Читать книгу Defiant in the Desert - Sharon Kendrick - Страница 12
ОглавлениеSULEIMAN BROUGHT THE car to a halt so that it was hidden beneath the shadows of the trees, but still within sight of the cottage. The other cars all waited in darkness at various intervals down the country lane, as he had instructed them to do.
He turned off the lights. Rain spattered relentlessly across the windscreen, running in thick rivulets down the glass. For a moment he sat watching the lighted windows of the house. He saw Sara’s unmistakable silhouette going around, pulling the drapes tightly shut, and he felt a potent combination of anger and satisfaction. But alongside his triumph at having tracked her down, a deep disquiet ran through his veins like slow poison.
He should have refused this job.
He should have told Murat that his schedule did not allow him time to travel to England and deal with the princess.
But the Sultan did not ask favours of many men and the bonds of loyalty and gratitude ran deeper than Suleiman had anticipated. And although he would have given anything to have avoided this particular task, somehow he had found himself accepting it. Yet just one sight of her today had reinforced what a fool he had been. Better to have thrown himself to the mercy of a starving lion, than to have willingly closeted himself with the temptress Sara.
He remembered the honeyed taste of her lips and her intoxicating perfume of jasmine mixed with patchouli. He remembered the pert thrust of her breast beneath his questing fingers and the way his body had ached for her afterwards. The frustrated lust which seemed to have gone on for months.
His hands tightened around the steering wheel. Women like her were born to create trouble. To make men want them and then to use their sexual power to destroy them. Hadn’t her own mother—a fabled beauty in her time—brought down the king who had spent his life in slavish devotion to her? A husband who had spent so much time enthralled by her that he had barely noticed his country slipping into bankruptcy.
He drew in a deep, meditative breath, forcing all the frustrating thoughts from his mind. He must go and do what he needed to do and then leave and never see her again.
With a stealth nurtured by years of undercover work, he waited until he was certain the coast was clear before he got out of the car and silently pulled the door shut behind him. He saw one of the limousines parked further down the lane flash its lights at him.
Avoiding the crunch of the gravel path, he felt his shoes sink into the sodden mud of the lawn which ran alongside it. But the night was fearsome and the weather atrocious and he was soaked within seconds, despite his long-legged stride towards the front door.
He was half tempted to break in by one of the back windows and then to walk in and confront her to show just how vulnerable she really was. But that would be cruel and he had no desire to be cruel to her.
Did he?
His mouth hardened as he lifted one rain-soaked hand to the door handle and knocked.
If she was sensible, she wouldn’t answer. Instead, she would phone the local police station and tell them she had an intruder banging on the door of this isolated cottage on Christmas Eve.
But clearly she wasn’t being sensible because he could hear the sound of her approaching footsteps and his body tensed as adrenalin flooded through him.
She pulled open the door, her violet eyes widening as she registered his identity. For a split second she reacted quickly, trying desperately to shut the door again—but her reactions were not as fast as his. Few people’s were. He placed the flat of his hand on the weathered knocker and blocked her move until she had the sense to step back as he entered the hallway, pushing the door shut behind him.
For a moment there was silence in that small hallway, other than the soft drip of rainwater onto the stone tiles. He could see that she was too stunned to speak—and so was he, but for very different reasons. She might be regarding him with horror but no such feelings were dominating his own mind right then.
She had changed from the provocative dress she’d been wearing in her office earlier. Her hair was loose and her jeans and pink sweater were not particularly clingy, yet still they managed to showcase the magnificence of her body.
He knew it was wrong but he couldn’t stop himself from drinking her in, like a man lost in the desert who had just been handed a jug of cool water. Was she aware of her beauty? Of the fact that she looked like a goddess? A goddess in blue jeans.
‘Suleiman!’ Her voice sounded startled and her violet eyes were dark.
‘Surprised?’ he questioned.
‘You could say that! And horrified.’ She glared at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing—pushing your way in here like some sort of heavy?’
