Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child. Annie West

in his surroundings. Instinctively he knew the pain would be overwhelming when he did. Right now he didn’t have the strength to pretend he didn’t care.

      His only weapons against his father were pride and feigned unconcern. To meet the old man’s eyes steadily and refuse to beg for mercy.

      It drove his tormentor wild and robbed him of the satisfaction he sought from lashing out at his son.

      No matter how bad the thrashing, how prolonged or vicious, Tahir never begged for it to end. Nor did he cry out. Not a murmur, not a flinch, no matter how remorseless his father’s ice-cold eyes or how explosive his temper. Even when Yazan Al’Ramiz brought in thugs to subdue Tahir and prolong the punishment, Tahir refused to give in.

      There was triumph in facing down the man who’d hated him for as long as he could remember. That was little recompense for not knowing why Yazan loathed him, but it gave him something to focus on rather than go crazy seeking an explanation the old man refused to give.

      Obviously Tahir wasn’t the sort to inspire affection.

      Far better to be alone and self-contained.

      He was stubborn and contemptuous enough never to give in. It was a matter of honour that every time, when it was over, he gathered his strength and walked away. Even if his steps were unsteady and his eyes clouded. Even if he had to haul himself along using furniture or a wall to keep upright.

      Sheer willpower always forced him on. He refused to lie broken and cowed at the old Sheikh’s feet.

      Tahir drew a shaky breath, awake enough to register the constriction in his chest and the pain ripping across his side. Broken ribs?

      He couldn’t walk away this time. The realisation tore at his pride and ignited his stubbornness.

      Something fluttered at his neck. A touch so light that for a moment his dazed brain rejected the notion.

      There it was again. Something cool and damp slid from his jaw down his throat, then lower, in a soothing swipe over his chest. And again, from under his chin, the caress edged down, tracing blessed coolness across burning skin.

      It stopped and, straining his senses, Tahir heard a splash. A moment later the damp cloth—he was aware enough now to realise what it was—returned, trailing across his pounding forehead and brushing damply at his hair.

      He swallowed a moan at the pure pleasure of that cool relief against the searing ache in his head.

      Was this some new torture devised by his father? A moment’s respite and burgeoning hope to rouse him enough only so he could feel more pain when the beating recommenced?

      ‘Go away.’ He moved his lips, worked his throat, but no sound emerged.

      The cloth paused, then slid down his cheek in a tender caress that was almost his undoing. He couldn’t remember feeling weaker.

      His skin burned and prickled, as if stung by a thousand cuts, yet the bliss of that touch made him suck in his breath. That sudden movement scorched his battered torso with a fiery ache.

      ‘Go away.’

      He didn’t have the strength to withstand the lure of this gentle treatment. It would break him as the pounding fists never could.

      ‘You’re awake.’ Her voice was a whisper, soft as a soughing breeze. He racked his brain to place it. Surely he couldn’t forget a woman with a voice like that? Low and sweet, with a seductive husky edge that set it apart.

      He didn’t know her. In his foggy brain that fact stood out.

      She must be one of his father’s women. A new one.

      Bitterness flooded his mouth, ousting even the rusty taste of blood. He should have guessed Sheikh Yazan Al’Ramiz would try something new to break his obstinate son. What better than the soft touch of a woman?

      ‘Leave me,’ Tahir ordered. But to his shame his voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. Almost a whimper.

      ‘Here.’ A firm hand slipped beneath his shoulder and a slim arm supported his skull, lifting him slightly.

      Instantly pain shot through him. A stabbing spike of lightning shattered the blankness behind his closed lids and he stiffened against the need to gasp out his agony.

      ‘I know it hurts, but you have to drink.’ He heard the voice vaguely, as if through a muffling curtain. Then water, blessedly cool, trickled over his lips. Thought fled as he gulped the precious fluid.

      Too soon the flow stopped.

      He opened his lips to ask for more, heedless now of pride. But she forestalled him, her voice soothing.

      ‘Be patient. You can have more soon.’ She leaned close. He felt her warmth beside and behind him as he lay in her lap. Her scent, wild honey and cinnamon and warm female flesh, teased his nostrils and unravelled his thoughts. ‘You’re dehydrated. You need fluids, but not too fast.’

      ‘How long before he returns?’

      ‘He?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘There’s no one else. Just you and me.’

      Tahir listened to her husky voice, a voice of untrammelled temptation, and suppressed a groan of despair. How could he hold out against the promise of that voice, those gentle hands?

      In his weakened state Tahir had no reserves of strength. All he wanted was to have her hold him, nurse him against her undoubtedly soft bosom and pretend there was no such thing as reality.

      How long before he begged for the first time in his life?

      Damn his father for finally finding a way to break his resistance. She’d sap his willpower as no beating could.

      ‘Tell me.’ He struggled to sit higher, but was so weak the press of her palm against his bare chest stopped him. ‘When will he be back?’

      ‘Who? Was there someone with you in the desert?’ Urgency threaded her voice.

      ‘Desert?’ Tahir paused, his brows turning down as he fought to remember. Sheikh Yazan Al’Ramiz enjoyed the luxuries of life too much to spend time in the desert, even if it was the traditional home of his forebears.

      She was trying to distract him.

      ‘Where is my father?’ he whispered through gritted teeth, as pain rose in an engulfing tide. ‘He’ll want to gloat.’

      ‘I told you, there’s no one here but us.’

      His face hurt as he grimaced. ‘I may have been beaten senseless but I’m not a fool.’ He raised a hand and unerringly encircled her wrist where her palm rested against his chest.

      She was young, her skin supple and smooth. He felt her pulse race against his fingers, heard her breath catch in the resounding silence that blanketed them.

      ‘Someone beat you? I thought you’d been in an accident.’

      Finally, against his better judgement, he forced his weighted eyelids open. The world was dark and blurred. It took a long time to focus. When he did his breath seized in his lungs.

      Damn the old man. He knew Tahir too well. Knew him better than Tahir knew himself.

      She glowed in the wavering light, her smooth almost oval face pale and perfect. Her nose was neat and straight. Her lips formed a cupid’s bow that promised pure pleasure. His pulse leapt just from looking at it and, despite his pain, heat coiled in Tahir’s belly when she furtively swiped her tongue along her top lip as if nervous.

      The slightly square set of her jaw hinted at character and a determination that instantly appealed to Tahir. And her eyes…He could sink into the rich sherry-tinted depths of those wide eyes. They looked guileless, gorgeous, beguiling.

      Glossy dark hair framed her face. Not a stiff, sprayed coiffure but soft tresses that had escaped whatever she’d done to pull her hair back.

      She looked fresh, without a touch