Читать книгу His Defiant Desert Queen - Jane Porter - Страница 12
ОглавлениеTHAT DID NOT go well.
Aware that Jemma was looking at him, aware that she’d been waiting patiently, exceptionally patiently for the past hour to know her fate, Mikael finally glanced at her.
Shadows danced on the walls, stretching tall across the tiled floor. He didn’t like her. Didn’t admire her. Didn’t feel anything positive for her.
But even in the dim lighting, he recognized her great beauty.
She wasn’t merely pretty, she was stunning. Her face was all hauntingly beautiful planes and angles with her high regal brow, the prominent cheekbones, a firm chin below full, generous lips.
She was pale with fatigue and fear, and her pallor made her eyes appear even greener, as if brilliant emeralds against the ivory satin of her skin.
Sitting so close to her, he could feel her fatigue. It was clear to him she was stretched thin, perhaps even to breaking.
He told himself he didn’t care, but her beauty moved him. His mother had been a beautiful woman, too, just as Mikael’s father’s second and third wives were both exquisite. A king could have any woman. Why shouldn’t she be a rare jewel?
Jemma was a rare jewel.
But she was also a rare jewel set in a tarnished, defective setting.
He now had a choice. To save the jewel, or to toss it away? It was up to him. Sheikh Azizzi had given Mikael the decision.
“Well?” Jemma whispered, breaking the tense silence. “What did he say?”
Mikael continued to study her, his thoughts random and scattered. He didn’t need her. He didn’t like her. He’d never love her.
But he did desire her.
It wouldn’t be difficult to bed her.
He wondered how she’d respond in bed. He wondered if she’d be sweet and hot or icy and frigid.
His gut told him she’d be hot and sweet. But first, all the Copeland taint would have to be washed away. “I am to decide your punishment for you,” he said finally. “I’ve been given a choice of two sentences and I must pick one.”
“Why?”
“Because Sheikh Azizzi knows me, and he knows I wish to do what is right, but what is right isn’t always what is popular.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am to decide if I should follow ancient law, and tribal custom, or choose a modern punishment for you.”
“And have you made up your mind?”
“No.”
“What are the choices given to you?”
“Seven years house arrest here in Haslam—”
“Seven years?”
“Or I take you as my wife.”
“That’s not funny. Not even remotely funny.”
“It’s not a joke. It’s one of the two choices presented to me. Marry you, or leave you here in Haslam to begin your house arrest.” He saw her recoil and her face turn white. “I warned you that Sheikh Azizzi would not be lenient. He is not a Copeland fan either. He knows what your father did to my mother, and he wanted to send a message that Saidia will not tolerate crime or immorality.”
“But seven years!” She reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. “That’s...that’s...so long.”
“Seven years, or marriage,” he corrected.
“No. No. Marriage isn’t an option. I won’t marry you. I would never marry you. I could never marry you—”
“You’d rather be locked up for seven years?”
“Yes. Absolutely!”
Mikael leaned back, studying her pale face and bright eyes. She was biting down, pressing her teeth into her lip. “I don’t believe you.”
“Not my problem.”
“I’m a king. I can provide a lavish lifestyle.”
“Not interested.” Her eyes burned at him, hot, bright. “Seven years of house arrest is infinitely better than a lifetime with you.”
He should have been offended by her response. Instead he felt vaguely amused. Women craved his attention. They fought for his affections. Ever since he’d left university, he’d enjoyed considerable female company, company he’d turned into girlfriends and mistresses.
Mikael enjoyed women. He was quite comfortable with girlfriends and mistresses. But he was not at all open to taking a wife, despite the fact that as king it was his duty to marry and produce heirs.
Something he was sure Sheikh Azizzi knew. But Sheikh Azizzi, like much of Saidia, was eager for the country’s king to marry as quickly as possible.
Sheikh Azizzi also knew that nothing would pain the Copeland family more than having the youngest daughter forced into a marriage against her will.
It was fitting punishment for a family that believed itself to be above the law.
But in truth Mikael didn’t want a wife. He didn’t want children. He didn’t want entanglements of any kind. It’s why he kept mistresses. He provided for them materially and in return they’d always be available to him, without making any demands. Mikael was torn between his duty and his desires.
He studied Jemma now, trying to imagine her as his wife.
Without her make-up he could see purple smudges beneath her eyes and her naturally long black eye lashes. She had a heart-shaped face. Clear green eyes. Full pink lips.
The same pink as her nipples.
His body hardened, remembering her earlier, modeling, and naked beneath the fur coat.
She had an incredible body.
He would enjoy her body. But he’d never like her. Never admire her. She wasn’t a woman he wanted for anything beyond sex and pleasure.
He pictured her naked again. He’d certainly find pleasure in her curves and breasts and that private place between her legs.
“So it’s house arrest,” Jemma said. “Seven years. Would the sentence start tonight? Tomorrow?”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” he answered.
Her green eyes widened. Her lips parted and for a moment no sound came out and then she shook her head, a frantic shake that left no doubt as to her feelings. “I will not marry you. I will not!”
“It’s not up to you. It’s my choice.”
“You can’t force me.”
“I can.” And silently he added, I could.
Just like that, the idea took root.
He could marry her. He could force her to his will. He could avenge his mother’s shame. He could exact revenge.
