‘I am neither a terrorist nor a thug.’
‘Yet you kidnap a queen.’
He inclined his head. ‘A necessary evil, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t believe any evil is necessary,’ Elena shot back. She took another steadying breath. ‘So what are you going to do with me?’
It was a question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered, yet she knew ignorance was dangerous. Better to know the danger, the enemy. Know your enemies and know yourself, and you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles.
‘I’m not going to do anything with you,’ Khalil answered calmly. ‘Except keep you here in, I hope, moderate comfort.’
One of the guards came with a tray of food. Elena glanced at the platter of dates and figs, the flat bread and the bowls of creamy dips, and then looked away again. She had no appetite, and in any case she would not eat with her enemy.
‘Thank you, Assad,’ Khalil said, and the man bowed and left.
Khalil crouched on his haunches in front of the low table where Assad had set the tray. He glanced up at Elena, those amber eyes seeming almost to glow. They really were the most extraordinary colour. With his dark hair and tawny eyes, that lean, predatory elegance, he was like a leopard, or perhaps a panther—something beautiful and terrifying. ‘You must be hungry, Queen Elena.’
‘I am not.’
‘Then thirsty, at least. It is dangerous not to drink in the desert.’
‘It is dangerous,’ Elena countered, ‘to drink in the presence of your enemies.’
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Very well, then. I shall drink first.’
She watched as he poured what looked like some kind of fruit juice from an earthen pitcher into two tall tumblers. He picked up the first and drank deeply from it, the sinuous muscles of his throat working as he swallowed. He met her gaze over the rim of his glass, his eyes glinting in challenge.
‘Satisfied?’ he murmured as he lowered his glass.
Elena’s throat ached with thirst and was scratchy from the sand. She needed to stay hydrated if she was going to plan an escape, so she nodded and held out her hand.
Khalil handed her the glass and she sipped the juice; it was both tart and sweet, and deliciously cool.
‘Guava,’ he told her. ‘Have you had it before?’
‘No.’ Elena put the glass back down on the table. ‘Now I am refreshed.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So you intend to keep me here in the desert—for how long?’
‘A little less than a week. Four days, to be precise.’
Four days. Elena’s stomach knotted. In four days the six weeks Aziz had been given to marry would be up. He would lose his right to his title, and Khalil must know that. He must be waiting for a chance to seize power.
‘And then?’ she asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘That is not your concern.’
‘What will you do with me?’ Elena rephrased, and Khalil sat down in a low-slung chair richly patterned with wool, regarding her with a rather sleepy consideration over the tips of his steepled fingers. Elena felt her frayed nerves start to snap.
‘Let you go, of course.’
‘Just like that?’ She shook her head, too suspicious to feel remotely relieved. ‘You’ll be prosecuted.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You can’t just kidnap a head of state.’
‘And yet I have.’ He took a sip of juice, his gaze resting thoughtfully on her. ‘You intrigue me, Queen Elena. I must confess, I’ve wondered what kind of woman Aziz would choose as his bride.’
‘And are you satisfied?’ she snapped. Stupid. Where was her calm, her control? She’d been teetering on a tightrope for her entire reign; was she really going to fall off now?
But maybe she already had.
Khalil smiled faintly. ‘I am not remotely satisfied.’
His gaze held her and she saw a sudden gleam of masculine intent and awareness flicker in his eyes. To her surprise and shame, she felt an answering thrill of terror—and something else. Something that wasn’t fear, but rather...anticipation. Yet, of what? She wanted nothing from this man but her freedom.
‘And I won’t be satisfied,’ Khalil continued, ‘until Aziz is no longer on the throne of Kadar and I am.’
‘So you are one of the rebel insurgents Aziz mentioned.’
For a second Khalil’s gaze blazed fury but then he merely inclined his head. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Why should you be on the throne?’
‘Why should Aziz?’
‘Because he is the heir.’
Khalil glanced away, his expression veiled once more. ‘Do you know the history of Kadar, Your Highness?’
