The Desert Sheikh's Captive Wife

CHAPTER ONE

‘HAVE I met anyone whom I would like to marry?’ Rashad, Crown Prince of Bakhar almost laughed out loud as he considered his father’s gently voiced question. Engrained good manners, however, restrained such a blunt response. ‘No, I fear not.’

King Hazar surveyed his son and heir with concealed disquiet. His guilty conscience was pricked by the truth that he had been blessed by Rashad’s birth, for his son was everything a future monarch should be. His sterling qualities had shone like a beacon during those dark days when Bakhar had suffered under the despotic rule of Sadiq, Hazar’s uncle. In the eyes of the people, Rashad could do no wrong; he had endured many cruelties, but had still emerged a hero from the war that had restored the legitimate line to the throne. Even the rumours that the Crown Prince was regarded as a notorious womaniser abroad barely raised a brow, since it was accepted that he had earned the right to enjoy his liberty.

‘There comes a time when a man must settle down,’ King Hazar remarked with all the awkwardness of one who had never been anything other than settled in his habits. ‘And put aside more worldly pursuits.’

His lean and darkly handsome features grim, Rashad stared stonily out at the exquisite gardens that were his father’s pride and joy. Maybe when he was older he too would get a thrill out of pruning topiary, he reflected wryly. Although he had a great affection for the older man, father and son were not close. How could they have been? Rashad had been only four years old when he’d been torn from his mother’s arms and denied all further contact with his parents. In the following two decades, he had learned to trust nobody and keep his own counsel. By the time he had been reunited with his family, he had been an adult, a survivor and a battle-hardened soldier, trained to put duty and discipline above all other virtues. But on this particular issue he was not prepared to meet his father’s expectations.

‘I don’t want to get married,’ Rashad declared levelly.

King Hazar was unprepared for that bold response, which offered neither apology nor the possibility of compromise. Assuming that he had broached the subject clumsily, he said earnestly, ‘I believe that marriage will greatly add to your happiness.’

Rashad almost winced at that simplistic assurance. He had no such expectation. Only once had a woman made Rashad happy, but almost as quickly he had discovered that he was living in a fool’s paradise. He had never forgotten the lesson. He liked his freedom and he liked sex. In short he enjoyed women, but there was only one space for a woman to fill in his private life and that was in his bed. And just as, when it came to food, he preferred a varied diet, he had no desire to have any woman foisted on him on a permanent basis. ‘I’m afraid I cannot agree with you on that issue.’

The older man ignored the decided chill that laced the atmosphere and suppressed a sigh. He wished that he’d had the opportunity to acquire just a smidgeon of his son’s superior education and sophistication so that they might talk on more equal terms. Most of all he longed for the ability to deal with the son he loved with a wholly clear conscience, but unhappily that was not possible. ‘I have never known us to be at odds. I must have expressed my hopes badly. Or perhaps I took you too much by surprise.’

Rashad folded his wide sensual mouth. ‘Nothing you could say will change my mind. I have no desire for a wife.’

‘Rashad…’ His royal father was aghast at the stubborn inflexibility of that refusal, for his son was not known for his changeability. ‘You are so popular with our people that I believe you could marry any woman you chose. Perhaps you are concerned about the type of woman you might be expected to marry. It is my belief that even a foreigner would be acceptable.’

Brilliant dark eyes veiled and grim, Rashad had fallen very still at that reference to the possibility of a foreign bride. He wondered if the older man was recalling his son’s disastrous infatuation with an Englishwoman five years ago. The very suspicion of that stung Rashad’s ferocious pride. He and his father had buried the ill-fated episode without ever discussing it.

‘We live in a modern world. Yet you believe that I must behave exactly as you and my forefathers behaved and marry young to produce a son and heir,’ Rashad delivered with cool, crisp diction. ‘I do not believe that such sacrifice is necessary. I have three older sisters with a string of healthy sons between them. In the future, one of those boys might stand as my heir.’

‘But none of them have a royal father. One day, you will be king. Will you disappoint our people? What have you got against marriage?’ the older man demanded in bewilderment. ‘You have so much to offer.’

Everything but a heart and faith in womankind, Rashad affixed with inward impatience. ‘I have nothing against the institution of marriage. It was right for you but it would not be right for me.’

‘At least reflect on what I have said,’ King Hazar urged. ‘We will talk about this again.’

Having defended his right to freedom as resolutely as he had once fought for the freedom of the Bakhari people from a repressive regime, Rashad strode out through the vast ante-room beyond his father’s private quarters. It was thronged with senior ministers and courtiers, who bowed very low as he passed. One after another, guards presented arms and saluted as Rashad progressed through the ancient courtyards and corridors to his suite of offices.

‘Oh…I meant to surprise you, Your Royal Highness.’ A very attractive brunette with almond-shaped brown eyes and creamy skin, set off by a sleek coil of dark brown hair, straightened from the refreshments she had been setting out in the spacious outer office. In acknowledgement of his arrival, she bent low as did the staff, who had been engaged in answering the phones. ‘We all know that you often work so hard that you forget to eat.’

Although Rashad would have preferred privacy at that moment, the courteous formalities expected of a prince were second nature to him. Farah was a distant relation. With modest smiles and light conversation, Rashad was served with mint tea and tiny cakes. Evidently word of his father’s hope of marrying him off was out in the élite court circle of Bakhar, so Rashad did not make the mistake of sitting down and prolonging the exchange of pleasantries. He knew that the whole exercise was designed to impress him as to Farah’s suitability as a royal bride and hostess.

‘I couldn’t help noticing your alumni magazine, Your Royal Highness,’ Farah remarked. ‘You must be proud of having attained a first from Oxford University.’

His level dark deep set eyes shadowed. ‘Indeed,’ he said flatly, and dismissed her with a polite nod. ‘You must excuse me. I have an appointment.’

Having swept up the magazine she had drawn to his attention, Rashad entered his palatial office. He wondered how many previous issues he had ignored and left unread over the years. He had few fond memories of his time as a student in England. In defiance of that thought he leafed through the publication, only to fall still when the fleeting glimpse of a woman’s face suddenly focused his attention on one page and a photograph in particular. It was Matilda Crawford arriving at an academic function, her hand resting on the arm of a distinguished older man in a dinner jacket.

Rashad spread the magazine open on his desk with lean brown hands that were not quite steady. It was pure primitive rage, not nerves, that powered him. Matilda’s pale blond hair was pulled back from her face, and she was wearing a rather prim high-necked brown dress. But then, her natural beauty required no adornment: she had the fair hair, ivory skin and turquoise-blue eyes of a true English rose. His perfect white teeth gritted as he studied the caption below the photo. She was not named but her partner was: Professor Evan Jerrold, the philanthropist. A rich man-of course a rich man! No doubt another gullible sucker ripe for the plucking, Rashad thought with fierce bitterness and distaste.