He’ll do anything to wed his princess...

Even if it means stealing her away!

Shy palace governess Olivia Taylor spends her life being overlooked. Until the night brooding Prince Zayed spirits her away! To reclaim his country, Zayed must wed his betrothed. But when it becomes clear that Olivia is the wrong bride, can they put their mistake right? And with such heated chemistry between them, do they want to...?

After spending three years as a die-hard New Yorker, KATE HEWITT now lives in a small village in the English Lake District with her husband, their five children and a golden retriever. In addition to writing intensely emotional stories, she loves reading, baking and playing chess with her son—she has yet to win against him, but she continues to try. Learn more about Kate at kate-hewitt.com.

Also by Kate Hewitt

Larenzo’s Christmas Baby

Inherited by Ferranti

Moretti’s Marriage Command

Demetriou Demands His Child

A Di Sione for the Greek’s Pleasure

Engaged for Her Enemy’s Heir

The Innocent’s One-Night Surrender

Seduced by a Sheikh miniseries

The Secret Heir of Alazar

The Forced Bride of Alazar

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Desert Prince’s Stolen Bride

Kate Hewitt

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07206-9

DESERT PRINCE’S STOLEN BRIDE

© 2018 Kate Hewitt

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

HE CAME IN through the window.

Olivia Taylor looked up from the blanket she’d been folding, her mouth dropping open in wordless shock. She was too surprised to be scared. Yet. He was dressed all in black, his body underneath the loose garments tall, lithe and powerful. A turban covered his hair but beneath it Olivia saw his face and the determination blazing in his steel-coloured eyes.

She drew a breath to scream when he moved swiftly towards her and slipped a hand over her mouth. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said in Arabic, his tone brusque and yet also strangely gentle. It took her a moment to make out the words; she’d learned some Arabic living in the Amari household, but it was still of the schoolgirl variety. She’d been hired to speak only English to the three youngest Princesses.

He continued speaking and her shocked mind struggled to understand. ‘That is my solemn vow, and I will never break it. Just do what I say and no harm shall ever come to you. I swear it on my life.’

Olivia stood there rigidly, his hand on her mouth, the scent of his skin in her nostrils. He smelled of horse and sand and sweat and musk...and, strangely, it was not unpleasing. Her mind was spinning with terrifying numbness, around and around, unable to latch onto any coherent thought. She couldn’t think. She could barely breathe. Shock gave way to fear, making her dizzy. It was as if everything were happening underwater or in slow motion, yet far too fast, because already the man was propelling her to the window, and somehow she was going, going, her legs weak as water, her insides sliding around like jelly, her mind a blank canvas of fear and shock.

Halina was in the next room. The door wasn’t even closed, not properly. She could hear her friend humming under her breath. How could this be happening? She’d only come in here, to Halina’s bedroom, to put away her evening gown and tidy up a bit. Halina had just returned from what she’d claimed was an interminable dinner with her parents to discuss her future. Her fiancé. Olivia knew Halina didn’t want to get married, and certainly not to a rebel prince she’d never met.

‘He’s practically an outlaw,’ she’d said as she’d thrown herself on the sofa in her sitting room with a gusty sigh. ‘A criminal.’

‘I heard he went to Cambridge,’ Olivia had countered mildly, used to her friend’s theatrics, and Halina had rolled her eyes, determined to play up to whatever audience she had.

‘He’s been living in the desert for ten years. He’s probably gone completely savage. I don’t even know if he speaks English.’

‘If he went to Cambridge, I’m sure he speaks English. And in any case your parents don’t want you to marry him until his title is fully restored and he’s back in the capital, in his palace,’ Olivia had reminded her. She’d been governess to Halina’s three younger sisters for four years, and she was well versed in all the family’s hopes and plans.

Halina had been engaged to Prince Zayed al bin Nur since she was ten years old, but a decade ago his family’s rule had been overthrown by a government minister—Fakhir Malouf—and Prince Zayed, only just returned from university, had been forced into exile in the desert to fight for his throne.

Civil war had happened in spurts and bursts over the years, Zayed’s band of rebels to Malouf’s crack troops. Halina’s father had insisted on honouring the betrothal, but only when Zayed’s power was fully restored...and who knew when that would be?

But surely this man had nothing to do with that. Why did he want her? Why was he here?

Already he was at the window, one hip braced against the ledge, one hand gripping her upper arm, the other still over her mouth. She could taste the salt on his skin. His breath fanned her ear as he spoke, making her shiver.

‘Please, do not be afraid.’

Strangely, she believed him. He didn’t want her to be scared—and yet he was abducting her. Her frozen brain finally thawing into gear, Olivia started to struggle, her body arching against the man’s as she attempted, uselessly, to free herself from his hold.

‘Don’t do that.’ The words were quiet and lethal as his grip tightened on her, his hands like iron bands on her body. Inflexible and impossible to break, yet still strangely gentle. Olivia stilled, her heart thudding, knowing instinctively if she didn’t escape now there would not be another good opportunity. And if she didn’t escape...

Her mind blurred and blanked. She could not imagine what this man wanted with her, what he intended.

‘I said I wouldn’t hurt you.’ The faintest edge of impatience had entered the man’s low, steady voice. ‘This is for the best, for both of us.’ Which made no sense at all. There was no best for her in being kidnapped. How had this man been able to climb in through the window of Halina’s bedroom?

The royal palace in the desert kingdom of Abkar was several miles from the capital city, remote and guarded by a high stone wall, patrolled by dogs and soldiers. Hassan Amari took no chances with his precious, beloved family. And yet here was this man, dark, strong, utterly in control. Something had gone very wrong at some point and Olivia couldn’t imagine why or how.

The man turned her towards him. His face was very close, his lashes surprisingly long and lush, his eyes not merely grey, as she’d first thought, but a startling, mossy grey-green. His cheeks, nose and mouth were all hewn of harsh lines, giving Olivia an even stronger sense of the grim determination and inflexibility she’d seen in him from the moment he’d come through the window.

‘I will keep you safe.’ Looping a rope around her waist, he heaved her over the window to plummet down into the desert darkness.

The breath whooshed from Olivia’s lungs and she was too startled to scream as the air streamed past, her heart suspended in her chest. Then the rope jerked taut and she landed with a heavy thud in another man’s arms. He righted her quickly, her feet on the ground, but before she could scream he had covered her mouth with a scarf and tied it.

The man who had come in Halina’s bedroom was scaling down the side of the palace wall, as stealthy and graceful as a panther. He landed lightly on his feet, his grey-green eyes narrowing at the sight of the gag on Olivia’s mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ the other man said in a low voice. ‘I did not want her to scream.’

The man nodded shortly as Olivia’s mind whirled.

What was going on? Why had they taken her?

The man looked back at her, a faint smile curving that rugged mouth. ‘Come,’ he said and, taking her by the elbow, he drew her towards several horses that were tethered by the palace wall.

Horses? How on earth were they going to get out of the palace on horses? The only way was through the front gates, tall and towering, topped with iron spikes and guarded by Sultan Hassan’s private soldiers.

