Captured by the Sheikh

‘You have another idea?’ he asked and walked forward to take her hand, the slide of his fingers across hers shooting sparks all the way up to her elbow.

‘Well, I was thinking of trying to charm you into letting me go,’ Elena answered lightly. She did a little twirl in her dress. ‘The dress might help.’

Khalil’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’d tempt a saint, but I’m afraid I’m made of sterner stuff. Flirting won’t get you very far.’

She drew back, a blush scorching her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t flirting.’

‘No?’ Khalil arched his eyebrows as he drew her down to the table. ‘Pity.’

Even more disconcerted by his response, Elena fussed with positioning herself on the silken pillows, arranging the folds of her dress around her. Khalil sat opposite her, reclining on one elbow, every inch the relaxed and confident sheikh.

Sheikh. Yes, lying on the pillows, the candlelight glinting on his dark hair, he looked every inch the sheikh.

‘Let me serve you,’ Khalil said, and lifted the lids on several silver chafing dishes. He ladled some lamb stewed in fragrant spices onto her plate, along with couscous mixed with vegetables.

‘It smells delicious,’ Elena murmured. ‘Thank you.’ Khalil raised an eyebrow.

‘So polite,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘I’m waiting for the sting.’

‘I’m hungry,’ she answered, which was no answer at all because she didn’t know what she was doing. What she felt.

‘Then you must eat up,’ Khalil said lightly. ‘You are too thin, at least by Kadaran standards.’

She was thin, mainly because constant stress and anxiety kept her from eating properly. ‘And you are familiar with Kadaran standards?’ she asked. ‘You said something about living in America before, didn’t you?’

‘I spent my adolescence in the United States,’ he answered, his tone rather flat. He handed her a platter of bread, his expression shuttered, and Elena felt a surge of curiosity about this man and his experience.

‘Is that why your English is so good?’

A smile flickered across his face, banishing the frown that had settled between his brows when she’d asked about where he had lived. ‘Thank you. And, yes, I suppose it is.’

Elena sat back, taking dainty bites of the delicious lamb. ‘How long have you been back in Kadar?’

‘Six months. Is this an inquisition, Elena?’ That smile now deepened, revealing the dimple Elena had seen before. ‘“Know your enemies and know yourself, and you can win a hundred battles”.’

‘You are quite familiar with The Art of War.’

‘As are you,’ he observed.

‘How come you know it so well?’

‘Because my life has been one of preparing for battle.’

‘To become Sheikh of Kadar.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re already a sheikh, aren’t you? Leila told me...’

He shrugged. ‘Of a small tribe in the northern desert. My mother’s people.’

He was silent and so was she, the only sounds the wind ruffling the sides of the tent, the gentle clink of their dishes. Elena gazed at him, the harsh planes of his face, the sculpted fullness of his lips. Hard and soft, a mass of contradictions, this gentle kidnapper of hers. Her stomach twisted. What was she doing? How stupid was she being, to actually consider believing this man, trusting him?

She could tell herself she was here because she needed to know her enemy, needed to make an informed decision about her future, but Elena knew she was fooling herself. She was here because she wanted to be here. And she wanted to trust Khalil because she liked him. As a person. As a man.

‘I want to hear the other side of the story,’ she said quietly, and Khalil glanced up at her, his expression watchful, even wary.

‘Do you,’ he said, not a question, and she nodded and swallowed.

‘Everyone around you is so sure, Khalil, of your right to the throne. I don’t think they’re brainwashed or deluded, so...’ She spread her hands, tried for a smile. ‘There must be some reason why people think you are the rightful sheikh. Tell me what it is.’

* * *

Tell me what it is. A simple request, yet one that felt like peeling back his skin, exposing his heart. Admitting his shame.

Khalil glanced away from Elena, his gaze distant, unfocused. He’d said before he’d tell her his side of the story when she was ready to listen, and here she was—ready.

The trouble was, he wasn’t.

‘Khalil,’ Elena said softly. His name sounded right on her lips in a way that made everything in Khalil both want and rebel.

