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Duty and the Beast(13)

By:Trish Morey


Whereas dinner with this woman? Who knew where that would lead, given  the startling turn events had taken today? He didn't even know how it  had happened. But he did remember the feel of her in his arms, the way  she'd turned so suddenly from a rigid column of shock to lush feminine  need with just one heated, molten kiss. Would he be tempted to linger if  he dined with her to-night, tempted to make her truly his before she  became his bride? It made no difference to him.

But then he remembered the cold slash of her claws down his cheek.

He did not need another reminder of how much she objected to this  marriage, certainly not before the wedding. And they would be married  soon enough. She would be his tomorrow night in every sense of the word,  and he could wait that long. He didn't need another battle at this  stage, not when he had already won the war.

'Then good night, Princess,' he said with a bow. 'Sleep well. And when next we meet, it will be at our marriage.'

And he let her go. He watched her turn and walk purposefully away from  him, watched the sway of her hips as she moved through the arched  walkway to where Hamzah joined her to guide her back to her suite along  the archway walk.

He turned away before she disappeared, cursing duty and all that came  with it-the duty that forced him into this situation, the duty that  insisted he marry this particular woman at this particular time, the  duty that meant he would spend his night trying to memorize a crusty old  book rather than burying himself in the body of a woman who looked and  walked like a goddess. A woman who apparently hated the thought of doing  her duty even more than he did.

Or maybe she just needed a bit more time to get used to the idea. That  would make sense. He'd had three days since being informed of the  disaster and what its implications were-that he should prepare himself  for the fact he could be the one to inherit the throne. She'd had little  more than that number in hours. And, even though her father had told  her there was no other course of action, of course she would still be in  denial, wanting to wish away her fate.

So maybe it was a good thing he had not asked her to dine with him.  Because now she would have this night by herself, this one last night to  enjoy her freedom.

And tomorrow, and for all the nights that would follow, her duty would be clear. Her duty would be with him.

In his bed.





CHAPTER SIX



'IT IS time, Princess.'

Startled, Aisha looked up from the cushioned seat where it seemed a  hundred willing hands had been busy making the final adjustments to her  veil and make-up until only a moment ago, whereas now she felt only the  cold fingers of dread clawing at her insides. Surely it could not be  time for the ceremony already? The day had passed in a blur of  preparations, starting with a warm, oil-scented bath and moving on a  seemingly never-ending conveyor-belt of sensual indulgences: a massage  that had promised to soothe the tightness between her shoulders and yet  had proved ultimately futile, before a facial, manicure and pedicure and  the delicate, tickling touch of the henna artist creating golden  swirling patterns on the backs of her hands and feet, a gesture of her  acceptance of the Al-Jiradi ways.

It had all taken hours, yet surely it could not already be time? But the  hands of the mantel clock offered no respite. Rani was right. The  ceremony would begin in less than ten minutes.

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling physically ill despite having barely eaten a thing all day.

'Do not be nervous, Princess,' reassured Rani. 'You look beautiful.'  Clearly she mistook her reaction for normal pre-wedding jitters. But how  could this be normal wedding nerves when most brides actually chose to  get married? Or at least had a say in who they married. No, there was  nothing normal about this marriage. Even if the mirror that Rani  suddenly produced and held in front of her made her gasp.                       
       
           



       

She blinked, and looked again. Was that woman in the mirror, that woman  adorned in golden robes, with her dark hair twisted with ropes of pearls  and curled behind her head, really her? Her eyes looked enormous,  rimmed with kohl and shimmering with glitter, her lips plumped and  gloss-slicked ruby red. She looked every bit a real bride.

The enormity of what she was being forced into was like a lead weight on her chest. Married to a stranger. A despot.

A barbarian who cared nothing for her, but only what she could do for him.

What a waste it had been, feeling relief at escaping from Mustafa's  slimy-fingered clutches, for here she was, being forced to marry yet  another arrogant captor.

One of the other women tinkered with the fall of her veil, while Rani  searched her face for any flaws. 'You look perfect, Princess. Sheikh  Zoltan will not be able to resist his new wife.'

Oh hell! She jammed her lips shut. It was either that or bolt for the  bathroom, with metres of golden embroidered silks fluttering in her  wake, to throw up the few sips of sweet tea she had managed to swallow.

She clamped her eyes shut and concentrated, swallowing down on the urge,  concentrating on her breathing. She would not let that happen. She was a  princess of Jemeya, after all. She would not shame her father or her  country in such a fashion.

Instead she willed her body to calm until she was back in control again,  smiled the best she could at the waiting group of women all glowing  with satisfaction with the results of their handiwork, and said with  only a hint of irony, 'Then we must not keep Sheikh Zoltan waiting.'

It was to be a brief affair-just a small gathering, she had been  advised-in deference to the recent demise of the royal family, which was  the reason why it was being held here at this palace rather than the  Blue Palace. The actual coronation would be held there in a few more  days after the traditional mourning period, but his wedding now would  cement Zoltan as the next king.

The ceremony itself was painfully brief. Her stomach still in knots, she  was led slowly to a gilded ballroom where both her father and Zoltan  stood waiting for her at the front of a small gathering of guests and  officials, already seated at low tables for the feasting to follow. She  searched the faces looking at her but failed to find her sister amongst  them and felt a bubble of disappointment that she hadn't bothered or  been able to attend. But that was her sister and it was half of why she  loved her so much. Instead of following convention and trying to do the  right thing, Marina made her own rules and lived by them, and she didn't  blame anyone else when they went wrong.

Maybe her sister had been right all along.

The attendees fell silent and rose as one as she arrived, and to the  sound of music, the beat of drums, the stringed oud and the haunting ney  reed pipe, she moved across the room and forward to her fate. Her  father nodded and beamed at her approvingly, partly, she knew, the smile  of a man who had not seen his daughter for a few days, but also the  smile of a man who would keep his crown. And she could not find fault  with him for that. He had been born to be king. He knew nothing else.  Jemeya knew no other way.

Besides, he was her father and she loved him, and so she did her best to  warm her frozen face and smile back, not sure whether she had  succeeded.

The other man stood a good head taller, and she almost missed her step  when she saw the evidence of her nails still clear on his cheek. She  lifted her gaze higher, saw his dark, assessing eyes on her, and felt an  instantaneous rush of heat blossom in her bones and suffuse her flesh  with what she saw there.

Oh, there was still the resentment, hard-edged and critical and matching  the unrelenting set of his jaw. There was still the smug satisfaction  at achieving what he had set out to do in order to become king. But it  was the savage heat she saw burning inside those eyes that started fires  under her own skin. A savage desire.

For her.

Her gaze dropped to the floor as she took those final, fateful steps.  She could not breathe. Could barely think. Was only half-aware as the  music ceased except for the drumming, only to realise it was her own  heartbeat she was hearing. And then someone-the vizier?-uttered  something and took her hennaed right hand and placed it in her father's  palm. After barely a handful more words, her wrist was lifted and passed  to Zoltan's waiting hand and, as easily as that, it was done. She was  married.

Somewhere outside a cannon boomed, while inside the music resumed,  brighter now and faster, signalling the end of the formalities and the  start of the wedding celebrations and the feasting to come, but the  music washed over her; her father's congratulations washed over her.

She was married.                       
       
           



       

They were led to their seats. She went as if in a daze, and all the time  Zoltan kept hold of her hand, his warm fingers wound tightly around  hers, almost as if he feared she would run if he let go. Foolish man. He  should know there was nowhere for her to run now.