d been obviously plenty of scheming going on in the background, as the way that Jamalia had been pushed forward from the start had made plain. He had never taken to the elder El Afarim daughter but...

‘There is a younger sister, isn’t there?’

He had no idea where the memory had come from but suddenly it was clear in his mind. The image of a small, shy child who had peered out at him from behind her mother’s skirts, a soft giggle escaping her curved lips. A little girl so much shorter and more rounded than her older sister with the smile of an angel that had made him feel welcome in a moment. A girl who had cared for a bundle of orphaned kittens as if they were precious to her, feeding them from a dropper with infinite patience, and who, young as she had been, had had a magic touch with a crying baby cousin, soothing him to sleep in just moments. If he had to make an arranged marriage to provide heirs for the sake of his country’s future then the least he could do was to give those heirs a mother who would give them more than he had ever had.

‘If the treaty is to go ahead, then all it needs is that I marry one of the El Afarim girls?’

‘Indeed, but...’

‘But nothing.’ Nabil’s hand came up to cut off any further conversation with a slicing gesture. ‘Enough. If the treaty still stands, then that’s the way it will be. If I have to have an arranged wife, then I’ll take the younger sister. Let it be done.’

CHAPTER FIVE

HOW COULD YOUR life turn inside out in the space of just a few days, not even a month? Aziza wondered to herself as she stood, waiting for the door of the banqueting hall to open, and for her walk—surely the longest walk on earth—to begin. She had barely been aware of each day that had passed, all of them filled with frantic organisation, fittings, meetings, all the arrangements that were needed to turn her into the Sheikh’s chosen bride.

The Sheikh’s chosen bride.

There they were, the four words that had taken her life as she’d known it and shattered it into a million tiny fragments that could never be made whole again. The words were so shocking, so unbelievable, that they made her grab hold of her father’s arm, holding on tightly for fear that her legs might give way beneath her.

The rich golden silk of her ceremonial robes, heavy with embroidery, weighed down on her, making her feel as if she was carrying a burden on her shoulders, and the layers of the veil she wore clung around her face until it was almost impossible to breathe, obscuring her sight so that she had to rely on her father’s support to move forward and walk straight to the right place.

‘Steady...’ her father urged as she swayed slightly, hesitating nervously.

If anything brought home the change in her situation, it was that. The fact that her father had spoken to soothe her, instead of the sharp reproach she would have expected in the past. She was someone new now, and Farouk’s attitude had had to change along with her life.

‘Remember, he chose you.’

He chose you. She still couldn’t believe that those words were true. That they had actually been said in the moment that her father had come to find her and Jamalia in the room where they had been waiting, all day it seemed, for some sort of announcement on Sheikh Nabil’s selection of a bride. They had known that something had happened when Farouk had arrived, his mouth seemingly clamped tight on the news he had to deliver and his dark eyes burning with a suppressed excitement until he’d been free to speak openly.

‘Sheikh Nabil has made his decision,’ he had said and immediately Aziza’s eyes had gone to her sister who had pushed herself out of her chair, hectic colour flooding her cheeks. The ‘diadem’ she had created out of her necklace still glittered on her forehead like an omen.

But it was towards his younger daughter that Farouk had turned, his own smile slightly uneven. He had not been able to suppress his delight that one of his daughters was to become the Sheikh’s bride, but was bemused that it was Aziza and not his ‘jewel’, her elder sister.

‘He chose you.’

Aziza struggled to breathe naturally, making herself draw in air, then let it out again, fighting to steady the way that her feet hit the ground as she moved forward again. The marble floor felt disturbingly uneven beneath the soles of her silk slippers and she could barely focus through the layer upon layer of golden gauze that formed her veil to see the man standing at the far end of the hall.

Nabil—her husband-to-be!—was just a blur of white in his full ceremonial robes, the gutra on his head, bound, with a gold igal, acting like a blind, hiding his face from her.

But that was how it was supposed to be in this ceremony. Aziza knew that both she and Nabil were meant to be just symbols—the ruler and his consort. Not a man and a woman. Because this arranged marriage was for the sake of the country.

That was one of the reasons why she had not been able to refuse to go through with this. For the sake of the country had been drilled into her from the moment she had been told that she was Nabil’s choice. The vital treaties that had been built around their proposed union could be destroyed if she tried to back out. She was not supposed to be a person, just a bargaining tool. No one thought of her hopes, her dreams, her feelings. Anything like that was supposed to be buried under the overwhelming pride of being the Sheikh’s prospective bride. That was why she had this new-found approval from her father. She was the chosen one.

He chose you.

No one—not even Aziza herself—had reckoned with the memories she carried from her childhood, the ardent crush she had had on Nabil from a very early age. That had grown as she’d watched him leave youth behind and turn into a man who had endured loss and betrayal and now had put them behind him.

