Книга - Captured by the Sheikh

Captured by the Sheikh
Kate Hewitt


‘I took your bride. I’ll take your throne. Because both are mine by right.’Banishment and shame have turned Sheikh Khalil al Bakir into a man determined to reclaim the crown of Kadar from his rival. Khalil begins by kidnapping his enemy’s bride-to-be. She’s a means to an end – so why is he so inflamed at the thought of her in anyone’s bed but his own?Queen Elena Karras of Thallia is prepared for a cold, mutually convenient marriage. Instead she is carried off into the sands, where this virgin queen soon discovers an unexpected desire for her sinfully sexy captor that leaves her craving more…Discover more at www.millsandboon.co.uk/katehewitt









‘I really don't think this is a good idea, Elena.’


‘Too bad, then, that I do.’ She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his mouth. ‘That's only the second kiss I've ever had,’ she whispered against his lips. ‘The first was two nights ago, when you held me in your arms.’

He closed his eyes. He was the only man who had ever kissed her? Didn't she realise how much she was giving him, offering him freely? Didn't she know how hurt she might be afterwards? No matter what she said or promised now. She was young. Inexperienced. Innocent.

He forced his eyes open, wrapped his hands around hers and attempted to draw them away for her. ‘I don't want to hurt you, Elena.’

‘You won't.’

‘You don't know that. You can't know that. Because you've never done this before.’

‘And when am I going to get a chance to do it, Khalil?’ she asked, her honest gaze clashing with his. ‘I was going to give myself to a man I barely knew for the sake of my country. That possibility has been taken away from me now. You've taken it away from me, and I think it's only fair you offer me something in return. You owe me a wedding night.’




RIVALS TO THE CROWN OF KADAR (#ulink_37a4398f-61b5-5e6d-b5ab-560649f9509c)


Ruthless in battle, ruthless in love…

Two powerful men locked in a struggle to rule the country of their birth …

One a desert prince, once banished and shamed, the other a royal playboy, cutting a swathe through the beautiful women of Europe.

Tortured by their memories of the past, these bitter enemies will use any means necessary to win … But neither expects the women who will change the course of their revenge!




Captured by the Sheikh

Kate Hewitt





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon


romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she's continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they've become a bit more detailed as she's grown older. She has written plays, short stories and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother's childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com (http://www.kate-hewitt.com)


Contents

Cover (#u6eb9c3a1-6b98-5c3f-9353-2dc238556d9d)

Introduction (#u136df357-19bf-57df-a7de-319c9762a10b)

RIVALS TO THE CROWN OF KADAR (#ud4140f92-15cf-585a-9159-718e6325ad9a)

Title Page (#ubeabe914-556a-5ee5-bf6d-ea5526a7b0e3)

About the Author (#u2b18cfe8-2259-5d91-ad9f-16520ea5d2f9)

CHAPTER ONE (#uceea1cc4-455d-5f1b-b6d2-539757adffaa)

CHAPTER TWO (#u83b0e98d-7a48-5ce6-a98f-41e3062add21)

CHAPTER THREE (#u44b17683-4f52-575f-8a77-c29c2144914c)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ub512ee66-bdb6-5b22-b46a-4475a00a2f5f)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_30f7ed78-60d2-5a0d-9e17-f38f6e27a49f)

‘SOMETHING’S WRONG—’

Elena Karras, Queen of Thallia, had barely registered the voice of the royal steward behind her when a man in a dark suit, his face harsh-looking and his expression inscrutable, met her at the bottom of the steps that led from the royal jet to this bleak stretch of desert.

‘Queen Elena. Welcome to Kadar.’

‘Thank you.’

He bowed and then indicated one of three armoured SUVs waiting by the airstrip. ‘Please accompany us to our destination,’ he said, his voice clipped yet courteous. He stepped aside so she could move forward, and Elena threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin as she walked towards the waiting cars.

She hadn’t expected fanfare upon her arrival to marry Sheikh Aziz al Bakir, but she supposed she’d thought she’d have a little more than a few security guards and blacked-out cars.

Then she reminded herself that Sheikh Aziz wanted to keep her arrival quiet, because of the instability within Kadar. Ever since he’d taken the throne just over a month ago there had been, according to Aziz, some minor insurgent activity. At their last meeting, he’d assured her it was taken care of, but she supposed a few security measures were a necessary precaution.

Just like the Sheikh, she needed this marriage to succeed. She barely knew the man, had only met him a few times, but she needed a husband just as he needed a wife.

Desperately.

‘This way, Your Highness.’

The man who’d first greeted her had been walking beside her from the airstrip to the SUV, the desert endlessly dark all around them, the night-time air possessing a decided chill. He opened the door of the vehicle and Elena tipped her head up to the inky sky, gazing at the countless stars glittering so coldly above them.

‘Queen Elena.’

She stiffened at the sound of the panicked voice, recognising it as that of the steward from the Kadaran royal jet. The man’s earlier words belatedly registered: something’s wrong.

She started to turn and felt a hand press into the small of her back, staying her.

‘Get in the car, Your Highness.’

An icy sweat broke out between her shoulder blades. The man’s voice was low and grim with purpose—not the way he’d sounded earlier, with his clipped yet courteous welcome. And she knew, with a sickening certainty, that she did not want to get in that car.

‘Just a moment,’ she murmured, and reached down to adjust her shoe, buy a few seconds. Her mind buzzed with panic, static she silenced by sheer force of will. She needed to think. Somehow something had gone wrong. Aziz’s people hadn’t met her as expected. This stranger had and, whoever he was, she knew she needed to get away from him. To plan an escape—and in the next few seconds.

She felt a cold sense of purpose come over her, clearing her mind even as she fought a feeling of unreality. This was happening. Again, the worst was happening.

She knew all about dangerous situations. She knew what it felt like to stare death in the face—and survive.

And she knew, if she got in the car, escape would become no more than a remote possibility.

She fiddled with her shoe, her mind racing. If she kicked off her heels she could sprint back to the jet. The steward was obviously loyal to Aziz; if they managed to close the door before this man came after her...

It was a better option than running into the dark desert. It was her only option.

‘Your Highness.’ Impatience sharpened the man’s voice. His hand pressed insistently against her back. Taking a deep breath, Elena kicked off her heels and ran.

The wind streamed past her and whipped sand into her face as she streaked towards the jet. She heard a sound behind her and then a firm hand came round her waist, lifting her clear off the ground.

Even then she fought. She kicked at the solid form behind her; the man’s body now felt like a stone wall. She bent forward, baring her teeth, trying to find some exposed skin to bite, anything to gain her freedom.

Her heel connected with the man’s kneecap and she kicked again, harder, then hooked her leg around his and kicked the back of his knee so the man’s leg buckled. They both fell to the ground.

The fall winded her but she was up within seconds, scrambling on the sand. The man sprang forward and covered her with his body, effectively trapping her under him.

‘I admire your courage, Your Highness,’ he said in her ear, his voice a husky murmur. ‘As well as your tenacity. But I’m afraid both are misplaced.’

Elena blinked through the sand that stung her eyes and clung to her cheeks. The jet was still a hundred yards away. How far had she managed to run? Ten feet? Twenty?

The man flipped her over so she was on her back, his arms braced on either side of her head. She gazed up at him, her heart thudding against her ribs, her breath coming in little pants. He was poised above her like a panther, his eyes the bewitching amber of a cat’s, his face all chiselled planes and harsh angles. Elena could feel his heat, sense his strength. This man radiated power. Authority. Danger.

‘You would never have made it back to the plane,’ he told her, his voice treacherously soft. ‘And, even if you had, the men on it are loyal to me.’

‘My guards—’

‘Bribed.’

‘The steward—’

‘Powerless.’

She stared at him, trying to force down her fear. ‘Who are you?’ she choked.

He bared his teeth in a feral smile. ‘I’m the future ruler of Kadar.’

In one fluid movement he rolled off her, pulling her up by a hand that had closed around her wrist like a manacle. Still holding her arm, he led her back to the cars, where two other men waited, dark-suited and blank-faced. One of them opened the rear door and with mocking courtesy her arrogant captor, whoever he really was, sketched an elaborate bow.

‘After you, Your Highness.’

Elena stared at the yawning darkness of the SUV’s interior. She couldn’t get in that car. As soon as she did the doors would lock and she’d be this man’s prisoner.

But she already was his prisoner, she acknowledged sickly, and she’d just blown her best bid for freedom. Perhaps if she pretended compliance now, or even fear, she’d find another opportunity for escape. She wouldn’t even have to pretend all that much; terror had begun to claw at her senses.

