Defying her Desert Duty (14 page)

Wildfire shimmered in his blood as he remembered how they’d been together. He wanted to thrust the world aside and
lose himself in her. But he had to be strong for both of them. He couldn’t contemplate a future without her.

That meant dragging himself far enough away, mentally and physically, to be able to confront the implications of their passion. Touching her would addle his brain. It was imperative he think clearly. Besides, he had no right to touch her until he’d made this right for her.

He had to deal carefully with her family, the public and, above all, Hussein if Soraya was to be able to hold her head up in public.

His lungs squeezed tight as he thought of Hussein. Scalding guilt drenched him.

No matter what he felt for Soraya, nothing excused what he’d done. To Soraya. To his friend and mentor.

She might brush it off as ‘honesty’ but he knew it for selfish weakness. A strong man would have held back, waited till they got to Bakhara, then declared himself publicly.

What sort of man was he?

He’d prided himself on his loyalty, courage and honour. He was weak to the marrow, a hollow sham of the man he’d believed himself. His loyalty to Hussein, his honour, his intentions, had all disintegrated before Soraya.

Had he fooled himself when he’d pretended he wasn’t his father’s son? That he was stronger, better, honest? Surely his betrayal of Hussein was far worse than his father’s disloyalty?
He was his father’s son after all.

The knowledge threatened everything he knew of himself, his life and aspirations. Yet he couldn’t afford to dwell on that now. Not when Soraya needed him.

It hadn’t been enough to dress, to avoid touching her, to force himself to focus on the ugly public repercussions. All his efforts to strengthen himself ready to face what must be faced crumbled before her potent presence. He wanted to shun the world and take her back to bed. But the world wouldn’t go away.

‘Soraya?’

Finally she looked up. Yet it was as if she didn’t see him. Her gaze was unfocused, fixed on something far away.

She opened her mouth and spoke, but his brain refused to process what she said. He gazed blankly down at her, willing her to break the nightmare horror that suddenly engulfed him.

He crouched before her, hands planted on the leather sofa on either side of her, trapping her close.

‘What did you say?’ His voice was a hoarse crack of sound.

Her gaze shifted as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. His heart pounded. ‘I said I won’t marry you.’

Zahir stared, vaguely aware that he was still breathing despite the gaping hollow where his heart had been. How could that be?

‘No!’ Finally he found his voice. ‘You must!’ She was his. What they shared had transformed him. Made him realise there was more to life than honour, challenge and duty. What in his youth he’d imagined to be love was nothing compared with this all-consuming emotion.

‘Must?’ She arched a brow imperiously, like the princess Hussein wanted to make her. Her voice was cool, distancing him. ‘You have no right to talk to me about
must
. You may be my bodyguard but you’re not my keeper.’

Zahir reeled back on his heels, shock slamming into him. Fire exploded in his belly and crackled along his arteries at her attempt to fob him off.

Fury such as he’d never known blasted through him. She couldn’t deny him!

‘I’m a hell of a lot more than that.’ Fear roughened his voice. He leaned in again, close enough to inhale her scent and feel the rapid flutter of her breath on his face. ‘You smell of sex, Soraya. Did you know that? Of my skin on yours. My seed.’

Her eyes rounded, her reddened lips parting, and Zahir wanted more than anything to kiss her into capitulation. Seduce away the idea that they couldn’t be together.

Instead he reached for the collar of her robe.

‘Here.’ He yanked it aside to reveal her collarbone. ‘I’ve left my mark on you.’

He’d felt guilty when he’d realised his unshaven jaw had marked the delicate skin of her throat and breasts.

Now all he felt was primitive satisfaction. Despite his anger and shock, his erection surged against the confines of his clothes. He wanted her with every searing breath in his constricted lungs. Not just the sex. He wanted
her
: the woman who’d changed his life and taught him how to feel.

She shoved his shoulders so abruptly he almost lost his balance. As it was she had time to surge to her feet and stride away across the room before he scrambled to stand. He made to follow her and then stopped, reading the pain on her face. An ache filled his chest.

