Desert Fantasies: Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh

CHAPTER FOUR

SHOCK punched the air from her lungs, sent all thoughts scattering from her mind. But God, she could still feel!

He seemed to be everywhere, the strong wall of his chest pressed hard against her, the steel bands of his arms surrounding her, the rough of his whiskered cheek against her skin and the press of his lips against her own.

Even the very air that intermingled between them, their heated breath, seemed full of his essence, his taste.

And for a moment that recognition blindsided her because it was so powerful. She did recognise his scent and the very feel of him, and she knew it was truly him—the man who had cradled her tightly in his arms, whose chest she had turned into to breathe more of him in while his horse had carried her away from the desert camp and away from that slug, Mustafa, who thought he could just take her at will.

Revulsion blossomed inside her, welling up like a mushroom cloud, giving her frozen limbs strength and purpose and her blank mind the will to act.

She thrust her chin up, twisted her face away, seeking escape from his relentless kiss. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘No! ‘

But he did not stop. He gave her no space, no release. He showed no mercy. Instead she felt herself lifted from her feet and swung around until she felt the hard marble of a column at her back. She felt herself sandwiched between it and him, pinning her to his long, lean body while his seeking mouth found hers again and she was full of him and the taste of him. Coaxing. Demanding. Persuading.

So persuasive.

Her body stirred. Her body responded, and she hated herself for it, even as she angled her head to give his mouth and his hot tongue better access to her mouth.

Then his hand slid down her arm, brushed one aching nipple on a straining breast, and suddenly it was Mustafa’s greasy fingers she saw in her mind’s eye, it was the smack of his lips as he walked towards her …

Oh God.

And that image was enough to give her the strength she needed. ‘No!’ she cried, twisting hard against the steel-hard shackles of his strong limbs. ‘Get away from me!’ And somehow she managed to unleash one wild hand and lashed out with it to push him away, her nails finding purchase on flesh as she dragged them down.

She heard his curse and suddenly she found herself thrust away, panting and reeling and having to search for the bones in her legs in order to stay upright while he stood there looking like a thundercloud, dark, grim and threatening, rubbing his scored cheek. She waited, gasping for air, shocked by what she had done, appalled that she, a princess of the royal house of Jemeya, had performed such a base act. Yet she was not sorry she had done it. Not one bit.

But she was afraid.

The reality of her position was never starker, never more terrifying. For she was alone in this palace, with no allies, no-one to protect her. He was big, powerful and angry, and she had struck him and drawn blood.

The way his chest heaved, the way his pulse pounded angrily at his temples and his eyes looked wild and vengeful, she knew he would not let her get away with that.

Just when she feared he would act, that he might actually raise his hand to strike her, he surprised her by smiling, a long, lazy crocodile smile. ‘What quaint customs you Jemeyans have. What does this second brand signify, I wonder? Eternal fidelity? Ever-lasting love? Or a promise of many years of wild, passionate nights in my bed?’

‘You flatter yourself! You know exactly why I hit you. How else was I supposed to make you stop acting like a barbarian?’

‘Maybe it was not clear you wanted to stop.’ And, maybe because he saw the disbelief etched so clearly on her features, he added for good measure, ‘Your body told me you did not want to stop.’

‘Then you weren’t listening!’

He lifted his hand, exposing the three angry red lines marring his cheek, his eyes widening at the blood smeared on his hand. ‘You will be sorry for this.’

She almost laughed out loud. His threat meant nothing to her. ‘No. I don’t think so. What I’m actually sorry about is for assuming I was being rescued last night rather than being kidnapped into some other nightmare. I’m sorry for having to listen to this ridiculous scheme of yours and argue its insanity, and I’m really sorry you do not seem to have any concept of how mad you are. But I am not sorry for hitting you. You asked for that!’

His lip curled. ‘I should take you back to Mustafa’s camp and leave you there.’

Fear crawled up her spine, even though she knew that there was no chance of it, even though she knew that he would never do such a thing—not when he wanted the throne for himself. Yet still she remembered the old crone’s probing fingers, the humiliating inspection, and she remembered what Mustafa had promised to do to her the moment they were married and he was safe.

