Читать книгу One Desert Night: Destined for the Desert King / Hidden in the Sheikh's Harem / Claimed by the Sheikh - Kate Walker - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

HOW COULD YOUR life turn inside out in the space of just a few days, not even a month? Aziza wondered to herself as she stood, waiting for the door of the banqueting hall to open, and for her walk—surely the longest walk on earth—to begin. She had barely been aware of each day that had passed, all of them filled with frantic organisation, fittings, meetings, all the arrangements that were needed to turn her into the Sheikh’s chosen bride.

The Sheikh’s chosen bride.

There they were, the four words that had taken her life as she’d known it and shattered it into a million tiny fragments that could never be made whole again. The words were so shocking, so unbelievable, that they made her grab hold of her father’s arm, holding on tightly for fear that her legs might give way beneath her.

The rich golden silk of her ceremonial robes, heavy with embroidery, weighed down on her, making her feel as if she was carrying a burden on her shoulders, and the layers of the veil she wore clung around her face until it was almost impossible to breathe, obscuring her sight so that she had to rely on her father’s support to move forward and walk straight to the right place.

‘Steady...’ her father urged as she swayed slightly, hesitating nervously.

If anything brought home the change in her situation, it was that. The fact that her father had spoken to soothe her, instead of the sharp reproach she would have expected in the past. She was someone new now, and Farouk’s attitude had had to change along with her life.

‘Remember, he chose you.’

He chose you. She still couldn’t believe that those words were true. That they had actually been said in the moment that her father had come to find her and Jamalia in the room where they had been waiting, all day it seemed, for some sort of announcement on Sheikh Nabil’s selection of a bride. They had known that something had happened when Farouk had arrived, his mouth seemingly clamped tight on the news he had to deliver and his dark eyes burning with a suppressed excitement until he’d been free to speak openly.

‘Sheikh Nabil has made his decision,’ he had said and immediately Aziza’s eyes had gone to her sister who had pushed herself out of her chair, hectic colour flooding her cheeks. The ‘diadem’ she had created out of her necklace still glittered on her forehead like an omen.

But it was towards his younger daughter that Farouk had turned, his own smile slightly uneven. He had not been able to suppress his delight that one of his daughters was to become the Sheikh’s bride, but was bemused that it was Aziza and not his ‘jewel’, her elder sister.

‘He chose you.’

Aziza struggled to breathe naturally, making herself draw in air, then let it out again, fighting to steady the way that her feet hit the ground as she moved forward again. The marble floor felt disturbingly uneven beneath the soles of her silk slippers and she could barely focus through the layer upon layer of golden gauze that formed her veil to see the man standing at the far end of the hall.

Nabil—her husband-to-be!—was just a blur of white in his full ceremonial robes, the gutra on his head, bound, with a gold igal, acting like a blind, hiding his face from her.

But that was how it was supposed to be in this ceremony. Aziza knew that both she and Nabil were meant to be just symbols—the ruler and his consort. Not a man and a woman. Because this arranged marriage was for the sake of the country.

That was one of the reasons why she had not been able to refuse to go through with this. For the sake of the country had been drilled into her from the moment she had been told that she was Nabil’s choice. The vital treaties that had been built around their proposed union could be destroyed if she tried to back out. She was not supposed to be a person, just a bargaining tool. No one thought of her hopes, her dreams, her feelings. Anything like that was supposed to be buried under the overwhelming pride of being the Sheikh’s prospective bride. That was why she had this new-found approval from her father. She was the chosen one.

He chose you.

No one—not even Aziza herself—had reckoned with the memories she carried from her childhood, the ardent crush she had had on Nabil from a very early age. That had grown as she’d watched him leave youth behind and turn into a man who had endured loss and betrayal and now had put them behind him.

But who was Nabil now? Were her memories of him just the fantasies of a child, or did they have any foundation in the truth? In her dreams he had always been the man she would marry—but those dreams were just fantasy. She had never dreamed of the hard, cold man she had met that night on the balcony.

And yet it seemed she couldn’t let go of the girlhood yearnings. She had wept for her disillusionment that night, but in the moment that her father had told her that she was the Sheikh’s chosen bride all those dreams had come rushing back, bringing with them new hopes, new hungers, that her younger self would never even have been able to imagine.

