Jane Porter - The Princess Brides

Later a grim-faced Alea appeared to help Nicolette prepare for bed. Alea didn’t volunteer any information about Fatima, and out of politeness, Nic didn’t ask.

But once Alea left, carrying away the remnants of dinner, Nicolette paced her room. She was concerned about Fatima despite how the other woman had treated her. And after what had been interrupted between herself and Malik she felt like she was going crazy. She wanted to make love, not fall in love. She wanted passion, not emotion. She wanted to be with Malik now, not committing to the future.

Why was this so hard? She’d been with other men before, had made love but hadn’t worried about falling in love. Why couldn’t she do that here? Why couldn’t she stay breezy, light, keep it all superficial?

Because Malik wasn’t superficial, that’s why.

Nic slumped on the foot of her bed, pressed her fists to her eyes. She could see him even now, handsome, proud, intelligent, kind…

God, he was kind. He had such warmth and dignity and she couldn’t bear to hurt him. Disappoint him.

But she was. No matter what she did now, it’d disappoint. No matter what choice, it’d be wrong.

He wanted Chantal. She was Nic. He wanted forever. She only believed in the moment.

She didn’t even believe in marriage for heaven’s sake!

Letting her hands fall to her sides, Nic inhaled slowly, trying to calm the wild beasts stampeding inside her. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe.

But it was a struggle to even breathe. It was such a struggle being here, pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She’d stopped trying to pretend that she was handling the situation well.

What she needed to do was reduce it to the most elemental form, and in this case, it was physical attraction. Sexual attraction.

She wanted to make love with Malik. Maybe making love is just an escape, another form of running away, but at least making love, she’d feel something besides this…panic.

Making love she’d feel like herself again.

She hated pretending to be Chantal. She missed her natural hair color, missed her own strengths, and missed her own dreams.

If she could just become Nic again. If she could just find her sense of humor, and sense of adventure, again.

If she could just stop worrying about Melio, her grandparents, Chantal and Lilly, and the kind of future Joelle faced as well.

Her brow creased as she stared across her room to the door with the delicate arch. It was a lot to worry about.

But if she could just escape the worries for a while…

If she could just be with Malik, feel his arms around her, put her cheek on his chest…

If she could just close her eyes and think about nothing but sharing the moment with him. Just be close to him. Warm skin, his body, his heart beating beneath her ear…

And maybe his hands taking hers, pinning her arms down against the bed, his mouth on hers, his body moving over…

Maybe his body in hers…

Maybe…

Nic bit her knuckle, feeling as if she were dangerously close to losing control. She—who’d needed so few people in her life—had never felt as if she needed anyone or anything like one long intense night in Malik’s bed. He was a king. He had to know what she was feeling. He carried so many responsibilities on his shoulders. Surely he could give her some advice.

Or at least, be able to help her forget.

Just to be a person. A woman. Just to be Nicolette and loved for herself, wanted for herself…

Nic fell asleep waiting for some word from Malik and early the next morning, woke with an even heavier heart than before.

She had to go. That’s all there was to it. Time to go home, wash out this awful brown hair color, answer her mail, check her email, start dating again…

She swallowed hard, hating the lump that filled her throat. She’d miss Malik. She liked looking at him, liked listening to him, just liked him period.

Nic showered, dressed, wondered where breakfast was. Leaving her room she noticed a small congregation of servants in the hall. The gathering of servants troubled her. She hung back in the shadows watching the servants speak. She knew enough of palace life to know that the small groups of guards and servants meeting, murmuring, parting, only to assemble again further down the hall was not normal palace protocol.

Something was definitely wrong, and from the hushed tones of the guards and servants the problem had to be serious.

Had Fatima been sick before, and Nic didn’t know?

Guilt assailed Nicolette. What if Fatima had been recovering from something…in remission from cancer or leukemia?

Nicolette returned to her room, quietly shut the door, worrying about Fatima without really knowing what Fatima was facing.

Alea arrived a little later with coffee and a message from the sultan. Nicolette opened the folded sheet of paper. He’d written a note, letting her know that due to Fatima’s poor health, the morning’s language lesson had been cancelled.

CHAPTER NINE

MALIK sat in a chair next to Fatima’s bed, his hands folded together, his expression grim. His thoughts raced, confusion and anger. ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

Fatima’s dark head turned away. ‘‘I can’t talk about it.’’

‘‘You have to,’’ he shot back, his deep voice curt, tense. How could she do this? What on earth had she been thinking?

Fatima wouldn’t answer. She continued staring at the wall and Malik felt a welling of helpless rage. He rose from the chair, towered over the bed. ‘‘They wanted to keep you overnight at the hospital. Maybe I was wrong to bring you home. Maybe I should take you back—’’

‘‘No.’’ She rolled over, looked up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘‘I won’t do it again.’’

She looked so small, so defenseless and his anger melted. He loved Fatima like a sister. They’d grown up together. He trusted her. ‘‘But why would you try something like that in the first place? What if help hadn’t come in time?’’ He shook his head, exhausted, worn out from the night spent at the side of her bed. ‘‘Is your life really so unbearable?’’

She covered her face with her hands, unable to bear his censure. ‘‘Forgive me.’’

‘‘Help me understand.’’

She cried harder. Malik felt sick at heart. ‘‘I’ve sent for your mother,’’ he said after a long moment. ‘‘She and your sister are coming from New York.’’

‘‘No, Malik!’’ She scrubbed her face dry, struggled to sit up, grimacing at a wave of nausea. They’d pumped her stomach at the hospital and she was obviously still sore. ‘‘Mother will be furious. She’ll be so upset.’’

‘‘And I’m not?’’ he demanded, not knowing whether to shake her or put his arms around her. ‘‘Fatima, you could have died.’’

She shuddered. ‘‘It was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake the moment I did it. That’s why I called for help.’’

‘‘But why?’’ He couldn’t let it drop. He couldn’t let it go. You didn’t swallow a bottle of pills without good reason. What had pushed her over the edge? ‘‘Fatima, you must be honest with me. I insist.’’

She looked at him, then past him, her dark gaze going vacant. ‘‘You were supposed to marry me.’’

He froze, air bottled in his lungs. What?

Staring down into Fatima’s averted face, he could see her agony. Her face was still pale, her mouth pinched, her eyes glassy, and he felt her tremor of fear and anger, hurt and confusion. Her agony was real. ‘‘Explain this to me,’’ he said more gently, trying for a calm he didn’t feel.

She wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘‘Father said you were to be my husband. He said I was to wait for you.’’

His heart fell.