Claimed For The Desert Prince's Heir / A Shocking Proposal In Sicily. Heidi Rice
ride into three. Somehow in the midst of this titanic mess he’d managed to pick up a very persistent stomach bug as well.
He probably should have waited until he had completely recovered from it before making the journey. But the urge to find Kasia and confront her had been stronger than his common sense.
She’d run out on him. Stolen his horse. And all after promising to consider his proposal of marriage. He should have expected it. No one was ever as guileless as they appeared. He should never have trusted her.
‘I’m sorry, Prince Kasim, but she is not here,’ the girl said.
‘Then where the hell is she?’ The shout rang out as his smouldering temper burst into flames and the aching pain ground in his gut. The girl cowered.
‘Kasim, I’ve only just been informed of your arrival. We hadn’t expected you.’
Raif swung round to see his brother striding across the courtyard towards him, followed by two of his advisors.
Terrific. Just what I need—a political delegation to slow this process down even more.
His brother clasped his hand, giving him a jolt that seemed to knife into his gut. Raif struggled not to flinch.
‘It’s good to see you, as always, brother.’ While Zane’s smile was tight—he was probably wondering what Raif had been doing at the gates of the women’s quarters, shouting at one of his staff—it looked genuine, which only annoyed Raif more.
He was far too irritable and out of sorts right now to make the effort to pretend a brotherly bonhomie he didn’t feel.
He respected his half-brother, had been forced to acknowledge over the last ten years that Zane was a good Sheikh. But they were hardly friends. Even if Zane could overlook the difference in their upbringing—as the legitimate, wanted son of the old Sheikh and the son he had never acknowledged—Raif could not.
For some reason, Zane always acted as if their tainted past didn’t exist, often going to extraordinary lengths to deny the strained nature of their sibling relationship.
The only time Raif had managed to get a rise out of Zane had been five years ago when Zane had arrived at the Kholadi camp with the academic he had hired to write a book about the kingdom. Raif had sensed the attraction between Zane and Catherine Smith and had decided to have some fun at his brother’s expense, mercilessly flirting with the young woman during their evening meal and then assigning her the same tent as Zane, even though Zane had insisted they be accommodated separately. Raif had won that round. Zane had been furious with him, but unable to show it because he had been maintaining the fiction he wasn’t sleeping with his beautiful biographer. But the last laugh had eventually been on Raif when the two of them had married a scant three weeks later and Catherine had become Zane’s queen.
Since then, and for the sake of diplomacy, Raif had made an effort to be civil to his brother. But right now he just wanted to see Kasia, to talk to her, to find out why she’d run from him and to impress upon her again the reality of their situation. And to have this damn pain in his gut go away.
He did not have the time or the patience to deal with his brother.
‘Come, Kasim, and have coffee with me.’ Zane finally let go of Raif’s hand and held out his arm, directing him away from the gates. ‘We can catch up.’
‘Okay,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice low despite his rising temper. His tender stomach ached after the endless ride through the desert, his skin felt clammy, his head was pounding as if Zarak had kicked him in the temple. But he would have to humour his brother before he returned to discover where Kasia was. Because he had no desire to explain his situation with the girl.
Never show weakness, that was the motto he lived by. And especially not to the man who his father had decided mattered, when Raif did not.
He knew that the way he had been treated by their father was not Zane’s fault—both of them had been pawns in Tariq’s political manoeuvres—but still he couldn’t shake the feeling that where Zane was concerned he always had to be better, stronger, and smarter to prove himself worthy.
Sweat trickled down his back beneath his robe, his mind fogging with frustration and exhaustion, the pain in his right side making it hard for him to walk. But as they approached the ornate silver doors to the Sheikh’s private chambers, the pain sliced agonisingly into his gut.
He bent over, his grunt of agony echoing through the corridor.
‘Kasim, what the…?’
He could hear Zane’s voice through the wildfire spreading through his body.
He locked his knees.
Stay upright, dammit.
But his legs refused to obey him, dissolving beneath him like sand.
The dull thud reverberated through him as he went down hard on his knees.
Zane’s arms wrapped around Raif’s torso as he tried to catch him, but it was already too late and darkness rushed towards him.
‘Malik, get the doctor for Prince Kasim. Now.’
‘My name is Raif,’ he corrected his brother. ‘Not Kasim.’ The words were expelled on a final tortured breath as he crashed head first into the abyss.
Raif blinked up at the luxurious velvet drapes, the scent of jasmine echoing in his groin.
My angel? Where is my angel?
The powerful sense of déjà vu overwhelmed him, but as he turned his head, he saw a middle-aged woman beside the bed in a white coat, who stood up and leaned over him. But as she spoke in a stream of Narabian—while checking his temperature and his vital signs—the deep sense of disappointment became a hollow ache.
She isn’t here. Not this time. She ran away from you.
‘Where am I?’ he asked in English, his throat raw with thirst as he tried to dispel the miserable inadequacy that had plagued him as a child.
‘You are in His Divine Majesty’s private chambers, Prince Kasim,’ the doctor replied. ‘Nurse, tell the Sheikh that Prince Kasim is conscious.’
A young man seated at the end of the bed rushed from the room.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He had collapsed, fainted like a fool, in front of his brother. Humiliation washed over him. He shifted, tried to lift himself, clenching his teeth against the dull pain in his stomach. And the pinch in his forearm as the movement tugged on the drip taped to his skin.
He needed to get the hell out of this bed. He was lying here naked and exposed, like an invalid.
But the doctor placed a hand on his sternum, finding it pathetically easy to press him into the sheets—he had no more strength than a newborn baby.
‘You must not move, Prince Kasim,’ she said, the pity in her voice increasing his humiliation. ‘You have a lot more healing to do. We had to operate as there was an infection.’
Operate? Infection?
He noticed for the first time the stars in the dark sky glinting through the elegant carved wooden screens on the chamber’s window. Hadn’t he arrived here in the afternoon? How could it already be night-time? Had he been lying here for hours?
‘How…?’ he rasped, the effort to speak exhausting him. He cleared his throat. ‘How long have I been here?’ he managed.
‘Two weeks, Your Highness,’ she said.
Two weeks!
Horror replaced his humiliation as a flush of shame engulfed him.
He’d