Читать книгу The Sheikh Takes A Bride - Caroline Cross - Страница 12

Catherine sat on the padded chaise longue on her bedroom balcony. She stretched her tired muscles, then huddled a little deeper beneath the ice-green satin comforter she’d dragged from her bed. A golden glow pierced the gunmetal-gray horizon, announcing the sun’s imminent arrival and the start of a new day.

For the second night in a row, she’d barely slept. And as much as it rankled to admit it, she knew exactly who was to blame for her second bout of insomnia.

The sheikh. Kaj al bin Russard. Or, as she was beginning to think of him: he-who-refused-to-go-away.

Perhaps she wouldn’t be so disturbed if she could write him off as simply another pretty face. Or just a magnificent body. Or even an incredibly willful personality. But the truth was he was all of those things and more.

He was presumptuous, but also perceptive. He was arrogant, yet intuitive. And unlike most of the men she knew, his ego was disgustingly healthy; sarcasm, indifference, even outright hostility all rolled off him like rain off a rock.

Most disturbing of all, his lightest touch was all it took to ignite an unfamiliar fire inside her.

She shivered, not wanting to think about that last bit. Instead she did her best to concentrate on the chorus of birds tuning up to welcome the sunrise—only to make the unfortunate mistake of closing her eyes. The scene at Hope House when Kaj had climbed out of the car yesterday promptly popped into her mind.

Without exception, all the children’s eyes had widened at the sight of him. “Who’s he?” Christian had asked.

Marko had sucked in a breath. “Is that the king?”

Catherine had been tempted to make a sharp reply—until Kaj had come to stand at her side. The same faint breeze that tugged at his gleaming black hair had carried his clean, masculine scent to her, and suddenly he’d seemed much too close. To her disgust, she’d found she had to swallow hard in order to locate her voice.

“Children, I’d like to introduce Sheikh al bin Russard.” Not wanting anyone to get the wrong idea, she’d added, “The sheikh is a friend of my family’s.”

There were several nods and an “Oh.”

And then Christian burst out, “Is he a real sheikh? Does he live in a tent? How come he doesn’t have one of those sheet things on his head?”

Catherine had hesitated a mere instant, and Kaj had stepped into the breach. “Those sheet things are called ghotras,” he’d said easily. “I wear one when I’m in my country, as is the custom. But when I’m here, I try to follow your fashions. And much like you, I live in a home made of mortar and stone. Though I do own several tents. For the times—” he displayed a quick flash of white teeth “—when I feel a need to escape and sleep under the stars.”

Whether it was the sentiment or the brief, impish grin that accompanied it, the children all nodded in understanding and several of the boys murmured, “Yeah!”

Isabelle, one of the older girls, looked earnestly up at him. “Do you have a camel?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry to say, no.” Although his expression was suitably apologetic, his eyes gleamed with humor as he glanced briefly at Catherine. “That seems to be a common misconception. What I do have is horses. Beautiful Arabian horses. Oh, and I’m also the keeper of a truly magnificent tiger.”

“You have a tiger?” Christian, Isabelle and Marko all exclaimed at once. “A real, live tiger?”

“Mmm-hmm. His name is Sahbak and he was a gift to my father. He’s quite a wonderful fellow. Do you know, if you scratch him behind the ears, he purrs?”

“Wow,” Marko murmured.

That seemed to be the general sentiment. Eyes rounded, the children had stared up at him with a combination of awe and admiration. And though unimpressed by his status as a big-cat owner, Catherine had found that, as the afternoon went along, she couldn’t fault his manner. He was wonderful with the children, relaxed, down-to-earth, friendly without seeming too eager. Even little Amalie, who was usually standoffish with strangers, had eventually lowered her guard.

Catherine wanted in the worst way to blame the latter on the exquisite gold coin Kaj had given the child as a birthday present. But honesty forced her to admit it probably had more to do with the coin’s presentation. Who would have suspected a Walburaqui chieftain could, with a flick of his long, elegant hands and a widening of his eyes, make a coin vanish once, twice, thrice? Or that, with a subsequent snap of his fingers, he could make it reappear—much to the delight of a giggling little girl—from its hiding place behind one of her shell-like ears?

Certainly not Catherine.

She pulled the comforter up a little higher and sighed. Perhaps it was the earliness of the hour, but for the first time she admitted that keeping the sheikh out of her life was turning out to be more difficult than she’d imagined. And not just because he’d managed to finagle an invitation to stay at the palace, either. But because no matter how hard she pretended otherwise, when she was with him his presence took center stage. A part of her seemed always to be holding its breath, waiting to see what he would do or say next.

Which was annoying but not totally surprising, given the dominant force of his personality.

Far harder to accept was his ability to invade her thoughts. To her horror, every time she let down her guard even the slightest bit he seemed to be there, making her wonder all manner of things.

Like why was he pursuing her when he already had money, power and connections of his own? And what would happen if, in a moment of temporary insanity, she allowed him to get close? How would it feel if she let him kiss her? Or if she let him draw her into the strength of his embrace and touch her? And what would it be like to touch him back, to let her hands roam over his smooth, bronze skin…?

She scrambled off the chaise. Enough, she chastised herself, doing her best to ignore the way her heart was pounding. Clearly two nights of inadequate sleep were addling her brain. A condition that lying around brooding wasn’t doing a thing to help.

Her time would be far better spent if she got moving, got some exercise, found a focus for her untrustworthy mind. And the time to start was now.

Impatiently she tossed back the tangled skein of her hair and marched into her room. Fifteen minutes later she was washed and dressed in a white shirt, slim beige twill pants and her favorite knee-high riding boots. She gathered her hair into a high ponytail, snatched up a thin navy vest to guard against the morning chill and slipped out her door.

Kristos, one of her bodyguards, sprang to attention. “Your Highness. Good morning.”

She motioned for him to relax. “I’m going for a ride. I promise I’ll keep to the palace grounds, so why don’t you take a break.”

He was clearly not thrilled, but after a moment he nodded. “I’ll let the stable detail know you’re on your way.”

“If you must.” Swallowing a sigh, she started down the corridor, knowing the heightened security was necessary in light of what had happened to her father and grandfather, yet still disliking the increased loss of privacy.

Thanks to the thick, intricately patterned runner that covered the stone floor, the sound of her footsteps was muffled as she began the long, familiar walk toward the west stairway, which was closest to the stables. She reached the intersecting hall that led to the king and queen’s apartments, nodded to the pair of guards standing sentinel there, and continued on, moving briskly until she reached a solitary door set midway down the remaining stretch of corridor.

And there she faltered.

She wasn’t sure why. After all, she’d passed the entrance to her father’s quarters numerous times since his death. And though she’d experienced any number of emotions—disbelief, grief, guilt—not once had she been tempted to step inside.

Until now.

Yet suddenly she wanted to know if Prince Marc had read the note she’d sent him the last day of his life. The note thanking him for going boating in her place with King Thomas and apologizing for disrupting his schedule. The note asking if they might meet later that day so she might explain the real reason she’d begged off at the last minute.

Whether her need sprang from simple curiosity, a belated need to reconnect with her father or some sort of subconscious attempt to occupy her mind with a subject other than the sheikh, she didn’t care. She simply had to know. She opened the black-wreathed door and stepped inside.

The elegant sitting room looked the way it always had, as if it was waiting for the prince’s imminent return. The carved mahogany furniture was freshly polished, the plush gold, maroon and navy carpet recently vacuumed. Her father’s favorite smoking jacket lay folded over the arm of the Queen Anne chair next to the fireplace, and the cut crystal decanter on the wet bar in the corner was three-quarters full.