The Sheikh's Bought Wife Read online

  She shook her head. ‘No. I’ve never been to America.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful country—and there will be enough diversions for us to stop focussing on what we can’t have, and concentrate instead on what we can. There are some rare texts you might be interested in looking at, while I can discuss the takeover of Dahabi Makaan with my advisors.’ His mouth hardened as he looked at her. ‘It might not be the most conventional honeymoon in the world but right now it’s the only one on offer.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WASHINGTON SEEMED SMALLER and more manageable than it looked in all the news broadcasts, though Jane suspected that she was seeing the city differently as the wife of one of the world’s most powerful rulers. A red carpet awaited them when they touched down at Dulles International Airport and they were driven straight to the beautiful gilded building in Massachusetts Avenue, known as ‘Embassy Row’, which housed the Kafalahian Commission.

  The welcome they were given was rapturous. All members of staff—both Kafalahian and local—had lined up to meet them and Jane wondered if she would ever get used to all this pomp and ceremony, before reminding herself that such fears were unnecessary. You won’t need to get used to it. It’ll be over before you know it, so better not get too comfortable in your new role.

  At last they were taken to their suite. It was the first time they’d been alone all day and Jane kicked off her shoes and sank onto the huge bed, watching Zayed as he walked over to the desk. She wondered how the staff would react if they knew the truth about their marriage. If their welcome would have been quite so rapturous if they’d realised it was nothing but an empty farce—and that the sexy Sheikh of Kafalah would lie chastely by the side of his new bride that night and all the nights which followed.

  But it was funny how even the strangest of situations became normal after a while. This was only their fourth day together as man and wife but already she was growing less self-conscious about being alone with Zayed. Adhering to an unspoken agreement not to test their resolve any more than was necessary, they went to bed at different times, and when she awoke in the morning he was always gone. At least he was able to lose himself in the hard exertion of a desert ride on one of his famous black stallions. Jane’s diversions were more gentle in nature but they provided her with a welcome distraction.

  In the few days before they’d left for Washington, she’d spent her days exploring the corridors of the rose-gold Kafalahian palace, putting in many hours in the library, before escaping into the beautiful gardens during the cooler, rose-scented evenings.

  In many ways it should have been a dream come true—the culmination of all her academic endeavours—to be granted free access to a place she’d been learning about since she was eighteen. And yet it was strange how the human spirit could often defy expectation. How was it that the illuminated manuscripts, the exquisite statues and paintings were far less compelling than her thoughts about Zayed Al Zawba? She used to hate him, but somehow she couldn’t seem to hate him any more. Perhaps it would have been easier if she did. But people were irrational and out of her initial animosity towards him had grown a complicated cocktail of feelings.

  She found herself admiring his strong work ethic, his razor-sharp mind and obvious dedication to his people. He was encyclopaedic in his knowledge about his country and, for an academic like her, to be able to tap into such first-hand knowledge was truly exciting. She still felt she didn’t really know him. He remained an enigma and that was clearly how he liked it. Yet beneath the implacability of the royal mask he wore was something dark. Something painful. She’d discovered that on their wedding night when that terrible dream had made his face become distorted and his body grow rigid with fear. And last night it had happened again.

  Jane bit her lip. She’d woken to the sound of that broken cry as he’d uttered broken words she couldn’t understand. His body had been bathed with sweat, his eyes wide open as he stared at the nameless thing which was haunting him—and once again she had cradled him for as long as it took for the demons to go on their way. Yet this morning his shuttered features had warned her to keep her distance, so that still she hadn’t dared ask him the cause of the nightmare. She told herself it was no business of hers. She told herself she shouldn’t care that he was hurting.

  But she did.

  The thought of the despair she’d seen in his eyes was so unexpectedly painful that she sucked in a sharp breath and Zayed turned to look at her, lifting his head from the stack of diplomatic papers he’d been flicking through.

  He frowned. ‘Something wrong?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m a little nervous, I guess.’

  ‘Of what?’

  Of the pain I heard in your voice last night. Of the bleakness I saw in your eyes. She forced herself to be pragmatic. To be the bride she was expected to be. The cool-thinking academic who didn’t think or behave like other women, not the clinging partner who demanded to know his every thought. ‘Oh, come on, Zayed. You might be used to all this.’ She made an expansive movement with her hand, which took in the billowing silk of the primrose-coloured drapes and the exquisite furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. ‘But I’m not.’

  He shrugged. ‘I thought you were adapting pretty well to the far more lavish setting of my palace in Kafalah.’

  ‘That was different. I’ve studied Kafalah so much that I almost feel I’ve been there before. Here I feel as if we’re on the world stage. And tonight I shall be dressed like a desert queen and brought in front of the city’s finest and no doubt every female will be wondering how I could possibly have bagged myself one of the world’s most eligible men.’