The man heaved her up on a horse and Olivia sprawled inelegantly across its back. She’d never ridden, unlike Halina and her sisters, who had been practically raised on horseback. The man quirked an eyebrow, seeming almost amused by her ineptitude, and then righted her, swinging up to straddle the horse behind her so she was nestled closely between his hard-packed thighs.

He snaked one arm around her waist to draw her even more tightly against him; Olivia could feel his heart thudding against her back, the heat of his body warming her right through. His scent invaded her senses. She’d never been so close to a man before.

‘Let’s ride,’ the man said in a voice that managed to be both soft and commanding, and they headed off, Olivia watching in disbelief as they rode right through the palace gates, not a soldier in sight. Had these men taken over the palace? Had there been some kind of attack and no one had even realised?

As soon as they were clear, the man took off her gag.

‘I am sorry for that. I did not want you to be treated so roughly.’

Which made no sense. He was her kidnapper. But Olivia couldn’t ask any questions now, not with the wind streaming past and the sand flying into her eyes. The man slowed the horse down to tie the scarf around her hair and cover her mouth. ‘There. That is better,’ he murmured into her ear, sending shivers racing across her skin.

Olivia was conscious of the hard wall of the man’s chest she was leaning against, his arm wrapped so snugly around her she almost felt safe. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and they were off again, flying across the sand.

The hours blurred into one another as they kept riding, the man holding her all the while, her body starting to ache from the constant jostling.

The moon was a silver crescent high above them, the sky a garden of stars sending silvery shadows across the desert sand, the only sound the steady thud of the horses’ hooves.

At some point Olivia fell into an uneasy doze, her head resting against his chest, which seemed impossible, considering her precarious situation, but the constant, teeth-jarring movement had exhausted her.

She woke with a jolt when their gallop slowed, the man’s arm relaxing on her only slightly. Olivia blinked warily; a few flickering lights emerged like pinpricks in the darkness. She heard low, murmuring voices but couldn’t make out the words. It had taken concentration to understand everything the man had said to her in Arabic, and Olivia thought she must have missed or misunderstood some words.

The man slowed the horse to a stop and slid off it in one easy movement before turning to her.

Olivia gazed down at him, uncertain and suddenly desperately afraid. They had arrived at some kind of destination, and she had no idea what was going to happen now. What this man was going to do with her. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, that he would keep her safe, but why on earth should she believe him?

‘Come down,’ he said quietly, and his tone reminded Olivia of the way Sultan Hassan talked to a frightened mare. ‘No one will hurt you. I gave you my vow.’

‘Why...?’ Her voice came out in a croak; her throat was as dry as dust, sand speckling her lips and skin. ‘Why have you taken me?’

‘For justice,’ the man replied. He reached for her, his hands gripping her arms with that gentle strength she’d felt before. ‘Now, come down. Eat, drink, refresh yourself. And then we’ll talk.’

Olivia’s feet hit the ground and her legs nearly gave way. She hated being so feeble, but she’d never ridden a horse before and they’d been galloping for several hours. Her thighs chafed and her muscles ached. She felt as if she could collapse right where she stood. The man caught her, swearing under his breath.

‘I thought you knew how to ride.’

‘What?’ Olivia blinked at him in surprised confusion. Why would he think that? ‘No, I don’t know how. I never learned.’

‘It seems my intelligence was wrong on one point, at least.’ He turned away before she could reply. ‘Suma will see to you.’

* * *

Zayed al bin Nur strode towards his tent, his body aching from the hard ride and his heart thudding with the heady pulse of triumph. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. He’d successfully kidnapped Princess Halina Amari from behind the seemingly impenetrable walls of the royal palace. All that remained now was to seal the deal and make her his bride.

His mouth curved grimly as he thought of his future father-in-law’s fury. Abducting Princess Halina had been a massive risk, but a calculated one. Hassan Amari knew Zayed’s cause was just. And Zayed knew he needed the full support of the neighbouring kingdom of Abkar to wage war against Fakhir Malouf, the man who had taken his throne...and murdered his family.

The old rage settled in Zayed’s gut, ice-cold and iron-hard with the passage of time, a familiar and almost comforting weight as he ducked under the flap and went into his tent. His advisor and friend, Jahmal, scrambled to attention.

‘My Prince.’

‘Have the preparations been made?’

‘Yes, My Prince.’

Zayed shrugged off his travel-stained cloak and tore the turban from his hair, running his hand through the spiky mass to dislodge the grains of sand. ‘Thank you. I am giving my bride half an hour to rest and refresh herself, and then we will go ahead with the ceremony.’

Unease flickered across Jahmal’s face but he nodded. ‘Yes, My Prince.’

Zayed knew his closest advisors had been deeply unsure about the risk he was taking. They were afraid of invoking Hassan Amari’s wrath, even of starting another and far more damaging war with a neighbouring country they counted as their ally. But they didn’t have the same fury and fear driving them as he did. They didn’t remember the tortured screams of his brother and father as they’d burned to death in a helicopter that had pirouetted to the ground in flames. They didn’t see his mother’s shocked face when they closed their eyes, feel her unending grief, the memory of her dying in his arms a burden they would carry to his last breath. They didn’t wake in the darkness, a silent scream of terror and rage bottled in their throats as the vestiges of a nightmare clung to their shattered minds and they were forced to face another bleak dawn, an unending day of fighting for what always should have been theirs.

No, they didn’t understand. And no one ever would. This civil war would go on and on with no end in sight unless Zayed did something drastic and definitive. Fakhir Malouf would continue to set his country back decades, oppressing his people with his hopelessly backward schemes. Zayed had to act. And this had been the only option open to him.

There were worse things than a rushed wedding. He was honouring his betrothal vow, that was all. Halina would learn to accept it. Shrugging out of his dusty garments, Zayed prepared to meet his bride.

Half an hour later, freshly bathed and shaven, he ducked into the tent where he had ordered Suma to bring Halina to wait. His eyes adjusting to the flickering candlelight, he saw that she sat on a silken pillow with her back to him, narrow and slender, her hair streaming down it in a dark, damp river. She wore a loose robe of deep blue embroidered with silver thread that engulfed her slender figure but still reminded him of how she’d felt in his arms, slender and light. A surprising surge of desire arrowed through him. This marriage was about politics, nothing more, but it had been a long time since he’d lain with a woman.

Zayed let the tent flap fall closed behind him with a rustle and she turned, scrambling to a standing position, her eyes wide. She had incredible eyes, a deep, stormy blue, fringed extravagantly with sooty lashes. He hadn’t expected those eyes, somehow.

Of course, he’d never seen a proper photograph of his bride, merely a few blurry images taken from a distance, since she’d been raised in virtual seclusion. They’d been betrothed when he was twenty and she ten, although it had been done formally, with a proxy, so they’d never met. Now did not seem like the most auspicious of introductions, but there was nothing to be done for it. Zayed squared his shoulders.

‘You have been made comfortable, I trust?’

