Harun smiled—no, he grinned. “Whatever made you think I wanted a wishy-washy Yes, dear, of course dear kind of wife?”

In all this time I’ve never seen him smile like that.

Right now, kidnapped and in this strange place, he was all she had—just as she was all he had—and the thought of losing this smiling man, now teasing her and caressing her hand, was unbearable.

“Well, maybe if you’d talked to me about what kind of wife you did want, I could answer that,” she replied, in a light, fun tone. “But right now I’m rather clueless.”

At that, he chuckled. “Yes, you’re not the only one who’s told me that I keep a little too much to myself.”

Fascinated, she stared at his mouth. “In all this time, I’ve never heard you laugh.”

She half expected him to make a cool retort—but instead, one end of his mouth quirked higher. “You think it took being abducted for me to show my true colors? Maybe, if you like it, we can arrange for it to happen on a regular basis?”

Praise for Melissa James

“Melissa James is a fabulous writer who speaks from

her heart straight to the heart of the reader.”

—The Best Reviews

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leaves her smiling with satisfaction.”

— Cataromance

About the Author

MELISSA JAMES is a born-and-bred Sydneysider. Wife and mother of three, and a former nurse, she fell into writing when her husband brought home an article about romance writers and suggested she try it—and she became hooked. Switching from romantic espionage to the family stories of the Mills & Boon® Cherish™ line was the best move she ever made.

Melissa loves to hear from readers—you can e-mail her at authormelissajames@yahoo.com.

The Sheikh’s
Jewel
Melissa James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To my editor, Bryony Green, with my deepest thanks

for all her help as I tried to make the deadline for

this book during an international move.

CHAPTER ONE

Sar Abbas, capital city of Abbas al-Din

Three years ago

‘IS THIS a joke?’

Sitting straight-backed in an overstuffed chair, her body swathed in the black of deep mourning, Amber el-Qurib stared up at her father in disbelief. ‘Please, Father, tell me you’re trying to make me laugh.’ But even as she pleaded she knew it was hopeless.

Her father, Sheikh Aziz of Araba Numara—Land of the Tiger—was also wearing mourning clothes, but his face was composed. He’d wept enough the first day, in the same shock as everyone else; but he hadn’t cried since, apart from a few decorous tears at Fadi’s funeral. ‘Do you think I would make jokes about your future, Amber, or play with a decision that is so important to our nation?’ His tone bordered on withering.

Yes, she ought to have known. Though he’d been a kind father, in all her life, she’d never heard her father make a joke about anything relating to the welfare of Araba Numara.

‘My fiancé only died six weeks ago.’ Amber forced the words out through a throat thick with weeks of tears. He’d been the co-driver for his younger brother Alim, in just one rally. The Double Racing Sheikhs had caused a great deal of mirth and media interest in Abbas al-Din, as had the upcoming wedding.

Even now it seemed surreal. How could Fadi be dead—and how could she marry his brother within another month, as her father wanted? How could it even be done while Alim was fighting for his life, with second- and third-degree burns? ‘It—it isn’t decent,’ she said, trying to sound strong but, as ever when with her father, she floundered under the weight of her own opinion. Was she right?

And when her father sighed, giving her the long-suffering look she’d always hated—it made her feel selfish, or like a silly girl—she knew she’d missed something, as usual. ‘There are some things more important than how we appear to others. You understand how it is, Amber.’

She did. Both their countries had fallen into uproar after Sheikh Fadi’s sudden death in a car wreck. The beloved leader of Abbas al-Din had been lost before he could marry and father a legitimate son, and Amber’s people had lost a union that was expected to bring closer ties to a nation far stronger and wealthier than theirs.

It was vital at this point that both nations find stability. The people needed hope: for Araba Numara, that they’d have that permanent connection to Abbas al-Din, and Fadi’s people needed to know the el-Kanar family line would continue.

She swiped at her eyes again. Damn Fadi! He’d risked his life a week before their wedding, knowing he didn’t want her and she didn’t want him—but thousands of marriages had started with less than the respect and liking they’d had for one another. They could have worked it out—but now the whispers were circulating. She’d endured some impertinent insinuations, from the maids to Ministers of State. That much she could bear, if only she didn’t have doubts of her own, deep-held fears that woke her every night.

She’d known he wasn’t happy—was deeply unhappy—at the arranged marriage; but had Fadi risked death to avoid marrying her?

Certainly neither of them had been in love, but that wasn’t uncommon. Fadi had been deeply in love with his mistress, the sweet widow who’d borne his son. But with probably the only impulsive decision he’d ever made, he’d left his country leaderless in a minute. At the moment Alim, his brother and the remaining heir, was still fighting for his life.

‘Amber?’ her father asked, his tone caught between exasperation and uncertainty. ‘The dynasty here must continue, and very quickly. We only gain from the mother of the dynasty being one of our daughters.’

