“You no-good, despicable—”

Her words were all-American, and his reaction was all male. There was only one way to silence her and he took it, lifting her to him and capturing her lips with his. She struggled. She fought. He kept kissing her, told himself it was the best way to keep her quiet.

Told himself that even as he felt himself drowning in her taste, her scent, her heat.

“Don’t fight me,” he whispered against her lips.

And for one amazing moment she obeyed. Her body softened; he let go of her fists and gathered her in his arms, bringing her tightly against him. Her lips softened, too, and parted just enough so he could slip the tip of his tongue into her mouth and savor its sweetness.

Savor it until he felt the sharp bite of her teeth.

Khalil cursed, jerked back, and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. He put it against his lip, looked at the tiny crimson smear on the creamy white linen—and laughed.

Layla stared at him in disbelief. She’d bitten him and he’d laughed? Maybe she was losing her mind. It was the only thing that made sense…

THE SHEIKH’S WAYWARD WIFE

BY

SANDRA MARTON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

HE STOOD on a terrace outside the Grand Ballroom, looking

over the deserted beach and the sea. A crescent moon hung in the sky, a cool ivory scimitar against the fiery backdrop of stars.

The pleasant sounds of conversation and music drifted through the partially opened doors behind him but he was alone.

Alone and annoyed.

The night was soft, the view enchanting, but Khalil had come to Al Ankhara on business, not in search of pleasure. So far no business had taken place.

He was familiar with everything here. The great Moorish palace. The white sand. The endless sea. He had been born here, not just in Al Ankhara but in the palace itself, born to all it represented. Legend said his nation was as ancient as the sea, as timeless as the desert. Once it had been a country of warriors. Now it was struggling to find itself in a new and different world.

Khalil was a part of both worlds. His heart would always be here, in this harsh and beautiful land, but his life was in New York City where he had lived for the past decade.

A frown crossed his ruggedly handsome face.

He had arrived early this morning, summoned by his father on what the older man had called an urgent matter of state. The summons had come at an inconvenient time but Khalil, although not a believer in some of the old ways, did believe in showing respect to one’s father.

That his father was also the sultan gave the summons added weight.

He’d read the e-mail, cursed softly, then phoned to arrange for his private jet, leaving a billion-dollar deal on the table and a new mistress alone in her bed. Hours later he’d stepped off the plane, ready for anything….

And instead been greeted as if his homecoming was nothing but a usual visit.

Sheikh Khalil al Kadar, Crown Prince of Al Ankhara, Protector of his People, Heir to the Throne of the Lion and the Sword and, for all he knew, possessor of a dozen other outmoded titles, tucked his hands in the pockets of his trousers and sighed in frustration.

His father, surrounded by the usual coterie of ministers, had greeted him warmly.

“Excellent, my son,” he’d said. “You wasted no time in getting here.”

“Of course not, Father,” Khalil had replied. “Your message spoke of urgency.”

“It did, yes.” One of the ministers moved closer and whispered to the sultan, who nodded, then clapped Khalil on the shoulder. “Right now, however, I have business to attend to.”

“But this urgent matter…?”

“In a little while,” the sultan had said, and hurried off.

The “little while” had gone from minutes to hours and as it did, Khalil’s attitude had gone from curiosity to impatience to glowering irritation. His mood had not been improved when his father’s private secretary had knocked at the door of his rooms in late afternoon to inform him that the sultan would see him at the state dinner scheduled for the evening.

Just thinking about it now made a muscle knot in Khalil’s jaw.

How “urgent” could a thing be, if it was to be discussed while two hundred guests milled about?

Khalil had done his best to be pleasant during the meal, but he’d felt his temper rising. Finally he’d excused himself and come out on the terrace where he could pace its length, check his watch, wonder what in hell was going on and—

What was that?

A figure stepped from the shadow of the palace and began walking quickly along the beach toward the sea. Khalil frowned. Who could it be? The hour was late. More to the point, the area was private, restricted for the use of the sultan’s household, and securely guarded.

One of the guests? No. The figure wore a hooded djellebah. A man’s garment. But the men here tonight were all wearing dark dinner suits.

Khalil moved closer to the railing.

Besides, this couldn’t be a man. The figure was too slight. A boy, then. A servant—but surely they would know that the sultan, a believer in the old ways, would not approve of a servant taking a stroll on this bit of royal land.

The boy had reached the place at which sea and sand met. Khalil’s eyes narrowed. Was he imagining that there was tension visible in the line of the child’s shoulders, the rigidity of his spine?

The boy took a step forward. The sea foamed around his ankles. Around his legs, soaking the djellebah, wrap ping it around them.

What the hell was the kid up to?

It was a fool’s question. The boy was walking steadily into the sea—a sea that dropped sharply only twenty feet from shore and was often home to hungry, man-eating sharks.

Khalil cursed, grabbed the railing and vaulted onto the sand.

Layla’s heart had been beating so hard as she slipped out the door of the harem that she’d been sure everyone could hear it.

She was amazed she’d gotten this far.

She’d slipped away without any of her guards noticing. Not that they called themselves guards. The two women who never let her out of their sight were her servants, according to her father, and when she’d glared at him and demanded to know what was the function of her third “servant,” an enormous thug with a pockmarked face and missing teeth, he’d said that Ahmet was for her protection.

“Al Ankhara may look like a land of fantasy,” he’d said, “but it is not.”

That, at least, was true. Al Ankhara might look like something out of the Arabian Nights, with its minarets and Moorish arches, but it wasn’t. What had happened to her in the past few days proved it.

But she had not let herself think about that tonight.

Instead, she had concentrated on escaping. The question was, how?

She and her so-called servants were in a separate part of the palace. It must have been beautiful once. Now the marble floors were dulled by age, the silk carpets were threadbare and the walls were grimy. The windows, looking out on an empty stretch of beach, were barred with decorative ironwork. The door that led into the palace was securely bolted; the lock on the door that gave onto the beach looked as if it hadn’t been opened in the last century.

In other words, Layla was trapped.

Then, just before sunset, her luck changed.

A ship appeared. A yacht, if you wanted to be specific. It anchored off the beach. Two hundred, three hundred yards, maybe further out than that, but what did such a distance mean to a woman who was desperate?

How could she get to it? Not twenty minutes later, she had the answer.

She found a hairpin.

