The Sheikh’s Accidental Heir(28)

Melanie glanced down at the burka. “What happens if I say no? Bad things? Will Nasiji be dragged back here to marry you?”

He could not lie to her. Not about this. “My father is sultan—he rules this country. His will is law. But once we are married, you and I can leave his power. Will you help me? Will you marry me?”

She looked up from the burka. The corner of her mouth lifted. “It’s not the most romantic proposal, but I guess it’s for a good cause. But don’t think this means I’m becoming your property—and…well, what’s happening to my staff?”

“They are being sent back to New York. I will have us on a flight there as soon as the wedding is done.” He stared at her, his chest tight. She took the burka from him.

He had to help her into it and help her with the veil. All too soon, she was covered, so that only her green eyes—so much more vibrant and vivid than Nasiji’s—shone out from behind the back veils. He gave her a nod. It was less than honorable that he must start his life with her with this deception, but he was determined that no matter what happened, he was going to keep Melanie and their child with him. They were going to be the center of his world.

He led her out of the room. Her hand was shaking. He squeezed her fingers and told her the words she must say, making her repeat them over and over so she would know the Arabic.

Leaning close to her, he whispered, “Courage, habibti.”

She squeezed his hand. “This had better not end up with both of us in a dungeon. I hate when fairy tales go that way.”

He gave a small laugh. “After we are married, a magic carpet will fly us away. I promise you that, habibti.”

From under the veil, she looked at him. “And just what does that mean.”

“It means my love.”





13





Melanie sucked in a breath. My love. Habibti. Of course. He said it so casually. Her heart gave a jerk, and she had to steady herself with a breath. Did he mean that? Or was he saying what she wanted to hear? Those stupid tears that seemed to be hovering close these days threatened to spill. She tried to blink them away, and then decided Nasiji might well be crying at her own wedding. And what man ever wanted to deal with a crying woman. She gave a sniffle, and felt Ahmed stiffen next to her.

Great—the tears would help cover any mangling of the wedding vows she managed.

Oh, what was she thinking, getting married like this?

I’m thinking about giving the baby a father—and a future.

She swallowed hard. She was also thinking that it was more than wonderful to have Ahmed’s arm to lean on right now.

This whole thing had become a mess. The wedding was going to be a rush job; she wasn’t going to get the hundred thousand Jamul had promised her. At least she was helping Nasiji to get away with her guy—and this would let Ahmed get out of the country. She had a feeling the sultan was more than able to pen up any of his family in the palace. Or the palace dungeons, if such a thing existed. She shivered. When she got back to New York, it was going to be a long, long time before she stepped out of the country again. And she’d figure out then what she was going to do about Ahmed.

She could always file for a divorce.

They stepped into the garden to find Ahmed’s brothers waiting, along with the sultan and a man who had to be a cleric of some kind. He, at least, had a kindly face. Everyone else looked as grim as if this was a funeral.

Madam Zolest must be having fits that all her plans were being thrown away.

Ahmed and Nasiji had been meant to have a very modern wedding with touches of tradition, held in a huge tent with gold and brightly glowing chandeliers—Melanie had seen the drawings of it. Six hundred guests, round dining tables, silk-covered chairs, white with gold everywhere and henna adorning the bride and her attendants, while the groom wore a white suit and a white robe over that.

She glanced up at Ahmed. He at least looked calm and his eyes seemed clear. A band tightened around Melanie’s chest. She wanted this ceremony to be for real—for Ahmed to be marrying her for love.

Habibti he had called her. But was that just because of the child? Or because she was getting him out of a tight spot? Would he marry her and then walk away?

She put her shoulders back.

It didn’t matter if he did. He was here with her today—her child would have a dad of some kind. And everything else she’d worry about tomorrow.

Then she remembered she was supposed to be Nasiji and marrying a guy she didn’t love.

She slumped a little.

She knew there was supposed to be something called a zaffar—a wedding march with drums and flaming swords and music to announce the marriage was about to begin. It seemed that Ahmed’s brother, Khalid, had thought of this, for he had a boom box playing Arabian music, which stopped when she and Ahmed stood in front of the cleric. Nasiji should have been in a huge, white gown with hands painted in intricate henna designs. Melanie kept her own shaking hands hidden within the black burka. She must look like a crow. She also kept her head down and struggled to remember the Arabic Ahmed had taught her.