Zarif's Convenient Queen

His wide sensual mouth compressed on the acknowledgement that everything had changed in the space of a moment, the same moment in which Ella had collapsed at his feet. He had made a grievous error of judgement and it could have cost Ella her life. He did not want to picture a world in which Ella no longer walked. His bitterness was not so deep, his pride not so high. He still wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman and he could not let her go, he would not let her go until he was free of his craving for her. Only then could he move on and remarry, awarding his next wife the full unquestioning commitment that was her due.

Ella’s eyelashes fluttered and then lifted on a dimly lit room.

An ornate canopy hung over the bed. The edges of the fabric were fringed and tasselled and swinging a little in the breeze. She identified the source of the breeze as the whirring fan in the background and put a hand up to discover what was covering her nose.

‘Don’t touch the oxygen mask!’ Zarif warned her, suddenly appearing by the side of the bed and giving her a fright.

Ella blinked up at him as though he were a mirage. Muddled and confusing images of the sword dance, the wedding and the guests were racing through her mind faster than the speed of light until she recalled the last ignominious moment in the cloakroom, after which everything became a complete blank.

‘What happened?’ she whispered limply, focusing on his lean, darkly handsome face, paying special notice to the black spiky lashes that heightened the effect of his stunning dark golden eyes. Evidently, his mood hadn’t improved because he still looked bleak and forbidding as hell.

Disconcertingly, Zarif sank down with confusing informality on the side of the bed and closed an imprisoning hand over hers as it crept inexorably towards the irritating oxygen mask again. ‘You almost died.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Ella told him, shifting her arm and only then noticing the IV attached.

‘We believe you are allergic to shellfish.’

‘I’m not allergic to shellfish. I’m not allergic to anything,’ Ella proclaimed.

‘You may not have been until today but you are allergic now. The shellfish pastries you ate before the wedding are the most likely explanation and when you are better you will undergo tests so that we can discover what it is safe for you to eat. You went into anaphylactic shock. I thought you were drunk...and all the time you were ill,’ Zarif breathed in a hoarse undertone of remorse, dark eyes blazing gold over her flushed face, his lean hand tightening over hers. ‘If Halim’s doctor had not been present and able to administer an immediate shot of adrenalin, you could have gone into cardiac arrest.’

Ella breathed in slow and deep. ‘But I didn’t. I’m fine,’ she told him quietly. ‘What a thing to happen in public—you must’ve been very embarrassed.’

‘Embarrassment was the least of my concerns,’ Zarif admitted. ‘I wronged you. I made an unjust assumption and you suffered for it. Hanya told me you’d drunk a lot of alcohol.’

Ella stiffened. ‘That is a lie. Belle gave me one drink. It may have been a large drink but there was only one and I didn’t finish it.’

‘It is immaterial. I should naturally have given you the benefit of the doubt. It is my duty to look after you and I failed and it could have cost you your life,’ he breathed harshly.

‘How on earth could you have known that I was going to suffer a severe allergic reaction to something I ate?’ Ella asked ruefully. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It was just bad luck.’

‘Nonetheless, we will be very, very careful about what you eat in the future,’ Zarif decreed. ‘Dr Mansour warned me that another attack could be fatal. He asked me to call him as soon as you wake up.’

In a daze, Ella watched Zarif unfurl his cell phone and within minutes the middle-aged doctor put in an appearance. He confirmed that it was possible to suddenly become allergic to a substance that one might have eaten for years without ill effects but while urging her to exercise caution he was considerably less dramatic about her prospects than Zarif had been. Zarif, Ella registered, was in still in shock at her collapse and blaming himself for it. The oxygen mask removed because she was breathing easily and the IV removed because she faithfully promised to drink lots of water, she levered herself up against the pillows once they were alone again.

‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘I suppose it’s no use telling you that I’m usually as healthy as a horse.’

‘I owe you an apology,’ Zarif murmured tautly. ‘I misjudged you. I should have realised that you were genuinely ill.’

‘How could you have?’ Ella parried uneasily. ‘I didn’t realise what was wrong with me either.’

‘You need to rest now,’ Zarif told her simply. ‘Could you eat something first? You’ve had very little today.’

Ella identified the hollow sensation inside her as hunger and smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, I am hungry.’

Servants brought food while Ella watched Zarif from below her lashes. He had removed his headdress and his luxuriant black hair was tousled as though he had run his fingers through it several times. He needed a shave as well, black stubble cloaking his stubborn jawline and somehow highlighting the effect of his beautifully modelled mouth. In truth, still clad in the gold robes that glimmered richly even in the lamp light, he looked utterly amazing and beautiful and she simply couldn’t take her eyes off him.

‘You should’ve stayed with your guests,’ Ella remarked uncomfortably, struggling to rein in her overpowering reaction to his lean, lithe, dark good looks.

‘I’m your husband. You should always be my first priority,’ Zarif fielded in surprise. ‘What sort of husband would behave otherwise?’

Ella was silenced while she mulled over that response. He certainly seemed to feel a lot more married than he had the day before. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? She wasn’t sure. She picked pieces from the various dishes spread on trays around her on the bed and ate with an appetite that surprised her. When Belle and Betsy arrived to visit her, she greeted them with an apologetic wince.

‘I’m a real party pooper, aren’t I?’ she sighed.

‘I should never have given you that vodka,’ Belle commented guiltily. ‘It’s my fault that Zarif initially assumed that you were tipsy.’

‘I’d blame Hanya,’ Betsy said, disconcerting Ella with that frank opinion. ‘I think she convinced Zarif that you had drunk enough to be dancing on tables. She quite deliberately misled him to make you look bad.’