Chosen by the Sheikh (7 page)

As Tariq stared, she turned her head on the sheet to reveal her profile to him.

Just looking at her sleeping face made him feel as though a hand had plunged into his chest and grabbed his heart; the purity of her beauty touched something deep inside him. The fierce wave of protectiveness that rose up inside him was like a tidal wave, swamping every vestige of logic and good sense.

She cried out in her sleep, thrashing out with the hand that was not clinging to Khalid, as if to ward off the nameless monsters that filled her troubled dreams.

Was he one of the monsters? It would be more surprising, he reflected grimly, if he wasn't.

She cried out again, a lost little sound that stabbed into his heart like a blade. Of its own volition his hand went to her shoulder, closing over delicate bone and soft flesh.

‘Hush, it's all right.'

Bea's eyes blinked open, and they were filled with fear and confusion and a total lack of recognition as she looked up at him. Gradually the glazed expression in the emerald depths cleared, and he saw the exact moment she remembered where she was and why she was there.

‘Oh, I fell asleep.' She shivered. ‘I don't know how that happened. I'm sorry…'

Tariq's hand fell away as she pulled herself upright, wincing as her stiff muscles complained. He watched as she care fully unpeeled her fingers from those of his brother.

‘There was someone here to take you home when you were ready.'

‘I wanted to stay, and it isn't my home,' Beatrice reminded him as she reached for the jacket she had folded over the back of the chair earlier. She slipped her arms into it and lifted a hand to her face, feeling the creases imprinted on her cheek.

She knew it was really shallow to care at such a moment about how she looked, but Tariq looked so damned in credible…even though his face and clothes were covered in a fine layer of reddish dust.

‘Where have you been?' she blurted, unable to keep the note of censure from her voice as she added, ‘I was alone.'

Mortified, Beatrice wanted the floor to open up and swallow her the second the words left her lips—
like I haven't been alone and doing fine all my life, thank you very much!

She steeled herself. Because there was no way he would resist the opportunity to deliver a withering retort. And while she would normally not duck a fight or even a slanging match, Beatrice didn't feel very emotionally robust at that moment.

But the retort did not come. Instead, when she looked at him
through the shield of her lashes, Tariq looked almost defensive—which struck her as extremely peculiar. ‘Riding.'
Running away, more like
, the critical voice in his head chided. ‘When I have things to think about I find it easier to clear my mind in the desert.'

Beatrice found it easy to see him on a horse, riding through the desert. The mental image had such a pull, the fantasy figure in desert robes was so real, that she almost didn't catch his addition.

‘The hospital could have contacted me if there was an emergency. I had my satellite phone.'

‘The doctors and nurses have been in and out, but they won't tell me anything.'

He gave a fierce look and demanded, ‘Were they rude?'

The question and his in explicable manner confused her further. She could see that he might have put hostilities on hold for the duration, but surely that didn't extend to him being protective of her?

Beatrice had never brought out the protective instinct in men—she had never wanted to—but now for the first time she could see that maybe there were some occasions when it might not be entirely unpleasant to feel feminine and in need of male protection. Temporarily at least.

‘Were they meant to be?' He didn't smile back, neither did his fierce expression soften, so she added, ‘No, not rude—just busy.'

‘I saw the consultant on the way in.'

‘Did he say anything…?'

‘No change, apparently,' he said, seeing the flare of fear in her eyes.

‘What time is it?' she asked, only just registering the darkness outside. Up until that point she had been busy registering Tariq, and every detail of his appearance down to the way his hair curled on his nape. She knew that the sharp visual image she had in her mind would never lose its clarity; he was burned into her mind for ever.

‘Past midnight. You should go and get some rest.'

She shook her head. His dark gaze made her uneasy, restless and uncomfortably aware, and yet she knew the moment he left the room she would be waiting for the moment he came back.

Which made about as much sense as wanting to put your fingers into a live socket! She just couldn't make any sense of her complex feelings—but then she'd never met the living, breathing embodiment of her dark fantasies before.

One of these days, when she was far away from here, she might try and work out why he exerted this strange but compel ling fascination for her. She was working on the theory that there was something in the spicy, humid air.

‘I've had some rest,' she reminded him, nodding to the imprint of her head on the smooth hospital bed clothes.

‘Is this display of devotion meant to impress me?'

Anger surged through Beatrice. This was what came of relaxing her guard around this man.