She looked at the man who was watching her with cold amusement, as if he’d already guessed the nature of her thoughts.

‘Tell me who you really are.’

‘I already did, Your Highness, and you are trying my patience. Now, get in the car.’ He spoke politely enough, but Elena still felt the threat. The danger. She saw that cold, knowing amusement in the man’s amber eyes, but no pity, no spark of compassion at all, and she knew she was out of options.

Swallowing hard, she got in the car.

The man slid in beside her and the doors closed, the automated lock a loud click in the taut silence. He tossed her shoes onto her lap.

‘You might want those.’ His voice was low, unaccented, and yet he was clearly Arabic. Kadaran. His skin was a deep bronze, his hair as dark as ink. The edge of his cheekbone looked as sharp as a blade.

Swallowing again, the taste of fear metallic on her tongue, Elena slipped them on. Her hair was a mess, one knee was scraped and the skirt of her staid navy blue suit was torn.

Taking a deep breath, she tucked her hair behind her ears and wiped the traces of sand from her face. She looked out of the window, trying to find some clue as to where they were going, but she could barely see out of the tinted glass. What she could see was nothing more than the jagged black shapes of rocks in the darkness, Kadar’s infamously bleak desert terrain. It was a small country nestled on the Arabian Peninsula, its borders containing both magnificent coastline and deadly rock-strewn desert.

She sneaked a sideways glance at her captor. He sat with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, looking relaxed and assured, yet also alert. Who was he? Why had he kidnapped her?

And how was she going to get free?

Think, she told herself. Rational thought was the antidote to panic. The man must be one of the rebel insurgents Aziz had mentioned. He’d said he was the future ruler of Kadar, which meant he wanted Aziz’s throne. He must have kidnapped her to prevent their marriage—unless he wasn’t aware of the stipulations set out in Aziz’s father’s will?

Elena had only learned of them when she’d met Aziz a few weeks ago at a diplomatic function. His father, Sheikh Hashem, had just died and Aziz had made some sardonic joke about now needing a wife. Elena hadn’t been sure whether to take him seriously or not, but then she’d seen a bleakness in his eyes. She’d felt it in herself.

Her Head of Council, Andreas Markos, was determined to depose her. He claimed a young, inexperienced woman such as herself was unfit to rule, and had threatened to call for a vote to abolish the monarchy at the next convening of the Thallian Council. But if she were married by then...if she had a husband and Prince Consort...then Markos couldn’t argue she was unfit to rule.

And the people loved a wedding, wanted a royal marriage. She was popular with the Thallian people; it was why Markos hadn’t already tried to depose her in the four turbulent years of her reign. Adding to that popularity with a royal wedding would make her position even stronger.

It was a desperate solution, but Elena had felt desperate. She loved her country, her people, and she wanted to remain their queen—for their sake, and for her father’s sake, who had given his life so she could be monarch.

The next morning Elena had sent a letter to Aziz, suggesting they meet. He’d agreed and, with a candour borne of urgency, they’d laid out their respective positions. Elena needed a husband to satisfy her Council; Aziz needed to marry within six weeks of his father’s death or he forfeited his title. They’d agreed to wed. They’d agreed to a convenient and loveless union that would give them the spouses they needed and children as heirs, one for Kadar, one for Thallia.

It was a mercenary approach to both marriage and parenthood and, if she’d been an ordinary woman, or even an ordinary queen, she would have wanted something different for her life. But she was a queen hanging onto her kingdom by a mere thread, and marriage to Aziz al Bakir had felt like the only way to keep clinging.

But for that to happen, she had to get married. And to get married, she had to escape.

She couldn’t get out of the car, so she needed to wait. Watch. Learn her enemy.

‘What is your name?’ she asked. The man didn’t even look at her.

‘My name is Khalil.’

‘Why have you taken me?’

He slid her a single, fathomless glance. ‘We’re almost at our destination, Your Highness. Your questions will be answered there, after we are both refreshed.’

Fine. She’d wait. She’d stay calm and in control and look for the next opportunity to gain her freedom. Even so terror caught her by the throat and held on. She’d felt this terrible, numbing fear before, as if the world were sliding by in slow motion, everything slipping away from her as she waited, frozen, disbelieving that this was actually happening...

No, this was not the same as before. She wouldn’t let it be. She was queen of a country, even if her throne was all too shaky a seat. She was resourceful, courageous, strong.

She would get out of this. Somehow. She refused to let some rebel insurgent wreck her marriage...or end her reign as queen.

* * *

Khalil al Bakir glanced again at the woman by his side. She sat straight and tall, her chin lifted proudly, her pupils dilated with fear.

Admiration for the young queen flickered reluctantly through him. Her attempt at escape had been reckless and laughable, but also brave, and he felt an unexpected sympathy for her. He knew what it was like to feel both trapped and defiant. Hadn’t he, as a boy, tried to escape from his captor, Abdul-Hafiz, as often as he could, even though he’d known how fruitless such attempts would be? Deep in the desert, there had been no place for a young boy to run or hide. Yet still he’d tried, because to try was to fight, and to fight was to remind yourself you were alive and had something to fight for. The scars on his back were testament to his many failed attempts.

Queen Elena would have no such scars. He would not be accused of ill-treating his guest, no matter what the frightened monarch might think. He intended to keep her for only four days, until the six weeks had passed and Aziz would be forced to relinquish his claim to the throne and call a national referendum to decide who the next sheikh would be.

Khalil intended to be that man.

Until that moment, when the vote had been called and he sat on the throne that was rightfully his, he would not rest easy. But then, he’d never rested easy, not since the day when he’d been all of seven years old and his father had dragged him out of his lesson with his tutor, thrown him onto the sharp stones in front of the Kadaran palace and spat in his face.

‘You are not my son.’

It was the last time he’d ever seen him, his mother, or his home.

Khalil closed his eyes against the memories that still made his fists clench and bile rise in his throat. He would not think of those dark days now. He would not remember the look of disgust and even hatred on the face of the father he’d adored, or the anguished cries of his mother as she’d been dragged away, only to die just a few months later from a simple case of the flu because she’d been denied adequate medical care. He wouldn’t think of the terror he’d felt when he’d been shoved in the back of a van and driven to a bleak desert outpost, or the look of cruel satisfaction on Abdul-Hafiz’s face when he’d been thrown at his feet like a sack of rubbish.

No, he wouldn’t think of any of that. He’d think of the future, the very promising future, when he, the son his father had rejected in favour of his mistress’s bastard, would sit on the throne of the kingdom he’d been born to rule.

Next to him, he felt Queen Elena tremble.

Twenty taut minutes later the SUV pulled up at the makeshift camp Khalil had called home for the last six months, ever since he’d returned to Kadar. He opened the door and turned to Elena, who glared at him in challenge.

‘Where have you taken me?’

He gave her a cold smile. ‘Why don’t you come out and see for yourself?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took hold of her wrist. Her skin was soft and cold and she let out a muffled gasp as he drew her from the car.

She stumbled on a stone as she came to her feet, and as he righted her he felt her breasts brush his chest. It had been a long time since he’d felt the soft touch of a woman, and his body responded with base instinct, his loins tightening as desire flared deep inside. Her hair, so close to his face, smelled of lemons.

Firmly Khalil moved her away from him. He had no time for lust and certainly not with this woman.

His right-hand man, Assad, emerged from another vehicle. ‘Your Highness.’ Elena turned automatically, and Khalil smiled in grim satisfaction. Assad had been addressing him, not the unruly queen. Even though he had not officially claimed his title, those loyal to him still addressed him as if he had.

He’d been surprised and gratified at how many were loyal to him, when they had only remembered a tousle-haired boy who’d been dragged crying and gibbering from the palace. Until six months ago, he had not been in Kadar since he’d been ten years old. But people remembered.

The desert tribes, bound more by tradition than the people of Siyad, had always resented Sheikh Hashem’s rash decision to discard one wife for a mistress no one had liked, and a son he’d already publicly declared illegitimate. When Khalil had returned, they’d named him sheikh of his mother’s tribe and had rallied around him as the true ruling Sheikh of Kadar.

Even so, Khalil trusted no one. Loyalties could change on a whim. Love was capricious. He’d learned those lessons all too painfully well. The only person he trusted now was himself.

‘Queen Elena and I would like some refreshment,’ he told Assad in Arabic. ‘Is there a tent prepared?’

‘Yes, Your Highness.’

‘You can debrief me later. For now, I’ll deal with the Queen.’ He turned to Elena, whose panicked gaze was darting in every direction, her body poised for flight.