It wasn’t the kind of little thing sold in drugstores. This pin was enormous, made of brass or copper. Or gold, for all she knew. What mattered was its size, its strength…

And that she could use it to jimmy the lock on the outside door as soon as her captors settled in for the night. Watching all those old movies about plucky heroines turning hatpins into tools might end up being the best thing she’d ever done.

She tucked the hairpin into a crack in the wall and waited.

The women brought her a plate of food, then waddled off to join Ahmet. Layla pushed the food around but didn’t eat it. Soon, the women returned. She let them draw her a bath, let them dry her and powder her, but when they reached for a nightgown, she shook her head and mimed that she was cold.

The women snorted with laughter. Well, why not? Everything about her amused them. Her blond hair. Her blue eyes. Her pale skin and bony—in their eyes—body. That she should feel chilly when the temperature was probably just a few degrees short of spontaneous combustion was just one more thing that made them guffaw.

Instead of the gown, they’d dressed her in a djellebah.

“You sleep now,” one had commanded, and Layla had dutifully gone to the alcove they’d designated as hers.

She’d waited until she heard a chorus of earth-shattering snores. Then she’d tiptoed to the locked door.

Minutes later, after some adept hairpin jiggling in the lock, Layla was free.

She’d wanted to race down to the sea, but what if someone was looking out the windows of the palace? She had to look casual, so she’d walked slowly along the sand. When she reached the water, she’d debated shucking off the djellebah, reminded herself she had no way of knowing who she’d find on that boat, still rocking gently at anchor. She’d just started into the water—

Something barreled into her.

Something big. Something powerful.

A man.

Strong arms closed around her from behind. Lifted her off her feet. She cried out, as much with fury as with fear. How could Ahmet have caught her this quickly?

Except, it wasn’t Ahmet.

The feel of the body pressed to hers was hard and lean, not layered with fat. The arms encircling her were taut with muscle. Even the man’s smell was not Ahmet’s. Her horrible guard stunk of sweat and grease. The man who’d hoisted her in the air, who was grunting as she fought him, smelled of nothing but the sea and a hint of expensive cologne.

She was not going to be handed over to a fat bandit seeking a wife, Layla thought in disbelief, she was going to be raped by a hard-bodied, clean-smelling stranger!

Then she stopped thinking and screamed.

* * *

The scream damn near pierced Khalil’s eardrums.

A woman? The creature fighting him like a wild thing wasn’t a boy; it was a woman.

Very much a woman.

Holding her this way, tilted back against his body, there was no doubt about her sex. The hood of the djellebah had fallen back; her wild, silken hair was in his face, her backside was in his groin, her breasts…

Her breasts were damn near cupped in his hands.

By Ishtar, what was going on?

He was sure of only one thing. This was not the time to try and find out. She was doing her best to get loose. Well, fine. He would let her go as soon as she stopped trying to kill him. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but her elbows were sharp as she slammed them into his gut, her heels were tattooing against his shins…

And that backside.

Small. Firm. Elegant. She was grinding it into his groin and, damn it, his perfidious body was starting to react.

“Bass,” he snarled. “Bass!”

He might as well have said “stop” to a tiger. Khalil grunted, jerked her harder against him and put his mouth to her ear. “Shismak!” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, but then, who would respond to such a question at a moment like this? Still, it was logical to ask who she was, what was her name.

Never mind.

What mattered was that they were still dancing in the surf, she fighting like a wildcat, he trying to subdue her…

Trying not to react to the bump of her backside, the fullness of her breasts…

Had he lost his mind? Who cared about any oft hat? The woman was an intruder. What was she doing here? How had she made her way past the gates and the guards? Had she come for a midnight swim? Was she trying to kill herself?

Footsteps were pounding along the sand. Khalil looked back, saw two heavyset women and an enormous man lumbering toward them.

The man had a blade in his hand.

“Drop it,” Khalil snarled in Arabic.

The man skidded to a stop, stared, turned pale and fell to his knees. So did the women.

For a moment, no one moved, not even the woman in his arms. Good, Khalil thought grimly, and he spun her toward him, then dropped her onto her feet.

Hands on his hips, he let loose a string of words Layla couldn’t possibly understand. She couldn’t understand any of this. Why were her captors lying facedown in the sand, prostrating themselves before the madman who’d attacked her?

Gasping for breath, she tossed her wet hair back from her face and dredged up two of the three insults she knew. Well, she knew how to say them, if not what they meant, but what did that matter at a moment like this?

“Ibn Al-Himar,” she panted. “Inta khaywan!”

One of the women gave a muffled shriek; the other one groaned. Ahmet rose to his knees, but the man who’d attacked her held up one hand.

He used the other to grab her by the wrist and wrench her arm behind her back.

“Shismak,” he barked, lowering his face until his eyes were almost level with hers.

What did that mean? She was almost out of Arabic. The best she could do was lift her chin and toss out the one final insult in her pathetic vocabulary.

“Shismak,” she said through her teeth and added, for good measure, “Yakhreb beytak!”

Whatever she’d just said, it certainly did the job.

He stared at her as if she were crazy. The women covered their faces with their hands. Ahmet shot to his feet and reached for her.

The man snarled at him and he fell back.

Silence descended on the little group, broken only by the hiss of the sea. Her attacker tightened his grasp on her wrist and dragged her arm high enough so the breath rushed from her lungs.

Maybe he wasn’t going to rape her after all, Layla thought with amazing calm.

Maybe he was just going to kill her.

Enough. She had lived in fear the past few days, but she would not die in it. Instead she raised her chin and repeated whatever it was she’d said. Slowly this time, for the best possible effect.

Then she flashed a brilliant smile.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Kelbeh,” he growled. Then he put his big hand in the center of her chest and pushed.

Layla yelped, windmilled her arms and went down on her backside in the surf.

His audience guffawed.

He didn’t. He went on looking at her, face expressionless. She struggled to her feet, shivering with rage, with fear, with her dousing in the sea, but her eyes never left his.

The man snapped out what was obviously an order. The laughter stopped. He spoke again; the women and Ahmet stood. They looked at each other, then one woman pointed at Layla and began speaking in a low voice. The man interrupted; the woman nodded. There was more pointing, more talk.

When it ended, the man swung around, folded his arms and studied her.

