Lost to the Desert Warrior. Sarah Morgan

one but his brother would have dared make such a personal remark and the words were like the sharp flick of a whip.

      ‘There is more than one type of marriage. This will be a marriage of the head, not of the heart.’

      ‘And the Princess?’ There was a creak of leather as Salem shifted his position in the saddle. ‘She’s young. Is that the life she wants?’

      ‘She claims that it is.’

      ‘Does she know about—?’

      ‘No.’ Raz interrupted him before he could finish the sentence. ‘But she understands exactly what I am able to offer her.’

      ‘And you trust her? You can live with her, knowing who she is?’

      ‘I will learn to live with her.’ He blocked thoughts of her heritage and instead thought of her sitting huddled on his bed, gripping the oversized robe in clenched hands. He thought of the book she’d chosen to bring from the library to equip her for her new role. Thought of the courage it must have taken to come to him. ‘She has very little life experience.’

      ‘Whereas you have decades too much. You’re not an easy man to know, Raz—are you being fair to her?’

      ‘I will endeavour to be as fair as possible.’ Frowning, Raz released his hold on the reins and urged the stallion forward. ‘You’re wasting time. The key to my bride’s happiness will be finding her sister safe and well. Make that happen.’

      Salem rode away from him. ‘Just watch your back, brother.’

      * * *

      ‘His Highness instructed us to bring you clothes.’ The girl dropped a dress on the bed. Resentment and animosity throbbed from her and it was obvious she wished she had not been the one chosen for the task.

      ‘Thank you.’ Having washed away the dust from her fall in the water that had been hastily provided, Layla stared at the exquisite fall of silk, caught at the waist with a silver belt. ‘I didn’t expect a dress.’ Especially not a dress like this one. A romantic dress. Where had he found it?

      She remembered his comment about romance and felt a flash of panic that Raz Al Zahki would think she was secretly nurturing dreams about their relationship, and then remembered that he was the last person to encourage such a delusion.

      He didn’t want this any more than she did.

      ‘You cannot marry His Highness in dusty robes that swamp you. You have to look your best on your wedding day.’ There was censorship in her tone and something else. Jealousy?

      Feeling desperately alone, Layla missed her sister more than ever. She suppressed the urge to point out there was no reason for anyone to feel jealous. That this marriage was driven by loyalty to his country and no other emotion.

      Surely it was obvious?

      ‘The Sheikh and I met for the first time a few hours ago.’

      ‘But you have been chosen as the one to warm his bed and his heart.’ The girl removed the bowl of water that she’d placed by Layla’s feet. ‘You carry a big responsibility.’

      The words did nothing to ease the churning in her stomach. Layla knew she’d warm the bed simply by lying in it, but she also knew that wasn’t what the girl meant. She did not feel it appropriate to point out the absurdity of being chosen to warm his heart when his heart was in his thoracic cavity and more than capable of maintaining its own temperature. No, what the girl was really pointing out was that she was filling the gap left by his wife. Suddenly Layla realised that it was all very well to speak blithely of a different sort of marriage but in the end this union was about a man and a woman spending their lives together, and she had no idea if he would even be able to treat her with civility, given everything that had happened.

      But what difference did it make? Her alternative was marriage to Hassan and nothing could be worse.

      Rationalising that, Layla only half listened as the girl braided her hair and continued to praise Raz in terms close to hero-worship. She was aware of the worsening throb in her head and the steady gnawing of anxiety about her sister. And beneath all that there was anxiety about herself. About what lay ahead. About him.

      It was all very well to state bravely that this was what she wanted. Quite another thing to contemplate the reality.

      I will inevitably hurt you—as you would know if you’d read the book.

      ‘The book’ was safely tucked away in her bag, along with the other book she’d smuggled out of the Citadel. Raz had told her she didn’t need to read it but she couldn’t think of anything worse than relying entirely on someone else for information.

      She wished she could have time alone to study it before the wedding, but there seemed to be no chance of that and she couldn’t argue with his decision to proceed as quickly as possible.

      Hassan would be out looking for her. And for Yasmin.

      She winced as the girl’s fingers encountered a fresh bruise.

      ‘His Highness told me you fell from your horse. It’s a shame that you can’t ride because he is a magnificent horseman.’

      The implication being that he couldn’t have picked a worse match in her.

      Her confidence plummeting as each of Raz’s qualities was revealed, Layla sank into gloom. She was starting to wonder if this might not have been the worst idea of her life.

      And then she heard noise from outside the tent and sat up, clutching the towel, terrified that Hassan might have found them. ‘Who is that?’

      ‘The wedding guests. A Bedouin wedding gives everyone a chance to dress up and celebrate. Word has spread that His Royal Highness Raz Al Zahki is to marry Her Royal Highness Princess Layla of Tazkhan.’ There was a brittle note to her tone. ‘Even though it is short notice, he wants as many of the local people here as possible. It’s important that it is witnessed.’

      He wanted rumour spread. He wanted Hassan to hear and be afraid.

      ‘Even when I’m married to Raz Al Zahki, Hassan is unlikely to step aside.’

      ‘His Highness will know what to do.’

      Layla was surprised by how much faith people seemed to have in him. She was used to living in an atmosphere of negativity and resentment, not of trust.

      Nothing about this new life seemed familiar, and certainly not the dress.

      She had never worn anything so beautiful. Her hair, now shiny and clean, was concealed by a veil and her eyes had been accentuated by kohl. The shiny gloss the girl applied to her mouth felt sticky and strange and Layla felt utterly unlike herself.

      Any hopes she’d had of being able to sneak a look at the Kama Sutra died as she was immediately led outside. It seemed that she and Raz Al Zahki agreed on at least one thing, and that was that the marriage should take place as fast as possible.

      And clearly he had also decided that there should be as many witnesses as possible, because a surprising number of people had poured into the desert camp in the time it had taken her to wash and change.

      The wedding itself was a blur, conducted with an urgency driven not by feelings of sentimentality but by the knowledge that any delay could give Hassan an advantage.

      Layla kept her gaze focused ahead of her, aware of what felt like a thousand pairs of eyes fixed on her—some curious, others with unconcealed hostility.

      And all the time she was aware of Raz next to her, tall and powerful, doing his duty for the good of his people, his own personal wishes set aside.

      The event held no emotional meaning for either of them, but they stood side by side, spoke the words required of them, and Layla felt a rush of relief that came from the knowledge that no matter what happened now Hassan couldn’t make her his wife.

      As Raz turned towards her relief was washed