Книга - Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen
CAROL MARINELLI


A virgin bride for His Majesty’s pleasure About to lose his kingdom, Xavian is marrying for power – his wedding night will be purely for duty. As he unveils his new queen, nervous and naked, bathed in fragrant oils, he’s stunned that she’s as beautiful as the desert stars…This queen deserves a royal bedding worthy of the Arabian Nights…and in her arms Xavian discovers that, though he may not have a kingdom, he has the strength and power of a thousand kings. But this untouched queen could be his undoing…







Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked—‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’—but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Carol also writes for Medical™ Romance!





Wedlocked:

Banished Sheikh,

Untouched Queen


BY




Carol Marinelli











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




Dear Reader


I love linking characters, really getting to know them and following their development through different stories and situations.



I first met Xavian at the end of the Royal House of Karedes mini-series. I could vividly picture him, and really wanted to write his story, so I was thrilled when I was asked to write the opening book for the Dark-Hearted Desert Men quartet.

At first I couldn’t imagine being in Xavian’s situation—a charismatic, powerful king who has everything, and I mean everything, taken from him. In fact, the more I explored his situation the more I understood how dire it must feel for him. Xavian was probably entitled to a little ‘woe is me’, and if I was nice I would have given him a supremely understanding heroine. But I’m not that nice—and, anyway, that would have been too easy. Layla is complex and sexy and powerful in her own right, and I loved getting to know her and watching the sparks fly between them—actually, their relationship sizzles so much that I suggest a fan.



They really were two wonderful characters to write, and I was more than a little sad to say goodbye— however, there are three sexy cousins still to come in this series, each with a fantastic story of their own, so I’m cheered to know that I don’t have to say farewell to the Kingdom of Qusay just yet.



Happy reading



Carol Marinelli x




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u07d63a74-4736-594b-94ac-0e620ed7cdca)

About The Author (#uafa71801-bf72-5ab2-b425-a3ac5f15701b)

Title Page (#u328ec279-ba7f-5be6-873d-999a3bf1d36c)

Dearreader (#u04adeb93-2844-5529-bb61-c8122ce7cbe9)

Prologue (#ubfe5959c-5ddb-5076-981d-9fa9b49340a2)

Chapter One (#ucf9d8c28-bddf-5982-831a-0fd89609e855)

Chapter Two (#ue56e5684-c6fd-5867-95e1-9b903416a3ae)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

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)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Preview (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


LAYLA did not close her eyes as the handmaidens veiled her. Instead, she watched in the mirror as, one by one, her generous cleavage, her pale legs and the delicate henna tattoos disappeared beneath the golden layers of the jewelled gold dress. Then she stared as her long raven hair and her made-up face, her rouged cheeks and full lips also disappeared—till all that was left were her eyes.

Eyes that blinked nervously as the realisation hit— when these veils were removed, this time there would be none of the usual relief. It would not mean she was home at her palace in Haydar, where she could relax. No, when these veils were removed it would be before her new husband—she would be in the Qusay Desert, on her wedding night.

King Xavian Al’ Ramiz, the man she had been betrothed to since her childhood, had after all these years decided to honour that commitment and finally summoned her to be his bride.

He had kept her waiting—and, more importantly for Layla, he had kept her country waiting.

Her life had been—was—but a holding pattern.

Layla was the eldest of seven girls. Her mother had died trying to produce a male heir—Layla had heard the sobs and anger as each gruelling birth yielded yet another poor crop—and the deeply traditional Haydar people had, with each birth, further balked at the idea of being ruled by a queen.

Ah, but her father had been wise. A deal had been brokered many years ago with the King of Qusay, whose marriage had produced only one son, that the two would marry. Xavian would step in and appease the people of Haydar, and of course they would produce a son—who would one day rule both lands.

Since the union had not been forthcoming, on her father’s death Layla had become Queen. The elders had wanted her to rule in name only, so that they could advise her and keep the ways of the people safe, but she’d intended to take her role seriously. She had asserted herself—refusing to sign or add voice to anything that she didn’t agree with.

And as for her early betrothal—why, Xavian had been too busy being a bachelor to give up his ways. It had taken his parents’ death to force his hand—and she had grown up a lot while waiting for his summons to marry. Layla had ruled her land her way, and responsibility had made her wise. Xavian had left it too late to demand compliance, for she would not lie down now and meekly hand it all over to a man who had no real interest in either her kingdom or in her as a wife.

His parents’ recent death had clearly prompted an urgent reappraisal, and the playboy Prince had returned from Europe and stepped magnificently into the role of King of Qusay. A born leader, despite his private loss, he was leading his people through grief-stricken times—Layla knew, because Layla had watched. They had never once spoken, she had seen him only from a distance and merely heard about his decadent ways, but more recently she had made time in her busy schedule to follow him more closely—recording and watching his speeches, which were eloquent and commanding. He was Prince Xavian no more, but a true king.

And a king needed a bride.

It was a business deal.

Layla was aware of that, and yet as she had watched him from afar, watched the man who would one day be her husband live his wild, debauched ways, she had been jealous rather than angry. Jealous that it was all right for Xavian to take lovers, to live wild and free, while she waited.

She was twenty-six.

And tonight, finally, it was her turn.

Tonight, whether or not it was a business arrangement, a convenient betrothal, even if they would for the most part spend their lives apart, tonight he would take her to the Qusay Desert.

Tonight Layla would face her husband…She was suddenly glad of the veils, because beneath them she blushed…Tonight King Xavian Al’ Ramiz would become her lover.

Her only lover.

Bizarrely, she wished that he were just a little less good-looking, that the face she had tracked in newspapers, on television and on the Internet did not have such brooding, haughty appeal. How she had scrutinised his features—pausing the footage at times and catching her breath as his black eyes stared back at her. He looked royal—from the straight Roman nose to the razored cheekbones, to the lush, thick black hair that fell into perfect shape. He was from good lineage.

