Page 6 of Seduced By the Sheikh

He stood looking down at her for a few moments, as if wanting to say more, before huffing angrily and walking away. Had she upset him because she could never hope to rise to the brilliant heights of his powerful mother? Or was it the reverse? Whatever, she’d clearly hit a nerve. And, even worse, she might have jeopardized the wedding plans. She panicked as she imagined returning home to her father without the prized Crown and all its implications for her people.

“Wait!” she called out, following him to the door which led back into the palace. He paused, his hand on the handle, ready to leave. “Please, wait,” she said, placing her hand boldly on his arm. “I apologize, Your Highness. I spoke hastily. Of course, I will be guided by you as to my role.”

For one long moment she wondered whether all was lost and she’d have to return to Ra’nan in shame. Her whole future, and that of both countries, hung in the balance. A muscle flickered in his jaw. It was the only thing which betrayed his thoughts and feelings.

He turned his copper eyes, which had darkened to the color of burnt chocolate, to her. “Very well. We will proceed with the wedding. But, I stress, I will not, ever, permit you to take on a role such as my mother had in this country. Not you, nor anybody else.”

And in that moment, she knew that his mother wasn’t someone he idolized but someone who, for some reason, he hated. She recoiled under his heated glare as if scorched. Once burned, twice shy. She’d remember that next time.

“Of course,” she murmured, relieved to have gained his agreement to proceed. Returning to her country and an angry father would have been untenable. She had no future there. Her father had made that clear.

No, she thought, as she walked with her fiancé back through to the reception room where her attendant was now waiting for her, whether she liked it or not, her future was here in this country, with this uncompromising man. But, she promised herself, next time they met, she’d be better prepared. Because she refused to give up her dream of a meaningful life. Her father had come to appreciate her work and so would Sheikh Zakariyya ibn al-Hadar.

Once she was safely married, he’d come around. She’d make sure of it.

CHAPTER 3

One hundred and sixty-eight hours.

Seven days.

One week.

It didn’t matter how Soraiya quantified the length of time between her last meeting with the man she was to marry and today, her wedding day, she was still outraged that he hadn’t invited her into his presence again. He couldn’t have announced his indifference more clearly if he’d shouted it from the minaret.

And she certainly hadn’t sought him out. One would only seek out someone like Sheikh Zakariyya if one was a masochist, and she wasn’t one of them. No doubt she’d see more than enough of him after the wedding. The thought made her uncharacteristically anxious.

Instead, she’d remained in the visitor’s wing of the ancient palace—sidelined and ignored, except for a visit from her sister-in-law to be—Sarah. Wife of Kadar, Zak’s brother. She’d been surprised at the unscheduled visit. It wasn’t an expected part of the pre-wedding protocol, but Soraiya had been happy enough to receive her.

Sarah had promised to help in any way she could, startling Soraiya when Sarah had suggested how difficult it must be having first been promised to Kadar and then to Zak. Soraiya had tried to convey, in as dignified way as possible, that it was all the same to her. She was merely doing her duty. But to her even greater confusion, Sarah’s sympathy had increased and she’d ended up giving her a warm hug. For some reason it had made Soraiya want to cry. All in all, the visit had been an unsettling one. But at least it had alleviated the boredom of her week running up to the wedding ceremony.

But that period of inactivity had come to an end. She was dressed in all her wedding finery, and being checked over by the ever-vigilant Daria. She turned to look out at the now familiar view. But, as her gaze swept over the barren desert, fringed by equally inhospitable looking mountains, instead of boredom a choking kind of grief welled up inside of her. This land was nothing like the beautiful shorelines of her native land—her home which she’d never live in again.

“You look beautiful, Sheikha,” observed Daria, as she carefully fixed Soraiya’s veil into her elaborately styled hair.

Soraiya swallowed down her sadness and turned around to inspect herself in the full-length mirror. The only thing which marred the confection of white satin and jewels was her slight frown and pursed lips. But her expression didn’t change as she checked every detail. She refused to show any emotion and was reassured by the cool mask reflected back at her.

