Читать книгу Royal Weddings - Annie West - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

‘AT LAST! AFTER five days of celebrating we finally get to the wedding. These royal events are a real test of stamina.’

Samira looked at her sister-in-law, Jacqui, lounging on a couch, taking a glossy cherry from a silver bowl.

‘How can you eat?’ Samira’s stomach was performing a nervous twist and dip that would have done an Olympic diver proud.

She had to call on all her years of training to sit still, rather than shift edgily and risk smearing the intricate henna patterns being painted on her hands and feet. Two ladies-in-waiting sat before her, creating the traditional designs.

Bridal designs.

For the first time, today, the wedding became real.

The official functions so far had been comfortingly familiar, like untold numbers of royal celebrations she’d attended in the past. Why that should be comforting, Samira didn’t know. This marriage was her idea. It would be wonderful for all of them: her, Tariq and the boys.

Yet suddenly today she felt ridiculously wobbly.

Bridal nerves were normal, she assured herself. Even if she wasn’t a bride in the usual sense.

Most brides looked forward to a night in their new husband’s arms.

Her insides cramped and the skin at her nape prickled. Samira’s brain seized at the thought of complicating this carefully planned arrangement with sex. Already she felt she walked a knife edge. Her unbidden physical awareness of Tariq was a constant undercurrent. As if there was a disconnect between her mind, that knew intimacy would be a mistake, and her body, that trembled at his touch.

‘You think I should stop eating because of the upcoming banquet?’ Jacqui shook her tawny head ruefully. ‘I never used to have much of an appetite.’ Her other hand slipped to the baby bump barely visible beneath her aquamarine top. ‘But I’ve never been so hungry.’

‘Except last time you were pregnant.’

‘You’re right. I was ravenous then too.’ Jacqui laughed and Samira smiled. Jacqui distracted her from the anxiety that had somehow grown to a peak of apprehension.

‘Pregnancy suits you. You really are glowing.’ Samira smiled, feeling only the tiniest flicker of envy. She’d come to terms with her barrenness and couldn’t begrudge another woman such happiness. Instead she basked in familiar warmth at the thought of her brother’s family. Jacqui was the sister she’d never had, loving and supportive. She almost made Samira wish she could have what Jacqui had: a marriage based on love.

But that wasn’t for her. She knew too well she wasn’t cut out for that.

There was a bustle as her attendants rose and all four women admired the results. Samira’s hands, wrists, feet and ankles were works of art, covered in ancient designs that proclaimed her royal lineage as well as talismans of good fortune, happiness and fertility.

She swallowed, ignoring a pang of regret. There was no sense pining over what could never be. She was the luckiest of women, about to acquire a wonderful husband she could respect and trust and two delightful sons. She could ask for nothing more.

Samira thanked the women warmly. When they’d left, Jacqui put aside the bowl of cherries and sat up.

‘Now, do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ Samira stared. ‘Nothing. Tariq has done everything to make the celebrations a huge success. And the ceremony this afternoon—’

‘The celebrations. The ceremony.’ Jacqui waved her hand dismissively. ‘They’re spectacular and the whole country is enjoying them.’ She leaned closer, her gaze appraising. ‘But I look at you and I don’t see a bride.’

‘You don’t?’ Samira stared at the wedding patterns staining her skin, then across to the table littered with ornate jewellery. Gold, rubies and huge antique pearls caught the light. On the other side of the room hung her bridal gown, the sumptuous cloth of gold shimmering.

Jacqui followed her gaze. ‘The trappings are there, but something is missing.’ There was concern in her eyes. ‘You don’t look like a woman in love.’

Samira flinched, then made herself smile. She was making the best of her life, choosing hope over regret instead of locking herself away to fret over what she’d lost. She would build something positive and make a useful contribution, helping to raise a family.

She was being strong.

And, if the best she could hope to achieve didn’t include romantic love, that suited her. She was far better without that.

‘Not all brides are in love, Jacqui. Arranged marriages are common, especially between royals.’

‘I know, I know. Asim said the same.’

Samira tensed. Jacqui had discussed this with Asim? She hated that she’d been the subject of such discussion, even though she knew it was because they cared for her. They’d been there when she’d needed them in her darkest hours. But she was fine now.