Before she could respond he added, ‘If so, relax; I'm already impressed.'

In the middle of sweeping her tangled hair back from her face, Beatrice froze, her anger morphing into wariness. ‘You are?'

‘I can see now that you have genuine feelings for my brother.'

She stared, struggling to interpret the odd note in his voice and to under stand the strained expression on his lean face.

‘I will speak to my father. But that will be, I am sure, a mere technicality.'

‘I don't under stand? You'll speak to him? Speak to him about what?'

‘I will not stand in the way of your marriage. I give my blessing to your marriage to Khalid.'

Beatrice's jaw dropped. ‘Blessing…?' she echoed, thinking,
This cannot be happening.

He inclined his head in a curt nod. Beside his mouth a nerve jumped.

Her plan hadn't just back fired, it had gone super nova on her face! ‘But you think I'll pollute the gene pool…'

The comment caused dull bands of colour to appear across the slashing angle of his cheek bones.

‘I did not say that,' he protested stiffly. ‘Or even think it.'

Beatrice got to her feet, pushing her fiery hair from her face with both hands. ‘Why are you saying this?' she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.

‘A situation like this…' His dark eyes flickered briefly to the silent bandage-swathed figure lying in the hospital bed. ‘It reminds a person of what is truly important in life.'

Of all the times for him to get human and discover what was important in life it had to be now…Beatrice stifled an inner groan.

She didn't flinch or try to pull back as he reached out and took her chin in his long fingers, tilting her face up to his. She looked him in the eyes and felt herself drowning in the deep-silver star-speckled depths.

The searing strength of the emotions inside her as she looked at him rolled over her like a giant wave. The ache of longing, the need to be with him, to give herself without boundary or condition, went bone-deep.

It went soul-deep.

Then it hit her in a shocking rush of comprehension. Emotion thickened in her throat as a tiny shocked gasp escaped her frozen vocal cords. She suddenly knew without any doubt that she was looking at the man who was the love of her life.

She'd always considered unrequited love a little pathetic. Now she knew it hurt like hell and was totally illogical.

‘You are not constrained by moral mill stones—'

If only that were true!

‘—but that does not make you a bad person. You have spirit and strength and beauty…'

He thinks I'm beautiful.

‘And, yes, you are the most un suitable bride ever born.' The tender quirk of his lips firmed as he added, ‘But you love my brother.' He swallowed, the muscles in brown throat working as he said, ‘And he loves you. Perhaps your marriage will work,
perhaps not,' he admitted harshly. ‘But one brother a slave to duty and tradition in a family is enough.'

The acrid edge of bitterness in his voice made Beatrice wonder if he hadn't at some point in his life sacrificed his own happiness for what he perceived to be his duty.

‘You might think differently about this tomorrow…'

‘My feelings on this subject are not about to change.'

‘But—'

‘Are you two arguing?'

Beatrice and Tariq turned in unison to the figure in the bed.

‘My head aches.'

‘Khalid!' Beatrice cried, running to the bed.

Tariq went to the door and spoke to the men standing outside. In response to his words one went running down the corridor.

‘He's asleep again, I think,' Beatrice said when Tariq joined her. ‘But this means he's going to be all right, doesn't it?'

Tariq stood at the bottom of the bed, his dark face split into a grin. ‘It looks like it.'

Their glances locked, and with a cry of sheer undiluted joy and relief Beatrice ran into the arms he held open. Tariq swung her off the ground as though she weighed nothing and twirled her around. Still laughing, Beatrice tilted her face to his as he set her back down. His head bent to hers and she leaned up to press her lips to his, the gesture a spontaneous expression of relief and joy.

Their lips had barely touched before she realised what she was doing, and drew back with a small gasp of alarm.

She tried to pull away, but as Tariq's fingers, splayed at the small of her back, tightened she stopped.

Their gazes meshed, and everything except her heart beat seemed to slow. A raw whimper was torn from her throat. His dark eyes glowed with a need that made her insides disintegrate.

He lifted a hand and ran a finger along the curve of her mouth, as though fascinated by the cushiony softness. ‘You're shaking.'

‘So are you.' Beatrice could feel the tremors running through his lean body.

‘You're beautiful.' The febrile predatory glitter in his heavy-lidded eyes made her dizzy. Anticipation made her stomach muscles quiver.

‘So are you. I think…'

‘Don't,' he slurred, fitting his mouth to hers.

