Darius, King of Persia, has many beautiful women in his harem—but none entice him more than his latest prize: Myrine of Scythia. The princess’s overwhelming beauty and provocative dances fill him with lust—and his desire is matched by her own boldness.

Myrine has been given to the new king as a tribute, a tantalizing prize for the fierce warrior. But she is no submissive concubine, and her veils hide more than her sensuous curves. If she can capture Darius’s attention through a game of seduction, she will have him at her mercy!

Unveiled for the Persian King

Linda Skye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Copyright

Chapter 1

Myrine fought the urge to fidget underneath the many veils that artfully covered her body. Though a cool evening breeze occasionally lifted a corner of the luxuriant material swathing her, it was not enough to quell the vestiges of the hot summer sun or the heat emanating from the hundreds of revelling Persians in the grand palace. She suppressed a scowl as a drunken Persian ambled by, pausing to lean in and ogle. She knew he couldn’t have seen much through the translucent fabric, but he had obviously seen enough to ignite his lust. He stumbled even closer, hands outstretched and fingers curled to pull at her coverings. A harsh smack from one of her male attendants sent the man careening backward.

“This woman is not to be touched,” her guard boomed sternly.

When the drunken reveller sneered and edged closer, the guard crossed his arms over his burly bare chest and glared.

“By order of the king,” the guard commanded.

Even in a drunken stupor, her would-be attacker seemed to reconsider. Then he slunk away, muttering Persian curses and taking a long swig from his flask of wine. The guard turned to Myrine.

“Apologies, noble lady,” he said in his deeply accented voice, “We Persians celebrate with song and wine, but the spirits can make men foolish.”

Myrine hummed her acknowledgement, a line creasing her brow—for she knew that after this night, she was not and never would be a noble lady. She sighed and admitted to herself that the Persians had a right to celebrate—especially on this night.

The new Persian emperor, King Darius, had just returned after subduing a violent, warlike tribe who had never before been subjugated. Despite the tribe’s ferocity in battle, Darius had easily crushed their rebellion, swept their lands into the rapidly expanding Persian empire and demanded tribute. The Scythian people—her people—had been utterly enslaved. And so an envoy of Scythian nobles bearing gifts of tribute had returned with the conquering king to the royal city of Susa, ready to formally present themselves as loyal subjects of the Persian empire at a lavish banquet.

Myrine cast a quick glance at the other Scythian nobles who were poised to be presented to the Persian court. Each was traditionally dressed and adorned with fine jewels unique to their lands—their former lands. Their spines were ramrod straight, their fists clenched. They knew, as did she, what they were there to do. The nobles stood in pairs in a long line ahead of her with trunks filled with gold and precious jewels between them, just waiting to be lifted and brought before the king’s dais.

And she was the last in the procession—as well she should be! For what could possibly be a better symbol of servitude or a more poignant acknowledgement of defeat than to offer the deposed king’s only daughter as tribute, to be used for the conqueror’s pleasure?

Myrine’s lips thinned. King Darius hadn’t even demanded such a thing; it had been King Scylas of Scythia who had deemed it necessary to offer up his daughter as a sacrifice.

A great cry rose from behind the heavy oak doors that blocked their view of the banquet hall. The sounds of drumming, music and laughter seeped into the marble corridor where she waited, and Myrine knew that her time was near. She fought the beads of perspiration that threatened on her forehead. It would not do to be a sticky mess; she needed to appear fresh, cool and composed. She carefully shifted from foot to foot under the many sheer layers of coloured gauze. Each translucent veil had been meticulously arranged so that it covered and yet tantalized, offering nothing more than a faint glimpse of a sensuous curve or hint of skin.

The drumming climbed toward its crescendo.

The four bare-chested male attendants around her took up their positions and bent to lift four wooden poles onto their shoulders. With a quick tug, they released the four silken drapes that had been wound around the rods. The heavy silk formed a perfect square around her; a prison of shining red and gold. All was set for her dramatic entrance.