He had an aura too—a natural confidence, a presence that surrounded him. She herself had witnessed it, unseen from a distance, when their schedules had had them attending the same functions. Layla, hidden behind a veil, had watched her husband-to-be, hoping those black eyes might seek her out, that he might give her a smile or even a brief acknowledgment—anything that might indicate curiosity towards his future wife.

He had given her nothing.

Less than nothing. He had stood beside her at the Coronation of Queen Stefania of Aristo last year and quite simply ignored her.

The shame of that day still burnt—his disregard, his obvious boredom at their forthcoming union still humiliated Layla even now.

‘Your Highness…’ She screwed her eyes closed in impatience as, now that she was veiled, Imran, one of her many advisors, came into her room to deliver some last-minute concerns, to detail some points, to request final instructions in his nasal voice, before his Queen took a rare week off from official duties.

‘And we need an urgent signature on the amended sapphire mine proposal…’

It was her wedding day!

But duty had to come first, and as Queen of Haydar there was much duty. An entourage had come with her to Qusay for the wedding: a team of advisors, along with handmaidens and her chief lady-in-waiting, Baja.

Oh, how the advisors and elders rued the day the Queen had first voiced her opinion, had refused to just say yes and let them continue on with the ways of old. Instead, to their displeasure, Layla continued to assert herself—which meant reminding them constantly that, as Queen, all decisions were ultimately hers…

It was wearying, exhausting in fact, to be constantly checking and double-checking facts and figures, knowing that her so-called team were permanently on the alert for weakness, for that moment when they could slip a document past her unnoticed, when her eyes might miss a small sub-clause…They wished that Haydar might remain staid and unchanged, instead of embracing the many opportunities the rich land offered her people.

‘All of this can wait!’ Layla fixed Imran with a stare. ‘I will sign nothing today.’ She watched his lips tighten. ‘It can all wait for my return.’

‘The drilling is due to commence…’

‘It will commence on my return!’ Layla snapped. ‘When I have read the amendment and if I then approve it.’ Yet, despite her strong words, she could feel tears sting her carefully kholled eyes—tears she would never let Imran see, so she turned to the window and stared out to the Qusay ocean.

It was her wedding day!

Surely, surely, she had earned the right to be nothing but a woman for one day and one night?

Seemingly not!

‘We also need to discuss extending the King’s visit to Haydar…’ Imran was relentless.

‘There can be no discussion, till we are married,’ Layla responded with her back still to him, knowing that if he saw weakness Imran would pounce. ‘Now, if you will kindly let me get on with the small matter of my wedding, I can soon turn my full attention back to Haydar.’ He was dismissed, but still stood there, and Layla knew what was coming. Over her shoulder she spoke first. ‘Let me just reiterate: nothing, and I mean nothing, is to be approved in my absence.’

‘Of course,’ Imran replied smoothly. ‘Though naturally, if it were pressing, you would trust your Committee of Elders…’

‘Imran.’ Her tears had dried, and her eyes were steady when she turned and faced him. Her voice, like her orders, was crystal-clear. ‘I am taking my computer with me, and if for some reason I cannot be contacted by that medium, you will get in a helicopter and visit me in the desert.’

‘I would have thought you would prefer not to be disturbed,’ Imran attempted.

‘I have told you before, Imran—never presume to know my thoughts.’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’

He left then, and, even though it was but a moment from her wedding, the knot of tension in her stomach was reserved for Imran.

‘Breathe, Layla,’ Baja said gently.

Baja, dear Baja, who stayed silent in meetings but heard everything. Baja, who saw the tears she cried some nights. Baja, the only person who truly understood the daily weight on her shoulders.

‘He will use the time I am away to do something…’ Layla said.

‘He would be a fool,’ Baja said. ‘Your orders were clear.’

‘They twist my words.’

‘Then write them down.’

She was so grateful for Baja, for her wisdom, her patience, and almost absolutely Layla trusted her.

Almost—because Layla had long ago learnt that the only person she could truly trust was herself.

‘I will.’

‘First, though,’ Baja said, ‘you are to marry.’

She was led through the Qusay palace, its corridors lined with ancestral portraits. It was easier to think of a painting on a wall, to focus on the wide doors that were being opened or listen to the swish of her veil as she walked, than to attempt to comprehend that in just a moment she would be beside him.

The desert heat hit her as soon as she stepped outside. She was led down a white path and through manicured gardens—a true desert oasis. Tiny birds like jewels coloured the trees, their wings flapping as rapidly as Layla’s eyelashes as finally she stood and waited for her groom.

The marriage service would be small—next week when, as was Haydar tradition, she was unveiled as a married woman, they would be presented to dignitaries and rulers at a formal reception, but for today it was only the judge and senior elders from both lands that would bear witness.

She stood in the relatively cool shade of an orange tree, smelt the fragrant blooms of the gardens, listened to the continual trickle of the fountains, and still she waited.

He had kept her waiting ten years, so what did ten minutes more matter? Layla asked herself.

Or another ten!

A chair was brought for her, but Layla refused. Instead she stood, burning in shame—could this man make it any clearer how little regard he had for her?

She wanted to walk.

She wanted to turn her back on tradition, to demand transport, to tell him where he could shove his business arrangement.

‘The King will be here shortly.’

She stared down at her hands, saw her fingers tightly knotted, had to physically plant her feet to the ground to stop herself turning and walking—had to purse her lips behind the veil to prevent herself from saying something that her people would surely regret if she did.

‘Perhaps Your Highness should sit…’ Again the chair was suggested. One of the ancient judges was already sitting and fanning himself. Perhaps they would bring out refreshments, Layla thought wildly, or cut up the oranges from the heavily fruited trees. And then they could all stand around sucking their quarters as they discussed what to do when a King refused to appear for his own wedding.

This was the hell of duty.

To stand.

To be shamed.

To wait.



Layla would take it for her people—would go ahead with this union if that was what tradition dictated—but she swore to herself as she stood there, pale and close to fainting, yet still refusing to sit, that he would pay for his offensive behaviour.

