His Queen by Desert Decree

Molly was poleaxed as she put those facts together. ‘Your grandfather executed his own son?’ she whispered in horror.

Azrael’s chin lifted in a grim nod of acknowledgement. ‘My father led the rebel forces before me,’ he proffered in a harsh undertone, emotion unconcealed in the flare of his nostrils and the narrowing of his amazing gold-tinted eyes. ‘But twenty years ago those forces were not strong enough to depose Hashem and the coup failed.’

‘And your father paid with his life,’ Molly completed for herself.

‘Out of respect for him and the many who died at Hashem’s hands, we prefer to refer to him as the dictator, rather than the King,’ Azrael completed, using the opportunity to clasp her hand and draw it down gently over Spice’s smooth, warm neck. ‘Hashem tarnished the throne with his hunger for absolute power.’

‘But your people obviously don’t hold that against you or you wouldn’t be King now,’ Molly said for herself, taken aback when the horse nudged her shoulder, evidently enjoying her attention and wanting more of it.

‘I must always be careful not to betray their trust.’

And an international scandal unleashed by the King’s half-brother could well cause a lot of trouble, Molly found herself thinking with regret, and then she was annoyed with herself for thinking along such lines. After all, she was British, not Djalian, and Azrael’s dysfunctional family history should have no bearing on her righteous wrath over what Tahir had done to her. She petted the horse, striving to suppress a fresh leap of anger at her predicament.

‘I could’ve had an adverse reaction to that drug Tahir used on me and been injured. Many things could have gone wrong,’ she pointed out.

‘But luckily they didn’t,’ Azrael interposed softly.

‘I’m afraid I still want Tahir to face the full consequences of what he did,’ Molly murmured thinly.

‘I would agree if he were an adult, but he’s not.’

Molly’s brow furrowed, her eyes widening. ‘What do you mean...he’s not an adult? Of course, he is! How old is he? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?’

Azrael stared back at her, his stunning dark golden eyes frowning at her question. ‘I assumed that you knew his age. How could you mistake Tahir for an adult? My brother is sixteen years old—’

‘Sixteen?’ Molly yelped in rampant disbelief as she whirled away from the horse. ‘You can’t be serious! I was kidnapped by a teenager?’

‘You really didn’t know,’ Azrael registered in wonderment as he scanned her incredulous face.

‘Of course, I didn’t know!’ Molly rounded furiously on him with that admission as she crossed the sand on restive feet. ‘I tried to find out his age at the first lesson but he was evasive and his English was poor. I was afraid I was getting too personal and being rude, so I let it go. Sixteen, though...my goodness, he’s a giant for sixteen!’

‘Perhaps, but he is not particularly mature,’ Azrael remarked. ‘Surely you noticed that, at least?’

Molly bridled at the faint edge of scorn to that question. ‘Well, yes, I did notice but I was very aware that he was from a different culture and I don’t know what’s normal for young men in your society.’

‘We are people, exactly the same as you!’ Azrael lanced back at her with simmering irritation.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what I’m trying to say is that, yes, I did notice that he was immature but I kind of blamed that on his upbringing and his not having any experience of my world,’ Molly expanded, refusing to rise to the bait of his annoyance. ‘I am not prejudiced in any way, Azrael.’

‘If that is so, I am glad to hear it,’ Azrael conceded, his wide, sensual mouth compressed. ‘Unfortunately for all of us, my brother gave no prior sign of the insane thing he did to you. Tahir is an average boy. He spends hours playing computer games and

he’s mad about cars and girls.’

‘And he kidnaps his English teacher, who is almost seven years older than him! No way is that typical!’ Molly shot back at him fierily and she spun away from him, exasperated beyond bearing by his arguments.

‘No, it is not typical,’ Azrael admitted grudgingly. ‘But I cannot help but blame myself for not taking more of an interest in him. It is unlucky that he is so much younger and that I have been so preoccupied here. Our mother died last year and it hit him very hard—’

‘I refuse to listen to a sob story on Tahir’s behalf!’ Molly flung back at Azrael in frustration, her eyes bright with mounting fury. ‘That is not fair to me. Why should I consider Tahir’s state of mind when he did not consider what he was doing to me?’

‘I said that we should not discuss this here,’ Azrael responded icily. ‘I do not want you shouting at me.’

Molly’s hands knotted into fists. She watched Spice sidle back out to the front of the cave, presumably as spooked as his owner by her loud voice, and then turned back to scrutinise Azrael’s lean, darkly handsome but undeniably frozen features. She was darned if she was going to apologise, most particularly not when it felt amazing to not care about the impression she was making and to speak her mind freely. After all, growing up she had been deprived of that freedom far too often. Forced to fit in with other people’s expectations, she had had to try to placate her stepmother simply in the hope of gaining peace. But appeasement hadn’t got her very far and hadn’t made the older woman any kinder.

‘My emotions don’t come with volume control,’ she confessed tightly. ‘And I am not usually this emotional but the past forty-eight hours have been very upsetting for me and I’m on edge, which means my temper is on edge too.’

Almost imperceptibly, Azrael’s lean, powerful frame became a little less rigid. ‘Obviously I can understand that but I cannot tolerate shouting.’

Molly sucked in a steadying breath, dismayed by the realisation that the more he prohibited her natural behaviour, the more he simply made her want to shout. There was something very basic in her, she sensed, that literally had to fight Azrael’s dominance and, inexplicably, when she spoke her mind to him in anger, she felt as if she was finally being herself and was unashamed of the fact. ‘And I cannot tolerate being told that I can’t shout,’ she confided guiltily. ‘Yet I very rarely do it. Obviously you make me angry and aggressive—’