Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen Read online

  Layla gave a brief nod and then walked out of the room. Xavian stood, his back ramrod-straight, his jaw grinding together, as she paused and addressed Akmal.

  ‘You will bring the new release to me for approval after it has been worded.’ Briefly she turned back to Xavian. ‘I like to check all press statements personally…I am sure you are the same.’

  Xavian was still smarting even as the helicopter lifted to take them deep into the desert. How dared she walk into his chambers and make demands so boldly? How dared she tell him what was wise? How dared she speak as if she were his equal? Why, he was King of Qusay—King of a rich, prosperous land that produced both oil and rare emeralds, a progressive land where the people flourished under strong leadership. It was her country that needed him—the people of Haydar who needed strong leadership to guide them out of the Dark Ages! His voice that she needed to quell the rising unrest.

  He was annoyed with himself too—for offering her an explanation, for engaging with her. He did not particularly want a wife, and certainly he did not want anyone close.

  His own company was enough to be dealing with now.

  And he hadn’t apologised!

  He was tempted to tap her on the shoulder and tell her that.

  The golden expanse of sand stretching beneath did nothing to soothe him. Xavian was seriously rattled now, and ready to remind her of her place. Baja, her senior lady-in-waiting was accompanying them in the helicopter, and he could feel her silent disapproval as he took his new wife’s hand, pleasantly surprised by the slender, pale fingers that he held in his, admiring the manicured nails. For the first time he actually looked forward to the unveiling, to finding out what was in the package that awaited him.

  ‘A feast awaits us,’ Xavian said, smiling to himself as she blinked her lowered lashes. Then he leant towards her and watched as her eyes squeezed together in the first display of nervousness he had seen. And that gave him pleasure too, so he elaborated slightly. ‘And after we have eaten, another feast awaits.’

  The desert staff came out to greet them, and to lay a long roll of carpet from where the helicopter landed to the tented abode. Of course there were more staff than usual, for not only was it a honeymoon, but Layla’s own maidens were there to greet the royal couple as well.

  Seeing her jewelled slippers there by his as he entered the desert palace gave the place an unfamiliar air. Usually Xavian came to the desert to be alone—oh, occasionally he would summon a mistress, but this was his place for retreat, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about sharing it. But share he must—on this occasion at least.

  He was married.

  Tiny bells were strewn along the tent walls and from the ceilings of all the corridors, to give the honeymooners ample warning of approaching servants, and they tinkled now as the royal couple made their way deep into the heart of his desert abode. The air was fragrant with incense, petals were strewn on the thick Persian rugs that covered the soft floor, and as a heavy silk drape was parted Xavian watched as she stepped into the main living space. It was traditionally decorated—rugs adorned the tent walls, and there were low sofas covered with richly coloured cushions and velvet throws—but it was lavishly decorated too, with intricate carvings and musical instruments, and golden antique mirrors that glistened and twinkled, reflecting the soft candlelight and oil lamps. There was a low table set for them with solid gold plates and cups decorated with rare gems, and the dishes were laden with a delectable wedding night feast as Qusay’s most skilled musician softly played the qanoon.

  It was perfect—so why, Xavian pondered, did she make no comment?

  Perhaps she was feeling overwhelmed? Xavian conceded. Perhaps she was worried that the Haydar royal desert abode would look meagre beside this splendour? Or perhaps, Xavian realised as Baja approached and Layla stood rigid and tense, she was worried about revealing herself to her husband?

  She had his full attention!

  Xavian stood silently watching as Baja helped his new bride out of the golden layers that swathed her body. As the many layers were unwound Xavian found he was holding his breath in anticipation, realising that he had woefully misjudged the figure that was slowly being revealed to him. Oh, there were curves, but they were ripe, feminine curves that enchanted him. He walked slowly around her, admiring her as he did so. Tonight would not be such a hardship after all. She was dressed in a knee-length, heavily jewelled golden dress that hugged her womanly flesh, and her skin was incredibly pale—even for a royal Haydarn. Her slender ankles had been hennaed for him—tiny auburn flowers coiled up from her feet, leading the gaze upwards along her calves. Only there was no time to ponder and savour, for Baja was now removing the veil that covered Layla’s face, and for a second Xavian was lost as his wife was exposed to him.