If he thought he could treat her so poorly, if he thought she would meekly comply, would trot along by his side and follow his orders, then that was his misfortune.

King Xavian should have done his research more thoroughly. Should have known that behind these veils was a strong, proud woman.

That behind the throng of elders and aides was a ruler who was strong—too strong, according to them.

Tonight she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his behaviour. He had no idea what awaited him, Layla thought, a small smile of satisfaction spreading over her lips. But it soon faded…

As still he made her wait.




Chapter One


KING XAVIAN AL’RAMIZ read the letter again.

It was one of many wishing him well for his wedding day.

It was from King Zakari of Calista, extending his congratulations and saying that he was looking forward to greeting him formally next week at the official reception.

It was the third letter.

The first had offered condolences on the death of his parents and invited him to stay as a guest at the Calistan palace.

Xavian had not responded. That letter he had burnt.

Then another had arrived, to thank him for the Qusay people’s gift on the birth of their son, Prince Zafir.

Still Xavian had not replied, though he had kept the letter for a few days, taking it out and reading it over and over till finally it had been tossed into a fire.

And now this.

There was nothing untoward about it, Xavian told himself as he read the letter for perhaps the hundredth time. He did not know what he sought from the words. There were hundreds such letters, offering good wishes, yet Xavian couldn’t help himself reading between the lines of this one…

His bride was waiting for him, he was already unforgivably late, yet still he pondered over the page.

It was a formal letter from King Zakari of Calista and his wife Queen Stefania of Aristo. Their union had reunited the Kingdom of Adamas. So why, Xavian pondered, had Zakari, instead of using the Adamas crest, chosen instead to write on Calistan paper? Xavian stared at the coat of arms, ran a finger over the crest, and could not fathom why it troubled him, it just did.

He had been troubled since Queen Stefania’s coronation, since she had looked into his eyes and he had registered shock…

No, Xavian told himself, not shock. She had been close to fainting, and he had spoken to her till her husband had realised there was a problem and gently led her away. She had been pregnant, as it turned out, which explained everything.

Except it didn’t.

Because the trouble in his soul had started before Stefania had greeted him—as King Zakari had made his way down the line. The rapid beat in his heart had started…a rapid beat that woke him at night, that was here again at this very moment.

Though he could not quite accept it as such, it was fear.

‘All is ready, Your Highness.’ Xavian didn’t turn his head as Akmal, his vizier, came into his suite. ‘Your bride awaits.’ He could hear the slightly uneasy note in Akmal’s voice—after all, his bride, Queen Layla of Haydar, had been waiting for a while now, the proceedings were ready to commence, and yet the groom so far had not made an appearance. Akmal had come yet again to the royal chamber himself, to ensure nothing untoward had occurred, only to find the groom where he had left him last time—still standing at the French windows, still holding the letter and staring broodingly out to the ocean.

‘I will be there shortly.’

‘Your Highness, may I suggest…?’

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Only then did Xavian turn, his black eyes furious at the intrusion, shooting the aide down and reminding him who was King. Dressed in the full military uniform of Qusay—superb olive cloth, his chest decorated with medals, his legs encased in long black leather boots, a sword at his side and golden thread holding on his kafeya—Xavian cut an imposing figure. But then, Xavian always did—standing six feet two, with broad shoulders and a strong, muscular frame, he did not need medals or swords or royal gold braid to command respect.

‘She can wait till I am ready.’

‘Your Highness.’ Akmal knew better than to argue, so instead he gave a small bow and left. Alone again, Xavian carried on gazing out to the ocean.

She would wait. Xavian knew that.

She had already waited a decade for this day. Betrothed to her since childhood, he should have married her ten years ago, but he had chosen not to—he had concentrated on enjoying his freedom instead.

Only now it was over.

Xavian walked out onto the balcony and wished that it gazed to the desert, not the ocean. To the desert, where he found rare peace, to the desert, where he would take his bride tonight.

How weary he was at that thought.

Since his parents had been killed in a plane crash, his advisors had been working overtime. His playboy ways were to end—he was King now, and kings did not live as princes. Kings married and produced heirs, and it was time for Xavian to do the same. After three months of deep mourning, the wedding that he had been putting off must now occur.

It would be a subdued affair, given the circumstances—huge celebrations deemed inappropriate so soon after the country’s loss. The people would be informed tomorrow that the King had married, and he would retreat with his bride to the desert before the official reception. After another suitable period of mourning the coronation would take place, and then the people would celebrate. A double celebration, perhaps? The elders had been light on discretion: nine months from the wedding, it would be nice to have a prince on the way.

Xavian had been advised by Akmal to refrain from sexual encounters for a week prior to the wedding—to ensure his seed was plentiful and potent. It was advice Xavian had absolutely chosen to ignore.

Always it was plentiful!

This was a business arrangement and no more. Haydar was struggling under a woman’s rule, and Xavian’s strong, albeit occasional presence would help guide the troubled country.

Of course he would take a mistress—several, perhaps.

He had no intention of sleeping alone at night.

The unease Xavian felt now wasn’t down to wedding nerves, and it wasn’t pride that made him deny that he was uneasy. Long before the wedding had been announced, long before his parents had been killed, there had been a deep unrest in his soul.

Trouble he could not define.

A place within that he didn’t want to visit.

Sometimes as he stood and stared at a letter, as he did now, searching for clues that surely didn’t exist, he actually though he was going mad.

Sometimes at night he would wake with his heart racing. He would feel the beauty in the bed beside him, feel her coil around him, yet he would shrug her off, get up and dress himself, or send her to the mistress chambers. It was not how he wanted to be seen. His heart was racing now, his breath tight in his chest as his black eyes studied the rolling ocean. He felt nausea rising as if he were out there. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, could feel his body rolling with the waves. The thick scars on his wrists burnt and itched, as they did at times. His eyes scanned the vast ocean, searching for what he didn’t know, and then he dragged his gaze away, willed his heart to slow down, for the madness to stop. He comforted himself not with the thought of a virgin bride, but with the solace of the beckoning desert.