She wanted to be the chosen one. Whether she was Zia the maid, or Aziza the second-best daughter, she longed to be special to someone. And Nabil had seen her; in that room with the two-way mirror, he had seen her with Jamalia and he had chosen her.

She was at Nabil’s side now, her right hand lifted from her father’s arm and placed into his, her small fingers almost swallowed up in the length and strength of his palm.

And there it was again. That stinging, fizzing, burning rage of response that his touch stirred, making her snatch in a breath, unable to control the race of her heart.

It was how it had happened on the balcony, the night of the anniversary celebrations.

Now, just being so close to him, had brought back all the feelings that had threatened to burn her alive that night on the balcony. Even through the concealing folds of the veils, his black gaze burned into her skin, branding her, marking her as his.

She wanted that. She wanted this man as she had never wanted any other human being in her life. She wanted those childhood reveries to come true. Oh, she knew that there was no way the dreams of Nabil she had had then could ever become reality. The adult male Nabil she had met on the balcony was light years away from her childhood hero. She knew that he was harsh now. A hard man, devoid of any warm emotion. She blushed to remember his refusal to kiss her that night. She should resist this union. But her foolish heart wouldn’t listen to reason.

Somehow she got through the ceremony, led into the responses, the words she needed to say, guided by the celebrant. She accepted the ring that Nabil pushed on to her finger and then turned, her hand on her husband’s arm, and made her way back down the room. There was a huge change in the atmosphere, in the attitude of everyone present. She was no longer even the chosen one but actually the Sheikh’s wife.

The greatest shock came when she saw her mother sweep into a low curtsey and her father—her father!—bow respectfully as she passed. It was then that it hit home to her that this marriage had changed so much for her personally as well as for the country.

She was no longer second to anyone—except of course Nabil, her husband. Her days of being the ‘other daughter’, the one who was usually kept in the background, were over. Most of all she no longer had to obey her father, subject everything she did to his scrutiny. She was free.

Or was she? She had put her life and her future—her body too—into the hands of the man who was walking beside her. That grip on her fingers was very firm, his skin warm and hard against her own. It made her shiver inside to feel it and the twist of nerves low down in her body forced her to think of what it might be like to have those hands on other more intimate parts of her body. She had blundered into this in a blind bewilderment, half-influenced by the yearning she had felt as a child, half-reaching for the freedom she thought this marriage would offer, clinging on to the knowledge that Nabil was a reformer, had taken an interest in improving the lives of women in his country. So different from her father’s oppressive and traditional views on women. But was that freedom possible at all or had she just exchanged one form of slavery for another?

She drifted through the feasting and celebrations that followed the wedding as if in some sort of delirium, a feeling that was only increased by being hidden behind the concealing curtain of her veils. If she wanted to eat, she would have to slip the food under those curtains in order to reach her mouth.

But the reality was that she couldn’t eat a thing, just pushed the rich, spicy food around on the gold surface of her plate, unable to think of swallowing a morsel. Beside her Nabil sat, his hand resting on the arms of his chair, his long body seeming relaxed in his seat. But this close to him she couldn’t be unaware of the way that those deep, dark eyes watched the room, noting every movement. The wary alertness bothered her.

‘Sire...’

Her voice, dry with apprehension, croaked slightly as the sound pulled his head round, black eyes seeming to sear through the concealing veil and on to her face.

‘My name is Nabil,’ he said softly enough but with an edge to his own name that brought her up sharp. Her eyes drawn to the sudden movement of one long, bronzed hand, she saw how those strong fingers had clenched over the gold fork that lay beside his plate. A plate that he had barely touched either. Suddenly she was stingingly aware of the fact that his given name was one so very few people had the right to use. In his position as the head of government, the ruler of Rhastaan, he was the Sheikh, the King, His Highness—but how few people could call him just Nabil.

And suddenly, from the mists of bitter memory, she had an unwanted recollection of the shocking scenes played out on the televisions sets of the country ten years before. In the deafening silence of the aftermath of the assassination attempt, Nabil, his own face marked with the blood of the glancing wound he had suffered, had bent over the fallen body of Sharmila, his pregnant Queen. As he’d lowered his head to hers, it had been possible to see how her lips had moved to silently form one word: Nabil.