But who was Nabil now? Were her memories of him just the fantasies of a child, or did they have any foundation in the truth? In her dreams he had always been the man she would marry—but those dreams were just fantasy. She had never dreamed of the hard, cold man she had met that night on the balcony.

And yet it seemed she couldn’t let go of the girlhood yearnings. She had wept for her disillusionment that night, but in the moment that her father had told her that she was the Sheikh’s chosen bride all those dreams had come rushing back, bringing with them new hopes, new hungers, that her younger self would never even have been able to imagine.

She wanted to be the chosen one. Whether she was Zia the maid, or Aziza the second-best daughter, she longed to be special to someone. And Nabil had seen her; in that room with the two-way mirror, he had seen her with Jamalia and he had chosen her.

She was at Nabil’s side now, her right hand lifted from her father’s arm and placed into his, her small fingers almost swallowed up in the length and strength of his palm.

And there it was again. That stinging, fizzing, burning rage of response that his touch stirred, making her snatch in a breath, unable to control the race of her heart.

It was how it had happened on the balcony, the night of the anniversary celebrations.

Now, just being so close to him, had brought back all the feelings that had threatened to burn her alive that night on the balcony. Even through the concealing folds of the veils, his black gaze burned into her skin, branding her, marking her as his.

She wanted that. She wanted this man as she had never wanted any other human being in her life. She wanted those childhood reveries to come true. Oh, she knew that there was no way the dreams of Nabil she had had then could ever become reality. The adult male Nabil she had met on the balcony was light years away from her childhood hero. She knew that he was harsh now. A hard man, devoid of any warm emotion. She blushed to remember his refusal to kiss her that night. She should resist this union. But her foolish heart wouldn’t listen to reason.

Somehow she got through the ceremony, led into the responses, the words she needed to say, guided by the celebrant. She accepted the ring that Nabil pushed on to her finger and then turned, her hand on her husband’s arm, and made her way back down the room. There was a huge change in the atmosphere, in the attitude of everyone present. She was no longer even the chosen one but actually the Sheikh’s wife.

The greatest shock came when she saw her mother sweep into a low curtsey and her father—her father!—bow respectfully as she passed. It was then that it hit home to her that this marriage had changed so much for her personally as well as for the country.

She was no longer second to anyone—except of course Nabil, her husband. Her days of being the ‘other daughter’, the one who was usually kept in the background, were over. Most of all she no longer had to obey her father, subject everything she did to his scrutiny. She was free.

Or was she? She had put her life and her future—her body too—into the hands of the man who was walking beside her. That grip on her fingers was very firm, his skin warm and hard against her own. It made her shiver inside to feel it and the twist of nerves low down in her body forced her to think of what it might be like to have those hands on other more intimate parts of her body. She had blundered into this in a blind bewilderment, half-influenced by the yearning she had felt as a child, half-reaching for the freedom she thought this marriage would offer, clinging on to the knowledge that Nabil was a reformer, had taken an interest in improving the lives of women in his country. So different from her father’s oppressive and traditional views on women. But was that freedom possible at all or had she just exchanged one form of slavery for another?

She drifted through the feasting and celebrations that followed the wedding as if in some sort of delirium, a feeling that was only increased by being hidden behind the concealing curtain of her veils. If she wanted to eat, she would have to slip the food under those curtains in order to reach her mouth.

But the reality was that she couldn’t eat a thing, just pushed the rich, spicy food around on the gold surface of her plate, unable to think of swallowing a morsel. Beside her Nabil sat, his hand resting on the arms of his chair, his long body seeming relaxed in his seat. But this close to him she couldn’t be unaware of the way that those deep, dark eyes watched the room, noting every movement. The wary alertness bothered her.

‘Sire...’

Her voice, dry with apprehension, croaked slightly as the sound pulled his head round, black eyes seeming to sear through the concealing veil and on to her face.

‘My name is Nabil,’ he said softly enough but with an edge to his own name that brought her up sharp. Her eyes drawn to the sudden movement of one long, bronzed hand, she saw how those strong fingers had clenched over the gold fork that lay beside his plate. A plate that he had barely touched either. Suddenly she was stingingly aware of the fact that his given name was one so very few people had the right to use. In his position as the head of government, the ruler of Rhastaan, he was the Sheikh, the King, His Highness—but how few people could call him just Nabil.

And suddenly, from the mists of bitter memory, she had an unwanted recollection of the shocking scenes played out on the televisions sets of the country ten years before. In the deafening silence of the aftermath of the assassination attempt, Nabil, his own face marked with the blood of the glancing wound he had suffered, had bent over the fallen body of Sharmila, his pregnant Queen. As he’d lowered his head to hers, it had been possible to see how her lips had moved to silently form one word: Nabil.

‘N-Nabil...’ she tried hesitantly, wanting to reach out and touch her fingers to that hand so tightly clamped around his fork. But it seemed as if a force field of distance, of rejection, shimmered around him, and instead she clenched her own hands in her lap, fearful of shattering the atmosphere with a dangerous move.

