Читать книгу One Desert Night: Destined for the Desert King / Hidden in the Sheikh's Harem / Claimed by the Sheikh - Kate Walker - Страница 16

CHAPTER NINE

SIX DAYS HAD passed since the wedding day.

Six nights since the wedding night that wasn’t.

Six days of being a bride but not a wife.

Six days of being Queen to everyone in the country—but not to the one man who mattered. She’d even had to be at his side during the planned six days of celebrations that marked the royal wedding. Dressed as a queen, treated as a queen, knowing that as soon as they returned to their suite she would once more, like Cinderella, turn back into the insignificant maid she had once claimed to be. Never being anything to Nabil but a source of suspicion. Never knowing if he was going to renounce her and hand her back to her father in disgrace.

And what made matters worse was that each evening they’d been escorted to the royal suite of rooms with smiles and choruses of delight and left there, obviously meant to turn their attention to the vital matter of creating that all-important heir to the throne. Instead of which they had spent so much of their time in awkward silence until it had come time to prepare for bed.

Six nights of being in his bed—but without him. Six nights of not sleeping at all, but tossing and turning restlessly in spite of the luxury of her surroundings. And if she had fallen asleep at all then the restless, wildly erotic nature of her dreams piled sensation on sensation, making her heart race. She didn’t know how many times she had lived through that terribly intimate search in her dreams. She only knew that in the darkness of her night-time imagination it felt even more heated, even more sensual than anything she had ever experienced in her life.

Waking had only brought coldness and shock, leaving her shivering in frustration, lost and bereft, unable to control her racing thoughts.

Six nights of that and she felt like a wreck, worn out from lack of sleep and from living each day on her nerves.

Today they had been to the farewell banquet for all their guests. She had spent a long time sitting beside Nabil on the ornate throne to which he had led her after their marriage, a throne she felt she had no real right to. As a result she had been unable to eat anything more than a mouthful or two while the ceremonial event had passed in a haze. Then she had spent more than an hour standing at Nabil’s side as they’d said farewell to their guests. This at least had given her something to do; her studies came into use and she was able to greet so many of the dignitaries in their own language.

At last all the formal events were over and once more she was free to return to their suite where she sank down wearily into a chair and kicked off her elegant shoes.

‘You did well today.’

The voice from the door surprised her and she glanced up, startled. She had been so sure that today, with the official ceremonies complete, Nabil would be free to find his own space, and that he would decide to leave her alone, give himself the privacy neither of them had had over the past week.

‘I—thank you.’

Was he as tired as she was? As tired of the ceremonies and ritual, at least. His voice sounded flat enough for it, though he showed no sign of the sheer bone-aching fatigue that she had endured for the past couple of days. Nights with little sleep, the nerve-stretching tension of not being trusted, and every minute of the ceremony that she had no experience of would do that. For the past few nights she had pretended exhaustion as an excuse to crawl into the sanctuary of the bedroom and hide away. Tonight she took refuge in the same excuse.

‘I’ll leave you in peace...’

She was pushing herself to her feet when Nabil shook his head abruptly.

‘Stay where you are. I’ve brought this for you.’

Aziza stared in disbelief at the plate of food he held out to her. Small, tasty-looking delicacies and some fresh fruit. Nothing complicated, nothing fancy. But what mattered more was that he had thought to provide it—and that he was now delivering the snack to her in person, not at the hands of one of the hundreds of servants who lived only to perform such tasks for him.

‘Thank you.’ Her throat had closed up so tight that it was an effort to push the words from it, and when she had to take the fine china plate from him her hand shook so badly that she almost dropped it down on to her knees.

‘I noticed that you barely ate a crumb at the banquet. And, as you’ve disappeared into the bedroom every night before this, I thought I’d better make sure you eat before you did that. And I know I need this.’

He set down a jug of fresh mango juice on the table, adding two glasses and pouring some of the liquid into each of them. Aziza could only watch in silence as he tossed his headdress aside, shrugging off his outer robe, then gulped down a draft of the drink, the muscles under the tanned skin of his strong neck tightening with each swallow, before he dropped into a chair opposite her.

‘Eat,’ he commanded but there was an unexpected gentleness in his tone, not the autocratic snap she was used to.

