Crowned at the Desert King's Command Read online

  ‘Two foreigners in the same stretch of desert,’ Faisal said dryly from behind him. ‘This cannot be a coincidence.’

  ‘No, it is not. She saw the man on Jaziri’s horse. She said something about her father.’

  ‘Ah...’ Faisal murmured. ‘Then we can safely assume she is not a threat?’

  ‘We assume nothing.’ Tariq let his gaze rove over her, scanning for any concealed weapons just to be sure. ‘All outsiders are a threat, unconscious or not.’

  And it was true—they were. That was why his father had closed the borders and why Tariq had kept them closed. Outsiders were greedy, wanting what they did not have and uncaring of who they destroyed to get it.

  He’d seen the effects of such destruction and he would not let it happen to his country. Not again.

  There were always a few, though, who thought it fun to try and get inside Ashkaraz’s famous closed borders, to get a glimpse of the kingdom, to take pictures and post them on the internet as proof of having got inside.

  There were some who couldn’t resist the lure.

  They were always caught before they could do any damage. They were rounded up and had the fear of God put into them before being sent on their way with tales of brutality and swords—even though his soldiers never actually touched any of the people they caught. Fear was enough of a deterrent.

  Though not enough of a deterrent for this woman, apparently.

  ‘If she is a threat, she is not much of one,’ Faisal observed, looking down at her. ‘Perhaps she and her father are tourists? Or journalists?’

  ‘It does not matter who they are,’ Tariq said. ‘We will deal with them as we have dealt with all the rest.’

  Which involved a stint in the dungeons, a few threats, and then an ignominious return to the border, where they would be summarily ejected into one of their neighbouring countries and told never to return again.

  ‘This one in particular might be difficult,’ Faisal pointed out. His tone was absolutely neutral, which was a good sign that he disapproved of Tariq’s decision in some way. ‘She is not only a foreigner but a woman. We cannot afford to treat her the way we treat the rest.’

  Irritation gathered in Tariq’s gut. Unfortunately, Faisal was right. So far he’d managed to avoid any diplomatic incidents following his treatment of outsiders, but there was always a first time for everything—and, given the gender and nationality of the person concerned, Ashkaraz might indeed run into some issues.

  England wouldn’t be happy if one of its own was roughly treated by the Ashkaraz government—especially not a woman. Especially not a young, helpless woman. The man they might have got away with, but not her. She would draw attention, and attention was the last thing Tariq wanted.

  Then there was the issue of his own government, and how certain members of it would no doubt use her as ammunition in their argument on how closed borders didn’t help them remain unseen on the global stage, and how the world was moving on and if they didn’t have contact with it, it would move on without them.

  Tariq didn’t care about the rest of the world. He cared only about his country and his subjects. And, since those two things were currently in good health, he saw no need to change his stance on reopening the borders.

  His vow as Sheikh was to protect his country and its people and that was what he was going to do.

  Especially when you’ve failed once before.

  The whispered thought was insidious, a snake dripping poison, but he ignored it the way he always did.

  He would not fail. Not again.

  Ignoring Faisal’s observation, Tariq crouched down beside the little intruder. The loose clothing she wore made it difficult to ascertain visually whether she carried weapons or not, and since he had to be certain he gave her a very brief, very impersonal pat-down.

  She was small, and quite delicate, but there were definite curves beneath those clothes. There were also no weapons to speak of.

  ‘Sire,’ Faisal said again, annoyingly present. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’

  Tariq didn’t ask what he meant. He knew. Faisal was the only one who knew about Catherine and about Tariq’s response to her.

  Given what that led to, he has every right to question you.

  The irritation sitting in Tariq’s gut tightened into anger. No, he’d excised Catherine from his soul like a surgeon cutting out a cancer, and he’d cut out every emotion associated with her too. Everything soft. Everything merciful.

  There was no need for Faisal to question him, because what had happened with Catherine would never happen again. Tariq had made sure of it.

  Though perhaps his advisor needed a reminder...

  ‘Do you question me, Faisal?’ Tariq asked with deceptive mildness, not looking up from the woman on the sand.

  There was a silence. Then, ‘No, sire.’

  Faisal’s voice held a slight hint of apology. Too slight.

  Tariq scowled down at the woman. Obviously, given Faisal’s clear doubts, he was going to have to deal with this himself.

  ‘I can get a couple of the men to have a look around to see where she and the other foreigner have come from,’ Faisal went on, perhaps hoping to assuage him. ‘We could perhaps return them both with no one any the wiser?’

  It would be the easiest thing to do.

  But Tariq couldn’t afford ‘easy’. He’d instituted the law to keep the borders closed and he had to be seen to uphold it.

  A king couldn’t afford to be weak.

  Hadn’t he learned his lesson there?

  You should have listened to your father.

  Yes, he should. But he hadn’t.

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘We will not be returning either of them.’

