The Desert King's Virgin Bride

‘Yes, Malik,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Of course I can see.’ It hurt that he should even ask—for surely he must know that she always had his interests at heart? Once, she had been alone in looking out for Malik—in the days when he had been nothing more than the Sheikh’s most valued and trusted aide—but now all eyes were fixed on him.

In the royal palace—and in the desert lands beyond—he was the centre of the universe. To be a desert king was considered irresistible in the eyes of the world. When Malik said ‘jump’, people leapt—usually with a smarmy and obsequious smile pinned to their faces.

It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Malik was a late starter in the royal game—he hadn’t even realised that he was the illegitimate son of the Sheikh until two years ago, when the bombshell announcement had been made. The old ruler had died, and Malik had been crowned—from aide to king in a simple ceremony—from commoner to royal in an instant. And yet Malik seemed to have adapted to his new status like a falcon which took its first solo flight in the desert sky.

His always haughty air had become fine tuned—but now he had developed a cool dismissiveness towards others. The practical side of Sorrel’s character acknowledged that he needed distance—literally, to stop anyone from getting too close to him and to attempt to claw back some of his most precious commodity: time.

Yet, deep down, hadn’t Sorrel been hoping that in her case he might make an exception? Didn’t it occur to him that she was itching to tell him of her decision and to get on with it—to start making something of her own life, instead of just existing as some invisible satellite of his? No, of course it didn’t!

Ever since Sorrel had known him Malik had been an autocratic and supremely dominant man—but since he had inherited the Kingdom of Kharastan his pride and his arrogance had known no bounds. His wishes were always paramount—nothing else mattered except what the Sheikh wanted—and Sorrel had come to the heartbreaking conclusion that there was simply no place for her in his life any more.

Everything had changed—he had, and she had. Suddenly she no longer felt she belonged—certainly not in the land where she had lived most of her life.

Then just where do you belong? The question which had haunted her for so long popped into her head, even though she had been trying to ignore it—because every time she let herself think about it she was frightened by the vision of a great gaping hole in her future.

Malik’s black eyes were now scanning the cream parchment pages of his diary and, knowing that he could be seen by none of his servants, he scowled. It was unlike Sorrel to add to the burden of his work.

‘There is no appointment for me to see you marked out in my diary.’ He frowned, and then he looked up again. ‘Did you make one?’

Once, Sorrel might have wanted to weep at such a matter-of-fact statement coming from the man she had idolised ever since she could remember. The man who had in effect ‘rescued’ her, who had become her legal guardian after the sudden and tragic death of her parents and allowed her to remain in Kharastan instead of being carted off back to England. But this harsh new attitude towards her hurt more than she could have thought possible, and even though she tried very hard to tell herself he wasn’t being unreasonable—it wasn’t easy.

‘No, I didn’t make an appointment,’ she said flatly.

Malik’s eyes narrowed. What was the matter with her lately? From being someone he could talk to and relax with, she had become…edgy. ‘Well, be quick,’ he said impatiently, flicking a glance at the modern watch which looked so at odds when contrasted against the fine silk of the flowing robes he wore. ‘What is it?’

Sorrel wondered what he would say if she blurted out I think you’ve become an arrogant and insufferable pig. Would he have her taken away for treason?

She flicked her tongue out over lips which had grown suddenly dry. ‘I want to go to England,’ she said.

‘England?’ Malik frowned. ‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Where did she begin? Not with the truth, that was for sure.

Because I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years, Malik, and you’ve never even deigned to notice me as a woman.

No, the truth would horrify him. Sorrel had no real experience of men—but the palace library was stocked with the world’s greatest literature, and she had read enough classic love stories to realise that she was wasting her time with the black-eyed Sheikh of Kharastan, who had steel for a heart.

‘Because I am now twenty-five.’

‘No, Sorrel,’ he negated. ‘You cannot be.’

This was the kind of remark which once she would have found sweet, and amusing—but which now rankled as if he had just insulted her. And in a way he had—for his failure to know her real age went some way towards explaining why he treated her as if she was about six years old.

‘I really think that if anyone happens to know how old I am, it’s me,’ she said, as near as she came to sarcasm with His Mightiness these days.

‘Yes. Of course. Twenty-five,’ he repeated wonderingly, and for a second he met her gaze full-on. ‘How can this be?’

Sorrel steeled her heart against the sudden faraway look in his ebony eyes. A sad, wistful, almost dreamy look—as if he had lost himself in the past.

Which just proved how unrealistically sentimental she had become—as if Malik would be longing for the days when he had been just the aide to the Sheikh, instead of the Sheikh himself!

