The Royal House of Karedes: Two Crowns: The Sheikh's Forbidden Virgin / The Greek Billionaire's Innocent Princess / The Future King's Love-Child

Exasperation, relief, and disappointment all warred within her. Of course a man like Aarif wouldn’t want to share the cramped intimacy of the tent. Of course he would stoically insist on weathering a sandstorm outside, with the horses for company. It almost—almost—made her want to laugh.

But then she remembered the feel of his body against hers, the betrayal of his own instinct, as well as her answering need, and she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks.

Desire. It was a strange, novel thought. She hadn’t felt desire for anyone; not what she thought of as desire, that inexorable tug of longing for another person. She’d never been close enough to another person to feel that yearning sweetness. Even in her years of freedom in Cambridge, she’d known she must be set apart. A princess had to be pure.

Yet in that moment, feeling the evidence of his own desire and need, she’d felt an answering longing for Aarif and it had been as sweet, as sensuous a pleasure as a drug. It had uncoiled in her belly and spiralled upwards like warm wine through her veins, until all she’d been aware of was him.

Him.

It was the same feeling she’d felt at dinner, in the garden…since she’d met him. She just hadn’t recognised it, because she’d never felt it before. Yet now it was so apparent, so obvious, what that feeling was. That hunger, that need. She knew enough about nature and humanity to recognise what Aarif had felt for her moments ago, and she understood the physical reaction of his body—and hers. She might be innocent, but she was not a child.

She did not feel like one.

She took a deep breath; it hurt her lungs. She needed water. Kalila scrabbled through the saddlebags for her canteen, taking only a few careful sips to ease the raw parching of her throat.

Another breath and reason began to return. It had been a heated moment, she acknowledged, a moment of passionate anger. That was all it could be, what it had to be. It wasn’t real; she didn’t think Aarif even liked her. At least, he certainly didn’t after what she’d done today.

She wasn’t even sure she liked herself.

Kalila peered out of the tent flap. Even though Aarif was only a few metres away she could barely see him. Sighing in exasperation, she struggled out of the tent and stumbled in the near-darkness towards Aarif.

‘You shouldn’t be out here.’

‘I’ve experienced worse, Princess,’ Aarif told her flatly. He sat crouched on his haunches, his arms crossed. ‘Go back in the tent where you belong.’

‘You know the desert as well as I do,’ Kalila returned. ‘It is foolish to wait out here, not to mention dangerous. Why do you think I brought a tent?’

‘I can only assume,’ Aarif returned, his voice still tight with suppressed fury, ‘that you had been planning your little escapade for some time.’

Kalila sighed, then sat down. ‘Not as long as you think. If you’re going to stay out here, then I am too, and it’s likely the tent will blow away.’

She folded her arms, squinting to see him, the wind whipping her hair in tangles around her face. Aarif was silent, and Kalila waited, determined to win this battle of wills.

It was incredibly uncomfortable, though; the ground was hard, the wind merciless, the sand stinging every bit of exposed skin, and Aarif’s glare was the harshest element of all. Still, she waited.

‘You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met,’ he said at last, and, though it wasn’t a compliment, not remotely, Kalila smiled.

‘I’m pleased you’re beginning to realise that.’

A long moment passed as the wind shrieked around them. Muttering something—Kalila couldn’t quite hear—Aarif rose fluidly from the ground and fetched his own saddlebags. ‘Come, then,’ he said, his voice taut. ‘I will not risk your own foolish life simply because you choose to be so stubborn.’

Kalila rose, and his arm went around her shoulders, a heavy, strangely comforting weight, as he guided her back to the tent. They crawled through the flap in an inelegant tangle of limbs, half-falling into the small space.

And it was small, Kalila realised with a thrill of alarm. It would be difficult to avoid touching each other.

Aarif turned back to the tent flap. ‘We must find a way to secure this, or you will have half the Sahara in here by morning.’

