The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride (21 page)

She felt the deep breath Rafiq drew, his chest expanding against her, his fingers curling tighter. Then he strode to the car and deposited her on the back seat. She shifted into the corner, hunching away from him as he joined her. Amazingly, she’d forgotten how vibrant his presence was, how it invaded her space.

The trip to the palace should only have taken fifteen minutes, but the roads were lined with people and the driver kept their speed to a crawl.

`Do you think you can manage a smile?’ Rafiq murmured as he lifted his hand in greeting, responding to the cheers and waves of the crowd. `Some of these people have been here for hours, waiting to catch a glimpse of you.’

Òf me?’ She swung round to stare at him.

Òf course.’ He turned from his open window, and the intensity of his expression seared into her very being. `You are a national heroine, Belle. Savior of the Royal Prince. Every his brain in every unguarded moment. Of Belle, unconscious in his arms, the lifeblood pumping out of her. Of him, utterly helpless, as he alternately cajoled and threatened her insensate form into staying alive.

He felt the coldness clamp round his heart again, knowing how close he’d come to losing her. And all because of his selfish plan to win her, coax her into trusting him enough to become his wife in reality as well as name. How could he have been so stupid as to take such a chance with her when Selim was still at large?

No matter that his security advisors had assured him the oasis trip would be safe. He should have known. He should have kept her securely at the hunting lodge till it was all over. He should have kept her under armed guard at all times. He’d failed her when she’d needed him most.

He’d never felt as useless, as worthless, as when he’d thought he’d lost her. That she’d done something as unforgivably ridiculous as offer her life for his overwhelmed him with guilt.

He wasn’t worthy of her.

It was his fault she’d been hurt. His fault that now she held herself with the wary distance of the shell shocked. It had been one trauma for her after another. And it was all down to him.

Bleakly he wondered if he’d have the strength to grant her the freedom she so obviously desired. By anyone’s reckoning she deserved it.

When the car pulled up at the palace entrance a crowd of servants spilled out, one of them pushing a wheelchair for her. But Rafiq moved first, alighting from the car and scooping her up into his arms, where she belonged. She was warm, and frighteningly fragile. Careful of her sling, he held her close and breathed deeply, absorbing the fresh, unique scent of her skin. man, woman and child in Q’ aroum has heard the story of how the beautiful young bride of the Sheikh threw herself in front of an armed assassin to save the life of her husband.’

There was a harsh note in his voice that she couldn’t identify. A starkly repressed emotion that nagged, just below the surface of his carefully composed features. It made her shiver.

`What nonsense,’ she said.

Ìt’s the truth,’ he interjected, his voice deep enough to stir her senses in unwanted feminine response. `You saved my life. Even though it could have cost you yours.’

His gaze held hers, and she felt the potency, the sheer power of his personality, and of the emotions he kept so strictly tethered.

`That single act of foolish bravery seems to have convinced even the staunchest traditionalist that I was incredibly clever to take you as my wife.’

Belle caught her breath. Finally she let it ease out of her, deflated to realize that for a moment she’d waited for him to say he was glad he’d married her, but for the most personal of reasons.

Disappointment shafted, keen as a knife, into her chest. Stupid, stupid woman.

She turned towards her own window, and this time she raised her arm to the people who thronged close, waving and cheering. But she couldn’t return their smiles.

Rafiq watched her from the corner of his eye and wondered again if he’d done right to bring her home from the hospital today. The doctor had warned that she was in shock, though the gunshot wound was healing well. He’d suggested waiting. But Rafiq had been adamant. She needed to come home now her condition was stable. Belle would have nursing staff on hand at the palace to give her twenty-four-hour care.

He stifled an upsurge of intense nausea at the thought of her injury, and once more thrust aside the image that still crowded.

It felt so right, holding her. As long as he ignored the cool query in her eyes and the tension emanating from her taut body, signaling that she’d rather be anywhere than in his arms.

He strode through the wide entrance to find Dawud waiting for them, a large, unmistakable leather case in his hands.

`Madam: Dawud bowed to Belle. Ì am pleased to welcome you home.’

`Thank you, Dawud.’ Her voice was too high-pitched to be natural, but she was calm. Too calm in the circumstances, Rafiq decided.

