Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage

“Princess…” His voice was faint and airless. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her lips were working their way across his collarbone and upward along the side of his neck. His jaw muscles felt so rigid he half expected to hear them creak when he added almost desperately, “Hey—cut that out.”

Poised to deposit her on the sofa, he halted, muscles quivering, beset by a new dilemma. If he put her down now, she would almost certainly pull him down with her, which would be nothing short of disastrous. If he went on holding her, with that unnerving weakness creeping through his body, he was afraid he might drop her. To head off that possibility, he brought one knee up under her bottom, braced his foot on the cushions, and tried to shift her to a more secure position in his arms.

Big mistake. Hadn’t this happened to him once before?

Yes, and once again as on the terrace, he felt her body mold itself to his as if it had been custom-made for that purpose…an all-over body glove, silky-soft, supple as finest kid. Tiny puffs of her breath brought his sweat-damp skin alive with goose bumps. Her spicy, exotic scent made his head swim. The weakness in his arms oozed into his legs, while in the center of his body his heart was banging like an energetic and enthusiastic bass drummer, sending joyful, giddy impulses and inviting—no, compelling—the rest of his body to follow along.

His body’s predictable response was, Oh, yeah. I’m there! And his heart chimed in with, Sure would like to…maybe it would be okay…don’t you think I could?

To which the rational part of his brain emphatically replied, No way, Jose!

“Princess—” he began, but the rest was muffled. Leila’s lovely and adventuresome mouth had reached its destination at last, and anything else he might have added was swallowed up in its sweet, intoxicating warmth.

For a moment…just a moment, it seemed to Cade he was fighting a losing battle. He thought how easy it would be…what a relief it would be…to just say the hell with it and give in. He thought it would be a little like drowning, to let himself go wherever this might take him, and damn the consequences.

He might have been able to do that—just maybe—if it hadn’t been for the strident and insistent clamor of his reason. Cade, you can’t! She’s a princess, most likely a virgin! You’re a guest in her father’s house! You have to stop this. Now!

He wasn’t sure how much longer he might have resisted the voices of sanity inside his head, or if in fact he’d ever have found the strength to end it. What saved him was anger. It came suddenly and unexpectedly, a bright and savage flare of resentment. Foolish woman—what the hell does she think she’s doing? Spoiled brat…she’s going to ruin me—ruin everything!

He let go of her abruptly, and felt her round and firm little bottom come to rest on his drawn-up knee.

“No,” he said hoarsely as, jerky and shell-shocked, he peeled her arms from around his neck and thrust her from him. The places where she’d touched him felt like fresh abrasions.

Little by little, in ungraceful adjustments, he managed to stand her on her own two feet, and himself as well. And all the while she said not a word, while her eyes gazed up at him, black as ink, glistening dangerously. Her lips, pink and soft and still glazed from his mouth, parted slowly. If she speaks, he thought…Or worse, if she cries…

He grasped at his anger like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver and spoke in a ragged and guttural voice. “I said no. Do you understand me?” He pulled himself away from her, raked a distraught hand through his hair and fought to get his breathing calmed down. “This isn’t going to happen, okay? Not tonight, not ever. I’m sorry—you have to go. Come on—out.”

Since she didn’t appear able or willing to move on her own, he took hold of her arm and gave it a tug. Just a small one. Then he watched in horror as her gown slipped down over one creamy-smooth shoulder. He let go of her arm in a hurry. “Ah, hell—Princess…” He closed his eyes and said it with a groan, almost pleading.

Then, through the pounding of his own pulses he heard a sharp, heartbroken sob…felt the rush and flurry of her passing…and at last, the click of an opening door.

Regret pierced his heart without warning, pierced it like an arrow and sent it plummeting into his belly. Belatedly he was aware of how young, how innocent Leila really was, and how grievously his rejection must have hurt her. He felt as if he’d kicked a puppy, or trampled a lovely blossom into the mud.

Hoping to explain, to soften it for her somehow, he lunged after her as she hurled herself through the doorway, out into the hallway—straight into the arms of her father, the sheik.

Sheik Ahmed Kamal had been feeling quite pleased with himself, and enormously satisfied with the way the weekend’s events had unfolded. The wedding ceremony had been as solemn and dignified as should be—in spite of the tendency on the part of young people nowadays to want to adopt certain deplorable Western customs instead of adhering faithfully to traditional ways. The groom’s banquet had been enjoyable for all in attendance, sumptuous and generous as was appropriate for a royal couple yet neither excessive nor ostentatious. The exhibition polo matches had been enjoyed by the many guests in attendance, and had resulted in gratifying wins for the Tamari team. Tonight’s state dinner and reception honoring the king and the crown prince of Montebello had been a grand success.

Yes…and its aftermath even more so. Sheik Ahmed was, in fact, just returning from a most productive private meeting with his Montebellan counterpart, after having personally accompanied the royal contingent to their quarters in the guest palace on the other side of the gardens. He was in an expansive mood; his belly was full of good food and his mind full of plans for Tamir’s future, plans that involved economic expansion in a number of areas near and dear to the sheik’s heart.

Now, accompanied by his cadre of loyal bodyguards, he was making his way toward his private chambers at the end of a long, empty passageway adorned with mosaics and murals and softly lit by recessed lamps. He was looking forward to discussing the weekend’s activities with Alima, his beloved wife, and afterward…a well-deserved rest.

And then—what was this? His youngest daughter, blinded by tears and with garments in disarray—garments, moreover, that would be appropriate only for a woman’s chambers, or her husband’s—his beloved child running headlong into his arms!