‘So we had sex.’ Her voice was bitter, unlike anything he’d ever heard from her lips. ‘What do you want? Your name tattooed on my skin?’

He’d settle for her smile. Her heart beating next to his. The knowledge she’d be with him, always.

He shook his head. This wasn’t Soraya. Not the loving, generous woman he knew. What had gone wrong? He’d worked so hard, spent hours working out how they could be together permanently, and she was throwing it all away.

‘You said yourself last night wouldn’t have happened if you’d known I was a virgin.’ Contempt dripped from her words.

‘No!’ He paced closer. ‘I said I wouldn’t have taken you like that. So clumsily.’ He waved a slashing hand at the thought of his uncontrolled possession. ‘I should have been gentler.’ He’d seen the shock of discomfort on her features, read it in every tensed centimetre of her body, and still he hadn’t been able to pull away.

The closed expression on her face proclaimed she didn’t believe him and he couldn’t bear it. He strode across the room, reaching for her.

‘No. Don’t touch me.’ She shrank back.

Instantly he stopped, his belly churning sickeningly.

‘Soraya, please. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we need to talk. To sort this out.’

‘Talking won’t help.’ Her long hair rippled around her shoulders and breasts, reminding him of the sensual delight they’d shared. ‘There’s nothing to sort out.’

‘How can you say that?’ Had the world flipped over on its axis? Everything was scrambled. Everything he felt, everything he thought she felt, turned on its head.

‘Because there’s no future for us, Zahir.’

For long seconds she gazed into his eyes and he read regret there. Regret and pain that tore him apart because he was helpless to stop it. Or did he imagine it? Now her expression was blank and austere.

‘Of course there is. If you’ll just listen. I’ve worked out a way—’

‘There’s no future because I’m going to marry the Emir as planned.’

Zahir swayed on his feet as his world imploded, collapsing around him.

‘No! No, it’s not possible.’ He struggled to draw breath, to banish the wave of blackness that threatened to engulf him. ‘You’re not serious?’

But her face was set in determined lines. This was
real
. One of the things he loved about Soraya was her honesty. She meant it.

‘You
can’t
marry Hussein. Not now.’ Not when they’d found each other.

‘Why not?’ Her chin tilted and her dark eyes, once soft as pansies, flashed fire. ‘Because you plan to tell him I’m no virgin?’

Zahir shook his head.

‘You said you loved me.’ The words were torn from him. A desperate appeal in the face of pure torment.

She said nothing. His aching heart longed to hear the words again, to feel the balm of her love surrounding him once more.

Still she remained silent.

Had they been mere words? Lies?

She’d never lied before
, screamed his battered soul.

‘I’m going through with my betrothal,’ she said at last.

He wanted to yank her into his arms and make love to her till she sobbed his name and clung to him, till she recanted and said she wanted him, not Hussein.

But the seed of knowledge he’d nurtured so long had finally burgeoned into full blossom. Once before he’d sought marriage and been rejected because he was the son of a miscreant, with no prospects. He’d vowed then to work harder, be stronger, more successful than any of his peers. To make a name for himself that would be respected.

He’d thought he’d succeeded. And it was true that his reputation, his talents, his position, had been won by sheer hard work and devotion to duty.

A duty he’d failed abysmally last night. Just as he’d failed the tests of loyalty and integrity.

Soraya had said she wanted to make the most of her last days of freedom. Now she’d tasted forbidden fruit. She’d sated her curiosity and her desire for him.

She’d made her choice. Zahir was good enough for a fling, a night’s pleasure before a lifetime of fidelity.

But to marry the illegitimate son of a notorious traitor when she could have Bakhara’s ruler? Why settle for less than the best?

Why settle for a man who’d proven himself without honour?

Zahir turned on his heel and strode from the room.

I
NSTEAD
of escorting Soraya to the palace, Zahir found himself superfluous as her father, ecstatic at her return, met them at the airport and took her to their home.