‘If you are thinking of running away,’ he told her calmly, switching to English as the language they both knew, ‘don’t bother. The desert stretches for hundreds of miles in every direction, and the nearest oasis is over a day’s ride by camel. Even if you managed to leave the camp, you would die of thirst, if not a snake or scorpion bite.’

Queen Elena glared at him and said nothing. Khalil gestured her forward. ‘Come, have some refreshment, and I will answer your questions as I promised.’

Elena hesitated and then, clearly knowing she had no choice, she nodded and followed him across the camp.

* * *

Elena took stock of her surroundings as she walked behind Khalil. A few tents formed a rough semi-circle; she could see some horses and camels tethered to a post under a lean-to. The wind blew sand into her face and her hair into her mouth.

She held her hands up to her face, tried to blink the grit out of her eyes. Khalil pushed back the folds of the tent and ushered her inside.

Elena took a steadying breath, trying to compose herself. The only thing she could do now was learn as much as she could, and choose her moment well.

Khalil moved to the other side of the tent, gesturing to an elegant teakwood table and low chairs with embroidered cushions. The outside of the tent had been basic, but the interior, Elena saw as her gaze darted around, was luxurious, with silk and satin furnishings and carpets.

‘Please, sit down.’

‘I want answers to my questions.’

Khalil turned to face her. A small smile curved his mouth but his eyes were cold. ‘Your defiance is admirable, Your Highness, but only to a certain extent. Sit.’

She knew she needed to pick her battles. Elena sat. ‘Where is Sheikh Aziz?’

Irritation flashed across his chiselled features and then he gave a little shrug. ‘Aziz is presumably in Siyad, waiting for you.’

‘He’ll be expecting me—’

‘Yes,’ Khalil cut her off smoothly. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘He received a message that you were delayed.’ Khalil spread his hands, his eyes glittering with what felt like mockery. ‘No one is looking for you, Your Highness. And, by the time they are, it will be too late.’

The implication was obvious, and it made her breathless with shock, her vision blurring so she reached out and grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself. Calm. She needed to stay calm.

She heard Khalil swear softly. ‘I did not mean what you obviously think I meant.’

She looked up, her vision clearing as she gazed up at him. Even scowling he was breathtaking; everything about him was lean and graceful. Predatory. ‘You mean you aren’t going to kill me,’ she stated flatly.

‘I am neither a terrorist nor a thug.’

‘Yet you kidnap a queen.’

He inclined his head. ‘A necessary evil, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t believe any evil is necessary,’ Elena shot back. She took another steadying breath. ‘So what are you going to do with me?’

It was a question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered, yet she knew ignorance was dangerous. Better to know the danger, the enemy. Know your enemies and know yourself, and you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles.

‘I’m not going to do anything with you,’ Khalil answered calmly. ‘Except keep you here in, I hope, moderate comfort.’

One of the guards came with a tray of food. Elena glanced at the platter of dates and figs, the flat bread and the bowls of creamy dips, and then looked away again. She had no appetite, and in any case she would not eat with her enemy.

‘Thank you, Assad,’ Khalil said, and the man bowed and left.

Khalil crouched on his haunches in front of the low table where Assad had set the tray. He glanced up at Elena, those amber eyes seeming almost to glow. They really were the most extraordinary colour. With his dark hair and tawny eyes, that lean, predatory elegance, he was like a leopard, or perhaps a panther—something beautiful and terrifying. ‘You must be hungry, Queen Elena.’

‘I am not.’

‘Then thirsty, at least. It is dangerous not to drink in the desert.’

‘It is dangerous,’ Elena countered, ‘to drink in the presence of your enemies.’

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Very well, then. I shall drink first.’

She watched as he poured what looked like some kind of fruit juice from an earthen pitcher into two tall tumblers. He picked up the first and drank deeply from it, the sinuous muscles of his throat working as he swallowed. He met her gaze over the rim of his glass, his eyes glinting in challenge.

‘Satisfied?’ he murmured as he lowered his glass.

Elena’s throat ached with thirst and was scratchy from the sand. She needed to stay hydrated if she was going to plan an escape, so she nodded and held out her hand.

Khalil handed her the glass and she sipped the juice; it was both tart and sweet, and deliciously cool.

‘Guava,’ he told her. ‘Have you had it before?’

‘No.’ Elena put the glass back down on the table. ‘Now I am refreshed.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So you intend to keep me here in the desert—for how long?’

‘A little less than a week. Four days, to be precise.’

Four days. Elena’s stomach knotted. In four days the six weeks Aziz had been given to marry would be up. He would lose his right to his title, and Khalil must know that. He must be waiting for a chance to seize power.

‘And then?’ she asked. ‘What will you do?’

‘That is not your concern.’

‘What will you do with me?’ Elena rephrased, and Khalil sat down in a low-slung chair richly patterned with wool, regarding her with a rather sleepy consideration over the tips of his steepled fingers. Elena felt her frayed nerves start to snap.

‘Let you go, of course.’

‘Just like that?’ She shook her head, too suspicious to feel remotely relieved. ‘You’ll be prosecuted.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You can’t just kidnap a head of state.’

‘And yet I have.’ He took a sip of juice, his gaze resting thoughtfully on her. ‘You intrigue me, Queen Elena. I must confess, I’ve wondered what kind of woman Aziz would choose as his bride.’

‘And are you satisfied?’ she snapped. Stupid. Where was her calm, her control? She’d been teetering on a tightrope for her entire reign; was she really going to fall off now?

But maybe she already had.

Khalil smiled faintly. ‘I am not remotely satisfied.’

His gaze held her and she saw a sudden gleam of masculine intent and awareness flicker in his eyes. To her surprise and shame, she felt an answering thrill of terror—and something else. Something that wasn’t fear, but rather...anticipation. Yet, of what? She wanted nothing from this man but her freedom.

‘And I won’t be satisfied,’ Khalil continued, ‘until Aziz is no longer on the throne of Kadar and I am.’

‘So you are one of the rebel insurgents Aziz mentioned.’

For a second Khalil’s gaze blazed fury but then he merely inclined his head. ‘So it would seem.’

‘Why should you be on the throne?’

‘Why should Aziz?’

‘Because he is the heir.’

Khalil glanced away, his expression veiled once more. ‘Do you know the history of Kadar, Your Highness?’

‘I’ve read something of it,’ she answered, although the truth was her knowledge of Kadaran history was sketchy at best. There hadn’t been time for more than a crash course in the heritage of the country of her future husband.

‘Did you know it was a peaceful, prosperous nation for many years—independent, even, when other countries buckled under a wider regime?’

‘Yes, I did know that.’ Aziz had mentioned it, because her own country was the same; a small island in the Aegean Sea between Turkey and Greece, Thallia had enjoyed nearly a thousand years of peaceful, independent rule.

And she would not be the one to end it.

‘Perhaps you also know, then, that Sheikh Hashem threatened the stability of Kadar with the rather unusual terms of his will?’ He turned back to her, raising his eyebrows, a little smile playing about his mouth.

Elena found her gaze quite unreasonably drawn to that mouth, to those surprisingly lush and sculpted lips. She forced herself to look upwards and met Khalil’s enquiring gaze. There was no point, she decided, in feigning ignorance. ‘Yes, I am well aware of the old Sheikh’s stipulation. It’s why I am here to marry Sheikh Aziz.’

‘Not a love match, then?’ Khalil queried sardonically and Elena stiffened.

‘I don’t believe that is any of your business.’

‘Considering you are here at my behest, I believe it is.’

She pursed her lips and said nothing. The Kadaran people believed it was a love match, although neither she nor Aziz had said as much. People believed what they wanted to believe, Elena knew, and the public liked the idea of a royal fairy-tale. If it helped to stabilise their countries, then so be it. She could go along with a little play-acting. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Khalil.

‘Pleading the fifth, I see,’ Khalil said softly. ‘I grew up in America, you know. I am not the barbarian you seem to think I am.’

She folded her arms. ‘You have yet to show me otherwise.’

‘Have I not? Yet here you are, in a comfortable chair, offered refreshment. Though I am sorry you hurt yourself.’ He gestured to her scraped knee, all solicitude. ‘Let me get you a plaster.’

‘I don’t need one.’

‘Such abrasions can easily become infected in the desert. A grain of sand lodges in the cut and, the next thing you know, it’s gone septic.’ He leaned forward, and for a moment the harshness of his face, the coldness in his eyes, was replaced by something that almost looked like gentleness. ‘Don’t be stupid, Your Highness. God knows I understand the need to fight, but you are wasting your energy arguing with me over such small matters.’

