Читать книгу One Desert Night: Destined for the Desert King / Hidden in the Sheikh's Harem / Claimed by the Sheikh - Kate Walker - Страница 14

CHAPTER SEVEN

HELLFIRE AND DAMNATION—I’ve married the maid!

Or have I?

Nabil tried to make his mind focus but nothing registered except the appalling truth of those seven impossible words. Was that his pulse thundering inside his head, beating at his temples, or had a storm really broken on the horizon, threatening to drown any attempt to think straight?

‘Who the hell are you?’

No—stupid question. He knew exactly who she was—or did he? Aziza, his arranged bride—or Zia, ‘just a maid’? Shaking his head violently as his scrambled brain refused to put any words together in a logical sequence, Nabil tried to enforce some control on the thinking processes that had been shattered by shock and savage rage. The fact that his body was still rock hard with desire only made matters even worse.

Just moments before he had been burning up with sexual hunger; turned on as he had never been before in his life. Now it felt as if someone had punched him right in the gut and the throbbing ache of frustration only soured his temper even more than the mental bruising.

‘Who?’

He got a grim sort of satisfaction from the way she started in nervous reaction as he flung the word into her white face. A face he’d been so impatient to see, never realising until too late that he’d seen it already, and so much more recently than the child Aziza he had been trying to remember.

Against the pallor of her skin, her golden eyes looked huge and dark, the lush fringes of her black lashes making them look even wider than before. He had been enchanted by those eyes that night on the balcony, he remembered. They had drawn him in like some witch’s spell woven deliberately around him. Was it then that the plan to deceive him had come to her mind—or was there some other way that this scheme had been created? A maid couldn’t have arranged all this by herself, could she? There had to be someone else behind all this. The answer seemed obvious.

How much had Farouk been planning all this time?

‘Who put you up to this?’

‘No one... I mean...’

For a moment it looked like she was about to get to her feet, then obviously thought the better of it. But the slight movement was enough to remind Nabil of the implications of the situation and to have him checking in the belt under his robe. Feeling the cool slide of metal there under his fingertips, he relaxed again and flung a repeat of the question at her with cold virulence.

‘I asked you—who?’

‘No one put me up to it.’

She’d regained some sort of strength in her voice and was able to make it sound as if she was actually defying him. He was glad to see that. He didn’t want to see her go down without a real contest. He wanted a worthy opponent to give him a chance to release some of the tumult of emotions he was feeling inside.

All he should be feeling was anger and betrayal. He’d been deceived again, trapped—this wasn’t Aziza, was it? But it was intensely disturbing to realise that there was so much more. The desire was only part of it.

‘It was you.’

‘Me! Are you mad, woman? Are you actually claiming that I...?’

Aziza—or Zia—or whatever her name was—had obviously had enough of being down on the floor. She put her hands to the floor and pushed herself upwards, scrambling to her feet as she faced him boldly, her neat little chin set into a firm declaration of defiance. Strangely, she looked even more defenceless standing before him like this when she had clearly tried to draw herself up to her full height.

‘You are the one who asked me—who picked me out as his prospective bride.’

‘Not you...’

He was remembering the moment when he had seen her and her mistress—Jamalia—through the two-way mirror, recalling the hot wave of physical hunger that had swept through him just from touching her, kissing her, on the balcony. The same hunger that had alerted him to the fact that something was not as he had anticipated when he had fed her the sugared grape at the banquet table.

When he had caught the scent of her perfume.

‘I never chose you.’

Aziza winced under the sting of that lashing dismissal. She had been so overjoyed to think that Nabil had chosen her. That he wanted her above all the other candidates. The beautiful women he could have chosen. Even her sister. But he had picked her. The one her father had always believed was second best.

But now Nabil was saying that he hadn’t chosen her—he didn’t even want her! Her mind flashed back to the scene in the crowded, brilliantly lit banqueting hall. The knowing looks of the guests who had watched as Nabil had stood up and grabbed hold of her hand.

