TO DEFY A SHEIKH Page 8

  “How will we get there?” she asked.

  “By camel.”

  * * *

  An air-conditioned, luxury four-wheel drive SUV was hardly a camel. She realized, the moment the vehicle pulled up to the front of the palace, that Ferran had been…teasing her.

  Strange.

  He probably wasn’t afraid of her anymore, since he seemed content to poke at her with a stick. Which, all things considered, wasn’t the worst thing. That he wasn’t afraid of her, not that he felt at liberty to stick-poke her.

  Though, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had teased her. Maybe no one ever had. Dimly, she recalled a nanny who had been very happy. Smiling and singing a lot. But Samarah couldn’t even remember the woman’s name. And she was more a misty dream than an actual memory.

  Master Ahn had been kind. But he hadn’t had much in the way of a sense of humor. He’d been quiet, though, almost serene and it had made a nice counterweight for Samarah’s anger. He’d helped her channel it. He’d helped her find some measure of peace. Had helped her put things in their proper compartments.

  But he hadn’t teased her.

  Ferran held the door for her and she got inside, the rush of cold air a nice change from the arid heat. She wasn’t used to being able to find this kind of reprieve from the midday sun. It was…luxury.

  “This is not a camel,” she said.

  “Disappointed?” he asked, as he took his place in the driver’s seat and turned the engine over.

  He maneuvered the car out of the gates and toward and around back behind the palace, where the city thinned out, and there was a gap in the walls. Walls that were left over from medieval times. More of the old mixed with the new.

  “I’m not particularly disappointed by the lack of camel, no.”

  “They aren’t so bad once you learn to lean into the gait.”

  “They are so bad, Ferran. I remember.”

  “Do you?”

  She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. “Vaguely. We did a…caravan once. We rode camels. And picnicked out in the sand beneath canopies. It seems like…like maybe it was a dream. Or another person told me this story. It hardly seems like me. But I remember the rocking motion of the camel so…if I know that, then it had to have been real, right?”

  He nodded. “It was real. Your father hosted a picnic like that for visiting dignitaries every year.”

  “Oh, is that it? I couldn’t remember. Weird how you know more about my past than I do. I was so young and my mother never talked about it.”

  Weird was…too light of a word. It was…everything. Horribly sad. Happy, in a strange way, to hear about her past finally instead of just having vague memories seen through the lens of a child.

  But so odd that she was dependent on the man she saw as her enemy to learn the information.

  “We used to go to the palace by the seaside,” she said.

  “My parents’ home. Mine now. Ours. Or it will be.”

  Her stomach tightened. “I’m not sure if I want to go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was so happy there,” she said, closing her eyes. “It almost hurts to think about it. Like someone scooped out my stomach.” She opened her eyes again and looked out at the desert. “I don’t think I want to go,” she said again.

  They were silent for the rest of the drive. Samarah trying to focus on the view and the air-conditioning, rather than the heat the man beside her seemed to radiate. It was stupid. His body temperature should be ninety-eight point six, just like hers. So why did he always feel so damn hot? It was irritating beyond measure.

  So were the feelings that he called up out of her. Effortless. Like he was some sort of emotional magician. Creating emotions when there had been none, at least no refined, squishy ones, for years.

  “Do you see?” he asked.

  She looked up and out the front windshield at the tents in the distance. “Yes.”

  “That’s the encampment. And there’s smoke. Likely they’re cooking for us. If not, we’re in trouble because it means they aren’t happy with me.”

  “Do they have reason to be unhappy with you?”

  “People are unhappy with the leader of their country most of the time for various reasons, are they not?”

  “I suppose they are. Though, I’ve had more reason to be unhappy with mine than most.”

  “Given the circumstances, yes.”

  “They stole my life from me,” she said, looking up and meeting his gaze. “They stole my life.”

  “They did?”

  And not him. She didn’t miss the unspoken part of the sentence.

  “Do not read too much into that. It was a complex situation, that’s for sure,” she said. “Many people could be assigned portions of blame. Except for me,” she said, feeling the familiar anger welling up in her. “I was a child. I was six. It wasn’t my fault. And I’ve still had to live it.”

  “You have,” he said. “And it is a crime, because you’re right. You had no fault in it. You had no part in the play and yet you were forced to deal with the consequences. So now…accept this. Accept this life. Live something different.”

  His words curled around her heart. Sticky, warm tentacles that wrapped her up tight and made her feel secure. And trapped. And she wasn’t sure if she should fight or give in.

  “Are you ready?” She knew he was talking about getting out and meeting the people, but it had another meaning for her.

  She nodded slowly. “I’m ready.”

  She thought, for the first time, she might truly mean it.

  * * *

  The people did rush to greet them. And there was dinner prepared. They hurried to make a spot at the head of the table not just for Ferran, but for Samarah.

