Читать книгу The Desert King's Virgin Bride - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 8

‘MALIK, I’m…’ There was a slight pause as Sorrel struggled to push the words out. She cleared her throat and tried again—forcing a smile which felt as if it was slicing her face in two. ‘I’m leaving you,’ she said, and then wished she could have bitten the words right back, wondering why the hell it had come out like that.

Malik looked up from the document he had been reading and a spark of undisguised irritation flashed from his black eyes. Eyes which had been described by the press as cold, or intimidating, or even—in the more colourful publications—as being like those of a lithe predator, about to strike its helpless victim. ‘What?’ he questioned impatiently.

‘I mean…’ Sorrel stared at the dark-skinned Sheikh, sitting in his shimmering silken robes at his desk. He had barely noticed her entering the room and he was barely looking at her now—and worrying about how her words had been interpreted was obviously a complete waste of time, since he obviously hadn’t been listening either! ‘That I’m leaving Kharastan,’ she finished huskily.

A frown creased Malik’s olive brow—for he was too preoccupied with affairs of state to have heard her. More importantly, he had no desire to bother himself with the internal domestic squabbling of the palace. Surely she knew that? ‘Not now, Sorrel,’ he growled.

Not now? If ever Sorrel had needed confirmation that she was doing the right thing, then it came in the Sheikh’s moody and offhand response to her. He spoke as if she was a troublesome fly who had buzzed into his large office suite and he was just about to carelessly swat it.

Amber sunlight slanted in through the window, turning the sumptuous apartment into a tableau of pure gold and illuminating the man who sat at the desk like some glorious living statue. As always, just the sight of him made Sorrel’s heart yearn—but the sooner she got out of the habit of doing that then the sooner she would recover from the impact of his potent charm. Instead, Sorrel tried very hard to ignore his physical attributes, and fixed him with a questioning look instead. ‘When, then? When can we discuss it, Malik?’

‘Look!’ Impatiently, he waved his hand at the large pile of paperwork awaiting the royal stamp and the royal signature. Beside them lay his open diary, crammed with engagement after engagement. ‘You know that there is an important border issue with Maraban which needs to be resolved quickly—and I have a new ambassador to welcome later this morning. Can’t you see how busy I am?’

‘Yes, Malik,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Of course I can see.’ It hurt that he should even ask—for surely he must know that she always had his interests at heart? Once, she had been alone in looking out for Malik—in the days when he had been nothing more than the Sheikh’s most valued and trusted aide—but now all eyes were fixed on him.

In the royal palace—and in the desert lands beyond—he was the centre of the universe. To be a desert king was considered irresistible in the eyes of the world. When Malik said ‘jump’, people leapt—usually with a smarmy and obsequious smile pinned to their faces.

It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Malik was a late starter in the royal game—he hadn’t even realised that he was the illegitimate son of the Sheikh until two years ago, when the bombshell announcement had been made. The old ruler had died, and Malik had been crowned—from aide to king in a simple ceremony—from commoner to royal in an instant. And yet Malik seemed to have adapted to his new status like a falcon which took its first solo flight in the desert sky.

His always haughty air had become fine tuned—but now he had developed a cool dismissiveness towards others. The practical side of Sorrel’s character acknowledged that he needed distance—literally, to stop anyone from getting too close to him and to attempt to claw back some of his most precious commodity: time.

Yet, deep down, hadn’t Sorrel been hoping that in her case he might make an exception? Didn’t it occur to him that she was itching to tell him of her decision and to get on with it—to start making something of her own life, instead of just existing as some invisible satellite of his? No, of course it didn’t!

Ever since Sorrel had known him Malik had been an autocratic and supremely dominant man—but since he had inherited the Kingdom of Kharastan his pride and his arrogance had known no bounds. His wishes were always paramount—nothing else mattered except what the Sheikh wanted—and Sorrel had come to the heartbreaking conclusion that there was simply no place for her in his life any more.

Everything had changed—he had, and she had. Suddenly she no longer felt she belonged—certainly not in the land where she had lived most of her life.