‘It’s just that I want you to have what I have, Samira.’ Jacqui looked so earnest. ‘I want you to be happy, to be loved and in love.’

‘Thank you.’ She reached out and touched Jacqui’s arm. ‘But I am happy. This is exactly what I want.’

Still her sister-in-law frowned.

‘Not everyone wants to fall in love. Asim must have told you about our parents.’

Solemnly Jacqui nodded. ‘They were unhappy.’

Samira’s huff of laughter was bitter. ‘They were miserable and they made life hell for us too. They were either so in love no one else mattered, or they were fighting like wild cats, doing anything to score a point over the other, even using us in their battles.’ She looked down to find herself pleating the fine fabric of her skirt. Her chest tightened.

‘Your parents were volatile and self-indulgent.’ Jacqui’s voice penetrated the memories. ‘Love needn’t be like that.’

‘I know and I can’t tell you how happy I am for you and Asim.’ Samira paused. ‘But I don’t want love. I tried that and it was the biggest mistake of my life. I’m too much like my mother. I was swept off my feet by romantic dreams, blindly putting my trust in someone completely wrong for me.’

‘Jackson Brent is a louse,’ Jacqui growled. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’

Samira sat back in her chair, warmth filling her at her sister-in-law’s instant support.

‘I do blame myself. I wasn’t a child. I made the decision to throw everything over, all I’d worked for and dreamed of, to be with him. I fooled myself into believing in him and I was utterly, devastatingly wrong.’ Her palm crept across her belly as if to prevent the clenching pain, a phantom memory from four years ago.

‘One mistake...’

‘That was enough. What if I made the same mistake again? I can’t go through that again, Jacqui, I just can’t.’ Samira ducked her head, ashamed at the welling distress that filled her even after all this time. She drew a calming breath. ‘I’m too like my mother. I let passion override judgement and I paid the price. But unlike her I won’t make the mistake of staying on that merry-go-round.’

‘And Tariq knows this?’

‘Of course he knows.’ Samira smiled, her confidence returning. ‘Don’t look so worried. This marriage is everything I want.’

* * *

‘Samira.’ Her name on Tariq’s tongue made her blink. It sounded...different. The noise of the wedding banquet faded as she met his eyes.

Or was it she who was different? Hours spent at his side through the wedding ceremony and celebration had left her unaccountably on edge. She felt his presence with every cell of her body.

Applause filled the feasting hall as he took her hand and stood, drawing her up. He was resplendent in robes as white as the distant snow-capped peaks. His jaw was lean and hard, a study in power, his eyes a glint of cool green as he looked down at her and slowly smiled.

Instantly heat shimmered under her skin, a heat that intensified when his warm fingers slid against hers, enfolding them completely. Sensation trickled through her from her tight lungs, meandering all the way down through her belly to a single pulse point between her legs.

She inhaled sharply, eyes widening as he held her gaze. There was something different about Tariq. Something she couldn’t identify.

‘My queen,’ he said in a voice barely above a whisper, yet it amplified in her ears, blotting out the sound of their guests. Or perhaps that was the thud of her pulse.

‘Your Highness.’ She dipped her gaze in acknowledgement. She owed him her loyalty as her new sovereign.

His fingers tightened around hers, making her look up.

‘Your husband.’ His nostrils flared as if drawing in her scent and shock buffeted her. Tariq looked so intent, so close, his tall frame blocking out everything else. Samira felt a heavy throb of anticipation deep inside as his head lowered purposefully towards hers.

Instantly, disconcertingly, anxiety shredded her composure. It was all she could do not to step back, but she was sure he felt the flinch of her hand in his.

His eyes narrowed, a twitch of a frown marking his brow. Then he lifted her hand. She watched him press a kiss to the delicate, hennaed pattern on her flesh and felt the warmth of those firm lips.

Her breath hitched, her breasts rising hard beneath the ponderous weight of ancient gold jewellery that suddenly seemed far too oppressive.

Tariq smiled. She felt the movement against her hand and wondered, dazed, what amused him. Finally, eyes still meshed with hers, he straightened to his full height.

