Buch lesen: «Desert Fantasies: Duty and the Beast / Cinderella and the Sheikh / Marrying the Scarred Sheikh»
Desert Fantasies
Desert Fantasies
Duty and the Beast
Trish Morey
Cinderella and the Sheikh
Natasha Oakley
Marrying the Scarred Sheikh
Barbara McMahon
Duty and the Beast
TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website: www.trishmorey.com.
CHAPTER ONE
THEY came for her in the dead of night, while the camp was silent but for the rustle of palm leaves on the cool night air and the snort of camels dreaming of desert caravans long since travelled. She was not afraid when she heard the zip of the blade through the wall of the tent. She was not even afraid when a man dressed all in black, his face covered by a mask tied behind his head and with only slits for his eyes, stepped inside, even though his height and the width of his shoulders were enough to steal her breath away and cause her pulse to trip.
Instead it was relief that flooded her veins and brought her close to tears, relief that the rescue she had prayed and hoped so desperately for had finally arrived.
‘I knew you would come for me,’ she whispered as she slid fully dressed out of bed to meet him, almost tripping over her slippers in her rush to get away. She swallowed back a sob, knowing what she was escaping, knowing how close she had come. But at last she would be safe. There was no need to be afraid.
But when the hand clamped hard over her mouth to silence her, and she felt herself pulled roughly against his hard, muscular body, there was no denying her sudden jag of fear.
‘Do not utter another word, Princess,’ the man hissed into her ear as he dipped his head to hers. ‘Or it may be your last.’
She stiffened even as she accepted the indignity, for she had been raised to accept no stranger’s touch. But she had little choice now, with his arm like a steel band around her waist, the fingers of one large hand splayed from her chest to her belly and the palm of his other hand plastered hard across her mouth so that she could all but taste his heated flesh.
Unnecessarily close.
Unnecessarily possessive.
Every breath she took contained his scent, a blend of horseflesh and leather, of shifting sands and desert air, all laced with a warm, musky scent that wormed its way into all the places he touched her and beyond. Those places burned with heat until unnecessarily possessive became unnecessarily intimate, and some innate sense of survival pounded out a message in her heartbeat, warning her that perhaps she was not as safe as she had supposed.
Something inside her rebelled. Foolish man! He might be here to rescue her but hadn’t she been ready and waiting? Did he imagine she had prayed for rescue only to scream or run and risk her chances of escape?
She was sick of being manhandled and treated like a prize, first by Mustafa’s goons and now by her own father’s. She was a princess of Jemeya, after all. How dared this man handle her like some common sack of melons he might have picked up at the market?
He shifted and she squirmed, hoping to take advantage of his sudden stillness while his focus seemed else-where, but there was no escape. The iron band simply pulled her tighter against the hard wall of his body, his fingers tightening on her flesh, punching the air from her lungs. She gasped, her lips parting, and felt one long finger intrude between her lips.
Shock turned to panic as she tasted his flesh in her mouth.
She felt invaded. She felt violated with the intimacy of the act.
So she did the only possible thing she could. She bit down.
Hard.
He jumped and spat out a curse under his breath, but, while he shifted his fingers away from the danger of her teeth, he did not let her go. ‘Be still!’ he hissed, holding her tighter, even closer to his rigid form, so that she was convinced he must be made of rock. Warm, solid rock but with a drum beating at its core. Once more she was reminded that this man was not just some nameless rescuer, not just a warrior sent by her father, but a man of flesh and blood, a beating heart and a hot hand that touched her in places no man’s hand had a right to be. A hand that stirred a strange pooling heat deep in her belly …
She was glad she had bitten him. She hoped it hurt like hell. She would gladly tell him that too, if only he would take his damned hand off her mouth.
And then she heard it—a short grunt from outside the tent—and she froze as the curtains twitched open.
Ahmed, she realised as the unconscious guard was flopped to the carpet by a second bandit clad similarly in black. Ahmed, who had leered hungrily at her every time he had brought in her meals, laughing at her when she had insisted on being returned to her father, telling her with unrestrained glee exactly what Mustafa planned on doing with his intended bride the moment they were married.
