The Princess Brides. Jane Porter

always been strong. She didn’t need approval. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. ‘‘And equality,’’ she said after a moment. ‘‘Equality for women. Everywhere.’’

      Then remembering where she was, standing in what had to be one of the most luxurious courtyards in the world, Nic realized she was speaking not just to Malik, but to a sultan, a king of a country that had once been part of the powerful Ottoman Empire, in a country where men outnumbered women in higher education ten to one.

      Perhaps she’d said too much, been too honest. Nic glanced up at Malik again, tensing inwardly, waiting for his reprimand.

      Instead he nodded, his expression sober. ‘‘I agree.’’

      Another night of restless sleep. Another morning where Nicolette did not want to get up. The more Nic liked Malik, the more difficult her charade became.

      But Alea wasn’t about to let Nicolette spend the day in bed. ‘‘Princess,’’ Alea said, tugging on the covers Nicolette held over her head. ‘‘You must get up. You’re going to be late.’’

      ‘‘It’s just a language lesson.’’

      ‘‘But Lady Fatima will be waiting.’’

      Let her wait.

      ‘‘And I’ve Italian espresso,’’ Alea encouraged in her cheerful singsong. ‘‘You love Italian espresso.’’

      True, Nic loved her coffee. She could drink coffee all day. ‘‘What else do I have on my schedule?’’ Nic asked, her voice muffled from beneath the covers.

      Alea hesitated. Nicolette knew what that meant, too. It meant that Nic had another exhausting day, lessons, appointments, luncheons—all accompanied by Fatima.

      ‘‘You have the state dinner tonight, and the King will be taking you, of course.’’ Alea was trying her best to be encouraging. ‘‘And the first of your new gowns are ready. You’ll be able to wear the dress tonight when King Nuri introduces you to his aides and advisors.’’

      Nicolette slowly lowered the covers. As much as she wanted to stay in bed and avoid the lessons and day’s appointments, she knew she couldn’t. She also wanted to see Malik later. Seeing him had somehow become the highlight of her day.

      Several hours later, after the language lesson ended, Fatima took Nicolette on a tour of the palace, pointing out unusual details like pre-Roman bronzes unearthed at various sites in Baraka, a beautiful bronze of a young boy dating back to the start of the imperial era, gold coins that had been minted during the Almohad dynasty when Baraka was part of the territory that included Morocco, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria and part of Spain.

      For a little while Nicolette forgot the tension existing between her and Fatima. Nic enjoyed the tour, finding the description of ancient treasures and artifacts riveting. She’d always loved history, was passionate about early civilizations and had once fancied herself becoming an explorer.

      But in the end, after university ended, she’d never used her degrees—mathematics, history or otherwise. Instead she’d become a professional princess. For whatever that was worth.

      At one point during the tour, Fatima opened a set of pale gold wood shutters, and the sun poured in. Looking out, Nicolette saw the cloudless blue sky, the far away peaks of the Atlas mountains and the not so distant date and palm trees. For a moment Nicolette felt swept back in time, sucked back one hundred, three hundred, a thousand years. Here, nothing would change quickly. Here, certain elements were constant—the burnished sun, the torrid desert, the tribal conflicts, the unwavering faith of the people.

      King Malik Roman Nuri was part of these elements. He might have French ancestry, a Western education, but he was as steady and deep as the sky over the Sahara.

      Maybe Chantal would like it here. Maybe Chantal would be drawn to Malik just as she, Nic, was drawn to the sultan.

      Maybe she’d made a mistake telling Chantal not to come, that it’d be disastrous to accept the King’s marriage proposal, because truthfully, there was great beauty here. Even the ordinary felt exotic, luxurious, mysterious. Time moved more slowly. No one was hurried, no one moved too quickly, spoke too quickly, no one seemed too busy to converse or smile—well, except for Fatima, that is.

      Standing at the window, Nic tried to imagine Chantal and Lilly in Atiq, and somehow the exotic beauty overshadowed the two of them.

      In her heart of hearts, Nic knew that Chantal would disappear here. Chantal would say all the proper things and agree and try to be pleasing, proper, the wife of a king, but trying hard to please another would just diminish Chantal further.

      Chantal needed a life away from nobility. Service. Duty. Chantal needed to learn how to be selfish.

      Nic’s thoughts haunted her as they finished the tour of the palace rooms. They’d virtually viewed the entire elaborate sprawl of villas, suites and chambers. There were buildings for everything, rooms reserved for the royal family and then the formal rooms for entertaining and even the old wings were spacious, coolly elegant, steeped with a gracious mystique.

      Heading back to Nic’s suite in the palace, they crossed paths with Malik walking with two of his advisors.

      Malik greeted her formally, using the polite Arabic greeting, kissed her on each cheek and then briefly introduced his aides.

      Nicolette responded politely, murmuring words of greeting, although she couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said surprised by the flood of warmth coursing through her.

      She didn’t know why the fleeting touch of his mouth to her skin should make her lose track of her thoughts, and yet suddenly she wasn’t sure what she was doing here, or why they were all together. Uneasily she glanced up into Malik’s face, and his expression was the same as it’d been when he’d briefly kissed her—cordial, considerate, attentive.

      And something more.

      Possession?

      Nic gave herself a quick mental shake. Not possession. He didn’t own her. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t going to stay. Yet thinking of leaving, and leaving him, made her ache more than a little. He was tapping some emotion she usually kept buried deep inside, and this emotion had nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with life. And possibly love.

      He was speaking to her now, asking a question. ‘‘How has your day been?’’

      ‘‘Good. Thank you.’’ Nic struggled to find adequate words. ‘‘I’m overwhelmed by the history here, as well as the beauty. The palace is truly exquisite.’’

      He smiled at her, creases fanning from his eyes. ‘‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.’’

      She liked the way he smiled at her. It was a small smile, barely discernible, but she recognized it and knew it was for her.

      Possession.

      The word whispered through her head, nudging her, worrying her, reminding her of what was at stake.

      But even as the warning voice whispered in her head, something peculiar was happening in her heart. She didn’t feel like Chantal, the betrothed. She felt like Nicolette, the betrothed. She actually felt possessive of Malik.

      But that couldn’t be. She wasn’t here for a relationship. She couldn’t form any bonds, no attachments whatsoever. If she wanted to fall in love, let her fall in love with the country, the history, the culture.

      She forced a light note into her voice. ‘‘I hope I’ll have a chance to see more of the palace at a later date. It’s truly wonderful. Everything has been designed with perfection in mind.’’

      ‘‘Perhaps I’ll have time later this week to complete the tour,’’ Malik answered, shadows forming beneath his strong cheekbones. ‘‘The palace is a thousand years old. Countless artisans have devoted their lives to embellishing the palace’s natural beauty.’’ He then nodded at the others, indicating that Fatima and his advisors