The Desert Kings: Duty, Desire and the Desert King / The Desert King's Bejewelled Bride / The Desert King. Jane Porter
my only woman. And I mean that with every breath that I take, with every breath that I am.”
Rou sat very still as his words sank into her. She could feel truth and anger in the promise he made her, and she felt a lick of fear, wondering how everything had gotten so intense so quickly. They were back to emotions, very deep, very dark emotions, and this was definitely out of her comfort zone. But then everything here in Sarq was out of her comfort zone.
“You make me realize I do not even know you,” she said unsteadily, hugging her legs. “You seem so much the playboy, but I’m beginning to think that you’re nothing like a playboy … nothing like the image you’ve projected all these years.”
He laughed grimly. “Do not imagine me a hero. I am not Sharif, or Khalid, nor will I ever be.”
“Then who are you?”
He left the door and walked slowly, deliberately toward her. He was still so graceful, and yet his focus had an almost lethal quality. “The family shame,” he answered, reaching her side and towering above her.
Rou’s pulse quickened, and she had to tip her head back to see his face. “You are by far the most beautiful and financially successful of your brothers. How can beauty and wealth be a source of shame?”
He traced her profile, his finger lightly covering her brow, the length of her nose, the curve of lips and then chin. “Oh you of all people should know that beauty and wealth are deceitful gifts. Some of the world’s most evil men have hidden their true nature behind beautiful faces.”
Her skin flushed and burned beneath his light touch. “Are you evil, Zayed?”
He reached down and pulled her into his arms and lifted her to her feet, bringing her so close that she could feel the hard length of his body from his chest to his knees. “No,” he murmured against her cheek, his warm breath tingling her ear. “But I am cursed.”
Rou shivered against him. “Do not say such things.”
He wrapped an arm snugly around her waist, holding her in such a way that she could feel the size of his ribs, the lean hips, hard thighs, as well as the rigid male length between. “But I have promised to protect you,” he said, his lips trailing ever so slowly across her cheek to the edge of her mouth, “and that includes protecting you from me.”
And then he tilted her head back, and his lips covered hers, hungry and fierce, as if a man starved. She felt her own mouth tremble beneath the pressure of his, even as a terrible weakness filled her belly. She felt weak and empty and in desperate need of his arm holding her up, holding her against him, holding her as though he never intended to let her go.
Zayed kissed her thoroughly, parting her lips, taking her mouth, taking her tongue between his lips, kissing her until she shivered and shuddered, burning from the inside out. With veins hot and thick, veins that felt as though they were filled with stinging honey, Rou lost all track of time, lost track of everything but this fierce fire between them.
Long minutes later when Zayed lifted his head, he stroked her flushed cheek, as if marveling at its softness. “You are too good, too innocent, for a life with me, laeela,” he said regretfully, “but I cannot ignore duty. Not now, not after all these years. I have to honor Sharif, and that means I have to have you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROU slept fitfully, waking every hour from vivid, intense dreams. Zayed featured prominently in every one, and Rou didn’t know if it was the kiss or her feverish imagination, but she woke up afraid, terribly aware that today everything changed.
Today she became vulnerable. She married the man she loved, and yet he didn’t love her back. And she’d found what it was her clients all wanted, only for her, the wedding and marriage were just temporary.
Agitated, she turned on her side, her arm as her pillow, and she looked out the small, high window that showed the sky. It wasn’t dawn yet but the sky was lighter, the dark blue night sky giving way to a layer of light blue. Somewhere the sun was already up. Soon it’d be up here, too. Soon she’d be Zayed’s wife.
Her eyes closed, lashes fluttering against her cheek as she drew a frightened breath.
She didn’t know how to do this. Didn’t know how to become any man’s, not even his.
It wasn’t just consummating the marriage that filled her with anxiety, although that was terrifying in and of itself. At least she wasn’t completely inexperienced. She’d had sex a couple times many years ago, but it’d felt wrong—it’d hurt—and the doctor in her knew it was a combination of emotional and physical pain. She didn’t love either of the men, and she wasn’t properly aroused, which contributed to her discomfort. But her fear today was different. Her fear was disappointing Zayed. He’d called her beautiful, called her passionate, but what would he say when he discovered she was useless, ridiculous in bed?
Sharif had once asked her why she didn’t date more, and she’d answered that her work consumed her, but it hadn’t always just been about her work. In her midtwenties when she’d tried dating, she’d discovered she was hopeless at it. Everybody wanted casual sex. She couldn’t have casual sex. And those two times a relationship developed sufficiently that she thought she should try to have a physical relationship, it went wrong, so wrong. Sex itself felt invasive. A man on top of you, surrounding you, filling you.
But later today it wouldn’t be just anyone with her. Today it would be Zayed.
Her stomach lurched, and she threw back the covers and swung her legs from the bed.
Calm down, she told herself, going to the living room to the French doors and opening them to welcome in the cool, sweet air. He might be disappointed, but he’ll have done his duty and you’ll both survive.
Manar arrived early with breakfast and coffee and elaborate plans to help Rou prepare for her ceremony. “In my country we henna the bride’s hands and feet,” she said, smiling as she poured Rou’s coffee and served her a selection of flaky pastries from the tray. “I think you would find it wonderful and unusual.”
Rou gratefully sipped her strong coffee. “You’re not from Sarq?”
The maid shook her head. “I am from Baraka, a country not far, and while not terribly different, we do celebrate marriage differently.”
“How did you get to Sarq?”
Manar smiled, dimpling. “My husband. He is one of Prince Khalid’s men, and I met him while he accompanied the prince to Baraka on business.”
“Do you return home often?”
The maid shook her head. “It is too far and quite costly to travel.”
“Don’t you miss your family?”
She shrugged. “I would miss my husband more if I was not with him.”
Jesslyn appeared in the arched doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, not at all. Please come in, Your Highness.” Rou rose and went to greet Jesslyn with a kiss on each cheek. “How are you?”
“Excited for you.”
A lump filled Rou’s throat. Jesslyn was so good and kind. “Thank you.”
“I have brought you a gift for your wedding day,” the queen added, holding out a small, tissue-wrapped package. “Every bride must have something borrowed, something blue, and this is both. I thought perhaps you could tuck it inside the strap of your bodice, or maybe your purse.”
Rou sat and opened the small gift. It was a fine white handkerchief embroidered with an elaborate S and F in dark blue thread.
“It was Sharif’s,” Jesslyn said with an uncertain smile. “He was quite a fan of yours and I thought this would be a way to include him. It’s borrowed, and it’s kind of blue.”
Rou clutched the handkerchief in her hand,