Crowned at the Desert King's Command Read online

Which meant, of course, that he had to tell her.

  Ignoring the strange reluctance that pulled at him, Tariq straightened up. ‘What is there to say? My father had an American lover whose family was very keen on knowing the secret of our wealth, so she tried hard to get that secret from him. But he would not tell her.’

  He looked at Charlotte over the flames.

  ‘So she turned her sights on me. I was seventeen and...angry with my father for various reasons. So I let her seduce me. And when she asked where our country got its wealth from I told her about the oil reserves in the north.’

  Charlotte frowned. ‘You meant to tell her?’

  ‘I was in love with her.’

  You were not. You told her because you wanted to punish your father.

  The thought was a whisper in his head, highlighting the lie he’d just told Charlotte. The lie he’d always told himself. But it wasn’t really a lie, was it?

  His father had denied him something he’d wanted passionately and desperately and he’d been so angry. So he’d allowed Catherine to seduce him. Allowed her to get under his skin. Allowed himself to give away his country’s secrets. Because he could blame it all on love.

  Except it hadn’t been love. It had been selfishness—his own needs put before his country’s.

  Sympathy glowed in Charlotte’s eyes, and an understanding he didn’t deserve.

  ‘Oh, Tariq,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘What are you sorry for?’ he said brusquely. ‘It is not your fault.’

  ‘No, but you think it’s yours, don’t you?’

  ‘It is mine.’ More than she knew.

  ‘You were only seventeen.’

  ‘Old enough to know better.’

  He knew he sounded cold, but he couldn’t afford to make it any different. Nor could he afford to lean into that sympathy and understanding he saw in her face.

  ‘I sold my country out for love.’ Which was not entirely untrue. ‘It will not happen again.’

  The flames played over her pretty face, lighting her pale with a golden glow, and the searching way she was looking at him made him want to push her back on the sand and take her hard, to distract her.

  ‘That’s not all there is, though, is it?’ she said quietly. ‘There’s more to the story.’

  How she knew that, he wasn’t quite sure. But it wasn’t anything he’d share with her. She didn’t need to know the true extent of his pettiness.

  Why should it matter what she thinks anyway?

  He ignored the thought. ‘There is nothing that you cannot find out from the books in the library,’ he said, and stepped around the fire, coming over to where she sat, her hands still wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate he’d made for her.

  She tilted her head back, looking up at him. ‘Why won’t you tell me?’

  The question was so simple, so honest and open. And something within him wanted to respond. To tell her the truth about the aching loneliness of his childhood. The need he’d had for someone—anyone—and how that had always been denied him. Until one day he’d broken.

  You cannot tell her. A king must be self-sufficient. Detached. Alone.

  He knew it—had learned his lesson and learned it well. Catherine had been his teacher in that, even though she hadn’t realised it herself. She’d given him what his father had never allowed: someone to talk to, confide in. And he had confided in her, and part of him had known his error even as he’d told her about the oil. Known and yet he’d done it anyway. Because he had been angry.

  Because you couldn’t bear to be lonely and you hated your father for the way he kept you isolated. You were a selfish boy and you nearly destroyed your country because of it.

  Charlotte frowned, and he had the strange impression that she could read every thought in his head, because she put her mug down in the sand and rose to her feet, her blanket caught awkwardly around her. She stepped forward and put her arms around him, leaning her head on his chest.

  There was nothing sexual in it. It was merely a hug.

  He’d never been hugged before. Not by his father, nor by the nannies who’d brought him up. So the feel of Charlotte’s arms around him shocked him. Made him freeze in place. He felt as if there was an animal inside him, struggling to get free of a cage, and as if any move he made would spring the cage door wide open.

  He didn’t know what would happen if that animal got free.

  You know what happens.

  Yes, he did. Disaster.

  His instinct was urging him to shove her away, but that would hurt her, and for some reason the thought of hurting her caused him actual pain. So he was forced to stand there and endure the hug she was giving him, even though he didn’t want it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice muffled against his chest. ‘You don’t have to tell me if it’s painful.’

  He had no idea how he’d given himself away. And no idea of what to say to her now either. Earlier that day she’d told him about the way her father had treated her and he’d seen how painful that had been for her. How her parents’ bad marriage had made her afraid of getting involved with anyone.

  He’d thought initially that was a good thing, that her fear would prevent her from getting too close. But the way she was holding him now made it clear that it wasn’t as simple as that.

  She wasn’t afraid to ask him about the things he didn’t want to talk about. Or to offer him comfort. She wasn’t afraid to show him she cared. And she wasn’t thinking of herself or her fear right now. She was only thinking of him.

  His heart ached, raw and painful in his chest.

  He wanted to tell her his secrets. Wanted to share those hours he’d spent in the desert at a young age, taken out and left there alone so he could develop self-reliance. Those days of silence in the palace, when he had been forbidden company so he could learn how to deal with loneliness. Days of not seeing anyone. Not speaking to anyone.