Then just where do you belong? The question which had haunted her for so long popped into her head, even though she had been trying to ignore it—because every time she let herself think about it she was frightened by the vision of a great gaping hole in her future.

Malik’s black eyes were now scanning the cream parchment pages of his diary and, knowing that he could be seen by none of his servants, he scowled. It was unlike Sorrel to add to the burden of his work.

‘There is no appointment for me to see you marked out in my diary.’ He frowned, and then he looked up again. ‘Did you make one?’

Once, Sorrel might have wanted to weep at such a matter-of-fact statement coming from the man she had idolised ever since she could remember. The man who had in effect ‘rescued’ her, who had become her legal guardian after the sudden and tragic death of her parents and allowed her to remain in Kharastan instead of being carted off back to England. But this harsh new attitude towards her hurt more than she could have thought possible, and even though she tried very hard to tell herself he wasn’t being unreasonable—it wasn’t easy.

‘No, I didn’t make an appointment,’ she said flatly.

Malik’s eyes narrowed. What was the matter with her lately? From being someone he could talk to and relax with, she had become…edgy. ‘Well, be quick,’ he said impatiently, flicking a glance at the modern watch which looked so at odds when contrasted against the fine silk of the flowing robes he wore. ‘What is it?’

Sorrel wondered what he would say if she blurted out I think you’ve become an arrogant and insufferable pig. Would he have her taken away for treason?

She flicked her tongue out over lips which had grown suddenly dry. ‘I want to go to England,’ she said.

‘England?’ Malik frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Where did she begin? Not with the truth, that was for sure.

Because I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years, Malik, and you’ve never even deigned to notice me as a woman.

No, the truth would horrify him. Sorrel had no real experience of men—but the palace library was stocked with the world’s greatest literature, and she had read enough classic love stories to realise that she was wasting her time with the black-eyed Sheikh of Kharastan, who had steel for a heart.

‘Because I am now twenty-five.’

‘No, Sorrel,’ he negated. ‘You cannot be.’

This was the kind of remark which once she would have found sweet, and amusing—but which now rankled as if he had just insulted her. And in a way he had—for his failure to know her real age went some way towards explaining why he treated her as if she was about six years old.

‘I really think that if anyone happens to know how old I am, it’s me,’ she said, as near as she came to sarcasm with His Mightiness these days.

‘Yes. Of course. Twenty-five,’ he repeated wonderingly, and for a second he met her gaze full-on. ‘How can this be?’

Sorrel steeled her heart against the sudden faraway look in his ebony eyes. A sad, wistful, almost dreamy look—as if he had lost himself in the past.

Which just proved how unrealistically sentimental she had become—as if Malik would be longing for the days when he had been just the aide to the Sheikh, instead of the Sheikh himself!

‘The years go by more quickly than any of us realise,’ Sorrel said briskly, realising how prim she sounded—but that was the trouble: she was prim. Basically, the years were zooming by, and with them her youth, and she was wasting it pining for a man who never noticed her. Well, not as a woman.

One day—probably in the not-too-distant-future—Malik would start casting his eyes around for a suitable bride. A woman of Kharastani stock who could provide him with pure-bred Kharastani babies. ‘And I can’t stay here for ever,’ she finished.

‘But you don’t know England,’ objected Malik. ‘You haven’t lived there for years.’

‘Not since I was at boarding school,’ Sorrel agreed. ‘And even then I didn’t what you might call live there. Being allowed out to the sweet shop in the village every Saturday morning to spend my pocket money hardly counts as interacting with the country of my birth!’

Malik’s hard mouth momentarily softened. He had known her since she was a child—a blonde-haired poppet, as her father had used to call her. And he had been right. Sunny little Sorrel had charmed everyone.

Her parents had been diplomats—clever academics with a hunger for facts and experience which had ended over the treacherous peaks of the Maraban mountain range which bordered the Western side of the country. There, one hot and stormy evening, their plane and their dreams had crashed and lain in pieces on the ground, and the sixteen-year-old Sorrel had been left an orphan.

