Royal Weddings. Annie West

life to the happy couple,’ roared the herald.

      Tariq lifted the goblet and drank, then held it out to Samira, turning it so her lips touched the spot from which he’d drunk. Heat sizzled through her as he watched her over the rim and she swallowed the heady, sweet mixture that tasted of honey, cinnamon and unknown spices.

      ‘May they be blessed with peace and happiness and honoured by all.’

      Again Tariq drank. Samira watched, enthralled, as the muscles in his powerful neck moved.

      He held the drink out to her, again presenting her with the same side of the goblet that he’d used. She told herself she imagined the taste of him there on the beaten gold. Yet it felt incredibly intimate, pressing her lips where his had been, even though she knew it was merely a symbolic gesture as old as the traditional marriage ceremony. She gulped a little too much, feeling the concoction catch the back of her throat.

      Tariq’s hand squeezed hers and Samira’s tension eased a little. It would be all right. They were almost through the celebration that had somehow turned into an ordeal.

      ‘And may they be blessed with strong, fine children.’

      Samira was ready for it but still the words caught her a slashing blow to the midriff. She pasted on a bright smile and watched Tariq draw a deep draft from the golden chalice.

      He lifted it to her mouth, tilting high so she had no choice but to swallow more than the tiny sip she’d planned.

      The hall broke out into a pandemonium of applause and ululating cheers. But all she could see was Tariq’s eyes. They’d darkened to gleaming tourmaline. Or were her senses blurring? She felt warm and somehow...undone.

      Tariq lowered the goblet and Samira licked her bottom lip, catching a stray drop that lingered there. Tariq seemed fascinated with the movement and to her horror she felt tiny prickling darts of heat pepper her breasts and abdomen. Just as if he’d touched her.

      Heat burned in her ears.

      ‘What is that stuff?’ she whispered.

      He passed the goblet to the waiting herald, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘It’s harmless enough. A traditional mixture designed to promote virility.’

      Samira snapped her mouth shut, her brain whirling as Tariq turned to address the assembled throng. She told herself it was a necessary part of the ritual, no more. But the feel of Tariq’s hand still gripping hers, the sensation of his long fingers threading through hers, his thumb stroking her palm, sent a warning buzzing through her.

      * * *

      Tariq watched from the doorway as his bride bent over the twin beds where his boys slept. A nightlight glowed at floor level and she looked like something from a fairy story, all shimmer and fragile, gossamer-fine fabrics.

      But Samira wasn’t an ethereal fairy. She was a warm, flesh-and-blood woman. He’d felt her pulse stir as he held her hand at the banquet, watched the rosy heat brighten her cheeks and plump up her lips as she drank their wedding toast.

      His groin had tightened unbearably as he’d looked down into those wide, anxious eyes and he’d felt the double-edged sword of lust and caution at his throat. He wanted her so badly his skin grated with it.

      It felt like he’d wanted Samira most of his life.

      Now there was nothing, not even the guilt he carried over Jasmin, to stop him having her.

      Yet seeing her bent over his sleeping sons, rearranging blankets and moving stuffed toys, he felt more than desire. Gratitude that she genuinely cared for them. How many other brides would have spent their wedding night checking on their stepchildren?

      Yet wasn’t that why she’d proposed marriage? For his children?

      Tariq’s jaw tightened. His pride shrieked outrage that she saw him as no more than a tool to get what she wanted.

      He’d read her expression when she’d told him she couldn’t have a baby. He’d seen her pain and it was part of the reason he’d consented to this marriage, despite his reservations. That and the curious certainty he couldn’t simply turn his back on Samira as originally intended. She had something he needed.

      It had given insight into her motivation for brazenly offering herself in marriage. And he’d been determined she’d make that offer to no other man but him!

      Tariq spun away on his heel and stalked down the corridor. But Samira didn’t offer herself, did she? She expected him to accept her with conditions. As if he wasn’t a man with a man’s needs and hungers. As if he didn’t have a right to touch the woman who’d pledged herself to him, body and soul.

      She’d thought she could dictate terms to him, the Sheikh of Al Sarath!

      Perhaps she was more innocent than the world thought. He could have told her no marriage was as simple as it appeared on paper, not when it was lived by real people. Not even an arranged marriage executed for reasons of pragmatism and convenience.

      A clammy hand wrapped around his chest, squeezing tight as shadows of the past rose.

      When two people lived together as husband and wife the boundaries blurred. And in this marriage, despite Samira’s fond imaginings, the boundaries were about to be ripped asunder.

      * * *

      Samira leaned back against the pillows, a paperback in her hand. A gentle breeze stirred the long, sheer curtains and soft lamplight made even the enormous, lavishly appointed room seem cosy. Yet she was too wired to relax.

      Her mind buzzed with impressions. The noise and colour of the crowd at the wedding. The strange sense that, despite the throng, she and Tariq were isolated from the rest, each action, each word, weighted and momentous. The spicy smell of Tariq’s skin as he’d held her hand and kissed it. The way his eyes had held hers as they’d shared that jewelled goblet.

      That must be it, the reason her body was tight and achy. It was the potion they’d drunk. The alternative, that this was a reaction to Tariq, just wasn’t acceptable.

      Or perhaps it was the suspicion, fuelled by the gleam in Tariq’s eyes today, that there might be complications in their marriage-on-paper-only arrangement. That look reminded her Tariq was a virile, red-blooded man used to taking what he wanted.

      Samira rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms, telling herself she was being fanciful. Tariq had accepted her terms.

      She turned to switch off the lamp and caught movement on the other side of the room.

      ‘Tariq!’ Her voice was a thready whisper.

      He’d changed out of his wedding finery. Gone was the white robe and head scarf. Gone was the jewelled, ceremonial dagger. Gone was half his clothing!

      This was Tariq as she’d never seen him. Her eyes rounded and her jaw sank open. The young man she’d once known had been long and lean but his body had changed in a decade, filling out the promise of those wide shoulders.

      Her vision was filled with acres of bare, golden skin. She drank in the solidly muscled pectorals dusted with dark hair, the flex and bunch of more muscles at his taut abdomen as he prowled out of the shadows towards her. He walked proud, shoulders back, stride confident, reminding her that this man ruled all he surveyed.

      Samira’s throat dried as she took in the splendour of him. He was like a statue of a Greek god come to life—all warm flesh instead of cold marble. A long silver, slashing arc across his ribs and another smaller scar near his shoulder were the only things marring that perfection.

      Yet they emphasised his earthy masculinity. She knew he’d got the larger wound in his teens, practising the ancient art of swordsmanship. She’d heard him tell Asim that his uncle, who was his guardian, had given him no sympathy because he’d been foolish enough not to wear protective clothing, and worse, to let someone get the better of him. Tariq had grown up in a man’s world where toughness was prized and no quarter was given for sentiment or weakness. Now he looked every inch the marauding