The crowd stood, applauding so loud it was a wonder the crystal glassware on the tables didn’t shatter.

A herald appeared before them, bearing a golden goblet studded with cabochon emeralds and amethysts. Tariq took it in one large hand.

‘Long life to the happy couple,’ roared the herald.

Tariq lifted the goblet and drank, then held it out to Samira, turning it so her lips touched the spot from which he’d drunk. Heat sizzled through her as he watched her over the rim and she swallowed the heady, sweet mixture that tasted of honey, cinnamon and unknown spices.

‘May they be blessed with peace and happiness and honoured by all.’

Again Tariq drank. Samira watched, enthralled, as the muscles in his powerful neck moved.

He held the drink out to her, again presenting her with the same side of the goblet that he’d used. She told herself she imagined the taste of him there on the beaten gold. Yet it felt incredibly intimate, pressing her lips where his had been, even though she knew it was merely a symbolic gesture as old as the traditional marriage ceremony. She gulped a little too much, feeling the concoction catch the back of her throat.

Tariq’s hand squeezed hers and Samira’s tension eased a little. It would be all right. They were almost through the celebration that had somehow turned into an ordeal.

‘And may they be blessed with strong, fine children.’

Samira was ready for it but still the words caught her a slashing blow to the midriff. She pasted on a bright smile and watched Tariq draw a deep draft from the golden chalice.

He lifted it to her mouth, tilting high so she had no choice but to swallow more than the tiny sip she’d planned.

The hall broke out into a pandemonium of applause and ululating cheers. But all she could see was Tariq’s eyes. They’d darkened to gleaming tourmaline. Or were her senses blurring? She felt warm and somehow...undone.

Tariq lowered the goblet and Samira licked her bottom lip, catching a stray drop that lingered there. Tariq seemed fascinated with the movement and to her horror she felt tiny prickling darts of heat pepper her breasts and abdomen. Just as if he’d touched her.

Heat burned in her ears.

‘What is that stuff?’ she whispered.

He passed the goblet to the waiting herald, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘It’s harmless enough. A traditional mixture designed to promote virility.’

Samira snapped her mouth shut, her brain whirling as Tariq turned to address the assembled throng. She told herself it was a necessary part of the ritual, no more. But the feel of Tariq’s hand still gripping hers, the sensation of his long fingers threading through hers, his thumb stroking her palm, sent a warning buzzing through her.

* * *

Tariq watched from the doorway as his bride bent over the twin beds where his boys slept. A nightlight glowed at floor level and she looked like something from a fairy story, all shimmer and fragile, gossamer-fine fabrics.

But Samira wasn’t an ethereal fairy. She was a warm, flesh-and-blood woman. He’d felt her pulse stir as he held her hand at the banquet, watched the rosy heat brighten her cheeks and plump up her lips as she drank their wedding toast.

His groin had tightened unbearably as he’d looked down into those wide, anxious eyes and he’d felt the double-edged sword of lust and caution at his throat. He wanted her so badly his skin grated with it.

It felt like he’d wanted Samira most of his life.

Now there was nothing, not even the guilt he carried over Jasmin, to stop him having her.

Yet seeing her bent over his sleeping sons, rearranging blankets and moving stuffed toys, he felt more than desire. Gratitude that she genuinely cared for them. How many other brides would have spent their wedding night checking on their stepchildren?

Yet wasn’t that why she’d proposed marriage? For his children?

Tariq’s jaw tightened. His pride shrieked outrage that she saw him as no more than a tool to get what she wanted.

He’d read her expression when she’d told him she couldn’t have a baby. He’d seen her pain and it was part of the reason he’d consented to this marriage, despite his reservations. That and the curious certainty he couldn’t simply turn his back on Samira as originally intended. She had something he needed.

It had given insight into her motivation for brazenly offering herself in marriage. And he’d been determined she’d make that offer to no other man but him!

Tariq spun away on his heel and stalked down the corridor. But Samira didn’t offer herself, did she? She expected him to accept her with conditions. As if he wasn’t a man with a man’s needs and hungers. As if he didn’t have a right to touch the woman who’d pledged herself to him, body and soul.

She’d thought she could dictate terms to him, the Sheikh of Al Sarath!