‘N-Nabil...’ she tried hesitantly, wanting to reach out and touch her fingers to that hand so tightly clamped around his fork. But it seemed as if a force field of distance, of rejection, shimmered around him, and instead she clenched her own hands in her lap, fearful of shattering the atmosphere with a dangerous move.

Nabil made his fingers ease their hold on the fork he held. Now was not the time to think of how many years it had been since he had heard a woman—other than Clementina—use his name in that way. Nor to recognise how those damned veils muffled everything about her voice so that it could come from any female, old or young. It seemed so strange that the only image he had of the woman who was now his wife was the image of her as a girl that had pushed him into a decision that might just turn out to be as foolish and rash as the one that had made him take Sharmila as his first wife. But at least this decision had been made with his head, not the rush of desire and loneliness that had pushed him into Sharmila’s arms.

Or the one that had had him actually considering taking Aziza’s sister’s maid to bed.

Damn it, no! He had let Zia creep into his mind at exactly the point he should not be thinking of her. His focus should be on his bride—on Aziza.

An Aziza who was obviously no longer a child. She had blossomed—physically at least. That slender body was still all woman, high, firm breasts and gently curving hips, but her face was totally concealed behind the veils that tradition demanded, frustrating any attempt to actually see what she looked like. He knew her sister was the reputed beauty but surely Aziza couldn’t have lost all the angelic prettiness that he remembered? All those years ago, she had been the one who had treated him like a person, not as a potential king, marked out by the role that was all Jamalia and her parents seemed to see. She had giggled when he’d spotted her stealing sweetmeats, pressed a finger to her lips to warn him not to betray her. And that smile...

Silently Nabil cursed the tradition of the golden bridal veil. If only he could see through that damned gauze—see his wife!

Burning with frustration, he gave up trying to penetrate the material that concealed Aziza’s face and let his gaze drop abruptly to look down at her still full dish.

‘You are not eating.’

To Aziza’s ears it sounded like an accusation, a reproof.

‘I—I’m not hungry.’

To her amazement a corner of Nabil’s mouth quirked up into a sudden and unexpected smile at her response.

‘That is not like the Aziza I remember.’

‘You—remember?’ It hit her hard in her stomach, her mind reeling in shock to think that he recalled her at all.

‘You stole the candied fruits from the table,’ he told her. ‘I remember wondering how you could get away with that when you were barely tall enough to see over the top of it.’

‘I took them for my nurse!’ Aziza answered sharply, discomforted at the thought that he recalled her as only a greedy little girl. She wanted him to think of her as a woman. The woman he had chosen. The woman he wanted.

‘Of course you did.’

When he laughed like that she felt that she might melt, slipping from her chair to lie in a pool at his feet. It seemed impossible to believe that this gorgeous, sexy male could be interested in her at all. And yet he’d had the chance to marry her sister...

Realisation was like a shock to her heart, snatching away her breath so that she was grateful for the fact that the veil hid so much from those burning black eyes. If he had seen her and Jamalia together, then he must know that she was the Zia who had claimed to be only his sister’s maid. He’d seen her, recognised her and still chosen her. It made her head spin to think of it and more than ever before she cursed the masking of the veil that meant she had no hope of reading what was really in those glittering dark eyes.

‘Do you still like sweetmeats?’

A change had come over Nabil’s voice. It had deepened, taking on a husky edge, and those dark eyes were searching the table, looking for something. A moment later he was leaning forward, waving away the attentions of the servant as he pulled a polished dish of sugar-coated grapes and dates towards him. Picking up a luscious-looking grape, he held it out towards her temptingly.

‘Try this.’

It wasn’t the sweet treat that was tempting, Aziza reflected as she felt the noise and the colour of her surroundings fade away until there was just her and Nabil and the glistening green of the fruit between them. Her mouth was watering but not with the need to taste the fruit.

‘Here...’

Before she was aware of what he had planned, he had leaned closer, using his free hand to lift the side of the veil and slipping his fingers in to lift the grape to her mouth, pressing it softly against her lips.

‘Taste.’

She couldn’t do anything but respond as he said. Her eyes fixed on him through the veil, she let her mouth fall open, took in the grape and bit into it. Fresh, crisp juice flooded her mouth, contrasting with the delicate dusting of spiced sugar.