‘I thought we had an appointment to meet at six, but since it is now almost eight, you appear to have broken it. Shockingly bad manners, Sara. Especially for a future queen of the desert.’
‘Tough!’ she retorted. ‘And I’m not going to be a queen of the desert. I already told you that I have no intention of getting married. Not to Murat and not to anyone! So why waste everybody’s time by turning up? Can’t you just go back to the Sultan and tell him to forget the whole idea?’
Suleiman heard the determination in her voice and felt an unwilling flare of admiration for her unashamed—and very stupid—defiance. Such open insubordination was unheard of from a woman from the desert lands and it was rather magnificent to observe her spirited rebellion. But he didn’t let it show. Instead, he injected a note of disapproval into his voice. ‘I am waiting for an explanation about why you failed to show.’
‘Do you realise you sound exactly like a schoolteacher? I don’t really think you’d need to be a detective to work out my no-show. I don’t like having my arm twisted.’
‘Clearly you hadn’t thought things through properly, if you imagined it was going to be that easy to shake me off,’ he said. ‘But you’re here now.’
She eyed him speculatively ‘I could knock you over the back of the head and make a run for it.’
His mouth quirked at the corners, despite all his best efforts not to smile. ‘And if you did, you would run straight into the men I have positioned all the way down the lane. Don’t even think about it, Sara. And please don’t imagine that I haven’t thought of every eventuality, because I have.’
He pulled off his dripping coat and hung it on a peg.
She glared at him. ‘I don’t remember asking you to take your coat off!’
‘I don’t require your permission.’
‘You are impossible!’ she hissed.
‘I have never denied that.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her voice frustrated as she turned round and marched towards a room where he could see a fire blazing.
He followed her into a room which had none of the ornaments the English were so fond of cramming into their country homes. There were no china dogs or hangings made of brass. No jumbled oil paintings of ships which hinted at a naval past. Instead, the walls were pale and contrasted with the weathered beams of wood in the ceiling. The furniture was quirky but looked comfortable and the few contemporary paintings worked well, though in theory they shouldn’t have done. Whoever owned this had taste, as well as money.
‘Whose cottage is this?’ he questioned.
‘My lover’s.’
He took a step forward, so that his shadow fell over her defiant features. ‘Please don’t jest with me, Sara. I’m not in the mood for it.’
‘How do you know I’m jesting?’
‘I hope you are. Because if I thought for a moment that you had been intimate with another man—then I would seek him out and tear him from limb to limb.’
As she heard his venomous but undoubtedly truthful words Sara swallowed, reminding herself that it wasn’t a question of Suleiman being jealous. He had only uttered the threat out of loyalty to the Sultan.
She wished he hadn’t turned up and yet if she’d stopped to think about it for more than a second—she must have known he would follow her. If Suleiman took on a task, then Suleiman would see it through. No matter what obstacles were put before him, he would conquer them. That was why the Sultan had asked him—and why he was so respected and feared within the desert nations.
She had driven here without really thinking about the consequences of her action, only about her urgent need to get away. Not just from the dark certainty of her future, but from this man. The man who had rejected her, yet could still make her heart race with desire and longing.
But his face was as cold as a stone mask. His body language was tense and forbidding. Suleiman’s feelings towards her had clearly not changed since the night he’d kissed her and then thrust her away from him. She swallowed. How could she bear to spend hours travelling with him, towards a dark fate which seemed unendurable?
‘It’s my boss, Gabe Steel’s cottage,’ she said. ‘And how did you find me?’
‘It wasn’t difficult,’ he said. ‘You forget that I have tracked down quarry far more elusive than a stubborn princess. Actually, it was your sudden unexpected consent to my plan which alerted my suspicions. It is not like you to be so acquiescent, Sara. I suspected that you would try to give my men the slip so I hid outside the side entrance to your office block and followed you to the car park.’
‘You hid? Outside my office block?’
