Desert Fantasies(23)

But, for a prize like her, it would be almost worth giving up the throne.

He shook his head, though he knew it would take more than that to clear it. He heard the nicker of horses and swung his head around.

Perfect.

Zoltan was nowhere to be seen when she rose, her head feeling as if someone was pounding inside her skull trying to break their way out. She could not remember a worse night. But then, she had not had much experience of sharing a tent with a man who simultaneously drove her wild with passion one minute, and so foaming with fury the next. And somewhere in the midst of those extremes she felt a strange hurt, a sadness, that things had gone so very wrong. But she would not dwell on how cheated she felt that they had not made love last night, or how her body had refused to relax, remaining so achingly high-strung half the night. She would not dwell on that at all.

Rani bringing her tea was just the distraction she needed. If she was going to worry, it might as well be about something important, and someone must have heard from Marina by now. ‘Is there any news of my sister this morning?’ she asked as the steam from the fragrant, spiced liquid curled in the air.

‘No news, mistress.’

For the first time, Aisha felt a prickly discomfort about her sister’s failure to arrive. Sure, Marina might be headstrong and wayward, and abhor anything to do with the constraints of convention, but why would she not attend her sister’s marriage, and now the coronation? Surely she would attend for her sister’s sake, at least?

‘The master is riding, Princess,’ Rani continued, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Would you like a horse prepared for you?’

Aisha almost said no. Almost. But then she thought about riding along the beach, the wind in her hair, the closest she would ever get to being free again, and the idea held such appeal that she agreed. Maybe it might even blow away this growing concern in her gut that Marina hadn’t shown up. Maybe it might make her see that her sister was just making a statement that she disapproved of this marriage and its terms and she was staying away as a protest. Maybe.

‘Which way did Sheikh Zoltan go?’ she asked when her horse was brought to her a few minutes later. When the groom pointed one way down the beach, she pointed her mount the other way.



It had been worth visiting the rest of the tribes people, Zoltan thought as he neared the point, taking a circular route back to the camp. Talking with them had made his path clearer and shown him what was needed. Al-Jirad had progressed in many areas under the rule of King Hamra, but there were still advances to be made in education and healthcare delivery, especially for these wandering people.

It was clear he should thank Aisha for breaking the ice and putting him in contact with them. He would not have thought to visit them otherwise.

It was also clear that he could not entrust the future of anyone, let alone his people, to the likes of Mustafa. That man did not want the throne of Al-Jirad for any reason other than his own personal aggrandisement. He cared nothing for the people.

Strange, he mused as his mount nimbly negotiated the rocky shoreline, how quickly he had come to think of the people of Al-Jirad as his people. He had taken on this role begrudgingly out of a sense of duty, and because the alternative was too ugly a prospect to entertain. He had taken it on all the while resenting the changed direction it meant for his life, and the loss of a business he had created from the ground up, the biggest and best executive-jet leasing business in the world. He had been only months away from achieving that goal when he had taken the call and realised he could not do both. Where was his resentment now? Where was his anger? Instead he felt a kind of pride that he was able to follow in his beloved uncle’s footsteps. He would honour King Hamra’s memory by being a good king.

The coronation must proceed.

Which meant he could not wait for Aisha to make up her mind. They would have to consummate the marriage before the coronation, which meant he would have to go back to the camp and explain, once again, that she had no choice. But after the mess he had made last night, he just hoped he could word it in a way she would understand. She had to understand.

It was duty, pure and simple, after all.

Except, thinking about it, his groin already tightening, maybe this part was not so much duty.

He saw her as he rounded the point, probably one hundred metres down the beach. He stopped for a moment to watch her gallop along the shore, her long hair flying behind her, the hem of her abaya flapping in the wind, the rest of it plastered against her body as spray from the horse’s hooves scattered like jewels around her, and he realised the word ‘goddess’ came nowhere close to describing her.

Then she saw him, and he lifted one hand in greeting, but she pulled her horse up and turned before galloping in the other direction.

