Sheikh's Forbidden Queen: Zarif's Convenient Queen / Gambling with the Crown

Zarif froze on the threshold, ebony brows pleating and rising in a frown. ‘Where are you taking my wife, Hanya?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘According to the imam Miss Ella Gilchrist will not be your legal wife or our queen until tomorrow, cousin,’ Hanya announced in a soft, deeply apologetic tone, her head bowing low as if she hated to break such news. ‘Our uncle discussed his regard for the old ways with me and I’m afraid this is what he expects.’

Zarif almost looked heavenward to pray for patience but restrained the urge. Hanya had been cousin to Azel and insisted on maintaining the bond between them created by marriage. But Hanya was right. Halim was an old-fashioned man, always eager to venerate the proprieties. Clearly, Zarif had another day to wait before he was able to claim his bride. He threw back his shoulders, ready to lay down the law and refuse to part with her to a separate bed. After all, Ella was still his wife even if she hadn’t yet married him according to Vashiri law and the concept of restraining his already very unruly libido for still longer had no appeal whatsoever.

A year, his more honourable and tolerant self reminded him staunchly, to take the edge off his temper. Ella would be his for an entire year...surely he could wait another day? He did not want to disappoint or alarm his uncle and with a brief jerk of his arrogant dark head he strode past, pausing only to say to Ella, ‘I will see you tomorrow, then.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Hanya, who had an extremely irritating laugh, giggled like a little girl and clutched Ella’s sleeve with a dainty, perfectly manicured hand. ‘I will show you to your suite...come this way.’

* * *

The following morning Ella winced and cringed through what had amounted to a public bathing experience in which she was surrounded by a flock of strange women wanting to bath her, wax her and anoint her body and her hair with exotic scented oils. After that ordeal, being wrapped in a modern towelling robe felt refreshingly normal, and it was almost relaxing to have to sit down and patiently wait while a pair of henna artists knelt on the floor beside her to draw intricate swirling patterns onto her hands and her feet.

Indeed Ella was feeling remarkably tolerant and relieved that she was getting through the trial of the wedding preparations without losing her temper or showing irritation because she did not want to spoil the day by insulting Vashiri bridal traditions or rejecting them. After all, there was no doubt whatsoever that her female companions, virtually none of whom spoke English, were overjoyed that their king was getting married again. That she was a foreigner did not appear to be a stumbling block in any way.

‘Ella!’ A female voice carolled from the doorway and Ella glanced up to see Cristo Ravelli’s vibrant wife, Belle, with her mane of wild Titian hair, surging towards her and she grinned because it was quite impossible to do anything else. Although she had met Zarif’s brothers and their wives on only one previous occasion she had not forgotten Belle with her warm Irish friendliness, or the quieter but no less sociable Betsy, because at the time she had met them—before Zarif’s proposal—she had been fantasising that some day she would become a part of their close-knit family circle as well.

‘I thought we were never going to get through all the obstacles being put up to us joining you up here!’ Belle exclaimed, settling a heap of gift-wrapped packages and an enormous tote bag down carelessly on the floor. ‘This is my first visit to this palace. I had no idea it was still running at about five hundred years behind the times.’

‘Belle...’ Tiny blonde Betsy emerged from behind Belle and bent down to kiss Ella’s cheek in greeting. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘Oh, don’t waste time asking her that!’ Belle exclaimed. ‘No, we’re more interested in hearing why you said no three years ago and are now suddenly saying yes to our Desert King.’

Ella froze at that blunt question, which was, nonetheless, perfectly understandable in the circumstances. ‘That would be a...er...challenging story to tell. Hanya,’ she murmured, seeing the pretty brunette hovering with a suspiciously stiff look on her face as if she resented the intrusion of the two Western women. ‘Could we have some drinks and snacks for Zarif’s family, please?’

‘I thought the whole palace was dry,’ Belle commented out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Not that Zarif doesn’t take the occasional alcoholic drink, but the old boy who’s ill never touches a drop of the evil stuff.’