‘You find that so bizarre?’
‘Of course I do!’ Her heart was hammering in her chest. ‘I live in England now and I live an English life, Suleiman. One where men don’t usually lurk in shadows, following women who don’t want to be followed. Why, you could have been arrested for trespass—especially if my boss had any idea that you were stalking me.’
‘Unlikely—for I am never seen if I do not wish to be seen,’ he said arrogantly. ‘You must have known it was a futile attempt to try to escape, so why do it, Sara? Did you really think you could get away with it?’
‘Go to hell!’
‘I’m not going anywhere and certainly not without you.’
She hated the ruthless tone of his voice. She hated the unresponsive look on his hard face. Suddenly she wanted to shake him. To provoke him. To get some sort of reaction which would make her feel as if she was dealing with a real person, instead of a cold block of stone. ‘I was waiting here,’ she said deliberately. ‘For my lover.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And why not?’ she demanded. ‘Am I so repulsive that you can’t imagine that a man might actually want to take me to bed?’
For a moment Suleiman stilled, telling himself that he wouldn’t fall into the trap she was so obviously laying for him. She was trying to rile him. Trying to get him to admit to something he was not prepared to admit. Even to himself. Concentrate on the facts, he told himself fiercely—and not on her blonde-haired beauty, or her soft curves which nature must have invented with the intention of sending any man crazy with longing.
‘I think you know the answer to that question—and I’m not going to flatter your ego by answering it. Your desirability has never been in question, but you seem to imply that your virtue is.’
‘What if it is?’ she challenged, her voice growing reckless. ‘But I don’t have to explain myself to you and I’m certainly not going to take orders from you. Do you want to know why?’
‘Not really,’ he said, in a bored tone.
‘I think you might.’ She licked her lips in a cat-got-the-cream expression and then smiled. ‘It might interest you to know that in between your invasion of my office and following me here, I have spoken to a journalist.’
There was a pause. Suleiman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hope that’s a joke.’
‘It’s not.’
There was another moment of silence before he could bring himself to speak. ‘And what did you tell the journalist?’
She scraped her fingers back through her blonde hair and smirked. ‘I told him the truth. No need to look so scared, Suleiman. I mean, who in their right mind could possibly object to the truth?’
‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said, biting the words out from between gritted teeth. ‘I am not scared—of anyone or anything. I think you may be in danger of mistaking my anger for fear, though perhaps you would do well to feel fear yourself. Because if the Sultan finds out that you have spoken to the western press, then things are going to get very tricky. So I shall ask you again and this time I want a straight answer—what exactly did you tell the journalist?’
Sara stared into the spitting blackness of his eyes and some of her bravado wavered, until she told herself that she wasn’t going to be intimidated. She had worked too hard and too long to forge a new life to allow these powerful men to control her. These desert men who would crush your very spirit if you allowed them to do so. So she wouldn’t let them.
Even her own mother—who had married a desert king and had loved him—had felt imprisoned by ancient royal rules which hadn’t changed for centuries and probably never would. Sara had witnessed for herself that sometimes love just wasn’t enough. So what chance would a marriage have if there was no love at all?
Her mother’s unhappiness had been the cause of her father’s ruination—and had ultimately governed Sara’s own fate. She hadn’t known that Papa was so obsessed by his English wife that he hadn’t paid proper attention to governing his country. Sara remembered that all too vividly. The Queen had been his possession and nothing else had really existed for him, apart from that.
He had taken his eye off the ball. Poor investments and a border war which went on too long meant that his country was left bankrupt. The late Sultan of Qurhah had come up with a deal for a bail-out plan and the price had been Sara’s hand in marriage.
When Sara’s mother had died and she had been allowed to go off to boarding school—hadn’t she thought that her father’s debt would just be allowed to fade with time? Hadn’t she been naïve and hopeful enough to think that the Sultan might just forget all about marrying her, as his own father had decreed he should?
