The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘YOU did very well with my father. He was most impressed,’ Rashad commented, resting a lean hand at the base of Tilda’s spine to guide her in the direction of his wing of the palace.

‘I was so nervous I hardly said a word,’ Tilda confided anxiously. ‘I know next to nothing about you and your family and I was terrified of saying something that would reveal that. Your sisters are older than I expected. Why did you never talk about your family when you were a student?’

‘Five years ago, my father and my sisters still felt like strangers to me.’

‘But why?’ Tilda questioned in bewilderment.

‘My three sisters are the children of my father’s first wife, who died of a fever after Kalila’s birth. I am the son of his second marriage. When I was four years old my father was badly hurt in a riding accident,’ Rashad explained. ‘His uncle Sadiq stepped in as Regent and then used the opportunity to take the throne by force. My father was still bedridden when Sadiq took me from my family and held me as a hostage.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until I was an adult. Sadiq had no son of his own and he named me as his heir to keep certain factions happy. I was sent to a military academy and then I went into the army. My family’s safety was dependent on Sadiq’s goodwill.’

Tilda was appalled. ‘My goodness, why did you never tell me any of this before? I mean, I knew about Sadiq and the war, but I didn’t realise you’d been separated from your family when you were only a little boy.’

‘I have never seen the wisdom of dwelling on misfortunes.’

‘Your mother must have been devastated.’

‘I believe so. I never saw her again. She fell ill when I was a teenager but I was not allowed to visit her.’

For perhaps the first time, Tilda understood the source of the unrelenting strength and self-discipline that lay at the heart of Rashad’s character. As a child he must have suffered great loneliness and grief at being denied his family and it had hardened him. He had learnt to hide his emotions and make an idol of self-sufficiency. It was little wonder that he did not give his trust easily.

They crossed a marble forecourt screened by trees and lush vegetation. Daylight was fading as the sun slowly sank in a spectacularly beautiful sky shot with shades of peach, tangerine and ochre. Beyond the extensive greenery sat a substantial building. ‘My home here at the palace is extremely private,’ Rashad remarked.

In a magnificent circular entrance hall large enough to stage a concert, Tilda came to a halt. ‘The king mentioned something about a wedding.’

Rashad waved away the eager and curious servants who had all clustered below the stairs, and whom Tilda did not notice. He pushed open a door and stepped back. Tilda preceded him into a very large reception room decorated very much in the Eastern style with sumptuous sofas and a carpet so exquisite that it seemed a sin to actually walk on it.

‘There will be a state wedding held for us at the end of the month. It cannot be avoided,’ Rashad murmured. ‘My people expect such a show and to do otherwise would be to create a great deal of comment.’

Tilda was rigid with disbelief, but she made no immediate response. She felt as though she were sinking into quicksand and only she was aware of the emergency. She could not credit that he simply expected her to go along with all such arrangements as though they were a genuine couple!

Rashad continued to pursue his deliberate policy of politely ignoring the tense signals Tilda was emanating. If he set an example, it was possible that in time she would learn to mirror his behaviour. ‘May I call for dinner to be served?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know about you, but it seems like a very long time since we last ate a proper meal and I confess that I am hungry.’

That reference to food was the proverbial last straw for Tilda. Her tension gave suddenly as she spread her hands wide in a helpless gesture of frustration. ‘I can’t do this, Rashad…I really can’t! How do you manage to act as though everything’s normal?’

‘Discipline,’ he told her quietly.

‘Well, it’s freaky and unnatural,’ Tilda told him feelingly. ‘We have to talk about this-’

‘Why? Nothing can be changed. We’re married. I am your husband. You are my wife. We must do what is expected of us.’

‘Sacrifice doesn’t come naturally to those of us who were not raised to be royal and perfect!’ Tilda declared.

His strong jaw line set. ‘I am not trying to be perfect.’

‘Your father and your sisters are lovely. What a welcome they’ve given me!’ Tilda shook her silvery fair head, struggling to find the right words with which to voice her deep unease at the role that had been forced on her. ‘Doesn’t deceiving them into believing that we’re a real couple bother you?’

‘Of course it does, but it is the lesser of two evils. I can only regret the actions that brought us to this point. But I also accept that the truth would shame and distress, not only my family, but also our people. A respectful pretence is the best option on offer to us.’

Tilda was very tempted to look for something large and heavy and throw it at him in the hope of extracting a less logical and dispassionate response. ‘But this is a total nightmare.’