‘Then let it continue with someone else! Haven’t I done enough?’

‘Who do you suggest? Maya is not yet seventeen. Nafisah is but fourteen, and Amal twelve. Your cousins are of similar age to them.’ Her father made a savage noise. ‘You are the eldest, already here, and bound to the el-Kanar family. They are obligated by their ancient law on brides to care for you, and find you a husband within the family line. Everything—tradition, law, honour and the good of your family—demands that you accept this offer.’

Shamed but still furious, Amber kept her mouth tightly closed. Why must all this fall on her shoulders? She wanted to cry out, I’m only nineteen!

Why did some get responsibilities in life, and others all the fun? Alim had shrugged off his responsibilities to the nation for years, chasing fame and wealth on the racing circuit while Fadi and the youngest brother—what was his name again?—had done all the work. Yes, Alim was famous around the world, and had brought so much wealth to the nation with his career in geological surveys and excavation.

And then she realised what—or who it was she could be turning down. Even though a sudden marriage repulsed her sense of what felt right in her grief for the man she’d cared for deeply as a friend, the thought of who she must be marrying didn’t repulse her at all.

Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. It was only with the long years of training that she managed not to shrug off the rare gesture of affection, knowing it was only given to make her stop arguing. For women of her status, any emotion was a luxury one only indulged in among the safety of other women, or not at all if one had the necessary pride. ‘You know how it is, Amber. We need this marriage. One brother or another, what does it matter to you? You barely knew Fadi before your engagement was agreed upon. You only came to stay here two months before he died, and most of the time he was working or gone.’

Blushing, Amber turned her head, looking at the ground to the left of her feet. Such a beautiful rug, she thought inconsequentially; but no matter what she looked at, it didn’t block out the memory of where Fadi had gone whenever he had spare time—to his mistress. And always he’d come back with Rafa’s smell on his skin, some mumbled apologies and yet another promise he’d never see Rafa again when they were married: a promise given with heartbreak in his eyes.

Amber felt the shadows of the past envelop her. She alone knew where the fault lay with Fadi’s death. Sweet, kind, gentle Fadi had always done the right thing, including agreeing to marry another ruler’s daughter for political gain, when he was deeply in love with an unsuitable commoner, a former housemaid … and Amber, too, had feelings for another, if only from afar. And nobody knew it but the three people whose lives were being torn apart.

She knew Fadi would never wish her harm, but if it had been Amber who’d died suddenly, it would have set him free to be with Rafa—at least for a little while, until the next arranged political marriage.

She truly grieved for the loss of the gentle-hearted ruler, as she would grieve for any friend lost. Fadi had understood her feelings and sympathised with her, was like the moon’s sweet light in her darkness. So—was it awful of her to feel this sudden little thrill that her wayward heart’s feelings were no longer forbidden?

Fadi, I did care for you. I’m so sorry, but you’re the only one who’d understand …

‘I’m still in deep mourning, and you expect me to marry his brother while he’s still in hospital with second- and third-degree burns? Won’t that look—well, rather desperate on our part?’ she mumbled, wishing she had something better to say, wishing she didn’t feel quite so excited. Hoping to heaven her father wouldn’t see it on her face. ‘Can’t you ask Alim if he’d be willing to wait a few months for the wedding—?’

‘You will not be marrying Alim,’ her father interrupted her bluntly.

Amber’s head shot up. ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ her father said quietly. ‘Alim disappeared from the hospital last night, unequivocally refusing both Fadi’s position and Fadi’s bride. I doubt he’ll return for a long time, if ever.’

Amber almost snarled—almost. Women of her station didn’t snarl, not even when the man she—she liked had just run out on her; but she managed to hang onto her self-control. ‘Where did he go? How did he manage it?’

‘Within hours of waking, Alim used his private jet and his medical team from the racing circuit to help him transfer to a private facility—we think he went somewhere in Switzerland. He still needs a lot of graft work on his burns, but he made it obvious that he won’t return here when it’s done.’

‘He must have been desperate to escape from me, leaving hospital when he’s at death’s door,’ she muttered, fighting off a sudden jolt of queasiness in her stomach.

‘I doubt it was a personal rejection, my dear. He hardly knew you. I think it was perhaps more of—ah, a matter of principle, or a reaction made in grief.’ Her father slanted her a look of semi-apology; so he was capable of embarrassment, at least. ‘I find it hard to blame him, after the part he played in Fadi’s death … imagine him waking up to find Fadi’s skin on his body. He must have felt he’d taken enough from his brother—life, skin … it must be horrifying enough, but wedding and bedding Fadi’s bride on top of all that must have felt as if he’d done it all on purpose.’

‘Indeed,’ she agreed, but with a trace of bitterness. Surely this day couldn’t get any worse?

