Desert Prince's Stolen Bride. Кейт Хьюит

Had there been some kind of attack and no one had even realised?

      As soon as they were clear, the man took off her gag.

      ‘I am sorry for that. I did not want you to be treated so roughly.’

      Which made no sense. He was her kidnapper. But Olivia couldn’t ask any questions now, not with the wind streaming past and the sand flying into her eyes. The man slowed the horse down to tie the scarf around her hair and cover her mouth. ‘There. That is better,’ he murmured into her ear, sending shivers racing across her skin.

      Olivia was conscious of the hard wall of the man’s chest she was leaning against, his arm wrapped so snugly around her she almost felt safe. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and they were off again, flying across the sand.

      The hours blurred into one another as they kept riding, the man holding her all the while, her body starting to ache from the constant jostling.

      The moon was a silver crescent high above them, the sky a garden of stars sending silvery shadows across the desert sand, the only sound the steady thud of the horses’ hooves.

      At some point Olivia fell into an uneasy doze, her head resting against his chest, which seemed impossible, considering her precarious situation, but the constant, teeth-jarring movement had exhausted her.

      She woke with a jolt when their gallop slowed, the man’s arm relaxing on her only slightly. Olivia blinked warily; a few flickering lights emerged like pinpricks in the darkness. She heard low, murmuring voices but couldn’t make out the words. It had taken concentration to understand everything the man had said to her in Arabic, and Olivia thought she must have missed or misunderstood some words.

      The man slowed the horse to a stop and slid off it in one easy movement before turning to her.

      Olivia gazed down at him, uncertain and suddenly desperately afraid. They had arrived at some kind of destination, and she had no idea what was going to happen now. What this man was going to do with her. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, that he would keep her safe, but why on earth should she believe him?

      ‘Come down,’ he said quietly, and his tone reminded Olivia of the way Sultan Hassan talked to a frightened mare. ‘No one will hurt you. I gave you my vow.’

      ‘Why...?’ Her voice came out in a croak; her throat was as dry as dust, sand speckling her lips and skin. ‘Why have you taken me?’

      ‘For justice,’ the man replied. He reached for her, his hands gripping her arms with that gentle strength she’d felt before. ‘Now, come down. Eat, drink, refresh yourself. And then we’ll talk.’

      Olivia’s feet hit the ground and her legs nearly gave way. She hated being so feeble, but she’d never ridden a horse before and they’d been galloping for several hours. Her thighs chafed and her muscles ached. She felt as if she could collapse right where she stood. The man caught her, swearing under his breath.

      ‘I thought you knew how to ride.’

      ‘What?’ Olivia blinked at him in surprised confusion. Why would he think that? ‘No, I don’t know how. I never learned.’

      ‘It seems my intelligence was wrong on one point, at least.’ He turned away before she could reply. ‘Suma will see to you.’

      * * *

      Zayed al bin Nur strode towards his tent, his body aching from the hard ride and his heart thudding with the heady pulse of triumph. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. He’d successfully kidnapped Princess Halina Amari from behind the seemingly impenetrable walls of the royal palace. All that remained now was to seal the deal and make her his bride.

      His mouth curved grimly as he thought of his future father-in-law’s fury. Abducting Princess Halina had been a massive risk, but a calculated one. Hassan Amari knew Zayed’s cause was just. And Zayed knew he needed the full support of the neighbouring kingdom of Abkar to wage war against Fakhir Malouf, the man who had taken his throne...and murdered his family.

      The old rage settled in Zayed’s gut, ice-cold and iron-hard with the passage of time, a familiar and almost comforting weight as he ducked under the flap and went into his tent. His advisor and friend, Jahmal, scrambled to attention.

      ‘My Prince.’

      ‘Have the preparations been made?’

      ‘Yes, My Prince.’

      Zayed shrugged off his travel-stained cloak and tore the turban from his hair, running his hand through the spiky mass to dislodge the grains of sand. ‘Thank you. I am giving my bride half an hour to rest and refresh herself, and then we will go ahead with the ceremony.’

      Unease flickered across Jahmal’s face but he nodded. ‘Yes, My Prince.’

      Zayed knew his closest advisors had been deeply unsure about the risk he was taking. They were afraid of invoking Hassan Amari’s wrath, even of starting another and far more damaging war with a neighbouring country they counted as their ally. But they didn’t have the same fury and fear driving them as he did. They didn’t remember the tortured screams of his brother and father as they’d burned to death in a helicopter that had pirouetted to the ground in flames. They didn’t see his mother’s shocked face when they closed their eyes, feel her unending grief, the memory of her dying in his arms a burden they would carry to his last breath. They didn’t wake in the darkness, a silent scream of terror and rage bottled in their throats as the vestiges of a nightmare clung to their shattered minds and they were forced to face another bleak dawn, an unending day of fighting for what always should have been theirs.

      No, they didn’t understand. And no one ever would. This civil war would go on and on with no end in sight unless Zayed did something drastic and definitive. Fakhir Malouf would continue to set his country back decades, oppressing his people with his hopelessly backward schemes. Zayed had to act. And this had been the only option open to him.

      There were worse things than a rushed wedding. He was honouring his betrothal vow, that was all. Halina would learn to accept it. Shrugging out of his dusty garments, Zayed prepared to meet his bride.

      Half an hour later, freshly bathed and shaven, he ducked into the tent where he had ordered Suma to bring Halina to wait. His eyes adjusting to the flickering candlelight, he saw that she sat on a silken pillow with her back to him, narrow and slender, her hair streaming down it in a dark, damp river. She wore a loose robe of deep blue embroidered with silver thread that engulfed her slender figure but still reminded him of how she’d felt in his arms, slender and light. A surprising surge of desire arrowed through him. This marriage was about politics, nothing more, but it had been a long time since he’d lain with a woman.

      Zayed let the tent flap fall closed behind him with a rustle and she turned, scrambling to a standing position, her eyes wide. She had incredible eyes, a deep, stormy blue, fringed extravagantly with sooty lashes. He hadn’t expected those eyes, somehow.

      Of course, he’d never seen a proper photograph of his bride, merely a few blurry images taken from a distance, since she’d been raised in virtual seclusion. They’d been betrothed when he was twenty and she ten, although it had been done formally, with a proxy, so they’d never met. Now did not seem like the most auspicious of introductions, but there was nothing to be done for it. Zayed squared his shoulders.

      ‘You have been made comfortable, I trust?’

      She hesitated, her gaze searching his face, looking for answers. After a pause, she finally answered. ‘Yes...’ Her voice was both soft and husky, pleasant. That was good. So far he liked her eyes and her hair, and he knew her body was both slender and curvaceous from being nestled against it on horseback for several uncomfortable hours. Three things that he could be thankful for. He had not expected so much. Rumours had painted Halina as a melodramatic and slightly spoiled princess. The woman in front of him did not seem so.

      ‘But...’ Her throat worked convulsively, the words coming in stumbling snatches. ‘I don’t... I don’t...understand why you’ve...’

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