  She was shockingly beautiful.

  Far, far more exquisite than even he could have dreamt.

  Thick raven hair tumbled long and curling, down her back and over her creamy shoulders, framing her delicate face. Her cheeks were softly rouged, her lips plump and delectable, and there was a slight tremble to them that was the only hint to her nervousness. So enchanting, so delicate, so feminine was she that Xavian actually wondered if he had misinterpreted her harsh words earlier—clearly he had misunderstood, for surely nothing but sweetness could come from those lips?

  He offered his hand to guide her to the prepared table, but she demurred. ‘I would like to look around.’

  ‘Of course,’ Xavian amicably agreed; she was overwhelmed, he told himself, overwhelmed at the thought not just of dining with him, but the feast that would follow. ‘I will show you.’ But she was already walking through his desert abode, and, despite her stunning looks, Xavian felt his irritation rising as she checked and questioned everything.

  Her gorgeous eyes narrowed as she turned to Baja.

  ‘Where is my computer?’

  As the elderly woman apologised for the oversight, Xavian had had enough.

  ‘It is your honeymoon; surely you were not expecting to work…?’

  ‘Oh?’ She turned, her eyes glittering, that full mouth holding the position of that short word, and it was all Xavian could look at: lush lips that he wished would stay silent, a mouth he wanted to feed with the fruits at his table and then thoroughly kiss. But instead that mouth again challenged him. ‘I didn’t realise we were to spend the whole week getting to know each other…’ She gave a questioning smile. ‘I understood you wanted time in the desert…’

  ‘Of course I will spend my days in the desert,’ Xavian clipped. ‘It is right that I spend time with the land and that I ask for its wise counsel.’

  ‘And am I expected to join you?’ Just a hint of a frown marred her creamy brow. ‘I would be happy to…’

  ‘No!’ Xavian had to force his voice not to be husky, appalled at the very thought. ‘That time is for reflection, alone.’

  ‘I see.’ She gave a brief nod, as if to thank him, then turned to Baja.

  ‘In that case I want my computer.’

  ‘The helicopter has already left,’ a servant said, then hastily added, ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘Good.’ She withered the bold servant with a stare. ‘Then it will reach the palace soon—have it return immediately with my computer. After all…’ again she gave Xavian a smile ‘…I can hardly be expected to lounge around here doing nothing all day while my husband takes counsel from the land—I have a kingdom to run.’

  She knew she appeared aloof, knew she was being a royal pain—but that was her plan. Better that than reveal her true feelings, for Layla was, in fact, beyond nervous—terrified would be a better description of how she was feeling. The whole day had been spent on a knife-edge, standing in the palace gardens as the minutes had ticked by and still her groom had not shown. He did not want this marriage, and today’s lateness had just confirmed his low opinion of her. How she had wished she were in a position to walk away herself.

  All this she had thought as she stood there in the palace ga
rdens, mortified beneath her veil and angry too, and then he had appeared suddenly—the man she would marry finally standing beside her as her reluctant groom—and mortification and anger had been replaced with trepidation. Oh, she had known he was good-looking, had heard about his wild reputation with women, and when the wedding had been announced she had been nervous, as any woman would, at the prospect of losing her virginity to such a reputedly formidable lover…

  But, then he had been beside her.

  There had been flurry as he’d arrived, whipping up the air as he moved to stand next to her, and then it had settled—only differently, to a new atmosphere: the tangy bergamot scent of him, the imposing height and his presence, his absolute male presence. And her anger and mortification had been replaced with a different disquiet at all a marriage entailed, at what so imminently lay ahead, and that moment was almost here!