‘I’ve read something of it,’ she answered, although the truth was her knowledge of Kadaran history was sketchy at best. There hadn’t been time for more than a crash course in the heritage of the country of her future husband.
‘Did you know it was a peaceful, prosperous nation for many years—independent, even, when other countries buckled under a wider regime?’
‘Yes, I did know that.’ Aziz had mentioned it, because her own country was the same; a small island in the Aegean Sea between Turkey and Greece, Thallia had enjoyed nearly a thousand years of peaceful, independent rule.
And she would not be the one to end it.
‘Perhaps you also know, then, that Sheikh Hashem threatened the stability of Kadar with the rather unusual terms of his will?’ He turned back to her, raising his eyebrows, a little smile playing about his mouth.
Elena found her gaze quite unreasonably drawn to that mouth, to those surprisingly lush and sculpted lips. She forced herself to look upwards and met Khalil’s enquiring gaze. There was no point, she decided, in feigning ignorance. ‘Yes, I am well aware of the old Sheikh’s stipulation. It’s why I am here to marry Sheikh Aziz.’
‘Not a love match, then?’ Khalil queried sardonically and Elena stiffened.
‘I don’t believe that is any of your business.’
‘Considering you are here at my behest, I believe it is.’
She pursed her lips and said nothing. The Kadaran people believed it was a love match, although neither she nor Aziz had said as much. People believed what they wanted to believe, Elena knew, and the public liked the idea of a royal fairy-tale. If it helped to stabilise their countries, then so be it. She could go along with a little play-acting. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Khalil.
‘Pleading the fifth, I see,’ Khalil said softly. ‘I grew up in America, you know. I am not the barbarian you seem to think I am.’
She folded her arms. ‘You have yet to show me otherwise.’
‘Have I not? Yet here you are, in a comfortable chair, offered refreshment. Though I am sorry you hurt yourself.’ He gestured to her scraped knee, all solicitude. ‘Let me get you a plaster.’
‘I don’t need one.’
‘Such abrasions can easily become infected in the desert. A grain of sand lodges in the cut and, the next thing you know, it’s gone septic.’ He leaned forward, and for a moment the harshness of his face, the coldness in his eyes, was replaced by something that almost looked like gentleness. ‘Don’t be stupid, Your Highness. God knows I understand the need to fight, but you are wasting your energy arguing with me over such small matters.’
She swallowed, knowing he was right, and hating it. It was petty and childish to refuse medical care, not to mention stupid as he’d said. She nodded and Khalil rose from his chair. She watched as he strode to the entrance of the tent and spoke to one of the guards waiting outside.
Elena remained seated, her fists clenched in her lap, her heart beating hard. A few minutes later Khalil returned to the table with a cloth folded over his arm, a basin of water in one hand and a tube of ointment in the other.
‘Here we are.’
To her shock he knelt in front of her and Elena pressed back in her chair. ‘I can do it myself.’
He glanced up at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘But then you would deny me the pleasure.’
Her breath came out in a rush and she remained rigid as he gently lifted the hem of her skirt over her knee. His fingers barely brushed her leg and yet she felt as if she’d been electrocuted, her whole body jolting with sensation. Carefully Khalil dampened the cloth and then dabbed the scrape on her knee.
‘Besides,’ he murmured, ‘you might miss some sand, and I would hate to be accused of mistreating you.’
Elena didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. Every atom of her being was focused on the gentle touch of this man, his fingers sliding over her knee with a precision that wasn’t sensual, not remotely, yet...
She took a careful breath and stared at the top of his head, his hair ink-black and cut very short. She wondered if it would feel soft or bristly, and then jerked her mind back to her predicament. What on earth was she doing, thinking about his hair, reacting to his hands on her skin? This man was her enemy. The last thing, the very last thing, she should do was feel anything for him, even something as basic as physical desire.
His hand tightened on her knee and everything inside Elena flared to life.
‘I think that’s fine,’ she said stiffly, and tried to draw her leg away from Khalil’s hand.