Читать книгу The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King - Jane Porter - Страница 14

ROU faced four pink evening gowns—a pale pink tulle; a mauve taffeta sparkly affair; a frothy, fuchsia ball gown; and a slinky, salmon silk—her choices for tonight’s black-tie party, trying to decide on the lesser of the evils.

What a choice, and yet she had to make a choice. In just an hour she was to appear in the formal palace dining room for a prewedding dinner in her honor in one of these gowns. Having been briefed by Zayed, she knew that during the dinner she’d receive her engagement ring. She would also be introduced to all the family and friends that had been invited.

The wedding itself would take place late tomorrow morning, and then later in the evening in a much smaller ceremony Zayed would be crowned king.

But first, there was tonight’s formal dinner to get through, a lavish party that could last late into the night with close to one hundred guests attending.

Queen Jesslyn and the children would be among the family members attending, and Zayed’s younger brother, Sheikh Khalid Fehr, who’d been in the desert for the past several days as part of Sharif’s rescue efforts. However, Khalid’s young wife, Olivia, couldn’t join them, although she’d sent word that she desperately wanted to be there, but being late in her pregnancy she couldn’t fly. Zayed’s mother wouldn’t be there tonight, either, as she was still in the hospital, although she hoped to attend the wedding in the morning.

So many people. So many people there to look at her. Rou’s stomach rose and fell in a sickly surge of panic. She didn’t like being the center of attention, not like this. It was different when she was working, different when she was speaking, because she had a purpose then—she had a clear message to deliver—but tonight there was no message. Tonight her duty was to be attractive, groomed and agreeable.

Just like when she was a girl and dragged to court by her mother or father’s attorney to testify against the other parent.

The attorneys always wanted her dressed up then, too. They all had an idea of how she should look, and she’d be forced to sleep in rollers to turn her straight hair into blond ringlets. They insisted on “pretty clothes”—frilly, pastel party dresses; white, lace-edged ankle socks; and shiny, black patent shoes. And dressed up like a living doll, she’d be marched into court and stared at and interrogated, photographed and pitied. Pity was the worst of all.

Eyes closing, Rou forced the hateful images away. It was long ago. She wasn’t a child anymore. She wasn’t helpless or powerless. She was a woman, and she’d agreed to help Zayed in order to help Sharif and his family.

She could do this. She just needed a dress. Just something less frilly to wear tonight.

A light knock sounded on the bedroom door and when Rou answered the door she found Zayed. “I brought you an alternative,” he said, handing her a long, cream garment bag. “I didn’t realize how much you hated pink.”

She hesitated a moment before taking the garment bag. He was so big he seemed to fill the entire doorway. “And what is this? A peace offering in baby blue?” she answered mockingly, even as her fingers tingled and burned from where they’d brushed his.

“Close.” His gaze held hers, the golden depths warm, and revealing amusement as he then gave her a shopping bag. “And these are the accessories. Shoes, jewelry, undergarments.”

Her eyebrows arched as she struggled to ignore the coil of tension in her belly and how just that light brush of fingers made her back tingle and nipples harden. She was becoming far too sensitive around him, and far too responsive to the very real heat he generated whenever he looked at her. “Undergarments?”

“I thought you might want something special to wear under this gown.”

“Did you buy them yourself or have one of your assistants do the shopping?”

“I did. The shop was near the hospital. It just made sense.” His smile turned crooked. “So if the sizes are off, you have no one but me to blame.”

No one but him.

But wasn’t that the problem? Her cool, logical, scientific mind had made the most hopeless of choices in falling for him.

Zayed wasn’t safe. She wasn’t going to leave Sarq without a broken heart, was she?

“I’m sure everything will fit fine,” she said in a rush before thanking him and sending him out the door. But as she shut the door behind him, a hot flicker of pain shot through her, and she pressed a fist to her chest. It already hurt. Loving him would hurt.

Blinking back tears, Rou unzipped the cream garment bag to expose a featherlight gown the color of the sea, and felt her eyes sting. The dress was neither aqua nor cobalt, not turquoise or sapphire. It was a color so deep and intense and yet filled with light that she felt as though it’d been made just for her. Hand shaking, she drew the gown from the bag and the skirt tumbled to her feet in a long, narrow column of ocean blue with the softest, sheerest layer of chiffon over crushed silk.

Rou turned to the mirror, held the delicate gown against her chest and even in the soft light of her bedroom the fabric shimmered like water, like waves, and Rou, who’d never liked color before, loved this.

