Читать книгу The Princess Brides - Jane Porter - Страница 11

CHAPTER FIVE

‘‘I TAKE it your husband wasn’t exactly…a good husband?’’ Malik’s deep voice echoed concern.

Nic pressed her nails into her palm. Surely it was okay to tell the sultan this. After all, if she wanted him to help rescue Lilly, she needed his sympathy, and the only way he’d sympathize with Lilly’s plight was if he knew the truth. But the truth was hard to say, painful and shameful, and Nic knew Chantal would be furious with her for speaking it aloud.

Like many abused women, part of Chantal believed that somehow she had brought the pain on herself, that she must have done something wrong along the way, that Armand’s cruelty wouldn’t have happened if Chantal had been a better wife, woman, mother.

Malik’s long tanned fingers tapped the rim of his glass. ‘‘Did he hit you?’’

Nic held her breath. The air felt hot and sharp inside her lungs. She could hear Chantal in her head, no no no, could see her sister’s beautiful eyes pleading, don’t say a thing, don’t tell him what horrible things I went through. He’ll think less of me, he’ll think I’m bad, that I’m somehow…dirty.

Nic’s eyes filled with tears. Damn Armand to hell. He had no right laying a hand on Chantal. No right putting his fist to her face. ‘‘Yes.’’

Malik’s eyes searched Nic’s. ‘‘Did he ever touch your daughter?’’

‘‘He was rough.’’ Nic swallowed. She didn’t like talking about her sister’s marriage, didn’t like airing such horrid secrets. It was shameful, she thought, understanding for the first time why Chantal couldn’t talk about the abuse, why Chantal only wanted to move on. Forget.

‘‘Were Armand’s parents aware of the problem?’’

Her shoulders shifted. ‘‘They couldn’t have been oblivious. Armand lost his temper in front of them frequently.’’

‘‘But they did nothing?’’

‘‘No. But his mother did come to me once. She’d intimated that early in her marriage Armand’s father had behaved the same, but that it was our duty to forgive them, that they are good men. They just don’t manage their anger well.’’

‘‘She wanted you to put up with it since she had to.’’

Nic nodded. She’d told Chantal the very same thing. ‘‘They say abuse often perpetuates itself.’’ She felt a gnawing restlessness. She needed to get up, move, escape this dreadful dark emotion filling her. Chantal had been through enough. Chantal would be saved. Chantal would have a chance at freedom. Independence. There was no reason for Chantal to ever have to agree to a loveless, arranged marriage again.

‘‘I want Lilly out.’’ Nic swallowed, forced herself to focus. ‘‘I want her away from La Croix.’’ She drew a slow breath. ‘‘You’re the only one who could possibly get her out.’’

‘‘Her grandparents won’t let her leave the country?’’

Nic’s gaze was direct. ‘‘They can be persuaded.’’

Malik said nothing.

Nic felt the lump in her throat grow but it only made her more determined. Lilly would get out. Chantal would be free. ‘‘There are all kinds of persuasion,’’ she added, glancing at her hands, then up into his face. ‘‘I believe her grandparents might accept…compensation…if you will.’’

‘‘Buy them off?’’

‘‘It could be possible.’’

‘‘Those are desperate measures.’’

Nic smiled but her eyes felt hard, her skin felt cold. ‘‘And I am a desperate woman.’’

He stood, held out an arm. ‘‘Come, let’s walk. It’s feeling a little close in here.’’

Nic rose, slipped her trembling hands into the pockets of her slim linen overcoat, wondering if she’d alienated Malik with her honesty. Then so be it, she immediately answered. If he couldn’t handle truth, if he couldn’t deal with reality, then he wasn’t the right one for her. Correction, the right one to help Chantal.

Because she was here for Chantal. This wasn’t about her…this wasn’t for her…Or was it?

Nic sucked in a breath, wondering what was happening. She was feeling a kinship with King Nuri, a new sense of belonging. But Baraka wasn’t home, and wouldn’t be home. Her life was in sunny Melio on the other side of the Mediterranean with its scent of cypress and oranges, shades of olive-green and dark green, the rocky cliffs and the sun drenched pastures.