Yes!

He would get the wedding over with, take her to the desert, consummate the marriage and then tomorrow he could wander—tomorrow he could take guidance from the heart of the land he now ruled and ask it to bring him peace.

Happier now, he walked from the balcony and through his chamber, the letter still in his hand. He paused at a thick pillar candle and stood watching the heavy cream paper curl and the Calistan crest flare as the flames licked around it. Then he tossed it into the ancient fireplace—just as he had done with the other letters—and with that ritual over he headed to his wedding.

As he opened the door Akmal practically fell inside. Xavian paused for long enough to give his vizier a withering look, and then strode confidently through the palace, past the paintings of his ancestors, down the long corridor and out to the gardens, ready now to get on with his duty.

The elders were seated, but stood when he entered,

His bride did not look round. She stood in a shimmering gold robe, her head veiled, and kept her eyes down as Xavian approached.

He was not looking forward to this!

Haydar was rigid in its ways. The women were covered and robed till they were wed. But even the generous layers of fabric could not disguise her rather rotund shape.

Joy and double joy, thought Xavian wryly. A fat, inexperienced lover to impregnate. Was there no end to his duties?

In a rare concession to modern times the Haydar elders had agreed the announcement would be accompanied by photos—this was not a time for grand feasting and celebration, but it was still much needed good news for the people of Haydar and Qusay.

The judge spoke, asking Layla if she would be a loyal wife, if she would serve her husband, provide him with children, nurture him and their offspring.

Her voice was soft when she agreed.

Again the judge asked her.

Again she said yes.

For the third time it was repeated, and Xavian watched her eyes blink, though still she did not look up at him—as was right.

‘I will.’

And then it was Xavian’s turn.

Would he provide for her?

It was all that was asked, and only asked once.

A King did not have to repeat himself.

‘Yes.’

She glanced up, and the eyes that met his were a deep violet, then long black lashes swept down again. Xavian found himself slightly appeased—they were clear and bright and really rather pretty—perhaps he could ask her to keep them open tonight!

It was over in moments. Their eyes had met for less than a second, yet that was the image that had been captured and would be beamed around the world in the morning. Sheikh King Xavian Al’ Ramiz of Qusay and now of Haydar, and his bride Sheikha Queen Layla Al’ Ramiz of Haydar and now Qusay.

The long-awaited union was now official.

‘We will leave for the desert in an hour…’ For the first time he addressed his wife. ‘I trust my staff are being helpful?’

She didn’t answer. Her eyes still downcast, she gave only a brief nod.

‘Is there anything you need?’ He attempted conversation, at least tried to put her at ease, but all he got for his efforts was either a nod or a shake of her head. She was refusing to give him even a glimpse of those pretty violet eyes, and Xavian gave a hiss of irritation.

‘I will see you in an hour.’

Clearly, Xavian thought, stamping up to his suite, the clip of his boots ringing out on the polished marble floor, it was going to be an extremely uneventful night.




Chapter Two


‘I AM not spending a month there!’ Xavian frowned at Akmal as his dresser helped him out of his military uniform and into desert robes in preparation for his honeymoon. ‘I agreed only to a week in Haydar.’

‘I understand that, Sire, but our advisors are merely responding to what they have heard from the people…’ He gave a slightly uncomfortable swallow. ‘The Queen was checking the press release and asked that—’

‘What?’ Xavian’s head spun round. He had been admiring himself in the mirror, but Akmal’s words demanded curt response. ‘Why would you worry her with such details?’

‘She asked to see it.’ Akmal’s lips pursed tightly, so tightly it took a moment for him to release them enough to continue speaking. ‘She has also asked that you stay for a month in her land…She feels that the people of Haydar will want to see their new King in residence for a while, so they can fully grasp that you are there for them too. They need this union, Sire…’

Xavian was less than impressed. A week in the desert—that he accepted was necessary. A week: with his new bride at nights, and wandering in his desert by day. After the reception, to appease the people, he had agreed to spend a week in Haydar—where he would formally greet his new people, sign essential documents, and then, apart from necessary formal appearances and the occasional night together at her fertile times, they could get on with their own jobs.

There was unrest in Haydar, though. Xavian knew that. The meek, silent woman he had just married would hardly command respect from her aides, let alone her people. But Xavian was tough. At times there was immense pressure from his elders, from Akmal—just a complete resistance to change—but Xavian was a strong ruler, assured in his role. He never doubted, never questioned that he was right. Yes, he listened to his advisers, he pondered, sought counsel from the desert at times, but always he made his decisions—and once they were made he would not be swayed.

No one would dare try.

It must, though, Xavian decided with a smirk, be hell being Queen!

‘Two weeks…’ Xavian made a rare compromise, but Akmal’s brow knitted into a worried frown, for he had already spoken with the Queen. ‘Tell her I am prepared to stay in her country for two weeks…’

‘I think that a month in Haydar would be wiser…’ A soft voice filled the room, and the dresser and Akmal stood aghast as Layla walked, uninvited and unannounced, into the King’s chambers!

‘You cannot be here…’ Akmal was across the room in a flash, ready to scurry her out, but violet eyes halted him. That voice not so soft when she spoke next. ‘You will address me as Your Highness…’ Still veiled, she stood very still as Akmal bowed deeply. The poor man was clearly torn between royal protocol and protecting his master—only Xavian wasn’t annoyed, in fact he was thoroughly enjoying himself, a rare smile dusting his lips as Akmal struggled to appease them both. ‘Your Highness, I was about to come to you, to inform you of the King’s decision.’

‘How tiresome…’ She was no longer looking at Akmal. Instead her eyes held Xavian’s and the smile slid from his face. ‘That a husband and wife must speak through advisors.’ Still she held Xavian’s eyes. ‘Could you inform the King that regretfully, on this detail, the Queen cannot compromise—the people of Haydar need to see that their new King relishes his role, that he wants to help lead them, and a brief visit isn’t going to appease them.’

