The Desert King's Virgin Bride. Sharon Kendrick

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      Amber sunlight slanted in through the window, turning the sumptuous apartment into a tableau of pure gold and illuminating the man who sat at the desk like some glorious living statue. As always, just the sight of him made Sorrel’s heart yearn—but the sooner she got out of the habit of doing that then the sooner she would recover from the impact of his potent charm. Instead, Sorrel tried very hard to ignore his physical attributes, and fixed him with a questioning look instead. ‘When, then? When can we discuss it, Malik?’

      ‘Look!’ Impatiently, he waved his hand at the large pile of paperwork awaiting the royal stamp and the royal signature. Beside them lay his open diary, crammed with engagement after engagement. ‘You know that there is an important border issue with Maraban which needs to be resolved quickly—and I have a new ambassador to welcome later this morning. Can’t you see how busy I am?’

      ‘Yes, Malik,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Of course I can see.’ It hurt that he should even ask—for surely he must know that she always had his interests at heart? Once, she had been alone in looking out for Malik—in the days when he had been nothing more than the Sheikh’s most valued and trusted aide—but now all eyes were fixed on him.

      In the royal palace—and in the desert lands beyond—he was the centre of the universe. To be a desert king was considered irresistible in the eyes of the world. When Malik said ‘jump’, people leapt—usually with a smarmy and obsequious smile pinned to their faces.

      It hadn’t always been that way, of course. Malik was a late starter in the royal game—he hadn’t even realised that he was the illegitimate son of the Sheikh until two years ago, when the bombshell announcement had been made. The old ruler had died, and Malik had been crowned—from aide to king in a simple ceremony—from commoner to royal in an instant. And yet Malik seemed to have adapted to his new status like a falcon which took its first solo flight in the desert sky.

      His always haughty air had become fine tuned—but now he had developed a cool dismissiveness towards others. The practical side of Sorrel’s character acknowledged that he needed distance—literally, to stop anyone from getting too close to him and to attempt to claw back some of his most precious commodity: time.

      Yet, deep down, hadn’t Sorrel been hoping that in her case he might make an exception? Didn’t it occur to him that she was itching to tell him of her decision and to get on with it—to start making something of her own life, instead of just existing as some invisible satellite of his? No, of course it didn’t!

      Ever since Sorrel had known him Malik had been an autocratic and supremely dominant man—but since he had inherited the Kingdom of Kharastan his pride and his arrogance had known no bounds. His wishes were always paramount—nothing else mattered except what the Sheikh wanted—and Sorrel had come to the heartbreaking conclusion that there was simply no place for her in his life any more.

      Everything had changed—he had, and she had. Suddenly she no longer felt she belonged—certainly not in the land where she had lived most of her life.

      Then just where do you belong? The question which had haunted her for so long popped into her head, even though she had been trying to ignore it—because every time she let herself think about it she was frightened by the vision of a great gaping hole in her future.

      Malik’s black eyes were now scanning the cream parchment pages of his diary and, knowing that he could be seen by none of his servants, he scowled. It was unlike Sorrel to add to the burden of his work.

      ‘There is no appointment for me to see you marked out in my diary.’ He frowned, and then he looked up again. ‘Did you make one?’

      Once, Sorrel might have wanted to weep at such a matter-of-fact statement coming from the man she had idolised ever since she could remember. The man who had in effect ‘rescued’ her, who had become her legal guardian after the sudden and tragic death of her parents and allowed her to remain in Kharastan instead of being carted off back to England. But this harsh new attitude towards her hurt more than she could have thought possible, and even though she tried very hard to tell herself he wasn’t being unreasonable—it wasn’t easy.

      ‘No, I didn’t make an appointment,’ she said flatly.

      Malik’s eyes narrowed. What was the matter with her lately? From being someone he could talk to and relax with, she had become…edgy. ‘Well, be quick,’ he said impatiently, flicking a glance at the modern watch which looked so at odds when contrasted against the fine silk of the flowing robes he wore. ‘What is it?’

      Sorrel wondered what he would say if she blurted out I think you’ve become an arrogant and insufferable pig. Would he have her taken away for treason?

      She flicked her tongue out over lips which had grown suddenly dry. ‘I want to go to England,’ she said.

      ‘England?’ Malik frowned. ‘Why?’

      ‘Because…’ Where did she begin? Not with the truth, that was for sure.

      Because I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years, Malik, and you’ve never even deigned to notice me as a woman.

      No, the truth would horrify him. Sorrel had no real experience of men—but the palace library was stocked with the world’s greatest literature, and she had read enough classic love stories to realise that she was wasting her time with the black-eyed Sheikh of Kharastan, who had steel for a heart.

      ‘Because I am now twenty-five.’

      ‘No, Sorrel,’ he negated. ‘You cannot be.’

      This was the kind of remark which once she would have found sweet, and amusing—but which now rankled as if he had just insulted her. And in a way he had—for his failure to know her real age went some way towards explaining why he treated her as if she was about six years old.

      ‘I really think that if anyone happens to know how old I am, it’s me,’ she said, as near as she came to sarcasm with His Mightiness these days.

      ‘Yes. Of course. Twenty-five,’ he repeated wonderingly, and for a second he met her gaze full-on. ‘How can this be?’

      Sorrel steeled her heart against the sudden faraway look in his ebony eyes. A sad, wistful, almost dreamy look—as if he had lost himself in the past.

      Which just proved how unrealistically sentimental she had become—as if Malik would be longing for the days when he had been just the aide to the Sheikh, instead of the Sheikh himself!

      ‘The years go by more quickly than any of us realise,’ Sorrel said briskly, realising how prim she sounded—but that was the trouble: she was prim. Basically, the years were zooming by, and with them her youth, and she was wasting it pining for a man who never noticed her. Well, not as a woman.

      One day—probably in the not-too-distant-future—Malik would start casting his eyes around for a suitable bride. A woman of Kharastani stock who could provide him with pure-bred Kharastani babies. ‘And I can’t stay here for ever,’ she finished.

      ‘But you don’t know England,’ objected Malik. ‘You haven’t lived there for years.’

      ‘Not since I was at boarding school,’ Sorrel agreed. ‘And even then I didn’t what you might call live there. Being allowed out to the sweet shop in the village every Saturday morning to spend my pocket money hardly counts as interacting СКАЧАТЬ