The mango juice was needed first, her mouth too dry to eat anything. But once the glorious refreshment had been swallowed she found she really was ravenously hungry and the delicate pastries were a delight that practically melted on her tongue.

‘This is wonderful,’ she managed, but the quick glance up towards his face was a mistake, so that she dropped her gaze to her food again rather than let his laser sharp focus on her destroy the appetite she had just rediscovered. ‘And thank you for saying that I did well—I wanted to do my best.’

‘More than your best’ was the unexpected response, almost making her choke on a crumb of pastry. ‘I never knew you could speak so many languages.’

‘Oh, that.’ A small, slightly rueful bubble of laughter escaped her. ‘To be honest I didn’t do so very much except thank them in their own language, and at the very least wish them a safe journey home.’

‘They appreciated it—and so did I.’

‘Really?’ She risked a swift upward glance through her lashes, stunned to see that his steady regard was calm, almost thoughtful.

‘Why so surprised? Surely you can understand that everyone appreciates the courtesy of being spoken to in their own language?’

‘I was glad of a chance to try out my knowledge. I always loved studying languages. I begged my father to let me have extra lessons so that I could learn. He dismissed the idea of my going to university but he let me have conversational classes at home.’

That frown told her what he thought of her father’s decision.

‘Why not university? Did he think I brought in the new laws that meant women could attend universities—study for a degree—simply to have that ignored?’

‘He believed that I would be even harder to find a husband for if it was known that I was bookish.’

‘Your father is a fool.’

The bluntness of his retort made her blink in shock. Having endured so much mockery as she’d stumbled through her language lessons, her father’s frank disbelief that she would master one other tongue, let alone the three she could now manage, it brought a glow of pride to her heart to know that this at least had been appreciated.

‘He should be proud of you. I was proud of you tonight. And yesterday.’

‘You were?’

Aziza dropped the pastry she had picked up back down on to the plate uneaten. Her throat suddenly felt thick and clogged and she had no wish to choke on her food.

Nabil’s eyes met her shocked ones, still calm, but so intent that she felt they might burn deep into her soul.

‘I would have told you that last night but you vanished into your room so fast and, by the time I looked in on you, you were fast asleep.’

‘You looked in on me?’

It was a disturbing thought that he had caught her asleep and so vulnerable. She could only pray that nothing of her dreams, those wild desolate dreams into which she had tumbled when tiredness had finally ended her uneasy restlessness, had shown on her face.

‘I wanted to talk to you. And the maid needed your dress to clean.’

‘Oh, but I would have done that...’

Aziza’s protest died away as she saw the glance he slanted her. A mixture of reproof and disbelief. Fiery colour rushed into her face as she recalled just why her dress had needed cleaning. They had visited a children’s hospital and she hadn’t been able to resist getting close to the young patients.

‘I do know how to do it.’

‘And so does the maid. It’s her job.’

‘And mine is to be—what?’ When he didn’t answer, she tried another approach, hoping to get him to answer her. ‘I don’t know how to be a queen.’

And there she’d touched on the reason he had wanted to talk to her last night, Nabil acknowledged.

‘There was no one who could have done things any better.’

She’d had a natural, easy approach with everyone she met. The people she’d talked to had positively glowed in the warmth of her attention. And the children in the hospital they’d visited yesterday had made straight for her like needles drawn to a magnet. They had climbed all over her, pushed their hands into hers. Her elegant blue dress had come back smeared with sticky little fingerprints and a smattering of baby sick on one shoulder.

And she’d laughed at it! Laughed and gone back for more.

‘I saw you before each event; you were nervous...’

‘Terrified,’ Aziza slipped in jerkily. ‘I was never trained to be a potential queen—or married to anyone important. Not like Jamalia. So I tried to imagine what your mother would do—she was so elegant...’

Nabil hastily caught back the cynical laugh that almost escaped him. But he’d obviously not been quick enough to hide his response as it drew Aziza’s eyes, wide with shock, to his face.

‘You obviously didn’t know my mother. She expected to be given attention—not to give it to others. And she would have hated to have children mess up her clothes. She would have made sure to keep a careful distance.’

‘But surely with you—with her son?’

This time he wasn’t so successful at hiding his cynicism.

‘As I said, you didn’t know my mother. Oh, she had style, elegance—she definitely looked good on the stamps. The person who most reminds me of her is your sister.’

