Defying her Desert Duty (13 page)

Never had he acted solely on what he felt.

Until now.

Even at nineteen, when he’d fallen hard for the daughter of
the palace’s head groom, he hadn’t behaved rashly. He’d thought himself in the throes of love yet he’d never put a foot out of line, courting carefully, respectfully—till her father had put an end to his aspirations, rejecting him as too young, too lacking in prospects, the son of a dishonourable man.

Yet as Zahir neared the bed and saw Soraya, her hair a lush curtain that allowed glimpses of her silvered skin in the moonlight, he felt more than ever in his life.

He wanted her, craved her with all the longing in his battered heart. A heart she’d reawakened.

He wanted to drown out the world in the heady pleasure of her soft embrace.

He wanted that searing sense of rightness, of homecoming, of ecstasy as he became more than just the man he was, stronger for being part of Soraya.

Something tugged hard in his chest as he halted by the bed. He groped for control. Then her eyes opened, dark and fathomless as a desert sky. Her lips curved in a smile so tender it made his heart throb in a new, unfamiliar rhythm.

‘Zahir.’ The whisper of her sweet voice saying his name was devastating as an earthquake. He trembled at the impact. When she reached out to him that last, almost-sane part of his brain shut down.

He snatched her hand, cupping it so he could press urgent kisses to her palm. Her luxuriant ripple of pleasure was enough to dislodge any foggy shreds of sanity.

‘Soraya.’ His voice was raw with all he felt and could no longer deny.

Then he was with her, flesh to flesh, his rough body grazing her softness, his aching groin against her tender belly. He tried to hold back, to restrain himself, but she confounded him, her lips at his throat, stalling his breath in his lungs. Then her hand, small and smooth, curled around his erection and his heart stopped.

He surged against her palm, unable to prevent himself, revelling
in her gentle, clumsy hold that was more erotic than that of the most practised seductress.

Zahir tugged her close, hands sliding on rippling tresses and satiny skin.

Now she found her rhythm, encircling him in long strokes that drew him tight and rigid as a bow.

It was ecstasy so potent it bordered on agony.

‘You have to stop.’ He reached for her hand. The rest of his words dried as he held her, holding him. A great shudder passed through him as he groped for something, anything, that would stop him succumbing.

‘You don’t like it?’ Doubt or excitement in her voice? He couldn’t tell over the drumming pulse in his ears.

She moved and the caress of her long hair over his shoulders and down his heaving chest drove his desperation to new levels. Her skin, her voice, her hair, her touch; everything about Soraya destroyed him. His limbs lost their strength, his resistance shattered, as she pressed her lips to his collarbone and chest, her nipples grazing his belly in swaying strokes that drove spikes of raw need through him, puncturing resistance and good intentions.

His hands fisted in her hair, holding her tight as she slithered lower.

Her tongue flicked him gently, tasting him, and he bucked, helpless beneath her. Only his grip on her scalp remained strong.

Her lips opened and he was lost.

I
T WAS
late when Soraya woke. She knew without looking that Zahir had gone. She sensed it, just as she always knew when he was near.

Through the night and the early hours they’d lain in each other’s arms, always touching. The sound of his breathing had lulled her to sleep after their tumultuous lovemaking.

Her skin glowed, her heart sang, her body throbbed with a pleasurable ache. Her limbs were heavy as if they’d never move again, yet at the same time light, as though she still floated on a plane where nothing existed save herself and the man she loved.

She opened her eyes and saw it was broad daylight. Her heart missed a beat.

She’d tasted bliss but now the real world intruded. She’d known for one short night what it was to be in the arms of the man she loved.

How could she give that up?

She had no choice. Nothing had changed. All the reasons they couldn’t be together still held sway. Zahir knew it too. He’d already gone.

Desperate to see him, she flung off the sheet and rose. Her knees wobbled, weak after last night’s loving.

A
surge of heat tingled from her feet up to her face. Last night there’d been no embarrassment or thought of modesty, yet this morning, without Zahir’s embrace, she found she could still blush.

Her clothes were tumbled on the floor. Instead of wearing them, she hurried to the wardrobe and grabbed the robe hanging there. She fumbled as she shrugged it on and cinched it tight. Her fingers as well as her legs shook.

She needed to see Zahir, to cling to the magic just a little longer, before she closed the door on love for ever.

Just one look, one touch.

He was in the living room, fully dressed as he stared at the busy square below. Disappointment stirred as she took in his wide shoulders in the dark jacket, his powerful legs hidden from view in tailored trousers.

He looked so … formal. After last night’s potent virility, these clothes made him appear curiously stiff.

She was halfway across the room when he swung round, an espresso cup in his hand. Her pace slowed as he lifted the cup and took a long sip.

He looked different. It wasn’t just the clothes. There was an aura around him that reminded her of the fiercely self-contained man he’d been in Paris.

She blinked as shyness assailed her. How could she be daunted by his business clothes? This was Zahir. The man she adored. The man who, she knew in her heart, loved her too. Given his strength of character nothing but that could have prompted him to spend the night loving her as if there was no tomorrow. The knowledge was poignant pleasure and pain intermingled.