For the first time she noticed what he looked like. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Long-legged. He wore a black dinner suit, not a djellebah. His hair was thick and dark. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes but they were deep-set in a face that was harsh and hard…

And beautiful. Savagely beautiful, if there were such a thing.

Slowly, so slowly that she felt the deliberateness of it, his eyes moved over her. Over her face, her breasts, her body. She knew her soaked djellebah was clinging to her.

What could he see?

Everything, she thought. The shape of her breasts. The sudden tightening of her nipples. The length of her legs.

Layla made a little sound in the back of her throat. His eyes rose to hers. To her horror, she felt a rush of heat at what she saw in that beautiful, terrifying face.

The sound of the sea, the sigh of the breeze…everything faded. His lips curved in a smile, the kind that women always understood. Back home she knew exactly how to handle smiles like that.

Here all she could think of was taking a quick step back.

It didn’t matter.

He caught her by the shoulders and tugged her forward. She stumbled, fell against him, against that hard, muscled body, her breasts soft against his chest. One of his hands traced the line of her spine; he cupped her bottom, lifted her into him and she felt the shocking power of his aroused flesh press into the vee of her thighs.

She gasped. Felt herself sway in his embrace.

He said something in a low voice. She didn’t understand the words but the meaning was clear, especially when he lowered his head, threaded his fingers in her hair, tugged her head back until her face was raised to his.

“Balashs.”

“Don’t.” She’d intended to say it forcefully, not in a tremulous whisper, but the way he was looking at her, the feel of his hand in her hair, the scent of him coupled with the scent of the sea…

Layla’s heart pounded.

They stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity. Then a muscle knotted in his jaw. He let go of her, shrugged off his dinner jacket and wrapped it around her. She clutched it without thinking, burrowed into its warmth, into the warmth that had been his. His hands closed on her shoulders again and he propelled her forward, into the outstretched arms of one of the women.

Then he turned his back, walked slowly up the beach and disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER TWO

KHALIL made his way to a little-used back entry to the palace he’d discovered as a boy.

It had been one way to avoid the rigid rules of behavior by which a prince was expected to live.

When he opened the door, a surprised royal guard snapped a quick salute; Khalil returned it without pausing and hurried up the stairs. He had no intention of returning to the ballroom. He hadn’t been in the mood for all the glitter and noise earlier; he certainly didn’t feel any different about it now.

What had happened on the beach was unsettling. Had he stumbled across something no one was supposed to see?

On the other hand, he thought, as he entered the sitting room of the suite that had been his since childhood, the scene by the sea had been played out with a lot of drama.

Who wouldn’t have found it unsettling?

His shoes squished as he crossed the ancient silk carpet and went into the bedroom. He was soaked. His shoes, his trousers…

But that was what happened when a man held a wet woman in his arms.

A wet, all-but-naked woman.

Khalil paused as he stripped off his clothes. Definitely naked, under that djellebah. He’d always thought of a djellebah as a utilitarian garment.

Not anymore.

The soaked cotton had molded itself to her body, accentuating every curve. The roundness of her breasts. The feminine vee at the apex of her thighs, the delicate bud of her nipples pushing against the wet fabric.…

His sex stirred and hardened. He shut his eyes, let his mind go back to those moments when he’d brought her against him, felt the softness of her…

Damn it!

Angrily he finished undressing, dumped his things on a chair and went into the bathroom.

He had reacted to her. So what? Any man would. There were far bigger issues involved here. Who was she? Why had she been on the beach alone? Why had she walked, fully gowned, into the sea?

Scowling, he stepped into the glass-enclosed steam shower and turned it on.

Her attendants said she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant, on her way to her wedding. She’d decided to take a swim even though they’d advised against it.

Yes, but they’d come running after her as if she’d slipped away from them. Why would she have to do that? She was their mistress. If she wanted to swim, she would. She didn’t need their approval. They would have accompanied her to the water, the women tsk-tsking, the fat thug to stand guard, but they’d have had no choice but to accept her actions.

And why go into the sea wearing the djellebah? The woman surely would have known the wet weight of the gown would make swimming difficult.

Khalil bowed his head, flattened his palms against the glass wall and let the spray beat down on his shoulders and neck.

He should have asked the woman instead of her attendants. She had not said much to him, just enough so he’d noticed she had an accent he couldn’t quite identify—and enough to rain insults on his head. She’d called him a donkey, an ass, a dog…

And he’d let her get away with it.

He’d let her stop him from kissing her, too, with that softly whispered, “Don’t.”

Not that he really would have kissed her. She was on her way to her wedding. That meant she was another man’s property. Not that he believed in that kind of thing. Women weren’t property. Not in his world, at any rate…

And why in hell would he have wanted to kiss her in the first place?

Better still, why was he wasting time thinking about a woman he would never see again?

Khalil shut off the shower, wrapped a towel around his hips, walked into the bedroom—and jerked back as the light came on and a spindly old man rose from a rug by the fireplace.

“Damn it,” Khalil said sharply. “Hassan! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, my lord.”

“That’s ridiculous! How many times must I tell you I don’t want you waiting up for me, waiting on me…” The expression on Hassan’s face stopped him in midsentence. His voice gentled. “Go to bed, old man. I can manage on my own.”

“It is not proper, Prince Khalil. I am your servant. I should assist you.”

“I am a grown man. I don’t need assistance.”

“You are a prince, sir. I was given to you at your birth. Tradition says—”

“Tradition says it is late,” Khalil said gruffly. He slung his arm around the old man’s shoulders and walked him through the suite to the door. “Thank you for waiting, but I can manage.”

The old man sighed, bowed so low Khalil feared he might topple over, then backed from the room.

Tradition, indeed, Khalil thought as he closed the door. Would his people ever find their way into the twenty-first century, burdened with so many useless customs? He had grown up with those customs; he had followed them, as was expected, but more than a decade of living in the West had convinced him that some things had to be changed.

He dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants.

The status of servants, to begin with. The veneration of royalty. The blind rigidity of law as dictated by the sultan, the crown prince…

Or a woman’s father.

Khalil tumbled onto the bed, stacked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the coffered ceiling.

Something was wrong with the story he’d been told on the beach. Weddings practices in particular were steeped in tradition, but there’d been nothing traditional about the arrangements pertaining to this one.

When her people explained that the woman was on her way to be married, that she was the daughter of a rich merchant marrying an important chieftain, why hadn’t he thought to ask the obvious questions?