‘And that’s not a good thing?’

Her eyes were like molten gold, fixed on his face. He couldn’t look away.

‘My mother wanted to be Queen much more than she ever wanted to be a mother. Once I arrived, she’d done her duty to the crown. One heir to the throne—check! Mission accomplished. With me safely under the care of my nurse she could go back to enjoying being the foremost lady in the land.’

‘Enjoying it?’ Aziza gave a small shudder. ‘Is it possible to enjoy being the focus of every eye? Knowing that people are watching your every move?’

She looked so horrified that he wanted to wipe that distress from her face. If she had felt so disturbed by the past few days then she hadn’t shown it when they were in public. After just a few short minutes he had known that he could leave her to cope, to talk to people whatever their age or status, though he had been aware of the way that every now and then she had glanced at him for support, encouragement.

‘It’s possible to grow accustomed to it at least. Believe me, Zia, it won’t always be this bad.’

‘Don’t call me that!’ Aziza couldn’t hold back. She hated hearing that version of her name on his lips.

‘Don’t call you—what?’ A dark frown pulled his black brows together. ‘Zia?’

The sudden inclination of his head showed how he had caught the small flinch that was her reaction.

‘It’s how you introduced yourself to me.’

‘When I didn’t want you to know who I was.’

He was too aware, too sharp. She knew that when she saw his eyes narrow swiftly. And his response only confirmed it.

‘So you don’t want me to know Zia—but who is Aziza? Your father’s daughter.’

‘My father’s second daughter.’

She’d intrigued him now. She saw the change in his expression, the tightening of the bronzed skin over the high, fierce cheekbones, then suddenly he was leaning forward with his arms resting along his thighs, hands clasped on his knees.

‘Go on. Aziza, I said, go on,’ he repeated when she hesitated and the note of command that came so naturally to him left her in no doubt that if she did not obey then the consequences would not be pretty.

‘I— Well you know the “heir and a spare” syndrome? When there is the heir apparent—but a second son will be useful just to make sure? So a second son is only there in case they’re needed—as back-up—well, the spare.’

‘I understand.’ It was clipped and curt. ‘There have been times I might have wished that I’d had a brother—as “back-up” or at least as company—but how does this affect you?’

‘That “spare” situation—well it works for daughters too. Perhaps even more so. My father always wanted a son—he didn’t get one. He had two daughters—the firstborn was special. She might not be a son and heir but she was a beauty who could be married off for a great bride price—bring honour to the family. And Jamalia was exactly that. She’s always had suitors flocking to her. Not me. I was a second daughter—a disappointment.’

‘How could anyone see you as a disappointment?’ Nabil asked softly.

It could have meant so much. Perhaps on their wedding night it would have made all her dreams come true. But there had been that wedding night and that appalling moment when he had first seen her.

‘You did. “Hellfire and damnation—I’ve married the maid!”,’ she quoted hotly when she saw him frown in confusion. The stab of distress at his obvious disappointment was just as brutal—worse—than the first time she had heard it. ‘And you looked so—horrified.’

He had said that he wasn’t disappointed, but how could he have been anything else? He had thought that he was gaining a queen, instead...

‘I suspected there might be a trap. I’ve been caught that way before.’

Aziza wasn’t quite sure exactly how his face had changed. There was a new and disturbing tension that stretched his skin tight over his carved bone structure and a muscle jerked at the edge of his jaw where it was clamped tight against some feeling he was not prepared to admit.

‘There are conspiracies everywhere.’

Could his eyes get any colder, bleaker? And without seeming to be aware of it he had lifted a hand to rub at the place where the scar marked his skin, just for a moment before he snatched his fingers away and shook his head in brusque rejection of his troublesome thoughts.

‘And you thought I might be part of one.’ She didn’t know if the sadness in her voice was for herself and his suspicions of her or for the man who had grown up facing a rebellion against his rule that had been part of his father’s legacy to him, and had obviously never fully recovered from that brutal attempt on his life and its fatal consequences.

No wonder he had been so determined not to let her close. She felt the cold slide of ice down her spine as she recalled the way that he had pulled the knife—a knife he obviously always had hidden about his person. And of course, every day he looked in the mirror, that scar must remind him that someone had hated him so much that they had tried to take his life. Something caught and twisted cruelly in her heart at the thought of him living with the fear and the doubt.

