The Desert King's Virgin Bride. Sharon Kendrick

lace which covered it, and the only colour which was apparent was the bright blue of her eyes and the natural rose gleam of her lips. For the first time Malik began to realise that somewhere along the way she had become a woman—and he hadn’t even noticed.

      Should he let her go? ‘Can’t you just have a holiday in England?’ he enquired moodily. ‘And then come back again?’

      Sorrel sighed. He was missing the point—only she couldn’t really tell him what the point was, could she?

      ‘No, Malik,’ she said patiently, aware from the sudden narrowing of his eyes that few people said ‘no’ to him since his sudden elevation in status. ‘I’ve spent my whole life having holidays in England—I haven’t lived there properly for years. Why, I even went to university here, in Kumush Ay—’

      ‘Which has a fine reputation the world over!’ he interrupted, with fierce pride. ‘And which enabled you to become possibly the only Western woman to speak fluent Kharastani. Why, you speak it almost as fluently as I do!’

      ‘Thank you.’ Briefly, Sorrel bowed her head—aware that the Sheikh had just paid her a compliment and that to fail to acknowledge it would be seen as discourteous. But it was yet another example of how much had changed since his elevation into the royal ranks.

      There was a time when she would have playfully teased him—or perhaps challenged him about who was right and who was wrong—but not any more. And the longer you stay, the worse it’s going to get, she told herself.

      ‘I don’t want to become a stranger to the land of my birth, Malik,’ she said fervently. ‘And if I leave it much longer then I will be. I’ll become one of those people whose only knowledge of their country is through the rose-tinted glasses of memory.’

      His eyes glinted as he nodded his black head with slow consideration. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘The ties to our homeland are one of the strongest of all instincts known to man—for they link us to our forebears and make up our very history.’

      Sorrel could have kicked the leg of his ornate writing desk in rage, wanting to tell him not to be so damned pompous, but she couldn’t do that either. He might be speaking to her as if he was aged about a hundred and three, but what he said made sense—and in this instance at least he spoke from the heart. His heritage was of huge importance to him, and so he would naturally understand her need to go and investigate her roots.

      After all, it wasn’t his fault that she had stupidly nurtured a rather different fantasy about their shared future over the years…

      ‘Sorrel?’

      His voice butted into her thoughts and Sorrel blinked, her heart leaping in spite of everything, the way it always did when he said her name in that uniquely honeyed way of his.

      ‘Yes, Malik?’

      ‘Just what are you proposing to do? In England?’

      Try to start a new life. Do the normal stuff that a twenty-five-year-old woman would have done by now if she hadn’t been all caught up with trying to fit in somewhere where she didn’t belong. Maybe even find herself a boyfriend along the way.

      ‘I’ll look for a job.’

      There was a pause. ‘A job? What kind of job?’ he demanded, as incredulously as if she had just started doing cartwheels around the state apartments.

      ‘I can do plenty of things.’

      ‘Oh, really?’ He sat back in his chair and, interlacing his long dark fingers in front of the silken shimmer of his robes, fixed her with a piercing black look. ‘Such as?’

      ‘I’m a good organiser.’

      ‘That much is true,’ he admitted, for she had been co-ordinating palace functions ever since she had graduated. No royal banquet was ever complete without Sorrel quietly manoeuvring behind the scenes to prevent delicate egos from clashing.

      ‘And I am also versed in the art of diplomacy.’

      He could see exactly where this was leading, and as he was reminded of just how protected and innocent she really was Malik shook his head. ‘If you think you’ll just be able to walk straight into a job without any formal training, then you are wrong, Sorrel.’ Thoughtfully, he drummed one long finger on the polished surface of the exquisite inlaid desk. ‘However, I may be able to speak to a few people on your behalf. Perhaps,’ he mused, ‘I could arrange for you to stay with a family. Yes, that might be the best solution all round.’

      ‘A family?’

      ‘Why not? Girls do it all the time.’

      Girls, he had said. Not women, but girls—and enough really was enough! For the first time in her adult life Sorrel looked around the high-ceilinged palace room and saw it not as a place furnished with priceless antiques and glittering chandeliers and wonderful artifacts but as a kind of elaborate cage. Except that even a bird trapped in a cage could be seen, while she was hidden away like a guilty kind of secret. Prevented from freely mixing with men, covered from head to toe in robes designed to conceal the female form from all eyes. Never before had she minded about the camouflage of the national dress—but lately she had been looking at fashion sites on the internet with a yearning which surprised her.

      ‘I am not a g-girl,’ she said, her voice shaking with an emotion she wasn’t sure she could identify—even if she had been in the mood for analysis. ‘I am a woman—not some teenage au pair who needs looking after.’

      Malik’s eyes were caught by the sudden trembling of her lips and his pupils dilated—for it was as if he had never seen them before. Like petals. Provocative and rosy. Did she have any idea what Western men might do when confronted with a pair of lips like that? He glared at her.

      ‘I would feel happier if I knew that you were in capable hands,’ he said stubbornly.

      It wasn’t easy, but Sorrel knew that she had to start standing up for herself if she wanted any kind of independent life. ‘Strangely enough, this isn’t about you, Malik—this is about me, and my life. We’ve been dealing with yours non-stop ever since you became Sheikh, haven’t we?’

      For a moment he stilled, every instinct alerted to the presence of something he wasn’t used to—at least, never with Sorrel—and that something was discord. Black eyes gleamed. Was she daring to criticise him? Or to imply that she was not happy with her lot?

      His hard mouth flattened into an implacable line of anger which Sorrel had seen before—many times—but never directed towards her.

      ‘Well, do forgive me if you’ve been bored,’ he said, in an arrogant drawl which disguised the outrage he felt. Ungrateful little Westerner! He had willingly taken her under his wing, had ensured that she had a stable education and a secure home-life, and she was now throwing back his protection in his face—like some spoilt little child.

      How he would like to teach her a lesson!

      But as he felt the blood fizzing heatedly through his veins, Malik rose quickly from his desk, momentarily confused by his reaction—if such a state could ever have been said to exist in a man who was a stranger to the very concept of self-doubt. Why, for a moment back then…

      Aware that her eyes followed him, he walked over to the window—his back ramrod-straight as he stared out into the manicured grandeur of the palace gardens—and stifled a sigh. When had he last had the freedom to just wander around its scented splendour—without a care in the world?

      Not since his last few innocent days as a free man—before the announcement that he was the eldest of the late Sheikh’s three illegitimate sons and that the crown of Kharastan was to be placed on his head.

      In many ways Malik had been well-prepared for the very specific burdens of kingship, for he had been the trusted aide to Sheikh Zahir for many years, and was well-versed with the intricate customs of the Kharastan court.

      But knowing something as an advisor—no matter how highly favoured—was completely different