Who was she marrying? And why was she traveling with such a small bridal party?

Two women. One guard. The details didn’t add up. A wedding between people of wealth and power was an important event and surely this was such a wedding. Every possible honor would be given the bride. She’d be accompanied by at least a dozen horsemen. Easily that many female attendants. Members of her family, of her village.

And what of his father’s role? Why hadn’t he invited the wedding party to attend the elaborate dinner still going on in the ballroom?

Khalil rose from the bed, walked to the window and looked out.

The beach was deserted. There was nothing to show a woman had walked into the sea, that he had gone after her, that he had held her in his arms, felt the warmth of her body, smelled the freshness of her skin.

He might have imagined it all—but he hadn’t.

Something strange had happened tonight. He knew that. He also knew it had nothing to do with him. This was Al Ankhara, an ancient place that held mysteries even he could not always understand.

Khalil went back to the bed.

One thing was certain. The incident had revealed a basic need. A need for a woman.

He’d ended an affair almost two months ago. He had a new mistress but he’d only been with her once before he’d flown here. Surely, that was the reason, the only reason, he’d been stirred by the woman on the beach.

He was hungry, and his hunger would be assuaged as soon as he was back in New York. The woman he’d left there had beauty and sophistication. She would greet him eagerly, wearing something sexy she’d picked up at Saks or Bendel’s.

What man in his right mind would choose a fire-breathing female in a djellebah over that?

Still, when he closed his eyes, the face he saw was not that of his mistress but of the woman on the beach.

All the more reason, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, to find out what his father wanted of him, do it and return to New York as quickly as possible.

His father sent word they would breakfast together in a small courtyard centered on a fountain.

He was already there when Khalil arrived, seated at a marble-topped table set for two that was laden with platters of fruit, cheese, yogurt and freshly baked bread.

The sultan half rose; the men exchanged a quick embrace.

“Sabah ala-kheir, my son.”

“Good morning, Father.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Please, sit down. Fill your plate. You must be hungry. You didn’t eat very much last night.”

Khalil looked up. The sultan’s expression was innocent. The comment was not. What his father meant was that he’d noticed Khalil had not stayed for the entire meal.

“Was the food not to your liking?”

Two could play at this game. “It was excellent, Father, but I was weary from my journey.”

Meaning, he had come a long distance on short notice and still had no idea why.

Father and son smiled at each other. They had not spent a lot of time together when Khalil was small—it was not the custom—but they had grown closer when Khalil reached adulthood.

“And how was that journey, my son?”

“It was fine. The skies were clear all the way.”

“And your new plane?”

“It is fine, too, Father,” Khalil said, trying to keep the edge from his voice.

“But what would truly be fine,” the sultan said, raising his bushy white eyebrows, “is discovering why I called you home.”

So much for word games. “Yes,” Khalil said bluntly, “that would be a good thing.”

Two servants hovered near a rolling cart covered with silver chafing dishes; another stood ready to pour coffee and tea. The sultan blotted his mouth with his napkin, tossed it on the table and rose to his feet.

“Walk with me, Khalil. Let me show you how beautiful my roses are this year.”

What was this? Was his father concerned about being overheard? Khalil pushed back his chair and fell in beside the older man. They set off on a path of crushed white and pink marble that wound through the palace’s fabled gardens.

When they were deep within its confines, surrounded by flowers and shrubs and far from anyone who might hear them, the sultan sat down on a wrought-iron bench. Khalil took the bench opposite his and waited.

“You were not happy that I requested your return,” the sultan said.

“I was in the midst of an important negotiation.”

His father nodded. “Still you came.”

“You are my father, and you are the leader of our people.”

The older man nodded again. “And you are my heir, Khalil. Since birth, you have known it is your duty to do what is best for your country.”

What was happening here? Khalil folded his arms. “That is a given, Father.”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then the sultan put his hands on his thighs and leaned forward.

“Last night, on the beach, you met a woman.”

Was nothing about his life here private? It was one of the things Khalil had always disliked. Everything he did was subject to scrutiny.

“And?”

“She is called Layla.”

Layla. A soft, feminine name. It suited her. The lushness of her body, the beauty of her face…but it was a direct contradiction to the fire of her temperament.

“Khalil?”

Khalil cleared his throat. “Sorry. I was… What about her?”

“She is to be married.”

“So her people told me.”

“It is an important union. Her father is Sheikh Omar al Assad.”

“Are you certain? Her people said—”

“I am quite certain, Khalil. And her betrothed is Butrus al Ali.”

Khalil blinked in surprise. “The renegade?”

“Not after this marriage takes place. Butrus will swear his allegiance to me, as will Omar, for brokering the union. An old and dangerous rift will be healed and our people in the north will finally have peace.”

Khalil nodded. A marriage would take place for reasons of state. It was an old custom, not just here but in many parts of the world, and though he knew Westerners would scoff if he said such arrangements still took place among them, too, it was true; the sons and daughters of wealthy, powerful families often married to secure alliances and create dynasties.

But the woman on the beach, the bride of Butrus? He had met the man years ago. Could he recall what he looked like?

His jaw tightened. Yes, he damned well could.

Overweight. Hell, that was too polite a term. Butrus al Ali was grossly obese. He had long, greasy hair; there’d been caked black dirt under his fingernails and a stench to his breath that made it impossible to stand close.

The woman on the beach—Layla—was to take such a pig as her bridegroom?

“Khalil?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Have you been listening to me?”

“I’ve been trying to remember the renegade. What I’ve come up with is not pleasant. The woman. Layla. Is she aware of his, ah, his shortcomings?”

The sultan cocked his head. “Should she be?” he said, with genuine surprise.

The obvious answer was no. This was Al Ankhara, not the United States. It was part of an alliance known as The Nations. All countries in The Nations were rich beyond measure; each sported skyscrapers in their cities, but also in each a traditional way of life existed side by side with the new.

“As you said, I met her last night. She is young and attractive.”

“I would say she is beautiful, Khalil, not simply attractive.”

“You’ve seen her, then?”

“Of course. I met with her and her party yesterday. Briefly, just long enough to be sure her father had not lied. There will be an exchange of money in this marriage but Butrus made it clear he would only accept a bride who met a standard of beauty. Fortunately, the woman does.”