‘Since you won’t ask, I’ll tell you. The youngest brother Harun has taken up the position as Hereditary Sheikh, and has agreed also to become your husband.’

The swirling winds of change had come right from the sun, scorching her to her core. ‘Of course he has!’ Amber didn’t know she spoke aloud, the fury of rejection boiling over. ‘So having been rejected by brothers one and two, I’m expected to—to wed and bed brother number three with a smile? There are limits to the amount of humiliation I must accept, surely, Father?’

‘You will accept whatever I arrange for you, Amber.’ His voice now was pure ice. ‘And you should be grateful that I have given such thought to your marriage.’

‘Oh, such thought indeed, Father! Why not send me to the princess pound? Because that’s what I’ve become to you, isn’t it—a dog, a piece of property returned for you to find a good home and husband elsewhere? Find another owner for Amber because we don’t want her back.’

‘Stop it,’ her father said sharply. ‘You’re a beautiful woman. Many men have wanted to marry you, but I chose the el-Kanar brothers because they are truly good men.’

‘Oh, yes, I know that well,’ she mocked, knowing Father would punish her for this unprecedented outburst later, but not caring. ‘Unfortunately for me, it seems they’re good men who’d do anything to avoid me.’ She spoke as coldly as she could—anything to hide the tears stinging her eyes and the huge lump in her throat. Alim, the wild and dashing Racing Sheikh, had risked his recovery, his very life to get away from her. As far as insults went, it outranked Fadi’s by a million miles. ‘Am I so repulsive, Father? What’s wrong with me?’

‘I see you are in need of relieving your, ah, feelings,’ her father said with a strong streak of cold disapproval that she had feelings to vent. ‘But we are not home, Amber. Royal women do not scream or make emotional outbursts.’

‘I can’t believe the last remaining brother in the dynasty is willing to risk it,’ she pushed in the stinging acid of grief and humiliation without relief. ‘Perhaps you should offer him one of my sisters instead, because it seems the el-Kanar men are allergic to me.’

‘The Lord Harun has expressed complete willingness to marry you, Amber,’ her father said in quiet rebuke.

‘Oh, how noble is Brother Number Three, to take the unwanted responsibilities of his older brothers, nation and wife alike, when the other just can’t face it!’

‘Amber,’ her father said sharply. ‘That’s enough. Your future husband has a name. You will not shame him, or our family, in this manner. He’s lost enough!’

She knew what was expected of her. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I will behave,’ she said dully. She dragged a breath in and out, willing calm, some form of decorum. ‘That was uncalled for. I have nothing against the Lord—um, Harun, and I apologise, Father.’

‘You should apologise.’ Her father’s voice was cold with disapproval. ‘Harun was only eight when his father died in the plane crash, and his mother died three months later. For the past six weeks he’s been grieving for a brother who had been more like a father to him, and he couldn’t stop working long enough to stay at the hospital while the only brother he has left, his only close living relative, was fighting for his life. With so many high-ranking families wanting to take over the sudden wealth in Abbas al-Din, Harun had to assume the sheikh’s position and run the country in Alim’s name, not knowing if Alim would live or die. Now Harun’s been left completely alone with the responsibility of running the nation and marrying you, and all this while he’s in deepest mourning. He’s lost his entire family. Is it so much to ask that you could stop mocking him, be a woman and help him in his time of greatest need?’

Amber felt the flush of shame cover her face. Whatever she’d lost, Harun had by far the worst suffering of them all. ‘No, it isn’t. I’m truly sorry, Father. It’s just that—well, he’s so quiet,’ she tried to explain, feeling the inadequacy of her words. ‘He never says anything to me apart from good morning or goodnight. He barely even looks at me. He’s a stranger, a complete stranger, and now I must marry him in a month’s time? Can’t we have a little time to know each other first—just a few months?’

‘It must be now,’ her father said, his voice sad, and she searched his face. He had a way of making her feel guilty without trying, but this time he seemed sincere. ‘The sharks are circling Harun—you know how unstable the entire Gulf region has been the past two years. The el-Shabbat family ruled hundreds of years ago, until Muran’s madness led to the coup that gave power to Aswan, the greatest of the el-Kanar clan, two hundred and fifty years ago. The el-Shabbat leaders believe the el-Kanar clan are interlopers, and if they ever had a chance to take control of the army and kill the remaining family members, it is now.’

Amber’s hand lifted to her mouth. Lost in her own fog of grief, she’d had no idea things were so bad. ‘They will kill Lord Harun?’

He nodded. ‘And Alim, too, while he’s still so weak. It’s a good thing nobody knows exactly where he went. All it would take is one corrupt doctor or nurse and a dose of poison into his IV bag, and the el-Shabbats will rule Abbas al-Din once more—a nation with far greater wealth and stability than they ever knew while they were in power.’

