Debbi Rawlins - His Royal Prize

“I beg your forgiveness,” Sharif said with stilted politeness. “My mind was wandering.”

Rose smiled. “That’s okay. I only asked what you’d like in your tea.”

He eyed the tray of cups she had filled with the amber liquid. In her hand was a small porcelain bowl of sugar. It trembled slightly. “Do you not have servants to do this?”

She blinked, a startled look crossing her face. “There’s a cook and housekeeper, and ranch hands to help with the horses, of course,” she said slowly, “but not the kind of servants you’re talking about.” A smile tugged at her mouth. It gave beauty to her weary features. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone wait on me.”

Stung by the reminder of her appalling imprisonment for the past twenty-nine years, Sharif’s gaze quickly slid away. Right into his father’s disapproving face.

King Zak’s dark eyes narrowed, and he gestured toward the space beside him on the burgundy couch across from Rose. “Why do you not sit here with us? What is outside that so captures your attention?”

Sharif remained stubbornly silent for a few moments and then said, “I would like Scotch instead of the tea, if you have it.”

“Of course.” Rose immediately stood, ignoring Sharif’s father’s sound of disgust. “King Zakariyya? How about you?”

“Thank you.” King Zak had risen, and he bowed slightly. “But I do not make it a practice to drink before six o’clock.”

Sharif got the message of his father’s disapproval. He noted something else, as well. That King Zak could not seem to take his eyes off the American woman as she left the room.

Distaste surged through Sharif. “I think I will go for a ride. I assume there is someone around who can saddle a horse for me.”

“Sharif, we have been here only one day. Your mother is trying very hard to make you welcome. Be kind to her.”

He turned to stare out the window again. “My mother is in the ground.”

King Zak sighed. “We should have told you the truth sooner. Until not long ago I did not know your mother was still alive. Do not punish her for my error in judgment.”

Sharif stared off in the direction where Rose had disappeared in search of his Scotch. “She is very beautiful.” He meaningfully met his father’s eyes. “Is she not?”

After a long pause, King Zak said, “She has suffered greatly, locked away in the sanitarium for so many years because of a madwoman’s thirst for power. She did not abandon you and your brothers. It is because of her sacrifices that you are all still alive. Royal blood may not flow through her veins, but she has the wisdom and strength of a true queen. You should be very proud to be her son.”

There was truth in his father’s words, Sharif knew. Rose had been a queen once, when she had married Ibrahim, Sharif’s birth father, and ruler of Sorajhee. She had possessed power and fortune herself, along with her brother, Randy, the heirs of a wealthy and important American businessman.

When Ibrahim was assassinated, it was Randy in America to whom she had sent Sharif’s three brothers for safekeeping while she sought the truth behind her husband’s death. Before she could attain her goal, she was committed to a sanitarium in Europe.

Sharif still did not know all the details. Only that he was born five months later, then taken from Rose and given to his parents. Everyone had thought Rose was dead. Even her brother. Until recently. She had not lived an easy life. And for that misfortune, he pitied her. He even admired her strength and courage. But he was not yet ready to embrace her as family.

“I found the Scotch,” she said, smiling as she reentered the room, a bottle of fine aged Scotch in one hand, a crystal tumbler in the other. “I hope this suits you.”

Everything at the ranch was of the finest quality: the furnishings, the art adorning the walls, even the china and crystal. The Spanish-style house itself was solid and spacious and possessed over a dozen bedrooms that overlooked a glorious lake. And the Arabian horses housed in the stables were of superb breeding. His brothers certainly had not grown up wanting. Still, none of this compared to the opulent palace where Sharif had spent his twenty-nine years.

He wasn’t sure how that made him feel, or why it mattered. All three of his brothers seemed content. Genuinely happy. Sharif was the one who was suffocating from confusion.

After accepting the glass of Scotch Rose poured, he downed the liquor in one gulp. “I will go for that ride now,” he said, and stoically met her startled eyes. “What time shall I return for dinner?”

“Sharif.” His father’s sharp tone shook the air like sudden thunder on a clear night.

Rose laid a hand on King Zak’s arm, and his expression immediately softened. “We eat around seven. But it’ll start getting dark before then, so be careful.”

For a moment, his father’s gaze lingered on the American woman, and Sharif’s insides twisted at the longing he saw in those dark eyes. Anger and resentment sliced through him like a thief’s sharpened dagger.

“I shall not be dining with you tonight.” Sharif walked toward the French doors without another glance at them. “Be certain my bedchamber has been made ready for my return.”

Even at his father’s grunt of disapproval, he did not turn around. He continued out the door, and waved for his personal attendant to lag behind when the man rushed to accompany him. Sharif did not want anyone to see the pain his eyes surely could not hide.

“HE’S VERY ARROGANT.” Rose watched her youngest son stride proudly away, his head held high, his posture perfectly erect. When she realized what she’d said, heat flared in her cheeks and her gaze flew to King Zak’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical. I was merely making an observation, really. You’ve done a fine job with him. And you have my everlasting thanks. He is very well mannered and bright and handsome…”

King Zak smiled. “It is you who is responsible for his comeliness. He looks very much like you.”

Rose blushed again. “Thank you, but I think he looks more like Ibrahim.” Her gaze strayed out the window and she watched the way one shoulder dipped ever so slightly as Sharif walked. Remarkably like Ibrahim.

The memory of her husband was a knife in her heart, as though it had been only yesterday that his young life had been violently ripped away from hers.

“You are quite right,” King Zak said, drawing her attention again. He had a fierce, swarthy look, but kind eyes. “Sharif is sometimes arrogant. We indulged him too much. Especially Nadirah. She awaited a child for a very long time.”

He fell silent, staring out the window toward Sharif’s disappearing form, and Rose knew he was thinking about his wife, missing her, as Rose still missed Ibrahim.

“This behavior…” he said finally, waving a ringed hand, a large ruby catching the sunlight and sparking brilliant red flames. “It is not so much arrogance as it is fear.”

“Fear? Of me?”

“Of change.”

“Oh, King Zakariyya, I don’t expect anything to change. I want to be in his life, of course, but—”

“Please.” He took one of her nervous hands and sandwiched it between his. “It is not necessary to be so formal. And Zak is so much easier on the tongue, is it not?”

She nodded, and willed her cheeks not to color as she extracted her hand as gracefully as she could. “I hope he understands that I don’t expect him to welcome me overnight. I simply wish for the chance to get to know him, just as I’ve been getting to know the other boys.”

“He is a good man. A true king. But right now his identity is shaken. He needs some time. He is still growing up, I am afraid, but he would never let our people down. And he will not let you down. I am certain of this.”