So she was still angry with him about last night, he thought as he set off in pursuit. Not entirely unexpected, but nevertheless not a good start when she was probably only going to get angrier with what he had to tell her.

His stallion powered down the shore. She was a good horsewoman and she had a decent head start, but her horse was nowhere near as big or as powerful as his and steadily his stallion narrowed the lead until they were galloping side by side across the sand.

She glanced across at him and dug her heels into her mount’s flank. It responded with a spurt of speed but it was no trouble for his powerful horse to catch her. ‘We need to talk,’ he shouted into the air between them.

‘I have nothing to talk to you about.’

‘It’s important.’



‘Go to hell!’

‘Listen to me.’

‘I hate you!’

And she wheeled her horse around and took off the other way. He pulled his mount to a halt, its mouth foaming, nostrils snorting as he watched her go.

‘You want a race, Princess,’ he muttered into the air as he geed the horse into pursuit. ‘You’ve got one.’

He was gaining on her again. She knew he would, she knew she couldn’t escape him for ever, but he wasn’t even supposed to have come this way. And she didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to have to listen to him. She didn’t even want to see him. How dared he look so good on a horse, with his white shirt flapping against his burnished skin, looking like some kind of bandit? How dared he?

She glanced over her shoulder, saw him just behind and urged her mount faster.

Barbarian!

All night he had lain there as if she didn’t exist, as if he didn’t care that she was hurt and upset and angry. All that time he had made not one attempt to try to make up for what he had done. Not even one. He had let her lie there waiting for him to do—something—and he had done precisely nothing. He had let her lie there aching and burning and he had made not one move to comfort her.

Bastard!

‘Aisha,’ he called, alongside her once again. ‘Stop!’

He reached across, snatched the reins out of her hands and pulled the two horses to a halt.

She shrieked and smacked at his hand and realised it was useless, so she slid off the saddle, swiping at the tears streaming down her face. She splashed through the shallows, her abaya wet and slapping against her legs, tiny fish panicking and darting every which way before her frantic splashing feet.

She did not even know why she was crying, only that now the tears had started she didn’t know how to turn them off.

‘Aisha!’

She felt his big hands clamp down on her shoulders, she felt the brake of his body and his raw, unsuppressed heat, and she sobbed, hating him all the more for reducing her to this. ‘Leave me alone!’

But he did not leave her alone. He turned her in his hands and she closed her eyes so she could not see his face. There was nothing but silence stretching taut and thin between them. And just when she could not stand it any more, just when she was sure he must be enjoying this moment so very, very much, he crushed her to his chest. ‘Oh, Aisha, what have I done? What have I done?’

If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have collapsed in tears in the shallows.

Instead she sobbed hard against the wall of his chest.

‘Aisha,’ he said, one hand stroking her head, the other behind her, holding her to him, ‘I do not deserve you. I am afraid I will never deserve you.’ He cradled her head in his hand and she felt the press of his mouth on the top of her head; felt the crush of her breasts against his chest; felt the stirrings of unrequited need build again, as if they had been lying in wait for just such an opportunity, ready to resume their pulsing insistence.

‘Can you ever, ever forgive me for the way I have treated you?’

She sniffed. His shirt was sodden against her face. ‘I don’t want to forgive you,’ she whispered against his skin, afraid to pull her face away. Afraid to look at him. ‘I want to hate you.’

There was another achingly long pause and this time she was sure the thin wire connecting them would snap before he answered. ‘I don’t want to be hated.’

‘I can’t,’ she said, releasing another flood of tears. ‘I want to. I’ve tried, but I can’t. And I hate you for it.’

He laughed then, no more than a rumble in his chest, and she wanted to hit him for being able to find humour where there was none—until he said, ‘You do not know what a relief that is. I don’t think I have ever heard more wondrous words in my life.’ He lifted her chin between his fingers and she resisted at first, hating that he was seeing her like this, tear-streaked and swollen-eyed. But his persuasive fingers had their way, and she blinked up at him, saw his dark eyes upon her, the dark features of his face so—tortured.