What was he doing? How had he got to this place, with this woman? It had started, perhaps, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. When, in what could be considered courage or folly or both, she’d attempted to escape. When he’d seen both fear and pride in her eyes and known exactly how she’d felt.

When he’d held her in his arms and she’d curled into him, seeking the solace that he’d freely, gladly, given.

And now she wanted more. Now she wanted the truth, which he’d told her he would tell her, except now that she’d actually asked he felt wary, reluctant. Afraid.

What if she didn’t believe him? What if she did?

Finally Khalil spoke. ‘My mother,’ he said slowly, ‘was Sheikh Hashem’s first wife.’

Elena’s eyes widened, although with disbelief, confusion or simply surprise he couldn’t tell. ‘What—who was your father?’

He bared his teeth in a smile that was a sign of his pain rather than any humour or happiness. ‘Sheikh Hashem, of course.’

A hand flew to her throat. ‘You mean you are Aziz’s brother?’

‘Half-brother, to be precise. Older half-brother.’

‘But...’ She shook her head, and now she definitely seemed disbelieving. Khalil felt something that had started to unfurl inside him begin to wither. Good. It was better this way. She wouldn’t believe him, and he wouldn’t care. It would be easy then. Painful, but easy. ‘How can that be?’ she asked. ‘There’s no mention of you anywhere, not even in that book!’

He laughed, the sound hard and bitter, revealing. ‘So you read the book?’

‘A bit.’

‘There wouldn’t be a mention of me in it. My father did his best to erase my existence from the world. But the Bedouin tribes, my mother’s people, they have not forgotten me.’ He hated how defensive he sounded. As if he needed to prove himself, as if he wanted her to believe him.

She didn’t matter. Her opinion didn’t matter. Why had he even asked her to dinner? Why had he given her that dress?

Because you wanted to please her. Because you wanted to see her again, touch her again...

Fool.

‘Why would your father wish to erase your existence, Khalil?’

He gave her a glittering, challenging stare. ‘Do you know who Aziz’s mother is?’

Elena shrugged. ‘Hashem’s wife. Her name, I believe, is Hamidyah. She died a few years ago, Aziz told me.’

‘Yes, she did. And, before she was my father’s second wife, she was his mistress. She bore him a bastard, and my father claimed him as one. Aziz.’ He let out a slow breath, one hand clenching involuntarily against his thigh. ‘Then my father tired of my mother, his first wife, but Kadaran law has always dictated that the reigning monarch take only one wife.’ He gave her the semblance of a smile. ‘Not a moral stance, mind you, simply a pragmatic one: fewer contenders for the throne. I suspect it’s why Kadar has enjoyed so many years of peace.’

‘So you’re saying he got rid of his wife? And—and of you? So he could marry Hamidyah?’ Elena was gazing at him with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. Was it confusion, disbelief or, God help him, pity? Did she think he was deluded?

‘You don’t believe me,’ Khalil stated flatly. His stomach felt like a stone. He wasn’t angry with her, he realised with a flash of fury he could only direct at himself; he was hurt.

‘It seems incredible,’ Elena said slowly. ‘Surely someone would have known...?’

‘The desert tribes know.’

‘Does Aziz?’

‘Of course he does.’ The words came fast, spiked with bitterness. ‘We met, you know, as boys.’ Just weeks before he’d been torn from his family. ‘Never since, although I’ve seen his photograph in the gossip magazines.’

Elena shook her head slowly. ‘But if he knows you are the rightful heir...’

‘Ah, but you see, my father is cleverer than that. He charged my mother with adultery and claimed I was not his son. He banished me from the palace when I was seven years old.’

Elena gaped at him. ‘Banished...’

‘My mother as well, to a remote royal residence where she lived in isolation. She died just a few months later, although I didn’t know that for many years. From the day my father threw me from the palace, I never saw her again.’ He spoke dispassionately, even coldly, because if he didn’t he was afraid of how he might sound. What he might reveal. Already he felt a tightness in his throat and he took a sip of wine to ease it.

‘But that’s terrible,’ Elena whispered. She looked stricken, but her response didn’t gratify Khalil. He felt too exposed for that.