The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

She scented danger in his battle ready stance, in his aura of barely restrained power, as if only the thinnest veneer of civilized behavior masked a ruthless warrior ready for combat. Whatever had sparked the martial glint in his eye, she wanted no part of it.

She’d wait here in secluded comfort for his return.

Then they could sort out this bizarre notion of him buying her with an ancient bridal token.

‘I’ll wait.’

`Good. Ask for anything you want. The staff will look after you.’

And with that he was gone, striding purposefully down the colonnade.

As he disappeared into the shadows Belle pressed a shaky hand to her abdomen. Her stomach muscles clenched in painful spasm. She swallowed convulsively, recognizing too well the dry, rusty taste on her tongue. Rafiq’s alert warrior stance had brought apprehension rushing back in a wave so potent she felt ill.

But this time the dread was different. She wasn’t scared for herself.

Her fear was for the enigmatic man who’d saved her life. The man who set her heart racing out of control every time she saw him.

Who’d destroyed her comfortable illusions about her self sufficiency, her needs as a woman, and her self-control. The man who, after a few short days, meant more to her than any man ever had.

By evening Belle couldn’t sit still. She’d prowled the gardens, trying to concentrate on the lush tropical blooms. But they’d reminded her of the sensuous heat in Rafiq’s eyes as he’d watched her this morning. She’d visited the royal reception rooms, been awed by a wealth so immense that the very walls of the main audience chamber were studded with jewels. But none were as dazzling as Rafiq’s smile last night when he’d coaxed her, tricked her into staying here.

She had investigated an armaments room, its walls set with a bristling display of antique scimitars, muskets and other deadly weapons. But her frisson of unease had been less to do with that evidence of Q’aroum’s violent past than with the memory of Rafiq’s story. Of how his ancestor had stormed a passing ship and boldly abducted a woman simply because she’d pleased his eye. A woman he’d kept in the harem where Belle had slept.

But in her mind it was Rafiq on the deck of that ship. Rafiq with his feet planted wide, his muscled arms bare, his eyes gleaming with purpose and promise as he spied his prize the woman he would take for his own.

And, of course, to Belle’s despair, that woman was herself.

Sternly she told herself not to worry, that her fantasy had a sort of strange logic, given his stories of pillage, her own abduction and his role as her savior. And even more so now, with his news of the royal betrothal token.

That tidbit of information had stunned her. But she was sensible enough to know that, despite tradition, a man like Rafiq couldn’t really expect or want marriage to someone like her. She was no princess but an ordinary hard working Australian. A foreigner.

Neither glamorous nor exotically beautiful. She guessed Rafiq would require both those qualities in a wife. And so, somehow, they’d find a way out of this betrothal business.

Yet put all those factors together and was it any wonder she’d spent the day picturing herself as his what? His prize? His bride? His woman.

A tremor of terrible excitement, of wanting, shivered through her.

Belle stared blindly across the lamp lit sitting room and tried to reassure herself. She was recuperating from the kidnap. She was under stress. It was all perfectly logical. Nothing to fret over.

Except there was more to this than some swashbuckling fantasy.

There was a connection between them unlike anything she’d experienced. There was need so strong it rocked her to realize how much she wanted to be near him, to be his.

Admitting that to herself took all her courage.

And there was more too. Far more than physical desire. That was why these slow-moving hours had edged her to the point of snapping.

The anxiety she’d felt for him hadn’t eased. As the sun rose high in the sky, then dipped to the horizon she told herself he was safe.

There was no danger. He was head of state, and the Q’aroumis wouldn’t take chances with the life of their beloved prince.

But she remembered how he’d deliberately endangered himself in order to save her. And the adamantine set of his shoulders, the uncompromising angle of his jaw when he’d left this morning.

Instantly the rushing swoop of fear began again, churning her stomach and drying her throat.

She had to find something to distract her from this sickening tension.

She’d already rung home. Spent an hour on the line talking to her mum, reassuring her again that there was no need for a trip to Q’