How To Seduce A Sheikh

How To Seduce A Sheikh
Marguerite Kaye

Arabia, 1801When Prince Zafar al-Zuhr buys a frightened but proud French woman at a slave market, it is not to add her to his harem. Zafar intends to secure safe passage home for the delicate beauty. Haunted by the past, he has vowed never to take advantage of a woman under his protection—no matter how difficult it is to resist the passion she ignites within him…A refugee from the Napoleonic wars in Egypt, Colette Beaumarchais is intrigued by the man who purchased her only to set her free. But it is desire, not gratitude, that compels her into his arms. She is eager to learn the art of love—and the handsome, sensual desert prince would make the perfect teacher

Arabia, 1801

When Prince Zafar al-Zuhr buys a frightened but proud French woman at a slave market, it is not to add her to his harem. Zafar intends to secure safe passage home for the delicate beauty. Haunted by the past, he has vowed never to take advantage of a woman under his protection—no matter how difficult it is to resist the passion she ignites within him...

A refugee from the Napoleonic wars in Egypt, Colette Beaumarchais is intrigued by the man who purchased her only to set her free. But it is desire, not gratitude, that compels her into his arms. She is eager to learn the art of love—and the handsome, sensual desert prince would make the perfect teacher...

How to Seduce a Sheikh

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents

Chapter One (#ubeb76fb4-522e-5d42-90b5-d3a0f90a3f5f)

Chapter Two (#ub20176ff-dda7-51ef-831b-ace1b4d0ebd5)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Arabia, September 1801

‘Who will bid five hundred? Yes! Six hundred. Now seven.’

It was the suppressed excitement in the man’s voice as much as the sums of money involved that roused Prince Zafar al-Zuhr’s curiosity and distracted him from his careful inspection of a magnificent snowy-white camel. His interest in the animal had been half-hearted, founded in a desire to be seen to spend generously and thus spread goodwill in his neighbour’s kingdom rather than a desire to purchase yet another beast to add to his already impressive herd. Having no wish to risk causing offence, however, Prince Zafar al-Zuhr summoned Firas, his man of business, to commence the bartering process without which the camel seller would be insulted, and headed off in the direction of the excited bidding that had floated over the marketplace and piqued his curiosity.

The market was a busy one, situated as it was on the Red Sea. Merchants from as far away as India traded here, selling silks and exotic spices. There were carpets and camels for sale, expensive oils and rich unguents, even some ancient artefacts from the tombs of pharaohs, though the trade in such things had largely migrated north as first the French and then the British had moved into Egypt. If such trade existed in Prince Zafar’s kingdom of Kharidja, it was kept very much under cover, for his people knew how much he frowned upon the loss of their cultural heritage to foreigners.

Zafar came to a halt at the edge of the crowd that filled the palm-tree-shaded square. The air was redolent with the smell of unwashed bodies, acrid with the palpable stench of fear emanating from the small group of African men who were huddled together for protection. Manacled and half-naked, their ebony skin glistening with perspiration, they awaited their turn on the rostrum, terrified and bewildered. Zafar’s fists clenched automatically. Common as these markets were all the way along the Red Sea coast, accepted practice as it was, he could not help his natural repugnance at the sight of human bondage. He had banned such slave markets from Kharidja. Zafar turned, anxious to be gone.

‘One thousand!’

The exorbitant sum stopped him in his tracks. The throng melted before him as he pushed his way roughly to the front, intimidated by the fury on his face as much as the trappings of power that were apparent in the pristine white of his robes, the glinting gold of his sabre and dagger hilts. In the centre of the dusty space stood the slave trader, a Turk, and long-travelled if the condition of his clothes was an indication. Beside him, striving to keep herself upright, her arms crossed over her bared breasts, her eyes glistening with a mixture of terror and defiance, was a woman. A foreign woman. European by the look of her, her pale skin raw with sunburn, her hair, the colour of chocolate, streaming down her back.

The urge to yank his sabre from its sheath and to set about clearing the crowd was almost irresistible. Zafar’s hand was already on the hilt, his other on the dagger he wore strapped across his chest.

‘One thousand and fifty. And one hundred. One thousand two hundred.’

There were three competing bidders. He knew without a doubt the horrors that awaited this woman whose eyes darted between each of the men who held her fate in their hands. In their purses.

She was trembling. He could see, from the way she clenched her jaw, from the tightening of the muscles on her neck, the effort it took her to stay upright. The dress she wore had been ripped from her upper body, the bodice with its empty sleeves hanging in tatters at her waist. Though she seemed to have escaped the whip or any obvious molestation, her bare feet were filthy and bloody. French or English, most likely, left behind when their respective armies left Egypt. He could not imagine what travails she had already suffered. He had witnessed the indignities she would have been put through as potential buyers examined her.