“Why is she traveling with such a small party? And why haven’t you granted her the palace’s full hospitality?”

“I deemed it safer that no one know of the marriage plans for as long as possible. You surely are aware there are those who would wish to prevent it from taking place.”

He did, of course. Butrus’s enemies. Omar’s enemies. Even his father’s enemies.

What of Layla? Would she wish to prevent it? Was that the reason she’d walked into the sea last night? Had she been trying to kill herself or, impossible as it seemed, swim to freedom?

“And the woman?” he said carefully. “You didn’t answer my question. Does she know anything about her bridegroom?”

The sultan shrugged. “She knows he is rich. Beyond that, I have no idea. As we both know, it doesn’t matter. Whom she marries is Omar’s decision.”

“Yes, but—”

“There is no ‘but’,” the sultan said sharply. “This is not the West, my son, it is Al Ankhara and she is of our people. She has been raised to respect her father’s wishes.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a thread of warning. “As have you.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you called me home, Father?”

“I have a task for you. A vital one.”

Icy fingers seemed to brush down Khalil’s spine. “And that task is?”

“You asked why the woman, Layla, travels with such a small party. I told you it was for her safety.”

“You mean,” Khalil said carefully, “it was for the safety of the planned alliance.”

The sultan shrugged. “It is the same thing.”

It was, by the standards of an earlier century but not, perhaps, by the standards of this one—or by the standards of a beautiful woman who was about to be given in marriage to a man who would surely make her skin crawl.

A man who would put his filthy hands on her soft breasts, whose diseased mouth would cover hers, whose grotesque body would possess hers night after night.

Khalil got to his feet. None of that mattered. The marriage, the marriage bed, had nothing to do with him. All the points his father had made were valid.

“And?” he prompted.

The sultan sighed and rose, too.

“And, I’m afraid the wedding is no longer a secret. Rumors of it are everywhere. Anything could happen, but nothing must. The woman must be delivered to Butrus as planned.”

“You fear a raiding party. An abduction.”

“Or worse.”

More images raced through Khalil’s head, scenes of brutality and carnage. Of Layla, pleading for her honor and for her life.

But she would not beg.

She would fight to her last breath, as she had fought him last night. Last night when she had twisted in his arms, when he had felt her body hot against his….

“These things must not happen. Surely, you see that, Khalil.”

Khalil took a steadying breath. “Did you call me home to advise you? I’m sure your ministers have already done that.”

“Have they?”

“Certainly. An alternate plan is simple to devise. All you need do is increase the size of the traveling party. Fifty men. One hundred. In dress uniform, of course, with lances, and riding the finest horses to honor tradition, but all of them armed with modern weapons to make it clear that they are unstoppable. What? Why are you shaking your head?”

“No horses,” the sultan said impatiently. “No medieval nonsense. Why would we do that?”

Khalil barked a derisive laugh. “Because this is medieval nonsense,” he said harshly. “We both know that.”

“There is a much simpler and more effective way of guaranteeing royal protection to the woman, Khalil, one that no man will dare ignore.”

“And that is?”

The sultan put his hand on Khalil’s shoulder. “You are my son, heir to the Throne of the Lion and the Sword. You are the crown prince, the sheikh of Al Ankhara, protector of all its people.”

The icy fingers swept over Khalil’s spine again.

“Father—”

“You shall escort the woman to meet her groom.”

Khalil jerked back. “No.”

“Your plane will fly you and her to the city of Kasmir. As is traditional, Butrus will meet you there.”

“Did you hear what I said? I will not—”

“You will have men with you, of course, just as you described them, in dress uniform but actually an assault team carrying modern weapons.” The sultan smiled, obviously pleased with himself and his plan. “Not that you will need them. Butrus will be impressed. Your presence will make it clear that the match has the blessing of our house. No one will dare lift a hand against you and the throne you represent.”

“This is out of the question,” Khalil said sharply. “I have an important negotiation waiting for me in New York.”

“There is nothing more important than respect for your country.”

“Acting as an errand boy to deliver a woman who’s been sold to a renegade has nothing to do with respect for my country!”

“You are being given a great honor. And no one has been sold to anyone.”

Khalil snorted. “Tell that to yourself, Father, not to me.”

The sultan’s face darkened. “You forget yourself,” he said, his voice colder than Khalil had ever heard it.

A muscle in Khalil’s jaw flickered.

“Father,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, “I’m sure your ministers think this is a good plan but—”

“The plan is mine.”

“All right,” Khalil said, even though he didn’t believe it, “it’s yours. But—”

“But,” his father said brusquely, “it goes against all your Western sensibilities.”

“No. Yes. Damn it, there are other ways. Not just to get her there. To secure an alliance.”

The sultan folded his arms. “Name one.”

Name one. Name one. Khalil ran his hands through his hair, until it stood up in small, black-as-midnight tufts.

“Offer Butrus money. Omar, too. Pay them to declare peace.”

“Money is not the same as a blood tie.”

“Gold, then. Diamonds. Oil. We have incredible riches—”

“Are you paying any attention at all? Treasure is nothing when measured against the bonds formed by blood. This marriage will take place, and you will be the bride’s escort.”

Silence filled the space between the men. Khalil understood the importance of filial duty, of princely obligation, but he had left home at eighteen, spent four years taking his undergraduate degree at Harvard, another taking a graduate degree in business at Wharton.

There had been some discussion about all of that. Jal, one of his father’s senior ministers, had disapproved.

“There is always the danger, sir,” he had warned, “that the prince may begin to favor the ways of the West over the ways of Al Ankhara.”

The sultan had declared that nonsense. So had Khalil.

Now, and not for the first time, he could feel himself torn between the old ways and the new. More than that, he was to be an integral part of something he knew was wrong. To force a woman into a marriage she surely could not want…

“The woman knows what is expected of her.”

Khalil looked up. Had he spoken aloud or were his thoughts so clearly written on his face?

“She has agreed to it?”

“She has.” The sultan’s expression turned wry. “Do you think this is a hardship for her, Khalil? I assure you, it is not. She is pleased, though she is clever enough not to show it. Consider what awaits her. The status of being Butrus’s wife. His wealth. His power. Those things will become hers.”

Only if Butrus permitted it, Khalil thought. The woman, Layla, would really be little more than his slave.

“Talk to her yourself, if it will make you feel better.”