‘Good morning.’ Her voice was husky. The last time she’d used it was when she’d cried out his name in the throes of passion.

‘Good morning.’ His black eyebrows were a horizontal smudge above severe features and he gave no answering smile. ‘How are you feeling today? Are you all right?’ His quick concern warmed her. Zahir had been a demanding lover, passionate, but incredibly tender.

‘I feel fabulous.’ She refused to think of how she’d feel when it was time to say goodbye.

Soraya’s steps faltered and her heart lurched as her eyes locked with his. She found blankness there where before there’d been passion, love and even—she could have sworn—wonder. Ice water trickled down her spine.

‘What’s wrong?’ He held himself so rigidly.

His mouth twisted in a brief, brutal smile that spoke of pain not pleasure. ‘You can ask that?’

‘Has something happened?’ she whispered. ‘Is there news from Bakhara?’

His fingers clenched so tight on the coffee cup she thought its handle would snap. ‘No news from Bakhara.’

Soraya hefted in a sigh of relief, her hand pressed to her chest. For a moment, reading his serious face, she’d wondered if something had happened to her father.

‘You look pale, Soraya. You must be worn-out. Why don’t you go back to bed and rest?’ He took a couple of paces towards her then pulled up short as if yanked back by an invisible rope. The sight of him stopping that telling distance away made every hair on her body rise. His gaze shifted towards the bedroom and colour streaked his sharp cheekbones. ‘You must be sore. Last night I should have … ‘

‘Zahir, I’m okay,
really
. I’m just …’ What? Feeling needy? She knew their time was almost over and needed Zahir’s embrace just one more time to give her strength to do what she must.

She moved towards him then slammed to a stop as he retreated.

It was just a half-step and he covered it quickly, pretending to cast about for somewhere to put his coffee cup, though there was a table right beside him. Yet she couldn’t mistake his instinctive movement.

Her heart crashed against her ribs as disbelief swamped her. She grabbed for the back of the sofa to support herself.

‘We need to talk,’ he said before she could speak.

She nodded. She could barely believe this was the man she
knew. He was so ill at ease and distant. As if last night had never happened.

Or as if he regretted what they’d done.

A knife twisted in her vitals.

Had he been disgusted by her enthusiasm or her untutored clumsiness? She squashed the idea as absurd. Last night had been indescribable pleasure for both of them. The love between them had made each touch, each sigh, magic. It had been so much more than simple physical gratification.

Soraya flushed at the memories, but another look at Zahir’s sombre face made the blood drain from her own.

She told herself he only did what he had to—created the distance that must forever more be between them.

Yet her poor heart yearned for one last touch, one embrace, one whispered word of reassurance. How weak she was.

‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements. You can leave it all to me.’

‘Arrangements?’ She tilted her head.

‘For our wedding.’ His gaze meshed with hers, but Soraya saw only flinty determination in eyes that looked curiously flat. ‘In the circumstances it will be a small ceremony, and soon.’

‘Wedding?’ The word emerged as a breathless gasp. She couldn’t be hearing this. Yet a flutter of excitement rippled through her, sabotaging her determination to be stoic as she faced the future.

‘We’re getting married.’ She knew that determined look. He was a man set on a course of action and nothing would deter him. The flutter became a tidal wave of excitement.

‘But we can’t. There’s no way …’ She spread her arms, encompassing all the reasons they couldn’t be together.

‘After last night we must.’ Strangely he didn’t smile at the memory of what they’d shared. ‘I’ve spent the morning working out a way we can be together.’

‘It’s impossible.’

‘I’ll make it possible.’ A thrill ripped through her. Zahir would move heaven and earth to achieve what he wanted. Was
it possible, after all, that there was a way for them to be together? She hardly dared believe it.

‘I’ll speak to your father as soon as possible and do my utmost to persuade him this will be in your best interests.’ Zahir drew in a breath that made his whole chest rise, as if readying himself for some Herculean task.

Her dad.
‘I’ll talk to him.’

If there was explaining to be done, she’d do it. He’d be horribly disappointed, and worried—not to mention embarrassed that the royal engagement was off—but he loved her. Surely, eventually, she could make him understand, especially if Zahir had a plan that would lessen the fallout? After all, he understood love.

‘No.’ Zahir shook his head and straightened his shoulders to stand ramrod-straight. Soraya was reminded of a soldier on parade. ‘It’s my duty. I’ll deal with it.’

It.
He made news of their feelings sound like a crime. Soraya clasped clammy hands together as the nervous gyrations of her stomach grew worse.

She understood how dreadful this would be. The shock and dismay they’d cause with their relationship. The gossip. The scandal. But despite it all the promise of a future with Zahir at the end of the trauma made exultation bubble through her veins. For it seemed Zahir believed there really could be a future for them. Despite her best intentions excitement swelled.

No matter what sacrifice it took, she was ready. Nothing was more important than the love they felt.

Yet, she realised now, Zahir looked not like a uniformed officer so much as a man facing a firing squad.