‘Your Highness…’ Akmal duly started to relay her words. ‘The Queen has—’

‘Silence!’ Xavian snapped to his vizier. ‘Leave us.’ As Akmal shooed out the dresser he walked slowly to where she stood, but she didn’t move, barely blinked. Only her eyes were visible, and this time they did not lower as he approached.

‘I have considered your request.’ Xavian’s voice was ominously calm. ‘And, as I take my new duties seriously—’

‘So seriously,’ she interrupted, ‘that you could not even be bothered to turn up to your wedding on time!’

How dared she?

She should not question him, should not even let on that she had noticed. Instead she should be proud— proud that the King of Qusay was now her husband— yet he was being greeted with complaints and demands.

‘I had my reasons for being late.’ He did not need to offer even that, and he certainly did not have to tell her his reasons, so why was there still silence?

He had never had to offer an explanation—his decisions, his word, his presence always sufficed. Did she really think he was going to stand there and discuss reasons?

She was waiting for an explanation.

A mirthless smile spread over his face at her barefaced cheek. Maybe he should tell her, watch her reaction when she found out that her new husband sometimes thought he was going insane—that at times the scars on his wrist burnt so fiercely he thought his skin might rip open, that at times, when sitting quietly, sometimes he could swear he heard a child laughing? He could just imagine her appalled reaction—especially when he told her that he thought that the child was him!

‘You left me waiting for close to an hour.’ Her eyes never left his. ‘And you offer me no explanation—yet you expect me to accept that you take your duties seriously. Today was a duty!’ Layla lips were tight beneath her veil. ‘And you carried it out dreadfully.’

‘Silence!’

His hand splayed as he considered slapping her.

In that instant Xavian, who had never struck a woman—would never strike a woman—considered slapping her. Yet in rapid self-assessment he realised the anger that rose within was in fact directed at himself.

He had carried out his duties badly today. Always meticulous, always thorough, he had, on this rare occasion, been tardy. Rarely did he concede, but to be a good ruler sometimes it was necessary. And so, rather than slap her, he did something rare.

‘It was not about you.’ He saw two vertical frown lines appear between those probing eyes. ‘It was not about keeping you waiting, or shirking my duty, or making a mockery of the marriage…’ Xavian could hear the words coming from his mouth, yet he could scarcely believe they were his, that for the first time he was explaining himself.

Some of himself.

‘A letter arrived…’ He saw those lines deepen. ‘I should have left it for later. I knew it might well distract me.’ He swallowed before continuing. ‘And it did.’

He had offered little explanation, but she knew it was more than he had ever given before, and after just a brief moment of hesitation she gave a courteous nod.

‘I am sure you have a lot on your mind,’ she conceded. ‘I, too, missed my parents today, but your loss is more recent. I accept your apology.’

He hadn’t actually apologised, Xavian wanted to point out—or had he? Did sorry actually have to be said for it to count as an apology?

Xavian continued. ‘If it will please the people to have more time with their new King then I will grant you your month. Of course the people of Qusay will also want time with their new Queen. I suggest that after the desert, instead of heading straight to Haydar after the formal reception, we spend a week here first.’

What was he doing? Xavian’s mouth was moving, calm words were being spoken, yet his mind was racing—he was committing himself to six weeks: a week in the desert, a week here, a month in Haydar. Six weeks with her…six weeks when it should have been two…six weeks with this woman who had so boldly challenged him…six weeks with a woman who had not lowered her eyes, who even now dared to hold his gaze as she responded in soft tones.

‘I would be honoured to spend time getting closer to the people of Qusay.’

‘Good,’ Xavian clipped.

Still she looked at him, and Xavian was sorely tempted to pull back the veil, to see his bride, to reveal the woman who would be his bedfellow for the next few weeks. But of course, he did not. Instead he opened the door, and again Akmal practically fell into the room.

‘I trust you heard that?’ Xavian said. ‘We shall remain in Qusay for a week after the reception, then the Queen and I will be in Haydar for a month. You can release that information with the wedding photo.’

Layla gave a brief nod and then walked out of the room. Xavian stood, his back ramrod-straight, his jaw grinding together, as she paused and addressed Akmal.

‘You will bring the new release to me for approval after it has been worded.’ Briefly she turned back to Xavian. ‘I like to check all press statements personally…I am sure you are the same.’

Xavian was still smarting even as the helicopter lifted to take them deep into the desert. How dared she walk into his chambers and make demands so boldly? How dared she tell him what was wise? How dared she speak as if she were his equal? Why, he was King of Qusay— King of a rich, prosperous land that produced both oil and rare emeralds, a progressive land where the people flourished under strong leadership. It was her country that needed him—the people of Haydar who needed strong leadership to guide them out of the Dark Ages! His voice that she needed to quell the rising unrest.

He was annoyed with himself too—for offering her an explanation, for engaging with her. He did not particularly want a wife, and certainly he did not want anyone close.

His own company was enough to be dealing with now.

And he hadn’t apologised!

He was tempted to tap her on the shoulder and tell her that.

The golden expanse of sand stretching beneath did nothing to soothe him. Xavian was seriously rattled now, and ready to remind her of her place. Baja, her senior lady-in-waiting was accompanying them in the helicopter, and he could feel her silent disapproval as he took his new wife’s hand, pleasantly surprised by the slender, pale fingers that he held in his, admiring the manicured nails. For the first time he actually looked forward to the unveiling, to finding out what was in the package that awaited him.

‘A feast awaits us,’ Xavian said, smiling to himself as she blinked her lowered lashes. Then he leant towards her and watched as her eyes squeezed together in the first display of nervousness he had seen. And that gave him pleasure too, so he elaborated slightly. ‘And after we have eaten, another feast awaits.’

