Читать книгу The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess - Jane Porter - Страница 15

CHAPTER TEN

NIC couldn’t look away from his remarkable face with the light silver eyes. He was so quiet, so controlled. She’d had no idea he’d been through so much. Another man might have been angry, bitter, cruel, but Malik had accepted the tragedies with grace.

Baraka, she whispered to herself. Baraka, Fatima had once told her, meant Grace and peace. Malik had that peace, didn’t he?

‘‘There are dangers, of course,’’ he said after a reflective silence, ‘‘but we all face danger at different points in our life. The secret is to be aware of the danger, to know how one is vulnerable, and then embrace truth, and life, and move on.’’

He rose, took her hand in his, and tugged her to her feet. ‘‘You still look hot, laeela. Let me take you to your room. You’ll be pleased to know you have your own private swimming pool.’’

It was good news and Nic took a long, leisurely swim before dinner. The bottom and sides of the pool had been painted a sapphire blue and as Nic floated on her back, she stared up at the high pink stone towers surrounding her, one tower covered in purple bougainvillea, while climbing roses draped another tower wall, the petals the palest shade of pink. With jasmine and sweet orange blossoms scenting the air, and the setting sun painting the ancient walls a dusty red, Nicolette closed her eyes and felt…bliss. Baraka, she whispered to herself. Grace and peace.

Nicolette was to meet Malik in one of the walled courtyards for dinner. The Citadel staff had planned a special welcome supper for the princess, and the outdoor party delighted Nic, especially as it was a very exclusive party with just two guests—them.

A big bonfire had been built in the courtyard and a tent had been strung up to provide the sultan with additional privacy. Malik had Nic sit beside him, cross-legged on a red woven rug, and together they dined on roasted lamb, artichokes, saffron rice, and endless nuts and sweets before sitting back to enjoy the evening’s entertainment: a juggler—who juggled fire, talented singers, and traditional dancers.

The evening was unlike anything Nic had experienced in Atiq and was by far her favorite. She loved eating outside, relished the heat and glow of the fire, and embraced the sensuous beauty of the place. ‘‘If I was from Baraka, this is where I’d want to live,’’ she said, resting her head on her knee, watching the flames crackle and dance. ‘‘This just feels right. I can’t explain it, but it feels like…home.’’

Malik looked at her and a small muscle pulled in his jaw. ‘‘You say extraordinary things when I least expect it.’’

She turned her head from the fire, smiled at him. She felt pleasantly relaxed, a little bit sleepy. ‘‘What did I say?’’

He gave his head a slight shake, drew an imaginary circle on the red blanket. ‘‘This is my home, my spiritual home. Whenever I have doubts, I come here.’’

‘‘Doubts about what?’’

His lips curved. ‘‘My ability to lead.’’ His smile turned self-mocking. ‘‘As well as my struggle to find the balance between what I need, and what my people need.’’

Glancing at him, she saw that his brow had creased, and shadows haunted his eyes. He had such a noble face it hurt her to see him struggle. Nicolette felt her chest tighten. The depth of her emotion staggered her.

She wasn’t supposed to care this much. She wasn’t supposed to admire him. She wasn’t supposed to want him.

She shouldn’t have come to Zefd, shouldn’t have loved the red mountains, the pinkish walls of the citadel, the gnarled trees that seemed to spring from the middle of the boulders. She shouldn’t love the way the wind rustled the fronds on the date trees. Shouldn’t like sitting on a carpet by a fire eating rice with her fingers and feeling peace, real peace, for the first time in years…

This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t fall in love with Malik or his desert or his kingdom. She wouldn’t let herself want the conversations with him, the quiet with him, the life with him…

He was too soulful, too powerful. He’d turn her life upside down. He’d expect her to give up everything she treasured, including her freedom and her beloved family at home.

Tears burned the back of her eyes. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe properly. ‘‘I’m exhausted,’’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest, overwhelmed by all that she felt sitting here in the dark with him. What she needed was time alone, quiet to figure out her way home. Melio felt light years away. How would she get back?

More importantly, how would she ever forget? If she left Malik, she’d leave her heart in Baraka with him.

‘‘I’ll walk you in,’’ he said, rising.

‘‘No need.’’ Nic said hastily, trying to ignore the panic building inside of her. Whatever pretense she’d been able to manage had fallen behind like Atiq’s white washed stonewalls. ‘‘You have dozens of valets and butlers and maids to escort me to bed.’’

‘‘I know. I pay their salaries.’’ He smiled sardonically. ‘‘But I am the sultan, and you, laeela, are my princess.’’

He walked her through the semidark corridors, candles lit in high wall sconces, the soft flickering yellow light reminding Nicolette of a medieval castle and yet the blue paint, and the gold and black mosaics were exotic instead of frightening.

He opened the door of her room, checked inside, made sure all was in order. ‘‘Is there anything you need?’’

‘‘No.’’

He said good night then, and left her. Nicolette shut the door, leaned against the door, wishing with all her might that Malik would have stayed. She needed to be with him. Needed to be close to him. Even if they never made love, she just wanted one night in his arms.

She slowly started to undress and a knock sounded on her door. Opening the door, Nic discovered Malik. A lump filled her throat. She was so glad to see him and it’d only been a couple minutes since he left. ‘‘Get lost?’’

His crooked grin tugged on her heart. ‘‘I forgot something,’’ he said.

‘‘What?’’

He wrapped his hands around her arms and pulled her against him. She felt the hard length of his body touch every soft curve of hers. Dropping his head, he kissed her. Malik’s lips felt won derfully cool against her heated skin and she closed her eyes.

‘‘This,’’ he murmured against her lips.

‘‘You returned for a kiss?’’

‘‘What is more important than love?’’ With the tip of his finger he outlined her brow bone and then her small, straight nose.

She shivered at the touch, and yet questioned his words. Love. But he didn’t mean love. Not in the Western sense, the way she knew love. He meant love as one that is familiar, important, betrothed.

After all, everyone had arranged marriages in Baraka. No one married here for love. There was a way of doing things, the bridegroom paid a sedaq, bride price, to the family of the bride, and the bride presented the groom a dowry, and in her case it was the ports and harbors of Melio.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ she answered, belly tightening, nerves jumping as he continued to touch her, his hand exploring the column of her throat, the sensitive spot at the top of her spine, and now her long hair which she’d just loosened.

‘‘You have lovely hair,’’ he said, fingers sliding through the long strands.

‘‘Thank you.’’ The words stuck in her mouth.

‘‘I’m so glad you’re not a blonde. I think brunettes are much more striking,’’ he added, holding a tendril up to the light, letting the dark brown and rich auburn highlights glimmer against his skin. He turned the long strand over. ‘‘You haven’t ever wanted to be fair, have you?’’