‘If you put your foot in your mouth one more time I’m not going to fish you out of it!’ Betsy warned her companion on the back of a groan. ‘Ella, we’re here to provide support.’

‘We’re here to celebrate!’ Belle contradicted. ‘Why would Ella need support? She’s marrying a gorgeous billionaire who’s also a reigning king and obviously he’s madly in love with her because I’m shocked he’s forgiven her for rejecting him the first time around!’

‘No, he’s not madly in love with me and I’m not sure he’s forgiven me either,’ Ella heard herself admit flatly as glasses of pomegranate juice and a tray of little appetisers were handed round. Belle wrinkled her nose at the lack of stronger spirit in her beverage.

‘Cheers,’ Belle pronounced nonetheless, knocking her glass noisily against Ella’s. ‘Cristo wasn’t in love with me when we got married either, so don’t worry about it. That came afterwards and surprised us both. I married him to get a name and security for our half-siblings and he married me to stop me going to court to fight for their rights. But I know Zarif...he has to be in love.’

‘Why?’ Ella asked baldly before tucking into a tiny delicious appetiser consisting of a mini pastry case and a mousse filling.

‘Because all this is happening so fast. It’s just not Zarif. He’s usually so cool and right now he’s acting all hot-headed and spontaneous.’

‘That is true.’ Betsy too was looking thoughtful.

Hanya intervened to tell Ella that it was time for her to get dressed. An elaborate kaftan was displayed to her along with a silk chemise composed of several voluminous layers while Hanya added that underwear was not traditionally worn.

Belle frowned when she saw Ella’s expression of dismay and stooped down to her collection of parcels to retrieve one and present it to Ella with a flourish. ‘One of my gifts is some pretty lingerie. The bride has to wear something new, Hanya. It’s one of our traditions and going naked beneath a petticoat isn’t.’

Ella vanished into the giant Victorian bathroom with the gift box and wrenched it open to pull out a handful of pristine white lace, the sort of fancy underpinnings she had never worn in her life but the prospect of wearing them was infinitely preferable to going bare, with large breasts that felt uncomfortable without support. She put them on in a rush, fearful that at any moment the door, which did not have a lock, would open because her tribe of watchful Vashiri companions did not seem to have much idea that a woman might want privacy from an audience. Pulling the robe back on, she returned to the huge bedroom.

Within the space of a minute the heavy kaftan was being swiftly dropped over her head, the hooks fastened and the satin ribbon ties tightened to fit. The elaborate hand-done embroidery on the sky-blue fabric was truly magnificent.

‘That doesn’t look half bad,’ Belle began in evident surprise.

‘It’s beautiful...especially with your colouring,’ Betsy cut in with an admiring smile.

Ella sat down in a chair while her hair was brushed. ‘I’ll do my own make-up,’ she told Hanya firmly when extravagant compacts of very brightly coloured eye shadows were unfurled threateningly in front of her. ‘Zarif doesn’t like a lot of make-up.’

And then she thought, Why am I thinking like that, as though I want to make myself more attractive for him? Where did that weird thought come from? Had it been born in the moment when with only a little elementary foreplay Zarif had sent her careening into an explosive climax, giving her more pleasure than she had ever dreamt was possible? Her cheeks burned with mortification.

Belle thrust a glass into her hand. ‘Enjoy,’ she urged. ‘Don’t let Hanya bully you.’

‘I’m not timid. I’m just very reluctant to do or say anything that might offend anyone,’ Ella confided wryly as she sipped and munched on another appetiser. ‘And she has to know the right way to do everything here because she was Azel’s cousin.’

‘And unless I’m very much mistaken, she was exceedingly hopeful that Zarif would marry her, not you. I sense a generous helping of the old green monster envy every time she looks at you,’ Belle spelt out in her ear.

Ella’s eyes rounded as she did her make-up. ‘But I won’t ever measure up to Azel,’ she muttered in rueful acceptance.