The desert staff came out to greet them, and to lay a long roll of carpet from where the helicopter landed to the tented abode. Of course there were more staff than usual, for not only was it a honeymoon, but Layla’s own maidens were there to greet the royal couple as well.

Seeing her jewelled slippers there by his as he entered the desert palace gave the place an unfamiliar air. Usually Xavian came to the desert to be alone—oh, occasionally he would summon a mistress, but this was his place for retreat, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing it. But share he must—on this occasion at least.

He was married.

Tiny bells were strewn along the tent walls and from the ceilings of all the corridors, to give the honeymooners ample warning of approaching servants, and they tinkled now as the royal couple made their way deep into the heart of his desert abode. The air was fragrant with incense, petals were strewn on the thick Persian rugs that covered the soft floor, and as a heavy silk drape was parted Xavian watched as she stepped into the main living space. It was traditionally decorated— rugs adorned the tent walls, and there were low sofas covered with richly coloured cushions and velvet throws—but it was lavishly decorated too, with intricate carvings and musical instruments, and golden antique mirrors that glistened and twinkled, reflecting the soft candlelight and oil lamps. There was a low table set for them with solid gold plates and cups decorated with rare gems, and the dishes were laden with a delectable wedding night feast as Qusay’s most skilled musician softly played the qanoon.

It was perfect—so why, Xavian pondered, did she make no comment?

Perhaps she was feeling overwhelmed? Xavian conceded. Perhaps she was worried that the Haydar royal desert abode would look meagre beside this splendour? Or perhaps, Xavian realised as Baja approached and Layla stood rigid and tense, she was worried about revealing herself to her husband?

She had his full attention!

Xavian stood silently watching as Baja helped his new bride out of the golden layers that swathed her body. As the many layers were unwound Xavian found he was holding his breath in anticipation, realising that he had woefully misjudged the figure that was slowly being revealed to him. Oh, there were curves, but they were ripe, feminine curves that enchanted him. He walked slowly around her, admiring her as he did so. Tonight would not be such a hardship after all. She was dressed in a knee-length, heavily jewelled golden dress that hugged her womanly flesh, and her skin was incredibly pale—even for a royal Haydarn. Her slender ankles had been hennaed for him—tiny auburn flowers coiled up from her feet, leading the gaze upwards along her calves. Only there was no time to ponder and savour, for Baja was now removing the veil that covered Layla’s face, and for a second Xavian was lost as his wife was exposed to him.

She was shockingly beautiful.

Far, far more exquisite than even he could have dreamt.

Thick raven hair tumbled long and curling, down her back and over her creamy shoulders, framing her delicate face. Her cheeks were softly rouged, her lips plump and delectable, and there was a slight tremble to them that was the only hint to her nervousness. So enchanting, so delicate, so feminine was she that Xavian actually wondered if he had misinterpreted her harsh words earlier—clearly he had misunderstood, for surely nothing but sweetness could come from those lips?

He offered his hand to guide her to the prepared table, but she demurred. ‘I would like to look around.’

‘Of course,’ Xavian amicably agreed; she was overwhelmed, he told himself, overwhelmed at the thought not just of dining with him, but the feast that would follow. ‘I will show you.’ But she was already walking through his desert abode, and, despite her stunning looks, Xavian felt his irritation rising as she checked and questioned everything.

Her gorgeous eyes narrowed as she turned to Baja.

‘Where is my computer?’

As the elderly woman apologised for the oversight, Xavian had had enough.

‘It is your honeymoon; surely you were not expecting to work…?’

‘Oh?’ She turned, her eyes glittering, that full mouth holding the position of that short word, and it was all Xavian could look at: lush lips that he wished would stay silent, a mouth he wanted to feed with the fruits at his table and then thoroughly kiss. But instead that mouth again challenged him. ‘I didn’t realise we were to spend the whole week getting to know each other…’ She gave a questioning smile. ‘I understood you wanted time in the desert…’

‘Of course I will spend my days in the desert,’ Xavian clipped. ‘It is right that I spend time with the land and that I ask for its wise counsel.’

‘And am I expected to join you?’ Just a hint of a frown marred her creamy brow. ‘I would be happy to…’

‘No!’ Xavian had to force his voice not to be husky, appalled at the very thought. ‘That time is for reflection, alone.’

‘I see.’ She gave a brief nod, as if to thank him, then turned to Baja.

‘In that case I want my computer.’

‘The helicopter has already left,’ a servant said, then hastily added, ‘Your Highness.’

‘Good.’ She withered the bold servant with a stare. ‘Then it will reach the palace soon—have it return immediately with my computer. After all…’ again she gave Xavian a smile ‘…I can hardly be expected to lounge around here doing nothing all day while my husband takes counsel from the land—I have a kingdom to run.’

She knew she appeared aloof, knew she was being a royal pain—but that was her plan. Better that than reveal her true feelings, for Layla was, in fact, beyond nervous— terrified would be a better description of how she was feeling. The whole day had been spent on a knife-edge, standing in the palace gardens as the minutes had ticked by and still her groom had not shown. He did not want this marriage, and today’s lateness had just confirmed his low opinion of her. How she had wished she were in a position to walk away herself.

All this she had thought as she stood there in the palace gardens, mortified beneath her veil and angry too, and then he had appeared suddenly—the man she would marry finally standing beside her as her reluctant groom—and mortification and anger had been replaced with trepidation. Oh, she had known he was good-looking, had heard about his wild reputation with women, and when the wedding had been announced she had been nervous, as any woman would, at the prospect of losing her virginity to such a reputedly formidable lover…

But, then he had been beside her.

There had been flurry as he’d arrived, whipping up the air as he moved to stand next to her, and then it had settled—only differently, to a new atmosphere: the tangy bergamot scent of him, the imposing height and his presence, his absolute male presence. And her anger and mortification had been replaced with a different disquiet at all a marriage entailed, at what so imminently lay ahead, and that moment was almost here!

