His Defiant Desert Queen(22)

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.”

“So he was a good father when you were little?”

“In a young child’s eyes, yes. But during the divorce the battle lines were drawn and I, due to my age, went to Mother. All of us went with Mother, except Morgan, who chose to live with our father.”

“Do you know why your parents divorced?”

Jemma hesitated. “I think he wasn’t faithful.”

“Was the divorce quite bitter?”

“Not as acrimonious as it could have been. They divided up kids and property and went on with their lives.”

“But neither married again.”

“No. Mother was too upset—she’d loved my father—and he didn’t want to lose any more assets.”

“This is why love marriages are dangerous. Far better to go in with a contract and no romantic illusions, than enter the marriage with impossible hopes and dreams of a fairy tale relationship that can’t exist.”

“But in an arranged marriage there is no love.”

“Love isn’t necessary for a good marriage. In fact, love would just make things more difficult.”

“How shall I fulfill...my duties...without love?”

For a moment he was baffled, and then amused. Her point of view was so peculiarly Western. As if only those who had a romantic relationship could find satisfaction in bed. “Love isn’t necessary for physical pleasure.”

* * *

Jemma saw him rise from the cushions and walk around the table. She swallowed hard as he approached her, not knowing where to look, or what to do. Her heart was pounding and her brain felt scrambled.

“Marriage isn’t all bad,” he added quietly, circling her. “Our marriage will honor you. You are my queen. The first lady in my land. There will be no more public scorn. No more shaming. You will be protected.”

His voice was a deep, low rumble, the pitch husky and strangely seductive. Jemma turned her head, watched his mouth. His firm lips suddenly fascinated her. “Until you take your next wife,” she said, feeling almost breathless.