  He leaned forward, gathering the woman up and rising to his feet. She was so light in his arms. It was like carrying a moonbeam. Her head rolled onto his shoulder, her cheek pressed to the rough black cotton of his robes.

  Small. Like Catherine.

  Something he’d thought long-dead and buried stirred inside him and he found himself looking down at her once again. Ah, but she wasn’t anything like Catherine, And, anyway, that had been years ago.

  He felt nothing for her any more.

  He felt nothing for anyone any more.

  Only his kingdom. Only his people.

  Tariq lifted his gaze to Faisal’s, met the other man’s appraising stare head-on. ‘By all means send a couple of men out to see what they can discover about where these two have come from,’ he ordered coldly. ‘And get in touch with the camp. We will need the chopper to be readied to take them back to Kharan.’

  He didn’t wait for a response, turning and making his way back to the horses and the group of soldiers waiting for him.

  ‘Perhaps one of the men can deal with her?’ Faisal suggested neutrally, trailing along behind him. ‘I can—’

  ‘I will deal with her,’ Tariq interrupted with cold authority, not turning around. ‘There can be no question about her treatment should the British government become involved. Which means the responsibility for her lies with me.’

  There were others who remembered the bad times, when Ashkaraz had been fought over and nearly torn apart following Catherine’s betrayal, and they wouldn’t be so lenient with a foreign woman again.

  Not that he would be lenient either. She would soon get a taste of Ashkaraz’s hospitality when she was taken to the capital of Kharan. They had a facility there especially for dealing with people who’d strayed into Ashkaraz, and he was sure she wouldn’t like it.

  That was the whole point, after all. To frighten people so they never came back.

  His men watched silently as he carried her over to his horse and put her on it, steadying her as she slumped against the animal’s neck. Then he mounted behind her and pulled her back against him, tucking her into the crook o
f one arm while he grabbed the reins with the other.

  ‘Continue with the patrol,’ he instructed Faisal. ‘I want to know where this woman comes from—and fast.’

  The other man nodded, his gaze flickering again to the woman in Tariq’s arms. Tariq had the strangest urge to tuck her closer against him, to hide her from the old advisor’s openly speculative look.

  Ridiculous. The doubts Faisal had would soon be put to rest. Tariq was a different man from the boy he’d once been. He was harder. Colder. He was a worthy heir to his father, though he knew Faisal had had his objections to Tariq inheriting the throne. Not that Faisal or the rest of the government had had a choice in the matter since his father had only had one son.

  Still. He had thought Faisal’s scepticism long put to rest.

  It is the woman. She is the problem.

  Yes, she was. Luckily, though, she would not be a problem much longer.

  ‘You have objections?’ Tariq stared hard at the older man.

  Faisal only shook his head. ‘None, sire.’

  He was lying. Faisal always had objections. It was a good thing the older man knew that now was not the time to voice them.

  ‘As my father’s oldest friend, you have a certain amount of leeway,’ Tariq warned him. It would do him good to be reminded. ‘But see that you do not overreach yourself.’

  Faisal’s expression was impassive as he inclined his head. ‘Sire.’

  Dismissing him, Tariq nodded to Jaziri and a couple of the other guards in unspoken command. Then, tugging on the reins, he turned his horse around and set off back to base camp.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHARLOTTE WAS HAVING a lovely dream about swimming in cool water. It flowed silkily over her skin, making her want to stretch like a cat in the sun. It moved over her body, sliding over her face, pressing softly against her lips...

  There was a harsh sound from somewhere and abruptly she opened her eyes, the dream fragmenting and then crashing down around her ears.

  She was not swimming in cool water.

  She was lying on a narrow, hard bed in a tiny room, empty except for a bucket in the corner. A single naked bulb hung from the ceiling. The floor was cracked concrete, the walls bare stone.

  It looked like a...a jail cell.

  Her heartbeat began to accelerate, fear coiling inside her. What had happened? Why was she here?

  Her father had wandered away from the dig site and she’d gone to find him, only to get lost in the desert. Then those men on horseback had turned up, with her father slung over the back of a horse, and there had been that other man in black robes. That powerful man with the golden eyes, watching her. Tall and broad as a mountain. He’d had a sword at his hip and his gaze had been merciless, brutal...

  A shudder moved down her spine.

  He must have rescued her after she’d fainted—though this wasn’t exactly what she’d call a rescue. He might have saved her life, but he’d delivered her to a cell.

  Slowly she let out a breath, trying to calm her racing heartbeat, and pushed herself up.

  This had to be an Ashkaraz jail cell. And that man had to have been one of the feared border guards. And—oh, heavens—did they have her father here too? Had they both joined the ranks of people who’d crossed into Ashkaraz, a closed country?

  And you know what happens to those people. They’re never heard from again.

  Charlotte moistened her suddenly dry mouth, trying to get a grip on her flailing emotions. No, she mustn’t panic. Plenty of people had been heard from again—otherwise how would anyone know that the country was a tyranny run by a terrible dictator? That its people lived in poverty and ignorance and were terrorised?