The bandit’s eyes barely lingered on her before he nodded to the man at her back. ‘Clear for now, but go quickly. There are more.’
‘And Kadar?’
‘Preparing one of his “surprises”.’
All at once she was moving, propelled by her nameless rescuer towards the slash in the tent wall, her slippered feet barely grazing the carpeted floor. He hesitated there just a fraction, testing the air, listening intently, before he set her down, finally loosening his grip but not nearly enough to excise the blistering memory of his large hand spreading wide over her belly.
‘Can you run as hard as you bite?’ he asked quietly, his voice husky and low as he wrapped his large hand around hers, scanning the area one last time before he looked down at her.
The glinting light in his eyes made her angrier than ever. Now he was laughing at her? She threw him an icy look designed to extinguish any trace of amusement. ‘I bite harder.’
Even in the dark she thought she sensed the scarf over his mouth twitch before a cry rang out across the camp behind them.
‘Let’s hope you’re wrong,’ he muttered darkly, tugging her roughly into a run beside him, his hand squeezing hers with a grip of steel, the second man guarding their rear as together they scaled the low dune, shouts of panic and accusation now building behind them.
Adrenaline fuelled her lungs and legs—adrenaline and the tantalising thought that as soon as they were safe she was going to set her father’s arrogant mercenary right about how to treat a princess.
From the camp behind came an order to stop, followed by the crack of rifle fire and a whistle as the bullet zinged somewhere over their heads, and she soon forgot about being angry with her rescuer. They would not shoot her, she reasoned. They would not dare harm a princess of Jemeya and risk sparking an international incident. But it was dark and her captors were panicking and she had no intention of testing her theory.
Neither had she any intention of complying with the command to stop, even if the man by her side had any hint of letting her go. No way would she let herself be recaptured, not when Mustafa’s ugly threats still made her shudder with revulsion. Marry a slug like Mustafa? No way. This was the twenty-first century. She wasn’t going to be forced into marrying anybody.
So she clung harder to her rescuer’s hand and forced her feet to move faster across the sand, her satin slippers cracking through the dune’s fragile crust until, heavy and dragging with sand, her foot slipped from one and she hesitated momentarily when he jerked her forwards.
‘Leave it,’ he snapped, urging her on as another order to stop and another shot rang out, and she let the other slipper be taken by the dune too, finding it easier to keep up with him barefoot as they forged across the sand. Her lungs and muscles burned by the time they had scaled the dune and plunged over the other side, her mouth as dry as the ground beneath her bare feet. As much as she wanted to flee, as much as she had to keep going or Mustafa’s men would surely hunt her down, she knew she could not keep going like this for long.
Over the sound of her own ragged breath she heard it—a whistle piercing the sky, and then another, until the night sky became a screaming promise that ended with a series of explosions bursting colour and light into the dark night. The cries from behind them became more frantic and panicked and all around was the acrid smell of gunpowder.
‘What did you do to them?’ she demanded, feeling suddenly sickened as the air above the camp glowed now with the flicker of flame from burning tents. Escape was one thing, but leaving a trail of bloodied and injured— maybe even worse—was another.
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, and she wanted to pull her hand free and strike him for being so callous.
‘You did want to be rescued, Princess?’ Then he turned, and in the glow from the fires she could make out the dark shape of someone waiting for them, could hear the low nicker of the horses he held. Four horses, one for each of them, she noted, momentarily regretting the loss of her shoes until she realised all she would be gaining. She didn’t care if her feet froze in the chill night air or rubbed raw on the stirrups. It was a small price to pay for some welcome space from this man. How she could do with some space from him.
‘Surely,’ she said, as they strode towards the waiting horses, ‘you didn’t have to go that far?’
‘You don’t think you’re worth it?’ Once again she got the distinct impression he was laughing at her. She looked away in sheer frustration, trying to focus on the positives. Her father had sent rescuers. Soon she would see him again. And soon she would be in her own home, where people took her seriously, and where men didn’t come with glinting eyes, hidden smiles and hands that set off electric shocks under her skin.
