The Sheikh's Convenient Bride

She couldn’t concentrate. She was nervous, though she’d sooner have died than admit it.

What would it be like, this place where the customs of an earlier time prevailed? Where she’d have to pretend to be a docile creature with no opinions or thoughts of her own?

She’d been assigned a role. Like it or not she was already playing it. She looked down at the dress she now wore. Qasim hadn’t mentioned it would be spun of cotton so fine it felt like silk or that it would have tiny pale blue flowers embroidered along the cuffs and hem. The skirt was slit to the knee on each side; the neckline was a sort of modified cowl, so that it could be drawn up as a hood against the chill that settled in the mountains at night.

Megan wiggled her feet, bare in the soft-as-butter thong sandals. You couldn’t very well wear stockings with a strip of leather between your toes.

Standing in the little tent Qasim’s driver had erected, wearing these new things, she’d felt a funny hollowness in the pit of her stomach. She’d looked back at the little pile of clothing she’d discarded, her suit and blouse, her panty hose and shoes.

Was this how a wild creature felt when it left the safety of its old skin behind?

What would Qasim think, when he saw her?

That she looked like an obedient female, she’d thought, and that had been enough to make her stop thinking like a silly girl and think like the woman she was.

“Am I suitably dressed, oh Lord of the World?” she’d said coolly, stepping out of the tent.

Qasim’s gaze had darkened and moved slowly over her.

“You’ll do,” he’d finally replied, and there’d been a huskiness in his voice that had made her want to go to him, frame his face with her hands, bring his mouth to hers and ask him what he really thought, if he liked the way the thin cotton clung to her breasts, to her hips…

Megan picked up her notes and went back to work.

Ahmet’s mountain village wasn’t a village at all.

It was a medieval fortress.

Stepping out of the helicopter, staring at the horsemen who’d come racing out the gates brandishing steel-tipped lances, Megan shivered as the men let out a bloodcurdling roar.

Qasim caught hold of her hand. She didn’t even think of trying to pull away. Instead, she laced her fingers through his and moved closer, until she was almost leaning against him.

“They’re honoring me,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

The horsemen stopped a hundred yards away. Silver bells adorned their horses’ bridles and played softly as the animals tossed their heads. The riders gave an eerie, ululating cry and spurred their mounts into a gallop. Qasim gave her hand one last squeeze. Then he stepped away from her, laughing as the riders surrounded him in a river of horses and spears. A man rode forward, leading a stallion with a coat like black silk. Qasim grabbed the horse’s flowing mane and leaped into the saddle.

Another wild cry, and the horsemen galloped toward the gates of the city.

The wind tossed Megan’s hair over her eyes. Her hand shook as she brushed it back; she could feel her heart racing. She felt as if she’d been sucked up by a tornado and tossed back through time. She wanted to turn and run, but where would she go without Qasim?

She saw a small group of women coming toward her, materializing like ghosts from the blowing dust left by the horses. Their faces were stern and set in lines of distrust as they gathered around her. One, perhaps the eldest, reached out, fingered Megan’s auburn hair and said something that made the rest laugh.

It was the kind of laugh that sent a chill down Megan’s spine. She jerked her head away, took a deep breath and fixed the woman with a steady look.

“My name is Megan,” she said, “and I am with Sheikh Qasim.”

Those words, she sensed, would be her only protection.

Two days later, Megan felt as if she were going crazy.

She hated this place, hated everyone who lived in it, hated Qasim for bringing her to it…

Hated herself, for having let him lead her into a nightmare.

She spent her days at meetings, playing the part of an obedient slave, and spent her nights in this room, pacing like a caged animal. The ro

om was enormous, easily the size of her entire apartment back home. The walls were tiled, the floors carpeted. She supposed you could describe her surroundings as beautiful.

But it was still a cage.