  Sometimes he would hear laughter, the shouts of children in the courtyards outside, and he’d wanted so much to go out and play. But he had never been allowed.

  Alone, his father had told him. A king always stands alone. Because he is stronger that way.

  She was warm against him, all soft, silky bare skin and the sweet scent of her body.

  Telling her the truth only means something if you let it.

  And it didn’t have to, did it? After all, it had happened a very long time ago. He was making amends for his mistake now. He wouldn’t let it rule him. So what did it matter if she knew about what he’d done? It might even be a lesson to her to keep her distance. He’d told her back in the tent that they would never have a normal marriage, but it wouldn’t hurt to drive that message home.

  Tariq could feel his body already responding to her nearness, but all he did was raise his hands and gently put her from him. He would not make this about sex now. Not yet, at least.

  She frowned and opened her mouth, but he laid a finger on her soft lips, silencing her.

  ‘I was not entirely truthful,’ he said quietly. ‘I did love Catherine. But...that was not the reason I told her about my country’s wealth.’

  Puzzlement flickered over Charlotte’s features. ‘Oh?’

  ‘My father had...set ideas on how a ruler should be brought up. He believed that a king must always stand apart, and that is how he raised me. Always apart. I was not allowed friends, or companions of any kind, and no comfort from any of the nannies who looked after me. A king has to be used to loneliness, so he made sure I got used to it from a very early age.’

  Charlotte stared at him in obvious shock. ‘No friends? None?’

  ‘No.’ He refused to allow the expression on her face to affect him. ‘It was not so bad as a child. But as I got older I found it more...difficult. My father had always stressed the importance of a good education, so I tho
ught I could at least get a taste of what life would be like if I was not a king and go to university. I applied to Oxford, unbeknownst to my father, and was accepted. But...’

  He’d thought his anger long since blunted by now, but it wasn’t. Even after so many years he could still feel its sharp edge. It deepened his voice to a growl.

  ‘My father would not let me go. I argued with him, shouted at him, but he would not be moved. He even put guards on my door in case I tried to sneak away.’ Tariq looked down into Charlotte’s pale face. ‘I was so angry. So very, very angry. And when one night I saw Catherine, weeping beside a fountain in the gardens, I knew I’d found an opportunity to get back at him. She wanted me and I let her seduce me. And when she asked me about Ashkaraz’s secret, I told her.’

  ‘Oh, Tariq...’ There was nothing but sympathy in Charlotte’s expression.

  ‘I told her because I was angry,’ he went on, so she fully understood. ‘Because I was petty. Because I was selfish. I told her because I had not learned the lessons my father had tried to teach me about detachment. About not letting my emotions control me or affect my judgement. I did what a ruler is never supposed to do, and that is to put his own feelings before his country.’

  There was no judgement in Charlotte’s eyes, only distress. She reached out and put a hand on his chest.

  ‘Of course you were angry. You wanted some time to be a normal teenager.’

  But he didn’t want her pain on his behalf. Didn’t want her sympathy. Not when he didn’t deserve any of it.

  ‘That is no excuse. I should have listened to what he was trying to teach me, yet I did not. I was just a spoiled boy who wanted something his father would not give him.’

  ‘No!’ Charlotte shot back, suddenly fierce. ‘You weren’t spoiled, Tariq. You were lonely. Terribly, desperately lonely.’

  ‘I betrayed my country, Charlotte.’ He made it explicit, because it was clear that she did not understand. ‘Out of nothing more than selfishness. There can be no excuses for that. No forgiveness. There is only atonement and my dedication to make sure it does not happen again.’

  She closed her mouth, but the distress in her eyes lingered and he didn’t like it, didn’t want her to feel it—because it made that animal inside him claw at the cage, wound the tension in his shoulders even tighter. Made him want to take her in his arms and hold her, take the distress away.

  But he couldn’t allow himself that. And there was one way he could get rid of that look in her eyes. One way to ease her distress.

  Tariq put his palm over hers on his chest, then lifted his other hand, tugging the blanket from around her. She made no move to grab it, standing there warm and naked in the firelight.

  ‘Tariq...’ she whispered.

  But whatever else she’d been going to say was lost as he reached for her, gathering her up in his arms. And then he stopped her mouth entirely with his, and made them both forget about history and pain and loneliness.

  At least for a little while.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHARLOTTE SAT IN the palace library on one of the low couches near the window, with the sound of the fountain drifting in from the garden outside. The early-evening air was warm and full of the smell of flowers, and she could hear a couple of the gardeners out amongst the rose bushes, talking in low voices.

  Her Arabic wasn’t good enough yet for her to be able to tell what they were talking about, but she recognised the odd word here and there. Something about football.

  It reminded her of her flatmates in England and made her smile—at least until a wave of homesickness hit her. Strange to feel that way about a place where she hadn’t much enjoyed living anyway, but she did. And it didn’t help that she’d spent the last couple of weeks since getting back from the oasis on her own. Tariq had disappeared into the endless meetings and official business that took up a lot of his time, and she barely saw him at all during the day.