She hesitated, her gaze searching his face, looking for answers. After a pause, she finally answered. ‘Yes...’ Her voice was both soft and husky, pleasant. That was good. So far he liked her eyes and her hair, and he knew her body was both slender and curvaceous from being nestled against it on horseback for several uncomfortable hours. Three things that he could be thankful for. He had not expected so much. Rumours had painted Halina as a melodramatic and slightly spoiled princess. The woman in front of him did not seem so.

‘But...’ Her throat worked convulsively, the words coming in stumbling snatches. ‘I don’t... I don’t...understand why you’ve...’

From behind them the tent flap rustled again and Zayed met the subtly questioning gaze of the imam he’d chosen to perform the ceremony. He would have preferred a civil service, but Malouf would dismiss a marriage that was conducted by a notary, and the last thing he could do was have Malouf dismiss this, the most important diplomatic manoeuvre he’d ever make.

‘We’re ready,’ he said to the imam, who gave a brief nod. Halina’s confused gaze moved from him to the man who would marry them.

‘What...what are you...?’

‘All you need to say is yes,’ Zayed informed her shortly. He did not have time for her questions, her concerns, and certainly not her protestations. They could talk after the vows were performed, the marriage finalised. Not before. He would allow nothing to dissuade him. Halina’s eyes had widened and darkened to the colour of a storm-tossed sea, her lips, rosy-pink and plump, parting soundlessly.

‘Yes,’ she repeated, searching his face, looking for answers. Did she not understand what she was doing here? It seemed obvious to Zayed, and it would soon be so to Halina when she made her vows. He could not afford to explain why he’d taken her, why they had to marry with such haste. Although his desert camp was well hidden, already Sultan Hassan could be sending his troops to take back his daughter. Zayed intended to have the marriage performed well before then.

Sensing his urgency, the imam moved forward and began the ceremony, speaking with quick fluidity. Zayed took Halina by her arm, firmly but with gentleness. She looked dazed, but Zayed hoped she’d adjust quickly. She knew they were engaged, after all. His methods might be unorthodox, but the end result would be the same as if they’d been surrounded by pomp and circumstance.

A silence descended in the tent and Zayed realised it was Halina’s turn to speak. ‘Say yes,’ he hissed and she blinked at him, still seeming confused.

‘Yes,’ she said after a second’s pause.

The imam continued twice more, and twice more Zayed had to instruct Halina to speak. ‘Say yes.’

Each time she murmured yes—naaam—her lips forming the word hesitantly.

The imam turned to him and Zayed bit out his three replies. Yes, yes, yes.

Then, with a little bow, the imam stepped back. Zayed’s breath rushed out in a sigh of satisfaction and relief. It was done. They were wed.

‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he told Halina, who blinked at him.

‘Alone?’

‘For a few moments, to ready yourself.’ Zayed hesitated, and then decided he would not explain things further. Not now, with the imam listening and Halina seeming so dazed. Later, when they could talk, relax even, he would explain more. There would be food and wine and conversation—a little, at least. Then he would tell her. Tonight was not merely the marriage ceremony but its consummation.

CHAPTER TWO

OLIVIA FELT AS if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole into some awful, alternative reality. She had no idea what was going on; in the tent she’d only understood one word of Arabic out of three, if that. It had seemed as if some official kind of ceremony had been performed, but Olivia had no idea what it could be. And the man had insisted she keep saying yes—but to what? Perhaps he was preparing a ransom demand to the royal family, and wanted her to proclaim she was unharmed.

And she was unharmed, but she was also confused and more than a little scared. Who was the man with the terse manner and the gentle eyes? What did he want from her? And what was going to happen next?

The woman who had helped her to bathe and dress earlier, Suma, fetched her from the tent and led her to another, this one luxurious in every detail. Suma handed her some gauzy fabric and Olivia took it uncomprehendingly. Judging by the way Suma mimed her actions, she was meant to change once again. Olivia glanced down at the garment she held, a nightgown of near-diaphanous silk embroidered with gold thread. She had no idea why she had been given such a revealing and exquisite garment but she was afraid to think too much about it.

She couldn’t ask Suma; the older woman spoke a dialect of Arabic that was virtually incomprehensible to Olivia. They’d communicated by hand gestures, clumsy miming and the occasional understood word; there was no way she could ask the smiling, round-faced woman what was going on, or why she’d been given this nightgown. Not that Suma would tell her, anyway.

The tent she’d been led to was both sumptuous and spacious, with a mattress on a dais that was spread with hand-woven quilts of silk and satin and scattered with pillows. Candles flickered in torches and the desert wind made the tent rustle quietly. In the distance Olivia could hear the nickering of horses, the occasional low voice.

Suma left her alone to change and Olivia stood there, clutching the nightgown to her, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do now. Escape seemed unwise in the dark; she couldn’t ride and they were hours from anywhere. Putting on a slinky, near-transparent nightgown also seemed unwise; the last thing she wanted was to be less dressed.

She put the nightgown on the bed, running her damp palms down the side of the blue robe she’d changed into earlier as she tried to think of a way out of this. Would the man come back? Did he speak English? If he did, perhaps she could demand some answers. Not that he seemed a man to acquiesce to anyone’s demands, and Olivia doubted she’d be brave enough to give them.

Suma returned with a platter of fruit and cheese, as well as a jug of something, a carafe of water and two golden goblets. It was all very civilised, Olivia acknowledged with wry incredulity. She was being treated as an honoured guest rather than the prisoner she was...but she still had no idea what her abductor intended to do with her, and thinking too much about it made her stomach churn and bile rise to the back of her throat.

The older woman caught sight of the nightgown Olivia had left on the bed and frowned. She gestured to Olivia to change, and Olivia shook her head.

‘No...la,’ she said, speaking as firmly as she could. Her Arabic was clumsy but insistent. ‘I do not want to wear that.’

Suma’s frown deepened and she made wild gestures with her hands as she let forth a stream of incomprehensible dictates. Clearly Suma wanted her to wear the gown very much.

‘Yes,’ Olivia cut across her, having understood at least one word she’d spoken: jamila. ‘It is very beautiful. But I do not want to wear it.’

Suma scowled. Olivia almost felt apologetic for disappointing her. Was she being reckless, by refusing the nightgown? What if it made the man angry? But why on earth would he want her in it in the first place? A question she could barely bear to ask, much less answer.

With a huff, Suma shook her head and then disappeared. Olivia let out a gusty sigh of relief. She really did not want to parade around a desert camp of strange men in a diaphanous nightgown that looked like something a bride would wear on her wedding night.

She paced the luxurious confines of the tent, wondering if anyone was going to come in to see her and explain what on earth was going on. What did they want from her? If they thought Sultan Hassan would pay a hefty ransom for her return, she suspected they would be disappointed. Hassan was fond enough of her, but she was just an employee.

And if they wanted her for something else...

Swallowing convulsively, she tried not to give in to panic. She wanted to see the man with the gentle eyes again, although something about his fiercely determined manner made her half hope he wouldn’t come in. When he was near her it felt as if he were taking all the air, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. And Olivia knew she needed all her wits about her now. Somehow she had to figure out why she was here...and then she had to figure out how to escape. Both felt impossible.

