“You could have done more than tell him.”
“It was a duel of wills.” His mouth thinned. “He understood that if he touched you intimately, I’d have killed him.”
“All that, in one little scene?” Megan snorted with contempt. “I think you have an overblown idea of your power, Sheikh Qasim.”
“If I did,” he said coldly, “Ahmet’s men would have broken down that door twenty minutes ago. I’d be dead and what was left of you would be rotting in the desert.”
The words rang with quiet conviction. Megan shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Then—then what do we do now?”
Qasim looked at her. She was pale, so pale that a tiny line of freckles he’d never noticed stood out clearly across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was a wild mass of curls framing her face. In the awful struggle in the meeting room, someone had half-torn off one of her sleeves, exposing the delicate curve of her arm.
Something seemed to expand inside his heart.
How beautiful she was. How brave. And how good she’d been, his Megan. He could only imagine what fortitude it had taken for her to play the part of a timid woman, sitting on that silly little stool, never speaking, never lifting her head, returning to this room in isolation each night and awakening each morning, knowing she had to pretend she was of no more importance than the walls.
He’d been proud of her…but he’d known it couldn’t last.
And when she reacted to the pig who’d nudged her with his foot, he’d been torn between ordering her to behave and pulling her into his arms and kissing her.
You see? he’d longed to say, this is what a woman should be like. Beautiful, and intelligent, and not afraid to speak her mind.
He hadn’t, of course. He had his nation to think of. He needed Ahmet’s support for his plans. There was ore in these mountains and a small, painfully old-fashioned operation that mined it. He had plans already sketched out for a road, a small airport, a new smelter. None of it would destroy the vast, wild hills but would, instead, bring prosperity to a part of Suliyam that still lived with the poverty and diseases of ancient times.
And then Ahmet had touched her. Grabbed her wrist.
God, he’d wanted to kill him!
All that had stopped him was the cold realization that Ahmet’s actions were part of a plan. The man wanted Megan, yes, but he wanted a confrontation with Qasim even more.
This was a test, then. Another grinding of will against will. He could not let Ahmet win, not with such high stakes. A fight here, where Ahmet ruled, and he’d die. Qasim had always known he might have to give his life for his country; he was prepared to do it, but not if it meant letting Ahmet and his followers impose their brand of cruel leadership on the rest of the kingdom…
Not if it meant letting him take Megan as a plaything.
So Qasim had forced himself to seem unruffled, even when Ahmet slid his meaty arm around Megan’s waist.
Do not touch her, he’d said calmly. It would not be wise.
I think it would be, Ahmet had answered with a nasty smile.
It would not be, Qasim had told him. I brought my people here in the spirit of friendship. Would you repudiate that friendship, Lord Ahmet? If so, you must also be prepared for the consequences.
Check and mate, he’d thought, reading cold acquiescence in the man’s face. One last dance of those meaty fingers, meant, Qasim knew, to save face…
And then Megan had taken matters into her own hands, and almost gotten both of them killed.
And he…hell, even as he’d figured he might have to fight his way out of the room, he’d felt his heart swell with pride at her courage.
How had this contrary female become so important to him in so short a time?
He turned toward her again. Her tear, like the tails of shooting stars, had left silvery streaks on her cheeks.
“Qasim?” she said in a whisper. “What do we do now?”
Qasim closed the distance between them in a few quick steps and gathered her gently into his arms. He heard Hakim’s soft gasp, knew his men were staring, but he didn’t give a damn.
For the first time since he’d ascended the throne, he was a man and not a king.