  Ferran was pleased that everyone here seemed happy with his choice of bride. Because for the desert people who often traveled near the borders of the neighboring countries, the relations between Khadra and surrounding nations was even more important than to those who lived in the cities.

  For them it wasn’t about trade. Or import tax. Or the ability to holiday where they pleased. For these people, it was often about survival. To be able to depend on the friendliness of their neighbors for food, shelter, water if there was an emergency. Medical help. It was essential.

  For his part, Ferran provided what he could, but if there was ever an emergency on the fringes, then there would be no way for the government to provide aid in time.

  He looked at Samarah, who was curled up next to him, her feet tucked beneath her bottom, her hands in her lap. She looked much more at ease in this setting than she had at the press conference, but he still wondered if all of the people looking at her with obvious interest were bothering her.

  He didn’t like for her to be afraid. That realization hit him hard. But he wasn’t sure why it did. Of course he shouldn’t want her to be afraid. She was to be his wife, and it was his duty to ensure his wife was protected, regardless of how they’d gotten their start.

  Perhaps you find it strange because you know you can’t really protect her?

  Not from the truth. Not if it ever came out.

  He shut down his thoughts and focused on what was happening around them. Most of the tribe was sitting in the mobile courtyard area for dinner. Families in clusters, children talking and laughing, running around on the outskirts of the seating area.

  The elders were seated with him and Samarah, on cushions, their food in front of them on a wooden mat that would be easy to roll up and transport. It was nothing like the heavy, grand dining table in the palace that his father had had brought in. So formal. Custom made in Europe.

  Ferran found that in many ways, he liked this better. This spoke of Khadra. Of its people. Its history.

 
“Sheikha.”

  Ferran watched Samarah’s dark head snap up when the tribal elder to his right addressed her. “Yes,” she said, seemingly shocked to have been spoken to.

  “How do you find the political climate in Jahar at present?”

  She blinked rapidly. “I… It has improved,” she said. “The sheikhdom is never going to be restored, not as it was. The new way of doing things is imperfect. But since the death of the previous leader, there is something of a more…legitimate democracy in place. All things considered, that is perhaps best for the country.”

  “And do you think this will unite the countries again?”

  Her brow creased. “It’s difficult to say. But I do think that the current government won’t perceive me as a threat now that I’m marrying into the Bashar family and making my home here. So that is helpful for me. As for everyone else? I think if nothing else it will help old wounds heal.”

  Ferran nodded slowly. “If she can forgive me, then perhaps Jahar can forgive.”

  “And,” she said, her words slow and steady, “if Ferran can lay aside the pain my family caused him, perhaps Khadra can forgive the pain, too.”

  “It was a great loss, that of your mother and father,” the elder said to Ferran.

  “Yes,” he said. “It was.”

  “But you have done well. You’ve made them proud. You’ve made us all proud.”

  Ferran watched Samarah’s face. He wondered if she thought he’d done well. Or if she still thought he was the worst sort of man.

  The funny thing was, Samarah was more right about him than any of the leaders here. Yes, he’d done some good for his country. That was true. But in many ways he was no less than the murderer Samarah believed him to be.

  “You do well in your choice of bride,” the man continued. “It is truly a wise choice for us all.”

  “That,” Ferran said, “I will wholeheartedly agree with you on.”

  And he did. Samarah was a choice he couldn’t have foreseen having the chance to make. And she was certainly the best one.

  “Well,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the truth,” Ferran said.

  The other man turned his attention back to the man to his right and Ferran continued to keep his focus on Samarah.

  “I’m pleased to be a handy political pawn.”

  “Better than an instigator of war. You see what might have become of these people if you’d succeeded in executing me? Or if I’d imprisoned you. Marriage is preferable to either of those things.”

  “Marriage is preferable to death or imprisonment? Someone should embroider than onto a pillow.”

  “Poetic, I think.”

  “Very.”

  “Neither you or I are romantics,” he said, watching her very closely, trying to gauge her response. She was so very hard to read. Such a guarded creature. And he shouldn’t care about whether or not he was able to break that guard.

  It had nothing to do with their arrangement. And neither did his fascination with her. Though, being able to read her might come in handy, just in case she ever got it in her mind to try and kill him again.

  “Obviously not,” she said, her face remaining impassive.

  “Do you ever smile, habibti?” he asked.

  “That’s…an improvement over little viper, so I won’t push the issue. And no, I don’t often smile.

  “I think that’s too bad.”

  “Do you ever smile, Ferran?”

  “Not often.”

  “Then don’t concern yourself with my smile. I thought you said you weren’t a romantic.”

  “Is smiling a romantic notion now?”