She walked through to the sleeping chamber, but her throat was tight and at the sight of the vast bed she looked away, pulling at a drape and looking instead into the bathroom where she would be prepared for him. Mirrors were everywhere, and a large bath was in the centre, with stools at the side from where the maidens would wash her.

‘Would you like me to show you the gardens now?’ His sarcasm actually brought her first genuine smile.

‘I admired your beautiful sand as we landed,’ Layla responded with her own humour, even as Baja frowned, clearly not getting the joke. ‘It must take a lot of work to keep it looking so fine.’

‘Hours!’ Xavian said, rolling his eyes, and she wanted to laugh. But she checked herself. This was no time to let down her guard; she had to set the tone.

No matter that he was the most sensual, breathtakingly beautiful man she had ever seen, no matter that this was the man who would share her body and her bed, and no matter that she wanted to turn tail and run at the imposing sight of him. It was imperative she stay in control and state her intentions right from the very start.

A passive queen she might appear to her people, but if Xavian thought she would quietly acquiesce, he must quickly realise his wife had a voice!

‘Now we will eat.’ Xavian broke into her thoughts with his clear order—so clear Layla realised it would be petty to argue. ‘Our wedding feast awaits.’

She sat at the low table, her knees towards him, her feet behind, as a discreet servant filled two heavy gold cups with a rich sweet nectar. She knew from her readings, and from Baja’s teachings, what it was: a thick, unique strain of honey that had been mixed with twenty ground almonds and one hundred pine nuts to aid in arousal. To that rare mix ground poppyseeds had been added, to foster disinhibition, and it would be fed to them each night in the desert, as was the correct way. She let him feed her the potent brew that promised him her full arousal, and had to gulp the sticky liquid as he poured it quickly, too quickly for her taut throat and mouth. Some trickled down her chin, and her fingers caught the stray droplets. Because she must drink each last drop, as was the rule, she licked her fingers clean and realised she was shaking—realised, as she picked up the cup to feed Xavian his share of the potion, that she did not want to.

Didn’t want to feed him or his ardour,

He was so male.

And soon she would be glad of that, Layla reminded herself. Soon, she would be grateful that her chosen mate had such an excellent physique, that the man who would be her only lover, who would father her children and give her Haydar’s heirs, was such a fine specimen.

She just had to get this night over with—had to see for the first time a naked man, had to perform her wifely duty—and one day soon, Layla told herself, his body, his maleness, would not scare her so; one day soon, she promised herself, this would no longer be foreign.

The seated musician was still gently playing the qanoon, skilfully plucking the strings far slower than her rapid heartbeat. The harp-like music was filling the tent and inflaming her nerves.

She held the cup to his mouth and poured the brew tentatively, watching him swallow, fearing those lips that would soon be on hers and that body that would soon be pressed to her own.

She was dizzy with a fear born of too many nights alone. Baja had told her a little of what to expect and would, she had promised, tell her more when she prepared her.

He finished his potion and she remained by his side.

As was correct.

The wedding feast had been carefully prepared. Far from the lavish feast that would adorn the tables at their formal reception, this was a light, thoughtfully chosen meal for a bridal couple, so their bellies would not be full and their senses would still be sharp. It consisted of sweet, succulent fruits that would give energy and promote fertility, and was to be eaten with their fingers.

There was no conversation, just eyes watching and waiting as they fed each other—once he leant forward, so close she could feel the heat from his skin as he pushed back her hair so she could eat the sticky fruit, and she felt her stomach tighten in anticipation of all that was to come. He inhaled her scent and she felt his breath on her neck, just a cool dust of a breeze, and the fear that was rising within tipped into something different. A strange flutter of excitement was stirring deep inside—tonight she would know, tonight, it would be revealed: the secret, the reward, the answer she had sought on those lonely, empty nights.

Small dishes were offered, eaten, and then removed, till the table was bare. It would be time soon. She watched as he parted a pomegranate and offered her half. The tiny beaded seeds were sweet on her tongue, but still her head was spinning. The scent of musk was having a giddying effect, and the qanoon’s notes were more urgent now. She drank mint tea so her mouth would be fresh for him, and his eyes roamed her body, lingering on her breasts, which felt heavy now. She had never been more aware of them. Safely hidden behind robes, she rarely gave them a thought, but now they ached under his languishing scrutiny. And then his eyes slowly moved along the flood of pink that swept up her chest and neck, that warmed her cheeks. His eyes met and held hers, and she didn’t know how to breathe. Her tongue felt too slow, too taut as it bobbed out to moisten dry lips, and she was flooded with the urge for his mouth to claim hers, to taste not the fruit but him.

She was, Xavian realised, ready.

And then it was time, and she wished she could have stayed at the table for a little while longer, wished he had kissed her, wished the night was not so formal, wished they were alone. Because for just a moment or two she had had her first glimpse of arousal. His rare beauty, the unique scent of him, the bold way he had looked at her, made her greedy with a sudden need for more—except Baja was leading her away for bathing as Xavian headed to the bed, and never had her terror been more acute, but never had she been so excited.

Part of her wanted to run out to the desert, to flee, but now she found she wanted the moment too. She no longer wanted it over with, because her body was curious in a different way, because out of the circle of his aura her heart and senses were fading to near normal—and she was sure it had nothing to do with the fruits or the poppyseeds.

In the bathroom the maidens bathed and oiled her. She had been hennaed for him in Haydar: apart from the trail of flowers coiling over her ankles and hands, low on her stomach there was a butterfly, and she shuddered with the sudden thought of that decadent mouth there…

Only Baja was telling her to expect something different.

There would be perhaps a perfunctory kiss, Baja explained as she climbed out of the scented bath and the maidens readied her, and then the King would take care of everything. She would lift her nightgown, more oil would be by the bed, and hopefully the King would use it. If not the bath she had lain in was loaded with oil, so she would be soft and tender.

It would not take long, Baja assured her. Two, maybe three thrusts to take her virginity. And because the King would be unsheathed, and after the potent food, and with the heady rose and musk in which she had bathed, it would be over with quickly.