  She walked through to the sleeping chamber, but her throat was tight and at the sight of the vast bed she looked away, pulling at a drape and looking instead into the bathroom where she would be prepared for him. Mirrors were everywhere, and a large bath was in the centre, with stools at the side from where the maidens would wash her.

  ‘Would you like me to show you the gardens now?’ His sarcasm actually brought her first genuine smile.

  ‘I admired your beautiful sand as we landed,’ Layla responded with her own humour, even as Baja frowned, clearly not getting the joke. ‘It must take a lot of work to keep it looking so fine.’

  ‘Hours!’ Xavian said, rolling his eyes, and she wanted to laugh. But she checked herself. This was no time to let down her guard; she had to set the tone.

  No matter that he was the most sensual, breathtakingly beautiful man she had ever seen, no matter that this was the man who would share her body and her bed, and no matter that she wanted to turn tail and run at the imposing sight of him. It was imperative she stay in control and state her intentions right from the very start.

  A passive queen she might appear to her people, but if Xavian thought she would quietly acquiesce, he must quickly realise his wife had a voice!

  ‘Now we will eat.’ Xavian broke into her thoughts with his clear order—so clear Layla realised it would be petty to argue. ‘Our wedding feast awaits.’

  She sat at the low table, her knees towards him, her feet behind, as a discreet servant filled two heavy gold cups with a rich sweet nectar. She knew from her readings, and from Baja’s teachings, what it was: a thick, unique strain of honey that had been mixed with twenty ground almonds and one hundred pine nuts to aid in arousal. To that rare mix ground poppyseeds had been added, to foster disinhibition, and it would be fed to them each night in the desert, as was the correct way. She let him feed her the potent brew that promised him her full arousal, and had to gulp the sticky liquid as he poured it quickly, too quickly for her taut throat and mouth. Some trickled down her chin, and her fingers caught the stray droplets. Because she must drink each last drop, as was the rule, she licked her fingers clean and realised she was shaking—realised, as she picked up the cup to feed Xavian his share of the potion, that she did not want to.

  Didn’t want to feed him or his ardour,

  He was so male.

  And soon she would be glad of that, Layla reminded herself. Soon, she would be grateful that her chosen mate had such an excellent physique, that the man who would be her only lover, who would father her children and give her Haydar’s heirs, was such a fine specimen.

  She just had to get this night over with—had to see for the first time a naked man, had to perform her wifely duty—and one day soon, Layla told herself, his body, his maleness, would not scare her so; one day soon, she promised herself, this would no longer be foreign.

  The seated musician was still gently playing the qanoon, skilfully plucking the strings far slower than her rapid heartbeat. The harp-like music was filling the tent and inflaming her nerves.

  She held the cup to his mouth and poured the brew tentatively, watching him swallow, fearing those lips that would soon be on hers and that body that would soon be pressed to her own.

  She was dizzy with a fear born of too many nights alone. Baja had told her a little of what to expect and would, she had promised, tell her more when she prepared her.

  He finished his potion and she remained by his side.

  As was correct.

  The wedding feast had been carefully prepared. Far from the lavish feast that would adorn the tables at their formal reception, this was a light, thoughtfully chosen meal for a bridal couple, so their bellies would not be full and their senses would still be sharp. It consisted of sweet, succulent fruits that would give energy and promote fertility, and was to be eaten with their fingers.

  There was no conversation, just eyes watching and waiting as they fed each other—once he leant forward, so close she could feel the heat from his skin as he pushed back her hair so she could eat the sticky fruit, and she felt her stomach tighten in anticipation of all that was to come. He inhaled her scent and she felt his breath on her neck, just a cool dust of a breeze, and the fear that was rising within tipped into something different. A strange flutter of excitement was stirring deep inside—tonight she would know, tonight, it would be revealed: the secret, the reward, the answer she had sought on those lonely, empty nights.

