Crowned At The Desert King's Command
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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 of 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.
She opened her mouth to protest, but there wasn’t even time for her to scream. Something black and suffocating was put over her head and the car started moving.
The fingers around her arm were firm—not hurting, but definitely ensuring that she couldn’t get away. Fear, coming a little late to the party, suddenly rose up inside her, choking.
Did you really think you could escape from that jail cell and start wandering around like nothing was wrong?
She hadn’t been thinking—that was the problem. She’d got out of that cell and then been caught up in the wonder of the city outside it.
Charlotte slumped back in the seat, trying not to panic. Now, not only was her chance to escape gone but so was her father’s.
And it was all her fault.
The car drove for what seemed like ages and then slowed to a stop. She was pulled out of it and then taken up some steps. Sun and heat surrounded her for a second, and then she must have been taken inside because the sun had disappeared, to be replaced by blessedly cool air. Her footsteps echoed on a tiled floor, and there was the scent of water and flowers in the air.
She couldn’t see a thing through the black fabric around her head, and her sense of direction was soon gone as she was pulled down more corridors, around corners, and up yet more stairs.
Were they taking her back to that cell? Or were there worse things in store for her? Would they perhaps murder her? Make her disappear? Hold her prisoner for ever?
She was just starting to be very, very afraid when she was pulled to a stop and the fabric covering her head was abruptly tugged off.
Charlotte blinked in the bright light.
She appeared to be standing in a large room lined with shelves, containing lots of books and folders and filing boxes. The exquisite tiled floor was covered in thick, brightly coloured silk rugs, the walls also tiled, in silvery, slightly iridescent tiles. There was a window in front of her that gave a view onto a beautiful garden, where a fountain played amongst palms and other shrubs, as well as many different kinds of flowers.
A huge, heavy desk made of time-blackened wood stood before the window. The polished surface was clean of everything except a sleek-looking computer monitor and keyboard, and a small, elegant silver vase with a spray of fresh jasmine in it.
This was certainly not a jail cell. In fact, it looked like someone’s office...
She blinked again and turned around to see two men stationed on either side of the double doors. They were dressed in black robes with swords on their hips, their faces absolutely impassive.
She would have thought the robes and swords only ceremonial, except they didn’t have the clean and pressed look she would have expected. The fabric of their robes was dusty and stained around the hems, as were the boots the men wore. And although the edges of the swords were bright, was that...blood she could see on the steel? Surely it couldn’t be.
Charlotte stared, her heartbeat getting faster and faster, and then suddenly from behind her came the sound of a door opening and closing.
She turned back sharply to see that a man had come into the room from a door off to her left, and he was now standing beside the desk, staring at her.
He was very, very tall and very, very broad, built more like an ancient warrior than a businessman. The muscles of his chest and arms were straining the white cotton of his business shirt, and the dark wool of his suit trousers pulled tight around his powerful thighs.
His face was a harsh composition of planes and angles that nevertheless managed to be utterly compelling, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, straight black brows and a beautifully carved mouth.
‘Handsome’ was far too bland a word for him...especially as he radiated the kind of arrogant charisma reserved only for the very powerful and very important.
But that wasn’t what held Charlotte absolutely rooted to the spot.
It was his eyes. Burning gold, with the same relentless, brutal heat as the desert sun.
It was the man who’d approached her in the desert. She was sure of it. She’d never forget those eyes.
He said nothing for a long moment and neither did Charlotte, since she couldn’t seem to find her voice. Then his gaze shifted to the men behind her and he gave a slight tilt of his head. A couple of seconds later she heard the door shut behind her, the men clearly having obeyed some unspoken order and left.
The room abruptly felt tiny and cramped, the space too small to accommodate both her and the man in front of her. Or maybe he seemed to get larger and more intimidating, taking up all the air and leaving none for her.
She lifted her chin, trying to get her heartbeat under control at the same time as trying to hold his relentless gaze, but she couldn’t seem to manage both—especially not when he moved suddenly, coming over to the desk and standing in front of it, folding his arms across his massive chest.
Bringing him quite a bit closer.
She resisted the urge to take a step back, hating how small and insignificant his sheer size made her feel. It was exactly the same feeling that had filled her when her parents had argued and she’d hidden under the dining room table. They’d never noticed that she’d left her seat—which was ironic, since more often than not they had been shouting about her.
Clasping her hands in front of her to prevent them from shaking, Charlotte took a small, silent breath. ‘Um...do you speak English?’ Her voice sounded thin and reedy in the silence of the room.
The man said nothing, continuing to stare at her.
It was extremely unnerving.
Her mouth had dried and she wished her Arabic was better. Because maybe he didn’t understand English. She wanted to ask him where her father was and also to thank him for saving her.
He put you in a cell, remember?
Sure, but maybe that hadn’t been him. He might look like a medieval warrior, but the suit he was wearing was thoroughly modern. Perhaps he was an accountant? Or the chief of the jail she’d been put in? Or a government functionary?
Yet none of those things seemed to fit. He was too magnetic, too charismatic to be anyone’s mere functionary. No, this man had an aura about him that spoke of command, as if he expected everyone to fall to their knees around him.
Sadly for him, she wouldn’t be falling anywhere in front of him.
Except you already have. In the desert.
That, alas, was true.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ she stuttered, casting around for something to say. ‘I should have thanked you for saving my life. But can you tell me where my father is? We got lost, you see. And I... I...’ She faltered, all her words crushed by the weight of his stare.
This was silly. Her father could be dead or in a jail cell and she was letting this man get to her. She couldn’t get pathetic now.
Perhaps introducing herself would help. After all, she’d had no identification on her when she’d collapsed, so maybe they had no idea who she or her father were. Maybe that was why she had been put in the cell? Maybe they thought she was some kind of insurgent, hoping to...?
But, no. Best not get carried away. Keep thinking in the here and now.
‘So,’ Charlotte said, pulling herself together. ‘My name is—’
‘Charlotte Devereaux,’ the man interrupted in a deep, slightly rough voice. ‘You are an assistant attached to an archaeological dig that your father, Professor Martin Devereaux is managing in conjunction with the University of Siddq.’
His English was perfect, his accent almost imperceptible.
‘You both come from Cornwall, but you live in London and at present are employed by your father’s university as his assistant. You are twenty-three years old, have no dependents, and live in a flat with a couple of friends in Clapham.’
Charlotte could feel her mouth hanging open in shock. How did he know all this stuff? How had he found out?
‘I...’ she began.
But he hadn’t finished, because he was going on, ignoring her entirely, ‘Can you tell me, please, what you were doing out there in the desert? Neither you nor your father were anywhere near your dig site. In fact, that is the whole reason you are here. You crossed the border into Ashkaraz—you do understand that, do you not?’
She flushed at the note of condescension in his voice, but took heart from the fact that he was talking of her father in the present tense.
‘Are you saying that my father is alive?’ she asked, needing to be sure.
‘Yes,’ the man said flatly. ‘He is alive.’
Relief filled her, making her breath catch. ‘Oh, I’m so glad. He wandered away from the site, the way he sometimes does, and I went to try and find him. I walked up a dune and somehow—’
‘I am not interested in how you got lost, Miss Devereaux,’ the man interrupted, his voice like iron, his golden stare pitiless. ‘What I am interested in is how you somehow got out of a secure facility.’
Charlotte swallowed. Briefly she debated lying, but since she was in a lot of trouble already there was no point in making it any worse.
‘I...smashed the glass and crawled out of the window.’ She lifted her chin a little to show him that she wouldn’t be cowed. ‘It really wasn’t that difficult.’