Perhaps if she had been younger then she would have been unable to refuse to return to her homeland, to be cared for by a distant relative. And if she had been older then there would have been no need for a protector. But she had needed someone, and Malik—a great friend and confidant of her ambassador father—had been named as guardian in their will.

He had been more than a decade older, and in a more liberal country than Kharastan questions might have been asked about whether such an arrangement was appropriate between a teenage girl and a red-blooded single man. But no questions had been asked. Malik’s reputation where honour and duty were concerned was unimpeachable. He had overseen her education and her upbringing with a stern eye, far stricter than that of any father—though Sorrel had never given him cause for concern, not even a hint of rebellion.

Until now.

He stared at her. She was almost completely covered in pale silk, as Kharastani custom dictated, so it was almost impossible to known what her figure was really like, though from the drape and fall of the cloth, and the perfect oval of her face, it was easy to recognise that beneath it she was a slim and healthy young woman.

Only a strand of moon-pale hair peeped out from beneath the soft silver lace which covered it, and the only colour which was apparent was the bright blue of her eyes and the natural rose gleam of her lips. For the first time Malik began to realise that somewhere along the way she had become a woman—and he hadn’t even noticed.

Should he let her go? ‘Can’t you just have a holiday in England?’ he enquired moodily. ‘And then come back again?’

Sorrel sighed. He was missing the point—only she couldn’t really tell him what the point was, could she?

‘No, Malik,’ she said patiently, aware from the sudden narrowing of his eyes that few people said ‘no’ to him since his sudden elevation in status. ‘I’ve spent my whole life having holidays in England—I haven’t lived there properly for years. Why, I even went to university here, in Kumush Ay—’

‘Which has a fine reputation the world over!’ he interrupted, with fierce pride. ‘And which enabled you to become possibly the only Western woman to speak fluent Kharastani. Why, you speak it almost as fluently as I do!’

‘Thank you.’ Briefly, Sorrel bowed her head—aware that the Sheikh had just paid her a compliment and that to fail to acknowledge it would be seen as discourteous. But it was yet another example of how much had changed since his elevation into the royal ranks.

There was a time when she would have playfully teased him—or perhaps challenged him about who was right and who was wrong—but not any more. And the longer you stay, the worse it’s going to get, she told herself.

‘I don’t want to become a stranger to the land of my birth, Malik,’ she said fervently. ‘And if I leave it much longer then I will be. I’ll become one of those people whose only knowledge of their country is through the rose-tinted glasses of memory.’

His eyes glinted as he nodded his black head with slow consideration. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘The ties to our homeland are one of the strongest of all instincts known to man—for they link us to our forebears and make up our very history.’

Sorrel could have kicked the leg of his ornate writing desk in rage, wanting to tell him not to be so damned pompous, but she couldn’t do that either. He might be speaking to her as if he was aged about a hundred and three, but what he said made sense—and in this instance at least he spoke from the heart. His heritage was of huge importance to him, and so he would naturally understand her need to go and investigate her roots.

After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had stupidly nurtured a rather different fantasy about their shared future over the years…

‘Sorrel?’

His voice butted into her thoughts and Sorrel blinked, her heart leaping in spite of everything, the way it always did when he said her name in that uniquely honeyed way of his.

‘Yes, Malik?’

‘Just what are you proposing to do? In England?’

Try to start a new life. Do the normal stuff that a twenty-five-year-old woman would have done by now if she hadn’t been all caught up with trying to fit in somewhere where she didn’t belong. Maybe even find herself a boyfriend along the way.

‘I’ll look for a job.’

There was a pause. ‘A job? What kind of job?’ he demanded, as incredulously as if she had just started doing cartwheels around the state apartments.

‘I can do plenty of things.’

‘Oh, really?’ He sat back in his chair and, interlacing his long dark fingers in front of the silken shimmer of his robes, fixed her with a piercing black look. ‘Such as?’

