The Desert King's Virgin Bride

‘Just what are you proposing to do? In England?’

Try to start a new life. Do the normal stuff that a twenty-five-year-old woman would have done by now if she hadn’t been all caught up with trying to fit in somewhere where she didn’t belong. Maybe even find herself a boyfriend along the way.

‘I’ll look for a job.’

There was a pause. ‘A job? What kind of job?’ he demanded, as incredulously as if she had just started doing cartwheels around the state apartments.

‘I can do plenty of things.’

‘Oh, really?’ He sat back in his chair and, interlacing his long dark fingers in front of the silken shimmer of his robes, fixed her with a piercing black look. ‘Such as?’

‘I’m a good organiser.’

‘That much is true,’ he admitted, for she had been co-ordinating palace functions ever since she had graduated. No royal banquet was ever complete without Sorrel quietly manoeuvring behind the scenes to prevent delicate egos from clashing.

‘And I am also versed in the art of diplomacy.’

He could see exactly where this was leading, and as he was reminded of just how protected and innocent she really was Malik shook his head. ‘If you think you’ll just be able to walk straight into a job without any formal training, then you are wrong, Sorrel.’ Thoughtfully, he drummed one long finger on the polished surface of the exquisite inlaid desk. ‘However, I may be able to speak to a few people on your behalf. Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘I could arrange for you to stay with a family. Yes, that might be the best solution all round.’

‘A family?’

‘Why not? Girls do it all the time.’

Girls, he had said. Not women, but girls—and enough really was enough! For the first time in her adult life Sorrel looked around the high-ceilinged palace room and saw it not as a place furnished with priceless antiques and glittering chandeliers and wonderful artifacts but as a kind of elaborate cage. Except that even a bird trapped in a cage could be seen, while she was hidden away like a guilty kind of secret. Prevented from freely mixing with men, covered from head to toe in robes designed to conceal the female form from all eyes. Never before had she minded about the camouflage of the national dress—but lately she had been looking at fashion sites on the internet with a yearning which surprised her.

‘I am not a g-girl,’ she said, her voice shaking with an emotion she wasn’t sure she could identify—even if she had been in the mood for analysis. ‘I am a woman—not some teenage au pair who needs looking after.’

Malik’s eyes were caught by the sudden trembling of her lips and his pupils dilated—for it was as if he had never seen them before. Like petals. Provocative and rosy. Did she have any idea what Western men might do when confronted with a pair of lips like that? He glared at her.

‘I would feel happier if I knew that you were in capable hands,’ he said stubbornly.

It wasn’t easy, but Sorrel knew that she had to start standing up for herself if she wanted any kind of independent life. ‘Strangely enough, this isn’t about you, Malik—this is about me, and my life. We’ve been dealing with yours non-stop ever since you became Sheikh, haven’t we?’

For a moment he stilled, every instinct alerted to the presence of something he wasn’t used to—at least, never with Sorrel—and that something was discord. Black eyes gleamed. Was she daring to criticise him? Or to imply that she was not happy with her lot?

His hard mouth flattened into an implacable line of anger which Sorrel had seen before—many times—but never directed towards her.

‘Well, do forgive me if you’ve been bored,’ he said, in an arrogant drawl which disguised the outrage he felt. Ungrateful little Westerner! He had willingly taken her under his wing, had ensured that she had a stable education and a secure home-life, and she was now throwing back his protection in his face—like some spoilt little child.

How he would like to teach her a lesson!

But as he felt the blood fizzing heatedly through his veins, Malik rose quickly from his desk, momentarily confused by his reaction—if such a state could ever have been said to exist in a man who was a stranger to the very concept of self-doubt. Why, for a moment back then…

Aware that her eyes followed him, he walked over to the window—his back ramrod-straight as he stared out into the manicured grandeur of the palace gardens—and stifled a sigh. When had he last had the freedom to just wander around its scented splendour—without a care in the world?

Not since his last few innocent days as a free man—before the announcement that he was the eldest of the late Sheikh’s three illegitimate sons and that the crown of Kharastan was to be placed on his head.

In many ways Malik had been well-prepared for the very specific burdens of kingship, for he had been the trusted aide to Sheikh Zahir for many years, and was well-versed with the intricate customs of the Kharastan court.

But knowing something as an advisor—no matter how highly favoured—was completely different from becoming the ruler, especially with very little prior warning. Malik had known that the changes would be much more subtle and far-reaching than the mere swapping of roles.

