The Sheikh's Bought Wife Page 7

  ‘You were going to tell me,’ he said as his fingers began to work their way skilfully down her back, ‘why you weren’t “used” to men.’

  So did she tell him the truth? The unvarnished and somewhat painful truth? Maybe she should. It wasn’t as if she was trying to impress him, was it?

  ‘Because I was a bookish child.’

  ‘Go on.’

  She hesitated as his middle finger brushed over her skin, willing her stupid heart to quieten its frantic thumping. ‘You know I’m a twin?’

  ‘No. I just knew you had a sister. Is it relevant?’

  ‘I think it probably is,’ she said slowly, staring out of the palace window at the bright disc of the moon and thinking how surreal this all was. It was funny, really—because nobody had ever been remotely interested in hearing her story before, and even if they had been she would have quickly changed the subject to lose herself in the infinitely safer world of academia. But as he’d said himself, how else were they going to pass the time unless they talked—at least until they were tired enough to fall into the comforting arms of sleep?

  ‘She is my non-identical twin,’ she explained. ‘And very lovely.’

  ‘I see.’

  He didn’t say But you are lovely, too—which would have been the polite thing to do—and even though Jane supposed he should be commended for his honesty, that didn’t stop it from hurting.

  ‘So you were always classified as the clever one, while she was known as the beautiful one?’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘And the older you got, the more you grew into each of the roles to which you’d both been assigned?’

  She almost turned round in surprise because she hadn’t expected him to be quite so perceptive, until she remembered what he was wearing. Or rather, what he wasn’t wearing. She carried on staring at the moon instead. ‘How on earth did you know that?’

  ‘It’s a common enough pattern. We all grow into the roles which were given to us as children,’ he said cryptically. ‘I’m guessing your sister spent her teens trying to capitalise on her looks, while you concentrated on your studies?’

  ‘You’ve been having me investigated,’ she said crossly.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ He undid another button. ‘You were security cleared when you first came to work at the embassy—that was enough for me. I’m merely tapping into a lifetime’s habit of observing women, whose behaviour is far more predictable than you might imagine.’

  ‘Well, if you’re so clever, perhaps you can finish my story for me?’

  There was silence as he undid another button and Jane briefly closed her eyes as she felt another tantalising brush of his fingers against her skin.

  ‘I think you devoted pretty much all your time to study, with the single-mindedness which has made you such a hit at the embassy.’

  ‘Careful, Zayed—that sounds awfully like a compliment.’

  ‘And I imagine that sublimating your femininity was something which became a habit for you, because your pretty sister attracted all the attention. And that men were the last thing on your mind when you got a place at one of the best universities in the country.’

  Jane swallowed. She wanted to damn him for his candid assessment even though the analytical side of her brain couldn’t help but admire how accurately he had identified her personality type. ‘Bravo,’ she said. ‘If ever you get bored with ruling your very own desert country, you could always try a career move into psychology.’

  He gave a low laugh. ‘Careful, Jane,’ he warned silkily. ‘You may have rejected the very obvious methods of making yourself attractive to men, but I’m assuming nobody warned you about the sexual frisson produced by verbal sparring.’

  Danger suddenly entered the air. A potent and powerful danger, which made Jane acutely aware of the cool evening air on her spinal column and the fact that all the buttons were now undone. She was half dressed in a bedroom with a near-naked sheikh standing right behind her—and wasn’t there an unfamiliar part of her which wanted him to put his fingers right back where they had been? To start stroking her bare skin and slide the heavy dress down over her hips? Despite being freed from the tight corset, her breathing felt even more constricted and her voice was tight as she spoke. ‘I’d like to get ready for bed now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to avert my eyes?’

  Ignoring the sarcasm which coated his words, she nodded. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I want.’

  ‘Very well.’ He walked over to the window and stared out at an indigo sky, which was spattered with stars. ‘Feel free.’

  Pulse racing, she hurried over to the wardrobe where the palace staff must have unpacked and hung up the clothes she’d brought with her but, despite her frantic search, she couldn’t find her comforting nightshirts anywhere. The only garments which confronted her were several lace-trimmed satin nightgowns so delicate that when her fingers brushed against them, she was half afraid of tearing them.

  ‘My nightshirts aren’t here,’ she said.

  ‘You mean those hideous baggy T-shirts?’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Gone, I imagine. And replaced with garments far more befitting for a queen.’

  Indignantly she turned round to look at him then, and oh-so-predictably, the sight of his body spotlighted by the moonlight completely jarred her equilibrium. The small white towel slung low at his hips seemed ridiculously small for the purpose for which it was intended. Because surely it was supposed to conceal the most secret part of his body instead of drawing attention to it so that she could hardly bear to drag her eyes away, just as he’d arrogantly stated.

  ‘You had no right to throw away my things!’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. Blame your ladies-in-waiting,’ he retorted coolly. ‘They probably thought it outrageous that the new Sheikha should be gracing her husband’s bed clad in such unflattering attire.’

  She directed her gaze to the floor, staring at the ground rather than the groin. ‘Then what am I supposed to wear?’