Rou, who’d never been beautiful, thought maybe, just maybe, tonight she would be beautiful. The very thought thrilled her, and she was ashamed at herself for being so shallow, but why couldn’t she play the beautiful fairy princess just once? Why couldn’t she pretend that she was one of those girls in the fairy tales who fell in love with a handsome prince and lived happily ever after?

Quickly she bathed so she could dress, and, still damp in her towel, she opened the shopping bag and took out the shoes and jewelry and undergarments which were just a small, silky pair of black panties. That was it.

Rou blushed and shook her head as she slid them on. The black panties were the softest silk, just wisps of fabric that covered next to nothing. But they were delicate and elegant and very sexy and the first sexy thing she’d ever owned.

Biting her lip, she looked at herself in the mirror in nothing but black panties against pale skin.

Definitely naughty. And pretty. And not pink.

The gown fit even better. It fit as though it was made for her, and she struggled with the zipper hidden in the side, but finally got it up so that she could turn to the mirror again. She loved what she saw. This was who she was. This is what she was. No frills, no bows, no puffy shoulders, nothing overtly girlie. The gown had one shoulder and it was an angular swathe of vivid chiffon. The bodice was narrow, pleated, and the skirt fell straight from beneath her ribs to her feet.

A mermaid, she thought with a shy, delighted smile at her reflection. Maybe beautiful women always felt this way looking at themselves, but for Rou, it was all so new. As she drew out the shoes, a strappy heel the color of bone, and then the accessories, thick, silver-and-diamond bangles for both wrists, and ornate, dangly, silver-and-diamond earrings for her ears, she felt giddy with excitement.

Tonight she vowed to enjoy herself. Tonight would be her night.

Manar knocked on her door. She’d come to check on Rou’s progress and her smile of approval warmed Rou. “Beautiful,” Manar said, inspecting Rou. “The color is like your eyes. Very beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Rou had never felt more beautiful but she put a hand self-consciously to her head. “What do you think I should do with my hair? Should I put it up, or leave it down? What would look best?”

Manar studied her another moment and then nodded decisively. “I will do it for you, yes?”

“Do you know how?”

Manar’s smile broadened. “I am a ladies’ maid in the palace. I have been trained to sew, do makeup, hair, nails, anything.” She patted the low, pink upholstered chair before the dressing table. “Come sit, and I will show you.”

Zayed stood in the arched corridor outside the vast dining room used for state occasions, greeting guests and making small talk as he waited for Rou to appear. She was late. Not by much, ten minutes, but it wasn’t like her to run late, and he suddenly wondered if she’d heard the rumors about his past, about the curse hanging over his head, and she’d sneaked out of the palace and run away rather than face him.

He didn’t blame her, if she had.

If he were her, he wouldn’t marry himself. Everyone in Sarq knew that Prince Zayed Fehr was the dark prince, the doomed prince.

How ironic that he was here, then, in the palace, and Sharif was dead.

There was a rustle in the hall, and then she was rushing toward him, hands holding up the hem of her gown so she didn’t trip. The circle of men around Zayed opened, scattered, allowing him to move forward to greet Rou.

Rich color stained her cheekbones. “I got lost!” she exclaimed low and breathlessly, reaching his side. “I told Manar I could find my way, but of course I turned the wrong way and then the wrong way again. The only other time I get this lost is in Manhattan, and I don’t know why I lose my sense of direction in Manhattan.”

She was mortified, he realized, discovering yet another little chink in her cool, logical armor, and it touched him, making him feel even more protective of her. “It’s fine. You are the bride-to-be. You can keep us waiting as long as you like.”

“No. Absolutely not. Punctuality is everything.” She nodded for emphasis and her pale hair, strands both silver and gold, danced.

He’d never seen her with her hair in this style. It was pulled back from her brow, teased ever so slightly to form a blond crown above her forehead and then smoothed past her ears into a delicate knot at the back, where loose curls tumbled free.

It was a princess hairstyle, he thought, and in her shimmering, sea-blue gown, she looked like a sea princess, with her crown of silver-gold hair, and her pale, luminous skin gleaming against the gown’s vivid silk.

“You look lovely,” he said, and it was true. It was as if until now she’d kept herself shrouded in shadows and darkness, but suddenly the blinds were off and the lights flicked on and she shone from the inside out, beautiful, bold and brilliant.

“Thank you.” Her smile was shy, and she lifted her wrists to show him the wide silver-and-diamond bracelets. “And dare I ask, are these real?”

“Yes.”