She swallowed, knowing he was right, and hating it. It was petty and childish to refuse medical care, not to mention stupid as he’d said. She nodded and Khalil rose from his chair. She watched as he strode to the entrance of the tent and spoke to one of the guards waiting outside.

Elena remained seated, her fists clenched in her lap, her heart beating hard. A few minutes later Khalil returned to the table with a cloth folded over his arm, a basin of water in one hand and a tube of ointment in the other.

‘Here we are.’

To her shock he knelt in front of her and Elena pressed back in her chair. ‘I can do it myself.’

He glanced up at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘But then you would deny me the pleasure.’

Her breath came out in a rush and she remained rigid as he gently lifted the hem of her skirt over her knee. His fingers barely brushed her leg and yet she felt as if she’d been electrocuted, her whole body jolting with sensation. Carefully Khalil dampened the cloth and then dabbed the scrape on her knee.

‘Besides,’ he murmured, ‘you might miss some sand, and I would hate to be accused of mistreating you.’

Elena didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. Every atom of her being was focused on the gentle touch of this man, his fingers sliding over her knee with a precision that wasn’t sensual, not remotely, yet...

She took a careful breath and stared at the top of his head, his hair ink-black and cut very short. She wondered if it would feel soft or bristly, and then jerked her mind back to her predicament. What on earth was she doing, thinking about his hair, reacting to his hands on her skin? This man was her enemy. The last thing, the very last thing, she should do was feel anything for him, even something as basic as physical desire.

His hand tightened on her knee and everything inside Elena flared to life.

‘I think that’s fine,’ she said stiffly, and tried to draw her leg away from Khalil’s hand.

He held up the tube of ointment. ‘Antiseptic cream. Very important.’

Gritting her teeth, she remained still while he squeezed some cream onto his fingers and then smoothed it over the cut on her knee. It stung a little, but far more painful was the kick of attraction she felt at the languorous touch of his fingers on her sensitised skin.

It was just her body’s basic physical reaction, she told herself as he rubbed circles on her knee with his thumb and her insides tightened. She’d never experienced it like this before, but then she was inexperienced in the ways of men and women. In any case, there was nothing she could do about it, so she’d ignore it. Ignore the sparks that scattered across her skin and the plunging deep in her belly. Attraction was irrelevant; she would never act on it nor allow it to cloud her judgement.

Escape from this man and his plans to ruin her marriage was her only goal now. Her only desire.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_708a7621-e758-5b60-b337-d017ecfca8b3)

KHALIL FELT ELENA’S body tense beneath his touch and wondered why he had chosen to clean the cut himself. The answer, of course, was irritatingly obvious: because he’d wanted to touch her. Because, for a moment, desire had overridden sense.

Her skin, Khalil thought, was as soft as silk. When had he last touched a woman’s skin? Seven years in the French Foreign Legion had given him more than a taste of abstinence.

Of course, the last woman he should ever think about as a lover was Queen Elena, Aziz’s intended bride. He had no intention of complicating what was already a very delicate diplomatic manoeuvre.

Kidnapping a head of state was a calculated risk, and one he’d had to take. The only way to force Aziz to call a national referendum was for him to lose his right to the throne, and the only way for that to happen was to prevent his marriage.

His father’s will, Khalil mused, had been a ridiculous piece of legal architecture that showed him for the brutal dictator he truly had been. Had he wanted to punish both his sons? Or had he, in the last days of his life, actually regretted his treatment of his first-born? Khalil would never know. But he would take the opportunity his father’s strange will offered him to seize the power that was rightfully his.

‘There you are.’ Khalil smoothed her skirt over her knee, felt her tense body relax only slightly as he eased back. ‘I see your skirt is torn. My apologies. You will be provided with new clothes.’

She stared at him, studying him as you would a specimen or, rather, an enemy: looking for weaknesses. She wouldn’t find any, but Khalil took the opportunity to gaze back at her. She was lovely, her skin like golden cream, her heavy-lidded eyes grey with tiny gold flecks. Her hair was thick and dark and gleamed in the candlelight, even though it was tangled and gritty with sand.

His gaze dropped to her lips, lush, pink and perfect. Kissable. There was that desire again, flaring deep inside him, demanding satisfaction. Khalil stood up. ‘You must be hungry, Your Highness. You should eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He took a piece of bread and tore off a bit to chew. Sitting across from her, he studied her once more. ‘I am curious as to why you agreed to marry Aziz.’ He cocked his head. ‘Not wealth, as Thallia is a prosperous enough country. Not power, since you are already a queen. And we know it isn’t for love.’

‘Maybe it is.’ Her voice was low, pleasingly husky. She met his gaze unflinchingly but he heard her breath hitch and Khalil smiled.

‘I don’t think so, Your Highness. I think you married him because you need something, and I’m wondering what it is. Your people love you. Your country is stable.’ He spread his hands, raised his eyebrows. ‘What would induce you to marry a pretender?’

‘I think you are the pretender, Khalil.’

‘You’re not the only one, alas. But you will be proved wrong.’

Her grey-gold gaze swept over him. ‘You genuinely believe you have a claim to the throne.’

His stomach knotted. ‘I know I do.’

‘How can that be? Aziz is Sheikh Hashem’s only son.’

Even though he’d long been used to such an assumption, her words poured acid on an open wound. A familiar fury rose up in him, a howl of outrage he forced back down. He smiled coldly at this woman whose careless questions tore open the barely healed scars of his past. ‘Perhaps you need to brush up on your Kadaran history. You will have plenty of time for leisure reading during your stay in the desert.’ Although he knew she wouldn’t find the truth in any books. His father had done his best to erase Khalil’s existence from history.

She stared up at him unblinkingly. ‘And if I do not wish to stay in the desert?’

‘Your presence here, I’m afraid, is non-negotiable. But rest assured, you will be afforded every comfort.’

Elena licked her lips, an innocent movement that still caused a hard kick of lust he instantly suppressed. Queen Elena was a beautiful woman; his body, long deprived of sensual pleasures, was bound to react. It didn’t mean he was going to do anything about it.

Perhaps the most attractive thing about her, though, was not her looks but her presence. Even though he knew she had to be frightened, she sat tall and proud, her grey eyes glinting challenge. He admired her determination to be strong; he shared it. Never surrender, not even when the whole world seemed to be against you, every fist raised, every lip curled in a sneer.

Had she faced opposition and hardship? She had, he knew, suffered tragedy. She’d taken the throne at nineteen years of age, when her parents had died in a terrorist bombing. She was only twenty-three now and, though she looked very young, she seemed older in her bearing, somehow. In her confidence.

She rose from her seat, every inch the elegant queen. ‘You cannot keep me here.’

He smiled; he almost felt sorry for her. ‘You’ll find that I can.’

‘Aziz will send someone to fetch me. People will be looking.’

‘Tomorrow. By that time any tracks in the desert, any evidence of where you’ve gone, will have vanished.’ He glanced towards the tent flap, which rustled in the wind. ‘It sounds as if a storm is brewing.’

Elena shook her head slowly. ‘How did you manage it? To get a false message to him, convince the pilot to land somewhere else?’

‘Not everyone is loyal to Aziz. In fact, few are outside of Siyad. You know he has not been in the country for more than a few days at a time since he was a boy?’

‘I know he is very popular in the courts of Europe.’

‘You mean the country clubs. The gentleman playboy is not so popular here.’

Elena’s eyes flashed gold. ‘That’s a ridiculous nickname, given to him by the tabloids.’

Khalil shrugged. ‘And yet it stuck.’ Aziz, the playboy of Europe, who spent his time at parties and on polo fields. He ran a business too, Khalil knew; he’d started up some financial venture that was successful, if just an excuse for him to party his way through Europe and avoid the country of his birth.

Aziz didn’t even care about Kadar, Khalil thought with a familiar spike of bitterness. He didn’t deserve to rule, even if he hadn’t been a bastard son.

‘No matter what you think of Aziz, you can’t just kidnap a queen,’ Elena stated, her chin jutting out defiantly. ‘You’d be wise to cut your losses, Khalil, and free me now. I won’t press charges.’

Khalil suppressed a laugh of genuine amusement. ‘How generous of you.’

‘You don’t want to face a tribunal,’ she insisted. ‘How can you become Sheikh if you’ve committed a crime? Caused an international incident? You will be called to account.’

‘You’ll find that is not how things are done in my country.’

‘My country, then,’ she snapped. ‘Do you think my Council, my country, will allow its queen to be kidnapped?’

