Читать книгу The Sheikh's Collection - Оливия Гейтс - Страница 40

CHAPTER FIVE

KHALIL’S GAZE HAD blazed anger but Elena saw something beneath the fury: grief. A grief she understood and felt herself. And, even though she didn’t want to, she felt a sympathy for Khalil, a compassion and even an anger on his behalf. He’d been terribly wronged, just as Leila had said.

She thought of him as a boy, being banished from his family and home. She imagined his confusion and fear, the utter heartbreak of losing everything he’d known and held dear.

Just as she had.

She’d been a bit older, but her family had been wrenched from her in a matter of moments, just as Khalil’s had. She was fighting to keep her rightful title, just as Khalil was.

With a jolt she realised what this meant: she believed him. She believed he was the rightful heir.

For a second everything in her rebelled. You believed before. You trusted before. And this man has kidnapped you—how can you be so stupid?

Yet she’d heard the sincerity in Khalil’s voice. She’d felt his pain. She knew him in a way she hadn’t known anyone else, because they were so alike.

She believed him.

‘How are you fighting for your crown, Elena?’ he asked quietly.

She hesitated, because honesty didn’t come easily, and letting herself be vulnerable felt akin to pulling out her fingernails one by one. She’d hardened her heart in the last four years. She’d learned to be tough, to need no one.

And yet Khalil had been honest with her. He’d told her his story and she’d seen in his eyes that he’d wanted, even needed, her to believe him.

She took a deep breath. She thought of Andreas Markos and his determination to discredit her—her Council and country’s desire for a king, or the closest thing to it. Her own foolish choices. ‘It’s complicated.’

‘Most things are.’

He waited and Elena sifted through all the things she could say. ‘My country, and my Council, would like a male ruler.’

‘And you wanted that to be Aziz?’

She heard incredulity in his tone and bristled. ‘Not like that. We had an agreement—he would attend state functions with me as Prince Consort, act as ruler in name only. It would satisfy the people and, I hoped, my Council. But he wouldn’t actually have been involved in any decision making.’

‘And you would have been satisfied with that?’

‘It was what I wanted.’

‘Why not find a man who could truly be your equal, your partner? Who could help you to rule, who could support you?’

Briefly, painfully, she thought of Paulo. ‘You speak as though such a thing is simple. Easy.’

‘No. Not that. But I wonder why you settle.’

She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘What about you, Khalil? Do you want an equal, a partner in marriage as well as in ruling?’

Surprise flashed briefly in his eyes before his expression hardened. ‘No.’

‘Then why do you think I would want one? Simply because I am a woman?’

‘No...’ He gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘I only asked, because if you needed to marry to please your country it seems wise to pick a man who could be your friend and helpmate, not a stranger.’

‘Well, unfortunately for me, I don’t have a friend and helpmate waiting in the wings.’ She’d meant to sound light and wry but cringed at the self-pity she heard in her voice instead. ‘I’ve been alone for a long time,’ she continued when she trusted herself to sound more measured. ‘I’m used to it now, and it’s more comfortable for me that way.’ Even if, since meeting Khalil, she’d started to realise all she’d been missing out on. ‘I imagine you might be the same.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Well, then.’

Khalil leaned back in his seat, his gaze sweeping over her in thoughtful assessment. ‘So you made this arrangement with Aziz to please your Council?’

‘Appease them, more like.’ Elena hesitated, not wanting to admit more but knowing she needed to. ‘The Head of Council, Andreas Markos, has threatened to call a vote at the next convening.’ She took a breath, then forced herself to finish. ‘A vote to depose me and abolish the monarchy.’

Khalil was silent for a moment. ‘And, let me guess, put himself forward as head of state? Prime Minister, perhaps?’

Amazingly she found herself smiling wryly. ‘Something like that.’

‘And you think he won’t if you are married?’

‘I’m gambling that he won’t,’ Elena admitted. ‘It’s a calculated risk.’

‘I understand about those.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do.’ They smiled at each other, and as the moment spun out Elena wondered at herself. How could they be joking about her captivity? How could she feel, in that moment, that they were co-conspirators, somehow complicit in all that had happened? Yet she did, and more than that. So much more than that.

‘The Thallian people like me, for the most part,’ she continued after a moment. ‘And a royal marriage would be very popular. Markos would have a difficult time getting the Council to vote against me if the country approved.’

‘I imagine,’ Khalil said quietly, ‘that your people like you very much indeed, Elena. I think you must be a good queen. You are clearly very loyal to your people.’

Pleasure rippled through her at the sincerity she heard in his voice. It meant so much, more than she’d ever even realised, to have someone believe in her.