‘I see,’ she said quietly.

‘And we need this alliance, my dear daughter. You were but one of twenty well-born girls offered to Fadi—and to Harun—in the past few years. We are the far poorer, less stable nation, and yet they chose alliance with our family and nation. It’s a blessing to our nation I hardly expected; it’s given our people hope. And I must say, in my dealings with all three brothers, Harun is the man I’d have chosen for you if I’d had the choice.’

His voice softened on the last sentence, but Amber barely noticed. ‘So the contract has been signed,’ she said dully. ‘I have no choice in this at all.’ Her only decision was to go down fighting, or accept her future with grace.

‘No, my dear, you don’t.’ The words were gentle, but inflexible. ‘It has been inevitable from the moment the Lord Harun was made aware of his duty towards you.’

She pressed her lips together hard, fighting unseemly tears. Perhaps she should be grateful that the Lord Harun wasn’t leaving her to face her public shame—but another man willing to marry her from duty alone left her stomach churning. At least she’d known and liked Fadi. ‘But he doesn’t even look at me. He never talks to me. I never know what he’s thinking or feeling about anything.’ Including me. ‘How am I to face this—this total stranger in the marriage bed, Father? Can you answer me that?’

‘It’s what many women have done for thousands of years, including your mother and my grandmother Kahlidah, the nation’s heroine you’ve always admired so much. She was only seventeen when she wed my grandfather—another stranger—and within a year, eighteen, pregnant and a new widow, she stopped the invasion of Araba Numara, ruling the nation with strength and wisdom until my father was old enough to take over. Do as she had to, and grow a backbone, child! What is your fear for one night, compared to what Harun faces, and alone?’ her father shot back.

Never had her father spoken to her with such contempt and coldness. She drew another breath and released it as she willed strength into her heart. ‘I’ll do my duty, of course, Father, and do my best to support Lord Harun in all he faces. Perhaps we can find mutual friendship in our loss and our need.’

Father smiled at her, and patted her hand. ‘That’s more like my strong Amber. Harun is a truly good man, for all his quiet ways. I know—’ he clearly hesitated, and Amber writhed inside, waiting for what she’d give anything for him not to say ‘—I know you … admired Lord Alim. What young woman wouldn’t admire the Racing Sheikh, with his dashing ways, his wins on the racing circuit worldwide, and the power and wealth he’s brought to this region?’

‘Please stop,’ she murmured in anguish. ‘Please, Father, no more.’

But he went on remorselessly. ‘Amber, my child, you are so young—too young to understand that the men who change history are not always the Alexanders, or even the Alims,’ he added, with a strained smile. ‘The real heroes are usually unsung, making their contributions in silence. I believe Lord Harun is one of them. My advice is for you to look at the man I’ve chosen for you, and ask yourself why I brought this offer to him, not even wanting to wait for Alim’s recovery. I think that, if you give Harun a chance, you’ll find you and he are very well suited. You can have a good life together, if you will put your heart and soul behind your vows.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Amber said, feeling dull and spiritless at the thought of being well suited and having a good life, when she’d had a moment’s dream of marrying the man she—well, she thought she could have loved, given time …

At that moment, a movement behind the door caught her eye. Damn the officious staffers and inquisitive servants, always listening in, looking for more gossip to spread far and wide! She lifted her chin and sent her most icy stare to the unknown entity at the door. She felt the presence move back a step, and another.

Good. She hoped they’d run far away. If she must deal with these intrusive servants, they’d best know the calibre of the woman who was to be their future mistress—and mistress she’d be.

‘If you wouldn’t mind, Father, I’d like to—to have a little time alone,’ she said quietly.

‘You still grieve for Fadi. You’re a good girl.’ Her father patted her hand, and left the room by the private exit between their rooms.

The moment the connecting door closed, Amber said coldly, ‘If I discover any of you are listening in or I hear gossip repeated about this conversation, I will ensure the lot of you are dismissed without a reference. Is that clear?’

It was only when she heard the soft shuffling of feet moving away that Amber at last fell to her bed and cried. Cried again for the loss of a gentle-hearted friend, cried for the end of an unspoken dream—and she cried for the nightmare facing her.

Frozen two steps back from the partially open door to the rooms of state allotted to the Princess Amber, the man who was the subject of his guests’ recent discussion had long since dropped the hand he’d held up to knock. Harun el-Kanar’s upbringing hadn’t included eavesdropping on intimate conversations—and had he not frozen in horror, he wouldn’t have heard Amber so desperately trying to get out of marrying him. He wouldn’t have seen that repellent look, like a shard of ice piercing his skin.

So now he knew his future wife’s opinion of him … and it was little short of pure revulsion. Why did it even surprise him?