Blinking back the sudden threat of tears, Sara tried to ignore the fierce expression on Suleiman’s face. She was not going to be made to feel guilty—when all she was doing was trying to save her own skin. And ultimately she would be doing the Sultan a favour—for surely it would damage the ego of such a powerful man if she was forced kicking and screaming to the altar.
‘I am waiting,’ he said, with silky venom, ‘for you to enlighten me. What did you tell the journalist, Sara?’
She met the accusation in his eyes. ‘I told him everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes! I thought it would make a good story,’ she said. ‘At a time of year when newspapers are traditionally very light on news and—’
‘What did you tell him?’ he raged.
‘I told him the truth! That I was a half-blood princess—half English and half Dhi’banese. You know the papers—they just love any kind of royal connection!’ She forced a mocking smile, knowing that it would irritate him and wondering if irritating him was only a feeble attempt to suppress her desire for him. Because if it was, it wasn’t working. ‘I told him that my mother travelled as an artist to Dhi’ban, to paint the beautiful desert landscape—and that my father, the king, had fallen in love with her.’
‘Why did you feel it necessary to parade your private family history to a complete stranger?’
‘I’m just providing the backstory, Suleiman,’ she said. ‘Everyone knows you need a good backstory if you want an entertaining read. Anyway, it’s all there on record.’
‘You are severely testing my patience,’ he said. ‘You had no right to divulge these things!’
‘Surely the Sultan wouldn’t mind me discussing it?’ she questioned innocently. ‘This is a marriage we’re talking about, Suleiman—and marriages are supposed to be happy occasions. I say supposed to be, but that’s quite a difficult concept to pull off when the bride is being kidnapped! I have to say that the journalist seemed quite surprised when I told him that I had no say in this marriage. No, when I come to think of it—surprise is the wrong word. I’d say that astonished covered it better. And deeply shocked, of course.’
‘Shocked?’
‘Mmm. He seemed to find it odd—abhorrent, even—that the Sultan of Qurhah should want to marry a woman who had been bought for him by his own father!’
She saw his fists clench.
‘That is the way of the world you were brought into,’ he said unequivocably. ‘None of us can change the circumstances of our birth.’
‘No, we can’t. But that doesn’t mean we have to be made prisoners by it. We can use everything in our power to change our destinies! Can’t you see that, Suleiman?’
‘No!’
‘Yes,’ she argued passionately. ‘Yes and a thousand times yes!’ Her heart began to race as she saw something written on his carved features which made her stomach turn to jelly. Was it anger? Was it?
But anger would not have made him shake his head, as if he was trying to shake off thoughts of madness. Nor to make that little nerve flicker so violently at his olive-skinned temple. He took a step towards her and, for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was about to pull her into his arms, the way he’d done on the night of her brother’s coronation.
And didn’t she want that? Wasn’t she longing for him to do just that, only this time not stop? This time they were alone and he could lie her down in front of that log fire and loosen her clothes and...
But he didn’t touch her. He stood a tantalisingly close distance away while his eyes sparked dark fire at her. She could see him swallowing, as if he had something bitter lodged in his throat.
‘You must accept your destiny,’ he said. ‘As I have accepted mine.’
‘Have you? Did “accepting your destiny” include kissing me on the night my brother was crowned, even though you knew I was promised to another?’
‘Don’t say that!’
The strangled words sounded almost powerless and Sara realised she’d never heard Suleiman sound like that before. Not even after he’d returned from his undercover duties in the Qurhah army, when he’d been thirty pounds lighter with a scar zigzagging down his neck. People said he’d been tortured, but if he had he never spoke of it—well, never to her. She remembered being profoundly shocked by his appearance and she felt a similar kind of shock washing over her now.
For it was not like looking at Suleiman she knew of old. It was like looking at a stranger. A repressed and forbidding stranger. His features had closed up and his eyes were hooded. Had she really thought he was about to kiss her? Why, kissing looked like the furthest thing on his mind.