  Anyway, that line of thought wasn’t helping. What she should be concentrating on was what she should do now.

  Pushing aside thoughts of dictators and terror, she swung her legs over the side of the horrible bed and stood up. A wave of dizziness hit her, along with some nausea, but the feeling passed after a couple of moments of stillness. Her face stung, but since there was no mirror she couldn’t see what the problem was. Sunburn, probably.

  Slowly she moved over to the door and tried to open it, but it remained shut. Locked, obviously. Frowning, she took another look around the room. Up high near the ceiling was a small window, bright sunlight shining through it.

  Maybe she could have a look and see what was out there? Get a feel for where she was? Certainly that was better than sitting around feeling afraid.

  Charlotte stood there for a moment, biting her lip and thinking, then she shoved the bed underneath the window and climbed on top of it. Her fingers just scraped the ledge, not giving her nearly enough leverage to pull herself up. Annoyed, she took another look around before her gaze settled on the bucket in the corner.

  Ah, that might work.

  Jumping down off the bed, she went over to the bucket, picked it up and took it back to the bed. She upended it, set it down on the mattress, then climbed back onto the bed and onto the bucket. Given more height, she was able to pull herself up enough to look out of the window.

  The glass was dusty and cracked, but she could see through it. However, the view was nothing but the stone wall of another building. She frowned again, trying to peer around to see if she could see anything, but couldn’t.

  Perhaps she could break the glass?

  Yes, she could do that, and then...

  A sudden thought gripped her. Carefully, she examined the window again. She was a small woman, which had proved useful on many occasions, such as in hiding from her parents when the shouting had got too bad, and maybe it could be useful now?

  Or maybe you should just sit and wait to see what happens?

  She could—but this wasn’t just about her, was it? She had her father to consider. He might be in another jail cell somewhere or he could even be dead. Dead and she would never know.

  You really will be alone then.

  Cold crept through her, despite the sun outside.

  No, she couldn’t sit there, helpless and not knowing. She had to do something.

  Decisive now, she stripped off the white shirt she was wearing—her scarf seemed to have disappeared somewhere along the line—and wrapped it around her hand. Then she hammered with her fist on the glass. After a couple of strikes against the crack already running through it, the pane shattered beautifully.

  Pleased with herself, she made sure that there were no sharp shards there, waiting to cut her, and then before she could think better of it she wriggled through the window.

  A large man wouldn’t have made it. Even a medium-sized man would have had difficulty.

  But a small woman? Easy.

  She fell rather ignominiously to the ground, winding herself, and had to lie there for a couple of moments to get her breath back. The sun was incredibly hot, the air like a furnace. Definitely she was somewhere in Ashkaraz, that was for sure.

  But then she was conscious of a sound. A familiar sound. Traffic. Cars and trucks on a road...horns sounding. People talking...the first few bars of a very popular pop song currently hitting the charts rising.

  Puzzled, she pushed herself to her feet and found herself standing in a narrow alley between two tall stone buildings. At the mouth of the alley there appeared to be a street, with people walking past.

  Despite her fear and uncertainty, an unexpected thrill of excitement caught at her.

  She was in a closed country. A country no foreigner had seen for over twenty years. No one except her.

  As her father’s assistant she’d become interested in archaeology and history, but it had always been society and people that had fascinated her the most. Ashkaraz was reportedly a throwback to medieval times, a society where time had stood still.

  And you might be the first person to see the truth of it.

  Nothing was going to stop
her from seeing that truth, and she eagerly started towards the mouth of the alleyway.

  Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of seeing an Ashkaraz street.

  Part of her had been expecting horses and carts, a medieval fantasy of a middle eastern city, with ancient souks and camels and snake charmers. But that was not what she saw.

  Bright, shiny and very new cars moved in the street, beneath tall, architecturally designed buildings made of glass and steel. People bustled along on the footpaths, some robed, some in the kind of clothes she would have seen on the streets in London. In amongst the glass and steel were historic buildings, beautifully preserved, and shops and cafés lined the streets. People were sitting at tables outside, talking, laughing, working, looking at their smartphones.

  There was an energy to the place, which was clearly a bustling, successful, prosperous city.

  Definitely not the poverty-stricken nation with a beaten-down populace crushed under the thumb of a dictator that the rest of the world thought it to be.

  What on earth was going on?

  Amazed, Charlotte stepped out onto the footpath, joining the stream of people walking along it, oblivious to the glances she was receiving.

  There was a beautiful park up ahead, with a fountain and lush gardens, lots of benches to sit on and a playground for children. Already there seemed to be a number of kids there, screaming and laughing while their indulgent parents looked on.

  This was...incredible. Amazing. How was this even possible? Was this the truth that Ashkaraz had been hiding all along?

  She was so busy staring that she didn’t notice the uniformed man coming up behind her until his fingers wrapped around her arm. And then a long black car pulled up to the kerb and Charlotte found herself bundled into the back of it.