Turning sharply away, he strode towards the sanctuary of his rooms. He needed peace, a few minutes to think—

‘Lord Harun, there is a call from the Prince al-Hassan of Saudi regarding the deal with Emirates Oil. He is most anxious to speak with you about the Lord Alim’s recent find of oil.’

‘Of course, I will come now,’ he answered quietly, and walked with his personal assistant back to his office.

When the call was done, his minister of state came in. ‘My Lord, in the absence of the Lord Alim, we need your immediate presence in the House for a swearing-in ceremony. For the stability of the country, this must be done as soon as possible. I know you will understand the anxiety of your people to have this reassurance that you are committed to the ongoing welfare of Abbas al-Din.’

His assistant raced in with his robes of state, helping Harun into them before he could make a reply.

During the next five hours, as he sat and stood and bowed and made a speech of acceptance of his new role, none of those hereditary leaders sensed how deeply their new sheikh grieved for a brother nine years older. Fadi had been more like a father to him.

Could any of them see how utterly alone he was now, since Alim’s disappearance? He hid it behind the face of years of training, calm and regal. They needed the perfect sheikh, and they’d have one for as long as it was needed. Members of the ruling family were trained almost from birth—they must display no need beyond the privilege of serving their people. But during the ceremony, in moments when he didn’t have complete control of his mind, Harun had unbidden visions: of eyes as warm as melted honey, and skin to match; a mouth with a smile she’d smother behind her hand when someone was being pompous or ridiculous, hiding her dimples; her flowing dark hair, and her walk, like a hidden dance.

Every time he pushed it—her—away. He had to be in command.

As darkness fell over the city he sat at his desk, eating a sandwich. He’d left the state dinner within minutes of the announcement of the royal engagement, pleading necessary business as a reason not to endure Amber’s company. Or, more accurately, for her not to endure his company a moment longer than she needed to. He’d seen the look of surprise and slight confusion on her face, but again, he pushed it away.

His food slowly went stale as the mountain of papers slowly dwindled. He read each one carefully before signing, while dealing with necessary interruptions, the phone calls from various heads of state and security personnel.

In quiet moments, her face returned to his vision, but he always forced it out again.

Okay, so Amber was right; he hadn’t looked at her much. What she didn’t know was that he hadn’t dared look at her. For weeks, months, he’d barely looked at her, never spoken beyond politeness, because he’d been too lost in shame that he hungered night and day for his brother’s intended wife. Even her name had filled him with yearning: a precious jewel.

But never until yesterday had he dared think that she could ever become his jewel.

Lost and alone with his grief, unable to feel anything but pain, he’d been dazed when, out of nowhere, Sheikh Aziz wished him to become Amber’s husband. He hadn’t been able to say no. So close to breaking, he’d come to her today, touched by something he hadn’t known in months, years … hope. Hope that even if she didn’t feel the same, he wouldn’t have to face this nightmare alone. Could it be possible that they might find comfort in one another, to stand together in this living death …?

And the overheard conversation was his reward for being so stupid. Of course Amber wanted Alim, his dashing brother, the nation’s hero. As her father had said, what woman wouldn’t want Alim?

A dream of twelve hours had now become his nightmare. There was no way out. She was stuck with him, the last option, the sheikh by default who didn’t even want to be here.

What a fool. Hadn’t he learned long ago that dreams were for other people? For Fadi, there had been his destiny as the next sheikh; for Alim, there was the next racing car, the next glamorous destination, the jets and the women and the adoration of his family and his nation. Habib Abbas: Alim was the country’s beloved lion, their financial saviour since he’d found oil deep beneath the water of their part of the Gulf, and natural gas in the desert.

His parents would have been so proud of him. They’d always known Alim was destined for greatness, as Fadi had said so many times. We’re all so proud of you, Alim.

Alim, the golden child. Of course he had Amber’s heart—and of course he didn’t want it. He’d thrown her away without a thought, just as he’d thrown his brother into his role of sheikh. He’d left them both to their fate without even a farewell or reason.

And yet, he still loved Alim; like everyone else in the country, he’d do anything for his brother. Alim knew that well, which was why he’d just disappeared without a word. ‘Harun will do it better than I could, anyway,’ had always been his casually tossed words when Fadi had needed him for one duty or another. ‘He’s good at the duty thing.’

Harun supposed he was good at it—he’d been raised to think his duty was sacred.

I never know what he’s thinking or feeling. To her, he was Brother Number Three, nothing but an obligation, a means to enrich her country. She was only willing to marry him after being bullied and brought to a sense of pity for his grief by her father.

No, he had no choice but to marry her now—but he had no taste for his brother’s unwanted leftovers. He’d dealt with enough broken hearts of the women who’d been rejected by Alim over the years, calling the palace, even offering themselves to him in the faint hope that he had the power to change Alim’s mind.

