The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

CHAPTER NINE

THE magnificent main bedroom suite, which neither Rashad nor Tilda had occupied before, was bedecked with flowers and bore more than a passing resemblance to a fairy-tale bower. Tilda was enchanted.

Rashad watched her reverently touch a snowy-white lily blossom. He moved forward to grasp her hand gently in his. ‘This is my wedding gift to you.’ He threaded a stunning oval diamond ring onto her finger. ‘A betrothal ring. We were never engaged but I would like this ring to signify a new beginning for us.’

Her eyes prickled. The diamonds glittered with breathtaking brilliance. She was very touched by what he had just said, because he was offering her heart’s desire. More than anything else she wanted to believe that she had a proper future with him. His choice of gift told her so much more than he would have managed to say. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous.’

Rashad detached the coin headdress from her hair with great care and set it aside. Beautiful dark eyes serious below his luxuriant black lashes, he removed the turquoise jewellery piece by piece. ‘It meant much to me to see you wear these gems.’

‘Did anyone ever tell you how amazing you look in army uniform?’ Tilda muttered helplessly.

‘No,’ Rashad said truthfully, and an amused smile lightened his solemn expression.

‘Well, you do,’ she told him gruffly.

‘I want you so much I hurt,’ Rashad breathed not quite steadily, letting the tip of his tongue delve between her readily parted lips.

As he leant closer she felt the hard evidence of his arousal through his clothing and a combination of nerves and excitement gripped her. He detached his sword belt and undid his jacket. She tugged it off him with hands that were clumsy with impatience. She had waited too long for him. She wondered if he would realise that he was her first lover. She hoped so. Then he would have to accept how wrong he had been about her and she supposed she would graciously accept his heartfelt apologies.

He undid the tight sash at her waist and unzipped the ornate and heavy kaftan, easing the rich fabric down slowly over her hips. Desire sparked low in her pelvis and she pressed her slim thighs together in embarrassment. Tiny little tremors were running through her slender figure. She stretched up and found his wide, sexy mouth again for herself. He held her there entrapped, one lean hand braced to her spine, the ripe swell of her breasts crushed by the powerful wall of his chest. As he captured her lips with shattering urgency her heart thumped an upbeat tempo inside her ribcage and a delicious surge of heat warmed her belly. His tongue plundered the soft recesses of her mouth, teaching her a wickedly erotic rhythm that made her whimper low in her throat with surprise and pleasure.

Golden eyes smouldering like the heart of a fire, Rashad set her back from him and removed the gossamer fine silk slip she wore. ‘So many unnecessary layers,’ he complained thickly.

Still clad in bra and briefs, Tilda reddened, wildly conscious of his appraisal as he shed his uniform. Watching in guilty fascination, she thought how beautiful he was from the smooth golden skin of his wide, sculpted shoulders to the hard, muscular breadth of his chest and his long, lean, hair-roughened thighs. Her admiring scrutiny jolted to a sudden halt just below the low-slung waistband of his boxers, where the explicit outline of his bold maleness was all too obvious to her disconcerted eyes. Hastily she glanced away, a tiny frisson of mingled response and alarm gripping her.

‘Come here,’ he urged.

‘Can we do this really slowly?’ Tilda asked abruptly.

Surprise and amusement made Rashad smile. With quiet confidence he let his long brown fingers feather through her pale silky ringlets in a soothing motion. ‘What are you scared of? Surely not of me?’

Tilda went pink, mortified that she had let herself down with that nervous and all-too-revealing question. ‘Don’t be daft.’

Unhooking her bra with deft assurance, Rashad vented a husky sound of satisfaction and lifted his hands to cup the full, firm mounds of creamy flesh that tumbled free. ‘I promise that you will know only pleasure in this bed tonight.’

Tilda remained tense. ‘I’m not as experienced as you seem to think.’

His stubborn jaw line tautened, for he did not want to think of anything that might awaken thoughts of the men with whom she had betrayed his trust. He shut out that statement and wiped the very memory of it from his mind. If he let anger touch him again he feared that his promise of a new beginning would become empty, meaningless words and so he made no answer. Instead, he bent his head to kiss her into silence again and he stroked the delicate coral pink buds that crowned her breasts with skilful fingers.

The liquid sensation at the juncture of Tilda’s thighs became a knot of almost painful anticipation. She sucked in an audible breath, but a gasp of disconcertion was wrenched from her when he pulled her down across his thighs, though she had no thought of protest. He used his tongue to lash a lush, pouting nipple with wicked expertise. He followed that bold caress with the gliding graze of his teeth, tormenting the tender peaks into rigid, straining points.

