Midnight at the Oasis: His Majesty's Mistake. Jane Porter

tight, Emmeline glanced away, out the window at the sea of gold sand below. Let Makin think what he wants, she told herself. It doesn’t matter … he doesn’t matter …

      And yet in a small part of her heart, she could admit that maybe he did.

      It had happened when he’d kissed her.

      In Makin’s arms she’d felt not just safe, but … desirable. Beautiful. And she never felt beautiful as a woman. She never felt like a real woman … and she hadn’t, not until Makin kissed her, bringing someone to life inside of her.

      The kiss had been the most amazing thing she’d ever felt. And she’d wanted more.

      “I’m not dangerous,” she said hoarsely, unable to hold the words in, or hide the hurt.

      “You didn’t say dangerous, you said disruptive.”

      “I wouldn’t have embarrassed you.”

      “I couldn’t have taken the chance.”

      “What about your guests? You’re not even going to be there now to greet them as they arrive.”

      “My friend Sultan Nuri of Baraka has promised to do the honors.”

      Emmeline knew Malek Nuri, had seen him and his wife, the European princess Nicolette Ducasse, at a number of social events over the years. They were a gorgeous couple and so very happy together. “Does he know why you’re not there? Does he know that you feel compelled personally to hand me over to the executioner?”

      “You are so dramatic.”

      “So I’ve been told.”

      “As well as emotional.”

      Blood surged to her cheeks. “And you are so critical.”

      He studied her from beneath lowered lashes. “I hit a nerve, didn’t I?”

      “I’ve been criticized for being emotional my entire life.”

      Makin had been angry when they’d boarded the plane but now, seated across the aisle from Emmeline, he found it impossible to remain upset with her. He didn’t know if it was because she bore such a strong resemblance to Hannah, or if it was because Emmeline was an enigma, but he was intrigued by her and wanted to know more about her. “Who criticizes you?”

      “My parents, particularly my mother.”

      “What’s her complaint?”

      “She has many.” Emmeline wrinkled her nose. “But the chief one seems to be my excessive emotion.”

      “Excessive … how?”

      She ticked her mother’s complaints off on her fingers. “I’m sensitive. I talk fast. I get nervous. I cry at the drop of a hat.”

      His lips twitched. “Do you cry at the drop of a hat?”

      “Depends on the hat.”

      He grinned, amused, liking this Emmeline. She was unpretentious. Funny. Direct. “Have you and your mother always had a strained relationship?”

      “Since birth.”

      “Why?”

      “I wish I knew.”

      She suddenly sounded very serious and his brow furrowed. She’d changed into jeans and a white peasant blouse before the flight, and right now with her hair loose and no makeup, she looked young and fresh. Appealing. Like the kind of girl you’d want to take home to meet your parents, and he suddenly wondered what his parents would have thought of Emmeline d’Arcy. They’d known of her, of course, but due to his father’s health, they’d never met her.

      “I was emotional as a boy,” he said abruptly. “Sensitive. I’ll never forget my mother pulling me aside when I was around eight or nine and telling me I was a big boy now and too old to cry.”

      “Do you remember why you cried?”

      “My father had fallen out of his wheelchair. I was scared.”

      “But that would be frightening.”

      “I would see worse things.”

      “Sounds like you had to grow up at quite a young age.”

      He shrugged. “My mother needed me. It was important I be strong for her, and my father.”

      Emmeline’s expression was troubled and Makin realized the conversation had become too personal. He swiftly changed the subject to lighten the mood. “I’ve never seen you in jeans before.”

      Emmeline glanced down, crossed her legs, running a hand over her thigh as she did so. “They’re Hannah’s. And Hannah’s top. I found them buried in the back of her closet.” She suddenly looked at him. “I’m going to return them to her. I promise. I’ll have them dry-cleaned and—”

      “That’s between you and Hannah. I imagine she’s had to wear your clothes in Raguva. I can’t picture her playing princess in her wardrobe of brown, beige and gray.”

      Emmeline smiled crookedly. “She doesn’t really have a couture wardrobe.”

      “No. She’s too practical for that.”

      Emmeline ran a hand over the worn denim again. “I’ve never owned a pair of jeans like these. They aren’t the designer ones. They’re real. Broken in, so soft.”

      “Hannah was raised on her father’s ranch in Texas, just outside of San Antonio. Has she told you some of her stories about her life on the ranch?”

      Emmeline shook her head.

      “I think she found it lonely on the ranch. Her father raised her. She didn’t have a mother. She grew up riding and roping and helping with roundups.”

      “Such a different life than mine.”

      “I can’t see you on a ranch.”

      “Neither can I, but I do ride. Not Western-style, of course. I used to compete.”

      “Dressage?”

      She grinned. “No, jumping. I was quite good.” She must have seen the disbelief in his eyes because she laughed and added, “I really was. Even made the Brabant Olympic Equestrian team at twenty.”

      “You participated in the Olympics?”

      “Well, I made it there, but ended up getting thrown in my first event. It was a nasty fall, and for almost twenty-four hours I had no feeling below my chest. Thank goodness full sensation eventually returned, but that was the end of my riding. I’m not allowed to compete again.”

      “I had no idea.”

      “I can’t imagine you reading tabloid magazines, so it’s unlikely you’d know I was mad about jumping. It’s not exactly mainstream news.”

      “Your accident would have made headlines.”

      “It was mentioned that I was thrown, but there was a massive earthquake the next day, and the focus turned to real news.”

      “How many years ago was that?”

      “Five.” She glanced down at her middle and pressed a hand to the peasant blouse, flattening the cotton fabric over her still-flat stomach. “That’s how I met Alejandro. He was at the course when I was thrown and he came to the hospital to check on me. The nurses wouldn’t let him in. Alejandro being Alejandro—” She broke off, swallowed. “—he told them he was my fiancé, and they let him in.”

      Makin thought he’d known Princess Emmeline all of these years. He thought he’d known everything important about her—beautiful, fashionable, chic, as well as soft, pampered and lazy. He’d imagined that her only ambition was being seen and photographed. Instead she’d spent years training in a highly competitive, dangerous sport. She’d been thrown from a horse. She was far