‘Good?’

Aziza could only pray that he would catch the tiny nod of her head that was all she was capable of. Savouring the delicate mouthful, she chewed slowly, swallowed and immediately wished for...

‘More?’ He seemed to be able to read her mind, moving the remainder of the grape so that it rested against her mouth.

Nabil could feel her soft skin, the warmth of her breath on the fingers that held the grape, but he wished to hell that he could see her face and know exactly who he had married.

She was nothing but a blur behind the damned veil. Dark hair, dark pools of eyes. But then those were what he recalled from the hazy memories of all those years ago. She had to have changed...

Who the hell would have thought that cuddly, sweet-natured Aziza would have turned into a subtle sex kitten in the years since he had seen her last?

He wanted to touch, let the fingers that had lifted the side of the veil brush against the downy silk of her skin. But as he leaned forward and she turned towards him his senses were suddenly assailed by a waft of scent that reached out to him.

Hauntingly familiar.

Shockingly familiar.

It made his whole body freeze, realisation kicking him hard in the gut. He knew that perfume. Sandalwood and jasmine. It was a scent he associated with one woman only. Zia.

Since when did a maid wear the same perfume as her mistress?

Unless...

Had all the lights been turned out or could he really not see even if he blinked hard? Her face was hidden, just a blur behind the veil, but even if that obstacle had been tossed aside he would still be fighting to clear his vision. Had he walked into the same trap as before? Married into the same set-up as with Sharmila? Had he really been deceived once more by a pretty face, a seductive body?

Who the hell was she?

Nabil had suddenly gone so still that Aziza felt as if everything and everyone else had evaporated, leaving them in an intense vacuum where there was only the two of them, and the shimmering haze of awareness that was building with every breath she took. Her senses swam in sensual overload as she caught the scent of his skin so close to her nostrils. The hand that held up the veil on the other side was warm and gentle, long fingers slightly calloused from the controlling grip on the reins of the wild Arabian stallions he loved to ride. Once again the thought of those hands on her body, removing her djbella, dropping it to the floor, those tiny calluses catching on the smoothness of her skin, made her burn between her legs, her mouth drying in the rush of heated awareness. So much so that she snatched at the second half of the grape he was offering her, misjudging the action so that her mouth closed around not just the fruit but also the warm, tanned fingers that were holding it to her mouth.

Oh, dear lord! The words of panic pounded inside her head as she waited to see the way he would snatch his hand away in anger at her clumsiness.

It didn’t happen. Only that total silent, shocking stillness.

All she wanted was to bring him out of it. To make him move, speak—smile if she could.

Emboldened by the fizz of excitement that bubbled through her veins, she let her tongue slip against his fingers, tasting his clean skin and the slightly musky tang that turned her insides molten.

‘Aziza...’

She had heard that note, half-groan, half-laughter, in his voice before. On the balcony. Then he had rejected her, turned and walked away from her. But today there was no room for rejection or dismissal here. She was his. She was his Queen and her head spun in the delirium that combined with the heated rush of excitement and purely feminine need she was experiencing, turning her head.

She wanted to see that response again. But more than that she wanted the taste of him on her tongue again. Hunger made her bolder, slicking away the sugary taste of the grapes and replacing it with the stronger, more basic taste of warm male skin as she swirled her tongue around those strong fingers, resting her cheek against the warmth and hardness of his other hand as she did so.

‘Aziza!’ This time it was a very different sound. The groan might still be there but every trace of the laughter had vanished, leaving his voice hard and clipped even though it was never raised above the level of a whisper. ‘Enough, lady!’

It was like being slapped in the face, jolted back into reality with a nerve-jangling rush. He pulled his hands away from her face, letting her head drop to one side as he snatched his fingers away from her mouth, the heavy gold ring he wore on his finger—his wedding finger—catching on the fine gauze of her veil so that it tugged sharply against the points where it was fastened into the ornate style of her hair, bringing tears to her eyes.

Nabil had slammed to his feet, silencing everyone around them. All conversation stopped, every head turned their way, and the hushed atmosphere suddenly felt cold and oppressive, a sensation that was made worse by the way that Nabil now towered over her, his tall, powerful frame blocking out the light from the candles.