Malik’s arm rested lightly around her as they walked from the palace to one of the exterior courtyards, massive even by European standards, and the warmth of his body against hers flooded her with hot sensation.

She wanted so much more than just an arm on her waist. She longed to feel him all the way against her, wanted the pressure of his chest, his hips, his legs. She drew a deep breath, exhaled even more slowly. The desire to be part of him was growing stronger day by day. This was a dangerous place, she thought, and somehow the splash of fountains and the sun glinting off cobalt-blue tiles while the scent of jasmine hung in the air only added to the ache inside her.

She glanced up into his face, her gaze taking in his hard, regal features, his dark hair combed back from his broad brow. He looked pensive. Preoccupied.

‘‘Did I shock you?’’ she asked, wishing she didn’t care one way or the other what he thought, but she did care, she cared very much. The fact was she liked King Malik Roman Nuri more than she’d liked any man in oh—years.

He was hard, sexy, sensual. Male. She knew by the way he touched things, he understood fingers, skin, pressure, sensation. She knew by the way he moved that he was aware of himself, aware of others. Even now with his arm lightly around her waist she felt his strength and energy ripple through her, hot, sensitive, alive.

‘‘No.’’

‘‘You’ve gone quiet.’’

His palm pressed against the dip in her spine, warm, strong. Nicolette had never felt so safe. She’d never felt in danger before, but this was different. Malik Roman Nuri was a man who cared about women. Protected women. He was a man who’d always do what was right for the women in his family.

‘‘You’ve given me much to think on.’’ The pressure of his hand eased. ‘‘I realize that you come here with unique needs of your own.’’

Was that a polite way of saying she had an agenda? She wasn’t going to deny it. Arranged marriages were about strengthening one’s position, forming an alliance, creating stability.

‘‘We both want something,’’ she answered frankly. ‘‘The question is, what do you really want from me? You already know what I want from you.’’

‘‘Do I?’’ He shot her a curious glance. ‘‘I know you want freedom for Lilly, and stability and security for your country, but what about you? You don’t strike me as a woman who has no dreams for herself.’’

The splash of the fountain soothed Nic’s nerves. She listened to the gurgling water and it sounded cool, refreshing. She felt more at peace than she had in days. ‘‘It would be enough for me to know that my family is happy, healthy, and safe.’’ And Nic realized that it was true. Maybe she didn’t have her mother’s talent and desire for fame, but she had her mother’s courage. She wasn’t afraid to risk all to ensure that those around her would be protected.

Nic knew she was tough. She’d always been strong. She didn’t need approval. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. ‘‘And equality,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘Equality for women. Everywhere.’’

Then remembering where she was, standing in what had to be one of the most luxurious courtyards in the world, Nic realized she was speaking not just to Malik, but to a sultan, a king of a country that had once been part of the powerful Ottoman Empire, in a country where men outnumbered women in higher education ten to one.

Perhaps she’d said too much, been too honest. Nic glanced up at Malik again, tensing inwardly, waiting for his reprimand.

Instead he nodded, his expression sober. ‘‘I agree.’’

Another night of restless sleep. Another morning where Nicolette did not want to get up. The more Nic liked Malik, the more difficult her charade became.

But Alea wasn’t about to let Nicolette spend the day in bed. ‘‘Princess,’’ Alea said, tugging on the covers Nicolette held over her head. ‘‘You must get up. You’re going to be late.’’

‘‘It’s just a language lesson.’’

‘‘But Lady Fatima will be waiting.’’

Let her wait.

‘‘And I’ve Italian espresso,’’ Alea encouraged in her cheerful singsong. ‘‘You love Italian espresso.’’

True, Nic loved her coffee. She could drink coffee all day. ‘‘What else do I have on my schedule?’’ Nic asked, her voice muffled from beneath the covers.

Alea hesitated. Nicolette knew what that meant, too. It meant that Nic had another exhausting day, lessons, appointments, luncheons—all accompanied by Fatima.