“Real diamonds?” she persisted, jingling one ever so slightly. “Because I counted the diamonds. There are over fifty in each.”

She was looking up at him, and her eyes matched her gown, rich, deep sea-blue, and he felt a rush of desire and possession. He wanted her, and the intensity of his desire caught him by surprise. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in years. Perhaps more than anyone since Princess Nur. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of her in so long that just her name, Nur, sent a shudder through him. Twenty-four-year-old Nur’s violent death had been the beginning of the curse. He should have known better. He was seventeen, almost eighteen. He should have realized the consequences. Should have understood that the risks far outweighed the pleasure, but he’d been young, and so hopelessly in love.

“You must introduce me,” a deep male voice spoke, and Zayed turned abruptly, gratefully, toward Khalid, his younger brother, hoping that interruption would put an end to memories of a past that had haunted him for nearly twenty years.

Khalid, like Zayed, was dressed in the formal ivory-and-gold robes of their country, although neither wore a head covering. In the palace, they never did. But as Zayed made the introductions, the past wouldn’t fade; it was too alive tonight, bringing the loss and tragedy back with stunning force.

But then the past was never completely out of his mind. It stayed with him, the guilt weighing on him, eating away at any potential joy.

Yet he didn’t want to forget, either. He owed Nur that much, and despite the party about to take place, and the beauty of his soon-to-be bride, he was living all over again the day he discovered she was dead.

He’d raged, how he’d raged, tearing through the palace, breaking things, shouting, screaming for justice, screaming her innocence, screaming his grief. It took all of his father’s and brothers’ and palace attendants’ strength to keep young Zayed from going after Nur’s husband. Zayed wanted revenge, needed revenge, but his family had locked him in the palace for months, until he was calmer and controlled, but getting there meant that he’d died, too. Nur’s death had killed the boy and left the man—hard, strong, beautiful, and oh so empty. He was a man who had everything and yet nothing, and his curse stretched over the palace and the Fehr family.

First it claimed his sisters.

Then his father.

Now Sharif.

When would the tragedies end? When would something good begin?

Strains of music finally penetrated his brain, and Zayed came back to the present and the glow of candles and the loud hum of voices in the dining room. Next to him Khalid was talking to Rou, discussing one of her television appearances. Apparently he’d seen her once on Oprah, the American TV talk show, and Khalid was wondering if all American women needed so much relationship advice.

Of course Khalid and Rou would find it easy to converse. They were both scientists, although his area of study was archaeology and history, not psychology and anthropology.

Khalid and Rou were still talking when Zayed was given the signal that everyone was seated and ready for him to make his formal appearance in the dining room with Rou. Khalid then excused himself, going to sit with Jesslyn and the children, and the lights dimmed ever so slightly as musicians announced them.

“Ready?” Zayed asked her, looking down into her face, seeing a woman who deserved a far different life than the one she’d have now, a woman who deserved a far better man. But the only way he could do right by his family was by doing wrong to her.

Another tragedy.

Rou, who had been feeling unnaturally calm until this moment, looked up into the beautiful planes of Zayed’s face and saw something so tortured and hollow in his gold eyes that her breath caught in her throat. He was sad, so very, very sad, and she knew suddenly that he wasn’t anything close to the man she’d imagined him to be.

Realizing he was even more of a stranger than she’d thought, she felt a flurry of wild nerves, her pulse leaping maddeningly. Could she do this? Could she fulfill her promise to him?

Zayed, so handsome, so royal in his robes that her chest squeezed tight with the rush of emotion. She loved him.

She loved him?

Maybe she’d always loved him.

Rou took a quick breath, and then another, as she suddenly realized how much was at stake.

Her heart. Their happiness.

And now she had to walk into a room of one hundred people in a delicate gown that revealed more skin than she was accustomed to showing. Her soft, feminine hairstyle offered no protection, either. She had no crutch to use, no severe suit, no heavy glasses, nothing to protect her from others.

As if able to read her mind, Zayed took her arm, his voice deep. “I am with you. I will not leave your side. Not even if Sharif should walk through these doors.”

He’d tried to be light, comforting, but the mention of Sharif brought a lump to her throat. “I wish he would walk through these doors.”

She saw sorrow shade his eyes. “I do, too.”

And then with her arm on his, they were moving through the grand dining room’s enormous arched doors and into a large room with a soaring ceiling painted gold. The room itself gleamed with stunning precious metals, and Rou’s heart pounded as they walked between long tables draped in heavy silk embroidered with glittering gold and silver thread. Extravagant, white floral arrangements covered the tables, as did hundreds, if not thousands, of glowing white candles.

