Captured by the Sheikh

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.’