She could hardly wait.
She was already reaching for the reins of the closest horse when his hand stopped her wrist. ‘No, Princess.’
‘No? Then which one’s mine?’
‘You ride with me.’
‘But there are four …’
‘And there are five of us.’
‘But …’ And then she saw them, two more men in black running low across the dunes towards them when she had been expecting only one.
‘Kadar,’ he said, slapping one of the men on the back as they neared, making her wonder how he could tell which one was which when they looked indistinguishable to her. ‘I’m afraid the princess didn’t think much of your fireworks.’
Fireworks? she thought as the man called Kadar feigned disappointment, her temper rising. They were only fireworks?
‘Apologies, Princess,’ the one called Kadar said with a bow. ‘Next time I promise to do better.’
‘They served their purpose, Kadar. Now let’s go before they remember what they were doing before the heavens exploded.’
She looked longingly at the horse she had chosen, now bearing the man who’d been waiting for them in the dunes. A man who, like the others, was tall and broad and powerfully built.
Warriors, she guessed as they swung themselves with ease onto their mounts. Mercenaries hired by her father to rescue her. Maybe he had spent his money wisely, maybe they were good at what they did, but still, she couldn’t wait to see the back of them.
Especially the one who took liberties with his hands and with his tongue.
‘Are you ready, Princess?’ he asked, and before she had time to snap a response she found herself lifted bodily by the waist onto the back of the last remaining horse, her impossible rescuer launching himself behind and tucking her in close between him and the reins, before wrapping a cloak around them both until she was bundled up as if she was in a cocoon.
‘Do you mind?’ she said, squirming to put some distance between them.
‘Not at all,’ he said, tugging the cloak tighter and her closer with it, setting the horse into motion across the sand. ‘We have a long way to go. You will find it easier if you relax.’
Not a chance.
‘You could have told me,’ she said, sitting as stiffly as she could in front of him, pretending that there was a chasm between them instead of a mere few thin layers of fabric. She tried to ignore the arm at her back cradling her and wished away the heat that flared in every place where their bodies rocked together with the motion of the horse.
‘Could have told you what?’
‘That they were only fireworks.’
‘Would you have believed me?’
‘You let me think it was much worse.’
‘You think too much.’
‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’
‘I know you talk too much.’ He hauled her even closer to him. ‘Relax.’
She yawned. ‘And you’re arrogant and bossy.’
‘Go to sleep.’
But she didn’t want to go to sleep. If she went to sleep, she would slump against him, closer to that hard wall of his chest, closer to that beating heart. And princesses did not fall asleep on the chests of strangers mounted on horseback. Especially not strangers like this man: arrogant. Assuming. Autocratic.
Besides, she had stayed awake most of the last night. It would not hurt her to stay awake a little longer. She looked up at him as they rode, at the strong line of his jaw under the mask, at the purposeful look in his dark eyes. Then, because she realised she was staring, she looked upwards to where it seemed as if all the stars in the universe had come out to play in a velvet sky.
She picked out the brightest stars, familiar stars that she had seen from her suite’s balcony at home in the palace.
‘Is it far to Jemeya?’
‘Too far to travel tonight.’
‘But my father, he will know I am safe?’
‘He will know.’
‘Good.’ She yawned again, suddenly bone weary. The night air was cold around her face and she snuggled her face deeper under the cover of the cloak, imagining herself back in her own bed at the palace. That was warm too, a refuge when the winds spun around and carried the chill from the mainland’s cold desert nights.
The horse galloped on, rocking her with every stride, but she knew there was no risk of falling, not with this man’s arms surrounding her, the cloak wound tightly around them both, anchoring her to his body. She breathed in the warm air against his body, deliciously warm. His scent was so different from her father’s familiar blend of aftershave and pipe tobacco, which shouldn’t smell good but still did; this man smelled different and yet not unpleasantly so. This man seemed to carry the essence of the desert, warm and evocative, combining sunshine and sand, leather and horseflesh, and some indefinable extra ingredient, some musky quality all his own.