‘I’m a good organiser.’

‘That much is true,’ he admitted, for she had been co-ordinating palace functions ever since she had graduated. No royal banquet was ever complete without Sorrel quietly manoeuvring behind the scenes to prevent delicate egos from clashing.

‘And I am also versed in the art of diplomacy.’

He could see exactly where this was leading, and as he was reminded of just how protected and innocent she really was Malik shook his head. ‘If you think you’ll just be able to walk straight into a job without any formal training, then you are wrong, Sorrel.’ Thoughtfully, he drummed one long finger on the polished surface of the exquisite inlaid desk. ‘However, I may be able to speak to a few people on your behalf. Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘I could arrange for you to stay with a family. Yes, that might be the best solution all round.’

‘A family?’

‘Why not? Girls do it all the time.’

Girls, he had said. Not women, but girls—and enough really was enough! For the first time in her adult life Sorrel looked around the high-ceilinged palace room and saw it not as a place furnished with priceless antiques and glittering chandeliers and wonderful artifacts but as a kind of elaborate cage. Except that even a bird trapped in a cage could be seen, while she was hidden away like a guilty kind of secret. Prevented from freely mixing with men, covered from head to toe in robes designed to conceal the female form from all eyes. Never before had she minded about the camouflage of the national dress—but lately she had been looking at fashion sites on the internet with a yearning which surprised her.

‘I am not a g-girl,’ she said, her voice shaking with an emotion she wasn’t sure she could identify—even if she had been in the mood for analysis. ‘I am a woman—not some teenage au pair who needs looking after.’

Malik’s eyes were caught by the sudden trembling of her lips and his pupils dilated—for it was as if he had never seen them before. Like petals. Provocative and rosy. Did she have any idea what Western men might do when confronted with a pair of lips like that? He glared at her.

‘I would feel happier if I knew that you were in capable hands,’ he said stubbornly.

It wasn’t easy, but Sorrel knew that she had to start standing up for herself if she wanted any kind of independent life. ‘Strangely enough, this isn’t about you, Malik—this is about me, and my life. We’ve been dealing with yours non-stop ever since you became Sheikh, haven’t we?’

For a moment he stilled, every instinct alerted to the presence of something he wasn’t used to—at least, never with Sorrel—and that something was discord. Black eyes gleamed. Was she daring to criticise him? Or to imply that she was not happy with her lot?

His hard mouth flattened into an implacable line of anger which Sorrel had seen before—many times—but never directed towards her.

‘Well, do forgive me if you’ve been bored,’ he said, in an arrogant drawl which disguised the outrage he felt. Ungrateful little Westerner! He had willingly taken her under his wing, had ensured that she had a stable education and a secure home-life, and she was now throwing back his protection in his face—like some spoilt little child.

How he would like to teach her a lesson!

But as he felt the blood fizzing heatedly through his veins, Malik rose quickly from his desk, momentarily confused by his reaction—if such a state could ever have been said to exist in a man who was a stranger to the very concept of self-doubt. Why, for a moment back then…

Aware that her eyes followed him, he walked over to the window—his back ramrod-straight as he stared out into the manicured grandeur of the palace gardens—and stifled a sigh. When had he last had the freedom to just wander around its scented splendour—without a care in the world?

Not since his last few innocent days as a free man—before the announcement that he was the eldest of the late Sheikh’s three illegitimate sons and that the crown of Kharastan was to be placed on his head.

In many ways Malik had been well-prepared for the very specific burdens of kingship, for he had been the trusted aide to Sheikh Zahir for many years, and was well-versed with the intricate customs of the Kharastan court.

But knowing something as an advisor—no matter how highly favoured—was completely different from becoming the ruler, especially with very little prior warning. Malik had known that the changes would be much more subtle and far-reaching than the mere swapping of roles.