Then the tent flap opened and there he was, those grey-green eyes glinting in the candlelight. He was dressed as he had been before, in loose trousers and a long shirt of bleached linen that emphasised the powerful, rippling muscles of his chest and thighs.

Olivia tried not to gulp. She folded her arms and lifted her chin, which was just about all the defiance she had in her. Gazing into that penetrating stare felt like looking at the sun. ‘I wish to know why you have taken me here,’ she said in English. Surprise flared across the man’s face like a ripple in water and then was gone.

‘Your English is very good.’

That was because she was half-English. Although as the daughter of a diplomat she’d been raised around the world, her father had been English and that was the language she’d always spoken. ‘I prefer English to Arabic.’

‘Do you?’ His own English was flawless, his tone impossible to decipher. A frown marred his brow for a moment and then smoothed out. ‘Why have you not changed?’ he asked, with a nod at the nightgown discarded on the bed.

‘Why would I want to wear that?’ she flung at him. His mouth quirked, impossibly, into a smile. He was actually amused.

‘Because it is comfortable? And beautiful. You are, as a point of fact, very beautiful.’ He moved past her to a low table flanked by two chairs and the tray with the platter of food on top of it. ‘Come, have something to eat and drink.’ He gestured to the low folding chair across from him. ‘Sit down, be comfortable.’

Olivia could only gape. She was beautiful? No one had ever said that to her before. No one had ever even noticed her before. Why him? Why now? What did he want?

He sat down himself, seeming utterly relaxed...and utterly appealing. A tingle went through Olivia just from looking at him. Dark, close-cropped hair, those beautiful eyes the colour of peat, a straight nose and a mobile mouth, the lines and angles of his face both harsh and arresting. As for his body...it was lean and long, every inch of it pure, powerful muscle. Even sprawled in a chair he radiated strength and energy, power and grace. He was like a jungle cat, ready to spring, eyeing her with a sleepy, knowing, hooded gaze. He could devour her if he wanted. The knowledge flashed through her, certain and strangely thrilling.

She felt a tremor of fear, but with it a pulse of something else. Something almost like desire. He had such a languid look in his eyes. No one had ever looked at her like that. She’d spent her life in the shadows, half pretending to be invisible, ignored by her busy, widowed father, and then keeping to the sidelines of school life.

Since becoming the governess to the Amari Princesses four years ago, she’d been even more in the background, which she hadn’t minded. That was where she was used to being, making sure she was quietly useful, keeping out of the way of people who were busier or more important than she was. Blending into the background felt both safe and comfortable, and it was only in this heightened, surreal moment she realised how dull it had always been. How dull her whole life had been, as if she had been waiting all along for something to happen. And now it had.

You’ve been kidnapped, she reminded herself with both fierceness and panic. This is not some romantic adventure. This man has abducted you. You need to escape.

‘I want you to release me.’

The man arched an eyebrow. ‘Where? Into the desert?’

‘Back to the palace.’

His expression shuttered although he remained relaxed. ‘You know that is impossible.’

‘How would I know that?’

He made a gesture towards the entrance of the tent, one Olivia couldn’t decipher. What, exactly, was he referring to? ‘Too much has happened. Now, come.’ He reached for the jug and poured them both goblets of what looked like water, but when he added something from another jug the liquid turned milky-white. Olivia eyed it askance.

‘What is that?’

‘Arak, mixed with water. It changes colour when diluted. Surely you have had it before?’

‘No.’ The only alcohol she had had was the occasional sip of champagne at Christmas or New Year when she was a teenager.

‘Come, taste it. It is quite refreshing.’ He smiled at her, flashing very white, very straight teeth. Olivia stayed where she stood. She could not sit down and have a drink with this man. He’d kidnapped her. ‘Well?’ He held the glass out for her, waiting.

‘For understandable reasons I am reluctant to take any food or drink from you.’

‘Is that so?’ Irritation flashed across his face. ‘I think the time for such petulant gestures has surely passed?’

Petulant gestures? Olivia bristled even as she recognised a grain of truth in the words. She was hungry and thirsty, and she didn’t really think he’d drugged the food. There was no point spiting herself as well as him.

Her chin tilted at a haughty angle that belied the trepidation she felt, she walked over and sat down opposite him. She took the glass he held out, her fingers brushing his and sending another tingle like lightning through her. Her arm jerked in response, everything in her flaring white-hot. The man noticed; Olivia saw it in the brief gleam in his eyes and she felt a rush of embarrassment. She was so innocent, so gauche. She could not even hide it. And the fact that she should be attracted to him, her captor...

It was both weak and wrong.

‘Taste.’ His voice was a low, lazy drawl.

Olivia raised the glass to her lips, conscious of the man’s gaze resting on her, so languorous and speculative, and she took a cautious sip. ‘It tastes like liquorice.’

‘It is the anise. Do you like it?’

She took another sip, feeling the fire blaze down her throat and into her belly, warming her right through. ‘I...I don’t know.’

He laughed softly, the sound winding seductive tendrils around her. She took another sip, craving the courage it provided even as the practical part of her told her drinking more was most unwise. The last thing she wanted to do was let her defences down in front of this stranger, magnetically appealing as he was. He was also dangerous—that Olivia knew for certain, felt all the way to her bones—and getting drunk was definitely not a good idea right now.

‘So you have never had arak,’ he mused. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to a new experience.’

‘Are you?’ With a slightly unsteady hand Olivia returned the half-drunk glass to the table. She’d only had a few sips and yet already she was feeling the effects of the alcohol, her mind pleasantly blurring at the edges, her body relaxing. That was undoubtedly a bad thing, especially with the way the man was looking at her, with a mix of speculation and, yes, desire. Just as she, impossibly, unwisely, desired him.

A thrill ran through her like an electric shock at the realisation. She was naïve, yes, and completely innocent, but even she could see the heat in his eyes, although she could hardly credit it. That such a man, a powerful, sensual, attractive man, would want her...

But she shouldn’t want to be wanted, not by a stranger who was most certainly a threat. Confusion chased desire, leaving her emotions in a ferment. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, looking away from that heat-filled gaze.

‘In the desert.’

‘I know that, but where? Are we still in Abkar?’

There was a pause while he cocked his head, his gaze sweeping over her thoroughly, leaving heat and awareness in its wake. He wasn’t touching her and yet everything prickled; it was as if parts of her body were stirring to life for the first time. Her breasts, her thighs, her lips. She felt weirdly, achingly conscious of them all, that persistent tingle going right through her, impossible to stop or ignore, obliterating common sense, rational thought.

Disconcerted, Olivia reached for her glass. She’d have just one more sip of the anise-flavoured arak, that was all. She needed a distraction from this unwelcome and overwhelming reaction.

‘No, we are not in Abkar,’ he said, his gaze still resting on her, considering, assessing. ‘We are in Kalidar.’

The country of Halina’s fiancé, Prince Zayed al bin Nur. Was her abduction related to Halina’s impending marriage? Was the minister in power, Fakhir Malouf, behind it? Fear trembled in her breast at the prospect and her fingers clenched on the goblet. She had heard terrible things of Malouf, a man who seemed to possess neither mercy nor kindness. This man hardly seemed like a minion of Malouf...but who was he?