A
courteous man, he invited Zahir to accompany them for refreshment, but Zahir refused.

As for Soraya, she thanked him with formal courtesy. Raw pain skewered him as he watched her treat him like a stranger.

As if last night hadn’t happened.

As if they meant nothing to each other.

But she wasn’t an accomplished actress. Zahir didn’t know whether to be buoyed or furious when he saw, for an instant, the betraying wobble of her lower lip. Her stiff, angular walk, unlike the gentle sway of her natural gait, told him she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended.

Then why …?

‘Sir?’

Zahir turned, recognising one of the palace servants.

‘Sir, the Emir asks that you attend the council chambers as soon as possible. The negotiations over disputed territories have commenced and you’re needed.’

Zahir turned towards the main concourse. Through the glass doors he saw a royal limousine waiting. Yet he had to force himself not to follow Soraya and her father instead.

‘Sir. It really is urgent.’

Zahir frowned. ‘I’m sure the Emir is well able—’

‘That’s just it, sir. The Emir is away in his desert palace. He’d expected you earlier and in the meantime left the negotiations to his diplomatic staff.’

Zahir’s frown became a scowl. Hussein was in the desert? Odd behaviour from a man expecting his bride-to-be. After a decade-long betrothal, surely he was eager now to claim the bride he’d ordered home?

‘The Emir …’ Zahir lowered his voice. ‘He is well?’

His companion nodded. ‘Yes, sir. So I understand. If you’ll just come this way … ‘

It took two full days to turn the talks around into something productive, another day to develop an agreement for consideration by the various nations and a day to ensure the delegates were farewelled with formal courtesy.

Despite the heavy load placed on his shoulders, Zahir performed his official duties as if by rote. He was distracted. Tormented.

By Soraya, who’d said she loved him, only to reject him. Who’d turned from searing passion to icy detachment.

By the puzzle of Hussein’s behaviour when he remained uncontactable during these vital discussions. It wasn’t the action of the forthright, capable man he knew.

But, above all, by his own turbulent feelings.

Four days neck-deep in sensitive, world-changing negotiations and he’d felt none of his usual pleasure in a difficult job well done.

His priorities had changed.

Because he’d fallen for a woman who meant more to him than the life he’d carefully constructed. What did any of it matter when Soraya was denied him? Worse, when she herself denied what they’d shared?

Pride shredded, desperation welling, he could find no equanimity, could barely maintain a pretence of it.

Now, on the fourth night since his return, he finally had the luxury of solitude. Instinctively, he’d turned to the desert.

Behind him stretched the glittering city, lighting up the night. Before him, the moon-silvered open ground of the wilderness. He urged his horse forward, inhaling the evocative scent of wild herbs, dusty ground and the subtle indefinable scent of exotic spice borne from the east.

As they picked their way into the desert a perfume teased his senses, of some night-blooming flower, rare and fragile.

It reminded him of Soraya and her delicately perfumed skin, sweet as mountain blooms. Of her beauty and grace, how she made a simple smile a thing of rare joy. His heart crashed against his ribs at the thought of never seeing it again. Or seeing her smile at another man: Hussein.

Pain tore at him like great talons ripping his flesh.

It wasn’t just her beauty or her smiles he wanted. It was her love. The way she made him feel. When she’d said she loved him, something inside had glowed incandescent: a hope, a dream he’d never known existed until Soraya.

She’d seduced him not with sex but with the wonder of herself. A woman like no other. Proud, determined, prickly, emotional, giving, warm-hearted, loyal. Loyal to the father she loved and the man to whom she’d promised herself.

But not to him.

Hadn’t she felt the same joy at his love for her? Hadn’t she—?

The horse whinnied and skittered to a halt as Zahir yanked on the reins.

She
must
know how he felt. It had been there in his every desperate caress, in every breath, each murmured endearment. His desire for marriage.

Yet, reeling back time to that night, the morning after, it struck him that he’d never said it aloud. Never declared his feelings.

He shook his head. Of course she knew he cared for her. Why else would he strategise so frantically to find a way they could wed?

