Sandra Marton - The Sheikh's Wayward Wife

Only if Butrus permitted it, Khalil thought. The woman, Layla, would really be little more than his slave.

“Talk to her yourself, if it will make you feel better.”

“No,” Khalil said sharply. “I have no wish to—”

“My lord.”

Khalil spun around. The two women he had seen on the beach and the thug who called himself a bodyguard had appeared on the crushed-marble path. They fell to the ground in respect—and revealed the woman who stood behind them.

Layla.

She had been beautiful in the moonlit night. Now, with the sun on her, Khalil could see that she wasn’t beautiful.

She was exquisite.

Her hair was the color of wild honey, streaked with what looked to be a dozen lighter tones of gold. Her eyes were enormous blue pools tipped with thick, dark lashes. Her nose was small, her mouth full, the features delicately set in a slightly triangular face. It gave her the look of an elegant feline. Her body, not hidden by a man’s djellebah but encased instead in a long gown of ivory silk, was lushly female.

Khalil’s response was as swift as it had been the prior night. He felt himself harden, felt the sudden thrum of the blood in his veins.

“Show respect to the prince and the sultan, girl!”

His glance flew past her. Omar al Assad, her father, stood behind her, his face drawn into a ferocious scowl. He slapped his hand on her shoulder; Khalil heard the hiss of her breath, saw her wince as she dropped to her knees.

A growl sounded in his throat. He started forward but the sultan put out a hand and stopped him.

“I have brought Omar to the palace so he may be informed of our new plan, Khalil. As for this—” the sultan shrugged “—a father disciplining his daughter,” he said mildly. “It is nothing.”

Omar nodded. “She is headstrong, but she will learn. Butrus will see to it. Isn’t that right, girl?”

Layla lifted her head. Her eyes glittered. With what? Defiance? Anger? Mockery?

“Are you deaf? Answer me when I speak to you!”

“She heard you,” Khalil said coldly. “We all heard you.”

“Your Highness.” Omar’s voice, directed at Khalil, was silky smooth. “We are honored to know that you will escort my daughter to her wedding.”

“I have not said that I would.”

“But your father assured me—”

Khalil walked slowly to Layla. “Look at me,” he said softly. He put his hand under her chin and gently raised her face until their eyes met. “Do you know what is about to happen to you?”

“Answer the prince,” Omar snarled.

Khalil silenced him with a look. Then he gazed into Layla’s eyes again.

“Do you know?”

She nodded.

“Have you agreed that it should happen?”

“She does not need to—”

“My father, the sultan, tells me that you have agreed. Is that so?”

Did her mouth tremble? Omar stepped forward. She flinched, and Khalil gave the man a look that made him turn pale.

“I am speaking to your daughter.”

“I only wish to remind her to show respect to you, my lord.”

“Move away, Omar al Assad. I do not want you standing next to me.” The man’s mouth thinned but he did as commanded. Khalil knelt before Layla. He heard the gasps of those around him but he ignored them. “Answer me,” he said quietly. “Have you agreed to this wedding?”

There was a long, long silence. He watched the tip of her tongue sweep across her lips. It was a very pink tongue, a delicate one, and he almost groaned at the unconscious sexuality of the simple gesture.

“Speak freely, Layla. You are safe here.”

Again, the tip of her tongue swept across her lips. “ Na’am ,” she said quietly.

Yes, she’d said…and there it was again, the accent he’d noticed last night. For some reason it troubled him. So did her answer. It more than troubled him. It disappointed him, but why?

She had been raised in the old ways. She believed in them. And, as his father had pointed out, there was the promise of riches, of status.

Khalil rose to his feet.

The sultan was right. He had no role in any of this except as crown prince. He had obligations to meet and, in meeting them, he could at least ensure that this woman reached Kasmir safely. His father wished it. The council wished it. Omar wished it.

And so did she.

He turned his back on her, spoke directly to the little group gathered around them.

“I will escort her to Kasmir.”

His father beamed his approval. So did her father. The two men began talking, but Khalil couldn’t take his eyes from Layla.

Her posture was one of supplication but when she looked up, her eyes told a different story. As before, they glittered. With defiance, with anger…

With an unspoken plea?

He hesitated. Then he held out his hand. She took it, started to her feet—and stumbled. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her but she fell against him anyway. He felt the quick brush of her body and then she was on her toes and her lips were at his ear.

“For God’s sake,” she hissed, “are you blind? They’re lying. Your father. My father. Damn it, can’t you tell that I’ve been forced into this?”

Khalil blinked. She was steady on her feet now, standing with her head bowed, making no protest as Omar stepped forward, cupped her elbow and marched her away. It was almost as if nothing had happened.

But something definitely had.

Her whispered words had not been spoken in Arabic.

They had been spoken in flawless American English.

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