Claiming His Replacement Queen (Monteverre Marriages 2)

She straightened her shoulders, meeting her own gaze in the mirror once more. This was a job, she reminded herself. This was her duty. She would prove her loyalty to her family once and for all and make up for the mistakes she had made in her youth. Then she would be free to live her own life without guilt. She would be free of constantly feeling like a failure.

She moved to her bed, burying herself under the silk coverlet and closing her eyes tight. He had been her first kiss—it was only natural that she would be slightly affected by that milestone. She was not made of stone, much as she had tried to pretend she was. But she would not fail at this. If a cold, distant marriage of convenience was what the Sheikh of Zayyar wanted, then that was exactly what he would have.

* * *

The royal events team had worked quickly under pressure, creating a simple space that mixed elements of Western and Zayyari wedding cultures. Already the PR officials were drafting articles for the handful of magazines and newspapers who would be ‘leaked’ the news of the secret nuptials. The Princess had been right. A large wedding would not have had half as much impact as this would.

Their marriage was to be a seamless union of east and west, a romantic desert fairy tale...or something like that. He had stopped listening to the event planner after she had begun talking about using sand as symbolism for their everlasting love. Little did they know how very far from the truth that was.

Khal stood in the heavy stillness of the desert air, watching as the sun began to dip low in the sky as evening fell upon them. The sand burned orange outside the intimate wedding tent and on the light breeze he could smell the fragrant pink flowers that had been arranged in vases and overflowing baskets all around the encampment in celebration. He picked one from a basket, simply to have something to do with his hands while he waited.

Priya had ordered similar flowers for their wedding day, he mused, the thought catching him off guard. He had ordered thousands of the blooms to celebrate their first anniversary. He crushed the delicate blossom in his hand, letting it fall to the ground as though it burned him. Of all the places for this farcical ceremony to take place, of course it would be here—they were in the very spot his parents had married. The sacred heart of his tribe and all the beliefs they held dear. A grand statement to the people of Zayyar, according to the team of advisors who had planned everything.

Priya had wanted a grand event, opting for a lavish three-day celebration in the Grand Palace. He steeled himself, willing his mind to change course. He could not think of his first wife, not when he was set to marry another at any moment.

Once they had arrived in the camp the day before, he had not wasted time in dispatching his fiancée to the women of the tribe, simply to put distance between them after the torture of the journey from the jet. In hindsight, opting to have her soft warm curves cradled between his thighs on horseback for an hour had not been his cleverest idea. He’d spent the afternoon riding across the desert to clear his head, cursing the lack of freezing cold lakes in their vicinity. He was not a teenager. He would not have his position made weak by his physical desire for the woman set to become his wife.

It was his own fault, for not taking a mistress in the years since Priya’s death. He had always found an excuse not to move on—there had always been some battle to fight. Whether it was trying to find out the truth behind his wife’s death or working against the economic repercussions of the rumours that had plagued him in the aftermath—that he had somehow been responsible for his wife’s sudden demise.

He exhaled hard. He was a man. He had needs. And this was clearly the result when one suppressed those needs for too long. His fiancée was the very last person he could afford to desire right now. And the duty their marriage was based on made his situation even more difficult. He had demanded fidelity of her for the duration of their marriage; it was only fair that he offer the same loyalty himself. He would not risk the credibility of their union simply to slake his lust elsewhere.

His jaw felt as if it was made of stone as he heard a hush fall around the small gathering inside the tent. The event planners signalled that the bride was about to arrive. Khal stepped directly underneath two pillars swathed in snow-white gossamer fabric and watched as the small congregation of people appeared over the dunes. The single photographer who had been granted press access to the camp stepped forward, lens primed to catch the story of the year.

Khal kept his breathing steady, determined to play the part of calm groom. The people believed this to be a true marriage, after all. A romantic elopement between their King and his beautiful Western Princess. She was somewhere in the middle of the women, walking the same path that this tribe had walked for centuries. His jaw tightening painfully, he turned away and waited.

She reached his side with a whisper of silk flowing in the breeze, bringing the scent of jasmine and vanilla to his nostrils. Khal looked down and felt his breath catch for a moment. She was beautiful; there was no doubt. Pale porcelain skin offset by a shimmering golden wedding robe and heavy bejewelled veil. Was it a trick of the light or did her blue eyes seem to glow as she met his gaze?

Inhaling past the sudden tightness in his chest, he took his bride by the hand and began repeating his vows, his eyes never leaving hers. Part of the vows included a short sentence in Zayyari; he watched the conce

ntration on her face as she vowed to be his for the remainder of their lives, a strange feeling within his chest as she did not stumble over the thick syllables of his native language. Their eyes met as the celebrant spoke of loyalty and devotion, of sharing a lifetime with one another. He looked in her eyes as the weight of their vows hung heavy in the air. And yet, as she promised to be true, he knew she spoke the truth. A strange feeling of calm came over him as he slid a wedding band onto her slim finger. A sense of complete victory.

Kisses not being customary at Zayyari weddings, they sealed their vows with a symbolic touching of foreheads. All too soon, he left the wedding tent with his new wife by his side to the rapturous applause of the small crowd. He watched as the new Sheikha bowed her head in delicate thanks as men and women complimented her beauty and good fortune in a language she did not understand.

Sayyid appeared by his side, clapping one hand on his back in solidarity. ‘You seem happy, my King.’

‘Do I?’ he murmured, keeping watch as Cressida bent to take the hands of a group of children gathered around her. Security was tight and the people of the camp were peaceful, but still he resisted the urge to drag her away to privacy.

‘You have barely taken your eyes away from your new bride. Am I to assume your concern is that she does not run away?’ Sayyid smiled good-naturedly.

Khal smiled at the joke, brushing it off. He watched her because she was in a new country, entering a new life. He wanted her to feel at ease. And if he seemed happy it was because everything was going to plan, the lightness in his chest was a result of sealing a deal months in the making and securing the political future of his kingdom. Nothing more. He ignored his Chief of Security’s raised eyebrow and returned to his wife’s side as they continued to the celebration.

* * *

She had been told that celebrations in the camp usually lasted well into the night but not long after they had finished dining Khal leaned into her ear. ‘Now it is time for us to make our exit and move to the ceremonial wedding tent.’

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. ‘Just the two of us?’

‘Don’t look so excited, my Queen.’ He made a motion with his hands to his guards that they were leaving before extending his hand to her. ‘We must at least appear to be newlyweds who cannot wait to tear each other’s clothes off.’

Cressida cleared her throat, staring at his outstretched hand and willing herself to stop being such an absolute coward. ‘Can the King not make an exception to tradition?’

‘Tradition is important to me,’ he said simply. ‘And it is even more important to the people of this sacred tribe. My family’s tribe.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded, looking around at the small gathering of men and women, seeing how they looked towards their Sheikh’s every move. And hers too, she realised with a sudden jolt. She had not thought much of the responsibility that came with her marriage. She was the Queen now, Sheikha of the realm.

Gulping, she stood as gracefully as she could muster. Khal bowed his head to the crowd once and she copied the motion, trying not to jump as the men suddenly shouted their approval in guttural tones. Raucous applause and what she presumed to be words of encouragement followed them across the sand as she followed Khal, flanked by four silent guards. The jewels on her veil tinkled gently as she moved forward, her skirts gathering around her legs with the effort of trying to keep up with the pace of the men and their much longer legs. Thank goodness she had not been forced to wear heels as well as the intricate dress.

From the outside, the tent had seemed just like the one she had stayed in the previous night. But as they stepped through the entryway Cressida went completely still.