‘Not me,’ she hastened to assure him.

To her astonishment he didn’t argue. Instead he seemed to accept her assurance, nodding slowly.

‘You were not what I expected. But that was not disappointment. I wanted you in my bed from the moment I saw you. If you want to know the truth, it was the thought that you were Jamalia’s maid that meant I had to think again about having her as my Queen.’

‘You were watching us?’

She’d felt that he was there; had sensed the burn of somebody’s gaze coming through the two-way glass—observing them, watching every single move.

‘Do you think I’d have chosen your sister, sight unseen?’

It was when he had seen the sensually feminine form of the woman he’d thought was just Zia that he had known he could not take Jamalia into his bed. Nor was she what he wanted as the mother of his children. He’d been there himself, and still remembered the loneliness, the shadowed world of being the wanted heir but not a wanted child. What was it Aziza had said? The first born could be married off—bring honour to the family. So had she too known what it was like to be a child who was wanted only to be there because of what they were worth in political terms?

‘Seeing that maid reminded me of Jamalia’s sister—of you. Had I but known it...’

And yesterday he’d had the evidence that his thoughts had been on the right track. The woman who hadn’t cared about her clothes, who had let the children swarm all over her and had laughed, was the woman he wanted as mother to his children.

With Sharmila it had seemed as if it was like that too. She had appeared to want a child so much—more than he had at the time. It was almost as if she had set herself to get pregnant as quickly as possible. She had set out to do that, he acknowledged bitterly. If they weren’t involved in the ceremony of court then they were in bed. It had suited him at the time, but that was before he had learned what was behind her apparent passion. The fact that she needed to cover up the betrayal she had already committed.

One thing Sharmila would never have done was kick off her shoes and curl up on a sofa as Aziza was doing now. They had never been able to share the quiet evenings when all the business of the court was done and they could just be the two of them. A man and a woman.

A sudden thought struck him, had him pausing and frowning. With a shock he realised that he had probably shared more with Aziza tonight than he had ever talked about to Sharmila. He had certainly never discussed his mother with his first wife.

‘Aziza...’ he began but as he looked at her he caught the way her hand flashed up to hide the yawn she was unable to hold back. Her eyelids were drooping heavily and she was practically dropping in her seat.

‘You’re exhausted,’ he said and saw his pronouncement confirmed even as she tried to deny it by straightening in her chair, forcing herself to stay awake to continue their conversation. The half-eaten plate of food was in danger of sliding off her knee and it was only by making a grab for it that he stopped it from tumbling to the floor.

‘Go to bed.’

The struggle he was having to hold on to his determination not to take a reckless step into a situation where he still wasn’t sure of his facts made it sound more like a command than he had intended. Tired as she was, he saw the way she fought to lift her head enough to glare at him in defiance, though those beautiful eyes were cloudy with fatigue. Something twisted deep inside him and in spite of himself a small laugh escaped.

‘You really need some sleep, Aziza,’ he said, holding out a hand to help her to her feet.

She hesitated, then put her hand into his, letting him pull her from the chair. When she swayed where she stood, he almost lifted her off her feet to carry her to the bedroom. Hell but he wanted to do that. But the touch of her hand on his, warm skin on skin, and the wave of perfume mixed with her own personal scent, was temptation enough and he knew that if he did then it wouldn’t stop there. He’d acted on these instincts before; he’d believed in Sharmila, had had his trust totally shattered. The report he had ordered would not be presented in its final form until tomorrow. Surely he could wait twenty-four hours for total peace of mind? Besides, Aziza was clearly so worn out it would be cruel not to let her sleep tonight.

But his hand felt empty, his spirit too, as she took her fingers from his and stumbled towards the bedroom, swaying with tiredness. It was only when the door swung to behind her, slotting into its frame with a bang, that he remembered earlier that night, when they had been busy with the farewells to their guests, that a car had backfired sharply close nearby. He had barely felt the old tension twist in his nerves before he had sensed Aziza’s fingers, small, soft and gentle, slide into his and hold them reassuringly. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to feel that he had relaxed, and then she had eased her hand away and turned her attention back to the conversation she’d been having with the French ambassador’s wife.

He could wait twenty-four hours, but no more. That report had better say everything he needed it to say. The thought of anything else was the stuff of nightmares.