‘‘You have the state dinner tonight, and the King will be taking you, of course.’’ Alea was trying her best to be encouraging. ‘‘And the first of your new gowns are ready. You’ll be able to wear the dress tonight when King Nuri introduces you to his aides and advisors.’’

Nicolette slowly lowered the covers. As much as she wanted to stay in bed and avoid the lessons and day’s appointments, she knew she couldn’t. She also wanted to see Malik later. Seeing him had somehow become the highlight of her day.

Several hours later, after the language lesson ended, Fatima took Nicolette on a tour of the palace, pointing out unusual details like pre-Roman bronzes unearthed at various sites in Baraka, a beautiful bronze of a young boy dating back to the start of the imperial era, gold coins that had been minted during the Almohad dynasty when Baraka was part of the territory that included Morocco, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria and part of Spain.

For a little while Nicolette forgot the tension existing between her and Fatima. Nic enjoyed the tour, finding the description of ancient treasures and artifacts riveting. She’d always loved history, was passionate about early civilizations and had once fancied herself becoming an explorer.

But in the end, after university ended, she’d never used her degrees—mathematics, history or otherwise. Instead she’d become a professional princess. For whatever that was worth.

At one point during the tour, Fatima opened a set of pale gold wood shutters, and the sun poured in. Looking out, Nicolette saw the cloudless blue sky, the far away peaks of the Atlas mountains and the not so distant date and palm trees. For a moment Nicolette felt swept back in time, sucked back one hundred, three hundred, a thousand years. Here, nothing would change quickly. Here, certain elements were constant—the burnished sun, the torrid desert, the tribal conflicts, the unwavering faith of the people.

King Malik Roman Nuri was part of these elements. He might have French ancestry, a Western education, but he was as steady and deep as the sky over the Sahara.

Maybe Chantal would like it here. Maybe Chantal would be drawn to Malik just as she, Nic, was drawn to the sultan.

Maybe she’d made a mistake telling Chantal not to come, that it’d be disastrous to accept the King’s marriage proposal, because truthfully, there was great beauty here. Even the ordinary felt exotic, luxurious, mysterious. Time moved more slowly. No one was hurried, no one moved too quickly, spoke too quickly, no one seemed too busy to converse or smile—well, except for Fatima, that is.

Standing at the window, Nic tried to imagine Chantal and Lilly in Atiq, and somehow the exotic beauty overshadowed the two of them.

In her heart of hearts, Nic knew that Chantal would disappear here. Chantal would say all the proper things and agree and try to be pleasing, proper, the wife of a king, but trying hard to please another would just diminish Chantal further.

Chantal needed a life away from nobility. Service. Duty. Chantal needed to learn how to be selfish.

Nic’s thoughts haunted her as they finished the tour of the palace rooms. They’d virtually viewed the entire elaborate sprawl of villas, suites and chambers. There were buildings for everything, rooms reserved for the royal family and then the formal rooms for entertaining and even the old wings were spacious, coolly elegant, steeped with a gracious mystique.

Heading back to Nic’s suite in the palace, they crossed paths with Malik walking with two of his advisors.

Malik greeted her formally, using the polite Arabic greeting, kissed her on each cheek and then briefly introduced his aides.

Nicolette responded politely, murmuring words of greeting, although she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said surprised by the flood of warmth coursing through her.

She didn’t know why the fleeting touch of his mouth to her skin should make her lose track of her thoughts, and yet suddenly she wasn’t sure what she was doing here, or why they were all together. Uneasily she glanced up into Malik’s face, and his expression was the same as it’d been when he’d briefly kissed her—cordial, considerate, attentive.

And something more.

Possession?

Nic gave herself a quick mental shake. Not possession. He didn’t own her. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t going to stay. Yet thinking of leaving, and leaving him, made her ache more than a little. He was tapping some emotion she usually kept buried deep inside, and this emotion had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with life. And possibly love.

He was speaking to her now, asking a question. ‘‘How has your day been?’’

‘‘Good. Thank you.’’ Nic struggled to find adequate words. ‘‘I’m overwhelmed by the history here, as well as the beauty. The palace is truly exquisite.’’