But did she know he loved her?

He sat unmoving so long the stars wheeled in the darkness overhead and the moon inched towards the horizon. Finally his patient mount shifted and Zahir let him have his head, cantering down a slope into the network of valleys that marked the border of the great desert.

When finally they stopped, Zahir had reached a decision.

It was beyond him to believe he could win her for himself, though he couldn’t completely stifle a sliver of outrageous hope. Yet he had to act. He had to declare what he felt so Soraya knew and Hussein too.

It wasn’t in Zahir’s nature to hide behind silence.

Suddenly Soraya’s words about honour and honesty made sense. What he felt, however problematic, was honest and real.

He’d been honest with Hussein all his life. It was his honesty above all that had built his reputation as a man who could be trusted, especially in matters of state. He couldn’t change now. He couldn’t face his friend and benefactor hiding what he truly felt.

He couldn’t let Soraya turn from him without knowing.

He couldn’t live a lie. Not even if it meant banishment and loss of both the prestige he’d built and the dreams he’d held. Loving Hussein’s wife doomed him to leaving all he’d once held close, even his best friend.

He would lose everything.

Yet hadn’t he already lost the one thing that mattered?

He turned the stallion and headed back to the city, his heart lighter than it had been since Rome.

The royal audience-chamber was vast, richly ornamented and exquisitely decorated with murals and mosaics of semiprecious stones. Designed to reinforce the majesty of the nation’s ruler, it could hold hundreds.

Zahir stopped on the threshold, surprised to find it virtually empty with only a few score in attendance.

There was Hussein, looking stately as ever and reassuringly fit, greeting guests. To one side was Soraya, gorgeous in amber
silk with a gilt embroidered veil covering the back of her head. She was pale but composed.

His heart jerked with mingled delight and pain.

Would this be the last time he saw her?

After this he’d no doubt be escorted to the border and never allowed to enter the country again, much less approach the royal presence. The trembling in his belly spread to his limbs and for a moment he doubted he had the strength to go on.

Moving his gaze, he saw Soraya’s father, hovering close to her. The rest of the guests he recognized: the country’s most influential leaders, tribal elders and government ministers. Men he dealt with every day. Men he respected.

Men who’d shun him when this was over.

He watched Hussein, the benevolent, extraordinary man who was as precious to him as a father. Who trusted him implicitly. His stomach dived as he thought of the yawning rift he’d create between them and the hurt he’d cause.

Shifting his gaze back to Soraya, warmth stole through him. Not the heat of lust. This was stronger, fuller and more profound.

Taking a deep breath, he strode towards his fate.

Soraya held herself stiffly, beset by doubt.

She’d never been in the audience chamber and its brilliance daunted her, reinforcing the Emir’s power and wealth. Reminding her she was to marry a stranger, as unfamiliar to her as the opulence that surrounded them.

When summoned to the palace this morning, she’d almost welcomed the invitation. For, despite what she’d told Zahir in her pride and hurt, she was less convinced than ever that she could marry the man who held centre stage in this auspicious gathering.

Yes, he was generous and decent, good-looking too, if you had a penchant for much, much older men.

But he wasn’t Zahir.

It didn’t matter that Zahir didn’t love her. She’d given her
heart to him and she knew that, like her father’s, her love once given could not be rescinded.

She’d hoped for a chance to talk with the Emir in private. He had a right to know his bride loved another.

Instead she and her father had been ushered into a formal reception of VIPs so daunting she’d had difficulty doing more than respond to polite greetings. She very much feared the purpose of the gathering was to introduce her formally as a royal bride and announce a wedding date. Why else was she included amongst all these eminent people?

As soon as this was over she
had
to find a way to speak with the Emir privately. She owed him the truth, though she cringed, thinking of the consequences.

A stir in the crowd caught her attention. Heads turned towards the grand entrance. At the same time a frisson of awareness scudded down her spine, drawing her flesh taut and tingling, as if she’d been dipped in fizzing champagne.