Just as the drumming reached its frenzied climax, the majestic oak doors were pulled open. Myrine waited as the crowds quieted. Then the drummers began a low, slow marching beat, and the procession began to move forward. Myrine timed her steps to the drumbeat, measuring the length of her strides to stay at the centre of her silken cage. Through the thick curtains she could hear the clank of coins as the trunks of treasure were set at the feet of their new emperor. As she made the long walk to the front of the hall, she could pick up the hushed whispers of the onlookers as she passed.

Then she heard the voice of her king. She stopped and steeled herself, knowing her moment had finally come.

“And finally, great King Darius,” King Scylas announced, “One further gift to be used at your whim and for your every pleasure. To show our complete and absolute loyalty to the empire, I give you—” he paused dramatically “—my daughter, the Princess Myrine of Scythia!”

The drapes dropped with a swish, revealing her veiled form to all in the hall. In the hush that followed, Myrine stepped forward with a sensuous sway of her hips and dropped to one knee before the king. When King Scylas sent her a pointed look, she stood with a smooth twirl, her veils flaring outward to show glimpses of her long legs. It was time to enrapture a conqueror. She began to dance before the dais, weaving her svelte limbs in intricate, enticing patterns.

King Darius straightened minutely on his throne, his eyes trained upon the woman’s lithe form. He’d been pleased with the Scythian tribute of gold and precious items—but also rather uninterested in the lot. After all, they had been suitable and adequate expressions of servitude, and his city stores could always receive new loot—but really, what were a few more trunks of gold to an already wealthy kingdom?

But this woman, this deposed princess—her dramatic appearance had him captivated. Though she was covered from head to toe in gauzy veils, he could easily make out her sensuous silhouette. When she spun, he caught a glimpse of her shapely calves. When she dipped backward with arms upraised, the veils shifted slightly to show the pale plane of her abdomen. When she rolled her hips seductively in time to the drumming, the fabric parted to reveal the creamy length of her thigh.

And then she began to drop the veils.

Darius’s fists clenched involuntarily as he watched with ever-building anticipation the woman discarding her coverings one layer at a time with graceful flicks of her thin wrists. Each cast-off veil exposed unparalleled beauty—it was a slow seduction that had his heart hammering and his thighs tightening with desire. First were her arms—long, toned limbs adorned only with jewelled arm bands. Then the sumptuous curve of her chest that led to an ample bosom heaving within a bustier of red silk. A moment later she bared her midriff, revealing a tiny waist that undulated seductively with her dancing. Next she pulled away most of the fabric covering her slim legs, leaving only two panels of sheer cloth hanging from a bejewelled belt that sat low on her hips. The strips of thin gauze slid tantalizingly around her nimble limbs in provocative patterns as she danced.

Though there had been many a naked woman paraded through his banquet hall on other occasions, Darius had never before seen such an elegant display of grace, femininity and sensuality in one woman. Her dance movements spoke of uncommon athleticism, but the titillating, flirtatious exhibition of her flesh promised pleasures born of her agility and flexibility. Darius leaned forward and rested his chin upon one tight fist as he tried to hide the eager glint in his eye. It would not do to have the defeated Scythian king know just how much he appreciated this last gift.

And then finally, with a leap and a flourish, she pulled away the sheer fabric veiling her face and spun to a stop with her slender arms twined over her head and her hips at a suggestive slant. A collective gasp filled the hall—but it was not just in appreciation of the risqué performance.

Myrine had revealed her unique beauty, one that had her dark-haired captors entranced. Darius leaned forward, for a moment unable to conceal his interest. Unlike all the women of Persia, the Scythian princess was pale of face with coral-pink lips and sky-blue eyes. And if that were not enough to set her apart, her head was crowned with long, lustrous waves of golden hair that tumbled down her back.

Before he could think twice, Darius beckoned to the girl with one finger. She dropped her gaze and slowly ascended the thirteen marble steps of his dais. She stopped when she stood in front of his throne, then dropped to one knee before him with head bowed. Scylas, who stood a step lower than his daughter, did likewise.