Not this time. Never again. I might have to marry her, but I’ll be damned if I touch her.

‘It’s lust, just lust,’ he muttered, hard. Lust he could both deal with, and live without. Anything but the thought of taking her while she stared at the ceiling, wishing he were Alim—

His stomach burning, he found he was no longer hungry, and threw the rest of the sandwich into the garbage.

It was long past midnight before Harun at last reached his rooms. He sent his hovering servants away and sat on his richly canopied bed, ripping the thin mosquito curtain. With an impatient gesture he flung it away; but if he made a noise, the bodyguards watching him from one of the five vantage points designed to protect the sheikh would come running in. So he sat looking out into the night as if nothing were wrong, and grieved in dry-eyed silence.

Fadi, my brother, my father! Allah, I beg you to let Alim live and return to me.

Three days later, the armed rebel forces of the el-Shabbat family invaded Sar Abbas.

CHAPTER TWO

Eight weeks later

‘HABIB Numara! Harun, our beloved tiger, our Habib Numara!’

Riding at the head of a makeshift float—two tanks joined by tent material and filled with flowers—Harun smiled and waved to the people lining the streets of Sar Abbas. Each cheering girl or woman in the front three rows of people threw another flower at him as he passed. The flowers landed on the float filling his nostrils until the sweet scent turned his stomach and the noise of the people’s shouting left him deafened.

Still he smiled and waved; but what he wouldn’t give to be in the quiet of his room reading a book. How had Alim ever endured this adulation, this attention for so many years? Fighting for his country, his men and repelling the el-Shabbat invasion—being wounded twice during battle, and having his shoulder put back in place after the dislocation—had been a positive relief in comparison to this.

You’ll never be your brother.

Yet again his parents had been proven right. No, he’d never be like Alim.

As the float and the soldiers and the cheering throng reached the palace he looked up. His future father-in-law stood beside his bride on the upper balcony, waving to him, looking proud and somehow smug. He supposed he’d find out why when he got some time.

Amber stood like a reed moving in the wind as she watched his triumphal entry. She had a small frown between her brows, a slight tilt to her head, as if trying to puzzle out something. As if she saw his discomfort and sympathised with him.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of the thought. She who loved Alim of racing fame and fortune, the real sheikh? Right, Harun. She sees nothing in you but the replacement in her life and bed she’d do anything to avoid.

She half lifted a hand. A smile trembled on her lips. Mindful of the people, he smiled and waved to his bride, giving her the public recognition and honour they expected.

It was all she wanted from him.

At last the wedding night she’d dreaded was upon her.

With a fast-beating heart, Amber stood in the middle of her bridal suite, with unbound hair, perfumed skin and a thin, creamy negligee over her nude body. So scared she could barely breathe, she awaited the arrival of her new husband.

The last of the fussing maids checked her hands and feet to be sure they were soft enough, perfumed to the right scent. Amber forced herself to stand still and not wave them off in irritation—or, worse, give in to her fears and ask someone, anyone what she must do to please a man she’d still barely spoken to. The way she felt right now, even the maid would do—for her mother had told her nothing. As she’d dressed her daughter for the marriage bed, the only words of advice to Amber had been, Let your husband show you the way, and though it will hurt at first and you will bleed in proof of your virginity, smile and take joy in your woman’s duty. For today, you become a woman. And with a smile Amber didn’t understand, she’d left the room.

In the Western world, girls apparently grew up knowing how to please a man, and themselves; but she’d been kept in almost total ignorance. In her world, it was a matter of pride for the husband to teach his wife what took place in the bed. No books were allowed on the subject, no conversation by the servants on the threat of expulsion, and the Internet was strictly patrolled.

She only wished she knew what to do …

More than that, she wished she knew him at all—that he could have taken an hour out of his busy schedule to get to know her.

In the end, she’d had the few months’ wait she’d asked for, but it hadn’t been for her sake, nor had they had any time to know each other better. The el-Shabbat family hadn’t reckoned with Harun’s swift action when they’d invaded the city. Handing the day-to-day work to his intended father-in-law, Harun had taken control of the army personally. Leading his men into battle using both the ancient and modern rules of warfare he’d learned since boyhood, Harun had gained the adoration of his people by being constantly in the thick of the fierce fighting, expecting and giving no quarter. The whispers in women’s rooms were that he bore new scars on his body: badges of the highest honour. He’d spent no more than a night in the hastily erected Army hospital. Every time he’d been injured, come morning he’d returned to the battle without a word.

Within eight weeks he’d completely quelled the rebellion. By forgiving the followers of the el-Shabbat family and letting them return to their homes with little if any punishment and no public embarrassment, he’d earned their loyalty, his new title—and Amber’s deep respect. By assuming control of the el-Shabbat fortune and yet caring for the women and children the dead enemy had left behind, he’d earned the love as well as the respect of his people.