  It wasn’t as if she’d been completely left to her own devices, though. She had her own royal duties as sheikha, and that was taking some getting used to, plus she had a lot of study to do in order to get up to speed on the customs and history of Ashkaraz, as well as more language and protocol classes.

  She might have been fascinated by all this, and certainly she would have enjoyed it a lot more, if her head hadn’t been quite so full of her husband.

  Ever since those three days at the oasis he was all she could think about. What he’d told her about his childhood had shocked her. To be kept alone and apart from everyone, denied friendship and even simple human comfort, must have been horrific.

  It made her wonder about the ferocity that burned in his eyes and the sense of volcanic emotions simmering just below the surface, kept tightly leashed and locked down. How would such loneliness have affected such a passionate man?

  Well, she didn’t need to wonder. He’d told her. He’d been broken and the consequences had been awful. And so terribly unfair. Because it wasn’t his fault he’d been pushed to breaking point.

  Her throat tightened, her eyes prickling with unexpected tears. That night at the oasis he’d told her about it so flatly, so emotionlessly, and yet she’d seen the rage that burned bright in his eyes. Rage that was still there even all these years later. And not only that, it seemed to her that he was still punishing himself for that youthful mistake, denying himself the emotional outlet that he so clearly needed.

  Why do you care so much about this?

  Charlotte pushed the book she’d been reading off her lap and stood, pacing over to the windows and back to the couch again, restless.

  She cared because she knew what it was like to be pushed into making a mistake that you wished you could take back. And she cared because he was her husband. Because he was a kind man, no matter that he said he wasn’t, and he believed in what he was doing. Because he was passionate.

  Pacing back to the windows, Charlotte looked out sightlessly at the rose bushes and the fountains, her heart beating far too fast for comfort. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop thinking about those three days she’d spent with him.

  It hadn’t been the same after that first night, though the sex had been incendiary. It hadn’t been the same since they’d returned to the palace either, with them seeing each other only when Tariq needed her physically. Their bed the only place where it felt as if they communicated fully with each other. Where they were joined and words weren’t needed...where their pasts were irrelevant.

  What would it be like if they had that feeling outside the bedroom too?

  Ah, but there was no point thinking about that. It was impossible. He’d told her their marriage would only be a physical one, that he couldn’t give her any kind of emotional connection. She’d thought she’d have no problem with that, but maybe she did.

  You never wanted a marriage like your parents’, but what if that’s how yours ends up?

  A cold thread wound through her, making her fingers feel icy. That could happen, couldn’t it? Tariq might strive for detachment, but she would always be able to sense the hidden currents that shifted beneath his hard, merciless surface. She could feel his anger and his passion, see it in his eyes, sense it burning him alive.

  And then it would be like it had been at home, with her parents’ bitterness and animosity battering her, surrounding her. With her wanting to take away their anger and pain but not knowing how. Until the day she’d broken away and run from it all, and made everything ten thousand times worse.

  You can’t run away now, though.

  No, she couldn’t. She was married to a king and she couldn’t leave even if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay, to help him, to turn her marriage into something good for both of them.

  Except what could she do when he was determined to stay detached?

  Carefully, she went over what he’d told her out at
the oasis again—about the dreadful childhood he’d had, with no one and nothing to ease his loneliness.

  Lonely, that was what he was. So maybe all he needed was a friend. Someone to talk to, to confide in. Someone who wouldn’t make any emotional demands on him.

  She could do that, couldn’t she?

  She could be his friend?

  ‘I have been looking for you.’

  There was no mistaking the dark, deep voice that echoed through the room, making her jump.

  She turned, looking towards the double doors that were standing open. Tariq’s tall, muscled frame was filling the doorway. His hot golden stare found hers and her mouth dried, her cheeks heating.

  She knew that look. He had it when he wanted her. And he often did during the day, coming to find her wherever she was and taking her by the hand, leading her to his rooms or to somewhere secluded, where he would strip her bare and take her, with that familiar ferocity molten in his eyes.

  He didn’t speak afterwards, just left her burned to ashes where she stood while he turned away and went back to doing whatever it was he’d been doing before he’d come to find her, apparently satisfied.

  She had the sense that he wanted something from her in those moments, that it wasn’t simply sex, but she never knew what it was.

  Perhaps she might have an answer to that now.

  He was in dark charcoal suit trousers and one of his exquisitely cut business shirts, this one in dark blue, making his bronze skin seem richer and highlighting the gold of his eyes. She was struck, as she always was, by the raw, stark beauty of him. By how amazing it was that a man like this was hers.

  He is not yours, though. And he never will be. Just as you will never be his.

  The sliver of glass sitting inside her twisted—a sharp, unexpected pain that seemed to radiate out from the centre of her chest.

  Which was ridiculous. She’d never thought he would be hers and she’d never wanted him to be. So where this pain was coming from she had no idea, and it was best she simply ignored it.

  He turned and locked the doors, then turned back, his stare becoming even hotter. ‘Come here,’ he ordered darkly.