She had thought she knew what that meant. She’d believed that very soon she would be a proper wife, sharing her husband’s bed. But now what would happen?

I never chose you.

How would she ever face everyone all over again and let them know that Sheikh Nabil—the man she had thought was to be her husband—had taken one look at her face and rejected her out of hand?

How could she go from being Queen one moment to a nobody—a rejected, spurned nobody—in less than a couple of hours? And how could she ever cope with knowing that Nabil had decided she was not the person he wanted? The thought of confronting her father’s rage at her failure was as nothing when compared with the prospect of having to leave now, when it had seemed that so much—her dreams and fantasies—had been within her grasp.

Her body still thrummed from the sensual tension that had seared through it. Every nerve was stretched so tight she felt it would snap if she moved, and the stinging, burning need that his kiss, his touch, had woken so newly in her refused to subside while he was still so near, so close that she only had to reach out her hand...

It was only when she saw the way Nabil’s head came up, the wary tensing of his long body, that she realised she had done just that, and somehow added fire to the suspicions he was already harbouring against her.

‘You asked for Jamalia’s sister,’ she managed, stumbling over the words.

‘And got her maid instead.’ Could he put any more darkness, any further rejection, into the words? ‘So what is this—some sort of plan to trap me, tie me into marriage with you?’

‘Oh, no, no! Why would I want to trap you?’

Just the horror at the thought that he might actually believe she had wanted to do that propelled her forward jerkily, both hands coming out this time, reaching for him.

She never actually saw him move; never even registered the sudden blink that revealed his reaction, the swift, flash of action that intercepted and reversed their positions so that suddenly, instead of facing him, she had been grasped by the wrist and twisted round against him. Her back was tight up against the hard strength of his chest, her body imprisoned by the iron-hard bands of his arms.

And in his hand was the polished gleam of metal, the narrow shape of a wicked, sharply honed knife held so tight in Nabil’s fist that his knuckles showed white where he gripped it hard.

‘Nabil, no!’

Aziza tried to turn to face him, realising her mistake when his arms tightened round her even more and she could hear the thud of his heartbeat against her ear. It was that rapid and uneven pulse that told its own story, making her realise the truth. She should have thought; should have remembered. Now, too late, the recollection of the way he had started when a door had banged in the banqueting hall came back to haunt her with a new and disturbing significance. The terrible memory of the day that he had survived the assassination attempt flashed behind her eyes.

‘You don’t need that—really you don’t.’

Immediately she made herself react, letting her body go limp against his as she held her own hands out in front of her, fingers splayed so that he could see there was nothing hidden there.

‘I’m sorry—I’m not really Jamalia’s maid—and there is nothing in this that was ever against you.’

At least she prayed not. Her father had seemed content enough with the marriage negotiations. He had never shown any inclination to turn his loyalties to the lingering group of revolutionaries who had threatened rebellion. But did Nabil suspect that he would?

‘I would never harm you—I promise. We were friends once.’

Friends...

The word seemed to have so much more significance than he could ever have imagined, Nabil acknowledged. She had said that she was not Jamalia’s maid and yet she was very definitely the woman he had met that night. If she truly was Aziza, his promised wife, the child who had been his friend now grown up, then he wanted to believe her—he wanted to trust her. But wanting to trust and being able to do so were two totally separate things, and the ability to think straight and read the signs accurately were severely compromised by the position he found himself in.

Her body was soft and lush against his, her waist where his arm was clamped around it impossibly narrow, and the curves of her hips and buttocks crushed up against his pelvis tormented his still aroused and hardened manhood. If she squirmed against him as she had done when he had first grabbed her then he would be lost. But instead it seemed that she had given up on any thought of action, her whole body loosening, almost sagging in his arms.

‘I was friends with an Aziza once,’ he said slowly. ‘A long time ago.’

