Royal Weddings: The Sheikh's Princess Bride / The Doctor Takes a Princess / Crown Prince's Chosen Bride. Annie West

over now,’ he murmured, as if they didn’t both know that for a lie. The speculation would start in a few months when people began looking for signs of pregnancy.

      Samira’s empty womb contracted hard but she ignored it. She couldn’t have her own babies but she was now the mother of two sons. That would keep her too busy to worry about anything else. That and dealing with her new husband.

      ‘As you say.’ She nodded. ‘It’s all over.’ His kind lie reassured her that she hadn’t quite made the huge mistake she’d feared. Relief welled.

      Last night Tariq had shattered her optimism with his declaration that he intended them to be lovers. She’d felt devastated and betrayed, haunted by the fear she’d once again chosen a man she couldn’t trust. But now, reading the protectiveness in his body language and the concern in his eyes, she saw the man she’d once known and adored. The decent, caring man she’d thought she’d married.

      ‘Finally we’re alone,’ he murmured. Samira stiffened, anxiety punching hard and low as he reached for her. His fingers wove through hers, big and strong, effective as any manacle as he turned towards the private royal entrance to the audience chamber. ‘Come.’

      ‘Where are we going?’ Her breath hitched, distrust rising anew. It struck her that she no longer knew what to expect from the man she’d married.

      He paused and looked down. She felt as if she was drowning in those clear, green depths. Had they always been so mesmerising?

      ‘It’s our honeymoon. We’ve got a week with not one official function. There are better places to spend it than the audience chamber.’ His mouth tilted in a slow smile that sent fear scuddling through her.

      It had to be fear. It couldn’t be excitement.

      ‘You told me last night you’d wait.’ Her voice sounded stretched and she tried to conjure calm as panic rose.

      Tariq’s brows bunched. ‘You think I’m about to ravish you?’ He looked at their hands locked together, his so much larger and more powerful than hers. ‘Is that really what you believe?’

      Samira read the stern glint in his eyes and the clamped austerity of his jaw. She’d touched him on the raw.

      ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she admitted. ‘I thought I knew you but I was wrong. You made that clear last night.’

      ‘You knew the boy, not the man.’

      He stood proud, unashamed of the man he’d become, the man who’d duped her into believing she was safe with him when all the time he had his own plans. He’d tricked her into believing he’d married on her terms and yet remarkably at this moment she wanted to trust him.

      Samira stared up at Tariq. Was he the man she’d known or a stranger? How much had he altered in the years since she’d felt she could trust him with her life?

      There’d even been a time, in the distant past, when she’d thought she loved him. He’d been her first romantic crush, the one she’d spent hours daydreaming over with all the fervour of her teenage soul.

      Long fingers smoothed her forehead and shivery heat tightened her skin. ‘Don’t fret about it, Samira.’ He paused. ‘I have a gift for you. That’s all.’

      ‘A gift?’ Another one? He’d already presented her with a wealth of exquisite jewellery. Even for a princess born to the opulence of the Jazeeri royal court, her breath had been taken away by his gifts. ‘You’ve given me enough.’ She felt overwhelmed by his generosity. Her own gifts, though carefully chosen, weren’t nearly as lavish.

      ‘This is something from me, not an heirloom.’

      There it was again, that glint in his eye that made her shiver. Mentally Samira shook herself. She refused to live her life walking on eggshells.

      ‘That sounds intriguing.’

      Tariq’s swift, approving smile made her breath catch. He really was stunningly charismatic.

      He led her deep into the heart of the palace’s private apartments. Samira busied herself admiring the furnishings and the occasional glimpses across the city to the blue smudge of the mountains beyond. Anything to distract her from the intimacy of Tariq’s hand enfolding hers, his tall frame imposing yet somehow reassuring as he shortened his stride to match her pace. Being close to him took some getting used to.

      Finally they stopped before a wide door. ‘After you.’

      She pushed it open, only to freeze on the threshold. Slowly, disbelieving, she took in the large, airy space lit by extra-wide, full-length windows.

      Samira swallowed, her throat tight, her eyes glazing at the unexpected perfection of it.

      ‘It’s wonderful,’ she whispered.

      ‘You can go in, you know.’

      She hardly heard him. Already she was moving across the hardwood floor to the massive table in the centre of the room set under powerful lamps. Her fingers trailed the edge of the work surface before moving across to the drawing board, tilted at an angle to catch the natural light. Then to the set of built-in cupboards. The custom-made drawers. The specially designed containers that held bolts of fabric: velvets, silks, lace, satin and chiffon. There was even a mannequin on a podium, again set under brilliant lighting.

      Everywhere she looked, in every drawer and corner, was something that pleased her.

      Slowly she turned, taking in the careful thought and attention to detail that had gone into making this the ideal work room.

      She blinked hard as she recognised the ancient, slightly saggy lounge chair she’d used for the past four years when she’d wanted to curl up and sketch. Beside it was a small wooden table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It held a sketch pad like the one she always used and a variety of crayons and pencils.

      ‘Your sister-in-law helped me with the details. She sent through photos of your workshop in Jazeer.’

      ‘But this is...’ The words stuck in Samira’s throat. ‘This is far, far better. It’s perfect.’ She’d never had a custom-made studio. Despite her growing success she’d worked out of a large room she’d adapted in her brother’s palace. But this—it was amazing. And it had been created especially for her.

      A wave of excitement crashed over her, making her blood tingle. She itched to get to work here.

      Samira pivoted to find Tariq just behind her. She grabbed his hand in both of hers, enthusiasm buoying her.

      ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ She shook her head, brim-full of emotion. He’d done this for her. No gift had ever been so special, so very right. ‘Words don’t seem enough.’

      ‘Then don’t use words.’ His glinting eyes challenged her, as if he knew she felt over-full, needing an outlet for the surge of elation and wonder she felt.

      Samira’s breath hitched in automatic denial, the shutters she’d so carefully built instantly coming up to guard her from this over-emotional response.

      She saw the moment he read the change in her. The moment his gaze altered from challenging to disappointed.

      The moment he realised she didn’t have the guts to follow through.

      When he saw how scared she was.

      In that instant the truth blasted her. She had all the emotions of other women. She felt pain and hope and delight but she’d spent years bottling them up, hiding them from the world and herself. Because she was scared they’d make her weak.

      She’d let Jackson Brent do that to her.

      No, she corrected. She’d done it to herself.

      Her nostrils flared in disgust and inadvertently she drew in the heady spicy aroma of Tariq. It sent a trickle of feminine pleasure coursing through her.

      She’d