The man must have noticed the fear tensing her fingers and flashing in her eyes, for he leaned forward, his gaze blazing silver for one heart-stopping second. ‘I have told you, you need never be afraid of me. I know we have had an inauspicious beginning, but you can trust me on that.’

‘You kidnapped me from the palace,’ Olivia pointed out, glad her voice didn’t tremble as her insides did. ‘Why shouldn’t I be afraid of you? And why on earth should I trust you?’

‘Such means were necessary. Unwelcome, I grant you, but very much necessary.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I had waited long enough and I could wait no longer. But we need not concern ourselves with politics tonight, hayete.’

My life. The endearment caught her by surprise, made her feel weirdly exposed, as if the careless words had revealed a need in her she’d been trying to hide. Olivia blinked at him, wishing she hadn’t drunk so much of the arak. Her whole body was buzzing, but not just from the alcohol. The effect this man had on her was far more intoxicating than the arak. It hardly seemed possible that she could react so instantly and overwhelmingly to a stranger, and a dangerous one at that, yet...

She could not deny it. He affected her, and he knew it.

With a small smile flirting with his lips, he leaned forward and cut off a wedge of cheese from the platter with a small, wicked-looking knife. He handed the wedge to her, his lids half-lowered, his smile glinting, making Olivia feel another insistent throb of desire, a pulse going through her whole body. ‘You should eat something. You have drunk much of the arak, considering you have never tasted it before.’

‘I—oh.’ Fumbling a bit, Olivia replaced the glass on the table. She would drink no more. After a second’s hesitation she took the slice of cheese from him, her fingers brushing his once again, and nibbled it. It was delicious, fresh and tangy, and made her realise how hungry she was. The hours of riding had sapped her strength and given her an appetite.

‘Good, yes?’

‘Yes, it is very good.’

He cut a wedge for himself and popped it in his mouth. ‘Have some grapes,’ he said after he had swallowed, and he took a bunch from the table.

Olivia finished her cheese, mesmerised by the sight of his long, lean fingers tearing off a bunch of the grapes. Everything about the man was sensual, sexual. She couldn’t escape it, couldn’t ignore the heat snaking through her, pooling low in her belly, the tension and expectancy shimmering in the air. It was all so unfamiliar yet felt so...wonderful.

There was no other word for it, strange as it seemed. She felt as if she’d imbibed some secret elixir and it now flowed through her veins. She craved even more of it, the fizzing fireworks, the slow, molten uncurling inside her, even as a part of her insisted she stop, she back away, she stay safe.

She reached for the grapes but with a smile the man gave a little shake of his head and plucked one from the bunch, holding it out between his fingers, a sleepy challenge now in that heavy-lidded gaze. Olivia stared at him uncertainly.

‘Open your mouth,’ he said softly, and her eyes widened with shock. The invitation was so blatant, except it wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a command, and one she should most certainly refuse. She should demand he release her; she should be acting outraged and angry, or even just afraid. Anything but this meek and wilful obedience, already enslaved to her own desire, and yearning for his. She was complicit in whatever was happening here, unspooling between them in a golden thread of sensation. Wordlessly, her gaze fixed on his, she opened her mouth.

* * *

Triumph and desire flared white-hot through Zayed as Halina parted her lips. She really was the most beguiling creature, seemingly without artifice...and perhaps she truly was. Perhaps he should take her at face value, although heaven knew that was not something he did, ever. He trusted no one, not even those closest to him. He could not afford to. But his bride’s innocence seemed total, her wide blue eyes utterly without guile, every reaction refreshingly honest, even a little gauche. She hid nothing. Perhaps he could at least trust that.

Letting his gaze linger on hers, letting her see the heat and need in it, he slid the grape into her mouth, brushing her full lower lip with his thumb. Halina gave a soft little gasp as she jerked back, her lips closing over the grape, her eyes heartbreakingly wide, reflecting every emotion as sensations chased through her—the taste of the grape, the touch of his fingers.

‘Delicious,’ Zayed said, his voice caressing the syllables, his gaze still on her. Her dark hair tumbled in silken waves about her shoulders, sooty lashes sweeping down to hide those stormy eyes. Where her tunic top gaped he could see the shadowy curves of her breasts and hips and it made him ache. She was utterly delectable, and he found he couldn’t wait to taste her.

And wait he would not... With every minute that passed, Zayed knew Sultan Hassan could be coming closer, sending out soldiers to rescue his daughter. Zayed needed their marriage to be unimpeachable by then. He needed it to be consummated. And, judging from Halina’s trembling reactions, she was not averse. Shy, perhaps, and undoubtedly innocent, but most certainly not averse.

She swallowed the grape with a gulp, lashes lifting as she gazed at him in obvious confusion. ‘Why are you doing this?’

Zayed leaned forward again. ‘Because I find you so very desirable, hayete.’ The endearment came naturally—she was his life, the key to all his ambitions, all his desires. And, while his body stirred and strained with sexual need, that was what he had to remember. This marriage was essential to retrieving his throne. His inheritance. His life.

‘But...’ Her tongue darted out to moisten those full, lush lips. Zayed nearly groaned at the artless gesture that had lust arrowing through him. ‘But you don’t even know me.’

‘I know enough. And this was always going to happen, hayete, was it not? It was decreed long before now. It was written in the stars.’ Flowery language for what had been a businesslike betrothal when they had been both so young, but it was a means to an end. His bride’s eyes widened and she seemed startled, and then shyly pleased. The words worked.

‘Was it?’ She shook her head to clear it. ‘Was that why you kidnapped me?’

‘But of course.’ He had taken her out of desire, but of a different kind. ‘Come,’ Zayed said and, standing, he reached for her hand and drew her towards him, letting his fingers slide along and then twine with hers.

Her whole body trembled as she stood before him, her head lowered, her lashes fanning her cheeks. ‘What...?’ Her voice was no more than a thread of sound. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘I want to make love to you.’ Zayed rested his hands on her shoulders, felt how impossibly slender she was, how fragile. ‘Slowly and sweetly.’ He bent his head to brush a kiss against her temple; her skin was soft and cool. ‘Is that what you want?’ His lips moved lower to press a kiss to the side of her neck. A shudder went through her body.

‘I...I don’t... I haven’t...’ In her nervousness she stuttered, and Zayed laughed softly, kissing the nape of her neck, letting his mouth linger. She smelled of lemons.

‘Hayete, I know.’

‘But...but...surely you didn’t bring me here for this?’ A soft moan escaped her as he placed one hand on her waist, fingers splaying to brush her hip and the underside of her breast. Her reaction to him was so complete and overwhelming it made the need arrow even more strongly inside him.

‘What if I did?’ he murmured, stroking the side of her breast with knowing fingers. He needed to go slowly, of course, but it was hard. Harder than he’d expected. His body was demanding to be sated, his thirst slaked. And his bride was so very willing in his arms, trembling as she was, her gaze wide and wondering as she tilted her head to gaze up at him.