“Are you pleased with our tribute, King Darius?” Scylas inquired, his voice low.

Darius did not deign to answer. Rather he placed the tip of one long finger under the girl’s chin, lifting her face to the light. He took a moment to study the alabaster hue of her delicate face. She had sweet, almost childlike features: a smooth, unwrinkled forehead, elegantly arching brows, long, thick lashes that fluttered over high cheekbones, a small, dainty nose and full, moist lips.

“Let me see your eyes,” he commanded quietly.

Hesitantly Myrine raised her blue-eyed gaze to the king’s—and it was only from years of training that she was able to hide the fine tremor that raced up her spine.

There could be no question that the man before her was a true ruler.

Even if she had been asked to pick out the Persian king from a crowd of strangers, Myrine knew that she would not have been able to mistake King Darius for any other man. Even seated and relaxed, he exuded an aura of power and privilege, of ironclad determination and ruthless authority. His irises were the colour of dark honey, and his stare was at once demanding and calculating. She felt trapped, as an insect in sticky golden sap, helpless except for the fact that she refused to wilt under his penetrating gaze.

He was devilishly handsome with a strong, square jaw, golden skin and glossy black curls. His broad shoulders were hidden in a stiff-necked silk jacket that was encrusted with precious jewels. Open at the front, the jacket exposed the lean ridges of his muscular chest, his skin bronzed and glowing from years under the desert sun. He wore simple white silk trousers that gathered at the ankles, and his feet were encased in ornately decorated Persian shoes.

Myrine knew instantly that though this was a young ruler, he was not one to be taken lightly. For one so young, his confident posture told of victory in countless battles, and his eyes gleamed with fiery passion, fearsome control and cool ambition.

So, Myrine thought to herself, this is a conquering emperor.

Meanwhile, Darius was fighting not to lose himself in the blue depths of the woman’s eyes or to the building ache in his loins. He carefully schooled his features into a stony expression as he studied the deposed princess. She was even more intriguing up close. Her eyes were like none he had ever seen before, and as they were lined with dark kohl, they stood out in her pale face like luminous jewels. It had been a calculated makeup trick of an experienced eunuch, no doubt; another ruse to lure him into a seductive relationship. As he stared down at her, he let himself imagine those perfect blue eyes misting over in rapture as he settled between her thighs and took his pleasure in her exotic body over and over again. She would cry out in a foreign tongue, cursing and praising him for his exploits in her lands and in her body. He could make her crave his touch, ache for his lips, and beg him to grant her release amid his silken sheets. And in turn, he knew that he would want her willing, yearn for her pliant flesh and shower her with gifts of affection.

No.

He shook his head slightly, clearing his mind of the lustful haze.

He could not—and would not—be so distracted.

“Stand, Myrine of Scythia,” he directed in a voice that was soft yet unyielding.

Myrine obeyed instantly, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. Darius’s gaze flicked over to the Scythian king, who was waiting with bated breath. He arched an imperious brow.

“Your gifts are well received, former king,” Darius said nonchalantly. “You may rise.”

“I am honoured, great conqueror,” Scylas said as he climbed to his feet. “May my daughter please you well.”

Darius inclined his head, acknowledging his tribute.

“Yes, a grand gift indeed” came a sibilant hiss from the other side of the dais.

The two kings turned to look as the vizier, a hunched-over old man, moved toward the throne. He casually fanned himself with a paddle decorated with the long plumes of a peacock, his beady eyes shining with glee. Here was another chance to further humiliate a defeated opponent—one who had been the source of great frustration during the time of Darius’s predecessor.

“May I make a suggestion, my lord Darius?” the vizier asked with a bow.

“Speak your mind, Araxes,” Darius replied with a wave of his hand.

Araxes turned cunning eyes on Scylas, his lips rising in a sardonic smirk.

“It is a great gesture indeed,” Araxes said, “to offer up a Scythian princess as a bed slave—but how can we be sure such a woman would please our lord, one who has most...distinguished tastes?”

