The Desert King’s Housekeeper Bride

‘Can I ask why?’ Her question confused him; he was completely unable to recall what they had been discussing. ‘You said your day had been less than productive.’

‘Oh, that!’ Zakari gave a quick nod, relieved she had not sensed his distraction, embarrassed, had he but known it, at almost being caught staring. ‘I seem to be spending a lot of time thinking about my brother.’ He watched her pause, her kind, worried face turning around. Her hair was tumbling out of its tie and long snaky curls danced around her slender neck. ‘Thinking of the man he would be, had he lived.’

‘That’s because you spoke of him.’

‘It is nice to remember.’ Zakari gave a pale smile. ‘It hurts, but it is good.’

‘I’m so sorry for your pain,’ Effie said, and Zakari knew that she meant it, knew that she offered so much more than a platitude. ‘Does it ever lessen?’

He knew then she was asking for herself, about her own private pain, that she was so much newer on the path of grief than him.

‘You learn to live with it. It does not diminish, but you learn to carry the load. And you will too,’ he added.

‘Thank you.’ The small grateful smile she gave at his insight warmed him somewhere deep inside. Only Zakari didn’t smile back, just held her gaze for a moment, waiting for her blush to deepen, for her to lower her eyes, for that moment of connection that always came so easily with women—that awareness that told him he was wanted.

Except it didn’t happen. Instead she gave a wider smile and changed the subject. ‘I will just finish off these, then I’ll draw you a bath, but first I will get some refreshments…’

He gave a brief nod.

Lying back on the cushions, his tongue on the roof of his mouth as she worked just inches away from him, for the first time Zakari wondered about a woman.

Because till now he had always known the answer.

Always.

Always a woman wanted him, always there were signs; signs Zakari easily followed. He read women well—calm, neurotic, needy, wanton, he took pleasure in taming them all, interpreting involuntary signals, then homing in and claiming his triumphant prize. Rare was the woman who would refuse a king, yet they were the challenge Zakari relished the most. He loved the dance between a man and a woman, especially if she was unattainable, when he could use his sensuality, his prowess to reduce the most difficult woman to quivering jelly.

Only Effie was unreadable.

Was it curiosity that had had her toying with Christobel’s things, or had it been for him?

‘Done!’

As she came down the ladder for a second she was unsteady—well, not really, but it was excuse enough for Zakari to reach out his hand and steady her, to hold her as she took the last two steps.

‘Thank you.’

His hand was on her wrist, her skin soft beneath his fingers, this smell catching him—not a hint of fragrance, just the scent of her alone, combined with the feel of her skin beneath his fingers, and there was his answer.

Though she seemed outwardly unperturbed he could feel her pulse flickering rapidly beneath his fingers, knew the contact had unsettled her, troubled her, but in the most primal of ways.

A bird had flown into the palace.

An ugly, small grey bird that caused momentary chaos.

Little Zafir was whooping with delight as he chased it, the maids running with brooms as the tiny bird fluttered and panicked, its terrified flapping leading it to the study, where it banged hopelessly against the glass doors.

Anya shooed the staff away, and told Zafir to quietly sit and observe while she addressed her eldest son.

‘When trouble flies in, when people are running and shouting, you, Zakari, must stop the chaos with calm. Do not give in to the first response that comes to mind—do not run and chase along with the crowd. As a king, you must sit a while and observe. See how the palace that is so big to us is tiny and confining to him—see how he struggles to be free, but soon he will give in.’ So they sat and waited till the tiny bird had found its resting place behind some books and slowly Anya parted them.

‘He is there, Zakari. He is scared and petrified of you, yet he is still, so now you can help him.’

The bird was weightless in his thirteen-year-old palm. The ugly grey bird, when he looked closer, was actually many shades of silver, and as he held its terrified body he could feel its helpless fear, the flutter of its tiny heart in his hand.

He took it to the garden, placed it beneath a tree and watched for twenty minutes as it sat stunned, and then it flew.

Zakari could feel her pulse beneath his fingers, fluttering just as the bird had, and though she was still, though Effie was outwardly unruffled, he knew she was terrified, could feel now the beats of her excitement—and suddenly Zakari wanted her to soar.