He smiled at her, creases fanning from his eyes. ‘‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.’’

She liked the way he smiled at her. It was a small smile, barely discernible, but she recognized it and knew it was for her.

Possession.

The word whispered through her head, nudging her, worrying her, reminding her of what was at stake.

But even as the warning voice whispered in her head, something peculiar was happening in her heart. She didn’t feel like Chantal, the betrothed. She felt like Nicolette, the betrothed. She actually felt possessive of Malik.

But that couldn’t be. She wasn’t here for a relationship. She couldn’t form any bonds, no attachments whatsoever. If she wanted to fall in love, let her fall in love with the country, the history, the culture.

She forced a light note into her voice. ‘‘I hope I’ll have a chance to see more of the palace at a later date. It’s truly wonderful. Everything has been designed with perfection in mind.’’

‘‘Perhaps I’ll have time later this week to complete the tour,’’ Malik answered, shadows forming beneath his strong cheekbones. ‘‘The palace is a thousand years old. Countless artisans have devoted their lives to embellishing the palace’s natural beauty.’’ He then nodded at the others, indicating that Fatima and his advisors were to continue on.

Malik waited until the others had disappeared before continuing. Some of his formality eased. ‘‘You could be comfortable here then?’’

‘‘How could I not be? You’ve thought of every comfort imaginable.’’

His eyes warmed, the silver glints brightening. ‘‘And I have quite an imagination.’’

Nic knew he wasn’t just speaking of creature comforts now, and again she felt as if she’d stumbled into another world, one existing just for King Nuri and her. Their conversations had become increasingly private, their references more personal, their innuendos more blatant.

‘‘I’m sure you have a good imagination,’’ Nic agreed with mock seriousness. ‘‘Most men think they’ve a good imagination.’’

‘‘You doubt my imagination?’’

‘‘I’m certain you are imaginative…for a man—’’

‘‘Double standards?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

He shook his head. ‘‘You’re forcing me to respond to your challenge.’’

She tried to keep a straight face. ‘‘I’m not challenging you, Your Highness, I’m simply stating a fact.’’

‘‘A fact?’’

‘‘Yes. Most men think they know what women want, and women need—’’

‘‘Oh dear, another problematic declaration.’’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘I had no idea you were so chauvinistic.’’

‘‘I’m not.’’

‘‘Indeed, you are.’’ He held up a hand, his gesture imperial. ‘‘But unlike you, I do not endlessly engage in debate. Words accomplish nothing. I, personally, prefer action.’’

Her breath felt trapped inside her lungs. She could barely nod. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Good.’’ And moving forward, he clasped her face in his hands and tilted her face up to his.

The way his fingers splayed across her jawbone, the slow caress of his thumb beneath her lower lip, the shrewd expression in his eyes sent a shiver through her. Expectation. Desire. He was going to kiss her.

Then his head descended and he did kiss her—slowly, curiously, as if he’d wondered for quite a long time what this kiss would feel like, as if the kiss was crucial to some little part of the universe.

Her mouth softened beneath the pressure of his, her lips parting ever so slightly at the tingling pressure. Malik smelled of cedar and cardamom, sweet, spicy. His lips were cool and firm and she felt helplessly fascinated by the slow sensual questing of his lips against hers. He wasn’t directing, commanding, demanding. He was simply touching her, letting her experience…him.

And it was unbelievable. He—like the kiss—was warm, sensual, fragrant, her body responded by softening, sending sharp sparkly darts through her belly, to her breasts, and between her thighs. She hadn’t felt longing like this in ages. She actually clenched her knees, surprised by the waves of tension and sensation, pleasure and expectation.

Malik trailed one hand down her cheek, his fingers cupping her ear, skimming her cheek and she opened her mouth in a silent gasp. He was doing everything right, too right.

Heart hammering, she broke away, took a quick, unsteady step backwards. ‘‘Not bad.’’ Her voice came out breathless, high. ‘‘For a start.’’

His expression mocked her. Heat glowed in his eyes, along with a measure of confidence. ‘‘You want more.’’

‘‘That’s not what I said—’’

‘‘But you want more.’’