`My wife is tired, Dawud,’ he said brusquely. `We’ll deal with that later.’ He nodded to the case. `When she’s rested.’

Ì‘m not tired,’ she objected, in that high, tight voice that was so unlike her natural warm tones. `What’s in the box?’

`Nothing that can’t wait,’ Rafiq muttered, turning away towards the corridor.

`Dawud?’ Belle asked. `What’s this about?’

It’s a matter of tradition, Highness,’ Dawud said, following them.

`When the Sheikh weds it’s customary for him to appear before his people and for his bride to wear-‘

`The Peacock’s Eye,’ Belle interjected, turning her eyes to meet his.

`You got it back?’

Rafiq stared down at her, wishing he could discern a spark of pleasure or excitement in her at the prospect of having such fabled gems for her own. Anything but the cool reserve that kept her so remote.

He nodded. Ìt was retrieved yesterday.’

‘Well, I suppose I’d better wear it,’ she said, with a total lack of enthusiasm. `We don’t want to stand in the way of tradition. It’s your duty, after all.’

Rafiq frowned, sure he heard sarcasm in her tone. But her look was bland. What wouldn’t he give to have the real Belle in his arms feisty, passionate, so alive.

`Very well,’ He turned and strode towards the throne room. `Let’s get this over with. Come, Dawud.’

Belle stared at the jeweled necklace, stunned, as anyone would be, at the sheer, inconceivable magnificence of it. The array of gemstones must be worth several kings’ ransoms. The weight of gold was enormous, and the exquisite artisanship almost beyond belief.

Rafiq had given this up for her? It seemed incredible. But then she remembered. He hadn’t done it for her; he’d done it to keep his kingdom from international opprobrium.

Her gaze swung from the sparkling necklace, revealed on its bed of dark velvet, to his face, looming ‘above her. He wore his shuttered look still no way of knowing what he was thinking.

Nevertheless, the enormity of his action left her speechless. How many men would have made that decision to save the lives of strangers by paying this ransom?

`You may go, Dawud,’ Rafiq said, his tone sharp. `Have the chamberlain announce that we’ll be there shortly. But not for long.

My wife needs rest.’

`The people will understand, Your Highness.’ Dawud bowed and left the room.

`You’re sure about this, Belle?’ Rafiq asked.

She nodded. Best to get it over as quickly as possible.

Maybe she was exhausted after all. For suddenly the comfortable numbness was wearing off. She felt a tearing sensation deep inside, as if the pain she’d warded off for so long ripped at her from within. And it was getting harder and harder to remain calm and detached now Rafiq was so close.

`Very well.’ She watched as he lifted the necklace from its case, saw the way the light reflected off the enormous gems and swallowed hard.

He stood behind her and lowered it over her head. He brushed her hair aside and snicked the heavy clasp closed. Belle felt the weight of it like a yoke around her neck and drew a deep, calming breath.

Suddenly she didn’t feel like Belle Winters any more.

She looked up and into the antique mirror on the other side of the salon. There was Rafiq, tall and handsome behind her. And, sitting before him, there she was, unrecognizable now as a mere hard working marine archaeologist. Transformed by the remarkable jeweled necklace into someone altogether different.

Even with her arm in a sling, and wearing her ordinary clothes, she’d subtly changed. It had to be the awesome beauty of the jewelry that did it.

She frowned. No, it was more than that. She felt different. As if the collar was imbued with the weight of all those centuries of tradition. As if she was, indeed, the true bride of a prince.

She blinked at her suddenly blurry reflection, letting herself wish again, one last time, that there was love between her and Rafiq.

That, like one of his ancestors, he’d abducted her off the high seas out of pure covetousness, out of personal desire. Not for mere public show.

`Don’t cry,
habibti
.’ His voice sounded hoarse, but her vision was too blurred now for her to make out his expression in the mirror.

Her throat stung with the sharp pain of grief as she fought to repress a sob.

`Belle.’ His hand brushed her cheek, and then he was hunkering down before her, gathering her hands into his. `My sweet Belle, it’s all been too much for you. We’ll postpone this till you’re better.’