She breathed deeply, savouring it, tucking it away in her memory. Soon enough she would be back in her own bed, with familiar scents and sounds, but for now it was no hardship to stay low under the cloak, to drink in the warmth and his scent and let it seep bone deep.
After all, she was safe now. Why shouldn’t she relax just a little? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to nap just for a moment or two?
She let her eyelids drift closed as she yawned again, and this time she left them closed as she nestled against the hard, warm torso of her rescuer, breathing deeply of his scent, relishing the motion as the horse rocked them together. It wasn’t so bad—a nap would refresh her, and soon she would be home with her father again. Nobody would know she had fallen asleep in the arms of a stranger.
And nobody would ever know how much she enjoyed it.
Zoltan Al Farouk bin Shamal knew the precise moment the princess had fallen asleep. She had been fighting it for some time, battling to remain as rigid and stiff in his arms as a plank of wood.
He almost laughed at the thought. She was no plank of wood. He had suspected as much from the first moment he had pulled her into his arms and spread his fingers wide over her belly. A chance manoeuvre and a lucky one, as it happened, designed to drag her close and shut her up before she could raise the alarm, but with the added bonus of discovering first-hand that this princess came with benefits: a softly rounded belly between the jut of hipbones, the delicious curve of waist to hip and the all-important compunction to want to explore further, just to name a few. It had been no hardship to hold her close and feel her flesh tremble with awareness under his hand, even while she attempted to act as if she was unaffected.
Unaffected, at least, until she had given into her baser instincts and jammed her teeth down on his finger.
This time he allowed himself to laugh, a low rumble that he let the passing air carry away. No, there was nothing wooden about her at all.
Especially now.
The rhythm of the horse had seduced her into relaxing, and bit by bit he had felt her resistance waver, her bones soften, until sleep had claimed her and she had unconsciously allowed her body to melt against his.
She felt surprisingly good there, tucked warm and close against his body, relaxed and loose-limbed, all feminine curves and every one of them an invitation to sin.
Exactly like her scandal-ridden sister, from what he had heard. Was this one as free and easy with her favours? It would not surprise him if she were—she had the sultry good looks of the royal women of Jemeya, the eyes that were enough to make a man hard, the lush mouth that promised the response would not be wasted. At her age, she must have had lovers. But at least, unlike her sister, this one had had the sense not to breed.
It would be no hardship making love with this woman. His groin tightened at the prospect. In less than forty-eight hours she would be his. He could wait that long. Maybe duty and this unwanted marriage would have some benefits after all.
Maybe.
As he looked down in the bundle of his arms, one thing he was sure of—spoilt princess or not, she was far too good for the likes of Mustafa.
Around him his friends fanned out, sand flying from the horses’ hooves as they sped across the dunes. Better than good friends, they were the brothers he had never had, the brothers he had instead chosen. They would stay for the wedding and the coronation, they had promised, and then they would each go their separate ways again—Kadar back to Istanbul, Bahir to the roulette tables of Monte Carlo and Rashid to wherever in the world he could make the most money in the shortest time.
He would miss them when they were gone, and this time he would not be free to join them whenever the opportunity arose. For he was no longer the head of a global executive-jet fleet with the ability to take off to wherever he wanted if he had the time. Now everything he had built up might have been for nothing. Now he was stuck here in Al-Jirad to do his duty.
The woman in his arms stirred, muttering something as she shifted, angling herself further into him, one hand sliding down his stomach and perilously close to his groin.
He growled into the night air as he felt himself harden, growled when her hand slipped even lower. If she could do this to him when she was asleep, how much more would she be capable of when she was awake?
He could not wait to find out.
CHAPTER TWO
AISHA woke and sat up in bed, confused and still half-dreaming of mysterious desert men with broad shoulders and glinting eyes, of solid, muscled chests and strong arms with which to cradle her.
No. Not men. Just one man who had taken possession of her dreams as if he had a God-given right to.
Ridiculous. Thank God it was the morning after and she would never have to see him again.