Arrogant man, she thought, and yet he had a right to be. His kiss had melted her bones, turned her into a shivering bundle of need. ‘‘I wouldn’t be adverse to—’’ and she drew a quick breath to steady the pounding of her heart ‘‘—challenging my assumptions.’’

‘‘We shall see what we can do.’’ He smiled. ‘‘But unfortunately we have business first. You’re aware of tonight’s reception? It’s a political affair.’’

She nodded, head still spinning a little. ‘‘I’ll be meeting your cabinet members, and their wives.’’

‘‘I want them to like you, Princess.’’

Her eyes locked with his. ‘‘Is it important that they do?’’

‘‘No.’’ And he dropped his head, kissed her on the corner of her mouth and whispered, ‘‘I just want them to like you as much as I do.’’

Back in her own suite of rooms, Nicolette trembled as she sat in the deep steaming bath, emotions still running high, tension rippling through. Malik’s parting words, spoken in his sexy, husky voice, had shaken her nearly as much as the kiss.

He liked her. Not because she was a European princess. Not because she represented a powerful alliance. He liked her because he liked her.

And that alone made her happy. She’d no intention of becoming anyone’s wife, but she was quite curious about King Nuri—in and out of bed.

Nic could hear Alea in the next room, humming as she laid out Nic’s clothes for the state reception. Would Malik kiss her again later? Would they even be alone later?

Nicolette thought she could endure just about anything at the dinner if it meant she’d have ten minutes alone with Malik.

No, ten minutes wouldn’t do.

An hour. A solid hour of uninterrupted time alone.

It’d been months and months since she felt anything remotely this strong. Years since she’d had a really satisfying love affair. Years ago, she’d had a fantastic lover, and he’d ruined her for all others. A man that couldn’t use his hands, his mouth, his sense of touch wasn’t a man at all. It wasn’t enough to be physically endowed. A man had to know how to please a woman, although most men thought if they just kept thrusting long enough they’d reached the goal. Problem was, most women needed a hell of a lot more than that. But try telling that to a man.

Even playboys, rich gorgeous, sexy playboys didn’t know what turned on a woman most of the time. Fortunately, Malik didn’t seem to fall into that category. His brief kiss, his tantalizing caress, conveyed a world of knowledge and experience she was anxious to try.

Alea’s footsteps sounded on the marble floor as she made her way through the bedchamber to the walk-in closet across from the bath. Nic could hear her sorting through hanging clothes in the closet.

‘‘Yellow or green?’’ The young assistant called to Nicolette. ‘‘Two dresses arrived earlier this afternoon.’’

Nic swiped at the steaming water, the jasmine scented bath oil forming smaller pools on the surface. ‘‘They’re not for the wedding?’’

‘‘Oh, no, Princess. You will have special gown for wedding. These are just for you to look beautiful.’’

‘‘Which do you like better?’’ Nic asked, content to have the decision made. Some things she fought for. Some things she delegated. Fashion she delegated.

‘‘The green, I think. The color will look striking with your lovely dark hair.’’

Her dark hair. Nic suddenly sat up, touched the top of her head where her hair had been pinned up on extra large Velcro rollers. Brunette. She was a brunette. It still seemed strange to think she’d gone dark.

Would she ever become blonde Nic Ducasse again?

Four hours later, the long dinner had ended, and instead of providing entertainment, King Nuri had encouraged his guests to mingle—a decidedly Western approach—but one he hoped would give Nicolette a chance to meet more of his cabinet members. But looking at her now, cornered by a dozen robed ladies—including his cousin Fatima—Malik realized he’d made a tactical error.

Nic wasn’t getting a chance to meet anyone. The women were keeping her firmly sequestered in the corner. Men on one side of the room, ladies on the other. Malik could imagine the topics the women would be discussing, too. Conversation would be limited to domestic events—marriage, childbirth, health of the elders. There’d be talk about servants, discussion about the cost of food, complaints that the weather was unusually hot and yet it was too early for everyone to trek to summer homes.

Nic made a gesture, and slight bow, indicating she was about to leave the others when Fatima touched Nic’s arm in a silent reprimand.