Gone was the relaxed status he had simply taken for granted. Suddenly he had been hurled into a world where he was no longer able to express an opinion without first carefully thinking it through. For his words would be seized on—twisted around, or analysed for a meaning he had not intended. Yes, he had been able to turn to Fariq—his own assistant—and elevate him to the position of Sheikh’s aide, but Malik still felt as if he was on trial. As if he had to prove to everyone—to his people and the world and to himself—that he was capable of shouldering this mighty responsibility of power.

Only with Sorrel had he not had to bother—and yet now there was to be another change, and Sorrel wished to leave.

He turned round again to find her eyes wary. And something in that fearful look shook him—seeming to click reality into sudden focus. As though the trepidation in her big blue eyes emphasised more than anything else had done to date just how different his life had become.

She who had never looked on him with anything other than serene and smiling acceptance was now surveying him as if he were some cruel sultan who had stepped out of the pages of the Arabian Nights—he, Malik, who had shown her nothing other than kindness!

Well, let her go! Let her see how she enjoyed an anonymous existence in England!

But he saw the faint clouding of her eyes and he relented, giving her one last opportunity to see sense. ‘A role could be found for you at the Kharastani Embassy,’ he mused.

‘I…realise that.’

He heard the unspoken reluctance in her voice, and with anyone else he would have quashed any further enquiry—but this was Sorrel, for mercy’s sake, who as a child had brought him back a little box covered in sea-shells from a place called Brighton. ‘You do not wish for any assistance?’ he questioned proudly.

Sorrel hesitated—for the very last thing she wished was to insult his honour. Kharastani customs were incredibly complex, and it had taken her a long time to understand that the possibility of an offer was always suggested before an offer was made. Thus, the possibility could be rejected and not the offer itself, ensuring that nobody’s pride would be hurt.

‘I just think it’s better if I do it myself. Stand on my own two feet, for the first time in my life.’ She turned her face up to his beseechingly, but his eyes were as cold as stones. ‘Surely you can understand that, Malik?’

‘I think you forget yourself,’ he remonstrated cruelly. ‘It is not my place to understand one of my subjects—nor theirs to suggest that I should!’

He drew his shoulders back and iced her a look, and Sorrel could have wept—for never in a million years could she ever have imagined Malik pulling rank on her. And was she one of his subjects? Perhaps she was—technically, at least.

Once again, the sensation of being enclosed and trapped enveloped her like a velvet throw.

‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she responded stiffly, momentarily lowering her eyes—not so much in a mockery of submission but more so that he would not see the fury reflected in her eyes. When she looked up again, she had composed herself—enough to even curve her lips in a polite little smile. ‘Then I shall make the necessary arrangements.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, deliberately cold and unhelpful, picking up his golden pen in a gesture which was obviously intended to dismiss her.

But Sorrel was not prepared to be so pushed aside—not any more. For Malik himself had just demonstrated how he rewarded loyalty and unswerving affection—with disdain and contempt.

‘I believe that there was a little money set aside in a trust for me by my father?’

He stared at her, tempted to use his power as trustee of her late father’s estate. Let her see how long she would last in the world if she had to go out and earn her living like other mortals—then she might appreciate her cosseted life within the walls of the palace!

But Malik was not foolish, and he would no more seek to deny Sorrel what was rightfully hers than he would contain her in a place of which she had clearly grown tired. Just a few minutes ago he himself had shuddered at the sensation of being trapped—so why would he inflict it on someone else?

Because he would miss her?

His mouth hardened. Perhaps for an instant, but no more than that—in the way that you might miss your favourite horse if you went to live in the city and found you could no longer ride. But doubtless Sorrel would visit Kharastan from time to time. He would watch her blossom as she embraced her new life—and that was exactly as it should be.

‘Yes, Sorrel,’ he said, surprised by the sudden heaviness in his voice. ‘The money your father left in trust for you was invested by the financial advisors of the late Sheikh.’ He paused for emphasis, to let the words sink in, but also to gauge her reaction. ‘Thus the amount he left has grown considerably.’ He saw her eyes widen, and he knew that he must move quickly to quash any ill-founded dreams that she might have. ‘That does not mean that you are now a wealthy woman—but that there is adequate provision for you. I advise you to spend it wisely—cautiously, even—until you are used to dealing with money.’

