The Sheikh's Ransomed Bride

She opened her mouth to say the palace wasn’t home. Not to her at least. Then closed her mouth. There was no point in being childish about it.

Àre you ready to leave?’ he asked, as he walked around to the back of her wheelchair.

Automatically her gaze strayed to the window shelf. `The flowers…’ Silly how it was his orchids she focused on, not the bright lilies sent by her mum and Rosalie, nor the massed bouquets from other well-wishers.

‘They’ll be sent on,’ he said from behind her. And then he pushed the chair towards the door.

A sudden, urgent pang of something like fear slashed through her at the thought of leaving this sanctuary to be alone with Rafiq. But that was stupid. She lifted her chin and managed a smile for the nurse who held open the door for them. And more smiles and thanks for the other staff who waited in the foyer to see them off.

Above her, Rafiq’s deep voice thanked them all for their care. And then they were heading out, under the port cochère, to the waiting limousine.

Belle had her feet on the ground, ready to stand, when Rafiq bent low and lifted her into his arms.

`Rafiq! You shouldn’t your injury.’

She caught the flare of something bright and compelling in his eyes as he looked down at her. The heat of his body penetrated the chill that encompassed her, and surreptitiously she inhaled his evocative scent. A nervous tremor raced through her.

Ì‘m fine, Belle. Well enough to carry my wife.’

His wife. It was as if he had to keep reminding himself of his duty.

She tightened her jaw and looked away, to the open car door and the chauffeur standing to attention there.

She felt the deep breath Rafiq drew, his chest expanding against her, his fingers curling tighter. Then he strode to the car and deposited her on the back seat. She shifted into the corner, hunching away from him as he joined her. Amazingly, she’d forgotten how vibrant his presence was, how it invaded her space.

The trip to the palace should only have taken fifteen minutes, but the roads were lined with people and the driver kept their speed to a crawl.

`Do you think you can manage a smile?’ Rafiq murmured as he lifted his hand in greeting, responding to the cheers and waves of the crowd. `Some of these people have been here for hours, waiting to catch a glimpse of you.’

Òf me?’ She swung round to stare at him.

Òf course.’ He turned from his open window, and the intensity of his expression seared into her very being. `You are a national heroine, Belle. Savior of the Royal Prince. Every his brain in every unguarded moment. Of Belle, unconscious in his arms, the lifeblood pumping out of her. Of him, utterly helpless, as he alternately cajoled and threatened her insensate form into staying alive.

He felt the coldness clamp round his heart again, knowing how close he’d come to losing her. And all because of his selfish plan to win her, coax her into trusting him enough to become his wife in reality as well as name. How could he have been so stupid as to take such a chance with her when Selim was still at large?

No matter that his security advisors had assured him the oasis trip would be safe. He should have known. He should have kept her securely at the hunting lodge till it was all over. He should have kept her under armed guard at all times. He’d failed her when she’d needed him most.

He’d never felt as useless, as worthless, as when he’d thought he’d lost her. That she’d done something as unforgivably ridiculous as offer her life for his overwhelmed him with guilt.

He wasn’t worthy of her.

It was his fault she’d been hurt. His fault that now she held herself with the wary distance of the shell shocked. It had been one trauma for her after another. And it was all down to him.

Bleakly he wondered if he’d have the strength to grant her the freedom she so obviously desired. By anyone’s reckoning she deserved it.

When the car pulled up at the palace entrance a crowd of servants spilled out, one of them pushing a wheelchair for her. But Rafiq moved first, alighting from the car and scooping her up into his arms, where she belonged. She was warm, and frighteningly fragile. Careful of her sling, he held her close and breathed deeply, absorbing the fresh, unique scent of her skin. man, woman and child in Q’ aroum has heard the story of how the beautiful young bride of the Sheikh threw herself in front of an armed assassin to save the life of her husband.’

There was a harsh note in his voice that she couldn’t identify. A starkly repressed emotion that nagged, just below the surface of his carefully composed features. It made her shiver.