Sheikh's Defiant Wife. Maisey Yates

Of course she would be expected to eat with him, rather than alone—while the servants ate their own rations out of sight.

      It was a long time since she had enjoyed a meal in the desert and, inevitably, the experience had a story-book feel to it. The giant bulk of the camels was silhouetted against the darkening sky, where the first stars were beginning to glimmer. The crackling flames glowed golden and the smell of the traditional Qurhah stew was rich with the scent of oranges and cinnamon.

      Sara sank down onto a pile of brocade cushions while Suleiman adopted a position on the opposite side of the low table, on which thick, creamy candles burned. It was as if an outdoor dining room had been erected in the middle of the sands and it looked spectacular. She’d forgotten how much could be loaded onto the backs of the camels and how it was a Qurhah custom to make every desert trip feel like a home-from-home.

      She accepted a beaker of pomegranate juice and smiled her thanks at the servant who ladled out a portion of the stew onto each of the silver platters, before leaving the two of them alone.

      The food was delicious and Sara ate several mouthfuls but her hunger soon began to ebb away. It was too distracting to think about eating when Suleiman was sitting opposite her, his face growing shadowed in the dying light. She noticed he was watching her closely—his intelligent eyes narrowed and gleaming—and she knew that she must approach this very carefully. He could not be played with and toyed with. If she went about her proposed seduction in a crass and obvious manner, then mightn’t he see through it?

      So try to get underneath his skin—without him realising what you’re doing.

      ‘You do realise that I’ve known you for years and yet you’re still something of a mystery to me,’ she said conversationally.

      ‘Good. That’s the way I like it.’

      ‘I mean, I know practically nothing about your past,’ she continued, as if he hadn’t made that terse interruption.

      ‘How many times have I told you, Sara? My past is irrelevant.’

      ‘I don’t agree. Surely our past is what defines us. It makes us what we are today. And you’ve never told me how you first got to know the Sultan—or to be regarded so highly by him. When I was a child you said I wouldn’t understand—and when I became an adult, well...’ She shrugged, not wanting to spell it out. Not needing to say that once sexual attraction had reared its powerful head, any kind of intimacy had seemed too dangerous. She put her fork down and looked at him.

      ‘It isn’t relevant,’ he said.

      ‘Well, what else are we going to talk about? And if I am to be the Sultan’s wife...’ She hesitated as she noticed him flinch. ‘Then surely it must be relevant. Am I to know nothing about the background of the man who was my future husband’s aide for so long? You must admit that it is highly unusual for such a powerful man as the Sultan to entrust so much to someone who has no aristocratic blood of their own.’

      ‘I had no idea that you were such a snob, Sara,’ he mocked.

      ‘I’m not a snob,’ she corrected. ‘Just someone seeking the facts. That’s one of the side effects of having had a western education. I was taught to question things, rather than just to accept what I was told or be fobbed off with some bland reply designed to put me in my place.’

      ‘Then maybe your western education has not served you well,’ he said, before suddenly stilling. He shook his head. ‘What am I saying?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘How unforgivable of me to try to damn your education and in so doing—to damn knowledge itself. Forget that I ever said that.’

      ‘Does that mean you’ll answer my question?’

      ‘That is not what I meant at all.’

      ‘Please, Suleiman.’

      He gave an exasperated sigh as he looked at her. But she thought she saw affection in his eyes too as he lowered his voice and began to speak in English, even though Sara was certain that none of the servants or bodyguards were within earshot.

      ‘You know that I was born into poverty?’ he said. ‘Real and abject poverty?’

      ‘I heard the rumours,’ Sara answered. ‘Though you’d never guess that from your general bearing and manner.’

      ‘I learn very quickly. Adaption is the first lesson of survival,’ he said drily. ‘And believe me, it’s easier to absorb the behaviour of the rich, than it is the other way round.’

      ‘So how did you—a boy from the wrong side of the tracks—ever come into contact with someone as important as the Sultan?’

      There was silence for a moment. Sara thought she saw a sudden darkness cross his face. And there was bitterness, too.

      ‘I grew up in a place called Tymahan, a small area of Samahan, where the land is at its most desolate and people eke out what living they can. To be honest, there was never much of a living to be made—even before the last war, when much blood was shed. But you, of course—in your pampered palace in Dhi’ban—would have known nothing of those hardships.’

      ‘You cannot blame me for the way I was protected as a princess,’ she protested. ‘Would you sooner I had cut off my hair and pretended to be a boy, in order to do battle?’

      ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Carry on with your story,’ she urged, leaning forward a little.

      He seemed to draw in a quick breath as she grew closer.

      ‘The Sultan’s father was touring the region,’ he said. ‘He wanted to witness the aftermath of the wars and to see whether any insurrection remained.’

      Sara watched as he took a sip from his beaker and then put the drink back down on the low table.

      ‘My mother had been ill—and grieving,’ he continued. ‘My father had been killed in the uprisings and as a consequence she was vulnerable—struck down by a scourge known to many at that time.’ His mouth twisted with pain and bitterness. ‘A scourge known as starvation.’

      Sara flinched as guilt suddenly washed over her. Earlier, he had accused her of self-pity and didn’t he have a point? She had moaned about her position as a princess—yet despite the many unsatisfactory areas of her life, she had certainly never experienced anything as fundamental as a lack of food. She’d never had to face a problem as pressing as basic survival. She looked into his black eyes, which were now clouded with pain, and her heart went out to him.

      ‘Oh, Suleiman,’ she said softly.

      His mouth hardened, as if her sympathy was unwelcome. ‘The Sultan was being entertained by a group of local dignitaries and there was enough food groaning on those tables to feed our village for a month,’ he said, his voice growing harsh. ‘I was lurking in the shadows, for that was my particular skill—to see and yet not be seen. And on this night I saw a pomegranate—as big as a man’s fist and as golden as the midday sun. My mother had always loved pomegranates and I...’

      ‘You stole it?’ she guessed as his words faded away.

      He gave her a tight smile. ‘If I had been old enough to articulate my thoughts I would have called it a fair distribution of goods, but my motives were irrelevant since I was caught, red-handed. I may have been good at hiding in the shadows, but I was no match for the Sultan’s elite bodyguards.’

      Sara shivered, recognising the magnitude of such a crime and wondering how he was still alive to tell the tale.

      ‘And they let you off?’

      He gave a short laugh. ‘The Sultan’s guards are not in the habit of granting clemency to common thieves and I was moments away from losing my head to one of their scimitars, when I saw a young boy about the same age as me running from within one of the royal tents and shouting at them to stop. It was the Sultan’s son, Murat.’ He paused. ‘Your future husband.’

      Sara