  Small dishes were offered, eaten, and then removed, till the table was bare. It would be time soon. She watched as he parted a pomegranate and offered her half. The tiny beaded seeds were sweet on her tongue, but still her head was spinning. The scent of musk was having a giddying effect, and the qanoon’s notes were more urgent now. She drank mint tea so her mouth would be fresh for him, and his eyes roamed her body, lingering on her breasts, which felt heavy now. She had never been more aware of them. Safely hidden behind robes, she rarely gave them a thought, but now they ached under his languishing scrutiny. And then his eyes slowly moved along the flood of pink that swept up her chest and neck, that warmed her cheeks. His eyes met and held hers, and she didn’t know how to breathe. Her tongue felt too slow, too taut as it bobbed out to moisten dry lips, and she was flooded with the urge for his mouth to claim hers, to taste not the fruit but him.

  She was, Xavian realised, ready.

  And then it was time, and she wished she could have stayed at the table for a little while longer, wished he had kissed her, wished the night was not so formal, wished they were alone. Because for just a moment or two she had had her first glimpse of arousal. His rare beauty, the unique scent of him, the bold way he had looked at her, made her greedy with a sudden need for more—except Baja was leading her away for bathing as Xavian headed to the bed, and never had her terror been more acute, but never had she been so excited.

  Part of her wanted to run out to the desert, to flee, but now she found she wanted the moment too. She no longer wanted it over with, because her body was curious in a different way, because out of the circle of his aura her heart and senses were fading to near normal—and she was sure it had nothing to do with the fruits or the poppyseeds.

  In the bathroom the maidens bathed and oiled her. She had been hennaed for him in Haydar: apart from the trail of flowers coiling over her ankles and hands, low on her stomach there was a butterfly, and she shuddered with the sudden thought of that decadent mouth there…

  Only Baja was telling her to expect something different.

  There would be perhaps a perfunctory kiss, Baja explained as she climbed out of the scented bath and the maidens readied her, and then the King would take care of everything. She would lift her nightgown, more oil would be by the bed, and hopefully the King would use it. If not the bath she had lain in was loaded with oil, so she would be soft and tender.

  It would not take long, Baja assured her. Two, maybe three thrusts to take her virginity. And because the King would be unsheathed, and after the potent food, and with the heady rose and musk in which she had bathed, it would be over with quickly.

  But Layla wanted more—wanted more of
what she had glimpsed at his table.

  ‘Should I touch him…?’ Layla asked. She was a perfectionist, good at everything, and suddenly she wanted to be a good lover for her husband too. But Baja just laughed, and even the maidens giggled. Oh, they knew all about King Xavian and his endless women. Gossip amongst palace staff was rife, even if the kingdoms were separated by miles. Baja had a cousin who worked in the royal chambers at the Qusay palace, and knew there were lovers ready and waiting to step in as soon as Layla was safely home and the King back in his palace.

  Layla’s body was needed for one reason only; she did not have to worry herself with such things!

  ‘His mistresses will take care of all that for you.’ Baja was attempting to reassure her, but her words were hailstones on Layla’s warm body. Cold and stinging, they forced a new emotion: jealousy, for the unknown faces that would take care of her husband’s most private needs. ‘Don’t worry, Your Highness,’ Baja continued, calling her by her title, as she always did in front of the maidens. ‘It will be just once or twice a month till you’re impregnated that you must suffer his attentions, and then you can rest for a year at least.’

  A nightdress was slipped over her damp, oiled body, her hair brushed and her lips rouged, and then she was declared ready.

  She parted the flimsy drapes and walked into his chamber.

  Oil lamps and candles lit the room; the vast low bed was decorated with sheer organza. The qanoon was still being played in the main area of the tent, breaking the silence of the desert, its soft seductive notes meant to ease her passage to his arms.

  He was on the bed—naked, she was sure, beneath the silken sheet that covered his lower half. He was just as impressive out of uniform. His broad chest and long muscular arms would make light work for the palace tailor, for his masculinity did not need enhancing. There were dark scars around his wrist. At first, in the candlelight, Layla thought he had been hennaed too, but, no, they were scars. But it was not her place to notice, so instead she looked up at him, watched as his arrogant, haughty face softened a touch as she walked towards him.