  ‘Once again you are testing my patience, Jane,’ he said steadily. ‘Just select one of the nightgowns specially flown in from Paris as part of your trousseau and wear one of those. Gratitude is optional, but would be much appreciated.’

  Grabbing the first one on the rack, Jane didn’t trust herself to answer as she scuttled into the bathroom and stepped out of her wedding dress and underwear before pulling the extravagant piece of lingerie over her head. Scrubbing the kohl make-up from her eyes and washing her face, she pulled the priceless emerald clips from her hair but an unexpected glimpse of herself in the mirror made her blink in disbelief. Because this was another unknown Jane. Not like the bride she’d been earlier—because that Jane had simply ticked a lot of necessary boxes and resembled pretty much any other royal Kafalahian bride down through the ages. But this Jane was different.

  She swallowed.

  Scarily different.

  The kohl had gone but she’d been unable to shift the berry-red stain from her lips, which suddenly looked all pouty and trembling. Her loose hair tumbled freely over slippery satin and the material clung to her like a second skin—gleaming against the swell of breasts emphasised by a delicate edging of fine lace. She looked feminine but also...wanton. How could that be when Zayed hadn’t laid a finger on her? But her eyes were unusually dark and two high lines of colour were slashed against her otherwise pale skin. And the nubs of her nipples were outlined clearly against her suddenly engorged breasts. Why, they looked almost twice their normal size.

  How could she possibly go into their bedroom and face him when she looked like this—as if she were crying out for a man to have sex with her—while inside she felt vulnerable and scared and hopelessly out of her depth?

  And then an image of Zayed’s hawk-like features and near-naked body swam into her mind and su
ddenly her vulnerability drained away as an unfamiliar curiosity began to creep over her. What would happen if she returned to the bedroom and rubbed her body up against his, the way a cat sometimes did when it was winding its tail around someone’s ankles? What if she pulled his dark head towards hers and demanded he kiss her? Would he?

  That depended. She suspected that his will was as strong as iron, no matter how much she tried to tempt him—even if someone like her could tempt him, which she doubted. This marriage was conditional on their not having sex—why on earth would he break that clause on their first night together, thus making the ceremony they’d gone through a complete waste of time? If he’d wanted a sex-filled marriage then he would have chosen his American mistress, or somebody else he fancied like mad.

  Her cheeks were flaming as she ran her wrists under the cold tap and tried to shut down her decadent thoughts. Drawing in a deep breath, she steeled herself for the onslaught to her senses as she returned to the bedroom. But she needn’t have bothered because Zayed was no longer standing where she’d left him, bathed in moonlight. He was in bed, his hard body outlined perfectly beneath the thin white sheet, his dark head contrasted against the snowy pillow. As he slept, his powerful chest rose and fell with each even breath and she found herself envying his ability to blot everything out when she felt so churned up inside.

  And then she remembered something else. Something which all the excitement and turbulence of the day had driven clean out of her head. Once again she was reminded of the look on his face as she’d entered the throne room. Not the initial disbelief, nor the brief flicker of lust—but something else. A dark and haunted look, steeped in pain and the faintest hint of vulnerability. She wondered if she should ask him about it, then wondered if she had the right. Not really. Zayed wasn’t a puzzle she was supposed to gradually unpick. He was nothing to her, just as she was nothing to him.

  But as Jane climbed silently into bed beside him she suspected a fretful night lay ahead of her, just as he had predicted.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHE WAS WOKEN by a cry—a strange, guttural cry which sounded as if someone’s soul were being ripped from their body. Jane sat bolt upright in bed and stared down at the man she’d married the day before, his rigid body washed with the silver moonlight which filtered in through the unshuttered tower windows. But this time she barely noticed his unclothed state—it was the terror etched deep on his hawkish features which captured her attention. He seemed not quite awake—but not asleep either—and as he cried out again the words were so broken that she couldn’t work out their meaning. Jane swallowed, for although she’d seen Zayed Al Zawba in many different guises, she’d never imagined seeing him looking so vulnerable—or scared.

  And she was scared, too. Scared of what to do. Scared to reach out to touch him when she’d never been in bed with a naked man before, let alone touched one. She recognised that he was caught up in his own private nightmare, which had contorted his face to an almost unrecognisable mask of pain, and suddenly compassion overrode all thoughts of self-preservation because she sensed he needed comfort and reassurance. He needed the warmth of human hands on his skin, helping release him from his bad dream.

  Moving closer, her arms went round his tense body and she hugged him close, barely noticing the honed and silken flesh—so intent was she on helping soothe him. Gently she pulled his dark head to her shoulder, feeling the hot rush of his breath against her neck as he expelled a ragged sigh. Her fingers spread over his back, bringing him closer, willing him to relax.

  ‘It’s okay, Zayed,’ she murmured gently, her fingers stroking their way through the tousled silk of his hair. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

  Was it her words which broke the spell? Because just as rapidly as the tension had imprisoned him in that state of terror, it left him. She could feel it leaching from his body like air escaping from a balloon and her heart began to pound with relief. She wanted to carry on holding him and stroking his hair but she didn’t dare. Because what if he woke up to find her clutching him and accused her of trying to seduce him, when they were supposed to be keeping their distance from each other?