‘Rashad…’ she gasped, her hips squirming in a forlorn attempt to assuage the throb of need he had awakened.

‘You like that?’ Venting a soft laugh of satisfaction, Rashad framed her face with lean brown fingers to hold her still. ‘I think you will like everything I do.’

He tasted her swollen mouth with erotic urgency and eased a hand beneath her hips to remove her last garment. Suddenly aware that she was totally naked, Tilda tensed and there was a hint of insecurity in the way her tongue twinned with his. Rising with her in his strong arms, he tumbled her gently down amongst the pillows. Removing his boxer shorts, he joined her on the bed. His rawly appreciative gaze feasted on the pale rounded contours of her shapely body. She lay there, her entire skin surface buzzing with a wanton response that not even an attack of almost paralysing shyness could kill.

‘I want to please you,’ Rashad muttered huskily. ‘Just as you will wish to please me.’

‘Please you?’ she whispered uncertainly.

He took her hand and closed her fingers round that part of him that she had rigorously avoided looking at. The size of him dismayed her, even while the offer of such blatant intimacy fascinated her. Her face flamed at the iron-hard heat and satin smoothness of his rigid shaft. Uncertain though she was, curiosity took over. When he rested back against the pillows and groaned with uninhibited pleasure, answering heat slivered through her and centred on the damp, tender heart of her.

‘How am I doing?’ Tilda whispered shakily

‘Too well for my control.’ Rashad laced possessive fingers in her hair and devoured her luscious mouth in an almost punitive kiss while he spread her back against the pillows. He skimmed teasing fingers through the pale blond curls below her belly and she shivered, madly, wantonly aware of the hot, moist heat of that hidden place. He found the tenderest spot of all and she moaned and pushed her flushed face into his shoulder, alternately taut and melting with delight in response. She was wildly sensitive to his erotic skill. Her head moved restively back and forth, her spine incurving in a helpless attempt to release the unbearable tension rising inside her. He tested the slick, wet heat of her with a single finger. Consumed by the sheer force of her own response, she cried out, her senses scattered with need.

She had never dreamt that she could want and crave as she did at that moment. ‘Rashad…please!’

But only when the ache for fulfilment had become a torment did he angle her back, sliding lithely and surely between her thighs. She was frantic by that stage, urging him on with eager, clutching fingers. With an earthy sound of male pleasure he eased a path into her delicate passage, restraining himself with difficulty as she was very tight.

‘You feel marvellous,’ he breathed raggedly.

Tilda was past speech, all her needs pent up in the violence of the hunger he had aroused and the astonishing newness of what he was making her feel. Only when he deepened his penetration did she feel discomfort. It took her entirely by surprise and was swiftly followed by a sharp stab of pain as he completed his possession. That final pang wrung an involuntary cry from her lips.

‘Tilda…’In bewilderment, Rashad angled back from her and stared down at her. For a split second he had thought he felt a barrier, but he could not bring himself to voice what he believed would be a foolish question. Of course she could not have been a virgin. Of course it must have been his imagination. ‘Have I hurt you?’

‘No…no,’ she mumbled, scarcely knowing what she was saying for she was not in the mood for a postmortem. All momentary discomfort now forgotten, her body was tingling and aching with desire. She was on the thrilling edge of a sensual precipice, her excitement eager and ready to fly high again. That quickening sensation of overwhelming need made her feverishly impatient and she arched up to him in a wholly instinctive movement of encouragement.

With a roughened groan, Rashad succumbed to her provocative invitation and embedded himself again in the sweet oblivion of her body. The hot, virile glide of his flesh within hers submerged her in a sensual world of the purest pleasure. Enthralled by the discovery, she rose up to him and he thrust again. The potent masculine rhythm that he set increased her hunger for him, banishing all awareness of everything but the excitement he had unleashed. At a delirious peak of ravenous need, she reached a glorious climax and abandoned herself to the sweet convulsions of writhing pleasure that engulfed her.

Afterwards, enveloped in a heavy languor, she wondered abstractedly if she would ever move again. Inside she felt like warm, melting honey and buoyantly happy. She was amazed by how close she now felt to Rashad. He kissed her slow and deep and then rolled over, carrying her with him. Content to be held, she snuggled into him, revelling in the achingly familiar scent of his skin. Beneath her cheek, his heart had a steady, reassuring beat.

