Читать книгу The Highest Bidder - Maureen Child - Страница 21

Rayas, 1762

Princess Laila Adan Bajal was about to lose her virginity. She knew it was her duty. She understood the basic mechanics of the act. And she realized that her submission would protect her country from war. The only thing she couldn’t figure out was how to stop it from happening.

Her marriage to Prince Tariq Nuri was less than three hours old. In the master chamber of the Tal Palace, a gift to the couple from her father, the king, she’d been bathed, rubbed with jasmine oil, and dressed in the finest silks by her servants, before being left alone to await the man who’d done nothing but scowl at her since they’d met three days ago.

He knew she was unwilling. He didn’t care. Why would he? She was a means to an end. She’d warm his bed, bear his children, and provide an alliance between her beloved Rayas and his neighboring country of Al-Kumain. Her father had been given a choice: provide a daughter for the warrior prince, or lose his kingdom to the marauding hordes, who had been rising up against the Ottoman Empire and terrorizing the Arabian peninsula for nearly three years.

Laila’s sister said she should be grateful that Prince Tariq was a soldier. A solider was often away from home. She wouldn’t have to suffer him every day of her life.

Alone in the massive, domed-ceiling room, Laila was restless, pacing as she tried to calm her nerves. The mosaic-tile floor was cool under her feet. White marble pillars gleamed in all four corners, while a dripping-gold chandelier glowed overhead with yellow candlelight, throwing flickering shadows on the gilded walls and the gauzy, white bed curtains.

The large door swung open behind her, and her stomach clenched to a hard pit. He was here. Her ordeal had begun.

“Your Highness?” came a soft, female voice.

Laila whirled to see her aunt Dhelal, the woman who had raised her since her mother’s assassination ten years ago. Relief flooded through her.

She allowed herself to hope that her new husband had changed his mind. Perhaps he’d sleep somewhere else, or spend the night with his comrades, sharing stories of bravery and heroism. Should he wish, he’d have no trouble finding a woman in the village that surrounded the palace.

A male servant silently followed her aunt inside the room. He placed a large, fabric-covered object on a table near the foot of the bed. Her aunt quickly and sharply dismissed him.

Laila waited for the older woman to speak.

“His Majesty knew this day would come.” Dhelal’s tone was much softer as she moved forward and took both Laila’s hands in hers.

Laila blinked away a sudden tear. She loved her father, and she understood his position, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal. Had there been no other way?

Dhelal gestured to the rich green-and-gold brocade cover. “This gift was carved from Royal Han marble, the rarest of the rare. It was crafted by Saleh walud Rahman walud Kunya Al-Fulan, right before his death. It has been blessed at the headwaters of the river. It will bring you luck, my child, good fortune in love.”

Laila couldn’t help a pained laugh at that. “It’s not working.”

“Give it time.”

“I don’t have time.”

Dhelal smiled in sympathy. “You have plenty of time.”

With a final squeeze of Laila’s hands, Dhelal removed the cover, revealing a sleek, carved figure of a woman, mounted on a gold pedestal, her heart etched in gold. The mauve, gold-veined marble reflected the soft candlelight, making the statue seem to glow. The woman’s expression was gentle, serene. Something about it eased the tension from Laila, and for the first time in three days, the cramp left her stomach. Her hand reached automatically out to touch the smooth stone.

The chamber door flew open with a smack. The doorway filled with the breadth of Prince Tariq.

“Leave us.” His guttural command to Dhelal was harsh.

“Do not—” Laila began in horror. But Dhelal’s hand on her arm stopped the protest.

“Good fortune,” Dhelal reminded her gently.

Or death, Laila thought, her gaze fixing on the imposing figure of the prince. She’d thought a lot about death these past days. But she knew if she killed herself, Tariq would demand one of her two sisters. Then again, if it was an accident. If she tripped and fell from a height or was swept away in the river, who could say her father hadn’t kept his side of the bargain?

Dhelal was gone and Tariq slammed the door.

“You are ready,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

“I am not,” she dared, raising her chin.

“Remove your scarf.”

Laila hesitated. All women in Rayas wore flowing head scarves after puberty. They were mostly bright-colored and beautiful, denoting wealth and social status. In Laila’s case, the pattern conveyed her royal stature. It had been years since she’d removed it in front of a man.

What Tariq was asking was an intimate act, a prelude to everything she feared.

He took a menacing step forward, and she quickly complied with his demand, draping the white, silk garment around her neck. It was trimmed with a purple scroll pattern, laced with fine gold thread—the colors of the royal family.

“You are pretty,” Tariq noted, inspecting her as if she was an Andalusian mare in the royal stables.

He reached for her cheek, and she reflexively recoiled, taking a step back.

He immediately closed the gap between them. “Shall I punish you first?”

She mutely shook her head, nervousness turning to outright fear. She was at his mercy, and they both knew it. Not a single person in the palace would dare aid her.