He felt the cool space as she reclaimed her hand and turned and smiled, her voice friendly and even, as with calm demeanour she denied what they both knew.

‘I will prepare some refreshments.’

Her face was on fire as she fled into the kitchen area. Her wrist felt as if it had been scalded where Zakari had touched her and she was tempted to run it under cool water, only that wouldn’t soothe the dangerous heat elsewhere…

The vast tent seemed tiny now, as if it were under a magnifying glass, as if the heat of the sun were concentrated on this one minute scrap of the desert.

Effie wanted her old job back. Wanted the familiar palace walls, her usual routines and the anonymity they brought. Wanted to be back where a maid wouldn’t hold the spotlight of the king’s gaze.

The desert played tricks on one’s mind, Effie told herself, loading the tray as she willed herself calm—made you see things that weren’t there…caused mirages to appear. That was what had just occurred, she insisted to herself as she carried the heavy tray through. Zakari hadn’t been looking at her in that way.

Sheikh King Zakari Al’Farisi would never look at her with want in his eyes.

It was entirely irrelevant that she wanted him.

Kneeling down, she poured iced mint tea. Christobel’s uniform on her was clearly way too small, the fabric straining over her curves, the top button impossible to do up, and as she bent forward she gave him a brief glimpse of her cleavage. Zakari’s jaw tightened as he saw a flash of a chain around her neck, the weight of its pendant dragging it down, clasping it between her creamy breasts, and he wished his finger were that lucky stone, nestled in that sweet warmth, or his tongue, Zakari thought, flaring with lust. He was tempted to put his hand out, to stroke the back of her neck, to capture her cheek in his palm, only he knew then what her reaction would be…

It would terrify her.

‘Join me,’ Zakari instructed, despite the fact it was the afternoon and she would still have many duties to perform. ‘Have some tea.’

She was trembling with nerves this time when she sat beside him, those blue eyes struggling to meet his as he attempted to put her at ease.

‘Would it be decadent to build a pool in the middle of the desert?’

‘Sinfully!’ Effie smiled, as Zakari did the same.

‘Shame!’ Zakari shrugged. ‘It is the only thing I sometimes miss when I am out here.’

As both their eyes simultaneously flicked away both knew he’d lied by omission.

‘I love pools too!’ Effie spoke too quickly, trying to fill in the suddenly awkward gap. ‘Well, I love looking at them—the Calistan palace pool is just stunning, I remember my mother telling me about the pool at the Aristan royal lodge at Kionia.’

‘I thought your mother worked at the palace?’

‘She did.’ Effie shrugged. ‘Maybe she was sent there to clean one day. There is an infinity pool that looks out to the rough sea. My mother said it was the most amazing sight…’

Zakari just smiled at yet another extravagant tale. He knew she was talking rubbish—the pool had been commissioned by Queen Tia, when Princess Elissa, their youngest child, had been born and that would have been long after her mother had stopped working at the palace. It was just Effie’s glorious imagination at work again. She must have heard about the pool and weaved it into her fanciful stories about her mother, and Zakari didn’t mind a bit—still she made him smile and he liked hearing her talk.

At first it had annoyed him, now it soothed him and now he wanted to know everything about her.

‘You are betrothed?’

‘No…’ She let out a shy giggle.

‘You are twenty-five, though.’ He watched her cheeks flush at his comment. Most poor women of Effie’s age were already married and had children.

‘I do not have family to arrange such things,’ Effie answered, more than a touch embarrassed. ‘I’ve been busy looking after my mother over the years, and, anyway, I don’t have time for such things. It’s hard enough working at the palace all day without having to come home and start over again.’

‘That to you is marriage—being a servant?’

‘I haven’t much else to offer…’ Effie shrugged.

‘I disagree.’ It angered him to hear her talk this way, this low rumble of anger that slowly built inside him. Angry with himself too for the first impression he had had—she wasn’t the dumpy, plain woman he had thought he had seen—with confidence, with guidance, she really could be very beautiful.