Accustomed to her love of exaggeration, Rashad surveyed her with glinting golden eyes of appreciation. Even after a day that would have taxed most women to the edge of hysteria she still looked absolutely amazing: glorious hair, glorious skin, glorious eyes, glowing and full of life. Out of politeness, courtiers, government officials and staff had tried not to stare at her, but the pure impact of her beauty had proved too much for many. That she had not betrayed the smallest awareness of that attention had impressed him. He had felt proud of her.

‘Not a nightmare,’ Rashad chided gently.

‘Well, it is a nightmare for me!’ Tilda condemned, her temper finally letting rip in the face of such indifference to her feelings. ‘I don’t routinely lie to people. I can’t feel comfortable faking stuff. I don’t have the first idea about how to act like your wife-’

‘I can help you. You should have entered our apartments, met the servants and accepted their flowers and congratulations. You would then have ordered dinner.’

Her generous pink mouth fell wide. What servants? She had not seen any servants! And why was he talking about food again? After a day when she had reeled dizzily from one shock into the next, was that truly all he could think about?

‘Or, you could have gone straight upstairs with me to bed,’ Rashad framed, willing to exchange one hunger for another that became more pressing every time he looked at her. His intent gaze acquired a smouldering light as it roamed over her lovely face and slim, shapely figure. ‘I can tell you now that sex is a high priority on my list. Meet my expectations there and I will regard you as the perfect wife.’

Tilda was almost dumbfounded with rage. For once, she could see that he had had no thought of being facetious. He was set on being candid and helpful when he informed her that his priorities were as basic as Neanderthal man’s had no doubt been. Sex and food.

‘I do not aspire to be the perfect wife, and if that was the pep talk that was supposed to act as inspiration it was a killer!’ Tilda launched at him. ‘You asked for my co-operation. As I seemed to have very little choice, I went along with that, but I had no idea how big a charade you were expecting me to dish up!’

Lean, darkly handsome face taut, Rashad breathed, ‘Our marriage does not have to be a charade.’

‘And I don’t have to be a concubine within this stupid fake marriage if I don’t want to be!’ Tilda flung that declaration and folded her arms, pride and fortitude prompting her to take a stand. She was willing to co-operate when it came to the marriage ceremony, but that was enough. Anything more than co-operation would have to be earned. Rashad was at the very foot of that particular learning curve…and his hints about sex and food were unlikely to increase his chances of achievement.

‘Tilda…’

‘Just you dare say one more word about how best to meet your expectations and, I swear, I’ll scream until you gag me!’ Tilda threatened, her voice half an octave higher in tone. ‘You’re not persuading me. You are so spoilt, so used to women who fall over themselves to do whatever you want-’

‘Where am I going wrong with you? Perhaps I’m talking too much when action would be preferable.’ Strolling forward, Rashad treated her to a fierce look of masculine challenge and, without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms.

Tilda was so disconcerted by that move in the middle of their argument that she lost valuable seconds when she might have gone into retreat. In the interim, Rashad ravished her mouth with his and set off a shattering sexual chain reaction throughout her slender body. Even though she knew she should not, she kissed him back, bruising her lips with the wild hot urgency that had risen like a crazy fever inside her, her hands delving into his black hair like possessive claws. She wanted him, wanted him, wanted him…just like a concubine? A favourite concubine? Those mocking words and the memory of how he had threatened to teach her to beg for his sexual attention, returned to haunt her. In an abrupt movement she tore herself free of his lithe hard body and literally tottered away a few steps on legs that didn’t feel strong enough to keep her upright.

Rashad was trembling, his body screaming for release. You’re not persuading me, she had said. Outrage roared through him when he grasped the significance of those words. What was it that Tilda found persuasive? What did it take to make Tilda surrender? As the answer came his fists clenched and he hated her as much as he wanted her and the force of that internal turmoil threatened to rip him apart.

‘How much?’ he intoned in a wrathful undertone. ‘How much of a financial inducement do you want to share my bed?’

Shock at that question turned Tilda’s flushed face white. Did he still think so little of her? Of course he did. Had she not agreed to sleep with him in return for having a very large debt written off? Her fire of anger was doused, but she was appalled at being directly confronted with his belief that she would do anything for cash.

‘I don’t want your money,’ she whispered tightly, forcing out the denial between tremulous lips. ‘Please don’t make me an offer like that ever again.’

Rashad was eager to believe that he had misinterpreted her behaviour. ‘Then why do you deny us what we both desire?’

Sucking in a steadying breath, Tilda spun back to him, her bright eyes veiled to a wary glimmer. ‘Sex isn’t so simple for me as it is for you. I may have been willing to protect my family at the cost of my pride, but I’m not for sale any more. I’m sorry if you think that’s dishonest,’ she muttered defensively, ‘but I think that it’s a fair enough exchange if I agree to act like your wife and jump through all the right hoops to please everyone. I’ll keep up the performance for as long as you ask, as well. That will be enough of a challenge when I can’t possibly think of myself as your wife in any real way.’