‘Enough,’ he said again and her mind was whirling too hard, too fearfully to be able to put any interpretation on his tone this time. She had overstepped some invisible line that she hadn’t even known was drawn between them, and she didn’t know which way to react.

If she had needed any proof of how commanding, how powerful he was, then it was there in the absolute stillness of every person in the hall following that single word. The total silence as they waited for him to move, to speak again. But then he didn’t need to speak, or raise his voice in command. No one could ever have questioned the sheer force of nature that was Nabil bin Rashid Al Sharifa as he stood, tall and proud beside her, holding out his hand to her. No words, just the silence of command. A command she would be every sort of a fool to try to resist.

Slowly she put her hand into his, felt herself pulled to her feet with such force that she fell against the rock-hard strength of Nabil’s body, losing her breath in a gasp of reaction.

‘We’re out of here.’

That was the quick, dark mutter he uttered against her ear, the rest of his attention directed out into the huge hall.

‘My bride is tired...’

That was what he told their audience, all of whom seemed transfixed by this unexpected development, the suddenness of the change in his mood that went against all the ceremony and ritual that was planned.

‘I’m not...’ she managed on a croak but just a turn of his head in her direction silenced the rest. He hauled her even closer to him, the pressure of his arms crushing her against the hard heat of him.

‘We will leave...’

At the end of the hallway a door that had been left open suddenly slammed back hard into its frame, the resulting bang startling everyone and silencing Nabil abruptly. Aziza was astonished to feel the way his strong body jerked against hers, the sudden tension in that long spine. For a moment he was completely still, bringing her own heartbeat to a halt as she wondered just what had changed his mood.

‘Nabil...’

But then it seemed that his thoughts returned to the present and he lifted his head again.

It had all happened in too short a space of time for anyone else to notice, Aziza realised as she saw no echo of her own confusion on the faces of their audience of guests.

‘My wife and I are leaving now,’ he continued, ignoring her own bewilderment so completely that she felt she must have been mistaken; that the abrupt change of mood had never happened. ‘But please, continue the celebrations...’

And that was it—he was turning, heading for the door. Aziza had no choice but to go with him because she was still clamped tight against him, the strength of his arms half-walking, half-carrying her out of the banqueting hall and along the marble corridors away from the ceremonial part of the palace, towards the private, personal area.

Had she done something wrong? Aziza didn’t know if it was fear or excitement that buzzed along every nerve, making her blood pound at the base of her skull so that she was sure Nabil must see it. How could he miss the throbbing pulse in her throat that revealed the race of her heart from underneath her skin?

She was held so tightly that there was no chance to break away if she wanted to. But did she want to? What she really felt was a very sensual, very feminine need to continue to be held this way. To be imprisoned in the arms of this powerful man.

And she had thought that now she would be freer! That this marriage would win her a new liberty; a chance to be herself, no longer subject to her father’s tyrannical will. But, if there was one thing that this hasty, determined departure from the formal celebration of their wedding had shown her, it was that the only thing that had changed was that she was no longer subject to her father’s rules—but instead bound by what her husband demanded of her. And when Nabil decided on something there was no chance at all that she could say no. What he wanted, he got. But what was it that he wanted now?

She had been so fearful that she had put a foot wrong that any other answer never occurred to her. It was only when Nabil flicked a hand in another autocratic gesture towards the attendants who dogged their footsteps that a flash of insight, like a fork of lighting, came from the back of her mind to illuminate her thoughts and leave her shaking in apprehension in a new and very different way. This was not about doing something wrong. It was about something deeper, darker, much more primitive. It was about the most basic connection between a man and a woman.

‘Nothing at all.’ Nabil stated inflexibly. ‘Leave us! My wife and I want to be alone.’

My wife and I...

The full truth dawned in the moment that Nabil swung her round into a new corridor, dragging her with him, kicking the heavy carved door into place behind them and making a rough sound of satisfaction as it slammed fast.

And it was that sound, so very different from the way he had reacted when the door had slammed in the banqueting hall, that told its own story and left Aziza in no doubt as to what was happening, and why she was here.

Nabil wanted to be alone with his wife...and, for better or worse, she was that wife.