Sorrel stared at him. What did he think she was going to do? Blow it on hundreds of pairs of shoes or start buying diamonds? ‘Thank you for your advice,’ she said stiffly.

Malik relaxed slightly. So she was prepared to listen to him! ‘Shall I have one of my people talk to you—guide you through all the possibilities of budgeting?’

For a moment Sorrel was tempted—and then some dormant streak of rebellion sprang out of nowhere. All her life, people had ‘guided’ her and helped make her decisions—and that didn’t happen to other people of her age. Why, how many other young women had never paid any rent, nor shopped for groceries—or had to cook their own supper? And were they given the benefit of the palace’s financial advisors?

Besides, what advice could they possibly give that was going to be relevant to her new life in England? They could hardly tell her how to make savings on the central heating bill!

‘Thank you, Malik—but no. I would prefer to stand on my own two feet.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘How stubborn you can be sometimes, Sorrel,’ he said softly.

‘It isn’t stubbornness, Malik—it’s called independence.’

He hesitated, and then asked the question, knowing that by doing so he was breaking protocol. ‘You don’t want my help?’

Sorrel shook her head, and as she did so she felt her veil shimmer around her shoulders. She had worn it for as long as she could remember, and yet soon the veil would be lifted and removed—her head bare in a way which was considered unseemly here. It would be freedom in more ways than one—and most important of all she wanted to be free of this one-sided adoration she felt for the Sheikh.

‘I want to do it my way.’ She should have felt excitement, but at that moment she felt the clammy clamping of fear around her heart as she looked up into Malik’s hard black eyes, realising that despite everything she wanted his blessing—his assurance that her actions would not damage their friendship. That once she had got him thoroughly out of her system a residual affection would remain. ‘If that’s okay?’

He shrugged, deliberately disdainful. ‘Do as you please, Sorrel,’ he said coldly, and picked up one of the documents he had been working on in a gesture which said quite clearly I wash my hands of you. ‘But if you don’t mind—I think we have exhausted the subject, don’t you? And I happen to be rather busy.’

Sorrel stared at him. She had been dismissed as he would a servant, and she had to bite back her rage and her pain as he deliberately bent over his work. Yet somehow she kept silent, her head held high as she walked towards her apartment, telling herself that his reaction to her news after a lifetime of friendship was nothing less than shameful.

Well, she would show Sheikh High-and-Mighty Malik! She was going to get right out there in the world and start living her life as it should be lived!

So why did her heart feel so heavy as she walked into her sumptuous apartment and looked around? At the delicate inlaid furniture and the paintings whose frames gleamed softly with gold. At the row upon row of beautifully bound and rare books she had inherited from her diplomat father. And at the view over the palace gardens—the emerald lawns leading down to a long rectangle of water, with a fountain pluming in feathery display in the distance.

Against the glittering silver surface she could see the flash of the orange-pink feathers of flamingos—birds so fantastic that they looked almost unreal. Wild ducks and geese landed here sometimes, en route to the wide Balsora Sea, and many times Sorrel had seen astonishment on the faces of Western visitors—as if they simply couldn’t imagine that such a variety of wildlife existed in a land which was dominated by desert. But Kharastan was a land of constant surprises—its beauty and richness and complexity seeped into your bones almost without you realising it, and she was going to miss it.

Sorrel turned away from the window and stared down at the group of photos which sat atop the baby grand piano. Among the old black and white collection of distant relatives there was a wedding-day photo of her parents, and a later shot of the three of them, laughing on a visit to the Balsora Sea—shortly before their death.

Yet one portrait alone dominated her vision, and she picked it up and drank it in, her heart beating fast as she looked at the formal coronation day study of Malik—his beloved face so stern and so determined beneath the heavy weight of his crown and his destiny.

Rogue tears pricked at her eyes, and a feeling of strange apprehension threatened to overwhelm her as Sorrel quickly put the photo down on the piano and turned away.