The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride Page 10

  He didn’t answer straight away and Saskia held her breath. If he rejected her again...she kept her eyes fixed on his and saw the moment the flames burst into life, a bare second before his fingers tightened around hers. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Stop asking me stupid questions and kiss me already,’ she retorted with a smile, but he didn’t return the smile, just stared at her consideringly, an intense look in which she felt as if the clothes had already been stripped from her body and that she were laid bare before him.

  ‘Non, not yet.’

  Rejection slammed into her, hard and painful and all-consuming, but before she could turn away he had pulled her in close. ‘I thought you wanted a massage.’

  She froze, need pulling at her. Devouring from the inside out. ‘I...’

  Now he smiled, slow and triumphant. ‘I asked you if you wanted a massage, Saskia, and you said—correct me if I get the words wrong—you said not from my maid. From which I deduce that you do want a massage. Am I right?’

  Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak, her insides a quivering mass of want. She summoned every vestige of sass remaining. ‘Are you offering?’

  ‘Think you can handle it?’

  ‘I’m sure I can handle a massage, Idris.’ The gauntlet was well and truly thrown down and she quivered with anticipation as Idris drew a finger slowly down her cheek.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ But he didn’t give her time to answer; still holding her hand, he turned, leading her out of the courtyard and into her pretty bedroom, not hurrying, every step utterly precise. Saskia caught her breath as she caught sight of her bed, huge, perfectly made and suddenly looming larger than life. But Idris ignored the bed, leading her into her dressing room, a space bigger than the kitchen/diner/living space in her old apartment. Half the room was taken up with her dressing table and walk-in wardrobes, the other with a professional hairdresser’s sink and chair—and the massage couch. She swallowed as she looked at the innocuous-looking platform, half covered with a white sheet.

  Idris took one of the fresh, folded towels from the pile next to the table and carelessly laid it out over the sheet before turning back to her. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Strip.’

  Saskia folded her arms. ‘Turn your back.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She hoped he didn’t see her hands shaking as she raised them to the first button on her dress. Slowly she undid it then stilled as she reached the second. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t undress in front of him, not while he stood waiting, watching.

  ‘Changed your mind?’ he asked softly.

  Tilting her chin, she undid the second button. ‘No.’ Then the third, then the fourth. She wore a yellow silk maxi dress, which buttoned up the front from the waist to her throat, and as she reached the fifth button and the fabric fell away to reveal the silk of her bra, the flesh spilling out over the cups, desire washed over his face, Idris’s eyes flaring. And then she understood, then she knew. She had all the control here. She kept her gaze on his as she slowly, deliberately unfastened the last buttons then shrugged the straps off her shoulders and let the dress crumple, falling in folds at her feet.

  She stepped out of it, reaching behind her, not allowing her gaze to falter as she unhooked her bra and, clad only in her bikini pants, strolled slowly over to the table. She knew his gaze was fastened on her, knew his breath was coming faster as she straddled the table, slowly lowering onto it, her head cushioned on her arms, her back and legs bare to him, just the wisp of peach silk barely covering the curve of her bottom.

  She had no idea how she managed to lie so still, so nonchalant, eyes closed. She heard footsteps as he crossed over to the shelf where her oils were kept, then the fragrance of her favourite jasmine, bergamot and rose blend wafted through the room. She swallowed, her insides quivering as his steps slowly but surely neared the table, the silence as he reached her side almost too much to bear. She waited for four or five excruciating, timeless seconds before he touched her, a light line drawn from her neck to the base of her spine and, despite her best endeavours to stay cool, she shivered at his touch, His laugh was low and triumphant as she reacted. Another line tracing back along the first before his hands moved to her shoulders and he began to knead.

