The Sheikh's Disobedient Bride

She didn’t know. Tally bit the inside of her lip, fought the wave of confusion, realizing the only thing she was sure of was that these ladies deserved some place nicer than a rooftop and cemetery for socializing.

She kept coming back to anger. She couldn’t get away from it. No matter what she did, no matter how she tried to occupy herself, the anger snuck in and colored everything.

Maybe Tair could be good company. Maybe they even had moments that were surreal—gorgeous, sensual, seductive—but in the end, they were just moments and reality barged in, reminding Tally about truth. Honor. Justice. Never mind respect.

The truth was men couldn’t kidnap women. The truth was a man couldn’t hold another human being hostage. The truth was she couldn’t respect a man who refused to let her make decisions for herself…indeed, who forced his decisions on her.

This is why she couldn’t like Tair, and wouldn’t like Tair, and wouldn’t calm down and wouldn’t play nice, and wouldn’t be the good girl and do as she was told.

She couldn’t.

There had to be a line that one didn’t cross. There had to be morals. Principles. Values. Tair was about neither.

Tair was about Tair.

She harrumphed beneath her breath, temper hot, spiking. It seemed to always be up lately, always heated about something.

Tair’s effect on her world.

Tair should be kidnapped, she silently groused, scooting lower in bed, tipping her head back against the bright silk cushions, staring up at the dark carved bed canopy that had been lined with silk the color of orange marmalade.

The orange silk made her hungry and marmalade made her think of toast and toast made her think of tea and toast and tea made her wish she were back in her own apartment in Pioneer Square with her own kitchen and her own groceries. She hated relying on others, depending on others, hated not being able to do what she wanted when she wanted it.

Like now. She wanted food, a snack, wanted to wander out and about and not be sent to her room simply because it was late, and dark, and all good women went to their rooms now.

Tally reached for a crimson cushion, the corners heavily embroidered with gold and crimson beads and nearly tossed it across the room, but at the last second, didn’t throw it. Clung to it.

Why couldn’t she go get a snack? She knew the general vicinity of the kitchen. Why couldn’t she get something because she was hungry?

Pushing the pillow aside, she slid off the bed, dragged a dark outer robe over her delicate teal gown and left her room in search of food and drink.

She didn’t get far before a robed man noticed her. He didn’t stop her though. Nor speak to her. He watched her, then stepped back and she continued on, walking down one hall and stairs to another floor where she encountered another man—Tair’s guards?—and then another. Each time the men let her continue, none of them disturbing her, none of them saying a word, or giving her a look of reproof. Tally soon found out why.

Tair had been alerted—probably by the very first man she’d passed in the upper hallway—and was waiting for her downstairs.

“Running away?” he asked mildly.

“Hungry.” She shot him a swift glance. “Is that allowed, my lord?”

“Oh, if only that were the case.” He held out a hand, gestured for her to follow him. “But let me see if we can get someone to prepare something for you. Should only take a moment to wake one of the cooks.”

“I don’t want to wake the cooks—”

“Yet you’re hungry.”

“I know, but I can help myself. I like doing things myself.”

“I’m afraid our kitchens aren’t like yours in America. You’d find it difficult to get anything prepared.”

“How about simple tea and toast?”

“I’ll have the cook—”

“Forget it,” Tally sighed, turning away and pushing a hand through her hair, lifting it off the back of her neck. She was hot. Hungry. Grouchy. Tonight the heat hadn’t abated and she didn’t want Tair’s company and what she really wanted—was something comforting. Something that would calm her, relax her, make her feel like herself again.

“I’ll just go back to my room,” she said unenthusiastically, turning to retrace her steps and head back to her room on the third floor of the tower that wrapped around the mountain and gave expansive views of the desert valley beyond.

Tair fell into step beside her. “What’s wrong?”

She grimaced. “What do you think is wrong? I’m hot, and hungry—I’m not used to eating goat and goat and goat—and I’ve no books, and nothing to write with, and no camera to play with.” They were climbing the first staircase, their slippered feet silent on the worn stone steps. She lifted her hair off her neck again, exhaled a little, blowing the wisp of hair off her brow. “I’m bored. And trapped. And really really hot.”