She felt a sudden, bewildering pang of regret that she hadn’t had the chance to thank him.
Baffling, really. The man had been arrogant beyond belief, he’d laughed at her every chance he’d had, and her father would have no doubt paid him handsomely for rescuing her—and she was actually sorry she hadn’t had the chance to thank him?
What mattered now was that she was safe! Relief that they had got away turned to exhilaration running through her veins. She had been rescued from her kidnappers and the sick promise of a marriage to that pig, Mustafa. She let herself collapse back into the pillows with a sigh.
She was free.
She looked around the dimly lit room, searching for clues. Where was she? A palace or a plush hotel, given the dimensions of the room and the opulence of the furnishings. A palace with a bed almost as comfortable as her own at home, a bed she couldn’t wait to reacquaint herself with tonight.
She was still wearing her robe, she realised as she slipped from the bed. Whoever had brought her here hadn’t bothered to change her, merely put her to bed in the robe she had been wearing when she was rescued.
The man who had cradled her in his arms on his horse?
She stopped, halfway to the window, turned and looked back at the big, wide bed. Had he been here, in this room, leaning over to lay her softly on the bed, cautious not to wake her? Had he gently pulled the soft quilt up to cover her and keep her warm?
She shivered, remembering the warmth of his breath against her cheek when he had held her in the tent, remembering the solid thump of the heartbeat in his chest.
And then she remembered the way he had laughed at her, and she wondered why she was wasting so much time thinking about him when there were far more important things to consider.
Like going home.
She padded to the window, curious for a glimpse outside if only to give her a clue as to where she was. Maybe her father was already here, anxiously waiting for her to wake up so he could greet her.
She curled her toes into a luxurious silk rug as she pushed aside a curtain. She squinted into the bright sunlit day—later than morning, she estimated from the height and power of the sun. How long had she slept?
Blinking, she shielded her eyes with her hand and peered out again, letting her eyes adjust. Below her was a large courtyard garden, filled with orange trees and flowering shrubs, pools of water running between and a fountain in the centre, its splashing water sparkling like diamonds. Around the square ran a cloistered walkway beyond which the palace spread, grand and magnificent, topped with towers and gold domes that shone brightly in the sun. The scene was utterly beautiful.
Except for the black flags that flapped from every flagpole. She shivered in spite of the heat of the day, a sense of foreboding turning her blood cold.
Why were they all black? What had happened?
There was a knock on the door and she turned as a young woman bearing a tray entered, her eye drawn to the window. ‘Oh, you’re awake, Princess.’ She bowed, put the tray down on a table and poured a cup of hot, aromatic liquid. ‘You’ve slept almost the whole day. I’ve brought tea, some yoghurt and fruit in case you were hungry.’
‘Where am I? And why are there black flags flying on the flagpoles?’
The girl looked as if she didn’t know how to answer as she held out the cup of steaming beverage. Aisha caught the sweet scent of honey, spices, nutmeg and cinnamon on the steam. ‘I will let them know you are awake.’
‘Them?’ She took a hopeful step closer as she took the cup. ‘Is my father here?’
The girl’s eyes slid away to a door. ‘You have slept a very long time. You will find your clothes in the dressing room. Would you like me to select something for you while you bathe?’
She shook her head and put the cup aside. ‘No. I want you to answer my question.’
The girl blinked. ‘You are in Al-Jirad, of course.’
Al-Jirad? Then not far from Jemeya. No more than thirty minutes by helicopter from the coast, an hour from the inland. ‘And my father? Is he here, or is he waiting for me at home?’
‘Someone will come for you shortly.’ The girl bowed, looking uncomfortable and already withdrawing, heading for the door.
‘Wait!’
She paused, looking warily over her shoulder. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t even know your name.’
She nodded meekly and uncertainly, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘It is Rani, Princess.’
Aisha smiled, trying to put the girl at ease. She had so many questions and the girl must know something. ‘Thank you for the tea, Rani. And, if I might just ask …?’
‘Yes?’
‘The man who brought me here. I mean the men who brought me here. Are they still somewhere in the palace, do you know?’