“No,” Khalil said sharply. “I have no wish to—”

“My lord.”

Khalil spun around. The two women he had seen on the beach and the thug who called himself a bodyguard had appeared on the crushed-marble path. They fell to the ground in respect—and revealed the woman who stood behind them.

Layla.

She had been beautiful in the moonlit night. Now, with the sun on her, Khalil could see that she wasn’t beautiful.

She was exquisite.

Her hair was the color of wild honey, streaked with what looked to be a dozen lighter tones of gold. Her eyes were enormous blue pools tipped with thick, dark lashes. Her nose was small, her mouth full, the features delicately set in a slightly triangular face. It gave her the look of an elegant feline. Her body, not hidden by a man’s djellebah but encased instead in a long gown of ivory silk, was lushly female.

Khalil’s response was as swift as it had been the prior night. He felt himself harden, felt the sudden thrum of the blood in his veins.

“Show respect to the prince and the sultan, girl!”

His glance flew past her. Omar al Assad, her father, stood behind her, his face drawn into a ferocious scowl. He slapped his hand on her shoulder; Khalil heard the hiss of her breath, saw her wince as she dropped to her knees.

A growl sounded in his throat. He started forward but the sultan put out a hand and stopped him.

“I have brought Omar to the palace so he may be informed of our new plan, Khalil. As for this—” the sultan shrugged “—a father disciplining his daughter,” he said mildly. “It is nothing.”

Omar nodded. “She is headstrong, but she will learn. Butrus will see to it. Isn’t that right, girl?”

Layla lifted her head. Her eyes glittered. With what? Defiance? Anger? Mockery?

“Are you deaf? Answer me when I speak to you!”

“She heard you,” Khalil said coldly. “We all heard you.”

“Your Highness.” Omar’s voice, directed at Khalil, was silky smooth. “We are honored to know that you will escort my daughter to her wedding.”

“I have not said that I would.”

“But your father assured me—”

Khalil walked slowly to Layla. “Look at me,” he said softly. He put his hand under her chin and gently raised her face until their eyes met. “Do you know what is about to happen to you?”

“Answer the prince,” Omar snarled.

Khalil silenced him with a look. Then he gazed into Layla’s eyes again.

“Do you know?”

She nodded.

“Have you agreed that it should happen?”

“She does not need to—”

“My father, the sultan, tells me that you have agreed. Is that so?”

Did her mouth tremble? Omar stepped forward. She flinched, and Khalil gave the man a look that made him turn pale.

“I am speaking to your daughter.”

“I only wish to remind her to show respect to you, my lord.”

“Move away, Omar al Assad. I do not want you standing next to me.” The man’s mouth thinned but he did as commanded. Khalil knelt before Layla. He heard the gasps of those around him but he ignored them. “Answer me,” he said quietly. “Have you agreed to this wedding?”

There was a long, long silence. He watched the tip of her tongue sweep across her lips. It was a very pink tongue, a delicate one, and he almost groaned at the unconscious sexuality of the simple gesture.

“Speak freely, Layla. You are safe here.”

Again, the tip of her tongue swept across her lips. “Na’am,” she said quietly.

Yes, she’d said…and there it was again, the accent he’d noticed last night. For some reason it troubled him. So did her answer. It more than troubled him. It disappointed him, but why?

She had been raised in the old ways. She believed in them. And, as his father had pointed out, there was the promise of riches, of status.

Khalil rose to his feet.

The sultan was right. He had no role in any of this except as crown prince. He had obligations to meet and, in meeting them, he could at least ensure that this woman reached Kasmir safely. His father wished it. The council wished it. Omar wished it.

And so did she.

He turned his back on her, spoke directly to the little group gathered around them.

“I will escort her to Kasmir.”

His father beamed his approval. So did her father. The two men began talking, but Khalil couldn’t take his eyes from Layla.

Her posture was one of supplication but when she looked up, her eyes told a different story. As before, they glittered. With defiance, with anger…

With an unspoken plea?

He hesitated. Then he held out his hand. She took it, started to her feet—and stumbled. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her but she fell against him anyway. He felt the quick brush of her body and then she was on her toes and her lips were at his ear.

“For God’s sake,” she hissed, “are you blind? They’re lying. Your father. My father. Damn it, can’t you tell that I’ve been forced into this?”

Khalil blinked. She was steady on her feet now, standing with her head bowed, making no protest as Omar stepped forward, cupped her elbow and marched her away. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

But something definitely had.

Her whispered words had not been spoken in Arabic.

They had been spoken in flawless American English.

CHAPTER THREE

LAYLA’S keepers—it was the only way to describe them—led her away. The thug first, then Layla with one woman on either side, then Omar, bringing up the rear.

Khalil stood staring after the little procession.

Had he really heard what he thought he’d heard?

No. It was impossible. The woman could not have spoken in English. Perfect American English. No accent, no stress on any but the correct syllables. And what she’d said, what he thought she’d said, was even more impossible.

“Khalil?”

Lies? Lies, told him by his father? That Omar would lie was no surprise. The man had a reputation for craftiness and there were times the word was nothing but a synonym for dishonesty.

But his own father… Would he lie?

“Khalil? I’m talking to you!”

The bitter possibility of duplicity crept into his bones.

His father might lie. He might do whatever he thought necessary for the good of Al Ankhara. Or the lies—if they were lies—might have begun with his ministers. Khalil suspected that Jal and his allies would not be above twisting facts when it served their purpose.

He’d tried telling that to his father more than a year ago but the sultan had refused to hear it.

His ministers’ sole concern was protection of the throne, he always said. Khalil saw their actions as an attempt to maintain the status quo. It was why he had rejected much of the so-called advice they’d given him over the years.

He’d chosen Harvard over the smaller universities they had recommended, studied finance rather than foreign affairs, opted to remain in the States to run his family’s investment conglomerate instead of returning home and taking the position of liaison the ministers had wanted to create for him.

“Liaison,” he was certain, would have meant becoming their puppet. He’d long ago made up his mind not to be used by them.

Was he being used now?

“Khalil!” His father clasped his shoulder. “Pay attention when I speak to you.”

Khalil took a breath and did his best to put a noncommittal look on his face.

“Sorry, Father. I was, ah, I was—”

“You were thinking about the woman.” His father smiled. “I understand. She is beautiful. You would not be a man if you did not notice.”