‘My half-brother deserves a woman like you,’ Zoltan continued. ‘He deserves someone who can give him grief and make his life hell.’

But the poison of his insults washed off her, only serving to fuel the fire in her veins. She tossed her hair back, refusing to be cowed by his kind. ‘If you think you’re so different from him you are kidding yourself mightily.’

His face turned as red as a pomegranate, the tendons in his neck standing out in thick, tight cords, his pulse dancing in his throat. ‘I am nothing like him!’

‘Then you don’t know him at all. You are both contemptible! Unfit to rule a line, let alone an entire kingdom. Al-Jirad is better off without the both of you.’

‘Then who will be king?’

‘I don’t care. Someone else can sort that out. But I tell you this much, just as I’ll tell my father when he comes: I am not marrying either of you.’

‘You do that, Princess. You tell your father. You tell yourself. You tell whoever you like. Maybe if you say it often enough, you might even believe it.

‘But you would be wasting your breath. For in less than twenty-four hours we will be married, whether you like it or not.’

‘Over my dead body! ‘

His eyes glinted dangerously, the three scratches down his cheek standing out bold and angry. ‘If that’s what it takes.’

If the vizier hadn’t chosen that exact moment to arrive, she would have hit him again—harder this time.

Princesses didn’t hit, she knew. Princesses were serene, kept their cool and never lashed out—so she had been taught by endless tutors. But she had grown up with older brothers. They might have been princes, but they’d certainly not treated her and her sister like princesses. Oh yes, she was more than capable of dealing with bullies.

‘Hamzah,’ he said to the bowing vizier. ‘What is it?’

The vizier took one look at Zoltan’s cheek before glancing over at Aisha with disdain, taking in her unkempt hair, her reddened cheeks, clearly disapproving of what he saw. Then he blinked as if she didn’t matter and turned back to Sheikh Zoltan.

‘Sheikh King Ashar has called from the Blue Palace. He asks if he can speak to the princess.’

At last! Zoltan looked at her and now it was her turn to smile, because finally this was her moment. The sooner she spoke to her father, the sooner a halt could be put to these crazy wedding plans. Finally she had a chance to talk to someone who would listen to her, someone who cared about her, rather than trying to reason with a man who was like a brick wall and gave not a toss for what she wanted. ‘Where can I take the call?’

When the vizier bowed and gestured towards the big desk in the corner, it was all she could do not to run over and snatch up the receiver simply to hear her father’s voice again, just to let him know that, while she might be safe from one despot, it was only to be landed in the lap of another. He could not know the full details of what was planned. He must have been deceived. He must have no idea what this man was really planning.

But she wouldn’t let herself run across the floor to the phone. She could do serene when she wanted to, she could do regal. She was just finding it harder when this man was around, the urge to act rather than think decidedly more tempting.

‘We will leave you in privacy, Princess,’ Zoltan said behind her, about to withdraw after Hamzah. On a wicked whim she turned and held up one hand, one-hundred-per-cent confident in what her father would say.

‘No. You wait. I’m sure you will be interested in what my father has to say.’

For as much as she hated him, as much as he threw her off-balance, she wanted him here to witness this, she wanted no more misunderstandings between them. Finally she could talk to her father, someone reasonable, someone who made sense and cared about her as a person, not just as some chattel to be exchanged in a business deal. And afterwards she would hand the phone over so her father could tell Zoltan the same thing because he would surely not believe her. She picked up the receiver, still smiling. God, after what she’d been through, she was really going to enjoy this. ‘Papa, it’s so good to talk to you!’

She listened and laughed as he expressed his delight, thanks and apologies for not being there to meet her. She assured him that she was unharmed, that neither Mustafa nor his men had hurt her, not physically, and that she couldn’t wait to go home.

She threw a smile across to Zoltan, imagining his teeth gnashing together, relishing that thought. Thinking that the last thing he would have wanted was for her father to call, someone who would surely take her side in all of this.

Until there was a pause on the end of the line she could no longer ignore.

‘Papa?’