Malik stopped listening to the conversation around him and watched his cousin speak to Nicolette.

Fatima tended to be overly harsh with Nicolette.

Malik knew Fatima didn’t understand why he’d chosen a woman like Nicolette, or why he’d go so far from their culture for the woman who would be his mate, his wife, who would bear his children. Baraka’s heirs.

But he knew what she did not—he needed someone like her.

Nic would teach their sons and daughters to set goals, to dream big, to fight for what one believed.

It was what all children should be taught, he thought, watching Fatima’s face tighten with irritation. She was angry with Nicolette for being different than Barakan women, and yet Fatima had been given opportunities to travel, to live abroad, to find a more Western husband. But Fatima didn’t want to leave Atiq. She was waiting, she said, for the right man.

His lashes lowered as he watched Nic turn away, focus on an object beyond her shoulder and he realized that Nicolette was struggling to conceal her anger. What had Fatima said now?

Suddenly Nic turned her head and looked at him. Her blue gaze met his. The corner of her mouth pulled and her expression turned wry.

Save me, her expression seemed to say. And yet she wasn’t complaining. She was half amused, half resigned. The not-sostorybook-life of a modern princess.

It was obvious she’d been through this before, many, many times. The princess at a state dinner. The princess, guest of honor at a charity ball, princess, keynote speaker at a fund-raiser.

She might be the family rebel—she might have covered up her gorgeous blond hair with a horrible brown hair dye—but she never shirked her duties.

She might think she wasn’t a proper princess, but she understood family and loyalty, she understood what it was to protect and honor.

She’d make a perfect queen. Little did she know that by taking Chantal’s place, Nic had given Malik everything he ever wanted in a bride.

Malik made his way across the room and the ladies surrounding Nicolette bowed and parted, leaving him alone with his betrothed.

‘‘Enjoying yourself?’’ he asked, seeing that Fatima alone stayed at Nic’s side.

Nicolette shot him an exasperated glance. ‘‘It’s a fine party.’’ Her lips pursed. ‘‘If you’re eighty.’’

So she was bored. ‘‘Too slow for your tastes?’’

‘‘Your Highness, no one is doing anything.’’

‘‘And what would you like to do?’’

‘‘Real conversation wouldn’t hurt, or maybe turn on some music and let people dance.’’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘‘We can’t dance in mixed company.’’ Then he smiled. ‘‘But you and your ladies could dance if we men excused ourselves.’’

‘‘Dance with women?’’

He liked the way her cheeks darkened. Nic didn’t blush very often and the pink was most becoming, especially tonight in her lime green gown, the color deliciously cool on her lightly tanned skin, making her look as if she were a mouth watering sorbet. ‘‘Of course. Dancing with women can be quite exciting.’’

The silver charm bracelet on her wrist tinkled as she gestured displeasure. ‘‘Your Highness, I don’t dance with other women.’’

‘‘It’s not a slow dance with women. It’s a fast dance. Energetic.’’ He was trying hard not to laugh at her hand hovering before her mouth, her blue eyes wide and indignant. ‘‘The dance gets your heart pumping, your body moving.’’

‘‘Aerobics?’’

‘‘Think of it as an Arabic version of Jazzercise.’’ He saw her incredulous expression. ‘‘I know what Jazzercise is. One of my sisters lives in San Francisco. She loves her aerobic classes—’’

Nicolette started to laugh. She tried to stifle the sound by covering her mouth but it didn’t work. The more she tried to stop laughing, the harder she laughed. Tears filled her eyes. She wheezed behind her hand. ‘‘That’s priceless.’’

Fatima looked on in horror but Malik found Nic’s laughter sexy…refreshing. Nic had laughed with her whole face. Her laughter was contagious and it healed something in him that had been damaged from the attempt on his life a year ago.

He needed to laugh. He needed to feel hope. Nicolette gave him hope, and wasn’t hope a wonderful thing?

He leaned toward her, preventing his cousin from hearing his words. ‘‘We could always leave,’’ he murmured. ‘‘I’m sure we could find some diversions back at the palace.’’