With a rueful sigh, Rashad eased her up level with him and subjected her to the onslaught of frowning dark golden eyes. ‘I hurt you…I’m sorry.’

‘You noticed, didn’t you? But you are so stubborn,’ Tilda murmured rather tenderly, running a slim forefinger along the taut line of his passionate mouth. ‘So stubborn that you won’t put two and two together and come up with the right answer. Well, it seems that I’ll have to do it for you. I was a virgin.’

Rashad frowned down at her in disbelief. ‘That’s not possible,’ he muttered half under his breath.

Tilda pulled herself up against the pillows and winced at the unexpected pang of tenderness that reminded her of how intimately entwined they had been just minutes earlier.

In an equally sudden movement, Rashad sat up, dislodging the bedding. He went very still when he saw the evidence of her lost innocence on the white sheet. He was so stunned to appreciate that he had not been mistaken in his suspicions that he was silenced. There could have been no other men in her life, not even one other man, or even a single serious affair. It should have been impossible but he looked down into her clear, expectant eyes and knew it was not, for there was fearlessness in that look that challenged him to disbelieve her again.

‘So now you have to explain yourself…and a little humility would go a long way,’ Tilda told him gently, positively basking in a sense of power and willing to offer helpful hints. ‘Are you just a paranoiacally jealous guy? Because I really do need to know, if that’s the problem.’

‘That’s not the problem,’ Rashad breathed stiltedly.

‘I want to see that file-’

‘That is impossible.’ Rashad could now imagine nothing more disastrous than to show her the sleazy file that had destroyed his faith in her. What an insult that would be to add to the original injury!

‘You don’t have a choice.’

‘I have wronged you. I have misjudged you.’ His head was pounding, he could barely think straight. He was fighting to absorb and contain the shock of what he had just found out. But he could not yet move beyond it because the fallout from that misjudgement five years back had been too great. ‘I can only ask for your forgiveness.’

Tilda was seriously dissatisfied with that wooden response. She did not know exactly what she had expected from him but an ongoing refusal to do as she asked was not acceptable. ‘The file?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’ In one strong movement, Rashad sprang out of bed, determined to get his head straight before he risked saying one more word to her. But, really, all he was conscious of was an enormous surge of bitterness and shame. ‘I need a shower.’

In angry stupefaction, Tilda watched as his long, powerful golden back view vanished into the en suite bathroom. It didn’t really matter to him, she thought painfully. She felt so horribly rejected. It didn’t really matter that he had been her first lover, after all. Had she honestly believed that he would think that she was somehow more special? Wasn’t that pathetic of her? All her hurt and anger turning destructively inward, she slid off the bed. What a fool she had made of herself! Why was she always doing that with him? She loved him, he lusted after her. Nothing had changed in five years. She was still looking for what she couldn’t have, still hoping to somehow win what he didn’t have to give her!

Despising her nakedness, she snatched up the wedding kaftan and wriggled her way into it, twisting round to do up the zip with frantic hands. She angled a shamed glance back at the tumbled bed, seeing it as the scene of her humiliation. Why had she thought a wedding ring would change anything? But why, most of all, had she allowed herself to believe that sexual intimacy would somehow make everything all right between them? She was on the way back to her own room when she recalled his grudging admission that the file he had mentioned was in his briefcase. Her eyes flashed. Without hesitation, she changed direction and headed for his office suite.

In the tiled wet room, Rashad stood with clenched fists under the powerful flow of the water. What did he say to her? Where were the words that could express his regret for his lack of trust? He was convinced that there were no words adequate to such a massive challenge. Especially after what he had gone on to do to Tilda and her family. He could blame only himself for the fact that he had added the pursuit of revenge to his tally of sins. Shame cut through him as keenly as the slash of a knife. He forced his taut shoulders back against the cold tiles. A boiling knot of rage was forming in place of his usual reasoned restraint. He shuddered at the memory of that file and what it had cost her…and him.

Such slander could only have been authorised at the very highest level. Sweat broke on Rashad’s brow. He looked back five years. He remembered his father’s lukewarm attitude to the prospect of his son taking an English wife. The king had urged his son to wait and consider before embarking on such an important commitment. Accustomed to independent, decisive action, Rashad had resented the suggestion that he could not be trusted to choose his own wife. No comment had been made when Rashad had let it be known that the relationship was at an end. Now Rashad was suspicious of what he had regarded at the time as his father’s tactful silence. All his life he had awarded absolute loyalty to his parent. But he also knew that if the older man had sanctioned the sordid destruction of Tilda’s reputation, he would never be able to forgive him for it. It was an issue, he recognised bleakly, that had to be dealt with immediately.