‘I’m trying to be a good queen,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I know I’ve made mistakes—’ and she didn’t want to talk about those ‘—but I love Thallia and its people. I want to celebrate its traditions, but also bring it into the twenty-first century.’

Khalil arched an eyebrow. ‘And have you had much success so far?’

Elena ducked her head, suddenly shy. She wasn’t used to talking about her accomplishments; so often they went unrecognised, by her Council, at any rate. ‘A bit. I’ve introduced some new policies to protect women’s rights. I’ve initiated a review of the national curriculum for primary schools. The education in Thallia has been one of its weaknesses.’

Khalil nodded, encouraging, and shyly Elena continued, ‘I also helped to start an annual festival to celebrate the country’s music and dance. It’s a small thing, but important to our heritage. Thallia is named after the muse of poetry, you know.’

‘I didn’t know.’ His eyes, Elena saw, crinkled when he smiled. She looked away.

‘I know it doesn’t sound like much.’

‘Why belittle yourself or what you’ve done? There are enough people to do that for you. I’ve learned that much.’

‘We’ve both persevered,’ Elena said quietly. She met his gaze and held it, feeling an overwhelming solidarity with this man who had once been her enemy. They were so alike. He understood her, and she understood him, more than she’d ever expected.

‘And this Markos,’ Khalil said after a moment. ‘He has that power—to call such a vote?’

‘Unfortunately he does. Our Constitution states that the monarch cannot enact a law that isn’t approved by the majority of the Council, and the Council can’t pass one that isn’t endorsed by the King or Queen.’ Elena gave a rather bleak smile. ‘But there’s one important caveat: if the Council votes unanimously, the monarch is forced to acquiesce.’

‘Even to your own demise?’

‘That hasn’t happened in a thousand years.’ She looked away then, afraid he’d see the fear and shame on her face: the fear that she would be the one to end it. The shame that she wasn’t strong enough to keep her crown or the promise she’d made to her father as he’d lain dying.

For Thallia, Elena. You must live for Thallia and the crown.

‘You won’t be the one to end it, Elena,’ Khalil said quietly. The certainty in his voice made her glow inside. ‘You’re too strong for that.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

‘You have a lot of pressure put on you, for such a young woman,’ Khalil continued. Elena just shrugged. ‘You are an only child, I presume? The title has always fallen to you?’

‘Yes, although for most of my childhood my parents hoped for more children.’ Her mouth twisted downwards. ‘For a boy.’

‘And they were disappointed, I presume?’

‘Yes. My mother had many miscarriages, but no more live children.’

‘A tragedy.’

‘Yes. I suppose it’s why they felt a need to keep me so sheltered. Protected.’

‘You were doted on?’

‘Not exactly.’ She thought of how little she’d actually seen her parents. ‘Kept apart, really. I didn’t go to formal school until I was thirteen.’ When she’d been gawky, overwhelmed and terribly shy. It hadn’t been a great introduction to school life.

‘And then you became Queen at a young age,’ Khalil continued. He reached over to refill her glass with wine. Elena had already finished her first glass; Dutch courage, she supposed, for when she’d been telling him all that truth. She took another sip of wine now as she met his tawny gaze.

‘Nineteen,’ she said after she had swallowed, felt the liquid slip down her throat and steal seductively through her again.

‘I know your parents died in a terrorist bombing,’ Khalil said quietly. Elena nodded. She dreaded talking or even thinking about that awful day, hated the memories of the acrid smell of smoke, the stinging pain of broken glass on the palms of her hands, the ringing in her ears—all of it still causing her to wake up in an icy sweat far too many nights.

‘I’m sorry,’ Khalil continued. ‘I know what it is to lose your parents when you are young.’

‘Yes, I suppose you do.’

‘You must miss them.’

‘I do...’

Khalil cocked his head. ‘You sound uncertain.’

‘No, of course not.’ Elena bit her lip. ‘It’s only that I didn’t actually know them all that well. They were away so much... I miss the idea of them, if that makes sense. Of what—what I wish we could have been like as a family. That probably sounds strange.’

Khalil shook his head. ‘Not strange at all,’ he answered quietly, and Elena wondered if he missed the family he could have had too: loving parents, supporting him even now.

Khalil leaned forward, his fingers whispering against her cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You look so sad,’ he said softly. ‘I’m sorry to bring up bad memories.’

‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. Khalil’s fingers lingered on her cheek and she wished, suddenly and fiercely, that he wouldn’t pull away.

That he would kiss her.

Her lips parted instinctively and her gaze rested on his mouth, making her realise yet again how sculpted and really perfect his lips were. She wondered how they would feel. How they would taste. She’d never actually been kissed before, which suddenly seemed ridiculous at the age of twenty-three. But a convent-school education and becoming Queen at just nineteen had kept her from ever pursuing a romantic relationship. First there hadn’t been any opportunity, and then she’d been so focused on protecting her crown and serving her country there hadn’t been any time. Besides, suitable partners for a reigning queen were not exactly plentiful.

