Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen. Carol Marinelli

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СКАЧАТЬ ready to commence, and yet the groom so far had not made an appearance. Akmal had come yet again to the royal chamber himself, to ensure nothing untoward had occurred, only to find the groom where he had left him last time—still standing at the French windows, still holding the letter and staring broodingly out to the ocean.

      ‘I will be there shortly.’

      ‘Your Highness, may I suggest…?’

      ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Only then did Xavian turn, his black eyes furious at the intrusion, shooting the aide down and reminding him who was King. Dressed in the full military uniform of Qusay—superb olive cloth, his chest decorated with medals, his legs encased in long black leather boots, a sword at his side and golden thread holding on his kafeya—Xavian cut an imposing figure. But then, Xavian always did—standing six feet two, with broad shoulders and a strong, muscular frame, he did not need medals or swords or royal gold braid to command respect.

      ‘She can wait till I am ready.’

      ‘Your Highness.’ Akmal knew better than to argue, so instead he gave a small bow and left. Alone again, Xavian carried on gazing out to the ocean.

      She would wait. Xavian knew that.

      She had already waited a decade for this day. Betrothed to her since childhood, he should have married her ten years ago, but he had chosen not to—he had concentrated on enjoying his freedom instead.

      Only now it was over.

      Xavian walked out onto the balcony and wished that it gazed to the desert, not the ocean. To the desert, where he found rare peace, to the desert, where he would take his bride tonight.

      How weary he was at that thought.

      Since his parents had been killed in a plane crash, his advisors had been working overtime. His playboy ways were to end—he was King now, and kings did not live as princes. Kings married and produced heirs, and it was time for Xavian to do the same. After three months of deep mourning, the wedding that he had been putting off must now occur.

      It would be a subdued affair, given the circumstances—huge celebrations deemed inappropriate so soon after the country’s loss. The people would be informed tomorrow that the King had married, and he would retreat with his bride to the desert before the official reception. After another suitable period of mourning the coronation would take place, and then the people would celebrate. A double celebration, perhaps? The elders had been light on discretion: nine months from the wedding, it would be nice to have a prince on the way.

      Xavian had been advised by Akmal to refrain from sexual encounters for a week prior to the wedding—to ensure his seed was plentiful and potent. It was advice Xavian had absolutely chosen to ignore.

      Always it was plentiful!

      This was a business arrangement and no more. Haydar was struggling under a woman’s rule, and Xavian’s strong, albeit occasional presence would help guide the troubled country.

      Of course he would take a mistress—several, perhaps.

      He had no intention of sleeping alone at night.

      The unease Xavian felt now wasn’t down to wedding nerves, and it wasn’t pride that made him deny that he was uneasy. Long before the wedding had been announced, long before his parents had been killed, there had been a deep unrest in his soul.

      Trouble he could not define.

      A place within that he didn’t want to visit.

      Sometimes as he stood and stared at a letter, as he did now, searching for clues that surely didn’t exist, he actually though he was going mad.

      Sometimes at night he would wake with his heart racing. He would feel the beauty in the bed beside him, feel her coil around him, yet he would shrug her off, get up and dress himself, or send her to the mistress chambers. It was not how he wanted to be seen. His heart was racing now, his breath tight in his chest as his black eyes studied the rolling ocean. He felt nausea rising as if he were out there. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, could feel his body rolling with the waves. The thick scars on his wrists burnt and itched, as they did at times. His eyes scanned the vast ocean, searching for what he didn’t know, and then he dragged his gaze away, willed his heart to slow down, for the madness to stop. He comforted himself not with the thought of a virgin bride, but with the solace of the beckoning desert.

      Yes!

      He would get the wedding over with, take her to the desert, consummate the marriage and then tomorrow he could wander—tomorrow he could take guidance from the heart of the land he now ruled and ask it to bring him peace.

      Happier now, he walked from the balcony and through his chamber, the letter still in his hand. He paused at a thick pillar candle and stood watching the heavy cream paper curl and the Calistan crest flare as the flames licked around it. Then he tossed it into the ancient fireplace—just as he had done with the other letters—and with that ritual over he headed to his wedding.

      As he opened the door Akmal practically fell inside. Xavian paused for long enough to give his vizier a withering look, and then strode confidently through the palace, past the paintings of his ancestors, down the long corridor and out to the gardens, ready now to get on with his duty.

      The elders were seated, but stood when he entered,

      His bride did not look round. She stood in a shimmering gold robe, her head veiled, and kept her eyes down as Xavian approached.

      He was not looking forward to this!

      Haydar was rigid in its ways. The women were covered and robed till they were wed. But even the generous layers of fabric could not disguise her rather rotund shape.

      Joy and double joy, thought Xavian wryly. A fat, inexperienced lover to impregnate. Was there no end to his duties?

      In a rare concession to modern times the Haydar elders had agreed the announcement would be accompanied by photos—this was not a time for grand feasting and celebration, but it was still much needed good news for the people of Haydar and Qusay.

      The judge spoke, asking Layla if she would be a loyal wife, if she would serve her husband, provide him with children, nurture him and their offspring.

      Her voice was soft when she agreed.

      Again the judge asked her.

      Again she said yes.

      For the third time it was repeated, and Xavian watched her eyes blink, though still she did not look up at him—as was right.

      ‘I will.’

      And then it was Xavian’s turn.

      Would he provide for her?

      It was all that was asked, and only asked once.

      A King did not have to repeat himself.

      ‘Yes.’

      She glanced up, and the eyes that met his were a deep violet, then long black lashes swept down again. Xavian found himself slightly appeased—they were clear and bright and really rather pretty—perhaps he could ask her to keep them open tonight!

      It СКАЧАТЬ