He shrugged. ‘You were merely detained, Your Highness, as a necessary measure. And, since Aziz is a pretender to the throne, you should be grateful that I am preventing a marriage you would undoubtedly regret.’

‘Grateful!’ Her eyes sparked with anger. ‘What if your plan fails?’

He smiled coldly. ‘I do not consider failure a possibility.’

She shook her head slowly, her eyes like two grey-gold pools, reminding him of a sunset reflected on water. ‘You can’t do this. People don’t— World leaders don’t do this!’

‘Things are different here.’

‘Not that different, surely?’ She shook her head again. ‘You’re mad.’

Fury surged again and he took a deep, even breath. ‘No, Your Highness, I am not mad. Just determined. Now, it is late and I think you should go to your quarters. You will have a private tent here and, as I said before, every comfort possible.’ He bared his teeth in a smile. ‘Enjoy your stay in Kadar.’

* * *

Elena paced the quarters of the elegant tent Assad had escorted her to an hour ago. Khalil had been right when he’d said he’d give her every possible comfort: the spacious tent had a wide double bed on its own wooden dais, the soft mattress piled high with silk and satin covers and pillows. There were also several teak chairs and a bureau for clothes she didn’t even have.

Had they brought her luggage from the jet? She doubted it. Not that she’d even brought much to Kadar. She’d only been intending to stay for three days: a quiet ceremony, a quick honeymoon and then a return to Thallia to introduce Aziz to her people.

And now none of it would happen. Unless someone rescued her or she managed to escape, prospects she deemed quite unlikely, her marriage to Aziz would not take place. If he did not marry within the six weeks, he would be forced to relinquish his claim to the throne. He wouldn’t need her then, but unfortunately she still needed him.

Still needed a husband, a Prince Consort, and before the convening of the Council next month.

Elena sank onto an embroidered chair and dropped her head into her hands. Even now she couldn’t believe she was here, that she’d actually been kidnapped.

Yet why shouldn’t she believe it? Hadn’t the worst in her life happened before? For a second she remembered the sound of the explosion ringing in her ears, the terrible weight of her father’s lifeless body on top of hers.

And, even after that awful day, from the moment she’d taken the throne she’d been dogged by disaster, teetering on the precipice of ruin. Led by Markos, the stuffy, sanctimonious men of the Thallian Council had sought to discredit and even disown her. They didn’t want a single young woman as ruler of Thallia. They didn’t want her.

She’d spent so much time trying to prove herself to the men of her Council who questioned her every action, doubted her every word. Who assumed she was flighty, silly and irresponsible, all because of one foolish mistake made when she’d been just nineteen and overwhelmed by grief and loneliness.

Nearly four years on, all the good she’d done for her country—all the appearances she’d made, the charities she’d supported and the bills she’d helped draft—counted for nothing. At least, not in Markos’s eyes. And the rest of the Council would be led by him, even in this day and age. Thallia was a traditional country. They wanted a man as their head of state.

Tears pricked under her lids and she blinked them back furiously. She wasn’t a little girl, to cry over a cut knee. She was a woman, a woman who’d had to prove she possessed the power and strength of a man for four endless, stormy years.

It couldn’t end now like this, just because some crazed rebel had decided he was the rightful heir to the throne.

Except, Elena had to acknowledge, Khalil hadn’t seemed crazed. He’d been coldly composed, utterly assured. Yet how could he be the rightful heir? And did he really think he could snatch the throne from under Aziz’s nose? When she didn’t show up in Siyad, when the Kadaran diplomat who had accompanied her sounded the alarm, Aziz would come looking. And he’d find her, because he was as desperate as she was.

Although, considering she was being held captive in the middle of the desert, perhaps she was now a little more desperate than Aziz.

He could, she realised with a terrible, sinking sensation, find another willing bride. Why shouldn’t he? They’d met only a handful of times. The marriage had been her idea. He could still find someone else, although he’d have to do it pretty quickly.

Had Khalil thought of that? What was preventing Aziz from just grabbing some random woman and marrying her to fulfil the terms of his father’s will?

Elena rose from the chair and once more restlessly paced the elegant confines of her tent. Outside the night was dark, the only sound the sweep of the sand and the low nickering of the tethered horses.

She had to talk to Khalil again and convince him to release her. That was her best chance.

Filled with grim determination, Elena whirled around and stalked to the opening of her tent, pulled the cloth aside and stepped out into the desert night, only to have two guards step quickly in front of her, their bodies as impenetrable as a brick wall. She gazed at their blank faces, at the rifles strapped to their chests, and lifted her chin.

‘I want to speak to Khalil.’

‘He is occupied, Your Highness.’ The guard’s voice was both bland and implacable; he didn’t move.

‘With something more important than securing the throne?’ she shot back. The wind blew her hair about her face and impatiently she shoved it back. ‘I have information he’ll want to hear,’ she stated firmly. ‘Information that will affect his—his intentions.’

The two guards stared at her impassively, utterly unmoved by her argument. ‘Please return to the tent, Your Highness,’ one of them said flatly. ‘The wind is rising.’

‘Tell Khalil he needs to speak to me,’ she tried again, and this time, to her own immense irritation, she heard a pleading note enter her voice. ‘Tell him there are things I know, things he hasn’t considered.’

One of the guards placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and Elena stiffened under it. ‘Don’t touch me.’

‘For your own safety, Your Highness, you must return to the tent.’ And, pushing her around, he forced her back into the tent as if she were a small child being marched to her room.

* * *

Khalil sat at the teakwood table in his private tent and with one lean finger traced the route through the desert from the campsite to Siyad. Three hundred miles. Three hundred miles to victory.

Reluctantly, yet unable to keep himself from it, he let his gaze flick to a corner of the map, an inhospitable area of bleak desert populated by a single nomadic tribe: his mother’s people.

He knew Abdul-Hafiz was dead, and the people of his mother’s tribe now supported him as the rightful ruler of Kadar. Yet though they’d even named him as Sheikh of their tribe, he hadn’t been back yet to receive the honour. He couldn’t face returning to that barren bit of ground where he’d suffered for three long years.

His stomach still clenched when he looked at that corner of the map, and in his mind’s eye he pictured Abdul-Hafiz’s cruel face, his thin lips twisted into a mocking sneer as he raised the whip above Khalil’s cringing form.

‘The woman is asking for you.’

Khalil turned away from the map to see Assad standing in the doorway of his tent, the flaps drawn closed behind him.

‘Queen Elena? Why?’

‘She claims she has information.’

‘What kind of information?’

Assad shrugged. ‘Who knows? She is desperate, and most likely lying.’

Khalil drummed his fingers against the table. Elena was indeed desperate, and that made her reckless. Defiant. No doubt her bid to speak to him was some kind of ploy; perhaps she thought she could argue her way to freedom. It would be better, he knew, to ignore her request. Spend as little time as possible with the woman who was already proving to be an unwanted temptation.

‘It is worth investigating,’ he said after a moment. ‘I’ll see her.’

‘Shall I summon her?’

‘No, don’t bother. I’ll go to her tent.’ Khalil rose from his chair, ignoring the anticipation that uncurled low in his belly at the thought of seeing Queen Elena again.

The wind whipped against him, stinging his face with grains of sand as he walked across the campsite to Elena’s tent. Around him men hunkered down by fires or tended to their weapons or animals. At the sight of all this industry, all this loyalty, something both swelled and ached inside Khalil.

This was, he knew, the closest thing he’d had to family in twenty-nine years.

Dimah was family, of course, and he was incredibly thankful for what she’d done for him. She had, quite literally, saved him: provided for him, supported him, believed in him.

Yes, he owed Dimah a great deal. But she’d never understood what drove him, how much he needed to reclaim his inheritance, his very self. These men did.

Shaking off such thoughts, he strode towards Elena’s tent, waving the guards aside as he drew back the flaps, only to come up short.

Elena was in the bath.

The intimacy of the moment struck him like a fist to the heart: the endless darkness outside, the candlelight flickering over the golden skin of her back, the only sound the slosh of the water against the sides of the deep copper tub as Elena washed herself—and then the hiss of his sudden, indrawn breath as a wave of lust crashed over him with the force of a tsunami.

She stiffened, the sponge dropping from her hand, and turned her head so their gazes met. Clashed. She didn’t speak, didn’t even move, and neither did Khalil. The moment spun out between them, a moment taut with expectation and yet beautiful in its simplicity.