Perhaps she was more innocent than the world thought. He could have told her no marriage was as simple as it appeared on paper, not when it was lived by real people. Not even an arranged marriage executed for reasons of pragmatism and convenience.

A clammy hand wrapped around his chest, squeezing tight as shadows of the past rose.

When two people lived together as husband and wife the boundaries blurred. And in this marriage, despite Samira’s fond imaginings, the boundaries were about to be ripped asunder.

* * *

Samira leaned back against the pillows, a paperback in her hand. A gentle breeze stirred the long, sheer curtains and soft lamplight made even the enormous, lavishly appointed room seem cosy. Yet she was too wired to relax.

Her mind buzzed with impressions. The noise and colour of the crowd at the wedding. The strange sense that, despite the throng, she and Tariq were isolated from the rest, each action, each word, weighted and momentous. The spicy smell of Tariq’s skin as he’d held her hand and kissed it. The way his eyes had held hers as they’d shared that jewelled goblet.

That must be it, the reason her body was tight and achy. It was the potion they’d drunk. The alternative, that this was a reaction to Tariq, just wasn’t acceptable.

Or perhaps it was the suspicion, fuelled by the gleam in Tariq’s eyes today, that there might be complications in their marriage-on-paper-only arrangement. That look reminded her Tariq was a virile, red-blooded man used to taking what he wanted.

Samira rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms, telling herself she was being fanciful. Tariq had accepted her terms.

She turned to switch off the lamp and caught movement on the other side of the room.

‘Tariq!’ Her voice was a thready whisper.

He’d changed out of his wedding finery. Gone was the white robe and head scarf. Gone was the jewelled, ceremonial dagger. Gone was half his clothing!

This was Tariq as she’d never seen him. Her eyes rounded and her jaw sank open. The young man she’d once known had been long and lean but his body had changed in a decade, filling out the promise of those wide shoulders.

Her vision was filled with acres of bare, golden skin. She drank in the solidly muscled pectorals dusted with dark hair, the flex and bunch of more muscles at his taut abdomen as he prowled out of the shadows towards her. He walked proud, shoulders back, stride confident, reminding her that this man ruled all he surveyed.

Samira’s throat dried as she took in the splendour of him. He was like a statue of a Greek god come to life—all warm flesh instead of cold marble. A long silver, slashing arc across his ribs and another smaller scar near his shoulder were the only things marring that perfection.

Yet they emphasised his earthy masculinity. She knew he’d got the larger wound in his teens, practising the ancient art of swordsmanship. She’d heard him tell Asim that his uncle, who was his guardian, had given him no sympathy because he’d been foolish enough not to wear protective clothing, and worse, to let someone get the better of him. Tariq had grown up in a man’s world where toughness was prized and no quarter was given for sentiment or weakness. Now he looked every inch the marauding male.

Not like a man committed to a platonic relationship.

A shiver ran through her, tightening her muscles and rippling across her skin. Her breath hissed between her teeth.

Her eyes dropped to the pale, loose trousers he wore, riding dangerously low.

Awareness slammed into her and she struggled back against the headboard, realising too late she was staring.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was half-strangled in her throat.

‘I came to wish my bride goodnight.’ His mouth tipped up in a smile that was at once easy and far too disturbing, as it set her already racing pulse skittering out of control. ‘It’s customary between married couples.’

‘But I... But we’re not...’

‘Not married? I think you’ll find we are, Samira.’

His smile widened, grew sharp as his gaze dropped to her lips, then lower to her full breasts straining against the oyster satin nightgown. Instantly her nipples hardened, thrusting against the soft fabric. She crossed her arms, hiding them from view.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again tonight,’ she said, mustering her control. Uneasily she watched him near the bed. He was so tall he loomed over it but she refused to shrink back. She had nothing to fear from Tariq. She’d known him, trusted him, as long as she could recall. Just because her traitorous body yearned for him, she was imagining he felt the same.

‘You wanted a husband and family,’ he said smoothly, as if he were right at home in her bedroom. She wished she had his sangfroid. She felt as out of her depth as a frightened virgin. ‘Your life has changed, Samira. You need to accept that. You won’t just see me at formal functions but at all hours, including the middle of the night if the boys are sick or need us. Even with the help of nannies you’ll be on tap, not just when they’re already bathed, fed and dressed.’

