The Princess Brides: The Sultan's Bought Bride / The Greek's Royal Mistress / The Italian's Virgin Princess

Nicolette heard the emotion in Malik’s voice, felt his worry, his personal struggle. He blamed himself.

He cared about Fatima. He loved his family. He’d spent his life trying to protect those he cared about. And in that instant, Nic realized that all those European gossip magazines had gotten King Malik Roman Nuri wrong. He wasn’t a Casanova. It’d be impossible for him to take women to bed just to discard them later.

Malik cared about women. He didn’t take advantage of them.

She felt tears start to her eyes. ‘‘No wonder you enjoy your gadgets.’’ She covered his hand with hers. ‘‘You should be entitled to a few fun toys. It’s not easy being King.’’

He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissed the back of her fingers. He was trying hard to lighten his mood. ‘‘You will enjoy Zefd. It will be good for us to spend a few days in the mountains.’’

But Nic didn’t want him to put on a happy face for her sake. She searched his eyes. ‘‘Are you going to be okay?’’

Leaning forward, he brushed his mouth across her cheek, and then once more on her lips. ‘‘I’m glad you’re with me, laeela.’’

‘‘I’m glad I’m here, too.’’

They spent two hours traveling in and out of the rugged red and pink mountains, climbing slowly, steadily to the peak of one mountain, to descend on the other side, and then start climbing all over again.

Late afternoon they reached an open valley, the barren ground dotted here and there with oases of green. ‘‘Artificial lakes,’’ Malik said, ‘‘for commercial orchards of date trees.’’

On this side of the mountains the landscape looked brighter, clearer, and more unusual. It was the quality of light, Nic thought, the way the golden rays hit the rose and gold sand, reflecting off the pink and red granite cliffs.

Everything here seemed to come from the earth, to be made of the earth, and would eventually return to the earth. The driver approached a red sandstone fortress, the stark walls high, the parapet clearly etched against the brilliant blue sky. The fortress towered over the rest of the city and yet was still dwarfed by the snow-capped mountains behind.

‘‘So where are we?’’ Nic’s inquisitive gaze took in the magnificent mountains dusted in white and the weathered apricot and terracotta buildings before them.

‘‘This is Zefd. One of the oldest cities in Baraka. My father’s family came from here.’’

As Malik’s vehicle entered the walls of the city, people unexpectedly poured out, robed men and women and dozens of eager children. ‘‘Did they know you were coming?’’

Malik’s expression was ironic. ‘‘Someone must have alerted them.’’

The driver parked, but before he opened the door for them, palace guards appeared, forming a protective barrier between the sultan’s car and the crowd.

Malik climbed from the car and assisted Nicolette. On seeing the king, the people cheered, and Malik lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

Malik was surprised when Nicolette moved forward, toward the crowd, greeting his people. She spoke only a few Arabic words, but the sincere phrases coupled with her warm smiles appeared to charm everyone.

Standing at her side, Malik watched Nicolette work the crowd, and while ‘‘work’’ sounded cold, it was exactly what she was doing. She knew her job, he thought, seeing how gracefully she handled the press of people, the hands extended, the small children lifted for her to kiss. She knew how long to chat, how long to listen, and then how to gently break free to continue making her way along the edge of the crowd.

He’d known she was strong, intelligent, but he hadn’t expected this natural warmth and ease with his people. She was a true princess—regal, royal—and yet she identified with the common man. She would be good for his people.

And very good for him.

But he still hadn’t made much headway when it came to knowing her, openly speaking with her. She’d learned to hide herself quite well. She projected so much warmth and charm that one didn’t realize how neatly she sidestepped the personal until later.

Princess Nicolette did not wear her heart on her sleeve. Instead she kept her heart buried very deep. But it was her heart he wanted, and right now he wasn’t even sure he had that. She was attracted to him, and responded to him, but the fact that she continued to hide her true identity had begun to trouble him. What if she didn’t intend to go through with the wedding? What if she still intended to leave him at the altar, the jilted royal bridegroom?