She was beautiful, the elegant shape of her back reminding him of the sinuous curves of a cello. A single tendril of dark hair lay against the nape of her neck; the rest was piled on top of her head.

As if from a great distance Khalil registered her shuddering breath and knew she was frightened. Shame scorched him and he spun on his heel.

‘I beg your pardon. I did not realise you were bathing. I’ll wait outside.’ He pushed outside the tent, the guards coming quickly to flank him, but he just shook his head and brushed them off. Lust still pulsed insistently inside him, an ache in his groin. He folded his arms across his chest and willed his body’s traitorous reaction to recede. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he could not banish the image of Elena’s golden perfection from his mind.

After a few endless minutes he heard a rustling behind him and Elena appeared, dressed in a white towelling robe that thankfully covered her from neck to toe.

‘You may come in.’ Her voice was husky, her cheeks flushed—although whether from the heat of the bath or their unexpected encounter he didn’t know.

Khalil stepped inside the tent. Elena had already retreated to the far side, the copper tub between them like a barrier, her slight body swallowed up by the robe.

‘I’m sorry,’ Khalil said. ‘I didn’t know you were in the bath.’

‘So you said.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘Why should I believe anything you say?’ she retorted. ‘You haven’t exactly been acting in an honourable fashion.’

Khalil drew himself up, any traces of desire evaporating in the face of her obvious scorn. ‘And it would be honourable to allow my country to be ruled by a pretender?’

‘A pretender?’ She shook her head in derisive disbelief, causing a few more tendrils of hair to fall against her cheek. Khalil’s hand twitched with the sudden, absurd urge to touch her, to brush those strands away from her face. He clenched his hand into a fist instead.

‘Aziz is not the rightful heir to the throne.’

‘I don’t care!’ she cried, her voice ringing out harsh and desperate. Khalil felt any soft longings in him harden, crystallise into determination. Of course she didn’t care.

‘I realise that, Your Highness,’ he answered shortly. ‘Although why you wish to marry Aziz is not clear to me. Power, perhaps.’ He let her hear the contempt in his voice but she didn’t respond to it, except to give one weary laugh.

‘Power? I suppose you could say that.’ She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them he was surprised to see so much bleak despair reflected in their grey-gold depths. ‘All I meant was, none of it really matters to me, being here. I understand this—this conflict is very important to you. But keeping me here won’t accomplish your goal.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘No.’ Her mouth twisted in something like a smile. ‘Aziz will just marry someone else. He still has four days.’

‘I’m aware of the time that is left.’ He regarded her thoughtfully, the bleakness still apparent in her eyes, the set of her shoulders and mouth both determined and courageous. He felt another flicker of admiration as well as a surge of curiosity. Why had she agreed to marry Aziz? What could such a marriage possibly give her?

‘So why keep me here?’ she pressed. ‘If he can fulfil the terms of his father’s will with another woman?’

‘Because he won’t.’

‘But he will. We barely know each other. We’ve only met once before.’

‘I know.’

‘Then why do you think he would be loyal to me?’ she asked and he felt a sudden flash of compassion as well as understanding, because he’d asked that question so many times himself. Why would anyone be loyal to him? Why should he trust anyone?

The person he’d loved most in the world had betrayed and rejected him utterly.

‘To be frank,’ he told her, ‘I don’t think loyalty is the issue. Politics are.’

‘Exactly. So he’ll just marry someone else.’

‘And alienate his people even more? They love the idea of this wedding. They love it more than they do Aziz. And if he were to discard one woman for another...’ As our father did. No, he had no wish to divulge that information to Elena just yet. He took a quick breath. ‘It would not be popular. It would destabilise his rule even more.’

‘But if he’s going to lose his crown anyway...’

‘But he won’t, not necessarily. Did he not tell you?’ Uncertainty flashed across her features and Khalil curved his mouth in a grim smile. ‘The will states that, if Aziz does not marry within six weeks, he must call a national referendum. The people will then choose the new sheikh.’

She stared at him, her eyes widening. ‘And you think that will be you?’

He let out a hard laugh. ‘Don’t sound so sceptical.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I told you, the next ruler of Kadar.’ Her gaze moved over his face searchingly, and he saw despair creep back into her eyes.

‘But Aziz could still go ahead and marry someone else while I’m stuck here in the desert. What happens then?’

‘If he does that, it might lead to a civil war. I don’t think he wishes for that to happen. Admittedly, Your Highness, I am taking a risk. You are right in saying that Aziz could marry someone else. But I don’t think he will.’

‘Why not just meet him and ask him to call the referendum?’

He shook his head. ‘Because he knows he won’t win it.’

‘And if it comes to war? Are you prepared?’

‘I will do what I must to secure my country’s rule. Make no mistake about that, Queen Elena.’ She flinched slightly at his implacable tone and something in Khalil softened just a little. None of this was Elena’s fault. She was a casualty of a conflict that didn’t involve her. In any other circumstance, he would have applauded her courage and determination.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a pause. ‘I realise your plans to marry Aziz have been upset. But, considering how they were made so recently, I’m sure you’ll recover.’ He didn’t mean to sound quite so cutting, but he knew he did, and he saw her flinch again.

She looked away, her gaze turning distant. ‘You think so?’ she said, not really a question, and again he heard the bleak despair and wondered at its source.

‘I know so, Your Highness. I don’t know why you decided to marry Aziz, but since it wasn’t for love your heart is hardly broken.’

‘And you know about broken hearts?’ she answered with another weary laugh. ‘You don’t even seem to have one.’

‘Perhaps I don’t. But you didn’t love him?’ That was a question, of a sort. He was curious, even if he didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to know more about Elena, to wonder about her motives or her heart.

And yet still he asked.

‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘Of course I didn’t—don’t—love him. I barely know him. We met twice, for a couple of hours.’ She shook her head, let out a long, defeated sigh, and then seemed to come to herself, straightening again, her eyes flashing once more. ‘But I have your word you will release me after four days?’

‘Yes. You have my word.’ She relaxed slightly then, even as he stiffened. ‘You don’t think I’d hurt you?’

‘Why shouldn’t I? Kidnappers are usually capable of other crimes.’

‘As I explained, this was a necessary evil, Your Highness, nothing more.’

‘And what else will be a necessary evil, Khalil?’ she answered back. He didn’t like the hopelessness he saw in her eyes; it was as if the spark that had lit her from within had died out. He missed it. ‘When you justify one thing, it becomes all too easy to justify another.’

‘You sound as if you speak from experience.’

‘I do.’

‘Your own.’

A pause and her mouth firmed and tightened. ‘Of sorts.’

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but then closed it abruptly. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t need to understand this woman; he simply needed her to stay put for a handful of days. He was sorry, more or less, for her disappointment. But that was all it was, a disappointment. An inconvenience, really. Her future, her very life, was not riding on a marriage to a stranger.

Not like his was.

‘I promise I will not hurt you. And in four days you will be free.’ She simply stared at him and, with one terse nod, he dismissed her, leaving the tent without another word.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_ba31610b-cae7-52f9-b92a-f818d0415ad6)

ELENA WOKE SLOWLY, blinking in the bright sunlight that filtered through the small gap in the tent’s flaps. Her body ached with tiredness; her mind had spun and seethed all night and she hadn’t fallen asleep until some time near dawn.

Now she stretched and stared up at the rippling canvas of the tent, wondering what this day would bring.

She’d spent hours last night considering her options. She’d wondered if she could steal someone’s mobile phone, make contact. Yet who would she call—the operator, to connect her to the Kadaran palace? Her Head of Council, who would probably be delighted by the news of her capture? In any case, she most likely couldn’t get a signal out here.

Then she’d wondered if she could make a friend of one of the guards, get him to help her. That seemed even less likely; both of the guards she’d met had appeared utterly unmoved by her predicament.

Could she cause a fire, so its smoke might be caught by a satellite, a passing helicopter or plane?

Each possibility seemed more ludicrous than the last, and yet she refused to admit defeat. Giving in would mean losing her crown.

But the longer she stayed here, the more likely it was Aziz would marry someone else, no matter what Khalil said or thought. Or, even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t marry her. Maybe he would call this referendum and win the vote. He wouldn’t need her at all.

But she still needed him, needed someone to marry her in the next month as she’d promised her Council, someone she was willing to marry, to father her children...

The thought caused her stomach to churn and her heart to sink. Her plan to marry Aziz had been desperate; finding another groom was outlandish. What was she going to do?

Sighing, she rose from the bed. A female voice sounded outside her tent, and a second later a woman entered, smiling and bearing a pitcher of fresh water.