‘Of course. I know that.’ She nodded, breathing more easily. The reminder of the boys grounded her, easing her nerves at Tariq’s presence. She leaned forward, relieved to be on solid ground. ‘I went along to see them. They were sleeping soundly.’

‘But you kissed them goodnight anyway.’

‘How did you know?’ Did he object? Did he think she was trying to take Jasmin’s place? She was conscious that she’d stepped into the slippers of a dead woman.

‘I saw you.’

Her head swung higher.

‘You did? I didn’t see you.’

He shrugged. ‘I thought I’d give you time alone with them.’

Samira’s lips curved in a smile. This was the Tariq she remembered: kind and thoughtful. Caring.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘But you should have come in. I wouldn’t want to keep you away from them.’

‘I’m here now.’ Suddenly he was sitting on the side of the bed, turned to face her, his hand planted beside her silk-clad hip, hemming her in. Shock ricocheted through her.

Furtively she moistened her bottom lip with her tongue. Whenever Tariq got this close her mouth parched.

‘Is there anything you want?’ Samira fought nervous tension and smiled at him. There were hundreds of reasons for him to stop by for a midnight chat. Arrangements to farewell the VIP guests tomorrow, her family included. Or perhaps some detail about the boys’ routine.

‘Yes.’ The word was a low hum that stirred the butterflies nesting in her belly. ‘A goodnight kiss.’

‘A—?’ She goggled. She couldn’t be hearing right. Samira shook her head, loose tresses sliding around her bare shoulders.

‘Kiss.’ He said it again, his face serious. His gaze dropped to her mouth and heat roared through her. Samira swallowed, her arms wrapping tighter across her torso. Her breasts felt too full and highly sensitised, the nipples blatantly puckering.

‘But...why?’

She halted, her face flaming as realisation hit. She’d never felt so gauche. She wasn’t some innocent. She understood what it meant when a half-naked man entered his wife’s bedroom at night and demanded a kiss. ‘That’s not what we agreed,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not part of our deal.’

‘Your deal, Samira. Not mine.’

Her fingers gripped her upper arms like claws, digging into soft flesh. This couldn’t be happening. ‘But you heard me out. You understood.’

‘I heard you explain you wanted a marriage that was no marriage.’ He leaned infinitesimally closer and the air between them clogged. She couldn’t seem to draw enough oxygen into her lungs. ‘That doesn’t mean I agreed. What I agreed was to make you my wife. That’s exactly what I intend to do.’

Shock battered her as she read his intent. And a sense of betrayal so deep it sliced straight to her heart.

She’d trusted Tariq. That was why she’d approached him of all men. She knew his word was his bond and he’d implicitly accepted the conditions she’d put on their marriage. Yet now...

Bile rose in her throat. She could barely believe she’d been duped again by a man, and by this man.

He hadn’t told her his intentions before the wedding. He’d waited till it was too late for her to withdraw.

He’d tricked her.

‘Tariq!’ Her voice was a hoarse scratch. ‘As a man of honour—’

His finger on her lips silenced her. She gasped and tasted the salty, male tang of him. To her dismay she registered how good that tasted.

Samira became conscious of the way he caged her against the headboard. His other arm reached across her, his hand planted on the bed beside her hip, trapping her.

‘No man of honour would accept what you proposed, Samira. Not if he had any self-respect.’ He watched her closely, as if cataloguing her reaction. ‘You came to the wrong man if you wanted some emasculated father figure.’

‘Father figure?’ Her eyes rounded. ‘The last thing I want is to tie myself to a man like my father.’ He’d been emotionally unstable, lacking in judgement and self-control. It was his example, and Brent’s, that had driven her to seek marriage with someone dependable.

Tariq didn’t look dependable right now. He looked unpredictable and dangerous, like a keen-eyed hunter sighting his prey.

Fear trickled down her spine.

‘You’re too young to be a father figure to me, Tariq.’

He shrugged and her mouth dried a little more. She stood no chance against his strength if he decided...

‘You wouldn’t force me!’ The words shot out defiantly, yet she couldn’t quite disguise the question in them.

