Sandra Marton - Pleasure

“You said what—what you’d done made me your wife.”

“Carrying you off? Making love to you?”

She felt her face heat. “Stealing me,” she said. “And then—and then taking me.”

A little smile, quick and sexy, slanted across his mouth. “I may have stolen you, habiba , but I did not ‘take’ you. We made love.”

“I’m not going to debate it. The fact is, you said those things made me your wife.”

“They did.”

Madison took a deep breath, held it for an instant, then let it out.

“And yet, this morning you said it would not have been proper for you to have put me to bed last night. Or to have shared that bed with me.”

“Believe me, habiba,” he said, his voice low and a little rough, “I regret not having been able to do those things as much as you do.”

“I don’t regret them! That’s not my point at all!”

“Then, what is your point, Madison?”

“If you’d told the truth, if I really were your wife—”

“You are.” Tariq tossed his napkin on the table and rose to his feet. “But I want my father’s recognition of that fact. His formal recognition.”

“How touching.”

His face darkened. “You would make a joke of it. I assure you, this is not a joking matter. My child—”

“My child.”

“Our child,” he said coldly, “will someday inherit the throne of an ancient and honorable kingdom. For the sake of his future, for the sake of my people’s future, our union must have the royal blessing.”

“My son speaks the truth, young woman. My approval is vital to the future of Dubaac.”

Madison shot to her feet. A small man, white-haired and stooped, stood in the doorway. Tariq, looking startled, hurried toward him.

“Father. I did not expect—”

“No. Obviously not.” The sultan, his expression unreadable, looked at Madison. “And this is your wife.”

“Yes, Father. I told the prime minister I would bring her to you at noon.”

“Did you expect me to wait that long to see the woman who carries my grandchild?” The sultan frowned. “She could use more meat on her bones.”

“I agree, Father, and—”

“Excuse me,” Madison said with defiance, though her heart was pounding like a drum. “I do not need more meat on my bones, I do not like being spoken of as if I were not present and I am not your son’s wife.”

The sultan’s expression eased. “She is exactly as you said, Tariq.” His eyebrows rose at Madison’s look of surprise. “My son told me all about you.”

She blinked. “He did?”

“Last night, after you and he arrived. And, I admit, I was not pleased.”

An ally? Madison mentally crossed her fingers. “No. Of course you weren’t. I mean, why would you be …”

“My son is a prince. He is my heir. His wedding should have been celebrated properly, by the joined Nations.” The sultan’s expression softened. “But he explained how you met and fell deeply in love.”

Madison crossed her arms over her chest. “Did he, indeed?”

“And I understand.” The old man’s lips twitched. “I know you’d planned to seek my blessing but that fate and nature intervened. After all, I was young once. I remember how hot the blood can run.”

“No,” Madison said quickly, “that isn’t—”

“Father.” Tariq came to her side, slid his arm around her waist. It looked like a gesture of tenderness but his hand splayed over her hip as if it were made of steel. “You’re embarrassing my bride.”

“That’s not true. I’m not—”

“Of course you are, habiba .” Tariq’s voice was soft but the look he flashed at her upturned face was a cold warning. “It’s only natural that you’d feel our story is far too personal to share.”

Madison blinked. Hadn’t he told his father how this child had been conceived?

“As I said,” the sultan continued, “I am human. I stayed awake all night, thinking.” His voice went soft. “I decided to be happy for you and for my son, and especially for the baby he put in your womb, even if it was done a new way.”

Tariq felt Madison’s start of surprise. He tightened his arm around her.

“He means,” he said carefully, “without us marrying first, habiba.”

“In fact, I must admit I am delighted that you agreed to an old-fashioned joining of your bodies, hearts and souls so that no one will dare call your baby illegitimate.”

Madison ignored the pressure of Tariq’s encircling arm. “Sir,” she said, “you don’t under—”

“There is no need to thank me, my dear. I love my son. I love my people. Why would I not be prepared to love the woman he loves, and the child she carries?” The sultan smiled. “Welcome to our family, Princess.”

Madison stared at the eyes bright with hope but rheumy with age. What could she say that wouldn’t take that hope from the old man? If she told him the truth, that she hadn’t agreed to anything, that she wanted to leave this place and Tariq, she’d probably break his heart.

No. She couldn’t do that. Tariq had created this mess. Let him be the one to fix it, not she.

The sultan held out his arms. Madison fixed a smile to her lips and walked into his embrace. He kissed each of her cheeks, then held her at arm’s length and chuckled.

“Such a nice surprise my son brings me.” His smile tilted. “Did Tariq tell you of the death of his brother?”

“Yes. I mean, he said something about—”

“I am happy for the first time since that terrible day. A lovely woman, with my first grandchild in her womb. Who would have thought a tragedy could leave a man twice blessed?”

Color flooded Madison’s face. Tariq saw it and knew she was not blushing at the compliment but at the depth of their lie.

He felt something knife into his heart.

His bride had honor. She had integrity. Where was his?

“Tonight,” the sultan said briskly, “we shall celebrate. I have contacted all our friends and family. It is short notice but they assure me they will all be here to share our good fortune and to hear you announce your marriage and make it official.” He smiled. “My son, you have done well.”

A muscle flickered in Tariq’s jaw. “Father. Just a minute. I must talk to you—”

“We’ll have time to talk tomorrow.” The old man let go of Madison and clasped Tariq’s shoulders. “You have done a good thing,” he said quietly, “a fine thing. Your brother can rest easy. Wherever his spirit dwells, I am sure he is as proud of you as I.”

The sultan embraced Tariq, kissed Madison again and retraced his steps into the house.

Tariq stood motionless.

The scene had gone exactly as he’d hoped.

And he despised himself for it.

His father was wrong. Sharif would not be proud of him. No one would. He had drawn them all into a monstrous lie. His father, his people, his dead brother and, most of all, the woman who carried his child. He had dishonored all of them.

It was not difficult to see that he had dishonored his unborn child, too.

“Tariq?”

He felt Madison’s hand fall lightly on his shoulder. He ached for her touch, for her absolution, but he knew damned well he didn’t deserve it so he swung toward her and caught hold of her wrists.

“I was wrong,” he said harshly. “About everything. I got so caught up in the need for an heir that I was blind to everything else. And—and I forgot a simple thing called honor.”

Madison stared at the stranger who was her husband. Moments ago, all she’d wanted was to finish this awful charade. Then, she’d met an old man fighting the ravages of time, the loss of a son and the burden of leadership.