Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen. Carol Marinelli

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘Now, if you will kindly let me get on with the small matter of my wedding, I can soon turn my full attention back to Haydar.’ He was dismissed, but still stood there, and Layla knew what was coming. Over her shoulder she spoke first. ‘Let me just reiterate: nothing, and I mean nothing, is to be approved in my absence.’

      ‘Of course,’ Imran replied smoothly. ‘Though naturally, if it were pressing, you would trust your Committee of Elders…’

      ‘Imran.’ Her tears had dried, and her eyes were steady when she turned and faced him. Her voice, like her orders, was crystal-clear. ‘I am taking my computer with me, and if for some reason I cannot be contacted by that medium, you will get in a helicopter and visit me in the desert.’

      ‘I would have thought you would prefer not to be disturbed,’ Imran attempted.

      ‘I have told you before, Imran—never presume to know my thoughts.’

      ‘Of course, Your Highness.’

      He left then, and, even though it was but a moment from her wedding, the knot of tension in her stomach was reserved for Imran.

      ‘Breathe, Layla,’ Baja said gently.

      Baja, dear Baja, who stayed silent in meetings but heard everything. Baja, who saw the tears she cried some nights. Baja, the only person who truly understood the daily weight on her shoulders.

      ‘He will use the time I am away to do something…’ Layla said.

      ‘He would be a fool,’ Baja said. ‘Your orders were clear.’

      ‘They twist my words.’

      ‘Then write them down.’

      She was so grateful for Baja, for her wisdom, her patience, and almost absolutely Layla trusted her.

      Almost—because Layla had long ago learnt that the only person she could truly trust was herself.

      ‘I will.’

      ‘First, though,’ Baja said, ‘you are to marry.’

      She was led through the Qusay palace, its corridors lined with ancestral portraits. It was easier to think of a painting on a wall, to focus on the wide doors that were being opened or listen to the swish of her veil as she walked, than to attempt to comprehend that in just a moment she would be beside him.

      The desert heat hit her as soon as she stepped outside. She was led down a white path and through manicured gardens—a true desert oasis. Tiny birds like jewels coloured the trees, their wings flapping as rapidly as Layla’s eyelashes as finally she stood and waited for her groom.

      The marriage service would be small—next week when, as was Haydar tradition, she was unveiled as a married woman, they would be presented to dignitaries and rulers at a formal reception, but for today it was only the judge and senior elders from both lands that would bear witness.

      She stood in the relatively cool shade of an orange tree, smelt the fragrant blooms of the gardens, listened to the continual trickle of the fountains, and still she waited.

      He had kept her waiting ten years, so what did ten minutes more matter? Layla asked herself.

      Or another ten!

      A chair was brought for her, but Layla refused. Instead she stood, burning in shame—could this man make it any clearer how little regard he had for her?

      She wanted to walk.

      She wanted to turn her back on tradition, to demand transport, to tell him where he could shove his business arrangement.

      ‘The King will be here shortly.’

      She stared down at her hands, saw her fingers tightly knotted, had to physically plant her feet to the ground to stop herself turning and walking—had to purse her lips behind the veil to prevent herself from saying something that her people would surely regret if she did.

      ‘Perhaps Your Highness should sit…’ Again the chair was suggested. One of the ancient judges was already sitting and fanning himself. Perhaps they would bring out refreshments, Layla thought wildly, or cut up the oranges from the heavily fruited trees. And then they could all stand around sucking their quarters as they discussed what to do when a King refused to appear for his own wedding.

      This was the hell of duty.

      To stand.

      To be shamed.

      To wait.

      Layla would take it for her people—would go ahead with this union if that was what tradition dictated—but she swore to herself as she stood there, pale and close to fainting, yet still refusing to sit, that he would pay for his offensive behaviour.

      If he thought he could treat her so poorly, if he thought she would meekly comply, would trot along by his side and follow his orders, then that was his misfortune.

      King Xavian should have done his research more thoroughly. Should have known that behind these veils was a strong, proud woman.

      That behind the throng of elders and aides was a ruler who was strong—too strong, according to them.

      Tonight she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his behaviour. He had no idea what awaited him, Layla thought, a small smile of satisfaction spreading over her lips. But it soon faded…

      As still he made her wait.

      Chapter One

      KING XAVIAN AL’RAMIZ read the letter again.

      It was one of many wishing him well for his wedding day.

      It was from King Zakari of Calista, extending his congratulations and saying that he was looking forward to greeting him formally next week at the official reception.

      It was the third letter.

      The first had offered condolences on the death of his parents and invited him to stay as a guest at the Calistan palace.

      Xavian had not responded. That letter he had burnt.

      Then another had arrived, to thank him for the Qusay people’s gift on the birth of their son, Prince Zafir.

      Still Xavian had not replied, though he had kept the letter for a few days, taking it out and reading it over and over till finally it had been tossed into a fire.

      And now this.

      There was nothing untoward about it, Xavian told himself as he read the letter for perhaps the hundredth time. He did not know what he sought from the words. There were hundreds such letters, offering good wishes, yet Xavian couldn’t help himself reading between the lines of this one…

      His bride was waiting for him, he was already unforgivably late, yet still he pondered over the page.

      It was a formal letter from King Zakari of Calista and his wife Queen Stefania of Aristo. Their union had reunited СКАЧАТЬ