  He put the pile of papers down. ‘I thought we’d established—and which I thought I’d made very clear to you—that you’ve been looking beautiful since our wedding? Disturbingly so. I don’t think anyone in their right mind will be wondering that. Did you see the coverage in this morning’s papers, describing you as the jewel in Kafalah’s crown?’

  No, she hadn’t seen it—even though there was a pile of neatly ironed international newspapers on the desk right next to all Zayed’s official stuff, which she could have gone right ahead and looked at. But she didn’t care about personal acclamation, probably because none had ever come her way before now. And how could she possibly explain that it felt so empty? So meaningless. What was the point of looking beautiful for a man who wouldn’t touch you? Who couldn’t touch you. A man who kept his past hidden away, even though he knew so much about her. Wouldn’t attending parties inevitably put them under the microscope? Wouldn’t it enable people to see through them and discover the insubstantial core at the centre of their marriage—and thus risk making them a laughing stock?

  ‘People are going to be watching us,’ she said. ‘Analysing our body language in the way that people do. They’ll know our marriage is fake.’

  ‘They won’t know.’

  ‘Then they’ll guess.’

  ‘So what is it you’re asking?’ he demanded. ‘That I should shower you with kisses in public? Brush my fingers against your waist in an unseemly show of affection whenever there’s a camera pointed in our direction? Build myself into an unbearable state of sexual frustration, knowing I can’t act on it when we’re alone again? Is that what you want, Jane?’

  One word leapt out at her, dominating even the rather pleasing fact that he didn’t dare touch her. ‘Unseemly?’

  His mouth twisted impatiently. ‘I despise this idea that the image we present to the outside world is who we really are. It’s what makes social media so dangerous. I won’t play-act the part of lovestruck groom and risk ridicule when our marriage is quietly dissolved in a few months’ time. I can only be the man I really am.’

  She stared at him, frustration vying with admiration because so many of his traits appealed to her, even though she didn’t want them to. He was so proud. So indomitable. So utterly
sure of himself. And yet didn’t his nightmares contradict some of that swaggering assurance? As if at the heart of Zayed Al Zawba was a dark vulnerability so much at odds with the man he presented to the world. Was it so wrong to want to understand the person behind the King she’d married? She’d told him stuff about herself but so far he hadn’t reciprocated.

  ‘You realise I know practically nothing about you,’ she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘On the contrary—you know more than most people. You know all about my ancestors and their history.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’m serious, Zayed.’

  ‘And so am I, Jane. Deadly serious. I don’t talk about myself. I don’t bare my soul—not to you, not to anyone.’

  She knew that it was pointless to say But I’m your wife because she wasn’t—not in any way that counted. So she tilted her chin and stared straight into the night-dark beauty of his eyes instead. ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Because trust is an issue and a lot of people in my position feel the same.’ He hesitated. ‘Being royal is different. You risk too much when you let people close. Because people will betray you, or sell-out.’

  ‘You don’t trust me?’

  There was a pause. ‘Actually, I do trust you. I don’t know why, but I do.’ His glance was impatient, as if he wanted the conversation to be over. ‘But there is little point in telling you the things I suspect you want to know.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because telling you stuff would indicate that I wanted a deeper level of understanding between us, and I don’t.’

  For some reason that hurt far more than it should have done but Jane kept her expression implacable. ‘Or perhaps it might help release some of the demons which are locked up inside you.’

  His body tensed. ‘I don’t have any demons, Jane.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ she questioned quietly. ‘Have none of the previous women you’ve slept with ever asked why sometimes you have nightmares? Why your body tenses up and you shout out strange and muffled things in the middle of the night? Things I don’t understand but which chill my blood every time I hear them.’

  Zayed stilled as he stared into the open gaze of her amber eyes, trying to dampen down the flare of anger and indignation. He’d thought the nightmares had ended. Had prayed they had—and that the one he’d had on his wedding night had been an aberration. Logic told him they were nothing but a recurring pattern—dark dreams kick-started by key emotional events in his life, but which would soon pass. And they did. It was just that every time they came back they were worse than the time before. The place they took you to was more unendurable. The residual feeling they left was behind was even more bitter. Maybe because the older you got the more you realised how much you had lost. Realised, too, just what you had failed to do... ‘No,’ he said roughly. ‘They don’t ask me and if they dare try, then I shut them down.’

  ‘And they let you, I suppose. They let you do whatever you want because they don’t want to displease you.’

  ‘Something like that.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Whereas you don’t seem to care about displeasing me, do you, Jane?’

  ‘That isn’t my aim. I just don’t see the point in tiptoeing around you,’ she said, touching her fingertips to the diamond studs which were fixed to her ears, as if checking they were still there, before fixing him with a steady look. ‘We already have enough areas in our lives which are off-limits without adding any more. Don’t we?’