If Alim was their beloved lion, Harun had become Habib Numara, their beloved tiger. ‘It’s a good omen for his marriage, with his bride coming from Araba Numara,’ the servants said, smiling at her. ‘It will be a fruitful union blessed by God.’

And in the weeks since then, as he’d put down the final shadows of the rebellion and with rare political skill brought together nation and people once more, Harun had had less time for her than Fadi had done. In fact he still barely spoke to her at all; but though he’d never said a word about his heroism on the field, he’d earned Amber’s deep, reluctant admiration. If she still harboured regrets over Alim’s disappearance, Harun’s name now had the power to make her heart beat faster. He’d proved his worthiness without a word of bragging. She was ready to endure what she must tonight, and become the mother of his children.

As the main door opened the maid rushed to leave the room.

Sick to her stomach with nerves, she turned to where he stood—and her breath caught. It was strange, but it was only on the day she’d seen him returning to Sar Abbas as a national hero that she’d truly taken in his deep resemblance to Alim. A quiet, serious version, perhaps, but as, in his army uniform, he smiled and waved to the people cheering him in the streets, she’d seen his face as if for the first time.

Now, she struggled not to stare at him. So handsome and strong in his groom’s finery, yet so dark and mysterious with those glittering forest-green eyes. She groped with one hand to the bedpost to gain balance suddenly lacking in her knees. He was the man who’d come home a hero. He was—magnificent. He was hers.

‘None of you will listen or stand nearby,’ he snapped at the walls, and she was filled with gratitude when she heard the shuffle of many feet moving away.

Lost in awe, she faltered in her traditional greeting, but bowed in the traditional show of deep respect. ‘M-my husband, I …’ She didn’t know how to go on, but surely he’d understand how she felt?

Without a change of expression from the serious, cool appraisal, he closed the door behind him, and offered her a brief smile. ‘Sit down, please, Amber.’

Grateful for his understanding, she dropped to the bed, wondering if he’d take it as a sign, or was she being too brazen? She only wished she knew how to go on.

He gave her a slow, thoughtful glance, taking in every inch of her, and she squirmed in embarrassment. Her heart beat like a bird trying to escape its cage as she waited for Harun to come to her, to kiss her or however it was this thing began. ‘Well?’ she demanded in a haughty tone, covering her rush of nerves with a show of pride, showing him she was worthy of him: a princess to the core. ‘Do I pass your inspection, Habib Numara?’

For a moment, she thought Harun might actually smile as he hadn’t done since the hero’s return. There was a telltale glimmer in his eyes she’d noticed when he was in a rare, relaxed moment. Then, just as she was about to smile back, it vanished. ‘You have to know you’re a beautiful woman, Amber. Exquisite, in fact.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her voice losing its power. He thought her exquisite? Something inside her melted—

He turned from her, and, drawing out a thin wreath of papers from a fold of his robe, sat at her desk. ‘This should cover the necessary time. I forgot my pen, though. Do you happen to have one handy, my dear?’

Her mouth fell open as he began perusing whatever work he’d brought with him. He’d brought work to their wedding night? ‘In the second drawer,’ she responded, feeling incredibly stupid, but what else could she say?

‘Thank you,’ he replied, his tone absent. He pulled out one of her collection of pens and began reading, scrolling up and down the pages with his finger, and making notes in the margins.

She blinked, blinked again, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘Harun …’ Then she faltered to a stop.

After at least ten seconds, he stopped writing. ‘Hmm …? Did you say something, Amber?’ His tone was the cold politeness of a man who didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘Yes, I did,’ she retorted, furious. At least five different things leaped to her mouth. What do you mean by covering the necessary time? What is it with the el-Kanar men? This is our wedding night!

Don’t you want me?

But at the thought of asking it, her confused outrage turned cold inside her, making her ache. Why should this brother want me when the other two didn’t?

What’s wrong with me?

But what came from her mouth, born of the stubborn pride that was her backbone in a world where she’d had beautiful clothes and surroundings but as much control over her destiny as a piece of furniture or a child’s doll, she stated coldly, ‘If there’s no blood on the sheet tomorrow, the servants will talk. It will be around both our countries in hours. People will blame me, or worse, assume I wasn’t a virgin. Will you shame me that way, when I’ve done nothing wrong?’

His back stiffened for a moment.

Amber felt the change in the air, words hovering on his lips. How she knew that about him, when they’d still barely spoken, she had no idea, but whatever he’d been about to say vanished in an instant.

‘I see,’ he said slowly, with only a very slight weariness in the inflection. ‘Of course they will.’

