The Sheikh’s Disobedient Bride(42)
“Bur Juman is a beautiful place to live.”
“For Berbers or Bedouin, or whatever you are.”
His lips pinched. “I have much to teach you.”
“But I don’t want to be taught. I’ve had enough lessons from you, and my family, and everyone else who thinks they know what’s best for me. But no one knows what’s best for me but me.”
Tair sighed deeply. Silence stretched between them, heavy and heavier. Tally’s fingers knotted into her palms and silently she prayed, prayed he’d come to his senses and do what was right, do what he needed to do.
“Yes,” he said at last, “it is going to be a very hard marriage. And I’m afraid, a very long life.”
He joined her for breakfast on the stone terrace that adjoined her room. “Sabah-ul-kher,” he greeted, taking the low stool across from her and reaching for one of the tangerines and then one of the pomegranate sections. “How did you sleep?”
Tally gave him a baleful look. “Not particularly well, thank you.”
“You might want to take a rest later today. You’re still on the weak side—”
“Tair—”
“My delicate little flower.” His dark eyes flashed with amusement.
Tally marveled at the pleasure he derived from her misery. “Why are you so happy? You’re like a different man now you’re back in your palace.”
He peeled the tangerine, bit into one bright orange wedge and offered her a piece. Tally shook her head. Tair ate another, wiped his hands and asked, “Do you have a preference for your robe for the wedding?”
He was serious about this. He was moving ahead with plans for a wedding. “You can’t make me marry you. You can’t.”
“I can, actually. I’m a sheikh. You’re part of my harem—”
“I’m not.”
“Harem doesn’t mean a dancing girl, Tally Woman. It means part of one’s household.”
“So I’m like cutlery or dish towels, is that it?”
“More or less.” His mouth curved, eyes glinting, baiting her. “You know, marrying me is in your best interest.”
“No, Tair, it’s not. It’s in your best interest.”
And then he did what he always did. That horrible, arrogant, infuriating shrug. “So it is.”
Tair looked up as the serving girl brought him hot coffee. He thanked her and the girl flushed, pink with pleasure. Tally groaned inwardly. Everybody loved Tair but her.
He turned his attention back to her. “You haven’t given me your preferences for your robe for the ceremony yet. Surely you’d like to select that yourself.”
“I didn’t realize your attractive robes came in a number of different colors and designs,” Tally answered with mock sweetness. “So far I’ve only seen basic black and basic white.”
“There is a lovely shade of blue.”
“Navy.”
He tipped his head. “See.”
“So you’re asking if I’d like to be married in black, white, or blue?”
A muscle popped in his jaw. “Yes.”
“Hmph.”She couldn’t believe how much he irritated her, infuriated her, couldn’t believe he really thought they could marry, spend time together, much less time in bed!
At thirty-one she was no simpering virgin, but she’d never managed to look at sex as recreational activity, either. Sport was sport, and sex was well, private. Intimate. Sex was making love. And how was she supposed to make love with a man she didn’t even respect?
Tally lifted her chin, forced a tight smile. “Surprise me. It will make the wedding day such a delight.”
Tair suddenly reached for her wrist, fingers encircling her slender bones and he pulled her up, to her feet, and then around the table toward him. “You’re such a feisty bride to be.”
She tugged hard, resisting. “Because you’re so not the groom I ever wanted.”
He dropped her into his lap. “Why?”
His thumb was slowly, lazily drawing circles on the inside of her wrist. It was annoying. Distracting. Disturbing. Little forks of sensation raced through her arm, licks of fire and ice that tingled from her arm to her middle, curling hotly in her belly. Damn him. He couldn’t arouse her. She wouldn’t let him arouse her. She had no wish to be aroused by Tair of the Desert. He was horrible. Uncivilized. Barbaric.
“You know why,” she said gruffly.
“Because I’m a sheikh?”
She growled a protest.“No. It’s not cultural, or religious—it’s you. You. You stole me, kidnapped me, imprisoned me. Why would I want to marry you?” Then she shuddered, shivering not from distaste but the unnerving things his touch was doing to her. He shouldn’t be able to make her feel anything. She didn’t like him. Didn’t admire him. Didn’t want him.