Elena knew she shouldn’t be thinking of kissing Khalil now. With effort she dragged her gaze up towards his eyes, saw they were molten gold. His fingers tightened on her cheek, his thumb grazing her jawbone, drawing her inexorably forward. And Elena went, her heart starting to hammer as she braced herself for that wonderful onslaught.

Then Khalil released her, his hand falling away from her face as he sat back in his chair.

Her mind whirled with confusion and disappointment, and her body ached with unfulfilled desire. She scrambled for a way to cover her own obvious longing. ‘This is very good,’ she said stiltedly, gesturing to her half-eaten meal.

Khalil acknowledged her compliment with a nod. ‘Thank you.’

‘You have quite an elaborate set-up for a desert camp,’ she continued, determined to keep the conversation off dangerous subjects—although every subject felt dangerous now. Everything about Khalil felt dangerous.

Desirable.

‘Comfort need not be sacrificed,’ he remarked, taking a sip of wine.

‘I suppose you feel very secure?’ she asked. ‘To have such a...permanent arrangement?’

‘These are tents, Elena, as luxurious as they may be. My men and I could disassemble this camp in twenty minutes, if need be.’

‘How do you know how to do all this if you grew up in America?’

‘All this?’ Khalil repeated, raising his eyebrows.

‘Tents. Horses. Fighting. All this—this rebel stuff.’ She realised she sounded rather ridiculous and she shrugged, half in apology, half in defiance. Heaven help her, she’d had two glasses of wine and she was nearly drunk.

‘I served in the French Foreign Legion for seven years,’ Khalil told her. ‘I’m used to this kind of living.’

‘You did?’

‘It was good preparation.’

Everything in his life, Elena supposed, had been to prepare for being Sheikh, for taking the throne from the half-brother who didn’t deserve it.

Aziz... Why could she barely remember his face now? She’d been going to marry him, yet she’d forgotten what he looked like, or how his voice sounded. And with that thought came another fast on its heels.

She wasn’t going to marry him any more. Even if he rescued her, or Khalil released her, she wasn’t going to marry Aziz.

It was both a revelation and completely unsurprising. Elena sat back, her mind spinning both from her thoughts and the wine she’d drunk. For the first time, she accepted her fate...even if she had no idea what it would actually mean for her title, her crown, her country.

‘I’m not going to marry him,’ she blurted. ‘Aziz. Not even...not even if he found me in time.’

Something flashed in Khalil’s eyes and he sat back. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘You did,’ she said simply, and she knew she meant it in more ways than one. Not just because he was the rightful Sheikh, but because he’d opened up feelings inside her she hadn’t known she’d possessed. She couldn’t marry Aziz now, couldn’t settle for the kind of cold, mercenary arrangement she’d once wanted.

‘I’m glad,’ Khalil said quietly. They gazed at each other for a long moment, and everything in Elena tensed, yearned...

Then Khalil rose from the table. ‘It is late. You should return to your tent.’

He reached for her hand, and Elena let him pull her up. She felt fluid, boneless; the wine must have really gone to her head.

He kept hold of her hand as they stepped outside the tent, the night dark and endless around them. The air was surprisingly cold and crisp, which had a sobering effect on Elena.

By the time they’d crossed the camp to her tent, Khalil’s hand still loosely linked with hers, she wasn’t feeling tipsy at all, just embarrassed. The evening’s emotional intimacies and revelations were enough now to make her cringe.

‘Goodnight, Elena.’ Khalil stopped in front of her tent, sliding his hand from hers. He touched her chin with his fingers, tipped her head up so she was blinking at him, the night sky spangled with stars high above him.

For a moment as she looked up at him, just as when they’d been in his tent, she thought he might kiss her. Her lips parted and her head spun and her heart started thudding in a mix of alarm, anticipation and a suspended sense of wonder.

Khalil lowered his head, his mouth a whisper away from hers. ‘Elena,’ he murmured; it sounded like a question. Everything in Elena answered, yes.

She reached up to put her hands on his shoulders; her body pressed against his, the feel of his hard chest sending little shocks of sensation through her.

His hands slid up to frame her face, his fingers so gentle on her skin. She felt his desire as well as her own, felt his yearning and surprise, and thought, We are alike in this too. We both want this, but we’re also afraid to want it.

Although perhaps Khalil didn’t want it, after all, for he suddenly dropped his hands from her and stepped back. ‘Goodnight,’ he said again, and then he started walking back to his tent and was soon swallowed up by the darkness.