“Were your father’s wives happy?”
He reached for a bite of mango from the platter of dried and fresh fruit. “Most of them. He was an excellent provider. But my father was also good to them. Respectful. Tried to please them. Refused to beat them.”
Jemma’s jaw dropped. “And that constitutes a good husband?”
His dark eyes met hers across the table. He arched a brow. “Don’t you think so?”
“No.”
“Marriage in Saidia is a duty. It’s our duty to have children. It is through marriage we gain family, and family is our most cherished institution. Family is everything here. You protect your family at all costs.” He paused for a half second. “Which is how your father failed you. He refused to protect you.”
CHAPTER SIX
MIKAEL STUDIED JEMMA as she leaned against the column, her face turned away from him, giving him just her profile.
The late afternoon sun dappled her with light and shadows. He was too far away to see the freckles across the bridge of her nose but he imagined them there, as well as the soft pink of her lips.
Looking at her from across the pavilion made him remember her working yesterday, posing for that Australian photographer. She’d been so fierce and determined as the sun beat down on her, baking her inside the fur and thigh-high boots. But she hadn’t complained, nor had she as they’d traveled by camel to the Kasbah late last night, her slim warm body against his chest and thighs. He’d felt protective of her last night as they’d crossed the desert. He’d been aware of the dangers in the desert, but even more aware of her.
Last night she’d stirred now and then, restless, and probably uncomfortable, but she hadn’t uttered a word. He’d respected her for that.
He had wished she wouldn’t wiggle though, as each time she shifted in his arms, her back had rubbed against his chest, and her small, firm backside had pressed against his groin.
He had tried not to think about her firm backside, her rounded hips or her full soft breasts, which he’d seen in all their glory earlier.
And now she was his wife. His bride.
The villagers of Haslam had been happy for him. His people wanted him settled. They wanted him to have children. They wanted to know that there was an heir, and a spare, and then another dozen more. They were also glad he’d taken a bride, following tradition. Tradition was still so very important in Saidia.
Mikael’s gaze followed the play of sunlight and shadows over her body. She looked lithe and lovely in her clothes. He was looking forward to getting her out of them. He wondered what she’d be like in bed.
“Do you really hate him?” he asked, reaching for a date and rolling it between his fingers.
“My father?” she asked, clarifying his question.
“Yes.”
Her shoulders twisted and she looked away, turning her head so that he could see just the curve of her ear and the line of her smooth jaw. “He did terrible things,” she whispered.
Mikael said nothing.
Jemma drew a deep breath, her chest aching, her heart blistered. “But no, I don’t hate him. I hate what he did to us. I hate what he did to those who trusted him. But he’s my father, the only father I’ve ever known, and years ago, when I was little, he was like a king. Handsome, and charming and powerful, but also fun. For my fifth birthday, he brought the circus to me. We had a whole circus set up in our front yard with a big top tent, and acrobats and clowns and everything. He organized that. He made it happen.” She sighed. “My parents divorced just before I turned six. I didn’t see him very much after that.”