The girl looked longingly in the direction of the door.
‘I wanted to thank them for rescuing me.’
The girl’s eyes were large and wide, her small hands knotted tightly together in front of her. ‘Someone will come for you, Princess. That is all I can say.’ And with a bow she practically fled, her slippered feet almost soundless on the floor, the door snicking quietly closed behind her.
Aisha sighed in frustration as she sipped more of the sweet tea, relieved to know where she was, but still left wondering and worrying about the black flags. Maybe the King’s aged mother had finally succumbed to the illness that had plagued her these past few years. The last she had heard, the old queen had not been responding to treatment. The Al-Jiradans would justifiably be sad at her passing, she mused. Queen Petra had been universally loved and adored.
But, beyond that, the knowledge she was in Al-Jirad was welcome. Relations between Al-Jirad and Jemeya—one little more than a patch of bare desert at the end of a sandy peninsular, the other a dot of an island a short distance off-shore—were close and went back centuries. Strategically positioned either side of the only navigable waterway into the desert interior, a deep trench that gave access to shipping, the two had forged a strong bond over the years, their geography assigning them the role of gatekeepers to the inland access route.
And Al-Jirad’s King Hamra was one of her father’s closest friends and allies. This must be one of the several palaces he had dotted across the kingdom.
She bathed quickly, anxious to find out more, and all the time wondering why she’d bothered to ask the girl about her rescuers. Would she really want to see him again, even if he was still in the palace, knowing how he had affected her? Did she really want to thank him?
Because how could she face him and not remember how intimately he had held her? How could she stop herself from blushing when she remembered how good—and, at the same time, how disturbing—it had felt?
No. She dried herself and slipped into a gown hanging in the bathroom. It was better they remained strangers. It was just as well he had never taken off his mask and she had never seen his face. It was far better she had no idea who he was.
She paused by the tray and nibbled on a fat, juicy date while she poured herself more tea, savouring the sweet, spicy brew, feeling more human after her shower and confident that soon she would be on her way home. Then she pulled open the dressing-room doors to find something to wear.
And felt the sizzle all the way down her spine to her toes.
The relief she’d been feeling at being rescued, the relief at finally being safe, started unravelling from the warm ball of contentment in her gut and twisted, tangled and knotted into something far more ominous.
Because the wardrobe she’d been expecting to hold one or two items was full.
Of her own clothes.
Her own gowns and robes met her gaze, her own shoes, slippers and purses. She gazed around the walls of the room, at the shelves and the mirrored recesses where her jewellery box sat in pride of place. Even Honey—the tiny teddy bear she’d had as a child, its ears shiny and bare after years of stroking them with her thumb as she fell asleep—sat jauntily winking at her with his one remaining eye from on top of a chest of drawers. She picked up the worn, well-loved toy and held it to her breast, wishing for the comfort it had always lent as a child before dropping to a sofa, confusion scrambling her brain.
‘What does it mean, Honey?’ she whispered quietly to her toy, just as she had done as a child when she could not understand what was going on in the grown-up world around her. Just as she had done when her father had told her that her mother was never coming home from the hospital where she had gone to have a baby. ‘Why?’
Part of her wanted to run like that child had run, find the girl called Rani and ask her, demand to know this instant, what was happening, what it was she wasn’t telling her. But she was an adult now, and a princess, and could hardly go running around a palace in a dressing gown.
No, that way was not her way, no matter how confused she felt, no matter how much she needed answers to her questions. Besides, there had to be a logical explanation for why all her things had been shipped to a palace somewhere in Al-Jirad. There had to be.
So she would not make a spectacle of herself. She would choose something from her own clothes, get dressed, and only then, when she looked like the princess she was, would she go looking for answers.
And she intended to find them!
A man calling himself Hamzah came for her one interminable hour later. The Sheikh’s vizier, he had told her, bowing deeply, and when she had started to question him he had promised that the Sheikh would answer all her questions. So she duly followed the wiry old man along the shaded cloister she had seen from her window, her impatience building by the minute.