  A massage was supposed to relax and unknot, but every inch he touched tensed up with need, her skin burning under his clever fingers. Saskia buried her head deeper in her arm to try and stifle the moans his touch elicited. He touched nowhere her masseuse wouldn’t touch, his movements precise and measured; all her senses were concentrated on his every move until she knew she couldn’t play this game any longer. She turned and sat up, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him in, pulling him close, hungry for his kiss, hungry for his touch, hungry for him. And with a guttural moan he obliged, picking her up, his mouth on hers and carrying her through to the bedroom. Saskia knew there were one hundred reasons why this was a bad idea, one hundred reasons why she needed to safeguard her heart; recklessly she pushed them all to one side because right here, right now, this was all that mattered. She needed to feel, she needed to not be alone, she needed to be wanted, to be noticed, and under his mouth and hands she finally came alive.

  * * *

  Idris disembarked from the helicopter, scanning the desert until he saw Saskia standing under a canvas shelter on one side of the palm-tree-fringed, sandy landing strip. It was as if they were in the middle of nowhere.

  It was noticeably hotter out here. Although Jayah was twenty miles inland it was built on either side of the wide tidal River Kizaj and so, although it didn’t benefit from the sea breezes that kept much of the coast at a bearable temperature, it was usually manageable except during the very height of summer. The heat in the desert was more oppressive, a visible shimmering wall, and Idris was glad he had opted for the coolness of traditional robes, a headdress protecting his head and eyes from the sun’s glare. Saskia was also traditionally dressed in long, loose gold trousers in a light fabric, over which she wore a long-sleeved cream and gold tunic, a matching scarf wrapped around her head. Her maid stood by, a bag filled with water, moist towels and suncream at her feet. While preparing for the trip there had been some concern over Saskia’s fitness to cope in the desert, her red hair and pale skin designed for the cold, sun-starved, northern European climate, not the relentless sun. But she would have to endure if she was to be accepted.

  She didn’t ask for this, his conscience whispered, but he pushed it to one side. Neither of them had asked for it but here they were. They had to deal as best they could.

  He moved to her side and their guards and attendants fell in behind them as, on cue, a group of people on horseback emerged from behind the trees and dismounted. A middle-aged man in bright robes strode towards them and bowed his head. The nomads were a proud people who traditionally recognised neither borders nor rulers, although pragmatically accepted the Dalmaya’s sovereign rule. Idris and Saskia nodded in response, a polite acceptance of his role as leader of his tribe.

  ‘Mahajan, Your Highness Sheikh Idris Delacour Al Osman, Princess Saskia,’ he said.

  Idris knew the tribal leader had studied in France and England and spoke both languages perfectly. ‘Salam, Badr Al Bedi. Thank you and your people for offering us your hospitality,’ he replied.

  ‘Come, we have horses for you. Let us ride and talk as we go. We have much to discuss.’

  ‘It is an honour to be asked to ride your fine horses. The mounts of the Al Bedis are coveted across the world,’ Saskia said, and by the beaming smile she received in response Idris knew she couldn’t have said anything better.

  Two hours later he was even more impressed. Saskia had obviously read all the briefing documents and managed to keep up in the general conversation. Old topics such as grazing rights, territorial disputes and minority rights were touched on and Saskia showed that she w
as aware of the history and disputes, with a knack of acknowledging the issues and then deftly turning the conversation to something less contentious. She would have made a good lawyer.

  The Al Bedi weren’t continuously on the move, often making camp for weeks or even months at a time while smaller trading parties journeyed to the bigger cities and coasts, especially during the hotter summer months. Badr Al Bedi explained that they would spend the first day riding to the large summer camp, where his own family had sheltered during the summer. Now they had reached the last days of September the camp would soon be dispersing, the feast tonight the last in that particular spot.

  Tomorrow Idris and Saskia would accompany a trading party who were taking a group of horses to the nearest town. The town was two days’ ride away from the camp and Idris, Saskia and their entourage would be picked up from there. The first stage of their Royal Tour would be completed.

  ‘It’s a good thing,’ Idris said quietly to Saskia, ‘that you’re not vegetarian. We’re being honoured with lamb tonight. It’s a dish always served to honoured guests.’

