The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

Khalil’s pulse quickened. Here it was. The explanation he needed.

“Isn’t she?” he said, as casually as he could.

His father shook his head. “She is woman with, ah, with wayward tendencies.”

What did that mean? Was she not a virgin? That was important here.

“Wayward?”

His father nodded. “She has been a problem for Omar. She flaunts rules. She speaks of independence.”

“And yet, she has agreed to marry Butrus.”

Just for a second the sultan looked uncertain.

“Well, yes. Omar says she has repented.”

“And Butrus knows she has been difficult in the past?”

“No, certainly not. It is one of the reasons Omar is so pleased. He secures an ally, does a service for the throne and finds a husband for a daughter who is a problem.”

“By burdening his old enemy with a woman no one else would want,” Khalil said coldly.

“Butrus wanted a woman who is beautiful. He is getting one.”

“And what of the woman? What happens to her when Butrus realizes he’s been duped?”

“Jal and I discussed it.”

“Jal,” Khalil said, even more coldly.

His father leaned close. “Omar says her mother was a sorceress. Perhaps she is, too.”

A sorceress, Khalil thought with contempt. Among some of his people, that was an ancient and easy way to label a woman as evil.

“That’s nonsense,” he said brusquely.

His father shrugged. “Either way, Omar and Jal agree that she can take care of herself.”

“No matter what Jal claims,” Khalil said, “he is not the sultan.”

His father’s face darkened. “Nor are you. Not yet. And I do not have to explain my actions.”

It was true. Besides, what good could come of this discussion? Plans and promises had already been made.

“My apologies,” Khalil said smoothly. “I only meant that you are Al Ankhara’s ruler, not the council.”

“A wise thing to keep in mind.” The older man’s expression softened. He chuckled and dug an elbow lightly into Khalil’s side. “Imagine that sly fox, Omar, with such an attractive daughter! Who would have thought it? I asked him where he’d been hiding her and he said he had done precisely that. Hidden her to keep her from her willful ways, until the time came when he could give her to the right man as a wife.” The sultan clapped Khalil on the back. “Thank you for agreeing to help us. Some of my ministers feared you’d become too Westernized to undertake this mission.”

“Jal, you mean.”

“I know you don’t like him, but Jal wants to do only what is best for our people.”

“As do I,” Khalil said quietly, “whatever it may be—and however unpopular it might make me.”

His father nodded. “Good. I will send our plan to you. Read it, then meet with us in the council chamber in an hour.

Khalil returned to his rooms. A servant brought him a leather portfolio.

It contained the council’s plan for Layla’s delivery to Butrus in Kasmir. Khalil leafed through it and almost laughed. The plan was twenty pages long, each page stamped with the embossed seal of the sultan, but it could have been condensed to one cogent paragraph.

Khalil’s plane would make the trip carrying him, Layla and the original wedding party, augmented by three dozen of the sultan’s personal guard. The plane would land at Kasmir where it would be met by Butrus and his men.

A couple of hours ago, he’d have simply refused to take part. But things had changed.

Last night Layla had walked into the sea in a desperate attempt to get away. He was convinced of it. Today, she’d said he was being fed lies, and she’d said it in English.

Now he had learned she was not truly a desirable bride.

The bottom line was that Omar saw her as a throwaway gift. If Butrus felt the same way, the so-called peace arrangement would lie in ruins. The sultan would lose face. And Layla would die. Butrus would kill her and no one would raise a hand to stop him. Such things still took place in some parts of Al Ankhara.

Was his father blind to all those possibilities, or didn’t he care?

Khalil tossed aside the council’s plan, shot to his feet and paced his sitting room. He could not let any of it happen. Damn it, he would not let it happen!

Twenty minutes and a few cell phone calls later, he had his own plan ready—but he would only implement it after assuring himself that Layla wasn’t trying to play him for a fool.

And there was only one way to make that determination.

Layla was being kept in the harem.

That was a surprise. The harem had not been used in decades. His father had not changed many things after coming to power but he had changed the practice of taking concubines. One woman, he had said, was headache enough for any man.

Khalil had often wondered if that was because his father had loved his mother or because he hadn’t. He supposed he would never know the answer; his mother had died when he was an infant.

The harem was connected to the main portion of the palace through a heavy wooden door. He couldn’t recall it ever being locked, but today it was. He had to pound on it several times until someone—the thug—opened it.

The man was obviously not happy to see him.

“No one is permitted here.”

Khalil eyed him coldly. If ever there had been a time for the nonsense of antiquated titles, this was it.

“I am not ‘no one,’ I am Sheikh Khalil, Crown Prince of Al Ankhara. Stand aside.”

He brushed past the man without waiting for an answer and headed briskly down the corridor. The thug fell in behind him.

A second surprise.