“She is beautiful, yes, but—” But why does she speak like an American? Why does she say you lied to me?

The words were on the tip of his tongue. Somehow he managed to keep them there and to match the sultan’s knowing smile with one of his own.

“But she is not quite what she seems, Khalil. Perhaps you should be aware of that.”

Khalil’s pulse quickened. Here it was. The explanation he needed.

“Isn’t she?” he said, as casually as he could.

His father shook his head. “She is woman with, ah, with wayward tendencies.”

What did that mean? Was she not a virgin? That was important here.

“Wayward?”

His father nodded. “She has been a problem for Omar. She flaunts rules. She speaks of independence.”

“And yet, she has agreed to marry Butrus.”

Just for a second the sultan looked uncertain.

“Well, yes. Omar says she has repented.”

“And Butrus knows she has been difficult in the past?”

“No, certainly not. It is one of the reasons Omar is so pleased. He secures an ally, does a service for the throne and finds a husband for a daughter who is a problem.”

“By burdening his old enemy with a woman no one else would want,” Khalil said coldly.

“Butrus wanted a woman who is beautiful. He is getting one.”

“And what of the woman? What happens to her when Butrus realizes he’s been duped?”

“Jal and I discussed it.”

“Jal,” Khalil said, even more coldly.

His father leaned close. “Omar says her mother was a sorceress. Perhaps she is, too.”

A sorceress, Khalil thought with contempt. Among some of his people, that was an ancient and easy way to label a woman as evil.

“That’s nonsense,” he said brusquely.

His father shrugged. “Either way, Omar and Jal agree that she can take care of herself.”

“No matter what Jal claims,” Khalil said, “he is not the sultan.”

His father’s face darkened. “Nor are you. Not yet. And I do not have to explain my actions.”

It was true. Besides, what good could come of this discussion? Plans and promises had already been made.

“My apologies,” Khalil said smoothly. “I only meant that you are Al Ankhara’s ruler, not the council.”

“A wise thing to keep in mind.” The older man’s expression softened. He chuckled and dug an elbow lightly into Khalil’s side. “Imagine that sly fox, Omar, with such an attractive daughter! Who would have thought it? I asked him where he’d been hiding her and he said he had done precisely that. Hidden her to keep her from her willful ways, until the time came when he could give her to the right man as a wife.” The sultan clapped Khalil on the back. “Thank you for agreeing to help us. Some of my ministers feared you’d become too Westernized to undertake this mission.”

“Jal, you mean.”

“I know you don’t like him, but Jal wants to do only what is best for our people.”

“As do I,” Khalil said quietly, “whatever it may be—and however unpopular it might make me.”

His father nodded. “Good. I will send our plan to you. Read it, then meet with us in the council chamber in an hour.

Khalil returned to his rooms. A servant brought him a leather portfolio.

It contained the council’s plan for Layla’s delivery to Butrus in Kasmir. Khalil leafed through it and almost laughed. The plan was twenty pages long, each page stamped with the embossed seal of the sultan, but it could have been condensed to one cogent paragraph.

Khalil’s plane would make the trip carrying him, Layla and the original wedding party, augmented by three dozen of the sultan’s personal guard. The plane would land at Kasmir where it would be met by Butrus and his men.

A couple of hours ago, he’d have simply refused to take part. But things had changed.

Last night Layla had walked into the sea in a desperate attempt to get away. He was convinced of it. Today, she’d said he was being fed lies, and she’d said it in English.

Now he had learned she was not truly a desirable bride.

The bottom line was that Omar saw her as a throwaway gift. If Butrus felt the same way, the so-called peace arrangement would lie in ruins. The sultan would lose face. And Layla would die. Butrus would kill her and no one would raise a hand to stop him. Such things still took place in some parts of Al Ankhara.

Was his father blind to all those possibilities, or didn’t he care?

Khalil tossed aside the council’s plan, shot to his feet and paced his sitting room. He could not let any of it happen. Damn it, he would not let it happen!

Twenty minutes and a few cell phone calls later, he had his own plan ready—but he would only implement it after assuring himself that Layla wasn’t trying to play him for a fool.

And there was only one way to make that determination.

Layla was being kept in the harem.

That was a surprise. The harem had not been used in decades. His father had not changed many things after coming to power but he had changed the practice of taking concubines. One woman, he had said, was headache enough for any man.

Khalil had often wondered if that was because his father had loved his mother or because he hadn’t. He supposed he would never know the answer; his mother had died when he was an infant.

The harem was connected to the main portion of the palace through a heavy wooden door. He couldn’t recall it ever being locked, but today it was. He had to pound on it several times until someone—the thug—opened it.

The man was obviously not happy to see him.

“No one is permitted here.”

Khalil eyed him coldly. If ever there had been a time for the nonsense of antiquated titles, this was it.

“I am not ‘no one,’ I am Sheikh Khalil, Crown Prince of Al Ankhara. Stand aside.”

He brushed past the man without waiting for an answer and headed briskly down the corridor. The thug fell in behind him.

A second surprise.

He’d often played here on rainy days when he was growing up. He remembered rich tapestries, polished marble floors, gilded furnishings and frescoed walls. All those things were still in place but they had not stood up well to the ravages of time. The harem was dark and dreary; it smelled of mildew and age.

He thought of Layla, spending her days and nights here, and felt his jaw tighten as he swung toward her guard.

“Where is your mistress?”

“She is safe.”

“I didn’t ask you that. Where is she? I wish to see her.”

“You cannot see her. It is forbidden. She is betrothed. She belongs to—”

“Do you want to die the death of a thousand cuts? Where is she?”

Hate burned in the man’s tiny eyes but he jerked his head toward a closed door.

Kahlil strode toward it. Part of him was on the alert; part wanted to burst out laughing. The death of a thousand cuts? What bad movie had that come from?

Any desire to laugh vanished the moment he opened the door and saw Layla.

She stood within the confines of a room that had once surely been elegant. Now the couch behind her was covered with a grimy blanket; the walls were gray with age.

And yet Layla, standing straight and tall, hands fisted at her sides as if she were ready to take on the world, was magnificent.

She made his breath catch.

Her hair spilled like liquid sunshine over her shoulders. The day, and the room, were warm; her skin held a glint of moisture and the ivory silk gown clung to her body like a lover’s gentle kiss.