‘Good morning, Your Highness,’ she said, ducking a quick curtsey, and Elena murmured back her own greeting, wondering if this woman might be the ally she was looking for.

The sight of the water in the woman’s hands reminded her of her bath last night—and Khalil seeing her in it. Even now she felt her insides clench with a nameless emotion at the memory of his arrested look. The heat in his eyes had burned her with both pleasure and pain. To be desired, it was a fearsome thing—exciting, yes, but terrifying too, especially from a man like Khalil.

It had been foolish, she supposed, to take a bath, but when the two surly, silent guards had brought in the huge copper tub and filled it with steaming water, Elena had been unable to resist.

She’d been tired and sandy, every muscle aching with physical as well as emotional fatigue, and the thought of slipping into the rose-scented water, petals floating on top, had been incredibly appealing. A good wash would clear her head as well as clean her body and Khalil, she’d assumed, would not see her again that night.

And yet he’d seen her... Oh, how he’d seen her. She blushed to remember it, even though logically she knew he couldn’t have seen much. The high sides of the tub would have kept her body from his sight, and in any case her back had been to him.

Even so she remembered the feel of his stilled gaze on her, the heat and intensity of it and, more alarmingly, her own answering response, everything inside her tightening and tautening, waiting...

‘Is there anything else you need, Your Highness?’ the woman asked, her voice pleasantly accented.

Yes, Elena thought, my freedom. She forced a smile. She needed this woman to be her friend. ‘This is lovely, thank you. Were you the one who arranged the bath last night?’

The woman ducked her head. ‘Yes, I thought you would like a wash.’

‘It was wonderful, thank you.’ Elena’s mind raced. ‘Where do you get the water? Is there an oasis here?’

‘Yes, just beyond the rocks.’

‘Is it very private? I’d love to have a swim some time, if I could.’

The woman smiled. ‘If Sheikh Khalil approves, then I’m sure you could. It is lovely for swimming.’

‘Thank you.’ Elena didn’t know if the oasis might provide her with an opportunity either to escape or attempt some kind of distraction to alert anyone who might be looking for her, but at least it was an option, a chance. Now she just had to get Khalil to agree to let her have a swim.

‘When you are ready, you may break your fast outside,’ the woman said. ‘Sheikh Khalil is waiting.’

That was the second time the woman had called Khalil ‘sheikh’. Was he a sheikh in his own right, Elena wondered, or did she already consider him as having the throne of Kadar? She wanted to ask Khalil just what made him feel so sure of his position, but she knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to know more about this man or, heaven forbid, find some sympathy for him. Her physical awareness of him was alarming enough.

A few minutes later, dressed in a pair of khakis and a plain button-down shirt that had been provided for her, her hair neatly plaited, Elena stepped out of her tent.

The brilliance of the desert sun, the hard, bright blue of the sky and the perfect clarity of the air left her breathless for a moment. She was dazzled by the austere beauty of the desert, even though she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to feel anything for any of it.

Khalil was eating by himself under an awning that had been set up above a raised wooden platform. He rose as she approached.

‘Please. Sit.’

‘Thank you.’ She perched on the edge of a chair and Khalil arched an amused eyebrow.

‘Courteous today, are we?’

Elena shrugged. ‘I choose my battles.’

‘I look forward to the next one.’ He poured her coffee from an ornate brass pot; it looked thick and dark and smelled of cardamom. ‘This is Kadaran coffee,’ he told her. ‘Have you ever tried it?’

She shook her head and took a tentative sip; the taste was strong but not unpleasant. Khalil nodded his approval. ‘Would you have taken on Kadaran ways, if you’d become Aziz’s bride?’

Elena stiffened. ‘I could still become his bride, you know. He might find me.’

The look Khalil gave her was arrogant and utterly assured. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Your Highness.’

‘Yours certainly seem high enough.’

He shrugged, one powerful shoulder lifting slightly, muscles rippling underneath the linen thobe he wore. ‘As I told you before, the people of Kadar do not support Aziz.’

Surely he was exaggerating? Elena thought. Aziz had mentioned some instability, but not that he was an unpopular ruler. ‘Outside of Siyad, you said,’ she recalled. ‘And why wouldn’t they support him? He’s the Sheikh’s only son, and the succession has always been dynastic.’

Khalil’s mouth tightened, his tawny eyes flashing fire before he shrugged again. ‘Maybe you should take my advice and brush up on your Kadaran history.’

‘And is there a book you suggest I read?’ She raised her eyebrows, tried to moderate her tone. She was not doing herself any favours, arguing with him. ‘Perhaps one I can take out of the library?’ she added, in a poor attempt at levity.

Khalil’s mouth twitched in a smile of what Elena suspected was genuine amusement. It lightened and softened him somehow, made him even more attractive than when he was cold and forbidding. ‘I have a small library of books with me. I’ll be happy to lend you one, although you won’t find the answers you’re looking for in a book.’

‘Where will I find them, then?’

He hesitated and for a moment Elena thought he was going to say something else, something important. Then he shook his head. ‘I don’t think any answers would satisfy you, Your Highness, not right now. But when you’re ready to listen, and consider there might be more to this story than what you’ve been told by Aziz, perhaps I’ll enlighten you.’

‘I should be so lucky,’ she retorted, but for the first time since meeting Khalil she felt a flicker of real uncertainty. He was so sure. What if his claim had some legitimacy?

But, no, he was an insurgent. An impostor. He had to be. Anything else was unthinkable.

To her surprise Khalil leaned forward, placed his hand over hers. Elena stiffened under that small touch and it seemed as if the solid warmth of his hand spread throughout her whole body. ‘You don’t want to be curious,’ he murmured. ‘But you are.’

‘Why should I be curious about a criminal?’ she snapped, and he just smiled and removed his hand.

‘Remember what I said. There is another side to the story.’ He turned to go and Elena stared at him in frustration; she’d completely missed her opportunity to ask him about the oasis.

‘And what am I meant to do for four days?’ she called. ‘Are you going to keep me imprisoned in my tent?’

‘Only if you are foolish enough to attempt to escape.’ Khalil turned to face her, his voice and face both hard once more.

‘And if I did?’

‘I would find you, hopefully before you were dead.’

‘Charming.’

‘The desert is a dangerous place. Regardless of the scorpions and snakes, a storm can arise in a matter of minutes and bury a tent, never mind a man, in seconds.’

‘I know that.’ She pressed her lips together and stared down at her plate; Khalil had served her some fresh fruit, dates, figs and succulent slices of melon. She picked up a fork and toyed with a bit of papaya.

‘So I may trust you won’t attempt an escape?’ Khalil asked.

‘Do you want me to promise?’

‘No,’ he answered after a moment. ‘I don’t trust promises. I just don’t want your death on my conscience.’

‘How thoughtful of you,’ Elena answered sardonically. ‘I’m touched.’

To her surprise he smiled again, revealing a surprising dimple in one cheek. ‘I thought you would be.’

‘So, if I’m not stupid enough to try and escape, may I go outside?’ she asked. ‘The woman who brought me water said there was an oasis here.’ She held her breath, tried to keep her face bland.

‘You mean Leila, Assad’s wife. And, yes, you may go to the oasis if you like. Watch out for snakes.’

She nodded, her heart thumping with both victory and relief. She had a plan. She could finally do something.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ she asked, her gaze sliding to the horses that were being saddled nearby. If Khalil was gone, all the better.

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘To meet with some of the Bedouin tribes in this area of the desert.’

‘Rallying support?’ she queried, an edge to her voice, and he lifted his eyebrows.

‘Remember what I said about arguing?’

‘How was that arguing? I’m not going to just give up, if that’s what you want. “Attack is the secret of defence”,’ she quoted recklessly. ‘“Defence is the planning of an attack”.’

Khalil nodded, a slight smile on his lips. ‘The Art of War by Sun Tzu,’ he said. ‘Impressive.’ She simply stared at him, chin jutted out, and he quoted back at her, ‘“He who knows when he can fight and when he cannot will be victorious”.’

‘Exactly.’

He laughed softly, shaking his head. ‘So you think you can win in this situation, Your Highness, despite all I’ve said?’

‘“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting”.’

He cocked his head, his gaze sweeping over her almost lazily. ‘And how do you intend to subdue me?’

Surely he hadn’t meant those words to have a sensual intent, a sexual innuendo, yet somehow they had. Elena felt it in the warmth that stole through her body, turning her bones liquid and her mind to mush.

Khalil held her gaze, his eyes glowing gold and she simply stared back, unable to reply or even think. Finally her brain sputtered back into gear and she forced out, ‘“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night”.’

