Duty and the Beast. Trish Morey

me think it was much worse.’

      ‘You think too much.’

      ‘You don’t know the first thing about me.’

      ‘I know you talk too much.’ He hauled her even closer to him. ‘Relax.’

      She yawned. ‘And you’re arrogant and bossy.’

      ‘Go to sleep.’

      But she didn’t want to go to sleep. If she went to sleep, she would slump against him, closer to that hard wall of his chest, closer to that beating heart. And princesses did not fall asleep on the chests of strangers mounted on horseback. Especially not strangers like this man: arrogant. Assuming. Autocratic.

      Besides, she had stayed awake most of the last night. It would not hurt her to stay awake a little longer. She looked up at him as they rode, at the strong line of his jaw under the mask, at the purposeful look in his dark eyes. Then, because she realised she was staring, she looked upwards to where it seemed as if all the stars in the universe had come out to play in a velvet sky.

      She picked out the brightest stars, familiar stars that she had seen from her suite’s balcony at home in the palace.

      ‘Is it far to Jemeya?’

      ‘Too far to travel tonight.’

      ‘But my father, he will know I am safe?’

      ‘He will know.’

      ‘Good.’ She yawned again, suddenly bone weary. The night air was cold around her face and she snuggled her face deeper under the cover of the cloak, imagining herself back in her own bed at the palace. That was warm too, a refuge when the winds spun around and carried the chill from the mainland’s cold desert nights.

      The horse galloped on, rocking her with every stride, but she knew there was no risk of falling, not with this man’s arms surrounding her, the cloak wound tightly around them both, anchoring her to his body. She breathed in the warm air against his body, deliciously warm. His scent was so different from her father’s familiar blend of aftershave and pipe tobacco, which shouldn’t smell good but still did; this man smelled different and yet not unpleasantly so. This man seemed to carry the essence of the desert, warm and evocative, combining sunshine and sand, leather and horseflesh, and some indefinable extra ingredient, some musky quality all his own.

      She breathed deeply, savouring it, tucking it away in her memory. Soon enough she would be back in her own bed, with familiar scents and sounds, but for now it was no hardship to stay low under the cloak, to drink in the warmth and his scent and let it seep bone deep.

      After all, she was safe now. Why shouldn’t she relax just a little? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to nap just for a moment or two?

      She let her eyelids drift closed as she yawned again, and this time she left them closed as she nestled against the hard, warm torso of her rescuer, breathing deeply of his scent, relishing the motion as the horse rocked them together. It wasn’t so bad—a nap would refresh her, and soon she would be home with her father again. Nobody would know she had fallen asleep in the arms of a stranger.

      And nobody would ever know how much she enjoyed it.

      Zoltan Al Farouk bin Shamal knew the precise moment the princess had fallen asleep. She had been fighting it for some time, battling to remain as rigid and stiff in his arms as a plank of wood.

      He almost laughed at the thought. She was no plank of wood. He had suspected as much from the first moment he had pulled her into his arms and spread his fingers wide over her belly. A chance manoeuvre and a lucky one, as it happened, designed to drag her close and shut her up before she could raise the alarm, but with the added bonus of discovering first-hand that this princess came with benefits: a softly rounded belly between the jut of hipbones, the delicious curve of waist to hip and the all-important compunction to want to explore further, just to name a few. It had been no hardship to hold her close and feel her flesh tremble with awareness under his hand, even while she attempted to act as if she was unaffected.

      Unaffected, at least, until she had given into her baser instincts and jammed her teeth down on his finger.

      This time he allowed himself to laugh, a low rumble that he let the passing air carry away. No, there was nothing wooden about her at all.

      Especially now.

      The rhythm of the horse had seduced her into relaxing, and bit by bit he had felt her resistance waver, her bones soften, until sleep had claimed her and she had unconsciously allowed her body to melt against his.

      She felt surprisingly good there, tucked warm and close against his body, relaxed and loose-limbed, all feminine curves and every one of them an invitation to sin.

      Exactly like her scandal-ridden sister, from what he had heard. Was this one as free and easy with her favours? It would not surprise him if she were—she had the sultry good looks of the royal women of Jemeya, the eyes that were enough to make a man hard, the lush mouth that promised the response would not be wasted. At her age, she must have had lovers. But at least, unlike her sister, this one had had the sense not to breed.

      It would be no hardship making love with this woman. His groin tightened at the prospect. In less than forty-eight hours she would be his. He could wait that long. Maybe duty and this unwanted marriage would have some benefits after all.

      Maybe.

      As he looked down in the bundle of his arms, one thing he was sure of—spoilt princess or not, she was far too good for the likes of Mustafa.

      Around him his friends fanned out, sand flying from the horses’ hooves as they sped across the dunes. Better than good friends, they were the brothers he had never had, the brothers he had instead chosen. They would stay for the wedding and the coronation, they had promised, and then they would each go their separate ways again—Kadar back to Istanbul, Bahir to the roulette tables of Monte Carlo and Rashid to wherever in the world he could make the most money in the shortest time.

      He would miss them when they were gone, and this time he would not be free to join them whenever the opportunity arose. For he was no longer the head of a global executive-jet fleet with the ability to take off to wherever he wanted if he had the time. Now everything he had built up might have been for nothing. Now he was stuck here in Al-Jirad to do his duty.

      The woman in his arms stirred, muttering something as she shifted, angling herself further into him, one hand sliding down his stomach and perilously close to his groin.

      He growled into the night air as he felt himself harden, growled when her hand slipped even lower. If she could do this to him when she was asleep, how much more would she be capable of when she was awake?

       He could not wait to find out.

      

      CHAPTER TWO

      AISHA woke and sat up in bed, confused and still half-dreaming of mysterious desert men with broad shoulders and glinting eyes, of solid, muscled chests and strong arms with which to cradle her.

      No. Not men. Just one man who had taken possession of her dreams as if he had a God-given right to.

      Ridiculous. Thank God it was the morning after and she would never have to see him again.

      She felt a sudden, bewildering pang of regret that she hadn’t had the chance to thank him.

      Baffling, really. The man had been arrogant beyond belief, he’d laughed at her every chance he’d had, and her father would have no doubt paid him handsomely for rescuing her—and she was actually sorry she hadn’t had the chance to thank him?

      What mattered now was that she was safe! Relief that they had got away turned to exhilaration running through her veins. She had been rescued from her kidnappers and the sick promise of a marriage to that pig, Mustafa. She let herself collapse back into the pillows with a sigh.

       She was free.

      She looked