He reached up again, brushing her cheek with his calloused fingertips. “You are soft.”

“You are not,” she responded, before she could think better of speaking.

“I am not,” he agreed, a wry smile barely quirking the corner of his slash of a mouth. It was the first time she’d seen him with his head bare, though she’d come to know his face well these past few days. That tiny smile was the first sign she’d seen of anything other than anger and distaste. He was tall, strong, his chin square, his skin dusky brown, and his dark eyes penetrating beneath a thick brow. The scar across one cheek said he was battle-hardened and uncompromising.

“Remember that,” he told her, before dropping his hand.

“I’m not likely to forget.”

“Good.” He reached for the top button of his tunic.

Sweat immediately prickled the goose bumps on her skin.

He crossed to the bed. It gleamed with crisp, white sheets, covers pulled back, flower petals sprinkled around the plump pillows. “Shall we get this over with?”

Laila couldn’t move. She simply could not lift her feet from the tile floor.

After a moment, he turned. “No?”

She swallowed, having lost the power of speech.

“You have a different plan?” His black eyes penetrated, and his face formed into a scowl. He was clearly daring her to defy him.

He moved back toward her, watching, like a cobra sizing up a baby chick. He moved far too close, their bodies almost touching.

She could feel his heat, hear the rasp of his breath, smell his spicy, earthy odor.

“I’m going to see you naked, Laila. I’m going to hold you. I’m going to touch you. Putting it off will only make it worse.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m a man and you’re a woman.”

“There are lots of women.”

“And there are lots of men. But you are my wife. And you are Bajal. And our child will avert war.”

“I don’t even know you,” she protested.

“And I don’t know you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

He did smile then, and it softened his midnight eyes. “No. I suppose it is not. You don’t want me to touch you.”

“No,” she dared.

“Are you afraid or defiant?”

“I’m afraid.”

“They told me you were defiant.”

She might have been defiant—if she wasn’t so terrified. Other than the king, all the men in Rayas were beneath her in the social order. She’d never been subject to a single one. And she’d certainly never met a man so intimidating and powerful and lethal. He killed for a living, and she had no escape.

He inhaled deeply, obviously testing her scent. Then he brushed his cheek against hers. The touch burned, and her breath left her body as he wrapped a hand around her rib cage, thumb resting just below her breast.

Then, to her surprise, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek. He moved to her mouth, kissing her there, tenderly at first, evoking an unexpected buzz of sensation. Then the kisses grew firmer, more insistent. His hand cupped her breast, and she gasped in shock. He pressed his advantage, tongue invading her mouth, his free arm clamping her to his hard body.

She whimpered in fear and in shame, as her breast responded to the warmth of his hand, pleasure somehow flooding her skin.

He suddenly drew back, his breathing ragged. “You are lucky I am strong.”

She didn’t feel lucky. She felt confused and vulnerable, and more frightened than ever.

He took another step back. “You may sleep on the floor.”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. A reprieve? Why would he give her a reprieve?

“You will join me by morning.” He turned to the bed. “I will not tolerate servant gossip.”

So, it would happen in the morning then?

Laila was afraid to ask.

She was afraid to move. She averted her eyes while he undressed and climbed into the big bed. She waited for him to change his mind. But he didn’t. He said nothing else.

After a few minutes, her shoulders slumped in relief. She found a few pillows and lay down on the floor.

But she was a princess. She’d never slept anywhere but in a soft, luxurious bed, beneath fresh, fine linens. It was a fitful, horrible night. So when the sun began to rise, she crept fearfully to the bed, teetering on the very edge to stay far away from Tariq. There, she fell instantly asleep.

She lasted three days, and three long, miserable nights. On the fourth night, wide awake, cramped and uncomfortable, she waited until Tariq’s breathing was deep and even. He wouldn’t know, she reasoned. How would he tell what time she’d joined him? It might as well be now as in the cold streaks of dawn. At least then she’d get some sleep.

She rolled silently to her feet, whispering her way across the tile floor, her soft cotton gown flowing in the moonlight. She inched back the covers, slipped one leg onto the bed, and carefully eased onto her back, laying her head on the blessedly soft pillow.

“You are weak,” came Tariq’s deep voice.

She tried to make a quick escape, but his arm clamped over her, pinning her to the bed.

“I thought you would last longer,” he told her.

“I didn’t think you’d wait,” she blurted out in a fit of honesty.

“I guess we both surprise each other.”

They fell silent. Laila couldn’t bring herself to ask what happened now.

Tariq rose on one elbow. He seemed genuinely confused. “You are not the first princess to marry for her country.”

She knew he was right. She knew it was her duty. She even conceded that he had been unexpectedly patient with her. Her gaze focused on the Gold Heart statue at the foot of the bed as she struggled to put her fears into words. “You have killed so many people.”

“I won’t kill you.”