‘We will not speak of that night again,’ he said.
‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’ she questioned. ‘You weren’t so moralistic when you touched me like that.’
‘Because most men would have died rather than resist you that night,’ he admitted bitterly. ‘And I chose not to die. I hadn’t seen you for six long years and then I saw you, with your big painted eyes and your silver gown, shining like the moon.’
Briefly, Suleiman closed his eyes, because that kiss had been like no other, no matter how much he had tried to deny it. It hadn’t just been about sex or lust. It had been much more powerful than that, and infinitely more dangerous. It had been about feeding a hunger as fundamental as the need to eat or drink. It had felt as necessary as breathing. And yet it had angered him, because it had seemed outside his control. Up until that moment he had regarded the young princess with nothing more than indulgent friendship. What had happened that night had taken him completely by surprise. He swallowed. Perhaps that was why it had been the most unforgettable kiss of his life.
‘Didn’t you realise how much I wanted you that night, Sara, even though you were promised to the Sultan? Were you not aware of your own power?’
‘So it was all my fault?’
‘No. It is not your “fault” that you looked beautiful enough to test the appetites of a saint. I blame no one but myself for my unforgivable weakness. But it is a weakness which will never be repeated,’ he ground out. ‘And yes, I blame you if you have now given an interview which will bring shame on the reputation of the Sultan and his royal house.’
‘Then ask him to set me free,’ she said simply. ‘To let me go. Please, Suleiman.’
Suleiman met the appeal in her big violet eyes and for a moment he almost wavered. For wasn’t it a terrible crime to see the beautiful and spirited Sara forced to marry a man she did not love? Could he really imagine her lying in the marital bed and submitting to the embraces of a man she claimed not to want? And then he told himself that Murat was a legendary lover. And even though it made him feel sick to acknowledge it—it was unlikely that Sara would lie unresponsive in Murat’s bed for too long.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said, but the words felt like stone as he let them fall from his lips. ‘I can’t allow you to reject the Sultan; I would be failing in my duty if I did. It is a question of pride.’
‘Pride!’ Angrily, she shook her head. ‘What price pride? What if I refuse to allow him to consummate the marriage?’ she challenged. ‘What then? Won’t he skulk away to his harem and take his pleasure elsewhere?’
He flinched as if she had hit him. ‘This discussion has become completely inappropriate,’ he bit out angrily. ‘But you would be wise to consider the effect of your actions on your brother, the King—even though I know you never bother to visit him. There are some in your country who wonder whether the King still has a sister, so rarely does she set foot in her homeland.’
‘My relationship with my brother is none of your business—and neither are my trips home!’
‘Maybe not. But you would do well to remember that Qurhah continues to shoulder some of your country’s national debt. How would your brother feel if the Sultan were to withdraw his financial support because of your behaviour?’
‘You bastard,’ she hissed, but she might as well have been whispering on the wind, for all the notice he took.
‘My skin is thick enough to withstand your barbed comments, princess. I am delivering you to the Sultan and nothing will prevent that. But first, I want the name of the journalist you’ve been dealing with.’
She made one last stab at rebellion. ‘And if I won’t tell you?’
‘Then I will find out for myself,’ he said, in a tone which made a shiver trickle down her spine. ‘Why not save me the time and yourself my anger?’
‘You’re a brute,’ she breathed. ‘An egocentric brute.’
‘No, Sara, I just want the story spiked.’
Frustration washed over her as she recognised that he meant business. And that she was fighting a useless battle here.
‘His name is Jason Cresswell,’ she said sulkily. ‘He works for the Daily View.’
‘Good. Perhaps you are finally beginning to see sense. You might learn that co-operation is infinitely more preferable to rebellion. Now leave me while I speak with him in private.’ He glanced at her as he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.
‘Go and get your coat on. Because after I’ve finished with the journalist we’re heading for the airfield, where the plane is waiting to take you to your new life in Qurhah.’