‘You did...’

Was she painting some romantic picture of him as a white knight coming to steal her away because he couldn’t resist her? The prospect was laughable, yet so what if she believed it? If it helped in the moment, then so be it. He did desire her. Immensely. And that was enough.

‘I did,’ he assured her, and then he captured her mouth in a kiss.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS A kiss that stole her breath as well as a little bit of her soul. It was the first kiss Olivia had ever had, and she swayed beneath it as the man’s mouth moved persuasively over hers.

Her body was awash with sensation, her mind dazed and reeling. She’d never expected this to happen. She’d never expected to feel this way. She was being seduced, ruthlessly and thoroughly, and she couldn’t even resist. She didn’t want to. The pleasure coursing through her in a hot, honeyed river was too strong for that.

The inner protestations that this man was a danger, her enemy, her abductor, fell utterly silent. She no longer cared. Even if this was merely a night and the man, stranger that he was, used her and then tossed her aside afterwards, Olivia knew she could not turn away from this. Not when she’d finally woken up, after a lifetime of sleeping. Not when every sense and nerve was tuned exquisitely, acutely. She felt. She felt so many wonderful things.

Tentatively, learning the steps of this new and intricate dance, she reached up to grip his shoulders, her fingertips grazing his skull. She pressed her body against his, thrilling to the feel of his hard, muscled chest and powerful thighs. And more than that...even in her innocence she recognised the insistent throb of his arousal against her stomach. She’d seen enough films, read enough romance novels, to recognise it and she thrilled to it, to him, all the more.

A groan escaped him as he tore his mouth from hers and took a step back from her. His expression was nearly as befuddled as her own, Olivia thought. They were both breathing heavily, staring at each other in dazed desire, the very air between them seeming to shimmer.

‘Come to bed,’ he said, and reached for her hand.

For a second Olivia hesitated. Here was the moment of clarity, of choice. Was she really willing to give up her virginity to a stranger? Would she do this, the most intimate and sacred of acts, with a man whose name she did not even know, who had kidnapped her, who had to be merely using her, no matter what flowery language he used? And yet he wanted her. That was no lie, no trick. He wanted her...and she loved the feeling of being wanted.

His fingers found hers and he tugged gently, a smile curving that mobile mouth. ‘Do not be afraid, hayete. Remember when I said I would never hurt you. That is, and always will be, my solemn vow.’

He spoke as if he knew her, as if he had been waiting for this moment. Waiting for her. Olivia knew he couldn’t have been. It was just words, sentiment, yet she believed him in this at least: he wouldn’t hurt her. She wouldn’t let herself get hurt. A night and no more. How many women had made the same bargain, the same promise? There need be no regrets. She didn’t care who he was. All that mattered was what he made her feel right now.

He must have sensed her acquiescence for his mouth curved in a deeper smile, and Olivia saw the triumph flare in his eyes along with the desire. He pulled her gently towards him and she came, hips swaying, heart beating. Their bodies nudged and bumped and he gazed down at her, standing so close she could feel the beat of his heart against her own.

‘You are very beautiful. Very desirable.’

No one had ever said such things to her before. She was too skinny, too quiet, all hair and eyes. She didn’t have Halina’s generous curves and lush mouth, her engaging smile and contagious laughter. She always stayed in the background and no one ever noticed her at all. Until now.

Shyly she laid her hand on his chest, felt the steady thud of his heart underneath the press of her palm. ‘As are you.’

He laughed softly at that, and then he took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing her palm, his gaze never leaving hers. ‘Then we are well matched,’ he murmured, and his mouth moved from her palm to her fingertips, kissing and nibbling each one in turn until Olivia’s knees went weak.

The man drew her to the mattress, bringing her down to its feathery softness, the silken covers slippery beneath her. He stretched out alongside her, his body relaxed but his gaze so intent.

‘So very beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘But I want to see all of you. May I?’

Everything in Olivia trembled. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, unable to say anything more. He tugged at the ties of her robe so it fell open, revealing the simple chemise she wore underneath. Keeping his gaze on her, he reached out and cupped her breast, his thumb sliding over the peak, making her shudder. She’d never been touched so intimately, so knowingly.

‘You like that?’ he murmured, and she nodded jerkily.

‘Yes.’

He lowered his mouth to where his hand had just touched, and Olivia jerked again, arching off the mattress as his mouth closed over her breast, damp and hot, sending darts of intense sensation through her. She gripped his head, unsure if she wanted to anchor him to her or push him away, because it was so much. All her nerve endings felt flayed, yet she wanted more of him.

He moved his mouth to her other breast and she gasped out loud. The novels and films had never described it like this. And then he was moving lower, placing lazy kisses along her abdomen, her navel, and then lower still.

Olivia tensed as he nudged her thighs apart. Surely not...? But he was, his warm breath fanning her very centre, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh as he kissed her in the most intimate way possible. Pleasure licked through her veins and her hips arched helplessly, her fingers threaded through his hair, her body on fire. She’d never, ever felt anything like it; it consumed her. He did.

And then she felt as if she were burning right up; she cried out loud, a jagged sound, as pleasure exploded inside her, took her over, blazing through her. When she came to, everything hazy around her, he’d come up to rest on his forearms and was smiling down at her.

‘And that’s just the beginning.’

The beginning? He’d kill her, at this rate. Kill her with pleasure. He laughed softly. ‘Don’t look so disbelieving, hayete. I intend to make this a night you shall never forget.’

He already had. Still smiling, he shrugged out of his own clothes and then rid her of the rest of her own. Their bodies came together, naked, skin on skin, limbs twining and tangling. It felt so intensely intimate, to be pressed against someone like that, every part of herself on display, on offer for him. And he took it, his gaze roving over her, his mouth curved, his eyes gleaming with pleasure. He liked what he saw, and that thrilled her.

‘Touch me,’ he commanded, his voice a throb, and she gazed at him in surprise. Then, hesitantly, she let her hands drift from his powerful shoulders to the satiny skin of his back, and then down to his hips. His arousal pulsed against her, exciting and terrifying her all at once. But he’d told her not to be afraid, and somehow she wasn’t.

‘Touch me,’ he said again, his voice ragged, and Olivia knew what he meant. Feeling shy and bold at the same time, she moved her hand from his hip to curl around the pulsing length of his arousal. His breath hissed between his teeth as she stroked him, hardly able to believe that she could create this response in a man so fierce and beautiful.

He kissed her again, hard, the lazy sensuality he’d shown earlier now becoming something far more raw and primal that Olivia matched, the heat and need an insistent pulse inside her, an ache that demanded satiation—again.

He slid his fingers to her core, moving against her slick heat, making her moan. ‘You’re ready,’ he said and Olivia tensed, knowing she was, of course she was, and yet...

Slowly, surely, he slid inside her, an invasion that felt both shocking and overwhelming, the smooth slide of him filling her right up. She gasped out loud, her hips twitching in instinctive discomfort as she struggled to accommodate the sheer size of him.