‘First wife still casting a big shadow in the present, is she?’ Betsy murmured. ‘You shouldn’t let that bother you. I mean, it’s not as if Zarif chose to marry her. He was told he would be marrying her when he was only a kid. It was set in stone, an arranged marriage—no romance there or any room to act on his own feelings in such a rigid set-up. You were the very first woman he went on a date with and he chose you...’

He chose you. It was a different take on Zarif’s history, which Ella had not previously considered, and she was grateful for it. Her shadowed eyes suddenly brightened and she laughed, unable to kill the smile creeping across her formerly tense mouth. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Very. Zarif was married at eighteen and he was a virgin when he got married. Nik and Cristo tried to persuade him to wait longer before tying the knot but Zarif followed his grandfather’s dictates and he always puts his duty to his country first. Let’s face it, all Zarif’s advisors were mad keen to marry him off to a suitable woman asap, particularly once he began connecting with his half-brothers from the West. When he met you three years ago, we were all really happy for him.’

Ella stiffened and wielded her mascara brush with great care. ‘It didn’t work out.’

‘None of us understand why. It was so obvious you were mad about him when we first met,’ Belle told her bluntly. ‘You couldn’t take your eyes off him. It was kind of sweet.’

In chagrined silence, Ella swallowed more of her drink and Belle topped it up with a tall bottle that had come out of nowhere. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘Vodka. I had it in my bag. I’m not swearing off drink at a wedding,’ Belle declared defiantly.

‘I shouldn’t have too much... I haven’t much of a head for alcohol,’ Ella admitted.

Her make-up done, Ella stayed still while an elaborate coin-hung headdress was anchored to her brow. Then it was time to gaze in a full-length mirror at the vision of exotic splendour she had become in her opulent royal regalia.

‘Now we go and view some ceremonial sword dance,’ Belle announced cheerfully, having had a discussion with a very disapproving Hanya while urging Ella towards the door and slotting her glass back in her hand. ‘Drink up. I haven’t yet given up hope that I can transform you into a happy bride.’

Guilt assailed Ella as she realised she had not been putting on a good enough show to make the expected impression. A happy bride? No indeed. But, these women were members of Zarif’s family and she should’ve been trying harder. ‘I’m sorry, I’m—’

‘No worries,’ tiny Betsy whispered, squeezing her arm comfortingly. ‘Weddings are ninety-nine per cent stress even without cultural differences involved.’

‘But thanks to our objections you’re not going to be sentenced to a female-only reception,’ Belle broke in with satisfaction. ‘For the first time ever, a palace wedding will be a mixed gathering. We talked Zarif into it last night and he admitted that many of his subjects have long since abandoned all this dated separating-the-sexes-stuff. If you ask me, you can blame his uncle for all the old-fashioned stuff around here. Nobody wants to tread on his toes.’

‘Hush...’ Ella urged, skimming concerned eyes at the forthright redhead while she rubbed her aching brow with a fleeting brush of her fingers because she was starting to get what she assumed to be a tension headache. ‘Zarif is very attached to his uncle Halim and he’s seriously ill.’

‘If you can’t say something nice, say nothing,’ Betsy advised. ‘Ella’s not used to you yet.’

‘But I do like and respect honesty,’ Ella admitted, following Hanya out onto a large stone balcony. A large group of men wielding swords and clad in white traditional robes were lined up in the courtyard below. Towards the rear she could see Nik and Cristo, Zarif’s brothers, standing in the shade to watch. Zarif was easiest of all to pick out of the crowd. He wore magnificent gold-coloured robes that glimmered in the brilliant sunshine. A belt with an ornate golden dagger thrust through it accentuated his narrow waist. His white kaffiyeh was bound with a double gold cord and, framed by that pale backdrop, his hard bronzed features were shockingly handsome. It was all very solemn and serious. A drum beat sounded and the lines of men shifted their feet at a rhythmic pace, roared something incomprehensible and lunged forward with their swords.

‘Could we have just five minutes alone with our sister?’ Belle asked Hanya pleadingly.