Rifling through Rashad’s briefcase, Tilda finally came on what she sought. Swallowing hard, she withdrew the slim folder. She pushed the case back under the desk and returned to her bedroom, wondering if Rashad had noticed yet that she was missing and, if he had, what he would do about it. In the distance she could hear the sound of lively music and revelry: the royal wedding guests were still celebrating.

She sat down on the bed and opened the file. Her heart was in her mouth and she scolded herself, for all she was expecting to see was the source of the misunderstanding that she believed must have taken place-possibly, the name of a male friend had been erroneously linked with hers. Her address was given as the student house in which she had rented a room that summer. What she was not prepared to see was a fabrication of lies that listed a string of men, whom she had never heard of, and declared that they had all stayed overnight in her room. It was very precise as regards dates and times. Evidently she had been the victim of a sordid character assassination. She was devastated by the realisation that Rashad could have believed her capable of such rampant promiscuity.

Just as suddenly she was flooded with an explosive mix of rage and pain. When was enough enough? What did it say about her that she was willing to take whatever Rashad threw at her? Five years ago his rejection had destroyed her pride, her peace of mind and her happiness. Having encouraged her to care about him, he had broken her heart in the cruellest way available to him. When she had approached him recently in search of some compassion, he hadn’t had a scrap of pity to spare. He had treated her like the dirt beneath his royal feet! He had offered her the chance to pay off the debts with her body. Only her concern for her family’s future had persuaded her to agree to those degrading terms.

Yet when Rashad’s ruthless plans had run aground and blown up in his face and he had needed her support, had she refused? Oh, no, she hadn’t refused him anything but immediate sexual gratification! How could she have been so understanding? So ready to make allowances and forgive? In a passion of denial and self-loathing, she peeled off the kaftan and stalked through to the bathroom to wash her face clean of make-up. In the dressing room she dragged out fresh underwear, a shirt and cotton trousers, choosing from her own clothes, not from the designer wardrobe he had bought her. She was leaving him, she was going home to her mum. He could get stuffed! He could keep the fancy togs and all the ancestral jewellery, as well. She set the diamond engagement ring on the chest by the bed. She wasn’t hanging on to that as though it were a sentimental keepsake! Her throat was thick with tears. It was better to travel light.

Tying her hair back, she put on a jacket and checked her passport. She ripped a sheet of paper out of a notebook and put it on top of the file, which she left lying on the bed. She wrote: ‘You don’t deserve me. I’m never coming back. I want a divorce.’

Only when she reached a side entrance of the palace did she appreciate that her bodyguards had seemingly come out of nowhere to follow her every step of the way. Consternation assailed her, because, not only had she hoped to make a sneaky exit, but she had also thought that she was barely recognisable in her plain and ordinary outfit.

‘You would like a car, Your Royal Highness?’ Musraf, the only English speaker in her protection team, asked with a low bow.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m going to the airport.’ Tilda endeavoured to behave as though a late run to the airport on her wedding night was perfectly normal. But the Royal Highness appellation almost totally unnerved her, because she had not known she was entitled to that label and it made anonymity seem even more of a forlorn hope.

Within minutes a limousine pulled up. Ushering her into it, Musraf enquired about the time of her flight.

‘I want to go to London-but I haven’t organised it yet,’ Tilda informed him loftily.

She was assured that all such arrangements would be made for her. A private room was made available to her the instant she arrived at the airport. There she sat for two hours before being taken out to a private jet with the colours of the royal household painted on the tail fin. She crept aboard, feeling it was rather cheeky to leave Rashad by fleeing the country in one of his own aircraft. As it occurred to her that a wife who vanished within hours of a state wedding would cause him rather more serious embarrassment than that, she came up with an invented cover story for Musraf to relay to Rashad.

‘Say my mother’s not well and that’s why I left in a hurry,’ she instructed him helpfully before take-off.

Dawn was breaking when the jet landed in the U.K. Tilda had slept several hours and felt physically refreshed, but her spirits were at rock-bottom. Her protection team stayed close and while she was struggling to work out how to dismiss them politely her mobile phone rang.

‘It’s Rashad,’ her husband murmured, making her stiffen in dismay. ‘I’ll see you at the town house in an hour.’

‘Are you saying that you’re in London, too?’ Tilda vented in a hastily lowered voice that was the discreet version of a shriek. ‘That’s impossible!’

‘One hour-’

‘I’m going to see Mum-’

‘One hour,’ Rashad decreed.