Sweat sheened on his brow as he braced himself on his forearms and held himself still inside her, waiting for her to adjust to the entirely unfamiliar sensation. ‘You are not hurt?’ he asked through gritted teeth. Holding back was clearly a huge effort.

Wordlessly Olivia shook her head. She felt too overwhelmed to speak, too emotional. The dazed pleasure that had drugged her senses was trickling away, replaced by a tidal wave of realisation at the enormity of what she’d done. What could not be undone.

As if sensing her thoughts, he brushed a tendril of hair from her forehead and then pressed a kiss against her temple, the gesture almost as intimate as the pulse of his body inside hers. ‘It is all right, hayete. This is right, what is between us. There is no shame in it. None at all.’

Her body was relaxing into him, instinctively learning his shape, accepting it, and his words were the balm she so desperately needed. She put her arms around his taut shoulders, drawing him closer, bringing him even more fully into herself, gasping at the feel of it. It was as if he’d gone right into her centre, invaded her soul.

‘Please,’ she whispered, needing something more from him, craving it. ‘Please.’ And then he began to move, each slow thrust creating a delicious friction that had the pleasure rushing back, lapping at her senses in wave after wave of sensation and then engulfing her entirely.

Her cry shattered the still air as he pulsed inside her and her body felt as if it were dissolving into sated fragments. She cried again, a sob of joy and wonder, as she pressed her face against his damp shoulder, her body shuddering underneath his as the waves subsided but the wonder remained.

* * *

Zayed held his bride in his arms as she shuddered and wept, clearly overwhelmed by what they had experienced. Hell, but he was overwhelmed too. It had been a long time since he’d lain with a woman, a very long time. Yet he didn’t think it had ever felt like this.

Was it different, perhaps, knowing his life was linked with this woman for ever? She would bear his children; she would stand by his side. She was his bride, his wife, his Queen. Yet none of that had been in his mind when he’d held her, when he’d been inside her. The need to consume her had been too overpowering—and that was a dangerous thing.

He didn’t need people, just as he didn’t trust them. Betrayal had taught him the latter; grief had taught him the first. Zayed rolled onto his back and stared up at the roof of the tent as Halina lay quietly beside him, faint tremors still going through her body.

‘You are not in any discomfort?’ he asked eventually and she pushed her hair away from her flushed face.

‘No...no.’ She looked rosy and satisfied and a little bit uncertain. He wanted her all over again, so he rolled away from her, into a sitting position.

‘Good.’ It was done. Nothing could break the bond they’d created; she was his wife both in name and physical fact. Zayed rose from the mattress in one fluid movement and shrugged on his clothes.

‘Where are you going?’ Halina asked. She suddenly sounded very young, and Zayed was reminded that she was only twenty-two—ten years younger than him.

‘I have things to do.’ His voice came out brusque so he tried to moderate it. ‘I will see you later.’

‘You will?’

‘Of course.’ He suppressed a flash of annoyance. Already she sounded needy, clinging, and that was the last thing he wanted. ‘If you need anything, you can ask Suma.’

‘Suma? But I can’t understand her.’

The flash of annoyance came again, and with it an odd sense of unease. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She speaks a dialect I can’t understand.’ She was clutching a sheet to her breasts, her hair tumbled around her face. Zayed fought the urge to climb back into the bed and take her in his arms all over again.

‘I did not realise she was so difficult to understand,’ he said stiffly. ‘You will have to get used to it. She is the only woman here to serve your needs.’

‘But...what...what are you going to do with me?’ Her voice was both tremulous and brave.

Zayed’s gaze narrowed. ‘What am I going to do with you? I have already done it, hayete. It is finished.’

She bit her lip. ‘I know that. I mean, I wasn’t expecting more than...than this. But now what are you going to...? Why did you kidnap me?’ She lifted her chin, holding her gaze steady as if steeling herself for a blow.

Zayed stared at her, completely nonplussed. ‘Why did I kidnap you?’ he repeated. ‘Surely that is obvious? I told you I could not wait any longer.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Your father will not be pleased, I grant you, but he will not be able to affect the outcome. Of that I am certain.’

Now she looked genuinely confused, her brow creased, her lips parting. ‘My father...’ She shook her head slowly. ‘But my father is dead.’

‘What?’ Zayed stared at her in complete shock. Sultan Hassan dead? When? How? But no; surely he would have heard of it? He would have known. His informants in the palace would have said something. Still, a cold fist clutched his heart. If Sultan Hassan was dead, all his plans fell apart, crumbled to dust. To nothing. The man had no sons, and his heir was a distant cousin, someone Zayed could not rely on to help him. ‘When did this happen?’ he bit out.

His bride stared at him in wary confusion. ‘Years ago. Five years now.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t understand. What could my father possibly have to do with any of this?’

‘Wait.’ Zayed felt as if he’d entered some weird, alternative reality. How could Halina be saying this? Sultan Hassan had most certainly not died five years ago. What the hell was going on?

‘Why do you care about my father?’ she asked, her voice trembling. ‘Who are you?’

For a moment he could only stare. She knew who he was. She had to know. ‘I am Prince Zayed al bin Nur,’ he said, biting off each word. She’d wed him, she’d slept with him! Of course she’d known he was her fiancé, her intended husband. Because, if she hadn’t known, why the hell had she slept with him? Agreed to marry him?

‘Zayed...’ Her face had gone pale, her lips bloodless, dawning horror in her eyes. Something was very, very wrong, and the cold fist that was clutching Zayed’s heart squeezed painfully.

‘And you,’ he said forcefully, each word a throb of insistent intensity, ‘are Princess Halina Amari.’ She had to be. He’d seen photographs—blurry, yes, but he’d watched her in the palace. She’d played with her sisters; she’d gone into her bedroom. She had to be his intended bride. His wife.

But already she was shaking her head.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I’m not Halina.’

CHAPTER FOUR

REALISATION UPON REALISATION was crashing through Olivia, filling her with more and more horror. This was Prince Zayed, her friend’s fiancé, and she’d slept with him. And he’d thought she was Halina! He’d taken her from the palace believing her to be his bride-to-be. Had this been some sort of romantic seduction, and she’d botched it completely?

‘If you’re not Princess Halina,’ Zayed asked through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowed to silvery slits, every muscle tensing as if for a fight, ‘then who the hell are you?’

Olivia swallowed hard, her heart beating like a wild bird inside her chest. She clutched the blanket to her, more than ever conscious of her nakedness. ‘My name is Olivia Taylor. I’m governess to the Amari Princesses.’

He stared at her for a single second and then he swore, viciously and fluently. Olivia flinched, and wondered if his solemn vow not to hurt her still stood. She had a feeling it didn’t, although Zayed kept himself restrained, that pulsing fury leashed, if barely.

‘Why, then,’ he asked, his voice one of tightly controlled and yet clearly explosive anger, ‘did you sleep with me?’

‘I...’ There was no excuse, no explanation. She’d lost her head, her virginity to a stranger. And he’d thought he was bedding his future bride! Olivia closed her eyes, wanting to blot out her shame, erase everything that had happened in the last few hours.