The words surprised a laugh out of her. “That makes it better?”

“You are my wife, Laila. I will protect you and your family and your country.” His face was all planes and angles in the white moonlight. And though he still looked fierce, he didn’t look frightening. For the first time, she pondered the idea of his strength as protection instead of a threat.

This morning, she’d seen him practicing with his sword in the courtyard, swift and skilled against his partners. He was impressive then, and he was impressive now. His chest was bare, and his muscles were defined and delineated from his biceps to his abdomen. Angry-looking scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders, and she felt her sympathies engage. Despite those flaws, he was a handsome man, a magnificent man. She’d become aware that she was the envy of the women in the palace.

“You’re good at fighting,” she ventured.

“I’m still alive.”

“While your opponents are not.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

She nodded, her gaze resting on his bronze chest.

“Touch me,” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“My patience is not endless.”

She looked into his eyes. They had darkened again, and she missed his better mood. So, she took a breath, screwed up her courage, and placed her fingertips against his chest. It was hot, supple, but iron-hard.

His hand closed over hers. “You are beautiful.”

“Is that why the king chose me?” The question leaped out. She had two sisters, but her father had chosen her for Tariq, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

“The king said you were strong. You are not.”

“Are you disappointed?” There was no reason for her to care, but she did.

“I am impatient.” He moved in closer, his lips coming down on hers in the way she remembered. They were soft at first, then firmer, then they parted.

His tongue teased the seam of her lips. She knew what he wanted this time, and she knew she had no choice. She parted her lips, waiting for revulsion to overwhelm her.

It didn’t.

As he kissed her deeply, a flicker of warmth grew to life in the pit of her belly. He shifted, and his hard body pressed intimately against hers. This time, when his hand closed over her breast, she waited, holding still in wonder as the pleasure rippled over her skin.

His thumb flicked her nipple, and a spike of exquisite sensations shot through her body, twitching her thighs and making her gasp.

Tariq drew back in obvious surprise.

He did it again, and her chest arched reflexively against his hand.

“I have changed my mind,” he rumbled, his tone pouring over her like sun-warm honey.

She wanted to ask why, but words were nothing but a jumble inside her head.

“I am not disappointed,” he finished. Then his lips came back down on hers.

For some reason, her arms wound around his neck. She curled against him, reveling in the hard contours of his male body. When he pulled up the hem of her gown, she knew she should protest. But his hands felt exquisite along the length of her thigh, and she could only lie mute, kissing him back, squirming against the softness of the bed as desire caught fire in her throat.

He touched her intimately, and she knew she should be mortified. But she liked it, she loved it, she never, ever wanted him to stop.

“Laila,” he breathed, easing her thighs apart, bunching her gown up out of the way.

He drew back the covers, his gaze on her naked body. Instead of feeling shy, she felt wild and alive.

His fingers pressed firmly to her. She knew what he was doing, but she didn’t care. It didn’t hurt. No one had told her his touch would feel good.

He gazed into her eyes. “You are beautiful.”

“You are gentle,” she told him in absolute wonder.

He smiled at that. His hand moved against her, and warmth suddenly flooded her limbs. She writhed and moaned, arching her hips.

“I am selfish,” he rumbled.

He put his lips to her breast then, drawing her nipple into his heated mouth, his tongue doing something that showered sparks through her body.

“Tariq,” she cried, gripping him tight.

He moved on top of her.

His weight felt good.

His palms stroked the backs of her thighs, pushing up her knees, as his maleness pressed bluntly against her.

She waited for the pain.

Her aunt had told her that much.

But it was swift and slight, and then she was wrapped around him, and he was fully inside her, and all her sensations were magnified.

He started to move, and pulsing desire washed over her.

She tipped her head back, exposing her neck, instinctively angling her hips.

He kissed her tender skin, while his rhythm stabilized then accelerated, and her limbs wrapped fully around him.

He pushed a pillow beneath the small of her back, and the earth shifted to where they were joined.

He sped up, thrusting harder. His muscles tightened. His kisses grew deeper and more frantic.

He groaned deeply against her lips. “I’m sorry.”

Then his hand went between them, touching her intimately. Stars exploded inside her head, melting down in the black desert sky. Her muscles contracted and unheard-of pleasure ricocheted to every corner of her body.

She struggled to catch her breath.

Tariq was heavy, their bodies slick everywhere they touched. But she didn’t want him to move.

No wonder he’d been impatient.

Why hadn’t somebody told her?

Why had they scared her?

Tariq slowly lifted his head, smoothing back her dark hair, tenderly kissing her swollen mouth.

“Is it always like that?” she managed.

A low rumble of laughter moved through his chest. “It’s never like that.”

As her heart thudded deep, over the curve of his scarred shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the Gold Heart statue. The Royal Han marble was a rich glow in the moonlight. The woman still smiled. But Laila could swear the smile had changed from serene to satisfied.