‘I won’t be-’

‘If you’re not there I will come to Oxford for you,’ Rashad informed her with ruthless clarity. ‘You are my wife.’

Her face burning, Tilda thrust the phone back in her bag. He must have flown out of Bakhar very shortly after she had. His wife? His accidental wife would have been a more accurate description. How many women got married without even getting a proposal? Her teeth gritted. Well, if Rashad was that determined to stage a confrontation, he could have one with bells on! She had done nothing to be ashamed of. Although dating him in the first place struck her as being a hanging offence; he’d looked like trouble with a capital T. From start to finish, that was what he’d proved to be.

But even as she fought in self-defence to keep her furious defiance at a high, she remained miserably conscious of how devastating she had found the contents of that file. Actually seeing in print the kind of stuff that Rashad had believed her capable of had ripped any sentimental scales from her eyes. Love was a total waste of time with a guy who could happily make love to a woman he believed to be a total slut. That file had also resurrected the terrible pain that he had inflicted on her five years earlier. Well, there would be no more of it. He had done enough damage.

It was closer to two hours before Rashad strode into the drawing room of the town house where, just six weeks earlier, he had enforced his terms for their relationship. From the window, Tilda had watched him arrive and her chest had tightened and her breathing had shortened as though she was on the brink of a panic attack. She didn’t want to notice that he looked drop-dead gorgeous in a very snazzy black designer suit. She didn’t want to feel a hot, quivery sensation of near dizziness when she inadvertently collided with his smouldering tawny gaze.

Dark vibrations of anger were rippling through Rashad. ‘You went into my briefcase to see that file.’

Her chin came up. ‘I’d have blown up a safe to get a look at that file and I’m really glad I did.’

‘That’s not and will never be an excuse to walk out on our marriage.’

‘I didn’t walk, Rashad. I ran! And where were you? What was your reaction to the discovery that everything you accused me of, everything you dared to think about me, was hopelessly wrong?’ Tilda demanded grittily, her wide eyes burning with tears. ‘You went for a shower.’

Rashad vented a phrase in Arabic that sounded like a curse. ‘I was in shock-I was upset-’

‘Since when did you do “upset”?’ Tilda threw at him bitterly. ‘I’ve seen you cold, angry, scornful, silent. I’ve never seen you shocked or upset. Heaven forbid that anyone might suspect you have any real emotions!’

Rising to that challenge, Rashad settled blazing golden eyes on her. ‘I was schooled from an early age not to reveal what I thought or I felt. Initially, that training was aimed at ensuring I had good manners, but before I was much older my safety and that of others often depended on my ability to stay in control. I have never had the freedom to parade my emotions as you do.’

Reminded of his background, Tilda squirmed and felt guilty, but she could not help feeling that her hurt was increased by the extent of his rigid self-discipline.

‘Of course I was upset,’ Rashad added in fierce continuance. ‘How could you doubt it? The filthy lies in that file destroyed what we had found together five years ago.’

Her lashes lifted on mutinous turquoise eyes. ‘No, you did that. You believed those filthy lies. You didn’t give me a chance, not one single chance to speak up in my own defence.’

Rashad spread lean golden hands in a sudden driven movement that betrayed the level of his stress. ‘I believed the source of that file to be above reproach. When I realised last night that the contents were an unforgivable tissue of lies designed to destroy our relationship, I had to know who was responsible. For that reason I approached my father first to find out if he had ordered the fabrication of that file.’

‘Your father?’ she echoed in surprise.

His lean, strong face was set in grim, angular lines. ‘He was most distressed when I showed it to him. He had never seen it before.’

Fabrication or not, Tilda was aghast at him having showed that file to King Hazar. ‘You actually showed the file to him?’

Rashad expelled his breath in a taut hiss. ‘I wanted him to see for himself how you were maligned. He was appalled because he believes that he was indirectly responsible. He was concerned when I told him five years ago that I wanted to marry you.’

‘You wanted to marry me way back then?’ Tilda whispered in utter astonishment at that declaration.

‘Let me explain this without interruptions,’ Rashad urged, strain marking the set of his stubborn jaw line. ‘My father is a man who did not become a ruler until he was past middle age. When I met you, he was still new to the throne and nervous of many things. A son and heir proposing to marry a foreigner was a source of worry to him.’

‘Yes,’ Tilda conceded rather numbly.