Gone was the relaxed status he had simply taken for granted. Suddenly he had been hurled into a world where he was no longer able to express an opinion without first carefully thinking it through. For his words would be seized on—twisted around, or analysed for a meaning he had not intended. Yes, he had been able to turn to Fariq—his own assistant—and elevate him to the position of Sheikh’s aide, but Malik still felt as if he was on trial. As if he had to prove to everyone—to his people and the world and to himself—that he was capable of shouldering this mighty responsibility of power.

Only with Sorrel had he not had to bother—and yet now there was to be another change, and Sorrel wished to leave.

He turned round again to find her eyes wary. And something in that fearful look shook him—seeming to click reality into sudden focus. As though the trepidation in her big blue eyes emphasised more than anything else had done to date just how different his life had become.

She who had never looked on him with anything other than serene and smiling acceptance was now surveying him as if he were some cruel sultan who had stepped out of the pages of the Arabian Nights—he, Malik, who had shown her nothing other than kindness!

Well, let her go! Let her see how she enjoyed an anonymous existence in England!

But he saw the faint clouding of her eyes and he relented, giving her one last opportunity to see sense. ‘A role could be found for you at the Kharastani Embassy,’ he mused.

‘I…realise that.’

He heard the unspoken reluctance in her voice, and with anyone else he would have quashed any further enquiry—but this was Sorrel, for mercy’s sake, who as a child had brought him back a little box covered in sea-shells from a place called Brighton. ‘You do not wish for any assistance?’ he questioned proudly.

Sorrel hesitated—for the very last thing she wished was to insult his honour. Kharastani customs were incredibly complex, and it had taken her a long time to understand that the possibility of an offer was always suggested before an offer was made. Thus, the possibility could be rejected and not the offer itself, ensuring that nobody’s pride would be hurt.

‘I just think it’s better if I do it myself. Stand on my own two feet, for the first time in my life.’ She turned her face up to his beseechingly, but his eyes were as cold as stones. ‘Surely you can understand that, Malik?’

‘I think you forget yourself,’ he remonstrated cruelly. ‘It is not my place to understand one of my subjects—nor theirs to suggest that I should!’

He drew his shoulders back and iced her a look, and Sorrel could have wept—for never in a million years could she ever have imagined Malik pulling rank on her. And was she one of his subjects? Perhaps she was—technically, at least.

Once again, the sensation of being enclosed and trapped enveloped her like a velvet throw.

‘No, of course it isn’t,’ she responded stiffly, momentarily lowering her eyes—not so much in a mockery of submission but more so that he would not see the fury reflected in her eyes. When she looked up again, she had composed herself—enough to even curve her lips in a polite little smile. ‘Then I shall make the necessary arrangements.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, deliberately cold and unhelpful, picking up his golden pen in a gesture which was obviously intended to dismiss her.

But Sorrel was not prepared to be so pushed aside—not any more. For Malik himself had just demonstrated how he rewarded loyalty and unswerving affection—with disdain and contempt.

‘I believe that there was a little money set aside in a trust for me by my father?’

He stared at her, tempted to use his power as trustee of her late father’s estate. Let her see how long she would last in the world if she had to go out and earn her living like other mortals—then she might appreciate her cosseted life within the walls of the palace!

But Malik was not foolish, and he would no more seek to deny Sorrel what was rightfully hers than he would contain her in a place of which she had clearly grown tired. Just a few minutes ago he himself had shuddered at the sensation of being trapped—so why would he inflict it on someone else?

Because he would miss her?

His mouth hardened. Perhaps for an instant, but no more than that—in the way that you might miss your favourite horse if you went to live in the city and found you could no longer ride. But doubtless Sorrel would visit Kharastan from time to time. He would watch her blossom as she embraced her new life—and that was exactly as it should be.

‘Yes, Sorrel,’ he said, surprised by the sudden heaviness in his voice. ‘The money your father left in trust for you was invested by the financial advisors of the late Sheikh.’ He paused for emphasis, to let the words sink in, but also to gauge her reaction. ‘Thus the amount he left has grown considerably.’ He saw her eyes widen, and he knew that he must move quickly to quash any ill-founded dreams that she might have. ‘That does not mean that you are now a wealthy woman—but that there is adequate provision for you. I advise you to spend it wisely—cautiously, even—until you are used to dealing with money.’

Sorrel stared at him. What did he think she was going to do? Blow it on hundreds of pairs of shoes or start buying diamonds? ‘Thank you for your advice,’ she said stiffly.

Malik relaxed slightly. So she was prepared to listen to him! ‘Shall I have one of my people talk to you—guide you through all the possibilities of budgeting?’