“Is my daughter to be compared to cattle...or dinner fare?” Scylas began to sputter, his face reddening.

“Well,” Araxes replied, casually continuing to fan himself as he spoke, “she is meant to satisfy the appetites of a king, is she not? How are we to know that she is...adequate?” He grinned lecherously. “Or even pure?”

Scylas’s chest began to heave, and colour spread from his cheeks to his neck. Darius raised a brow and turned to his vizier.

“Do not stoop to baiting our guest, Araxes.” He coolly interfered. “What is your suggestion?”

“My lord,” the vizier said, bowing at the waist, “I humbly suggest that you but try this woman for yourself. Examine her fully before you add her to your harem. We daren’t pollute your playground, after all.”

“Do you dare to suggest he take her here,” Scylas retorted, his red face a mask of horror, “in front of his guests? You would dare to shame a princess of Scythia?”

Darius’s expression hardened.

“And do you dare to object to the rulings of your empire, Scylas of Scythia?” Darius challenged. “Remember, she is princess no longer—you yourself gave her to me as tribute for my every whim.”

Scylas trembled under his merciless glare, and he stepped back with his head bowed. Darius’s eyes slid to the disinherited young woman. She stood statue-still, her face carefully neutral and her eyes downcast. Though he could read no fear from her body language, he caught a glimpse of her fists clenching tightly at her sides.

He could have her strip naked and expose her to all—a definitive show of force and power. After all, he had even heard of former kings lavishing their carnal affections upon prospective concubines in full view of the court. But it did seem a pity to degrade such a dignified woman after her sultry performance just moments before. He had no desire to break the creature or to make the defeated king chafe even further under his hand. Making his decision, Darius rose from his throne and stepped forward to stand at the edge of the platform.

“People of Persia,” he boomed, raising his deep voice so that it echoed from the four corners of the great hall, “behold the tribute of a conquered people—gold for our city and pleasure for your king!”

A great cheer rose from the crowd.

“Continue the celebration,” Darius commanded. “Drink and be merry, my people, for tonight I have claimed lands for our empire. And I will take their princess for my own.”

The musicians immediately began to play, a string of dancing girls started to circulate through the crowds, and laughter and the sounds of merrymaking once again filled the hall. Darius looked down at Araxes and Scylas.

“Step down from my dais,” he commanded sternly.

They bowed their heads and began to descend the steps backward. Darius turned sharply and strode back to sit again upon his marble throne. With a flick of his fingers, he gestured to his eunuch attendants.

“Draw the curtains,” he commanded imperiously.

Several rich, purple velvet curtains were quickly pulled shut around the top tier of the dais, completely cutting off the throne from the rest of the hall. Even the sounds of revelry were muffled by the thick drapes.

And so finally the conquering king and his living tribute were alone.

Darius leaned back, studying the woman who had not budged a millimetre since being commanded to rise. She stood perfectly still, presumably waiting.

“So, Scythian,” Darius asked, his tone hard, “do you speak our tongue?”

“Who does not speak the language of the Persians?” she replied without lifting her head. After a moment’s pause, she added, “My king.”

Darius smirked. So there was fire underneath her docile facade after all.

“You speak well enough to be insolent, then?”

“I speak well enough to be understood.”

His grin widened. Her voice was sweet and high, her foreign accent lending a unique melody to her words. But there was an edge to her dulcet tones that he had not been expecting.

Interesting. He changed tack.

“Then do you also understand well enough to know why you are here?”

She glanced up, and the look in her eyes was all he needed to confirm that she did in fact understand her position quite perfectly. Yet still he waited for her answer in the long silence that followed.

“I am a tribute,” she finally said softly. “Given to be used for your pleasure.”

“Indeed.” Darius paused, leaning back. “And does your new position please you, princess of Scythia?”

She arched a delicate brow, cocking her head to one side.

“I am no longer a princess, as you have said,” she replied calmly, “And I am not here for my own pleasure but for yours...my king.”

“So,” Darius said, his tone deceptively light, “do you know why I have had the curtains drawn?”