  A great silence rolled between them, as big as those great waves which used to swell up on Azraq al-Haadi beach during the family holidays he and his parents used to take before the only world he’d ever known had been destroyed one springtime, when the desert had been carpeted with wildflowers. Zayed met the question in Jane’s steady gaze. Why wasn’t he silencing her with a curt command that she know her place, and why was the temptation to tell her tugging at him, like a kite being tugged by the insistent wind? He swallowed, knowing that such a disclosure would break a taboo, for he had never discussed it with anyone. Not even with his father, though he suspected he must have guessed at some of the things he’d been too stricken to hear at the time.

  ‘You get one question, Jane,’ he gritted out. ‘That’s all. What do you want to know?’

  There was a moment’s pause. ‘What causes the nightmares?’ she said eventually.

  He had underestimated her intelligence. How very short-sighted of him. She was clever enough to realise that this one deceptively simple question would open up a whole web of explanation. He thought about prevarication. About inventing something to pacify her. But even if he’d wanted to, he could not lie to her, and not just because theirs was a relationship which had been grounded in brutal honesty right from the start. Something told him that those clear amber eyes would see right through him if he did.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We have plenty of time, Zayed,’ she said softly.

  He took her point. They were alone in their suite—some might say trapped. There was no vast palace at his disposal to escape to. No nearby stallion quickly saddled up for the man who longed to pound away his emotions with a hard ride across the desert sands.

  He moved restlessly, his robes whispering against his skin as he walked towards the windows overlooking the embassy gardens, where the manicured lawns were bathed in golden sunlight and in the distance he could hear one of the embassy dogs barking. She was right. There was plenty of time. Almost too much.

  ‘You know that my mother died when I was seven?’

  Her face serious, she nodded. ‘She was involved in a riding accident, wasn’t she?’

  A strange laugh was torn from his throat. ‘You could say that. Some of the facts you will know—others you won’t. Because much of what really happened is not documented in the record books.’

  ‘Why not?’ She sounded aghast and he could tell that for someone like her—who’d spent a whole life painfully constructing historical accuracy—to hide the truth away would be the worst kind of crime. But this was nothing to do with her work. This was strictly personal.

  He sighed and shot her a warning look. ‘If I tell you, you’re not going anywhere with this information, Jane. I’m telling you as my wife and not as an historian—do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I understand.’

  He pulled in a deep breath. ‘You know that my mother was promised to the King of Mazbalah?’

  She nodded and he could see the interest sparking from her eyes. ‘Yes. I knew that.’

  ‘They’d been betrothed since they were children in what was seen as a political unification of two powerful dynasties. Both families wanted it—some might say pushed for it. It was an eagerly anticipated union and the celebrations were planned to set the desert world alight, but just before the wedding she met my father at an official function and they...’ The words were drawn reluctantly from his lips, because he hated saying them. Hated acknowledging their power. For they represented the thing which most people craved for—the thing which had the ability to wreak so much havoc in its wake. His mouth twisted. ‘They fell in love. Even though my mother’s father despised the Kafalahian line and was eager for her to marry into the Al Haadi family, that did not deter them. They acted impetuously—some might say rashly. On the very morning of her intended wedding, my parents eloped.’

  ‘This much I knew,’ said Jane quietly. ‘But I thought her jilted fiancé gave the pair his blessing?’

  ‘Initially, he did. It was described by the courtiers as a magnanimous gesture in the light of the seemingly inevitable, but ultimately it was to save face in what must have been a monumental humiliation.’

  His voice tailed off as dark pain speared through him and he could see the concern on her pale features. He wanted to snarl at her that he wasn�
�t going to answer any more of her damned questions but at the same time he wanted to kiss her—as if a punishing and passionate kiss would have the power to wash away these bitter memories. He’d never even kissed her, he found himself thinking. What an idiot he was. Why the hell hadn’t he done that instead of stepping back into a past he’d tried to leave behind a long time ago? Distracted her with ripples of pleasure instead of capturing her clever mind with facts. But he was in too deep to stop now. It was as if he’d removed the cork from a bottle which had been fermenting for decades—to discover that the wine inside was unbearably acrid as it bubbled over to escape.

  ‘Despite being ostracised by her parents, my mother was soon accepted by the Kafalahian people who grew to love her, and for seven years we lived as a normal family,’ he continued. ‘Even if it was a royal one. My parents’ only sadness was that the large brood of children they longed for never happened and I remained an only child.’

  ‘So were you lonely?’ she questioned.

  He jerked his head back, unprepared for a question nobody had ever asked him before. Yes, he had been lonely, even though there had been countless distractions for the much-loved son of the royal couple—with horses and toys and the offspring of the local high born to play with whenever he wished. But he had felt excluded from the powerful circle of his parents’ passion. Their love for each other had burned so fiercely that sometimes it had made you want to screw your eyes up against that bright light. His mouth hardened. And hadn’t the strength of that passion made him wary of such love, hating its all-consuming power and the way it razed away everything in its path?

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said, in as honest an admission as he’d ever made.