  So she rolled over and lay there in the moonlight, her heart still pounding as she waited to hear whether he’d say anything. But he didn’t. She wondered if he was aware that she was holding her breath, or whether he’d even care if he knew what she’d just witnessed. She was still wondering what had caused the nightmare when eventually sleep claimed her and next time she opened her eyes it was to see Zayed sitting on the narrow window seat, his black gaze fixed intently on her as if he’d been studying her while she’d been asleep.

  Had he?

  He was fully dressed—his night-time nakedness now just a rapidly fading memory. This morning only his raven head was bare, his jaw darkened with the dark flush of stubble, and he was wearing riding clothes—close-fitting jodhpurs and a billowing white shirt. That would probably explain the sweat which beaded his forehead and the two flushed lines of colour painted along his high cheekbones. It was the first time she’d ever seen him dressed in anything other than his traditional robes and it was a distracting image. Macho and modern—he looked very slightly intimidating and one hundred per cent sexy. Even she, untouched and unwanted Jane Smith, could see that.

  But she wasn’t Jane Smith any more, was she? She was Jane Al Zawba, Sheikha of Kafalah and wife of its powerful ruler. And Zayed was her husband—the man who had cried out in the night and then lain briefly in her arms while she had comforted him. Would he mention what had happened? Could he even remember what had happened?

  ‘So, my bride. Did you sleep well?’ he questioned.

  She met his gaze. They’d been honest with one another from the start and yet somehow she instinctively held back all the questions she wanted to ask. Because nobody ever liked revisiting nightmares, did they? It wasn’t really any of her business because she wasn’t a real wife. And it would hardly be the most glowing start to their already unconventional honeymoon if she started quizzing him about his night terrors. If he wanted her to know the reason behind them he would surely tell her. ‘So-so,’ she answered. ‘How about you?’

  His eyes gave nothing away. ‘Fine,’ he answered tightly, before rising to his feet and moving across the tower bedroom with panther-like grace towards a silver coffee pot which stood on a tray next to a pile of pastries.

  She swallowed, aware that the fine white shirt was outlining the rocky silhouette of his torso. ‘You’ve been riding,’ she observed unsteadily.

  Zayed nodded, aware of the sexual tension which had filtered into the atmosphere and aware of something else, too. Something which was stubbornly staying just out of reach at the edges of his mind. His night had been disturbed and the nightmare had come again in the same dark and fitful way it always did, leaving him empty and sad the next morning. He swallowed, his mouth growing dry, amazed that he hadn’t woken Jane. Forcing his mind away from the darkness of the past, he saw that she was looking at him with widened eyes and realised she’d been asking him about horses.

  ‘I have indeed been riding,’ he said. ‘I thought it probably best if I absented myself, in the circumstances. So I galloped over the sands and went out to watch the sun as it rose higher over the desert and began to paint the landscape with deep and uncompromising shadows.’

  ‘It sounds beautiful.’ He heard the wistfulness in her voice and briefly turned to look at her before pouring them each a cup of coffee.

  ‘You don’t ride?’

  She shook her head. ‘I grew up in a suburban house in west London. It wasn’t exactly an area known for its love of the equine world.’

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing her a cup.

  She took it and for a moment an unaccustomed mischief danced in her eyes. ‘Do you always serve breakfast in bed?’

  ‘Don’t get used to it. This is a one-off. Yesterday was a lo
ng day so I arranged to have breakfast brought up here, but you slept through it. In fact, you weren’t even roused by the knock of the maidservant.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘No doubt that will fuel rumours that the bride is properly sated. So why don’t you drink some coffee? It’s strong enough to wake you and afterwards, we will eat.’ He yawned. ‘Even though my appetite is not quite as keen as it should be for a man on the first day of his honeymoon.’

  ‘I think you’ve made your point, Zayed,’ she said, sipping cautiously at the thick, sweet brew and finding it utterly delicious. ‘There’s no need to labour it.’

  He thought how clever she was and how fearless in the way she spoke to him. ‘Ah, Jane,’ he said reflectively. ‘Sometimes you have the barbed tongue of the desert serpent.’

  Her voice was caustic. ‘Thanks very much for the compliment.’

  ‘Actually, it is a compliment. Didn’t I once say that verbal sparring could be very stimulating?’

  ‘Stimulation was not my intention.’

  ‘No,’ he said drily. ‘I can tell. Which brings me neatly to my next point. Something I think we need to establish early on, to which I have only alluded before.’

  ‘You can skip the build-up and just say whatever it is you want to say.’

  ‘Very well.’ His gaze was steady. ‘Are you a virgin?’

  Jane nearly spat out her coffee but composed herself in time. Her hand was trembling as she put the cup down on the table beside the bed and sat up. ‘What right do you have to ask me a question like that?’

  ‘Because you just told me to! And because I’m your husband.’

  ‘Not my real husband! You’re one half of a sexless marriage.’ She glared at him. ‘Why are you so interested?’