For a moment there was just silence. It was thick and heavy and he imagined she must hate it. She must find the silence stifling because she was completely powerless. She had no say. He would decide her fate. She would have to accept whatever he chose for her.
He found the thought pleasing.
He liked knowing that whatever he chose, she would have to submit.
She with the lovely eyes and soft lips and full, pink tipped breasts.
“But you do not wish to marry me,” she whispered. “You hate me. You wouldn’t be able to look at me or touch me.”
“I could touch you,” he corrected. “And I could look at you. But I wouldn’t love you, no.”
“Don’t do that to me. Don’t use me.”
“Why not? Your father used my mother to bring shame on my family name.”
“I’m not my father and you’re not your mother and we both deserve better. We both deserve good marriages, proper marriages, marriages based on love and respect.”
“That sounds quite nice except for the fact that I don’t love. I won’t take a wife out of love. I will take her out of duty. I will marry as it is my responsibility. A king must have heirs.”
“But I want love. And by forcing me to marry you, you deprive me of love.”
“Your father deprived my mother of life. I’m Arabic. A life for a life. A woman for a woman. He took her. I should take you.”
“No.”
“Saidia requires a prince. You’d give me beautiful children.”
“I’d never be willing in bed, and you said even in a forced marriage, the sex is consensual.”
“You’d consent.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’d beg me to take you.”
“Never.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re wrong. And I will prove you wrong, and when I do, what shall you give me in return?”
Jemma rose from the table, and went to the doorway. “I want to go. I want to go now.”
“I don’t think that’s one of my options.”
* * *
Jemma didn’t know where to look. Her heart raced and her eyes burned and she felt so sick inside.
This wasn’t what she’d thought would happen. This wasn’t how she’d imagined this would go. Jail was bad. Seven years under house arrest boggled the mind. But marriage?
The idea of Sheikh Karim forcing her to marry him made everything inside her shrink, collapse.
She’d thought the last year had been horrific, being shunned as Daniel Copeland’s daughter, but to be married against her will?
Her eyes stung, growing hotter and grittier. She pressed her nails into her palms, determined not to cry, even as she wondered how far she’d get if she bolted from the house and ran.
Marrying Mikael Karim would break her. It would. She’d been so lonely this past year, so deeply hurt by Damien’s rejection and the constant shaming by the media, as well as endless public hatred. She couldn’t face a cold marriage. She needed to live, to move, to breathe, to feel, to love...
To love.
It was tragic but she needed love. Needed to love and be loved. Needed connection and contact and warmth.
“Please,” she choked, the tears she didn’t want filling her eyes, “please don’t marry me. Please just leave me here in Haslam. I don’t want to spend seven years here, but at least in seven years I could be free and go home and marry and have children with someone who wants me, and needs me, and loves me—” She broke off as Sheikh Azizzi entered the room behind her.
The village elder was accompanied by two robed men.
Jemma pressed her hands together in prayer, pleading with Mikael. “Let me stay here. Please. Please.”
“And what would you do here for seven years?” he retorted, ignoring the others.
“I’d learn the language, and learn to cook and I’d find ways to occupy myself.”
Mikael looked at her, his dark gaze holding for an endless moment and then he turned to Sheikh Azizzi and spoke to him. Sheikh Azizzi nodded once and the men walked out.
“It’s done,” Mikael said.
“What’s done?”
“I’ve claimed you. I’ve made you mine.”
She backed up so rapidly she bumped into the wall. “No.”
“But I have. I told Sheikh Azizzi I’ve claimed you as my wife, and it’s done.”
“That doesn’t make us married. I have to agree, I have to speak, I have to consent somehow...” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Mikael, bewildered. “Don’t I?”
“No. You don’t have to speak at all. It’s done.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He rose and stalked toward her. “And like this,” he added, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her out of the house, into the night.
Outside, the convoy of vehicles were gone. Villagers clustered near a kneeling camel.
“Who is that for?” Jemma choked, struggling in Mikael’s arms.
He tightened his grip. “Settle down,” he said shortly. “Or I’ll tie you to the camel.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“You don’t think so?” he challenged, stepping through the crowd to set her in the camel’s saddle.
The leather saddle was wide and hard and Jemma struggled to climb back off but Mikael had taken a leather strip from a pouch on the camel and was swiftly tying her hands together at the wrist, and then binding her wrists to the saddle’s pommel.
The crowd cheered as he tethered her in place.
“Why are they cheering?” she asked, face burning, anger rolling through her as she strained to free herself.
“They know I’ve taken you as my wife. They know you aren’t happy. They know you are ashamed. It pleases them.”
“My shame pleases them?”
“Your shame and struggles are part of your atonement. That pleases them.”
“I don’t like your culture.”
“And I do not like yours.” He scooted her forward in the saddle, and then took a seat behind her, his big body filling the space, pressing tightly against her. “Now lean back a little.”
“No.”
“You’ll be more comfortable.”
“I can assure you, I would not be comfortable leaning against you.”
“We are going to be traveling for several hours.”
She shook her head, lips compressed as she fought tears. “I hate you,” she whispered.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave a tug on the reigns and the camel lurched to its feet.
The villagers cheered again and Mikael lifted a hand, and then they were off, heading for the gates and the desert beyond.