Myrine struggled to quell the tremble in her thighs, keenly aware of his heavy stare. Out of habit, she dropped her eyes.

“I would not presume to know the mind of a king,” she answered quietly.

“Oh come now,” Darius chided playfully, “this pretence does not suit you.” His tone darkened. “And I am not one for games.”

Myrine heard the warning in his voice and raised her eyes to his.

“Apologies, my king,” she said loftily. “I am not accustomed to men who care to hear the thoughts of their women.”

“There are many things you will not be accustomed to in my kingdom,” Darius said pointedly. “But you have not yet answered my question.”

“You plan to examine my flesh to prove my worth as your bed slave,” Myrine said, her voice deliberately flippant.

Darius tutted and shook his head.

“Why so callous, my darling?” He said with a light frown, “You have misunderstood my purpose. The curtains were drawn to protect your modesty as my property. But yes, I would see what my battles have purchased.” He lifted a hand and beckoned her closer. “So by all means, please show me what you have to offer.”

Myrine considered this king. He was cunning—of that she was certain. And though she had heard of his ruthless savagery in battle and of his iron fist in dealing with his enemies, he did not seem to rule his people or his conquered vassals with a heavy hand. He had dealt fairly and calmly with both her king and his vizier—demonstrating a level head and exceptional self-control. She had not even expected him to speak with her before indulging in her flesh, much less engage her in a bout of verbal sparring. His courteous manner left her confused, forcing her to change her strategy in approaching him. He seemed driven by his kingdom, rather than drunk on power.

Darius the Great, indeed.

Myrine inhaled, her mind racing to formulate a plan. After all, she too had a duty to complete—and all her training had prepared her for this moment. Rolling her head back to stretch out her neck, she began. She daringly stepped forward until her legs were almost between his knees. Then, as she raised her arms, she twisted her hands in intricate patterns and bent forward and back, shaking her shoulders so that her breasts shook alluringly. With her arms still upraised, she held her upper body stiff and began to move her hips in sensual circles—at first slowly and then in tight, quick motions. Turning, she presented him with a view of her elegant spine.

Despite his impeccable self-control, Darius felt himself harden almost immediately at the sight. This dance was completely different from the last. While the latter had been slowly seductive, this was plainly provocative. She began to twist in place, lowering her gyrating hips until she barely touched his clenching thighs—only to rise again in an enthralling parody of lovemaking. She was so close that he could smell her sweet scent and feel her silky tresses brush against his bare chest. The proximity was both enticing and infuriating.

Of their own volition, his fingertips came to rest on her hips, and he trailed his blunt nails down her legs. She spun around and took his hands in hers, pressing his open palms on the backs of her thighs. She guided his hands up her body, moulding them to her curves as she continued to dance before him. With a grunt, he pulled her down so that she straddled his hips. Without missing a beat, Myrine began to roll her torso against his while rocking her warmth against his stiffened member.

“You seem far too experienced in this,” Darius commented gruffly, tangling his fingers in her long hair.

“Scythian women are not like Persian women,” she whispered, catching the ridge of his ear in her teeth.

Her hands left his so that she could lean backward, bracing her hands on his knees. He cupped her bottom to draw her even closer, and she arched back and presented him with a splendid view of her full chest. His lips dropped to the edge of her bustier, and he began to plant hot, openmouthed kisses on the mounds of her breasts. Myrine sank the fingers of one hand into his thick, dark hair and drew him in, encouraging his caresses with every undulation and stoking his passion with soft, mewling cries.

Darius felt the fire in his groin spread through every vein in every limb. He itched to tear away what remained of her gossamer clothing, to press her into the cold marble of his throne, to wrap her strange golden hair around his fingers and ravish her until they were both spent and sated. Intoxicated by her exotic allure—the smooth pallor of her limbs, the light blue in her eyes, the silken gold of her hair—and by her wanton expressions of desire, Darius revelled in the taste and touch of her skin. It was so hot, and there was only one solution.

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