‘The years go by more quickly than any of us realise,’ Sorrel said briskly, realising how prim she sounded—but that was the trouble: she was prim. Basically, the years were zooming by, and with them her youth, and she was wasting it pining for a man who never noticed her. Well, not as a woman.

One day—probably in the not-too-distant-future—Malik would start casting his eyes around for a suitable bride. A woman of Kharastani stock who could provide him with pure-bred Kharastani babies. ‘And I can’t stay here for ever,’ she finished.

‘But you don’t know England,’ objected Malik. ‘You haven’t lived there for years.’

‘Not since I was at boarding school,’ Sorrel agreed. ‘And even then I didn’t what you might call live there. Being allowed out to the sweet shop in the village every Saturday morning to spend my pocket money hardly counts as interacting with the country of my birth!’

Malik’s hard mouth momentarily softened. He had known her since she was a child—a blonde-haired poppet, as her father had used to call her. And he had been right. Sunny little Sorrel had charmed everyone.

Her parents had been diplomats—clever academics with a hunger for facts and experience which had ended over the treacherous peaks of the Maraban mountain range which bordered the Western side of the country. There, one hot and stormy evening, their plane and their dreams had crashed and lain in pieces on the ground, and the sixteen-year-old Sorrel had been left an orphan.

Perhaps if she had been younger then she would have been unable to refuse to return to her homeland, to be cared for by a distant relative. And if she had been older then there would have been no need for a protector. But she had needed someone, and Malik—a great friend and confidant of her ambassador father—had been named as guardian in their will.

He had been more than a decade older, and in a more liberal country than Kharastan questions might have been asked about whether such an arrangement was appropriate between a teenage girl and a red-blooded single man. But no questions had been asked. Malik’s reputation where honour and duty were concerned was unimpeachable. He had overseen her education and her upbringing with a stern eye, far stricter than that of any father—though Sorrel had never given him cause for concern, not even a hint of rebellion.

Until now.

He stared at her. She was almost completely covered in pale silk, as Kharastani custom dictated, so it was almost impossible to known what her figure was really like, though from the drape and fall of the cloth, and the perfect oval of her face, it was easy to recognise that beneath it she was a slim and healthy young woman.

Only a strand of moon-pale hair peeped out from beneath the soft silver lace which covered it, and the only colour which was apparent was the bright blue of her eyes and the natural rose gleam of her lips. For the first time Malik began to realise that somewhere along the way she had become a woman—and he hadn’t even noticed.

Should he let her go? ‘Can’t you just have a holiday in England?’ he enquired moodily. ‘And then come back again?’

Sorrel sighed. He was missing the point—only she couldn’t really tell him what the point was, could she?

‘No, Malik,’ she said patiently, aware from the sudden narrowing of his eyes that few people said ‘no’ to him since his sudden elevation in status. ‘I’ve spent my whole life having holidays in England—I haven’t lived there properly for years. Why, I even went to university here, in Kumush Ay—’

‘Which has a fine reputation the world over!’ he interrupted, with fierce pride. ‘And which enabled you to become possibly the only Western woman to speak fluent Kharastani. Why, you speak it almost as fluently as I do!’

‘Thank you.’ Briefly, Sorrel bowed her head—aware that the Sheikh had just paid her a compliment and that to fail to acknowledge it would be seen as discourteous. But it was yet another example of how much had changed since his elevation into the royal ranks.

There was a time when she would have playfully teased him—or perhaps challenged him about who was right and who was wrong—but not any more. And the longer you stay, the worse it’s going to get, she told herself.

‘I don’t want to become a stranger to the land of my birth, Malik,’ she said fervently. ‘And if I leave it much longer then I will be. I’ll become one of those people whose only knowledge of their country is through the rose-tinted glasses of memory.’

His eyes glinted as he nodded his black head with slow consideration. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘The ties to our homeland are one of the strongest of all instincts known to man—for they link us to our forebears and make up our very history.’

Sorrel could have kicked the leg of his ornate writing desk in rage, wanting to tell him not to be so damned pompous, but she couldn’t do that either. He might be speaking to her as if he was aged about a hundred and three, but what he said made sense—and in this instance at least he spoke from the heart. His heritage was of huge importance to him, and so he would naturally understand her need to go and investigate her roots.

After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had stupidly nurtured a rather different fantasy about their shared future over the years…

‘Sorrel?’

His voice butted into her thoughts and Sorrel blinked, her heart leaping in spite of everything, the way it always did when he said her name in that uniquely honeyed way of his.

‘Yes, Malik?’