But Layla wanted more—wanted more of what she had glimpsed at his table.

‘Should I touch him…?’ Layla asked. She was a perfectionist, good at everything, and suddenly she wanted to be a good lover for her husband too. But Baja just laughed, and even the maidens giggled. Oh, they knew all about King Xavian and his endless women. Gossip amongst palace staff was rife, even if the kingdoms were separated by miles. Baja had a cousin who worked in the royal chambers at the Qusay palace, and knew there were lovers ready and waiting to step in as soon as Layla was safely home and the King back in his palace.

Layla’s body was needed for one reason only; she did not have to worry herself with such things!

‘His mistresses will take care of all that for you.’ Baja was attempting to reassure her, but her words were hailstones on Layla’s warm body. Cold and stinging, they forced a new emotion: jealousy, for the unknown faces that would take care of her husband’s most private needs. ‘Don’t worry, Your Highness,’ Baja continued, calling her by her title, as she always did in front of the maidens. ‘It will be just once or twice a month till you’re impregnated that you must suffer his attentions, and then you can rest for a year at least.’

A nightdress was slipped over her damp, oiled body, her hair brushed and her lips rouged, and then she was declared ready.

She parted the flimsy drapes and walked into his chamber.

Oil lamps and candles lit the room; the vast low bed was decorated with sheer organza. The qanoon was still being played in the main area of the tent, breaking the silence of the desert, its soft seductive notes meant to ease her passage to his arms.

He was on the bed—naked, she was sure, beneath the silken sheet that covered his lower half. He was just as impressive out of uniform. His broad chest and long muscular arms would make light work for the palace tailor, for his masculinity did not need enhancing. There were dark scars around his wrist. At first, in the candlelight, Layla thought he had been hennaed too, but, no, they were scars. But it was not her place to notice, so instead she looked up at him, watched as his arrogant, haughty face softened a touch as she walked towards him.

She wished for a moment that she was his lover, not his wife.

The oil was making her nightgown cling to her body as she climbed in bed beside him.

‘Don’t be nervous.’

‘I’m not,’ Layla said, except she was shivering.

He kissed her. She felt his lips press on hers and his tongue slide in, and she tried to kiss him back, her mouth moving, copying his.

As a princess there had been no kisses, no anything, and she ached for more experience, felt embarrassed by her innocence. She couldn’t enjoy his kiss, could only feel the long, solid length of his manhood pressing into her thigh, and the size of him made her dizzy. She prayed that he would oil her.

She lifted her nightdress.

‘There is no rush…’ He pulled his head back; he wanted to keep kissing her, for her to relax, for her to at least try and enjoy this royal duty.

‘I would prefer it to be over,’ came her stilted voice.

So would he, then, Xavian thought—while wondering if it would be poor form to summon a mistress on his honeymoon.

He loved sex. Too much was never enough for Xavian, and he was always ready. But this hard-nosed businesswoman, who had come to his bed for such a clinical mating, was nothing like the lush female he had fed and prepared. Frankly, if that was her wish, he wanted it over too!

He was considerate. He dipped his fingers in the gold dish by the bed and smeared her tender pink flesh. Feeling the sweet warmth, he hardened further, his finger gliding past her pearl, his duty done,

Layla saw what had already appeared ominously large grow some more, and her throat was tight. She could feel his hand down there, and she saw him, so hard and erect she almost felt sick. He saw her looking, saw that mix of terror and fascination, and his finger lingered, pressed her pretty place and stroked it for a moment, felt the hard nub of her clitoris and stroked it some more.

She wanted to close her legs, didn’t want him touching her. It felt wrong and it just heightened her nervousness—this sex, this touching, this sharing that he would later do with someone else!

‘Now you will oil me.’ He liked stroking her, liked the feel of her moisture meeting his fingers, and she could feel the small, insistent pads of pressure that made her stomach flurry as she dipped her shaking fingers in the bowl.

Baja hadn’t warned her of this, hadn’t warned her that her fingers should be silky and oily too. She didn’t want to touch him there, but perhaps it would help her later. She made herself do it, her fingers tentative, a quick sheen of oil on his long length, and averted her eyes from his gargoylic impressive proportions. But involuntarily her gaze returned. It felt so different from how it looked—which was hard and angry. But the skin beneath her fingers was soft, like rich velvet.

‘More…’

Still he was stroking her. Her stomach felt heavy, her thighs did too, and she didn’t like it—didn’t like these strange feelings. She wanted her more familiar control, so she ended this pointless diversion—she was at her most fertile; the wedding had been arranged around her cycle. The way she responded to him unnerved her— the unfamiliar reaction of her senses, the strange weakening that he wrought in her mind. It was time to be brave, time for it to be over, time to reclaim her head.

‘Now.’ She moved his hand from her private place and lay down. ‘Do it now.’

Xavian was tired of her games. He had felt her unfurl for a second, yet she refused to relent, to enjoy his caress.

He had hoped for more from a wife, but had expected less.

Shame, though, because she was beautiful—her body full and ripe, her hair dark. And those lips could kiss if they would just learn; that body could know pleasure if she would only allow it.

‘Take off your nightgown…’ Xavian said, because he needed something to help him along. She did as she was told and it certainly helped that she was so good-looking, Xavian thought, as he lowered himself on to her and she duly parted her legs—and all help was gratefully received as he did his duty with this beautiful plank of wood.

Xavian was nervous.

For the first time ever with a woman there was just a beat of trepidation as he nudged her entrance without the familiar barrier. He pictured her body to keep himself hard, and lowered his head for a moment to suck on her breast, to taste her ripe flesh for his own benefit. Yet still as he tried to coax a response from her, there was none.

Layla, now the moment had come, was terrified. She could not show him that, of course—could never show anyone her private fears. She was Queen: always in control, always assured.

He could feel the tears on her face as his cheek pressed next to hers. He was nudging at her entrance, and really he knew she wanted it over, that despite her silent tears this had to be done, and he was angry.





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