Furiously she blinked, trying to dam the welling tears. `No. Let’s get this show over with. Give the people the fairytale they want and be done with it.’ She didn’t bother to hide her bitterness.

Silence.

`You misunderstand,’ he said at last, in a cool, toneless voice.

`The giving of the Peacock’s Eye is not for display. It’s not to satisfy the curiosity of the populace, though the tradition is that once it’s given it will be shown to the people.’

She stared down at his long fingers, now grasping hers. Did he know how tightly he held them?

`Belle!’

She jerked her head up and met his gaze. And immediately she felt a slow, tingling warmth sizzle in her veins. That look in his eyes…

Èven in the days when the Sheikh kept a harem the Eye was bestowed only on his favorite. The mistress of his heart,’ Rafiq explained, his voice dropping to a velvety murmur. Ànd since those days times have changed. I told you the men of my family have for generations taken only one wife. The al Akhtars are famous in the region for many things, including the constancy of their affections.’

She stared into his eyes and saw a blaze of heat there that made her breath catch.

`The Eye is given to each new bride as a symbol of her place in her husband’s heart.’ He bent his head and kissed, first one hand, then the other.

`Heart of my heart. Flesh of my flesh,’ he whispered, drawing her hand to rest over the rapid, heavy thud of his heart that matched her own. Ì give you the Eye as I could never give it to another.

You are mine, Belle, no matter the circumstances that brought us together.’

It was only the grasp of his hand round her wrist, the sizzling heat of his body beneath her touch, that convinced her this was real. Not some fantasy.

She opened her mouth, but her throat closed on whatever words she’d hoped to find. He dropped to his knees before her, leaning close so that he was only a breath away.

Ì love you, Belle. That is why the Eye belongs to you. You are my woman, my wife, my love. Feel how my heart beats for you,
habibti
. You are everything to me.’ He pressed her hand to his chest and she felt the tumultuous thump of his heart.

Her soul was soaring, taking flight with the joyous possibility of hope.

Rafiq loved her. She tried to take it in, to accept it, but reality intervened. She tugged her hand away, but he wouldn’t release it, held it tight against him.

`That’s not true,’ she whispered, even though saying it out loud was agony. `You married me to keep Q’ aroum safe, so you wouldn’t lose face before your people…’ Her words trailed off as she watched his lips curve up in a self-satisfied smile.

`So my advisors suggested, little one. But do you really think I would marry any woman other than the one I want for life? Do you not think I’d have been able to deal with the tawdry ambitions of Selim and his crew?’

Belle stared into his arrogantly satisfied face. Saw the possessive light in his eyes and almost believed. How she wanted to believe.

`But the risk was too great,’ she protested. `Selim was organizing terrorist attacks.’ She shook her head, struggling to understand.

Ànd then last night you were so distant, as if you regretted being stuck with me.’ She couldn’t keep the hurt out of her voice.

He shook his head, as if despairing of her naivety. ‘I’m glad my arguments were so convincing, my sweet. But, believe me, I don’t need to hide behind my wife, no matter how brave and beautiful she is, in order to rule my kingdom.’

And there it was. Suddenly, undeniably. Convincing her as nothing else had. The arrogant cast of his features, the haughty tilt of his head, the proud, strong jut of his chin that bespoke generations of autocratic power. Rafiq al Akhtar was a man who could rule Q’aroum alone if he chose, following the traditions of his forebears, assured in his right as born leader. Of course his people would follow where he led. But he’d chosen the path of democracy.

And he’d chosen her.

The knowledge stole her breath. A slow, delicious sensation, like hope unfurling in her chest, sent warmth tingling through her. She gulped down a choking sob of unbelievable emotion.

Ànd as for being distant, little tigress, it was guilt at putting you at risk that made me hold back. To have the woman you love offer her life for you is a humbling experience. A shattering one to any man of feeling.’ His gaze held hers, so she read tension and, for the first time, vulnerability in his expression. There was agony in his eyes. Such as she’d never seen before.

`You’d gone through so much already, and all because of me,’ he continued, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘I was afraid that this time it was too much, that even a woman of your spirit must finally call enough. That you would blame me, as you had every right to do, and turn your face from me.’