Zafar’s hand tightened on his sabre, but it had been a long road, this bloody battle towards a lasting peace, too long and too hard-fought for him to risk such a provocative action now, despite the still-raw horrors the situation invoked. Yet there was something about the woman that drew him. She was perhaps twenty-four or—five, slim in the way some Western women were, her waist narrow, her breasts small. Her face had a remote beauty about it in the sculpted cheekbones and finely drawn brows. In contrast, her lips were full. Despite her terror, it was her determined aloofness, the way she refused to cower or to shrink, that earned his admiration. There was defiance in those surprisingly blue eyes of hers, and courage, too.

‘Three thousand.’

A ripple of excitement greeted Zafar’s bid.

Two of the three contenders shook their heads, but the third remained in the game. ‘Four thousand,’ he growled.

Zafar did not recognise the man, but he recognised his intentions. ‘Five.’

‘Six thousand.’

‘Highness, this is madness. What use can you possibly have for such a scrawny specimen?’

Zafar, now grimly determined, ignored Firas, who had appeared at his shoulder. ‘Ten thousand for the girl and the men,’ he said.

An audible gasp greeted this bid. Behind him, his man of business groaned. His opponent hesitated for a painful moment, then he muttered something vicious under his breath and turned away. The slave trader nodded jubilantly. No doubt he would now retire on his profits, but Zafar did not care. He allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. A victory, and bloodless to boot. It was worth every gold coin in his considerable purse to spare this woman. He turned to Firas. ‘Have the men freed from their manacles. Give them food and water, and get the caravan ready.’

‘Highness, why?’ Firas expostulated. ‘You could have purchased a herd of prize camels for such a sum.’

Zafar, who was just beginning to ask himself the same question, eyed his man haughtily. ‘You dare question my judgement?’

Firas did not flinch. ‘No, Highness. I have no need, for I understand very well why you acted as you did,’ he said quietly.

‘Then you should also understand that I will not have that matter discussed.’

The menace in his voice was unmistakable. Though he allowed Firas much latitude, this was one topic upon which he would not be questioned. His man bowed low and scuttled off to do his master’s bidding.

* * *

Colette Beaumarchais pulled the ruins of her bodice around her to cover her nakedness and struggled desperately to hold her shattered nerves together. Nearly two weeks in captivity, snatching sleep in short bursts, acutely aware that at any moment her captors might turn on her, had taken a severe toll. When she realised the brigands had decided not to molest her for fear of reducing her value, her relief had been extremely short-lived. No one who had lived as she had, travelling with the French army across Egypt and Syria, could be ignorant of the fate that awaited a female sold into slavery.

Leon had been forever warning her of the dangers of straying far from the camp, as had her dear papa. Both her husband and her father were dead now, and for the first time she discovered she was glad of that. They would never know the fate that befell her. Which was not, at least, going to be determined by the evil-looking man who had been defeated at the last minute.

It made no difference, she told herself. The outcome would still be the same. But surreptitiously eyeing the man who had bought her, she could not suppress the tiniest little surge of relief. That he was rich, she had no doubt, for her basic grasp of Arabic had allowed her to follow the bidding. That he was powerful was also indisputable, for there was an indefinable air of authority about him—not arrogance but confidence. A man used to complete and unquestioning obedience.

His tunic and the cloak he wore over it, which she had learned to call a bisht, were an immaculate white. His headdress, too, white and what looked like silk. The igal, the band that held it in place, was threaded with gold, and the curved sheath of the sabre he wore at his waist was studded with what looked to be emeralds and rubies. Rich and noble, if the way the people were bowing and scraping around him was anything to go by. Yes, there was something extremely attractive about him, in the fluid way he moved, like a prowling predator, both graceful and lethal. A warrior? There was that, too, in his face, which had not Leon’s classical good looks but had that hewn, hard-planed look of the battle-hardened soldier. His skin was tawny, the colour of the sands at dusk, and his eyes were dark, hooded. A man who gave nothing away. He wore no beard. His mouth was strikingly sensual. Her captor. Her owner. The man who now held her life in his hands.

He turned away from the slave trader just then and met her gaze for the first time. Colette inhaled sharply. Under other circumstances, it was true she would find him most attractive, intriguing even, but these were not other circumstances. Sacré bleu, what was she thinking! This man had just purchased her like some chattel. He could—and without doubt would—do with her what he wished. Bien, she was not a general’s daughter for nothing. Garnering all her courage, Colette straightened her shoulders and stood proud, meeting the man’s gaze defiantly, knowing full well how offensive such a gesture could be perceived from a mere woman. ‘Monsieur,’ she said unwaveringly, ‘you may have purchased my body, but I must warn you, you will never break my spirit.’

She spoke in her native language, not expecting him to understand, the words uttered as a boost to her flagging courage rather than from any desire to antagonise. Her purchaser’s eyes, however, a curious colour, amber or gold, flashed fire. His brows were drawn together in a fierce frown.