‘He shared his anxiety with his closest adviser, who was at the time in charge of Bakhar’s secret service. No course of action was discussed. My father did not feel he could interfere. But when I later told him that my relationship with you was over, he did wonder if the adviser had taken independent action. But he chose not to question him or mention the suspicion to me and both those omissions have been on his conscience ever since. He called in Jasim, who is now his closest aide. Jasim worked for my father’s advisor five years ago. He was aware of the file and very troubled by what was done,’ Rashad related heavily.

‘At least someone knows right from wrong,’ Tilda muttered.

‘Jasim was silent for fear of losing his position. His former employer is now dead. Jasim saw you when you visited the embassy in London last month and when you came to my house. He believed that I had discovered the truth about the file and he informed my father that you and I appeared to be seeing each other again.’

‘But nobody came clean and owned up about the file until it was too late to matter.’ Tilda had gone from shock that Rashad had been hoping to marry her five years earlier to overwhelming bitterness that the happiness that they had had then had been cruelly stolen from them. ‘And nobody’s going to pay for what was done to me or my reputation, either.’

Rashad was watching her every move. ‘Haven’t we all paid many times over?’

A sharp little laugh was dragged from Tilda. She turned from him to stare sightlessly out of the window overlooking the handsome early Victorian city square. ‘I don’t think five years of consorting with gorgeous supermodels and actresses and socialites was that much of a penance for you, Rashad.’

Rashad turned an ashen shade below his bronzed skin. He was willing her to look at him and she would not. There was a distance in her that he had never seen before. He did not know what to say to her. He could not deny the supermodels, or the actresses or the socialites, but not one of them had been blonde because it would have reminded him too much of her. Not one of them had brought him happiness. Not one of them had been her.

‘I did not forget you. I was never able to forget,’ he breathed flatly.

Tilda was unimpressed. ‘Only because of the insult to your pride. That rankled with you. You wanted revenge.’

‘I wanted you back-’

‘You wanted revenge. As if it wasn’t enough that you just dumped me without a word. As if it wasn’t enough that I had to see you kissing another woman. As if it wasn’t enough that you left my mother loaded with debt!’ Tilda flung at him chokily, striving not to parade her emotions in the manner he had described.

In response to that hail of accusations, his tawny gaze remained bleak. ‘What you say is true. I have no defence to offer.’

‘But do you know what your biggest sin is? That you didn’t care enough about me or what we had to confront me or even doubt that file!’ Tilda condemned fiercely, raging resentment finally breaking through her hollow sense of bitterness. ‘You put your pride first.’

‘I wouldn’t now,’ Rashad murmured in a roughened undertone.

‘Oh, yes, you would. Last night, instead of concentrating on me, you went for a blasted shower and then you went off to see your father! You wanted someone to blame. You couldn’t put me or my feelings first even then,’ she accused shakily.

‘That is not how it was.’ Rashad drew in a deep shuddering breath. ‘I was so angry at what we had lost-’

‘You didn’t lose me; you dumped me!’

Lean, vibrantly handsome features taut over his superb bone structure, Rashad dealt her a resolute dark golden appraisal. ‘I know how many mistakes I have made with you, but I won’t give up trying. I refuse to accept that the past should be allowed to wreck our marriage.’

‘But that marriage is less than I deserve and I’m not settling for it,’ Tilda protested vehemently. ‘Your father is also obviously dead set against even having me in the family, although he was too well mannered to reveal those reservations to me.’

‘My father is not against you,’ Rashad asserted with assurance. ‘Did I not tell you how much he regretted his doubts when I first knew you? It seems that ever since he has been haunted by the fear that he was responsible for the end of our relationship. He is very pleased that we are married and most impressed by the way you have taken on a public role.’

Tilda shook her silvery fair head. ‘But I’m only your wife now because your revenge rebounded on you. When I saw that file, I just felt sick with anger that you had believed that rubbish…I couldn’t ever forgive you for that.’

‘But you are still my wife and it would go against my very nature to let you leave me,’ Rashad responded quietly. ‘I will do everything within my power to keep you. My bad judgement caused this. I believe that I can make our marriage what you deserve.’

The tears that she refused to shed were strangling her. Her throat ached and she could barely swallow. He was blaming himself for everything and, contrary as she was, she didn’t like that. She was conscious of how hard he worked in every corner of his life. He carried a huge load of responsibility. It seemed wrong that he should feel forced to work at his marriage, as well. It had been his father’s weakness and reluctance to be honest with his son that had created the situation. Rashad had been set up for a fall just like her and he was a warrior, born and bred, and he had responded with natural aggression.