‘It’s not about duty, Zahir. My father will understand better if I explain.’ She wanted to take his hand but he’d shoved his fists deep in his trouser pockets.

What was wrong? If he’d found a way for them to be honest about their love …

His grim expression doused her excitement.

He did love her, didn’t he?

The way he’d murmured endearments last night, the fact that he’d taken her to bed despite all she knew of his honour-bound code of conduct, had convinced her he shared the same deep emotion she did.

‘Zahir?’

‘Of course it’s about duty.’ Zahir’s jaw clenched so hard his face looked painfully tight. A laugh jerked from his lips. The sound of it made the hairs on her nape prickle. ‘I was going to say it’s a matter of honour, but I have no claim to honour now. Not after last night.’

Raw pain stared out from his face as he turned to her and the bright, fierce joy she nursed close to her heart dimmed. Sensation plunged from her chest right down to her abdomen, like a lift plummeting to catastrophe.

‘Of course you do.’ She hauled in a difficult breath. ‘Last night was about honesty and—’

‘Don’t!’ The harsh syllable stopped her as she leaned forward. ‘I dishonoured you last night. And I dishonoured Hussein.’ Zahir tugged one hand free of his pocket and rubbed it round the back of his neck as if in pain. ‘Not to mention your family and myself.’

Soraya’s arm slumped to her side. She told herself it was natural he felt guilty. He wasn’t the only one. Even now she felt torn.

‘You didn’t dishonour me. I chose—’

‘Not dishonour you?’ His bark of laughter was ugly. ‘You were a virgin, Soraya. That privilege should have been your husband’s.’

Frantically Soraya fought for calm, reminding herself he only spoke as many in Bakhara did.

‘It wasn’t a privilege, Zahir. It was a gift.
My
gift.’

He swung away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. ‘Do you think I’d have taken you as I did if I’d known?’

Soraya froze. Her labouring lungs atrophied as his words sank in.

She opened her mouth and closed it, grasping for words.
Finally she dredged some from deep in her pain. ‘You thought I’d already lost my virginity so it was safe to sleep with me?’ A great tearing gasp ripped through her, widening with every second he remained silent. ‘You’re only offering marriage to make good the damage you’ve done my reputation?’

‘No. Of course not.’ Yet his face when he swung around wasn’t that of a lover. It belonged to a stranger. A stranger who looked at her and felt only horror for the consequences of what they’d done.

He’d wanted her last night, but not enough to withstand the cold, clear light of a new day. There was no joy on his face at the idea of their future together.

No thought of
them
. Just of duty and dishonour.

Dishonour. The word tainted what they’d shared so gloriously.

What she’d thought they’d shared.

Soraya had shared everything. Herself, her hopes, fears and dreams. Her love.

And Zahir? He regretted last night with a fervour that couldn’t be faked. Could it be that he’d shared no more than his virile body? She’d blurted her love for him but he hadn’t, even in the most intimate of moments, reciprocated.

Finally she realised how significant that was.

She watched him turn to pace the room, his expression brooding. She had to know the truth. Yet still she hesitated, scared of what his answer might be.

‘Zahir? Do you …
care
about me?’

His head jerked up. ‘Care?’ His brow pleated as if she spoke a foreign tongue. ‘Of course I care. I want to
marry
you, Soraya. I want to look after you and protect you. Be assured, I will make it all right.’

All right.
Hardly the words of a man in love. He made no mention of joy or anticipation.

Wave after wave of shock passed through Soraya. Her knees weakened and she plopped down onto a nearby chair. The leather was cold against her trembling palms.

Would she ever feel warm again?

That’s what love gets you. Nothing but trouble!

Soraya shook her head, as if she could banish the voice of doubt in her head.

But she knew it for the truth. Soraya had always feared love with good reason. Wasn’t that why an arranged marriage to the Emir had originally seemed such a safe, appealing option?

She looked up at the man with the closed face, pacing with such ferocious concentration. She couldn’t focus on his words over the swelling roar of blood in her ears, but she could make out his tone: cool and clipped. No passion. No emotion. None of the love she’d been so sure he felt.

He was in damage-limitation mode. As if she was a diplomatic tangle to be sorted out. An indiscretion to be dealt with.

Her heart gave a single frantic thud that shook her to the core. To have him hold out hope to her of happiness and then dash it was the cruellest torture of all.

She’d do anything, go anywhere with him, if only he’d ask.
If only he loved her.
But she refused to be nothing more than a mistake to be rectified.

She’d thought his actions were proof of deeper feelings. Yet he’d never spoken the words. Never claimed to love her.

Marrying a man who felt compelled to ‘do the right thing’ by her could only lead to disaster. Zahir would end up resenting her and she—could she cope with loving him and knowing he didn’t feel the same?

‘Soraya?’ She wasn’t listening to him. Zahir jolted to a stop, his gaze straying over her: so sweet, so vulnerable in that oversized robe.

His
woman.

Despite the untenable situation he’d put them in, he couldn’t help but glory in the fact she was his. Incontrovertibly. Totally. His.