Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

She stood in the relatively cool shade of an orange tree, smelt the fragrant blooms of the gardens, listened to the continual trickle of the fountains, and still she waited.

He had kept her waiting ten years, so what did ten minutes more matter? Layla asked herself.

Or another ten!

A chair was brought for her, but Layla refused. Instead she stood, burning in shame—could this man make it any clearer how little regard he had for her?

She wanted to walk.

She wanted to turn her back on tradition, to demand transport, to tell him where he could shove his business arrangement.

‘The King will be here shortly.’

She stared down at her hands, saw her fingers tightly knotted, had to physically plant her feet to the ground to stop herself turning and walking—had to purse her lips behind the veil to prevent herself from saying something that her people would surely regret if she did.

‘Perhaps Your Highness should sit…’ Again the chair was suggested. One of the ancient judges was already sitting and fanning himself. Perhaps they would bring out refreshments, Layla thought wildly, or cut up the oranges from the heavily fruited trees. And then they could all stand around sucking their quarters as they discussed what to do when a King refused to appear for his own wedding.

This was the hell of duty.

To stand.

To be shamed.

To wait.

Layla would take it for her people—would go ahead with this union if that was what tradition dictated—but she swore to herself as she stood there, pale and close to fainting, yet still refusing to sit, that he would pay for his offensive behaviour.

If he thought he could treat her so poorly, if he thought she would meekly comply, would trot along by his side and follow his orders, then that was his misfortune.

King Xavian should have done his research more thoroughly. Should have known that behind these veils was a strong, proud woman.

That behind the throng of elders and aides was a ruler who was strong—too strong, according to them.

Tonight she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his behaviour. He had no idea what awaited him, Layla thought, a small smile of satisfaction spreading over her lips. But it soon faded…

As still he made her wait.

Chapter One

KING XAVIAN AL’RAMIZ read the letter again.

It was one of many wishing him well for his wedding day.

It was from King Zakari of Calista, extending his congratulations and saying that he was looking forward to greeting him formally next week at the official reception.

It was the third letter.

The first had offered condolences on the death of his parents and invited him to stay as a guest at the Calistan palace.

Xavian had not responded. That letter he had burnt.

Then another had arrived, to thank him for the Qusay people’s gift on the birth of their son, Prince Zafir.

Still Xavian had not replied, though he had kept the letter for a few days, taking it out and reading it over and over till finally it had been tossed into a fire.

And now this.

There was nothing untoward about it, Xavian told himself as he read the letter for perhaps the hundredth time. He did not know what he sought from the words. There were hundreds such letters, offering good wishes, yet Xavian couldn’t help himself reading between the lines of this one…

His bride was waiting for him, he was already unforgivably late, yet still he pondered over the page.

It was a formal letter from King Zakari of Calista and his wife Queen Stefania of Aristo. Their union had reunited the Kingdom of Adamas. So why, Xavian pondered, had Zakari, instead of using the Adamas crest, chosen instead to write on Calistan paper? Xavian stared at the coat of arms, ran a finger over the crest, and could not fathom why it troubled him, it just did.

He had been troubled since Queen Stefania’s coronation, since she had looked into his eyes and he had registered shock…

No, Xavian told himself, not shock. She had been close to fainting, and he had spoken to her till her husband had realised there was a problem and gently led her away. She had been pregnant, as it turned out, which explained everything.

Except it didn’t.

Because the trouble in his soul had started before Stefania had greeted him—as King Zakari had made his way down the line. The rapid beat in his heart had started…a rapid beat that woke him at night, that was here again at this very moment.

Though he could not quite accept it as such, it was fear.

‘All is ready, Your Highness.’ Xavian didn’t turn his head as Akmal, his vizier, came into his suite. ‘Your bride awaits.’ He could hear the slightly uneasy note in Akmal’s voice—after all, his bride, Queen Layla of Haydar, had been waiting for a while now, the proceedings were ready to commence, and yet the groom so far had not made an appearance. Akmal had come yet again to the royal chamber himself, to ensure nothing untoward had occurred, only to find the groom where he had left him last time—still standing at the French windows, still holding the letter and staring broodingly out to the ocean.

‘I will be there shortly.’

‘Your Highness, may I suggest…?’

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Only then did Xavian turn, his black eyes furious at the intrusion, shooting the aide down and reminding him who was King. Dressed in the full military uniform of Qusay—superb olive cloth, his chest decorated with medals, his legs encased in long black leather boots, a sword at his side and golden thread holding on his kafeya—Xavian cut an imposing figure. But then, Xavian always did—standing six feet two, with broad shoulders and a strong, muscular frame, he did not need medals or swords or royal gold braid to command respect.

‘She can wait till I am ready.’

‘Your Highness.’ Akmal knew better than to argue, so instead he gave a small bow and left. Alone again, Xavian carried on gazing out to the ocean.

She would wait. Xavian knew that.

She had already waited a decade for this day. Betrothed to her since childhood, he should have married her ten years ago, but he had chosen not to—he had concentrated on enjoying his freedom instead.

Only now it was over.

Xavian walked out onto the balcony and wished that it gazed to the desert, not the ocean. To the desert, where he found rare peace, to the desert, where he would take his bride tonight.

How weary he was at that thought.

Since his parents had been killed in a plane crash, his advisors had been working overtime. His playboy ways were to end—he was King now, and kings did not live as princes. Kings married and produced heirs, and it was time for Xavian to do the same. After three months of deep mourning, the wedding that he had been putting off must now occur.

It would be a subdued affair, given the circumstances—huge celebrations deemed inappropriate so soon after the country’s loss. The people would be informed tomorrow that the King had married, and he would retreat with his bride to the desert before the official reception. After another suitable period of mourning the coronation would take place, and then the people would celebrate. A double celebration, perhaps? The elders had been light on discretion: nine months from the wedding, it would be nice to have a prince on the way.