Striving to control his hunger for her, Rashad regarded her with passionate force. ‘Did I misunderstand what you meant by persuasion?’

A strangulated laugh was wrenched from Tilda. ‘Oh, yes. But don’t worry about it. All I’m asking for is a separate bedroom.’

‘And that is what you want?’ Rashad was frowning. He could barely credit what she was saying. She was his wife. She already felt like his wife. Was that really how she felt?

‘All that I want from you, believe me.’ Tilda would not look at him again for she had little faith in what she was saying even though pride had demanded that she say it. She wanted him with every fibre of her being but she would not let herself sink to the level of sleeping with a man who assumed he might have to pay her for his pleasure. He was his own worst enemy, she thought painfully. A few pleasing words, even a fleeting reference to the beauty of the desert sunset, and he could have had her for nothing. But flattery and romantic allusions to sunsets had never been Rashad’s style.

‘It will be as you wish. I have work to do. Excuse me,’ Rashad responded with scrupulous politeness.

The door closed and the silence folded in. She expelled her breath in a long jagged surge. Her fingers lifted to the reddened and tingling contours of her lips and something like a sob tugged at her vocal cords, forcing her to grit her teeth and fight for self-control.

She dined solitarily later that evening in a state dining room with superb marble walls and floor. She ate everything that was put in front of her and tasted nothing. What had gone so badly wrong between herself and Rashad that he could think she was so cheap? Why was he so convinced that she had gone with other men behind his back? He was logical, intelligent. What was the proof of her infidelity that he evidently considered irrefutable? She knew that for the sake of her self-esteem she had to find out.

Sitting there alone, she remembered how madly in love with Rashad she had once been. She recalled cherished memories of fun, sweetness and passion. Once, a car had backfired in the street. Assuming that it was gunfire, Rashad had thrown her to the ground and protected her with his body. The sheepish expression on his face in the aftermath had been comic, but she had been touched to the heart to realise that, at a moment when he had honestly believed that he was in danger, he had instinctively put her safety before his own.

Nobody had ever really tried to look after Tilda before and, although she had scoffed at the idea, she had liked it because, for too long, she’d had to be the strong one in her family and look out for everyone else’s interests. She had leant on Rashad and found him wonderfully supportive, even while the power of her passion for him had terrified her as much as it excited her. Determined not to be hurt, she had believed that she was in full control of her emotions. Then, out of the blue, he had dumped her and all her proud illusions had crumbled faster than the speed of light.

One day everything had seemed fine, the next it had been over. Rashad had arranged to take out her for a meal. She had sat waiting for him to pick her up. Time had crept on and he hadn’t arrived, hadn’t phoned, either. She had tried to call him on his mobile and there had been no answer. The next day, frantic with worry that something had happened to him, she had called round at the house he had rented and his staff had refused her entry. No explanation, no apology, nothing. Believing that in some way she must have offended him, she had gotten angry then and had decided to sit him out. For several days she had lived in denial of her growing misery until, one evening, when she just hadn’t been able to bear being without him any longer, she had found out from a friend where he was and had gone in search of him.

The party had been at Leonidas Pallis’s apartment. Through the crush, she had seen Rashad on a sofa with a sinuous redhead wrapped round him. Rashad, who supposedly didn’t like such public displays of intimacy, had been kissing the girl. Something had died inside Tilda and all her proud pretences had fallen apart as she had fought her passage back to the exit. She had been convinced that he had ditched her and replaced her with a more sexually available girlfriend. There had been a desperate irony to the fact that it had been only then that she had fully appreciated how much she loved him.

As Tilda let herself recall the terrible hurt of Rashad’s betrayal five years earlier, her chin came up. No way was she going to give Rashad the chance to put her through those agonies again! She might still be drawn to him like a stupid moth to a candle flame, but that didn’t mean she had to surrender to her weakness or let him suspect that it existed. Events had made them more equal, she told herself bracingly. She was trading co-operation rather than sex in return for the debts he had written off. At least being partners in a pretend marriage left her with some dignity and he was already discovering that he could not treat a wife like a concubine.

Tilda straightened her slight shoulders, turquoise eyes luminous with purpose. She might not feel as though they were married but, goodness, she intended to be the perfect wife in public. By the time she left Bakhar, Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar and his family would feel that he was losing a woman who had been an absolute solid gold asset to him. And not if he offered her a million pounds, not even if he begged on his knees, would she stay with him!