He kissed her deeply, drawing her body up and into his, fitting her soft curves into his hard angles as he plundered the sweet inner softness of her mouth. Beatrice moaned into his mouth as she speared her fingers into his dark hair to pull him closer.

When his mouth lifted neither moved. They stood breathing hard, their lips close but not quite touching, until the sound of a person nosily clearing his throat in the doorway caused them to break apart.

‘Good evening, Father.'

Beatrice, her face scarlet, turned to see the King, flanked by two uniformed guards, standing in the doorway.

H
AKIM
A
L
K
AMAL
was not the frail figure Beatrice had been expecting, but a robust-looking man with a head of dark hair streaked with silver. His cleanshaven face was surprisingly unlined, and his piercing dark gaze was very familiar. It was at that moment moving from her to Tariq.

‘This isn't what it looks like,' she blurted.

The King's bushy brows lifted towards his hairline. ‘Things rarely are.'

‘This is Beatrice Devlin, Father.' Tariq didn't appear to be even faintly discomposed by his father's arrival.

Beatrice didn't know whether she ought to bow or curtsy. Given the option, she would have fallen through a large hole that would have magically opened at her feet.

The arrival of the medical team
en masse
saved her from having to make the choice. In seconds the room was full of people, and she took the opportunity to move surreptitiously towards the door.

She was congratulating herself on her escape when a voice behind her stopped her in her tracks. ‘Running away?'

Beatrice carried on walking, but a moment later he fell in step with her. ‘It was a bit crowded in there,' she said, without turning her head.

‘I need to go back.'

She gave a negligent shrug. ‘Go,' she said, thinking,
Please!
It was hard not to think about that kiss—and if she did she really
wouldn't be able to hold it together—when the person who had done the kissing was standing a few inches away.

Tariq looked at her set profile, expelled an exasperated breath through his teeth, and caught her by the shoulder.

‘Don't touch me!' she breathed, backing away, her eyes wide.

‘Don't worry—I will explain the situation to my father.'

Beatrice stared, and wished that first he'd explain it to
her
. How had this happened to her?

‘He will give his permission for you to marry Khalid.'

 

Back at her apartments in the palace, Beatrice made the call to Emma. When the other girl had stopped alternately weeping and asking Beatrice if she was sure Khalid was out of danger, she announced with unusual determination in her soft voice that she would catch the next flight there and would see Beatrice when she arrived.

Beatrice didn't tell her that she wouldn't be there.

Her continued presence here would serve no useful purpose except to confirm the painful truth. She was in love with Tariq, and when he discovered the full truth about her deception—as he surely would—he'd despise her even more than he already did. If that were possible.

It turned out there were no seats on the direct flight back to London until the next day. Beatrice appealed to the booking clerk, who worked out a tortuous route home via France later today. But she'd get there quicker, he said, if she waited until the next day, and it would be a ten-hour stop-over in Paris. Beatrice booked herself a ticket anyway.

A ten-hour wait in an airport was to her mind infinitely preferable to risking the chance of coming face to face with Tariq and blurting out goodness knew what. All she had to do was keep a low profile until this evening.

She was considering how best to do that when a round-eyed and excited Azil appeared to tell her the King had re quested that Beatrice visit him.

She broke off when she saw Beatrice's half-full case and ex claimed in dismay, ‘You're not leaving, miss?'

‘Yes, I'm going home.'
Only I have no home.
She felt the sting of self-pitying tears in her eyes and reminded herself that was the way she liked it.

Her life style had made her adaptable. It meant she could come some where totally alien and exotic—and you couldn't get much more alien or exotic than Zarhat—and fit in without getting emotionally attached to the place…or the people. Then off she went to her next little adventure.

‘I
like
meeting new people and only being responsible for myself.'

She saw the young girl staring at her in total in comprehension and thought, Who are you trying to convince, Bea?

‘Ask Sayed to come in, Azil. I think you might have got the message wrong.' She had been here long enough to know that the King did not request visits from just anyone these days.

He communicated even with his most trusted advisors through Tariq, and until she had seen him today at the hospital Beatrice had imagined he was an invalid.

Sayed came in without an invitation, projecting disapproval.

‘Does Prince Tariq know you are planning to leave?'

‘Why should he? It's none of his business,' Beatrice retorted, sticking out her chin.

‘I think it is possible he might not agree with you.'