‘Clearly you’ve studied him well. It makes me curious, since your country has been at peace for nearly a thousand years.’

‘There are different kinds of wars.’ And the war she fought was scarily subtle: a murmured word, a whispered rumour. She was constantly on the alert for an attack.

‘So there are. And I pray, Your Highness, that this war for the throne of Kadar might be fought without a single drop of blood being spilled.’

‘You don’t think Aziz will fight you?’

‘I hope he knows better. Now, enough. I must ride. I hope you enjoy your day.’

With that he strode towards the horses, his body dark and powerful against the brilliant blue sky, the blazing sun. When he had gone Elena felt, absurdly, as if something was missing that she’d both wanted and enjoyed.

* * *

After Khalil had left, riding off into the desert with several of his men, great clouds of dust and sand billowing behind them, Elena went back to her tent. To her surprise, she saw a book—The Making of Modern Kadar—had been placed on her bedside table. Was Khalil being thoughtful, she wondered, or mocking?

Curious, she flipped through the book. She already knew the basics of Kadar’s history: its many years of peace, isolated as it was on a remote peninsula, jutting out into the Arabian Sea. While war had passed it by, so had technology, and for centuries it had remained as it had always been, a cluster of tribal communities with little interest beyond their nomadic life of shepherding. Then, in the early 1800s, Sheikh Ahmad al Bakir, the great-great-grandfather of Hashem, had united the tribes and created a monarchy. He’d ruled Kadar for nearly fifty years, and since then there had only been peace and prosperity.

None of it told her why Khalil believed he was the rightful ruler and not Aziz, Hashem’s only son. The book didn’t even hint at any insurgency or civil unrest; if it was to be believed, nothing had caused so much as a flicker of unease in the peaceful, prosperous rule of the House of al Bakir.

She tossed the book aside, determined not to wonder any more about Khalil. She didn’t need to know whether his claim had any merit. She wasn’t going to care.

She just wanted to get out of here, however she could. Resolutely, she went in search of Leila. The guards outside her tent summoned her, and Leila was happy to show her the way to the oasis. She even brought Elena a swimming costume and a packed lunch. It was all so civilised, Elena almost felt guilty at her deception.

Almost.

Alone in her tent, she searched for what she needed. The legs of the table were too thick, but the chairs might do.

Kneeling on the floor of the tent, the sound muffled by a pillow, she managed to snap several slats from the back of a chair. She stuffed the slats in the bag with the picnic and with her head held high walked out of the tent.

The guards let her pass and Leila directed her down a worn path that wound between two towering boulders.

‘“Threading the needle”, it’s called,’ Leila said, for the path between the rocks was incredibly narrow. ‘It is a beautiful spot. See for yourself.’

‘And you’re not worried I’ll make a run for it?’ Elena asked, trying to keep her voice light. Leila’s face softened in sympathy, causing another flash of guilt that she ruthlessly pushed away. These people were her captors, no matter how kind Leila was being. And she had to escape somehow.

‘I know this is difficult for you, Your Highness, but the Sheikh is a good man. He is protecting you from an unhappy marriage, whether you realise it or not.’

Now that was putting quite a spin on things. ‘I wasn’t aware that Khalil was concerned with the happiness of my marriage,’ Elena answered. ‘Only with being Sheikh.’

‘He is Sheikh already, of one of the desert tribes,’ Leila answered. ‘And he is the rightful heir to the throne of Kadar. A great injustice was done to him, and it is finally time to make it right.’

Again Elena felt that uncomfortable flicker of uncertainty. Leila sounded so sure...as sure as Khalil. ‘What injustice?’ she asked before she could think better of it. Leila shook her head.

‘It is not for me to say. But if you had married Aziz, Your Highness, you would have been marrying an impostor. Very few people outside of Siyad believe Aziz should be Sheikh.’

It was what Khalil had said, yet Elena could not accept it. ‘But why?’

Leila’s forehead creased in a troubled frown. ‘You must ask Sheikh Khalil—’

‘He’s not really Sheikh,’ Elena interjected, unable to keep herself from it. ‘Not of Kadar. Not yet.’

‘But he should be,’ Leila said quietly, and to Elena she sounded utterly certain. ‘Ask him,’ the older woman advised. ‘He will tell you the truth.’

But did she want to know the truth? Elena wondered as she walked between the towering rocks towards the oasis. If Khalil had a legitimate claim to the throne, what did it mean for her—and her marriage?

Would she still marry Aziz if he wasn’t the rightful Sheikh? Would her Council even want her to? The point, Elena reminded herself, was most likely moot—unless she got out of here.

After walking between the boulders she emerged onto a flat rock overlooking a small, shimmering pool shaded by palm trees. The sun sparkled on the water as if on a metal plate, the sky brilliant blue above. The air was hot, dry and still, perfect for a swim.

She glanced around, wondering if the guards had followed her, but she could see no one. Just in case, she made a show of putting down her bag, spreading her towel on the rock. She slathered herself with sunscreen before she stripped down to the plain black swimming costume Leila had provided.

She glanced around again; she was definitely alone. No one had followed her from the camp.

And why should anyone? She was but a five-minute walk from her tent, in the middle of the desert, the middle of nowhere. In every direction the desert stretched, endless sand and towering black rocks, both bleak and beautiful.

There was, Elena knew, nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait and hope that Aziz found her.

Or send a signal.

She reached for her bag and took out the slats she’d broken from the chair. A few weedy-looking plants grew by the oasis’s edge, and she took them and made a small, rather pathetic-looking pile. She wasn’t going to get much of a blaze from this, Elena realised disconsolately, but it would have to do. It was her only chance. If someone saw the smoke from her fire, they might investigate, might look for her.

Resolutely, she started rubbing the sticks together.

Fifteen minutes later she had blisters on both hands and the sticks were a little warm. She hadn’t seen so much as a spark. Frustrated, she laid the sticks aside and rose from the rock. The air was hot and still and the shimmering waters of the oasis looked extremely inviting.

Balancing on her tiptoes, she executed a neat dive into the pool. The water closed around her, cool and refreshing, and she swam under water for a few metres before she surfaced, treading water, not knowing what was on the bottom and not particularly wishing to touch it with her bare feet.

Even if she managed to start a fire, she thought, what would distinguish it from any other camp fire? She’d have to get a really big blaze going for someone to take notice. She’d have to set the whole camp on fire.

Her plan, Elena realised, was ridiculous. The sense of purpose that had buoyed her all morning left her in a depressing rush. Yet even so she decided to try again. It wasn’t as if she had many, or any, other options.

She swam to the side of the oasis and hauled herself, dripping, onto the rock ledge. Drying herself off, she knelt before the sticks again and started to rub.

Five minutes later she saw the first tiny spark kindle between the sticks. Hope leapt in her chest and she rubbed harder; some of the dried plants and leaves she’d gathered caught the spark and the first small flame flickered. She let out a cry of triumph.

‘Don’t move.’

Everything in Elena stilled at the sound of that low, deadly voice. She looked up, her heart lurching against her ribs at the sight of Khalil standing just a few feet away. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth thinned, everything about him tense and still.

Her heart started to pound and then it seemed to stop completely as Khalil slowly, steadily, raised the pistol he’d been holding and pointed it straight at her.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_e66641d0-6b6e-583d-83d5-3c74a559d19d)

THE SOUND OF the pistol firing echoed through the still air, bounced off the boulders and rippled the still waters of the oasis.

Dispassionately Khalil watched as the snake leapt and twisted in the air before falling a few feet away, dead.

He turned back to look at Elena and swore softly when he saw her sway, her face drained of colour, her pupils dilated with terror. Without even considering what he was doing, or why, he strode forward, caught her in his arms and drew her shuddering body to his chest.

‘I killed it, Elena,’ he said as he stroked her dark hair. ‘It’s dead. You don’t need to be afraid now.’

She pushed away from him, her whole body still trembling. ‘What’s dead?’

Khalil stared at her for several seconds as the meaning of her question penetrated. He swore again. ‘I shot the snake! Did you not see it, but three feet from you, and ready to strike?’

She just stared at him with wide, blank eyes, and forcibly he took her jaw in his hand and turned her head so she could see the dead viper. She blanched, drawing her breath in a ragged gasp.

‘I thought...’

‘You thought I was aiming at you?’ Khalil finished flatly. His stomach churned with a sour mix of guilt and anger. ‘How could you think such a thing?’ He didn’t wait for her answer, for he knew what it would be: because you kidnapped me. ‘I promised you I wouldn’t hurt you.’





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