She hated the fact that she was already making excuses for him. She felt like someone hovering indecisively while the last lifeboat was lowered from a sinking ship. That sinking ship was her image of what it would be like for her to live in a loveless marriage. In such a union, she would never feel truly necessary or special to him and she would always be forced to keep the emotional stuff low-key for fear of making him feel uncomfortable. The very knowledge that she wasn’t loved would only make her continually try harder to be the best possible wife, and the most she could ever hope for in return would be appreciation and acceptance.

Involuntarily, driven by forces stronger than her willpower, Tilda stole a glance at Rashad and it was as if her very body was screaming at the threat of having to survive without him. For once, that response had nothing to do with his dazzling sexual magnetism. He might as well have chained her to him, she acknowledged bitterly, for there was a deep abiding need within her to be with him and to grasp at whatever closeness he could offer. Even though deep down inside she was still seething with indignant pain and anger over that hateful file, she knew that she still loved him enough for both of them. Walking off into the sunset with her pride intact was only going to make her wretchedly unhappy.

In an effort to bolster her mood, Tilda reminded herself that she had seriously undervalued her importance to Rashad when he was a student. She had assumed that all he had ever been after was a good time-primarily a good time in bed-while instead he had been making plans to marry her. Energised by that tantalising information, she fixed glimmering turquoise eyes on him. ‘Were you in love with me five years ago?’

Rashad froze. He looked like a guy confronted by a firing squad without warning. ‘I…’A tiny muscle pulled taut at the edge of his wide, sensual, unsmiling mouth. ‘I liked you very much.’

It was a response that would have delighted her had they both been aged around ten years old.

Recognising that he had said the wrong thing, Rashad said abruptly, ‘If I say I loved you, will you stay with me?’

And that telling response from Rashad, who barely uttered a word without triple-checking it in moments of stress, shed blinding light on his motives for Tilda. Never had she felt more ashamed of herself. She had him over a barrel. Within twenty-four hours of the televised state wedding she had scarpered. Angry, hurt and humiliated and needing to hit back the only way she knew how, she had run away. Doubtless Rashad thought her behaviour had been very immature. He had had to follow her and try to persuade her to return to Bakhar with him. What choice did he have? If his wife abandoned him he, along with every Bakhari, would feel they had lost face because he had picked the wrong wife. It wasn’t fair to ask him if he had loved her.

‘I think we should have some breakfast. Have you eaten?’ Tilda enquired woodenly in a change of subject aimed at politely and quickly burying her stupid question and his revealing response.

His winged ebony brows drew together. She could see him struggling to master his bewilderment. ‘No. I could not eat.’

Tilda drew in an irregular breath. She trod over to the bell in the wall and pressed it. The silence swirled like a stormy sea full of dangerous depths. A manservant appeared and she ordered breakfast in slow, careful Arabic.

Shaken up by the question she had asked, Rashad had felt able to tell her anything she wanted to hear, even if it meant lying for the first time in his life. But he had only felt that way for about ten seconds, for free speech or lies struck him as extremely dangerous in the current climate. He knew exactly how he felt about her. She was his wife with all that encompassed and he wanted, quite naturally, to take her home again.

‘You are learning quickly,’ Rashad murmured a shade unevenly, stunning golden eyes screened by the thick black wedge of his lashes to a bright glimmer.

Tilda wondered whether he meant the language or how to kill stone-dead the sort of emotional scene that she knew he found excruciating. ‘I think I’d like to take the opportunity to see my mother while we’re here,’ she informed him prosaically.

‘An excellent idea.’

‘Both of us should visit,’ she added, in case he had not yet got the message she was trying to give.

‘Of course.’

The silence rushed back round them again.

‘So, are we having a honeymoon?’ Tilda heard herself ask rather loudly in the hope that he would comprehend the meaning of that less-than-subtle query.

Rashad stayed very still and then a charismatic smile flashed across his beautiful mouth, all the strain there put to flight by that query. ‘It was already planned. Why do you think I’ve been working so hard in recent weeks? I needed to free up some time.’

That smile made Tilda’s heart flip and the inside of her mouth run dry. That smile had sufficient pulling power to make her run up a mountain. She wanted to race across the room and fling herself at him like an eager puppy. She thought it fortunate that just at that moment the announcement that breakfast awaited them prevented her from embarrassing him to that extent.

When Tilda and Rashad visited her mother’s home later that day in what Tilda felt was a welcome distraction after all the drama, they found Evan Jerrold cosily enjoying afternoon tea and home-made scones. Beth was overjoyed by the arrival of her daughter and son-in-law and Evan quickly excused himself. But Rashad spoke to the older man at some length, while Tilda talked to her mother. She was very pleased when the older woman confided that Evan had persuaded her to walk out of the front door and sit in his car just a few feet away for a few minutes the previous day.

