Sandra Marton - The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

“As you said, I met her last night. She is young and attractive.”

“I would say she is beautiful, Khalil, not simply attractive.”

“You’ve seen her, then?”

“Of course. I met with her and her party yesterday. Briefly, just long enough to be sure her father had not lied. There will be an exchange of money in this marriage but Butrus made it clear he would only accept a bride who met a standard of beauty. Fortunately, the woman does.”

“Why is she traveling with such a small party? And why haven’t you granted her the palace’s full hospitality?”

“I deemed it safer that no one know of the marriage plans for as long as possible. You surely are aware there are those who would wish to prevent it from taking place.”

He did, of course. Butrus’s enemies. Omar’s enemies. Even his father’s enemies.

What of Layla? Would she wish to prevent it? Was that the reason she’d walked into the sea last night? Had she been trying to kill herself or, impossible as it seemed, swim to freedom?

“And the woman?” he said carefully. “You didn’t answer my question. Does she know anything about her bridegroom?”

The sultan shrugged. “She knows he is rich. Beyond that, I have no idea. As we both know, it doesn’t matter. Whom she marries is Omar’s decision.”

“Yes, but—”

“There is no ‘but’,” the sultan said sharply. “This is not the West, my son, it is Al Ankhara and she is of our people. She has been raised to respect her father’s wishes.” He paused. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a thread of warning. “As have you.”

“Why don’t you tell me why you called me home, Father?”

“I have a task for you. A vital one.”

Icy fingers seemed to brush down Khalil’s spine. “And that task is?”

“You asked why the woman, Layla, travels with such a small party. I told you it was for her safety.”

“You mean,” Khalil said carefully, “it was for the safety of the planned alliance.”

The sultan shrugged. “It is the same thing.”

It was, by the standards of an earlier century but not, perhaps, by the standards of this one—or by the standards of a beautiful woman who was about to be given in marriage to a man who would surely make her skin crawl.

A man who would put his filthy hands on her soft breasts, whose diseased mouth would cover hers, whose grotesque body would possess hers night after night.

Khalil got to his feet. None of that mattered. The marriage, the marriage bed, had nothing to do with him. All the points his father had made were valid.

“And?” he prompted.

The sultan sighed and rose, too.

“And, I’m afraid the wedding is no longer a secret. Rumors of it are everywhere. Anything could happen, but nothing must. The woman must be delivered to Butrus as planned.”

“You fear a raiding party. An abduction.”

“Or worse.”

More images raced through Khalil’s head, scenes of brutality and carnage. Of Layla, pleading for her honor and for her life.

But she would not beg.

She would fight to her last breath, as she had fought him last night. Last night when she had twisted in his arms, when he had felt her body hot against his….

“These things must not happen. Surely, you see that, Khalil.”

Khalil took a steadying breath. “Did you call me home to advise you? I’m sure your ministers have already done that.”

“Have they?”

“Certainly. An alternate plan is simple to devise. All you need do is increase the size of the traveling party. Fifty men. One hundred. In dress uniform, of course, with lances, and riding the finest horses to honor tradition, but all of them armed with modern weapons to make it clear that they are unstoppable. What? Why are you shaking your head?”

“No horses,” the sultan said impatiently. “No medieval nonsense. Why would we do that?”

Khalil barked a derisive laugh. “Because this is medieval nonsense,” he said harshly. “We both know that.”

“There is a much simpler and more effective way of guaranteeing royal protection to the woman, Khalil, one that no man will dare ignore.”

“And that is?”

The sultan put his hand on Khalil’s shoulder. “You are my son, heir to the Throne of the Lion and the Sword. You are the crown prince, the sheikh of Al Ankhara, protector of all its people.”

The icy fingers swept over Khalil’s spine again.

“Father—”

“You shall escort the woman to meet her groom.”

Khalil jerked back. “No.”

“Your plane will fly you and her to the city of Kasmir. As is traditional, Butrus will meet you there.”

“Did you hear what I said? I will not—”

“You will have men with you, of course, just as you described them, in dress uniform but actually an assault team carrying modern weapons.” The sultan smiled, obviously pleased with himself and his plan. “Not that you will need them. Butrus will be impressed. Your presence will make it clear that the match has the blessing of our house. No one will dare lift a hand against you and the throne you represent.”

“This is out of the question,” Khalil said sharply. “I have an important negotiation waiting for me in New York.”

“There is nothing more important than respect for your country.”

“Acting as an errand boy to deliver a woman who’s been sold to a renegade has nothing to do with respect for my country!”

“You are being given a great honor. And no one has been sold to anyone.”

Khalil snorted. “Tell that to yourself, Father, not to me.”

The sultan’s face darkened. “You forget yourself,” he said, his voice colder than Khalil had ever heard it.

A muscle in Khalil’s jaw flickered.

“Father,” he said in as reasonable a tone as he could manage, “I’m sure your ministers think this is a good plan but—”

“The plan is mine.”

“All right,” Khalil said, even though he didn’t believe it, “it’s yours. But—”

“But,” his father said brusquely, “it goes against all your Western sensibilities.”

“No. Yes. Damn it, there are other ways. Not just to get her there. To secure an alliance.”

The sultan folded his arms. “Name one.”

Name one. Name one. Khalil ran his hands through his hair, until it stood up in small, black-as-midnight tufts.

“Offer Butrus money. Omar, too. Pay them to declare peace.”

“Money is not the same as a blood tie.”

“Gold, then. Diamonds. Oil. We have incredible riches—”

“Are you paying any attention at all? Treasure is nothing when measured against the bonds formed by blood. This marriage will take place, and you will be the bride’s escort.”

Silence filled the space between the men. Khalil understood the importance of filial duty, of princely obligation, but he had left home at eighteen, spent four years taking his undergraduate degree at Harvard, another taking a graduate degree in business at Wharton.

There had been some discussion about all of that. Jal, one of his father’s senior ministers, had disapproved.

“There is always the danger, sir,” he had warned, “that the prince may begin to favor the ways of the West over the ways of Al Ankhara.”

The sultan had declared that nonsense. So had Khalil.

Now, and not for the first time, he could feel himself torn between the old ways and the new. More than that, he was to be an integral part of something he knew was wrong. To force a woman into a marriage she surely could not want…

“The woman knows what is expected of her.”

Khalil looked up. Had he spoken aloud or were his thoughts so clearly written on his face?

“She has agreed to it?”

“She has.” The sultan’s expression turned wry. “Do you think this is a hardship for her, Khalil? I assure you, it is not. She is pleased, though she is clever enough not to show it. Consider what awaits her. The status of being Butrus’s wife. His wealth. His power. Those things will become hers.”