The thought left him cold. His jaw gritted and he felt ice lodge in his chest, close to his heart. He wanted her. He needed her. He had no intention of losing her now.

His temper and emotions firmly in control, Malik moved forward, claimed Nicolette, drawing her with him into his desert home.

‘‘We call this house the Citadel,’’ he said, showing Nicolette around his Zefd desert home. ‘‘It was built as a fortress, and although the royal family has lived here off and on for the past two hundred years, it still serves as an important military outpost, one of our stronger defensive positions.’’

‘‘Does Baraka worry about its neighbors?’’

‘‘The neighbors aren’t the threat. Our troubles historically have come from within.’’ He opened a door, leading to a large walled garden dominated by an ancient argan tree. The tree’s upper limbs were enormous and gnarled, like spiny green dragons fighting.

They took a seat in the shade and were immediately served with glasses of ice cold, very sweet mint tea.

Malik’s expression became contemplative and he drummed his fingers on the table. When he spoke next, he chose his words with care. ‘‘We have a complex society in Baraka, our culture that of Berber, Boudin, Arab, African. Throw in some French colonialism and you have intense conflicts.’’

She considered him. ‘‘How intense?’’

‘‘We’ve had more than our share of political turmoil in this century. Unfortunately, the last fifty years have been especially…explosive.’’

She reached for her glass, sipped the icy beverage gratefully. ‘‘The tensions have boiled over?’’

‘‘Violently.’’

‘‘It seems I do need to learn Baraka’s history,’’ Nic said, setting her glass down.

He hesitated, staring off, his gaze on the red mountains beyond, the manicured palm trees lining the exterior citadel wall. ‘‘Baraka was in the midst of a violent civil war when I was born. This war lasted fifteen years. Everyone took sides. Many fought on behalf of the royal family, others fought for the insurgents. You see, we’d been under French rule for so long that people were fighting simply because they were angry, and scared, and no one knew what was best. I was still just a small child when my grandfather was assassinated, but I’ve never forgotten that day.’’

His brow furrowed as he remembered those dark violent years. ‘‘My grandfather’s assassination ended the war.’’ He turned and looked at her, his expression curiously blank. ‘‘Because you see, my grandfather was universally loved. He wasn’t supposed to be killed. This wasn’t a fight against him, or the family, but a fight about culture…custom…a fight to be recognized. The country virtually shut down the day of Grandfather’s funeral. All the people took to the streets. I’ve never forgotten the sound of weeping, thousands of people weeping, and it taught me that nothing is more important than life. Than family.’’

‘‘I’m surprised you haven’t married before then.’’

‘‘It didn’t feel urgent.’’

‘‘And it is now?’’

His mouth opened as if to speak but instead he closed it, shook his head.

Truthfully, he’d never worried about marrying, having children, he’d been certain it was a matter of timing and sooner or later he’d meet the right woman…but it hadn’t happened, and here he was, in his late thirties, and without a wife, an heir, or a family of his own.

And with one assassination attempt against him already.

Malik drank his tea, let the cool liquid pour down his throat and ice his raw emotions. It’d been a difficult twenty-four hour period. He was feeling the strain of Fatima’s desperate measures, Nicolette’s masquerade, and his own need for closure. He just wished he knew if she’d come through, meet him on her own terms. He wanted her on her terms, he wanted her heart, her laughter, her commitment. But he couldn’t push her…yet.

He turned his head, looked at Nic whose features were grave, a deep furrow between her eyebrows from thinking hard, listening so intently.

‘‘The years of war changed the way I looked at society,’’ he continued. ‘‘It impacted the way I view our culture and the idea of stability. I learned early that we must embrace change, that without change we die.’’

‘‘I would have thought you’d be afraid of change. After all, change triggered your grandfather’s death—as well as that decade and half of turmoil. One would think you’d associate change with danger.’’

He shrugged. ‘‘But chaos and turmoil surround us, whether or not we choose to recognize it. Just because we don’t see turmoil, or because we’re not immediately impacted, doesn’t negate its existence. Chaos can happen at any time.’’

‘‘So your philosophy is…?’’