With a mother who’d died when she was young, and a step-mother who showed no interest in her whatsoever, Soraiya had learned to be indifferent to how she looked. She’d always been made to feel her green eyes were a mark against her. Her mother had claimed they ran in her family, but wherever they came from, they didn’t help nurture any love from her father. And it was the same with her tall, curvaceous figure—Amazonian she’d once overheard her father describe it with distaste. It had made her work harder to fit in. So, now, on her wedding day, she didn’t see what others saw, only someone who would do her duty. Someone who would get the job done. That was her. And that was enough.

“It’ll do,” she replied to Daria, as if she were surveying an official gift, wrapped up in ribbons and about to be delivered to the enemy to ease the path of diplomacy.

A sharp rap at the door made Daria jump, but not Soraiya. She was accustomed to her father’s entrance. It was always made with a rush and a roar and he was never to be kept waiting. She didn’t deviate from her routine now. She nodded to Daria who opened the door and her father swaggered into the room, commanding the space with his arrogant gaze and corpulent body.

He looked her up and down, and for a moment she thought he might compliment her. The gown was by a famous French designer and the satin shimmered in the brilliantly lit room. Her long veil hung over her face, skimming the gold-embroidered collar of her dress, stopping short above her hands in which she clasped a bunch of exotic blooms, all white. But he simply tugged down his jacket over his protruding gut and looked away.

“It’s time, Soraiya.”

“Yes, father,” she said, hiding her disappointment, just as she’d done a thousand times before. She’d hoped that doing her duty would somehow bring them closer. She lowered her gaze, so he wouldn’t see the hurt in her eyes.

He held out his arm and she slipped hers through it. It was the closest she’d got to her father in years. Surreptitiously she brushed her thumb over the fine stuff of his uniform and glanced up at him but he was impervious to her touch. Instead, he focused on lecturing her on the importance of this marriage. Two separate families who would create a union to strengthen both countries and produce children who would further cement the alliance. It was all about family, blood line and lineage. If she’d hoped for words of endearment or affection, she’d hoped in vain.

The tips of her satin-covered high heels rang out on the old stone of the ancient colonnaded walkways, and her stomach tensed further with each step. She barely saw or smelled the perfumed abundance of the gardens, or heard the tumbling water as it descended from the hills above them through the rills and fountains to the lower levels of the palace where the mosque was. And she stopped listening to her father. All her thoughts were on the man who was waiting for her in the mosque—a man in military uniform who she was to be joined to forever, to forge a new life where she didn’t even feel wanted. But it wasn’t that which unnerved her. She was used to not feeling wanted. The anxiety which ground inside of her was because of the unknown—the man, the country and how she’d be able to shape her life.

The sound of laughter, murmured conversations and the footsteps of people finding their seats grew as they approached the mosque. Her nerves ratcheted up a notch and she fixed on her public smile to hide them as she entered the reception rooms. People openly stared at her, and jostled to take a look at this sheikha they’d only heard about, as she made her way towards the entrance to the palace’s mosque. She felt strangely out-of-body, as if she weren’t really here, but reading about it. It sent a surge of panic through her and she halted.

He threw her an irritated glance and tugged her arm. She had no choice but to follow. She blinked under the dazzling lights set in huge circular pendants which hung from the ornate ceiling supported by a soaring maze of columns. But then she felt the welcome breeze which blew from one open side to another, causing the lights to shimmer against the earth-toned walls and sparkle on the women’s jewelry. She took a deep breath.

Suddenly the crowds parted and she looked up to see Zak standing waiting for her, his outline made hazy through her lace veil. Tall and commanding, dressed in his military uniform of dark blue with red braiding, he looked impossibly handsome and very unlike the European womanizer which was how she’d always thought of him. Following the directions of the Imam, she moved forward, just as she had at the rehearsals from which her husband-to-be had always absented himself. She could do this.

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