So, nothing new there! ‘Your Prince,' she said slamming down the lid, ‘thinks
everything
is his business. Azil has been telling me the King wants to see me. I'm assuming she's got that wrong.'

‘His Highness has re quested that you attend him.'

Beatrice stared at him in horror. ‘You're not serious?' She saw Sayed's face and groaned out loud. ‘What does he want to see me for?'

The question almost caused Sayed's leathery face to break into a grin. ‘He did not confide in me.'

‘And even if he did you wouldn't blab. I know…' She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing. ‘I'll have to change.'

Sayed cleared his throat and explained tact fully, ‘Actually, I think the request was of the immediate variety.'

‘You mean it was a summons?' Beatrice clutched her head and expelled a shaky sigh before firming her mouth. ‘Oh well, I suppose I might as well get it over with,' she said, in the tone of a condemned woman. ‘I've no idea what he'd want to say to me. Couldn't you just tell him I've booked my flight?'

‘Oh, I would imagine he already knows. Little in the palace happens that the King doesn't know about.'

‘Did you try and make that sound sinister to spook me out?'

This time Sayed did permit himself a grin.

The King's private apartments were in the oldest part of the palace, and it took a good fifteen minutes before they reached them. Beatrice still hadn't come up with anything he might want to say to her beyond the obvious—Hands off my son—but she had thought of quite a few things she would like to say to him.

The small court yard she was taken to was a lot less intimidating than the throne room she had imagined. The space was empty but for the King, who sat on a carved stone bench dressed in flowing white robes, his head bare, revealing his leonine silvered mane.

He was reading a book that he set aside when she entered.

‘Take a seat, Miss Devlin. You have been with us some time, and we have not had an opportunity to meet before today, but I have been aware of your…actions.'

Did Tariq report to him?

‘Tariq has not discussed you with me.'

Tariq, it would seem, had inherited his spooky perception from his father. ‘Does everyone have their own set of spies here?' a startled Beatrice blurted.

The King did not look offended. ‘I need other eyes and ears, as I do not leave my apartments these days.'

Beatrice decided that on balance she didn't want to know what those eyes and ears had been telling him about her.

‘My son…Tariq…he—'

‘He—' she cut in, unable to contain the indignation and anger that been building inside her on the way over. ‘Tariq—your son—' She broke off, breathing hard as she tried to control her feelings. Her grip of royal protocol was shaky, but even she knew you couldn't tell a king that he ought to consider the consequences his reclusivness had on other people.

‘Tariq…?' the King prompted gently.

‘I thought you were some sort of invalid—but look at you. You're fine…totally
fine
!'

The King looked startled by the accusation.

‘So you need a stick?' she conceded, her glance shifting to the cane at his side. ‘And you feel a bit self-conscious about your speech?'

‘My people need to see a strong ruler.'

‘I'm a stranger, but even I know the people here love you. Have you for got ten that?'

The King's eyes narrowed. His glance was steely as it rested on her face. No slurring was evident as he spoke, a regal warning in his stern voice.

‘You forget to whom you speak.'

Of course she had gone too far. But she reasoned it was too late to pull back—and what did she have to lose?

‘I know I'm no great loss to diplomacy, and I'm sorry—I know I'm speaking out of turn—but I hate to see Tariq… Oh, I know his shoulders are broad and he's capable—he'd be the first person to tell you he's the most capable person on the planet—' she vented a dry laugh and tucked her hair behind her ears ‘—and I'm well aware that he's not exactly troubled by lack of self-belief, and I know it will be his job one day. But not yet.'

The King had allowed her to continue speaking partly because her forthrightness had a certain novelty value. But as he listened to what she was saying he wondered if there was not a grain of truth in it. Also, this young woman had the most ex
pressive face he had ever seen, and he found it entrancing to watch the expressions flicker across her beautiful face.

‘He worries about you, he worries about his brother, and as dear as Khalid is, I don't see why he gets to swan around playing the playboy while Tariq does all the hard work. Responsibility would do him some good. I'm sorry, I know it's none of my business—and you brought me here to ask me something…?'

She angled a questioning brow and waited tensely for his response, wondering what the penalty was for telling the King a few home truths.

‘I did. But you have answered all my questions, Miss Devlin.'

She was worrying about this enigmatic response when he smiled and asked if she would like some refreshment. As it clearly wasn't really a request, Beatrice smiled nervously and took a seat.