The heady, sweet scent of the white lilies was overpowering, and in the soft gleam of candles, she felt dizzy, even dazed, as though she were a bride already.

Her heart pounded even harder as they approached the dais where they were to sit. It was raised above the room, just the way it might have been in a medieval castle. The lord and lady lifted above all.

Nervous, her fingers curled into Zayed’s forearm, and she clung even more tightly to him. He was warm, and strong, steady and sure of himself. Thank God one of them was.

If this party weren’t for them, if this evening’s celebrations weren’t for their betrothal, if this were for a friend or one of her clients, she’d be thinking it was glorious. She’d be thinking what a gorgeous party, what a perfect night. Only it was for her, for them, for their wedding, and the idea was so scary that despite Zayed’s strong, steady arm, and despite his measured pace, she felt as though she were on a ship that was sinking. Any moment she would go under. Any moment now, she would drown.

She didn’t drown during the three-hour dinner, at least, she hadn’t yet, although her hand had shaken so badly when Zayed went to put on her engagement ring that she nearly knocked the ring from his hand.

Zayed had merely smiled as he grasped the ring more firmly and decisively slid it onto her finger. Rou’s panic rose as the heavy ring settled onto her slim finger. She glanced down at it, thinking it felt more like a handcuff than a ring, but it was exquisite, an extremely large, rare blue diamond surrounded by chocolate and white diamonds. “It’s not pink,” she said with a shaky laugh.

His lips curved ruefully. “Your first ring was a pink diamond, but on hearing how much you hated pink, I thought a blue stone might suit you better.”

Her heart sank at hearing that he’d gone to all the trouble to purchase a second ring, particularly when he had so many other matters to deal with. “I would have been happy with the pink one,” she said softly, touching the blue oval diamond.

“Good. Because the pink one is still yours.” He gestured to one of the attendants standing along the wall and the attendant returned with a jewel-encrusted mother-of-pearl box.

The sheikh took the box with the gold lock and small, gold, balled feet and opened it, revealing the pink diamond ring inside. “Consider it an early wedding gift. You may choose to wear it as a cocktail ring, or you may sell it. It’s yours.”

The ring inside was stunning, but it came nowhere near the splendid design of the mother-of-pearl and ruby jewelry box that caught the candlelight and reflected it like fire. “This is gorgeous,” she whispered, reverently turning the box this way and that. “Is it an antique?”

“It dates to 1534 and was designed by Pierre Mangot. It was a gift for the French king, Francis I.”

She tried to press it back into Zayed’s hands. “It’s too costly a gift—”

“Nonsense. In Sarq, the groom always showers the bride with extravagant gifts, and even if we were not here in Sarq, I would still be compelled to give you beautiful things. You are a beautiful woman. You deserve nothing less.”

Zayed’s words stayed with her the rest of the night, and she heard them repeat as he walked her back to her wing at one-thirty in the morning.

Zayed was quiet as they walked, and her nerves were wound so tight that she could barely breathe.

Tomorrow they’d marry.

Tomorrow she’d probably go with him to his room.

It was what she wanted, but her desires also filled her with fear. She wasn’t experienced enough … hadn’t dated enough … hadn’t been with enough men to approach sex with anything like calm or composure.

Suddenly Rou just wanted to be in her room and alone. She wanted to hide. Wanted to return to her self, her real self, the plain woman with the sober wardrobe and severe hairstyle.

She wanted the safe Rou, the predictable one, not this dress-up princess that wore elegant heels and delicate gowns and silver-and-diamond earrings on her earlobes.

But maybe Sharif would still return in time. Maybe he’d walk through the doors tomorrow morning saving them all from a dreadful mistake.

It would be a mistake, too.

Darting a glance at Zayed from the corner of her eye confirmed her worst fears. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. He was beyond physical perfection. How could she trust a man like him? He had everything a man could want, everything a man could need. How could he, how would he, ever be content with her?

How could a man like that ever love a woman like her?

He might be intrigued, might see her as a challenge, or a conquest, but it’d never be love. He himself said he didn’t know how to love….

She was practically trembling in her shoes by the time they turned down the corridor that led to her wing, and as she spotted the now-familiar stonework that led to her sunken living room, she felt pure relief. Soon she’d be in her own pajamas, in bed, and at least for one night, away from Zayed and this terrible, oppressive sense of doom.

