His Defiant Desert Queen. Jane Porter

you do not wish to marry me,” she whispered. “You hate me. You wouldn’t be able to look at me or touch me.”

      “I could touch you,” he corrected. “And I could look at you. But I wouldn’t love you, no.”

      “Don’t do that to me. Don’t use me.”

      “Why not? Your father used my mother to bring shame on my family name.”

      “I’m not my father and you’re not your mother and we both deserve better. We both deserve good marriages, proper marriages, marriages based on love and respect.”

      “That sounds quite nice except for the fact that I don’t love. I won’t take a wife out of love. I will take her out of duty. I will marry as it is my responsibility. A king must have heirs.”

      “But I want love. And by forcing me to marry you, you deprive me of love.”

      “Your father deprived my mother of life. I’m Arabic. A life for a life. A woman for a woman. He took her. I should take you.”

      “No.”

      “Saidia requires a prince. You’d give me beautiful children.”

      “I’d never be willing in bed, and you said even in a forced marriage, the sex is consensual.”

      “You’d consent.”

      “I wouldn’t.”

      “You’d beg me to take you.”

      “Never.”

      The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re wrong. And I will prove you wrong, and when I do, what shall you give me in return?”

      Jemma rose from the table, and went to the doorway. “I want to go. I want to go now.”

      “I don’t think that’s one of my options.”

      * * *

      Jemma didn’t know where to look. Her heart raced and her eyes burned and she felt so sick inside.

      This wasn’t what she’d thought would happen. This wasn’t how she’d imagined this would go. Jail was bad. Seven years under house arrest boggled the mind. But marriage?

      The idea of Sheikh Karim forcing her to marry him made everything inside her shrink, collapse.

      She’d thought the last year had been horrific, being shunned as Daniel Copeland’s daughter, but to be married against her will?

      Her eyes stung, growing hotter and grittier. She pressed her nails into her palms, determined not to cry, even as she wondered how far she’d get if she bolted from the house and ran.

      Marrying Mikael Karim would break her. It would. She’d been so lonely this past year, so deeply hurt by Damien’s rejection and the constant shaming by the media, as well as endless public hatred. She couldn’t face a cold marriage. She needed to live, to move, to breathe, to feel, to love...

       To love.

      It was tragic but she needed love. Needed to love and be loved. Needed connection and contact and warmth.

      “Please,” she choked, the tears she didn’t want filling her eyes, “please don’t marry me. Please just leave me here in Haslam. I don’t want to spend seven years here, but at least in seven years I could be free and go home and marry and have children with someone who wants me, and needs me, and loves me—” She broke off as Sheikh Azizzi entered the room behind her.

      The village elder was accompanied by two robed men.

      Jemma pressed her hands together in prayer, pleading with Mikael. “Let me stay here. Please. Please.”

      “And what would you do here for seven years?” he retorted, ignoring the others.

      “I’d learn the language, and learn to cook and I’d find ways to occupy myself.”

      Mikael looked at her, his dark gaze holding for an endless moment and then he turned to Sheikh Azizzi and spoke to him. Sheikh Azizzi nodded once and the men walked out.

      “It’s done,” Mikael said.

      “What’s done?”

      “I’ve claimed you. I’ve made you mine.”

      She backed up so rapidly she bumped into the wall. “No.”

      “But I have. I told Sheikh Azizzi I’ve claimed you as my wife, and it’s done.”

      “That doesn’t make us married. I have to agree, I have to speak, I have to consent somehow...” Her voice trailed off. She stared at Mikael, bewildered. “Don’t I?”

      “No. You don’t have to speak at all. It’s done.”

      “Just like that?”

      “Just like that.” He rose and stalked toward her. “And like this,” he added, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her out of the house, into the night.

      Outside, the convoy of vehicles were gone. Villagers clustered near a kneeling camel.

      “Who is that for?” Jemma choked, struggling in Mikael’s arms.

      He tightened his grip. “Settle down,” he said shortly. “Or I’ll tie you to the camel.”

      “You wouldn’t!”

      “You don’t think so?” he challenged, stepping through the crowd to set her in the camel’s saddle.

      The leather saddle was wide and hard and Jemma struggled to climb back off but Mikael had taken a leather strip from a pouch on the camel and was swiftly tying her hands together at the wrist, and then binding her wrists to the saddle’s pommel.

      The crowd cheered as he tethered her in place.

      “Why are they cheering?” she asked, face burning, anger rolling through her as she strained to free herself.

      “They know I’ve taken you as my wife. They know you aren’t happy. They know you are ashamed. It pleases them.”

      “My shame pleases them?”

      “Your shame and struggles are part of your atonement. That pleases them.”

      “I don’t like your culture.”

      “And I do not like yours.” He scooted her forward in the saddle, and then took a seat behind her, his big body filling the space, pressing tightly against her. “Now lean back a little.”

      “No.”

      “You’ll be more comfortable.”

      “I can assure you, I would not be comfortable leaning against you.”

      “We are going to be traveling for several hours.”

      She shook her head, lips compressed as she fought tears. “I hate you,” she whispered.

      “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He gave a tug on the reigns and the camel lurched to its feet.

      The villagers cheered again and Mikael lifted a hand, and then they were off, heading for the gates and the desert beyond.