He pulled them out, intending to fling them in the nearest bin, when her neat handwriting caught his eye. Of course she would have neat handwriting and not some scrawl, he thought, finding yet another reason to resent her. She had probably been tutored in perfect script from an early age.
He didn't intend to read any of it, but he caught the words 'foolish' and 'naive' and he thought she must be talking about him, compiling a list of his faults.
That would be right. She had sat here on her wedding night and made a list of his failings-and to her sister, no less. No wonder it was such a long letter.
So what did his little princess really think of him? This should be amusing.
But as he read it wasn't amusement he felt. It was not him she was calling a fool. It was herself, for wishing she could choose a marriage partner, for ever thinking that she might one day marry a man for love, a good man who would love her for who she really was.
A ball formed in his gut, hard and heavy. He knew he shouldn't read on, but he could not stop. And he felt sick, knowing he was not that man she had wished for, and knowing that she saw herself as flawed when life and circumstances had conspired against her, when he knew it wasn't life she should be blaming. For he was the one at fault, he was the man who had shattered her dreams.
And he still wasn't sure why he cared.
When had duty got tangled with desire? Maybe about the time he had realised she was who she had said she was-an innocent.
Or maybe about the time duty had tangled with need.
Aisha.
All she had wanted was a man to love her the way she should be loved. Those words had meant nothing to him before. Her hopes and wishes had been like so much water poured on sand, for they had been thrown together, strangers, and what did it matter what either of them wanted when neither of them had a choice?
But he knew her now, better than before, and seeing her thoughts written down so clearly, knowing how she'd been hurting all that time …
The ball in Zoltan's gut grew heavier, and heavier still as he saw her call herself naive for saving herself for some mythical and ultimately non-existent male, and as she apologised to her sister for all the times she'd thought Marina had tossed her virginity away lightly, because at least she'd chosen who she'd gifted it to. For it had been hers to give, and she'd been the one to make that decision, and now Aisha applauded her, even envied her, for she would never experience that privilege.
But beyond that she was sorry, she wrote, that she had ever considered herself something special for the choice she had made. A choice that had clearly backfired spectacularly.
The ball in Zoltan's gut grew spikes that tore at his vital organs.
She thought she wasn't special? She was the most special of them all.
A woman so perfect and pure that he had felt honoured that he had been the one to receive her precious gift.
Yet clearly that wasn't how she had felt. And, even though she had come willingly to him that night, ultimately she had had no choice. No wonder she felt so cheated and betrayed now. No wonder she had not hung around long enough for him to explain.
She had lost her most guarded possession to a barbarian who had apparently taken it out of duty and purely to satisfy the dusty requirement of some ancient covenants.
And now she was gone and all he was left with was that memory. It killed him to realise that he had never told her what that day had meant to him, had never put into words how wondrous that experience had been. He cursed himself that he had assumed she must have known how he felt. For surely she must have known?
Why the hell hadn't he told her?
Why hadn't he thought to warn her of the ancient declarations in the coronation ceremony before she could imagine how he felt about what they had done, that he had been merely impregnating her?
And he remembered her frosty demeanour, her shutdown expression. He had wounded her so deeply. It destroyed him to think he had hurt her and that she might still be hurting.
He replaced the pages on the desk. He should not have read as much as he had; in truth he should not have read anything, but he was not sorry that he had. For now he knew what he must do. He must go to Jemeya and seek Aisha out. He must explain; he had to tell her what he felt for her, he must seek her forgiveness. For he had to get her back.
He had to.
Still, he wasn't sure why.
Only that he had to.
And from the mists of time he remembered those words his uncle, the King, had told him, the only positive lesson from his youth that had stuck. 'Choose your battles, and choose them wisely.'
He would go to her today. Tell her that he was sorry. Ask her if she could trust him enough to give him one more chance. Because this battle was worth fighting. This battle was one he could not afford to lose.
He could not let Aisha go. He could not bear the thought of her not being here with him.
Behind him the door was pushed open. 'Excellency,' the vizier uttered with relief, 'I have been looking for you everywhere. You must come quickly, there is news.'
For a heartbeat he hoped that Aisha had changed her mind and returned of her own accord.
'What is it?' he said.
'It's Mustafa,' the vizier said. 'He has taken Princess Marina hostage.'
Zoltan's blood ran cold.
As much as he hated his half-brother, his first thoughts went to his wife.
Aisha.
How would she feel when she learned the news? How terrified she would be, knowing what kind of man was holding her beloved sister.
Aisha had already suffered enough at the hands of his half-brother. She had suffered more at his own clumsy and ham-fisted efforts to possess her. He could not bear her to suffer more.
He would not allow it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AISHA was sick with fear, sick with worry. Mustafa had Marina, had taken her hostage on her way to the coronation. Even though her father swore that she would be rescued and brought safely back to Jemeya to be reunited with her family, and despite the relief of learning that her two children were safe at home with their nanny, Aisha wondered when this nightmare would ever end.
The only positive thing that Aisha could see was that at least worrying about her sister took her mind off thinking about Zoltan.
Most of the time.
She picked up her childhood bear, from where it winked at her on its shelf, and hugged it, wandering to the window of her bedroom, the treasured bedroom she had yearned so desperately to return to. She looked out over the cliffs of her island home to the shoreline of Al-Jirad in the distance. For there lay another palace that stood encircled by sandy deserts ruled by a king she had once imagined she had felt something for.
Two days now she had been back in Jemeya, and she could not deny the truth any more, for each passing day piled a heavier weight on Aisha's heart than the one that had gone before. The fact Zoltan hadn't tried to stop her from leaving, the fact he had let her return to Jemeya in the first place-didn't that say something about how little he actually valued her as his wife? Didn't the fact he hadn't come after her speak for itself? Surely she had been right to leave when she had, no matter what her father had tried to tell her?
Two days. A world ago, it seemed now. And her time with Zoltan could almost be some kind of dream. Imaginary. Unimportant.
Except then she remembered the touch of heated hands and the brush of a whiskered cheek against her breast, the thrust of him deep inside her, and she knew that so long as the memories remained in her mind there was no way she could ever easily forget him.
Damn him.
Damn herself!
For now she was here, back in her own room where she had always maintained she wanted to be, and after the places he had taken her it seemed a hollow victory indeed.
A spoilt princess?
Maybe Zoltan had been right all along. For, yes, she still felt betrayed and manipulated, but when things hadn't gone her way she'd as good as stamped her feet and run away.
Fool.
She looked down at the bear in her arms. Maybe it was time she grew up. Maybe instead of sitting here locked away in her room, waiting for Zoltan to make a move, she should be the one to make an effort, to reach out with an olive branch. After all, they were married and bound together. They had slept together-made love together. And no matter what she had spat out in her anger to Zoltan, there was no way she did not want to feel his body between her thighs again.
Maybe, if that was to happen, it was time for her to reach out to him, and if he didn't want her back, well, she wasn't an inexperienced virgin with dreams of falling in love with the man of her dreams any more. She was a woman. She would cope with whatever happened.