But once in her living room Zayed was in no hurry to leave. He wandered around the dimly lit room touching this and that before opening the French doors onto the moonlit garden, allowing them to hear the light, tinkling splash of the courtyard fountain.

Rou watched him stand in the doorway, drinking in the cool night air. The moonlight dappled his face light and dark. “Do you have any questions about tomorrow?” he asked, his deep voice unusually rough.

“No.”

He turned around to face her. “You understand the expectations? The morning ceremony and then the afternoon together …?”

She moved farther from him, retreating to the low white couches where she kicked off her shoes and sat down on one, her legs curling beneath her. “I believe so.”

“We must consummate the marriage for it to be valid.”

Her heart raced and her stomach knotted, screaming in protest. “We couldn’t just tell everyone we did the deed?” she choked.

He leaned against the open door frame, his mouth compressing, his expression strangely brooding for such a celebratory night. “Can’t lie. Karma and all.”

“How would such a little lie bring the wrath of the gods?”

He drew a fist across his mouth. “Little lies do,” he said, his voice so deep and hoarse Rou felt it scratch across her heart.

Afraid, but not sure why, she wrapped a protective arm around her legs. “You sound as if you speak from experience, my prince,” she said shakily, wondering at the tension coiling in the room.

Zayed closed his eyes briefly before looking at her, and yet even once he did look at her, he didn’t really seem to see her. No, he seemed to be somewhere else, seeing something—or someone—else. “Little lies are the worst. Those are the ones that appear so innocent, so foolish as to be silly, but the little lies are the ones that will break you. They’re the ones that will cut you, stealing your soul.”

He rubbed his fist across his mouth, eyes so dark with memories that they were nearly as black as the night outside. “In marrying you, I am pledging to you my fidelity, my respect and my protection. While we’re married, while together, I will never take another. You will be my only wife, and my only woman. And I mean that with every breath that I take, with every breath that I am.”

Rou sat very still as his words sank into her. She could feel truth and anger in the promise he made her, and she felt a lick of fear, wondering how everything had gotten so intense so quickly. They were back to emotions, very deep, very dark emotions, and this was definitely out of her comfort zone. But then everything here in Sarq was out of her comfort zone.

“You make me realize I do not even know you,” she said unsteadily, hugging her legs. “You seem so much the playboy, but I’m beginning to think that you’re nothing like a playboy … nothing like the image you’ve projected all these years.”

He laughed grimly. “Do not imagine me a hero. I am not Sharif, or Khalid, nor will I ever be.”

“Then who are you?”

He left the door and walked slowly, deliberately toward her. He was still so graceful, and yet his focus had an almost lethal quality. “The family shame,” he answered, reaching her side and towering above her.

Rou’s pulse quickened, and she had to tip her head back to see his face. “You are by far the most beautiful and financially successful of your brothers. How can beauty and wealth be a source of shame?”

He traced her profile, his finger lightly covering her brow, the length of her nose, the curve of lips and then chin. “Oh you of all people should know that beauty and wealth are deceitful gifts. Some of the world’s most evil men have hidden their true nature behind beautiful faces.”

Her skin flushed and burned beneath his light touch. “Are you evil, Zayed?”

He reached down and pulled her into his arms and lifted her to her feet, bringing her so close that she could feel the hard length of his body from his chest to his knees. “No,” he murmured against her cheek, his warm breath tingling her ear. “But I am cursed.”

Rou shivered against him. “Do not say such things.”

He wrapped an arm snugly around her waist, holding her in such a way that she could feel the size of his ribs, the lean hips, hard thighs, as well as the rigid male length between. “But I have promised to protect you,” he said, his lips trailing ever so slowly across her cheek to the edge of her mouth, “and that includes protecting you from me.”

And then he tilted her head back, and his lips covered hers, hungry and fierce, as if a man starved. She felt her own mouth tremble beneath the pressure of his, even as a terrible weakness filled her belly. She felt weak and empty and in desperate need of his arm holding her up, holding her against him, holding her as though he never intended to let her go.

Zayed kissed her thoroughly, parting her lips, taking her mouth, taking her tongue between his lips, kissing her until she shivered and shuddered, burning from the inside out. With veins hot and thick, veins that felt as though they were filled with stinging honey, Rou lost all track of time, lost track of everything but this fierce fire between them.

Long minutes later when Zayed lifted his head, he stroked her flushed cheek, as if marveling at its softness. “You are too good, too innocent, for a life with me, laeela,” he said regretfully, “but I cannot ignore duty. Not now, not after all these years. I have to honor Sharif, and that means I have to have you.”