A lifetime. Everything that he had believed he had in that time had been taken from him and destroyed, shattering into tiny irreplaceable pieces. Had he hoped for something of that life to be returned to him when he had thought of Aziza, only to find that his choice had rebounded right into his face?

‘And we never truly knew each other.’

With a sudden movement he spun her round in his arms so that she was facing him, golden eyes blazing straight into his. But it wasn’t just defiance that he saw there. Instead it was something new, something infinitely disturbing. He had seen just such an expression in the eyes of a puppy when he had once kicked it accidentally on his way out the door. The elaborate make-up that adorned her face, even behind that blasted veil, had started to wear off, leaving her looking paler and strangely vulnerable. And the elaborate coils and braids of her hair had started to come loose in their struggle just moments before. She looked younger, gentler—more like the maid who’d had such a disturbing effect on him ever since that night on the balcony.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he growled, refusing to let himself admit to just what effect that spin of her body had had as it pressed her breasts and hips against him, making her perfume waft in the air. The slide of several silken strands of her hair against his face was almost the last straw as it caught on his mouth, on the dark hairs of his beard.

‘I’m Aziza—I am!’ she protested when she must have caught his sceptical frown. ‘I’m both Aziza—and Zia. Yes, I’m that “maid” you met that night—really I am—but I was just trying to cover myself. I knew I shouldn’t have been out there on my own—wandering about your palace without your approval. It’s the truth!’

She looked innocent. Looked totally believable. And every masculine element in him wanted to believe her and get this over with. He had been anticipating a wedding night and he should be enjoying it now. The heated pulse in his body, the hardness between his legs, told him he would be enjoying it—if he could only let go of the black memories and suspicions that held his mind prisoner.

Sharmila had looked innocent too. He’d been caught that way before and he had no intention of letting it happen again.

‘And why should I believe you?’

‘Because I’m telling the truth. Because...’

Meeting the cynical question in his eyes, she let her voice fade away, dropped her gaze sharply, biting her lip as she did so. The impulse to lean forward, cover her mouth with his and lick away the sharp punishment she was inflicting on her soft skin was almost overwhelming. His own mouth actually watered for the taste of hers just as he’d shared it on the balcony. How had his world become turned inside out in so short a time?

‘Because you have nothing to fear from me.’

Aziza’s voice caught as she realised just what she was saying. What he had been saying with all this suspicion, the sudden cold distance. That terrible moment with the knife. In the back of her memory she saw again that moment when he had heard the door bang and had tensed sharply, almost imperceptibly, but she had caught it. How could she forget—how could anyone forget—that he had once been the victim of an assassination attempt?

‘Nabil...’

He had let her use his name before, hadn’t insisted on the reverence due to him as the King, so she risked it again.

She shifted in his arms, still face to face with him. So close. She could even catch his breath in her nostrils and the crisp brush of his beard on her forehead.

‘You can trust me—I promise. And, as to who I am, well, I am Aziza. Your chosen bride. My father’s daughter.’

He was silent, still, watchful and alert. Those black eyes were polished jet, reflecting her own face back at her and giving nothing away.

‘But I’m also Zia—the “maid” you met that night.’

Was his reaction one of acceptance or rejection? She only knew that the hands that held her had tightened and his head had gone back slightly.

‘I was there with my family—with my father and Jamalia. I was supposed to be there to act as my sister’s chaperone. But she didn’t want me; I was cramping her style, and the party just wasn’t my sort of thing. My head was pounding. I needed air.’

Gently she placed her hand on his arm, realising that it looked impossibly small against the swell of his muscles under the white robe. The slightly twisted little finger looked even more vulnerable like this. She watched his eyes drop to stare at it.

‘It was very stuffy in there.’

Was that response any sort of a concession, or simply an acknowledgement of fact? At least he had spoken. That stony silence had stretched her nerves to snapping point.

‘Your hand...’

It was low, rough. He shifted position slightly, lifted his own hand and traced the twisted line of the delicate bones, making her shiver in response.