Her breath caught. That sensation was unmistakeable.

It was Zahir. No one else made her feel that way.

Despair flowered deep inside as she realised there was no escape. She’d hoped to put off this first public meeting till she’d gathered her defences more strongly about her, ready to project an aura of disinterest.

Would she ever be able to pretend so well, when just the knowledge he was in the room made her knees weak?

Unable to resist, she turned and there he was, his long legs eating up the marble vastness as he strode towards the throne.

Her pulse rocketed as she took him in. Zahir as she’d never seen him. Zahir in a pure white robe that flowed from broad, straight shoulders, loose trousers tucked into traditional Bakhari horseman’s boots. A belt secured a curved scabbard for the customary knife.

There was nothing ostentatious about him. His clothes were simple but of the finest materials. Yet no other man in the room matched him for sheer presence and masculine magnificence. Not even the Emir.

Zahir’s face was drawn in harsh lines, as if he’d just come in from the blinding desert sun. Or as if he had momentous matters of state on his mind.

‘Zahir! Welcome.’ The Emir moved forward to greet him, arms outstretched for an embrace.

‘My lord.’ Zahir stopped several paces away, bowing deeply.

The Emir halted, his brow pleating as if Zahir’s formality surprised him. ‘It gladdens my heart to see you, Zahir. You are well?’

‘I am, sire. And you are in good health?’

Soraya listened to the exchange of greetings with half an ear, all the while bracing herself for the moment Zahir looked past the Emir and noticed her. Would he come and greet her, or simply nod, as passing acquaintances might? She didn’t know which would hurt more.

She must have missed part of their conversation. For suddenly the Emir was ushering him forward and Zahir was shaking his head.

‘Before the business of the day begins, I have something I must tell you.’ Zahir’s eyes, like polished emeralds, flashed straight to her, pinioning her where she stood. As ever, she felt the impact of his gaze from the roots of her hair to the tips of her feet in their embroidered silk slippers.

So he’d known she was there all along.

She shifted, a sense of terrible premonition welling.

‘Of course.’ The Emir gestured for him to continue. ‘You are among friends. Let us hear what is on your mind.’

Zahir turned back to the Emir, his facial muscles so taut she wondered if he was in pain.

‘It concerns the lady Soraya.’

Her heart skated to a halt then took up a quick, faltering rhythm. A murmur of interest resonated around the room but she barely registered it. Her whole being focused on Zahir.

What was he going to do—broadcast what he considered her shame to all and sundry? Accuse her of disloyalty? Unworthiness?

She found she’d clasped her hands together, fingers entwined and shaking. Her feet were rooted to the spot.

‘Go on.’

‘There is something you should know before you marry.’ Zahir paused and you could have heard a pin drop in the massive room.

Soraya’s father reached out and touched her arm but she couldn’t tear her gaze from Zahir.

What was he doing? Why?

Her stasis shattered and she stumbled forward, her long dress sweeping around her unsteady legs.

The Emir half-turned to acknowledge her as she joined them. Yet Zahir didn’t shift his gaze. He stared straight ahead at the man he’d called his best friend and mentor.

As if he blocked her out.

Panic swirled up from her stomach, prickling its way through her whole body. Or was it pain? The ache of waiting to be betrayed by the man who’d stolen her heart?

‘I know you prize loyalty,’ Zahir continued.

‘I do.’

‘Then you should know that I can no longer remain in Bakhara. Not once you marry this woman.’ Zahir’s voice was firm and strong, eliciting a ripple of gasps and whispers from the assembled group.

Heat roared through Soraya’s cheeks then receded, leaving her cold and strangely empty. Then she felt the clasp of a sustaining hand on hers as her father moved to stand by her. That proof of his love almost shattered her, knowing how unbearably disappointed he would be at the news Zahir would break.

She opened her mouth but no sound emerged.

‘Why is that, Zahir?’ On her other side the Emir sounded unperturbed, as if he couldn’t read the dark sizzle of emotion in Zahir’s eyes or the thundering pulse at his temple.