He stood and stripped off his kafta, revealing his nakedness, and Amber’s heart took wings again. Magnificent? Even with the scars across his back and stomach he was breathtaking, a battle-hardened warrior sheathed in darkest gold, masculinely beautiful and somehow terrifying. Involuntarily she shrank back on the bed, wishing she’d found another place to sit. I’m not ready for this … please, Harun, be gentle with me …

She couldn’t breathe, watching him come to her.

But he walked around the bed as if she weren’t there. He didn’t touch her, didn’t even look at her. At the other side of the bed, he put something down, and used both his hands to sweep all the rose petals from the coverlet. ‘I don’t like the smell. Cloying.’

‘I like it,’ she said, halfway between defiance and stupidity.

He shrugged and stopped brushing them away. ‘It’s your bed.’ Then he lifted the thing he’d put on the bed: a ceremonial knife, beautifully scrolled in gold and silver.

‘What’s that … Harun …?’ Her jaw dropped; she watched in utter disbelief as he made a small cut deep in his armpit, and allowed a few drops of blood to fall into his cupped palm.

‘What—what are you …?’ Realising she was gaping, she slammed her mouth shut.

‘Making a cut where it won’t be seen and commented on,’ he said in a voice filled with quiet irony. ‘Thus I’m salvaging your pride in the eyes of others, my dear wife.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Beyond pride now or remembering any of her instructions for tonight, she gazed at him in open pleading. ‘What are you doing?’

He sighed. ‘As you said, virgins bleed, Amber. It’s my duty to ensure that your reputation isn’t ruined. Pull the coverings down, please, and quickly, before the blood drops on the rug. Imagine what the servants would make of that.’ His tone was filled with understated irony.

She closed her mouth and swallowed, and then swivelled around in the bed to pull the covers down.

She watched as he dripped blood into his other hand. ‘It seems enough, I think,’ he said after thirty seconds. Her husband of six hours looked at her. ‘Which side of the bed do the servants know you prefer?’

Torn between shock and fury born of humiliation, she pointed.

‘Thank you.’ As casually as if he’d spilled water, he smeared his blood on the bed. Then he walked into the bathroom; she heard the sound of running water.

When he came out he returned to the desk, picked up his bridegroom’s clothing, pulled it back over his head and let it fall to his feet. He sat down again, reading, scrolling and making notes.

Not knowing what else to do, she sat on the bed, drawing her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped tight around them. And for the next hour, she watched him work in growing but helpless fury.

Why won’t you touch me? she wanted to scream. Why don’t you want to touch me? What did I do wrong?

But she’d made an innocent scene with Fadi when it was obvious he was running from her, and he’d told her about Rafa. I can’t marry her, but I love her, Amber.

She’d made another scene before her father when Alim fled the country rather than marry her. He has rejected both Fadi’s position, and Fadi’s bride.

She was already the bad-luck bride in the eyes of the servants and the people—but if they found out about this, she’d never recover. Fadi had loved another; Alim fled the country—but neither of them had made the rejection this obvious.

Asking him why would only humiliate her further.

After a while, her husband said without looking at her, ‘It would be best if you went to sleep, Amber. It’s been a very long day for you.’

She lay back on the sheets, avoiding the smeared blood—but she kept watching him work out of a stubborn refusal to obey anything he asked of her. If he wasn’t going to be a real husband, it relieved her of the necessity to be any kind of wife.

Suddenly she wondered how long a day it had been for him. How long had he been working—right up until he’d dressed for the wedding? During the ceremony and after he’d kissed her hand, touched her face with a smile, played the loving bridegroom—for the cameras and the people, no doubt. Now he was working again. Barely two months ago, Harun fought for his life, for the sake of a nation that didn’t belong to him.

Did he ever stop, and just be a normal man?

Harun, just look at me, be kind to me for a minute. I’m your bride, she wanted to say, but nothing emerged from her mouth. She was lying on their marriage bed, his for the taking in this shimmering piece of nothing, and he was doing stupid paperwork.

He didn’t even look at her, just as he never had before.

As a soldier, they said, he’d fought with a savagery beyond anything they’d seen before. Like Fadi, had he done it to escape her? What a shame for him that he’d lived, forced into taking a wife he clearly didn’t want in the least.

She hated him. She hated this bed … and she couldn’t stand this ridiculous situation any more.

Pulling her hair into a messy knot, she got to her feet, stalked into the bathroom, shredded the stupid negligee in her haste to take it off, and scrubbed away all traces of perfume and make-up under the stinging heat of the shower.

Using the pumice stone she scrubbed at her skin until it was raw, and took minimal comfort in the fact that Harun would never know how he’d made her cry.

But as she scrubbed herself to bleeding point she vowed she’d never make a fool of herself for an el-Kanar man again. No, she’d show Harun nothing, no emotion at all. She’d be a queen before him at all times, damn it! And one day he’d come to her, on his knees, begging for her …

If only she could make herself believe it.

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