  They were just arriving at an oasis for a rest stop and water. Saskia and Idris were slightly ahead of the group, their host falling behind to check on some detail, their entourage and most of their personal guard trailing behind, although Idris knew several guards had ridden ahead and to the side of the main group. He might not be able to see them but they would have a very clear idea of where he was while keeping an eye out for any possible threat.

  Saskia laughed at his words. ‘Actually I did eat a mainly vegetarian diet for most of the last few years, though that was mainly for financial reasons, but that very thorough surrogate agreement was very clear that I needed to be a carnivore until Sami was weaned. I don’t miss meat when I don’t eat it, but I’m not going to turn down a feast cooked in my honour either.’

  ‘I hope you feel the same way when they present you with the yogurt. It’s very much an acquired taste. Of course, you can sweeten it with honey but a true warrior takes his—or her—yogurt straight.’

  ‘I’m sure I can...oh!’ Saskia broke off in alarm as her horse danced backwards. Luckily her grip hadn’t been too loose on the reins and she managed, somehow, to keep her seat as the beast neighed and then reared, its front legs kicking out. ‘Whoa, come on, boy.’

  But Idris’s own horse had also taken a step backwards and he could see quite clearly what had spooked Saskia’s mount. A viper of some type must have been dozing in the shadow of the tree and been disturbed by the horse’s footsteps. It was half coiled, half upright, swaying from side to side, fangs clearly exposed. Idris couldn’t tell who was more scared, the snake or the horse—or who was likely to do most damage.

  ‘Whoa!’ The horse reared again and Saskia fought to stay on. Idris’s heart thumped, adrenaline running through his veins as he assessed the risks. If the viper bit the horse Saskia might fall; if she managed to dismount safely then she would be directly in front of the angry snake. Could he manoeuvre his horse over and take the reins safely or would he just spook his own horse and make matters worse? He looked behind. They were further ahead than he had realised and although several horses were galloping towards them there was a real possibility they wouldn’t reach the group in time.

  Saskia was still hanging on, her lips white and her face pale but determined as she battled the terrified horse, the snake hissing louder, pulling itself up further, weaving closer and closer. Idris pulled his own pistol from its holster; the pistol he had baulked at wearing when it had been issued to him, and pointed it at the snake, his hand steady despite his thundering pulse. If he missed the even more terrified snake would strike. If he killed the snake then possibly both his mount and Saskia’s would bolt. He checked again. It would be at least thirty seconds before the head horseman reached them and the snake was swaying in...

  ‘Idris. Do it. I have this.’ Her voice was low and tense, her grip hardening on the already panicked horse’s reins.

  He inhaled, concentrated—and shot. Time slowed down to an unbearable lassitude, the sound of the pistol reverberating around and around and all he could do was take his own mount in a firm hand and wait and hope and pray... The snake buckled then collapsed and Saskia’s horse, maddened beyond any control, took off, Saskia clinging grimly on.

  He swore and dug his heels in, urging his own horse after her, Badr Al Bedi and several of the palace guards close behind him as they chased the terrified mount across the sands. Saskia was hunkered down low, obviously concentrating on staying on rather than trying to check her horse. ‘Just hold on,’ Idris muttered as he urged his horse on. ‘Hold tight.’

  What if something happened to her? How would he tell Jack? How would he raise Sami, made motherless twice before he was even able to speak? How would he be able to raise two boys and govern this harsh, beautiful country on his own? He might not have chosen Saskia but she was his partner now—in every way—and he didn’t want to take this journey alone.

  His blood thundered as her horse increased his pace. She’d only just come back into his life. He wasn’t ready to lose her again. Not yet.