Nabil made his fingers ease their hold on the fork he held. Now was not the time to think of how many years it had been since he had heard a woman—other than Clementina—use his name in that way. Nor to recognise how those damned veils muffled everything about her voice so that it could come from any female, old or young. It seemed so strange that the only image he had of the woman who was now his wife was the image of her as a girl that had pushed him into a decision that might just turn out to be as foolish and rash as the one that had made him take Sharmila as his first wife. But at least this decision had been made with his head, not the rush of desire and loneliness that had pushed him into Sharmila’s arms.

Or the one that had had him actually considering taking Aziza’s sister’s maid to bed.

Damn it, no! He had let Zia creep into his mind at exactly the point he should not be thinking of her. His focus should be on his bride—on Aziza.

An Aziza who was obviously no longer a child. She had blossomed—physically at least. That slender body was still all woman, high, firm breasts and gently curving hips, but her face was totally concealed behind the veils that tradition demanded, frustrating any attempt to actually see what she looked like. He knew her sister was the reputed beauty but surely Aziza couldn’t have lost all the angelic prettiness that he remembered? All those years ago, she had been the one who had treated him like a person, not as a potential king, marked out by the role that was all Jamalia and her parents seemed to see. She had giggled when he’d spotted her stealing sweetmeats, pressed a finger to her lips to warn him not to betray her. And that smile...

Silently Nabil cursed the tradition of the golden bridal veil. If only he could see through that damned gauze—see his wife!

Burning with frustration, he gave up trying to penetrate the material that concealed Aziza’s face and let his gaze drop abruptly to look down at her still full dish.

‘You are not eating.’

To Aziza’s ears it sounded like an accusation, a reproof.

‘I—I’m not hungry.’

To her amazement a corner of Nabil’s mouth quirked up into a sudden and unexpected smile at her response.

‘That is not like the Aziza I remember.’

‘You—remember?’ It hit her hard in her stomach, her mind reeling in shock to think that he recalled her at all.

‘You stole the candied fruits from the table,’ he told her. ‘I remember wondering how you could get away with that when you were barely tall enough to see over the top of it.’

‘I took them for my nurse!’ Aziza answered sharply, discomforted at the thought that he recalled her as only a greedy little girl. She wanted him to think of her as a woman. The woman he had chosen. The woman he wanted.

‘Of course you did.’

When he laughed like that she felt that she might melt, slipping from her chair to lie in a pool at his feet. It seemed impossible to believe that this gorgeous, sexy male could be interested in her at all. And yet he’d had the chance to marry her sister...

Realisation was like a shock to her heart, snatching away her breath so that she was grateful for the fact that the veil hid so much from those burning black eyes. If he had seen her and Jamalia together, then he must know that she was the Zia who had claimed to be only his sister’s maid. He’d seen her, recognised her and still chosen her. It made her head spin to think of it and more than ever before she cursed the masking of the veil that meant she had no hope of reading what was really in those glittering dark eyes.

‘Do you still like sweetmeats?’

A change had come over Nabil’s voice. It had deepened, taking on a husky edge, and those dark eyes were searching the table, looking for something. A moment later he was leaning forward, waving away the attentions of the servant as he pulled a polished dish of sugar-coated grapes and dates towards him. Picking up a luscious-looking grape, he held it out towards her temptingly.

‘Try this.’

It wasn’t the sweet treat that was tempting, Aziza reflected as she felt the noise and the colour of her surroundings fade away until there was just her and Nabil and the glistening green of the fruit between them. Her mouth was watering but not with the need to taste the fruit.

‘Here...’

Before she was aware of what he had planned, he had leaned closer, using his free hand to lift the side of the veil and slipping his fingers in to lift the grape to her mouth, pressing it softly against her lips.

‘Taste.’

She couldn’t do anything but respond as he said. Her eyes fixed on him through the veil, she let her mouth fall open, took in the grape and bit into it. Fresh, crisp juice flooded her mouth, contrasting with the delicate dusting of spiced sugar.

‘Good?’

Aziza could only pray that he would catch the tiny nod of her head that was all she was capable of. Savouring the delicate mouthful, she chewed slowly, swallowed and immediately wished for...

‘More?’ He seemed to be able to read her mind, moving the remainder of the grape so that it rested against her mouth.

Nabil could feel her soft skin, the warmth of her breath on the fingers that held the grape, but he wished to hell that he could see her face and know exactly who he had married.

She was nothing but a blur behind the damned veil. Dark hair, dark pools of eyes. But then those were what he recalled from the hazy memories of all those years ago. She had to have changed...

Who the hell would have thought that cuddly, sweet-natured Aziza would have turned into a subtle sex kitten in the years since he had seen her last?

He wanted to touch, let the fingers that had lifted the side of the veil brush against the downy silk of her skin. But as he leaned forward and she turned towards him his senses were suddenly assailed by a waft of scent that reached out to him.