“What do you want?”

She said it in Arabic. Now, though, he could definitely tell that it wasn’t her native tongue. And though her voice trembled, she delivered the question with a rebellious lift of her chin.

“The council sent me to tell you its plan.”

“Do I look like I give a damn about its plan?”

“Nevertheless, you will listen.”

“To hell with you and the council! I will not—”

“You will do as you’re told,” Khalil roared.

“My lord,” Ahmet said, “I’ll deal with this.”

“I will deal with it,” Khalil snarled. “Alone.”

He slammed the door in the thug’s face. Then he moved quickly toward Layla, shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

“Now,” he growled, raising his voice enough so the man outside the door would hear him, “you will behave yourself, woman.”

Deliberately, she turned her back to him. Khalil clasped her shoulders and spun her around.

“Did you hear what I said? Behave yourself, or—”

She flew at him, all fists and nails. He grabbed her hands, folded them against his chest.

“Stop it!”

“Bastard,” she hissed, “mad al haram! You no-good, despicable—”

Her words were all-American, and his reaction was all male. There was only one way to silence her and he took it, lifting her to him and capturing her lips with his.

She struggled. She fought. He kept kissing her, told himself it was the best way to keep her quiet.

Told himself that, even as he felt himself drowning in her taste, her scent, her heat.

“Don’t fight me,” he whispered, against her lips.

And, for one amazing moment, she obeyed. Her body softened. He let go of her fists and gathered her in his arms, bringing her tightly against him. Her lips softened, too, and parted just enough so he could slip the tip of his tongue into her mouth and savor its sweetness.

Savor it, until he felt the sharp bite of her teeth.

Khalil cursed, jerked back and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. He put it against his lip, looked at the tiny crimson smear on the creamy white linen—and laughed.

Layla stared at her attacker in disbelief. She’d bitten him and he’d laughed? Maybe she was losing her mind. It was the only thing that made sense.

What had happened during the past week must have done it.

She had been lured to Al Ankhara. Taken prisoner. Threatened. Tormented. Told, explicitly, what awaited her and told, too, that she would accept it or pay the price for disobedience.

Now a stranger who thought he owned the universe had kissed her and she…and she had—

Her breath caught.

She had let him kiss her. Let herself lean into his strength, let herself feel the power of his embrace, the thrust of his erection against her belly…

The doorknob rattled.

“Lord Khalil?”

The man—the prince, Lord Khalil—slapped one hand against the door and pulled her to him with the other.

“Who are you?” he said in a low voice.

Layla gasped with surprise. He was speaking English. He’d understood her, then. When she’d spoken to him in the garden this morning, the desperate words had tumbled from her lips in English. She hadn’t realized it until a long time after, and then her heart had shriveled at the realization that she’d wasted her one possible chance to get help, even worse, that she’d broken the vow she’d been forced to make not to reveal the truth about herself.

“I asked you a question. Who are you?”

What to tell him? What to say? What risks were worth taking? The door shuddered again; her eyes went from it to his face. He looked cold and dangerous. And he’d kissed her as if he owned her.

But Butrus would own her, unless a miracle happened.

“Answer,” he growled, “or I’ll step away from the door and let the pig outside handle things.”

She licked her lips. Khalil felt his gut tighten. Even now—furious at himself for the moment of weakness when he’d kissed her, the door shuddering under the strength of a knife-wielding brute—even now, damn it, he couldn’t keep from watching that simple motion as if his life depended on it.

“Last chance, sweetheart,” he said, and that easy use of the American word did it. After all, Layla thought, what more did she have to lose?

“My name is Layla Addison. Omar was my father.”

“Lord Khalil!” The door shuddered again. “Open this door or I will call for the guard!”

“Was your father?”

“Is my father, but he didn’t raise me. My mother is American. Twenty-three years ago she was here, in Al Ankhara, and he…he stole her. She escaped. I was born in the States, raised there…please, please, I beg you, get me out of this terrible place!”

It was an unbelievable story, but then, everything that was happening was unbelievable. Back in New York, Khalil could have verified it within a day. He’d have contacted his attorney, hired a private investigator, gone to see Layla’s supposed American mother.

Here all he could do was believe her, or see her as a liar.

Another bang against the door. Another shouted warning from the man on the other side of it.

“If this is true,” Khalil hissed, “what are you doing in Al Ankhara?”

“It’s a long story,” she said, with a wild-eyed glance at the door.

And no time to tell it, Khalil thought grimly.

“Lord Khalil! If you do not open this door…”

Khalil stepped back. The door swung open; the thug all but fell into the room. His beady eyes went from Khalil to Layla, then back again to Khalil.

“What is happening here?

“Do you dare question me?” Khalil said coldly.

The man hesitated. “I only meant—

“I am taking the woman to the council. You will remain here.”

Khalil grasped Layla’s arm and hurried her away. She stumbled as she tried to keep pace.

“Where are we going?”

“To meet with my father’s ministers.”

“What for?”

“To save my father from making a terrible mistake.”

“I don’t give a damn about your father! What about me?”

“You are the mistake. Can’t you move any faster?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get you your freedom.”

“How?”

“Just do as you’re told.”

“But—”

“Is it beyond you to obey a simple command? Be quiet. Say nothing. Do nothing. I have a plan.”

Well, he did—except, it hadn’t involved kissing the woman. No matter. The incident changed nothing. The kiss had been a matter of expediency, that was all. And yes, perhaps she had responded. So what?

She was beautiful. He didn’t believe in sorcery but he did believe in a woman’s ability to use her feminine wiles. And he was a man, with a man’s hunger. Add a touch of mystery, of danger, and it took little to start a fire.

But the conflagration had been momentary.

Sex was exciting, a function of the body and the senses, but the emotions sex roused were controllable. A man was a man. A woman was a woman. Biology, even passion… but not uncontrollable emotion.

He had kissed the woman, but it wouldn’t happen again. That wasn’t the problem. Getting her out of here was the problem.

But he had a plan for that, and it was a plan that would work.

At least, he hoped it would.

He paused in the great entry hall of the palace only long enough to place one final, confirming cell phone call.

Then he hurried Layla to the council chamber. The ministers and his father were waiting for him. They rose when he entered, looking as shocked to see Layla walking demurely behind him as if he’d entered the room accompanied by a lioness.

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