‘And you managed to do that without having a panic attack?’ Tilda was amazed, because all Beth’s children had made repeated efforts to coax their mother into trying to fight her phobia rather than totally surrendering to it.

‘Evan’s so confident. It did take me nearly two weeks to work myself up to walking out the front door. But I have to learn how to manage now that you’re married to Rashad. Aubrey will be leaving home soon, as well,’ Beth pointed out. ‘I need to be more independent.’

The older woman passed her daughter several letters that had come for her. While Beth made fresh tea, Tilda went through her post. The final envelope was addressed in unfamiliar handwriting. She tore it open and withdrew a sheet of paper. It bore a poor quality photocopied image of a blonde woman dancing in a cage. A pulse started beating very fast at the foot of Tilda’s throat. She peered at it in horror. It could have been her, or just as easily it could’ve been someone else. It was impossible to tell. Below the image, a mobile phone number was printed.

‘I’ve made more tea!’ Beth called as Tilda ducked into the dining room to make a call in private.

‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’ Tilda closed the door and rang the number.

She recognised Scott’s voice the moment he answered. Her tummy gave a sick lurch and she snatched in a steadying breath. ‘It’s Tilda. Why did you send me that picture?’

‘I’ve got some actual photos of you doing your little dance.’

Her fingers tightened round her mobile phone. ‘I don’t remember anyone taking photos that night. I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s up to you what you want to believe. But now you’re royalty, those photos must be worth a packet. I reckon Rashad would pay a tidy sum to keep them all to himself.’ Her former stepfather loosed a seedy chuckle. ‘Of course, if you’re not interested, just say. A half-naked blond princess in a cage would go down a treat with the gutter press.’

Tilda felt sick. Scott Morrison was blackmailing her. Had someone taken photos of her? His creepy mate, Pete, perhaps? She had no idea. A half-naked blond princess in a cage would be a much bigger source of humiliation to Rashad and his family than a runaway wife. She cringed at the prospect of such pictures appearing in print. ‘How much do you want for the photos?’

‘I thought you’d see it my way and keep it in the family. I want fifty grand.’

Although she was as white as a sheet, Tilda decided to call his bluff. ‘Then I’ll have to go to Rashad for the money because I don’t have access to that kind of cash.’

‘Leave him out of it,’ Scott hastened to tell her, his agitation at the suggestion that she involve Rashad audible. ‘Keeping you on a shoestring, is he? How much cash can you raise in a hurry?’

‘Maybe five thousand,’ she mumbled shamefacedly for she knew she was doing the wrong thing. Everyone knew it was stupid to give way to blackmail. She knew it, too, but just the idea of Rashad seeing a photo of her in that cage again made her feel physically ill. She was convinced it would mean the end of her marriage. She had not spent any of the allowance that Rashad had put in a bank account for her. She told herself that using Rashad’s money to get the photos back was a lesser evil than embarrassing him with the pictorial proof of her teenaged mistake.

Scott argued volubly, and then finally said he’d accept the payment if that was the best she could offer.

The door opened and Tilda gave a nervous start. Rashad was framed in the doorway. He quirked a sleek dark brow that questioned her obvious tension.

‘I’ll send you a cheque,’ Tilda told Scott gruffly and hurriedly finished the call.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Rashad enquired, beautiful dark golden eyes welded to her pale, anxious face.

‘No, nothing…just a stupid bill I forgot about. Embarrassing,’ she mumbled, her teeth near to chattering at the very thought of him finding out what she was planning to do.

‘My staff will take care of it. Let me have the details,’ Rashad instructed.

‘No, I’ll see to it myself. When are we flying back to Bakhar?’

‘Only when you wish.’

Tilda studied his gold silk tie with fixed attention. She did not dare meet his gaze, for he was far too keen and clever an observer. After that nasty little chat with Scott, Bakhar somehow seemed to shine like a safe haven on a wonderfully distant horizon. ‘Could we leave tonight?’

When Rashad spoke, his surprise at that request was patent in his dark deep drawl. ‘I thought you might prefer somewhere more cosmopolitan for our honeymoon…Paris, Rio-’

‘The Palace of the Lions. You never did get around to showing me the harem,’ Tilda reminded him, feeling that that remote desert location would be comfortingly out of reach of Scott and his machinations.