The Sheikh's Bought Wife

SHE WAS WOKEN by a cry—a strange, guttural cry which sounded as if someone’s soul were being ripped from their body. Jane sat bolt upright in bed and stared down at the man she’d married the day before, his rigid body washed with the silver moonlight which filtered in through the unshuttered tower windows. But this time she barely noticed his unclothed state—it was the terror etched deep on his hawkish features which captured her attention. He seemed not quite awake—but not asleep either—and as he cried out again the words were so broken that she couldn’t work out their meaning. Jane swallowed, for although she’d seen Zayed Al Zawba in many different guises, she’d never imagined seeing him looking so vulnerable—or scared.

And she was scared, too. Scared of what to do. Scared to reach out to touch him when she’d never been in bed with a naked man before, let alone touched one. She recognised that he was caught up in his own private nightmare, which had contorted his face to an almost unrecognisable mask of pain, and suddenly compassion overrode all thoughts of self-preservation because she sensed he needed comfort and reassurance. He needed the warmth of human hands on his skin, helping release him from his bad dream.

Moving closer, her arms went round his tense body and she hugged him close, barely noticing the honed and silken flesh—so intent was she on helping soothe him. Gently she pulled his dark head to her shoulder, feeling the hot rush of his breath against her neck as he expelled a ragged sigh. Her fingers spread over his back, bringing him closer, willing him to relax.

‘It’s okay, Zayed,’ she murmured gently, her fingers stroking their way through the tousled silk of his hair. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

Was it her words which broke the spell? Because just as rapidly as the tension had imprisoned him in that state of terror, it left him. She could feel it leaching from his body like air escaping from a balloon and her heart began to pound with relief. She wanted to carry on holding him and stroking his hair but she didn’t dare. Because what if he woke up to find her clutching him and accused her of trying to seduce him, when they were supposed to be keeping their distance from each other?

So she rolled over and lay there in the moonlight, her heart still pounding as she waited to hear whether he’d say anything. But he didn’t. She wondered if he was aware that she was holding her breath, or whether he’d even care if he knew what she’d just witnessed. She was still wondering what had caused the nightmare when eventually sleep claimed her and next time she opened her eyes it was to see Zayed sitting on the narrow window seat, his black gaze fixed intently on her as if he’d been studying her while she’d been asleep.

Had he?

He was fully dressed—his night-time nakedness now just a rapidly fading memory. This morning only his raven head was bare, his jaw darkened with the dark flush of stubble, and he was wearing riding clothes—close-fitting jodhpurs and a billowing white shirt. That would probably explain the sweat which beaded his forehead and the two flushed lines of colour painted along his high cheekbones. It was the first time she’d ever seen him dressed in anything other than his traditional robes and it was a distracting image. Macho and modern—he looked very slightly intimidating and one hundred per cent sexy. Even she, untouched and unwanted Jane Smith, could see that.

But she wasn’t Jane Smith any more, was she? She was Jane Al Zawba, Sheikha of Kafalah and wife of its powerful ruler. And Zayed was her husband—the man who had cried out in the night and then lain briefly in her arms while she had comforted him. Would he mention what had happened? Could he even remember what had happened?

‘So, my bride. Did you sleep well?’ he questioned.

She met his gaze. They’d been honest with one another from the start and yet somehow she instinctively held back all the questions she wanted to ask. Because nobody ever liked revisiting nightmares, did they? It wasn’t really any of her business because she wasn’t a real wife. And it would hardly be the most glowing start to their already unconventional honeymoon if she started quizzing him about his night terrors. If he wanted her to know the reason behind them he would surely tell her. ‘So-so,’ she answered. ‘How about you?’

His eyes gave nothing away. ‘Fine,’ he answered tightly, before rising to his feet and moving across the tower bedroom with panther-like grace towards a silver coffee pot which stood on a tray next to a pile of pastries.

She swallowed, aware that the fine white shirt was outlining the rocky silhouette of his torso. ‘You’ve been riding,’ she observed unsteadily.

Zayed nodded, aware of the sexual tension which had filtered into the atmosphere and aware of something else, too. Something which was stubbornly staying just out of reach at the edges of his mind. His night had been disturbed and the nightmare had come again in the same dark and fitful way it always did, leaving him empty and sad the next morning. He swallowed, his mouth growing dry, amazed that he hadn’t woken Jane. Forcing his mind away from the darkness of the past, he saw that she was looking at him with widened eyes and realised she’d been asking him about horses.

‘I have indeed been riding,’ he said. ‘I thought it probably best if I absented myself, in the circumstances. So I galloped over the sands and went out to watch the sun as it rose higher over the desert and began to paint the landscape with deep and uncompromising shadows.’

‘It sounds beautiful.’ He heard the wistfulness in her voice and briefly turned to look at her before pouring them each a cup of coffee.

‘You don’t ride?’

She shook her head. ‘I grew up in a suburban house in west London. It wasn’t exactly an area known for its love of the equine world.’

‘Here,’ he said, handing her a cup.

She took it and for a moment an unaccustomed mischief danced in her eyes. ‘Do you always serve breakfast in bed?’

‘Don’t get used to it. This is a one-off. Yesterday was a lo

ng day so I arranged to have breakfast brought up here, but you slept through it. In fact, you weren’t even roused by the knock of the maidservant.’ He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘No doubt that will fuel rumours that the bride is properly sated. So why don’t you drink some coffee? It’s strong enough to wake you and afterwards, we will eat.’ He yawned. ‘Even though my appetite is not quite as keen as it should be for a man on the first day of his honeymoon.’

‘I think you’ve made your point, Zayed,’ she said, sipping cautiously at the thick, sweet brew and finding it utterly delicious. ‘There’s no need to labour it.’

He thought how clever she was and how fearless in the way she spoke to him. ‘Ah, Jane,’ he said reflectively. ‘Sometimes you have the barbed tongue of the desert serpent.’

Her voice was caustic. ‘Thanks very much for the compliment.’

‘Actually, it is a compliment. Didn’t I once say that verbal sparring could be very stimulating?’

‘Stimulation was not my intention.’

‘No,’ he said drily. ‘I can tell. Which brings me neatly to my next point. Something I think we need to establish early on, to which I have only alluded before.’

‘You can skip the build-up and just say whatever it is you want to say.’

‘Very well.’ His gaze was steady. ‘Are you a virgin?’