‘How did it happen?’

He’d been there when she’d been injured. But why would he remember?

‘It was so long ago. Fifteen years, at least. When you were visiting us.’

‘Fifteen years?’ Nabil frowned as he took his thoughts back. ‘You fell from your pony.’

He recalled the fuss when her small chestnut steed had reared in a panic at the sight of a snake and Aziza had tumbled from the saddle. They had been a long way out into the desert on that ride. It must have been a slow, painful journey back.

‘Your sister was trying to keep my focus on her.’

Jamalia had been playing for his attention so much that day. Even back then, with his father still alive, before he’d actually become the Sheikh, it had been obvious that Farouk had hoped that his elder daughter would catch his eye. It had been the blatant attempts of Farouk to interest him in Jamalia that had put him off, Nabil recalled. As a result, he’d been an open target for a later, much more subtle approach. He hadn’t seen Sharmila coming.

The flood of memories that thought brought made him scowl darkly and he watched the way his change of expression made her recoil against his arms.

‘You were very brave.’ That was what he remembered most. Her silence. Any other child would have cried; Aziza had clamped her mouth shut over whatever she’d been feeling.

‘That’s not what my father thought. He thought I was foolish—if I’d been a better rider then I’d never have fallen off. That’s why he had me taken home—fast.’

He supposed, when he thought of it, that he remembered that too. At the time it had seemed that her father had focused on sending his younger daughter home to have her injury tended. Instead, he had been determined to make sure that nothing intruded on the time Jamalia spent with the Sheikh’s son. But he remembered the poor, pinched little face of the injured child, and how she had put up with her injury without complaint. He’d been impressed at her courage and control. And he’d known a flash of anger at the way that her father had dismissed her distress, wanting to spend more time on the ride—more time bringing Jamalia to his attention.

‘He forbade me to ride again after that, for fear that I would do more harm to myself and become damaged goods—even less valuable as a bride.’

It was no wonder he’d never liked or trusted Farouk El Afarim, Nabil thought grimly. But he hadn’t realised that his memories went back that far.

Aziza had broken her finger and he had seen that same damage on Zia’s hand the night they’d met. So this was Zia—but she also had to be Aziza too.

‘It didn’t mend too well.’

Once more his touch smoothed over the damaged bones, making Aziza shiver. You were very brave. So had he accepted her story, believing in what she told him? Certainly he recalled the young Aziza, and the day of her fall. But it hadn’t done anything to reduce his tension. The long body against hers, the powerful arms that held her, were still taut with control.

‘So that night—on the balcony. Why tell me you were the maid?’

When he thought of how much he’d wanted her. How close he’d come to seducing her. The drum of his pulse that seemed to have quietened now started up again, pounding at his temples, at the feel and scent of her, warning him not to trust too easily. Not to forget.

With an inward snarl he drove it away. All he wanted to do was to forget. But now here was this woman bringing back so many memories he thought he had buried. Hell, that first night he’d even thought she was Sharmila.

‘Why call yourself Zia?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why not give me your real name?’

‘And have my father know that I had been wandering about the palace unchaperoned? That I’d left Jamalia to her own devices?’

She gave a tiny shiver at the thought. And, recalling how her father had so obviously put her sister first, Nabil thought he could understand why.

‘I gave that name because I knew I shouldn’t be there.’

‘So why “Zia”?’

The question changed something in her demeanour, made her expression close up, her eyes become shaded. She was hiding something there, he recognised. Each time it seemed that she had convinced him there was nothing shady behind her actions, she made a mistake, and that deep suspicion was back.

‘Tell me!’

‘It’s just a shortening of my name. One the family uses.’

‘And you expect me to believe all this?’

‘It’s the truth!’ she protested. ‘And you’d know it if you’d just listen.’

Her eyes lifted swiftly, golden gaze meeting his, and she gave an unexpected little smile straight into his watchful eyes.

‘I want to convince you, sire. There must be a way I can do that.’