And yet, with the flickers of pleasure still pulsing through her body, she couldn’t quite make herself regret it. In Zayed’s arms she’d felt so cherished; what a joke. He hadn’t even realised who she was. The knowledge of how she’d been duped, how she’d let herself be duped and talked herself into bed with a stranger, was utterly shaming.

‘I...’ she tried again, and then shrugged helplessly. She had no answer, except that she’d been completely swept away by the force of him, of her attraction to him, and she wasn’t courageous or stupid enough to admit that. Surely it had been obvious, anyway?

Zayed whirled away from her in one abrupt movement, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Didn’t you know who I was?’

‘No.’

‘And yet you slept with me.’

‘You slept with me,’ Olivia fired back, finding her courage. She wasn’t going to take all the blame. ‘And obviously you didn’t know who I was.’

‘Obviously.’ The single word was scathing. ‘But I would have expected you to correct my mistake, preferably before we’d said our vows.’

‘Vows?’ Olivia stared at him, dread seeping into her stomach like acid. ‘What do you mean—’

‘Unless,’ Zayed cut across her, ruthless now, any gentleness well and truly gone as his face, his body, his voice all hardened. ‘You meant this to happen?’

‘Meant it to happen?’ Olivia stared at him in outrage. ‘I meant for you to kidnap me? I planned it? Are you insane?’ She could hardly believe she was talking to a prince this way—she, meek Olivia Taylor—but the situation was so surreal, his suggestion so ludicrous and insulting, that for a moment she forgot who she was. Where she was. And even what had happened.

Zayed had the grace to look slightly abashed for a millisecond, and then he simply looked impatient. ‘No, not then, of course. But after. Perhaps you saw an opportunity and took it. You wanted to better your situation. You said you were a governess?’

Olivia shook her head. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ She felt furious and humiliated, and she really wished she were wearing some clothes. ‘And I certainly don’t see how I’ve bettered my situation.’

Zayed’s mouth twisted in something like a sneer. ‘Don’t you?’

‘No, I really don’t. But since I’m not Halina, and you’re not kidnapping me for ransom or something like that, perhaps you could see fit to return me to the palace.’ She spoke with as much as dignity as she could muster, considering she was naked. And near tears, which thankfully she blinked back. She would not cry in front of this man, even if she’d already wept in his arms. Even if she’d already experienced more vulnerability and pleasure, more heights and depths, than she had with any other person, ever. Just the memory of how he’d felt inside her, how she’d felt in his arms, the completeness of it, made heat scorch through her, along with something more powerful and dangerous, a longing she could not bear to name. ‘I would like to go back home,’ she added stiffly.

Zayed stared at her unblinkingly for several long, taut moments. ‘Clearly,’ he said finally, his voice clipped, ‘that is impossible at this juncture.’

‘Clearly?’ Olivia tried for a look of disdain. ‘I don’t see how that is at all clear.’ Holding the blanket to her, she scooted out of bed and grabbed the diaphanous robe she’d refused to wear earlier in the evening. Her more modest robe was on the other side of the bed, where Zayed had tossed it after undressing her only a short while ago—it felt like a lifetime. A terrible lifetime. She shrugged into the robe, tying the sash as tightly as she could. It wasn’t much coverage, but at least it was something. She folded her arms over her breasts and lifted her chin, giving Zayed as challenging a stare as she could. ‘So why exactly can’t you return me to Abkar?’

Zayed’s gaze was penetrating, relentless. His mouth had thinned into a hard, unforgiving line, his eyes blazing steel. Anger and animosity rolled off him in thick, choking waves. How on earth had she ever thought he was gentle? ‘I don’t know what game you are playing,’ he said, each precise word feeling like a threat, ‘but I advise that you cease immediately. This is no laughing matter, Miss Taylor. Millions of lives are at stake.’

Millions of lives? Surely that was an exaggeration, yet Olivia wasn’t about to debate the point. She could see well enough how grim Zayed looked.

‘I’m hardly laughing,’ she answered levelly. ‘You’re the one who took me from the palace, Prince Zayed. You’re the one who—’ Her breath rushed out. Seduced me. She couldn’t say the words. She’d been so stupidly willing, so eager, to be seduced. It beggared belief now, but only moments ago she’d been putty in his arms, wanting only to be moulded to whatever shape he chose. Still she met his gaze. ‘I didn’t ask for any of this.’

‘Not at first, perhaps.’ He took a step towards her, a different kind of fire in his eyes, one Olivia recognised, and it made her catch her breath. Even now, he could feel it. She could. The banked heat in his eyes flared to life and she felt its answer scorch through her. ‘But later, Olivia,’ he said, his voice low and menacing. ‘Later you weren’t asking. You were begging.’

She hated him. Officially, she hated him. Even as she felt the pulse of desire go through her, an insistent throb, she hated him. Damn her treacherous body. She knew Zayed saw it too, from the way his lip curled and his eyes travelled down her body, raking her in one scathing glance. A short while ago he’d made her feel cherished and important, and now he was making her feel tawdry and cheap, more than she ever had before. Everything about this was awful.

‘I regret everything that happened between us this evening,’ she said stiffly. ‘More than you can possibly imagine.’

‘You cannot regret it more than I do,’ Zayed snapped. He swore again, turning away from her. ‘Dear heaven, do you know what this is going to cost? Everything.’ His voice choked and for a second he covered his face with his hands. ‘Everything.’

Watching him, Olivia saw a man in torment and she didn’t fully understand it. She had a bizarre yet deep-seated urge to comfort him, to make it better. ‘Is it because you—you have been unfaithful to Halina? I don’t think she expects such fidelity until you’re wed. You haven’t even met. She’ll understand.’ She probably wouldn’t care. She hadn’t wanted to marry Zayed in the first place.

‘Unfaithful?’ He dropped his hands and let out a bark of humourless laughter. ‘I have not merely been unfaithful.’

‘You mean because you kidnapped me,’ she said slowly, as reality caught up with her. ‘And Sultan Hassan will know you meant to kidnap his daughter. He might call the engagement off.’ He would be angry, she supposed, but that angry? She liked her employer, found him to be generous and carelessly affectionate, but she knew he had a strong and unwavering core of honour and dignity. She had no idea how he’d react to what Zayed had done.

‘Might?’ Zayed turned around to face her, his expression one of weary scorn. ‘There is no might. He most certainly will. He will be furious that I dared to try to take his precious daughter. That I slipped through his defences.’

‘How did you? Why were the gates open when we left?’

Zayed shrugged. ‘A cousin of a cousin is one of the guards. He has been my spy for years. He made sure the gates were open to me.’

No, Sultan Hassan would not like that. He would be furious that someone had breached his security, and also threatened and maybe even a little scared by how seemingly easily it had been done. Unless...

‘They might not even know I’m gone,’ Olivia said slowly. She could hardly believe she was trying to help him, this man whom had taken so much from her, whom she had told herself she hated. Perhaps it was simply that ever-present urge she had to be helpful. Needed. Or perhaps it was the connection they shared, whether they wanted to or not. They’d been lovers. It was not something she would forget easily, or ever. ‘If no one saw your men come or go...’