  She was close, so close, any moment now he might be able to grab the reins and help slow her horse. But at that moment her horse tripped, twisted and, with a sickening yell that froze his blood, Saskia fell, rolled and lay crumpled in the sand.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I FEEL LIKE a prize idiot.’ Saskia stared down at her strapped ankle and winced. If pride came before a fall then humility was the result of one—humility along with a sprained ankle and many bruises. ‘And I’ve ruined the whole visit. Badr is embarrassed and I can’t go to the feast and...’

  Idris held up a hand and Saskia stuttered to a stop, both surprised by his high-handed manner and more than a little indignant.

  ‘You have ruined nothing. In fact, right now, several ballads are being composed about the flame-haired Queen who rides like a warrior...’

  ‘...and who falls like a fool.’ Now the adrenaline had faded away the realisation of how close she had been to something much worse than a sprained ankle and bruises shivered at the edge of her consciousness. Much better to concentrate on embarrassment than near death.

  Luckily she hadn’t been unconscious for long. She’d come to blearily to find herself cradled in a pair of strong arms. Cradled by Idris. Had blinked to see the fear on his face, fear that had quickly drained away, replaced by the same calm, shuttered look he habitually wore—unless he was with the boys. Or unless they were in bed.

  ‘I didn’t think self-pity was one of the signs of concussion.’ Idris held up his phone so she could see the medical website he was referring to. ‘But if it is we need a helicopter out here immediately. You are obviously in a bad way. I think we should get one anyway,’ he said for the tenth time in the last hour.

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly. My shoulder and leg got most of the impact. Thank goodness I remembered all my pony club training and insisted on wearing a riding hat. I know you thought I was in more danger of heat stroke than I was of falling off but this way I got to suffer two in one.’ The hat had been almost suffocating and only pride—and a childhood in which the importance of wearing a riding helmet had been drilled into her—had kept it on her head. Thank goodness she had; although there was a definite tender spot on her scalp she was sure that she had got away without any serious injury. ‘Idris. It’s bad enough I had to ride to the camp behind you on your horse like a child. Bad enough that I’ve been told to eat soup and have an early night and miss everything that was organised in our honour. If I get helicoptered out of here, two days early, then people are going to think I can’t hack the desert life here. That I’m not fit for this role.’

  ‘No one who saw you handle that horse would ever say you weren’t fit. The Al Badi would love to claim you as one of them. The first thing we need to do when we get back is get you a mount of yo
ur own. You are far too good a horsewoman to go without.’

  Well, they did always say to get right back on a horse. As a girl she’d been fearless, the higher the jump, the wider the ditch, the better, never thinking anything of heading straight into the stable no matter the horse’s temperament. Today she realised just how mortal she really was. The thought of getting back into the saddle—of allowing Jack to have another riding lesson—made her chest swell with panic and her stomach drop, fear breaking out like perspiration. But horse racing and horse breeding were national passions—and a significant part of the Dalmayan economy—and if she was to have a role and a life here then one fall couldn’t stop her.

  She stretched out and winced again. Idris and she had been housed in a beautiful white canvas tent, held up by two poles, the inside draped in gorgeous orange and red silk matched by the intricately woven rugs that covered the floor and the cushions heaped on the low couches and the wide bed. Intricately carved tables housed lanterns; jugs of chilled water and bowls of fruit were dotted around the interior. It was all very inviting and usually she would have been utterly charmed. As they had ridden in she had noticed that the tents all ringed a large central square, covered over with a huge canopy, a fire pit prepared in the middle and surrounded by seats. All set up for the feast and festivities. The spicy smells emanating from the cooking tents made her mouth water and her stomach rumble and the thought of bland soup failed to lift her spirits.

  ‘Idris, I don’t need you here keeping an eye on me. Go out and enjoy the lamb and the songs and the fire. It’s not like I’m far away. It seems a shame that they went to such an effort and for one of us not to attend. And you said yourself that things have been tense between the crown and the Al Bedi for many years, since your grandfather’s reforms. This is a good chance for you to start off in a more positive way. I’ll be fine. I have soup coming, after all.’ She tried to smile and, after a searching look at her, Idris nodded.