  “Maybe just a luxury you and I haven’t been able to afford?” she asked, cocking her head to the side.

  “Perhaps that. Though, I am a sheikh,”

  “As you’ve reminded me many times.”

  “It is the most defining part of me.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “If I weren’t a sheikh…things would be very different. But I am. And as such I can afford a great many things. Perhaps I should invest in smiling.”

  “Investing in frivolity? That seems like a recipe for disaster.”

  “Or at the least a recipe for…shenanigans.”

  The left side of her mouth twitched. “Shenanigans?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said shenanigans.”

  “I did,” he said.

  “Have you ever said that word before in your life?”

  “No. I haven’t had occasion to.”

  “It’s a good word,” she said. “And you got up to a lot of them when you were a teenager. I…I remember.”

  “I hope you don’t remember in very great detail,” he said. “I wasn’t the best version of myself then.”

  She frowned. “So…this is the best version of you then?”

  “Obviously.” Her shoulders shook, her lips turning upward, a choked noise escaping. “Did you just…laugh at me? Is that what that was?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  “You nearly smiled.”

  “I…did.” She looked confused by that.

  “I wish for you to do that again,” he said. And he meant it. Not because he was being emotional, but because it wasn’t fair that a woman like her, one so beautiful, one who should have been happy, had ended up with so few things to smile about.

  “Perhaps I shall.”

  “Consider it at least.” The corner of her mouth twitched again. “We will retire to bed soon.”

  Her eyes flew wide. “We?”

  “I have brought my own tent, and it was graciously set up for us. Don’t worry, it has rooms. And you will get your own.”

  “I had better.”

  “You will have to get over your aversion to sleeping with me.” His pulse quickened. He was quickly discovering he had no aversions to sleeping with her. And why should he? Marriage made sex expected. It justified the desire.

  As long as desire didn’t rule in him, as long as he kept control over his weaknesses, there was no harm in being with his wife.

  Her eyebrows lowered. “I am not having this conversation with you,” she said, her voice a furious whisper, “sitting next to all these men.”

  “Your point is taken,” he said. “But I come back to the issue of smiling.”

  She looked hesitant for a moment. As if she was trying to decide if she should say something else to him or bolt off into the desert. “What about it?”

  “I should like the chance to try and make you smile tomorrow.” Because he wanted to give her something. To give her more than he’d taken away.

  “How will you do that?”

  “There is an oasis not far from here. It is a place I frequent. I would like to show you.”

  “I…” He could tell she was considering telling him where to put his offer. But she swallowed her initial response. “All right,” she said.

  “We will have to ride horses, though, as you cannot drive in with a car.”

  “Horses?” she asked.

  “Yes, horses. Can you ride?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Well, you can share mine. I intend to ask for the use of one here.”

  “All…all right.”

  “No argument?”

  She shook her head. “No. I think…perhaps I might make an attempt to smile.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SAMARAH HESITATED NEXT to the big black horse that was saddled and ready for their ride to the oasis. Ferran was already seated and she was meant to…get on there with him somehow. There was no way to avoid physical contact.

  And frankly, physical contact with him was disturbing.

/>   Though, the fact that it was disturbing…disturbed her. Because there was no reason for it to be quite so unsettling.

  Sure there is. He ordered your father to his death. He’s partly responsible for much of the misery in your life. Of course it’s uncomfortable.

  Yes, but it wasn’t only that.

  She wasn’t used to touching men. And he was very much a man. So very different from the way she was built. So hard. So…so warm. She always came back to how damn warm he was. Perhaps he had a fever.

  He lowered his hand and she stared at it.

  “You’re meant to take it,” he said.

  “Take it where?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and turning her shoulders in.

  “Grasp my hand, Samarah.”

  She reached out and curled her fingers around his, heat exploding against her palm and streaking up her arm. She didn’t even have time to process it before she found herself getting hauled up onto the horse, behind Ferran.

  Reflexively, she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into him. Then she started to ponder which was more frightening. The idea of falling onto the sand, or continuing to cling to Ferran and his unnaturally warm back.

  His back won. For now.

  She should have asked to sit in front. It might have been a bit less disturbing.

  But then…then she could have been between his thighs. Though, for the moment, he was between hers. There really was no winning in this situation. At least the current seating arrangement gave her an upper hand of sorts. If she wanted to jump off and run, she could. That was a comforting thought.

  “It is not a long ride,” he said, “an hour perhaps.”

  “I’m not concerned,” she said, holding her head away from the hollow between his shoulder blades that looked like a very nice place to rest her cheek.

  But she would not. She didn’t need to use him as a headrest.

  “You seem stiff,” he said, spurring the horse into a trot.

  “I am on a horse. How would you like me to behave?”

  “Rest against me.”

  “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

  “Suit yourself.”