Tariq reared back, his eyes flashing as if she’d insulted his manhood. ‘Of course not. I’d never force a woman!’ He lifted his hand from the bed as if to break that sense of entrapment. But it was too late. Samira was transfixed.

‘Tell me what you want, then.’ She swallowed hard but jutted her chin defiantly. She wouldn’t give in without a fight.

‘Just a kiss.’ His eyes held hers. ‘When I went to kiss you at the banquet in front of our guests, you turned as pale as milk.’ He nodded as her mouth flattened. It was true. She hadn’t been able to hide her reaction.

Relief flooded her, weakening her limbs. A kiss, that was all, not...

Her brain seized at the alternative.

‘I refuse to have a wife who’s afraid of me. Who can’t bear to be close to me.’ Something dark flashed in his narrowed eyes and her heart pounded faster. ‘I need a wife who can take her place at my side without flinching.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured stiffly. ‘I don’t know what happened.’ Except she did. She’d seen Tariq the man, not the convenient spouse, and been terrified by her response. ‘But we don’t have to kiss.’

‘Can you think of a better way to prove you won’t cringe away next time I’m near you? The next time we’re together in public? And there are the boys to consider. I don’t want them thinking I intimidate you.’ His deep voice held a hollow note she hadn’t heard before.

Suddenly Samira saw herself as she must seem to him. Needy. Damaged. All the things she’d promised herself she’d never be again. Shame filled her.

She’d promised Tariq she’d be his partner, not an albatross around his neck. Despite his attempt to change the rules of their marriage, pride dictated she give him this much.

‘That’s all?’ Her voice sounded scratchy and breathless. She couldn’t dismiss his statement that he hadn’t agreed to her marriage terms. But this wasn’t the time or place to deal with that. She’d do it when they were fully clothed.

‘That’s all.’

‘And then you’ll leave?’

He nodded.

If she kissed him!

Her heart raced out of control at the thought.

Before Samira could have second thoughts she unwrapped her arms and braced her hands on the bed either side of her. A quick breath dragged in the disturbingly appealing scent of Tariq’s warm skin, but she refused to think about it, or the way his eyes darkened as she closed the gap between them.

But there was no mistaking the imposing, masculine bulk of him, the bare-chested arrogance of him, or the skirling twist deep inside as she drew close. It made her lose her nerve.

At the last moment she turned her head, pressing her lips not to his mouth but to the firm, taut skin of his cheek. It was smooth, as if he’d just shaved, and it was surprisingly enticing. For an instant she hovered there, her mouth to his flesh, knowing an unheralded desire to explore, to lift her palms to his shoulders and angle her mouth over his.

With a gasp she pulled back, sliding her hands beneath her legs as if to stop them reaching for him again. Her sudden neediness scared her.

Eyes brilliant as gems held hers as blood pounded in her ears. He didn’t say anything, though it was obvious she hadn’t delivered a real kiss. It was a coward’s kiss.

But it was the best Samira could do. Being close to Tariq made her pulse crazy and tied her in knots. Anxiety still feathered her backbone. Did he really intend to demand more?

Abruptly Tariq stood. Samira blinked, her gaze sliding over his amazing bronzed body.

Surely it wasn’t regret she felt because he was leaving?

Recognising that she didn’t want him to leave stole her voice.

‘That’s a start,’ he murmured finally.

‘A start?’

Tariq nodded. ‘One day soon we’ll be husband and wife in every sense of the word.’

Samira shook her head. He had it all wrong.

‘Not because I demand it but because it’s what we both want.’ He leaned close, his eyes tourmaline shards that dared her to deny it. ‘I promise you, Samira, you’ll be with me every step of the way.’ It was a threat but it sounded like a promise. A promise that sounded appallingly enticing.

She wanted to object, argue, say something to puncture his arrogant certainty. But instead her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.

His gaze scorched and Samira felt the sizzle in every inch of her body. His slow smile hitched his mouth up at one side, creating a sexy groove down one cheek that made her insides clutch. He looked so utterly confident, as if he’d never had a doubt in his life.

‘The next time you kiss me it won’t be because I ask, Samira, but because you want me.’