His Innocent Temptress. Kasey Michaels

said abruptly, and the advisor bowed again, backing away from the two royals, and quickly took his leave. “My wife is going mad, Zakariyya, and she is saying things that threaten my own sanity.”

      Zakariyya popped another fig into his mouth, careful not to look at Azzam, for the man had his pride and that pride must be respected at all costs. Even as the man figuratively bared his breast and groveled before him. Zakariyya had all but invited himself here, to Sorajhee, to learn the truth. He did not feel comfortable watching his old friend fall to pieces. “If you do not wish to continue, I understand.”

      “I have to continue. Layla is distressed, and has begun to say things, disjointed fragments that, when strung together, form a necklace of treachery, betrayal and even murder. Allah forgive me, Zakariyya, but I have come to believe that Layla ordered the murder of my brother.”

      Zakariyya wiped his fingertips on a damp linen napkin. Now here was something he had not suspected. Still, it was not the news he wished to hear. “You will pardon me, old friend, if I tell you that this information only changes the culprit, not the murder itself. I have always thought Ibrahim was assassinated on your orders. The man beheaded for the crime was only the weapon, not the plan.”

      “I would never—” Azzam shrank in his chair, the brother now, and not the king. “No, I won’t lie. Not anymore. It is past time for truth. I organized the demonstration against Ibrahim—that much is true—as I wanted him to realize the people were against any further political alliance with Balahar. Even more, I wanted to stop your secret alliance that would have bound Ibrahim’s son to your yet unborn daughter. Zakariyya, I made no secret of the fact that I, not Ibrahim’s son, should have succeeded him. If his son and heir was also heir to Balahar, I could not have overcome this union to take my proper place. I needed the people on my side, rallying around me. We Jeveds rule at the pleasure of our people, as you know, and I’d hoped to make Ibrahim hear what the people wanted.”

      Zakariyya relaxed, now on more comfortable ground. Speaking of political treachery, oddly, was much easier than discussing Azzam’s pain over his wife. “What you believed they wanted, Azzam,” Zakariyya pointed out silkily. “We all know what our people want, what all people want. They want peace. A strong political alliance between our two countries would have gone a long way to assure that peace. The marriage between our families would have completed the job. Now, as the years pass, that peace becomes more and more elusive. This is why I am here, Azzam. This is why you need me now, just as I still need you, since I would rather ally Balahar with Sorajhee than seek elsewhere for protection. Azzam, my Sharif has a great love of American slang. A pity at times, but I remember one phrase he uses that seems apt at this moment. Could it be possible, my old friend, that we cut to the chase? In other words, tell me all that you know and, together, we might see what we can do.”

      “Thank you, my friend.” Azzam stood, beginning to pace. “Abdul-Rahim has taken what Layla has said in her ramblings, and combined it with what he learned while interviewing Layla’s servants. If we are to believe what we have heard, Rose is most definitely alive.”

      “Where? Where is she?”

      Azzam stopped pacing, turned to look at Zakariyya. “Rose tried to kill me, old friend. About a month after Ibrahim died, I found her in my rooms, a knife in her hand. Clearly Rose had lost her mind to grief.”

      “Understandable,” Zakariyya said, nodding. “She believed you murdered her husband, and must have been convinced you would murder her sons as well. Were you wounded?”

      “Only in my heart,” Azzam said, retaking his seat, curling his fingers around the ends of the chair arms, his knuckles going white. “I will not deny wanting the throne, Zakariyya, but I would never murder my brother or his sons in order to gain it.”

      “But Layla would?”

      “Yes. Allah forgive us, yes. If her ramblings are to be believed, she pretended to be Rose’s friend and savior, helping Rose to flee the country with her sons, then come back here to unmask me as Ibrahim’s murderer, assure the throne for her sons. Layla probably gave Rose the knife she had with her that night, and helped her get through my guards, all the way to my bedside. And I was blind to it. Blind to it all.”

      “You didn’t have Queen Rose brought to trial, executed, that I know. You said only that she and her sons had retired to a life of seclusion and mourning. What did you really do, Azzam? Whatever did you do?”

      “I ruled, Zakariyya. I ruled my mourning, shattered country as best I could. And because I was so busy, I allowed Layla to talk me into sending Rose to an asylum for those with illness of the mind. I believed her when she told me the boys had gone to their uncle in America, then all had died in a boating accident. I have believed Layla all these years, but now I know she lied. I turned my head, preferred not to hear, and allowed Layla to make my sister-in-law a political prisoner. I cannot be entirely sure of Rose’s fate anymore, but the sons are still living somewhere in America. Layla stalks the harem nightly, wringing her hands, beating at herself for not having them killed when she had the chance.”

      The sons. The sons were also alive. His spies had learned the truth. It was almost more than he could hope to have heard. Zakariyya’s heart sang, but he kept his expression blank. “So now you question the boys’ fates as well? Where is this uncle?”

      “Texas,” Azzam said quietly. “Randy Coleman owns a ranch called The Desert Rose there. A horse farm. Arabian horses.” He looked at Zakariyya. “The first stud is retired now, but that stud’s name is Jabbar.”

      “Ibrahim’s favorite,” Zakariyya whispered. “I remember. And the boys? Are they there?”

      Azzam nodded, unable to speak. “Abdul-Rahim is convinced Coleman’s three sons are Ibrahim’s. Grown men now, all three, and one of them promised to a daughter of Balahar. Your daughter Serena, Zakariyya.”

      Zakariyya was quiet for some moments. “You will contact this Coleman?” he asked at last. “Ibrahim’s widow is his sister.”

      Azzam nodded. “It will be done in good time, but not yet. I want to do more than simply tell him his sister may be alive, in an asylum somewhere in Europe. Unfortunately, I know not where as yet, but I will. It is my duty to find her, and pray that she is saner than my poor, misguided Layla, who now suffers the fate she wished upon Queen Rose.”

      “And if Coleman’s sons are really the heirs of Ibrahim, and the true heirs to the throne of Sorajhee? What then, my old friend?”

      Azzam’s expression was bleak. “As it has always been for the Jeved of Sorajhee, as it has been for the Al Farid of Balahar. It will be as my people will. This I promise you, Zakariyya. If the people wish it, I will step aside. There has already been too much pain.”

      SHORTLY AFTER DAWN, Alex made his way to the stables to look in on Khalahari and the foal, Khalid. He stood just outside the last stall in the stable that held more than fifty splendid Arabians, and marveled at the sight of Jabbar’s son.

      The foal finished feeding, then shook his head and looked straight at Alex. The small animal’s head lifted proudly before it turned away, disdainful of the interruption by a mere man.

      “Oh, you’re a prince, all right,” Alex said, grinning. “But learn who is the master here, Khalid. Although I suppose you already have decided that, haven’t you?”

      “Morning, Alex,” Mac said, walking toward him down the length of the stables. “I’ve come to see the new stud. Cade told me he’s a beaut.”

      Alex turned to look at his brother. Cade’s mirror image. How changed they both were from the small, whimpering, motherless babies that had traveled with him to Boston, to their new lives. The softness of their mother was still in their faces, a gentleness of feature that might be discernible only to Alex, but there just the same, always filling his heart with memories of the woman who had loved them all enough to leave them.

      The twins were thirty-one now, the same age their father had been when he’d been cut down, assassinated by some madman who believed bloodshed was the way to peace. While Cade was