‘I have some duct tape,’ Kalila said, and dug through her saddlebags to find it.

He slotted her a thoughtful glance as she handed him the tape, although his eyes were still hard and unforgiving. ‘You came prepared.’

She shrugged. ‘I’ve camped in the desert many times. I simply knew what to bring.’

Aarif began to tape the flap shut, and it occurred to Kalila that they were locked inside. Trapped. Of course, she could remove the tape easily enough, but it still gave her the odd feeling of being in a prison cell, and Aarif was her jailor.

He turned to her, his eyes sweeping her with critical bluntness. ‘You are a mess.’

‘So are you,’ she snapped, but she was instantly aware of her tangled hair, the sand embedded into her scalp.

‘I imagine I am,’ Aarif returned dryly. ‘I was not prepared to go haring off into the desert in the middle of a sandstorm.’ He shook his head, and when he spoke his voice was resigned. ‘I don’t know whether to think you a fool or a madwoman.’

‘Desperate,’ Kalila told him flatly, and then looked away. The silence stretched between them, and she raked her fingers through the tangles in her hair, needing to be busy. She felt Aarif’s eyes on her as she began to unsnarl the tangles one by one.

‘Is marriage so abhorrent to you?’ he asked eventually.

‘Marriage to a stranger, yes,’ Kalila replied, still not looking at him.

Aarif shook his head; she saw the weary movement out of the corner of her eye. ‘Yet you knew you would marry my brother since you were twelve. Why choose your escape now, and such a foolhardy one?’

‘Because I didn’t realise how it would feel,’ Kalila said, her voice low. She pulled her fingers through her hair again, attacking the tangles with a viciousness that she felt in her soul, her heart. ‘When it came to the actual moment, when I thought Zakari would be there—’

Aarif exhaled, a sound of derisive impatience. ‘Is this all simply because he did not come to fetch you? Your feelings are hurt too easily, Princess.’

Kalila swung her head around to meet his gaze directly. ‘Perhaps, but yesterday—it clarified everything for me. I’d been going along waiting, hoping, believing I would do my duty, and then—all of a sudden—’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I thought, well, maybe I won’t.’

‘The thought of a child,’ Aarif replied. ‘What did you think? That you would flee into the desert for the rest of your life, live with the Bedouin? Did you think no one would ever find you?’

‘No,’ Kalila admitted slowly. ‘I knew someone would. And even if they didn’t, I would have to go back.’

‘Then what—?’

‘I just wanted to be free,’ she said simply, heard the stark honesty, the blatant need in her voice. ‘For a moment, a day. I knew it wouldn’t last.’

Aarif eyed her unsympathetically. Freedom, to him she supposed, was unimportant. Unnecessary. ‘And do you know how much you put at risk for an afternoon’s freedom?’ he asked. ‘If your father discovers it—if Zakari does—’

‘There’s been no harm done,’ Kalila objected. ‘We’re safe.’

‘For now,’ Aarif replied darkly. ‘All is uncertain.’

‘You have a grim view of things,’ she replied, lifting her chin, clinging to her defiance though he picked at it with every unfeeling word he spoke. ‘When you found me in the church, you were the same. Do you always think the worst is going to happen, Aarif?’

He reached for the canteen from his own bag. ‘It often does,’ he told her and unscrewed the top. Kalila watched him drink; for some reason she found she could not tear her gaze away from the long brown column of his throat, the way his muscles moved as he drank. He finally lifted the canteen from his mouth and she saw the droplets of water on his lips, his chin, and still she could not look away. She gazed, helpless, fascinated.

Slowly her eyes moved upwards to meet his own locked gaze, saw the intensity of feeling there—what was it? Anger? Derision?

Desire.

The moment stretched between them, silent, expectant, and Kalila again remembered his body against hers, its hard contours pressed against her, demanding, knowing. She swallowed, knowing she must look away, she must act, if not demure, then at least dignified.