“Daughter, what is the meaning of this?” the sheik thundered, holding her at arm’s length while he made hurried and necessary adjustments to her costume. He spared no thought at all for his contingent of bodyguards; being both well-trained and loyal, they had already turned their backs and averted their eyes from the deplorable spectacle.

Besides, if the truth were known, at that moment Sheik Ahmed’s thoughts were in too much of a quandary to worry about what his bodyguards might or might not have witnessed. On the one hand, there was a father’s understandable wrath at finding one of his offspring in a place and circumstances she had no business being at such an hour. On the other hand…the fact was, the sheik had a secret softness in his heart for his youngest child, and seeing her face so pale and frightened, her eyes overflowing with tears, gazing up into his…

“Leila, explain yourself!” he bellowed, but his anger was more show than substance.

Her lips opened, but she did not speak. He felt her arm tremble in his grasp. About to repeat the command a bit more gently, he hesitated. His focus wavered. A flash of movement on the periphery of his vision caught his gaze and jerked it away from his daughter’s frozen face…and beyond. His eyes narrowed.

In the space of an instant his fatherly anger, mostly bombast, bluster and hot air, melted down and solidified into a rage as cold and deadly as any he’d ever known in his life.

Cade had never seen murder looking back at him from a man’s eyes before, but he knew beyond any doubt he was seeing it now.

Strangely, faced with his worst nightmare, he felt all fear leave him. His body grew cold and his mind quiet. His eyes never left Sheik Ahmed’s face as he waited for what would come.

Rotund and flushed with the effects of good food and good living, the Sheik was still an imposing presence. His snow-white hair and beard and magnificent hawk’s beak of a nose gave him an almost biblical majesty, and even though he didn’t speak loudly, his voice, welling from the depths of a barrel chest, sounded to Cade like the voice of doom.

“Young man, there was a time, not so long ago, when I could have had you executed on the spot. Explain yourself.”

A strangled cry from Leila tugged at Cade’s attention, but it was only a flicker, and only for an instant. All of his attention was focused on her father.

Explain himself? Under the circumstances it seemed to him a more than reasonable, even generous demand. Certainly more than he’d expected.

Explain himself. Well. Your Highness, I was just getting ready for bed, minding my own business, when your daughter, here, came knocking at my door, and the next thing I knew, she was throwing herself into my arms. Did I invite her? No sir, I did not. And…where did she get the idea to come to my chambers, Your Highness? You mean, did I entice her? Lead her on? Well…no sir, I sure didn’t…unless you count kissing her earlier this evening until she couldn’t stand up….

Cade sighed inwardly. To explain seemed cowardly to him, and heartless, somehow. His mouth, opened to release the words that were poised on the tip of his tongue, firmly closed.

He looked at Leila, standing so straight and still beside her father. Her face was pale but proud, even with eyes lowered and veiled by tear-clumped lashes. He cleared his throat and determinedly began. “Your Highness, this is not what you think. Your daughter—” He glanced at her again, and saw her eyes go wide and stare straight into his…saw her lips part and her cheeks flood with pink. She reminded him of a doe he’d seen once, caught in a hunter’s snare. And again he felt that awful sensation in his midsection, as if his heart had just been speared, and had landed with a thud in the bottom of his belly.

Every rational thought went out of his head. His mind was chaos, a whirlwind of remorse and shame. This was his fault. He’d humiliated this girl—and she was a girl. She was a princess and he’d humiliated her. She was almost certainly a virgin, and he’d kissed her frivolously, toyed with her emotions. And now, to make matters even worse, her humiliation was made public, since all at once the hallway around them seemed filled with people—bodyguards, servants, even Leila’s mother with her servants, come to see what all the commotion was about. The damage he’d done to Leila—and to his own agenda, of course—seemed irreparable. Unless…

Just as suddenly as the chaos had come, now calm and certainty descended upon him. There was only one way to fix the mess he’d created. Cade knew precisely what he had to do.

He drew himself up, and with as much dignity as he could muster with his hair standing on end and without benefit of shirt, jacket and tie, looked Leila’s father straight in the eye. “Sheik Ahmed, this may seem sudden, but I have fallen in love with your daughter.” Ignoring Leila’s shocked gasp, he rushed on. “I want to marry her.” The gasps had found echoes throughout the gathering; he ignored those, too, as well as the sheik’s sudden stiffening. “I respectfully ask your permission—”

“My permission!” Sheik Ahmed’s voice shook. His wife laid a cautioning hand on his arm, and he whirled, blindly thrusting Leila toward her.

“Take her,” he bellowed. “Take her away—and the rest of you—” he waved his arms, making shooing motions at the crowd. “Leave us!” Without waiting for his orders to be obeyed, he turned back to Cade, black eyes glittering with rage.

“You. You would marry my daughter?” With extreme effort, the sheik seemed to draw himself together and spoke more calmly though with no less anger. “Mr. Gallagher, I have made you a guest in my house, and you thank me by inflicting this gravest of injuries upon my family.”

Cade frowned. This was not going quite the way he’d expected. “That was not—”

“Silence! And now, to that injury you would add insult? Do you think that I would allow my daughter to marry you—an infidel, an unbeliever, a man without honor?” There was a pause, during which Cade could have sworn the sheik grew in height at least a foot before his very eyes. And then, in a magnificent bellow, “I would sooner see her dishonored!”

Having delivered his exit line, Sheik Ahmed whirled—then spoiled the effect of it somewhat by jerking back to Cade. “You will leave my house,” he growled, stabbing the air in his direction with a bejeweled finger. “Tomorrow—as early as can be arranged.” Once more he turned, and stalked off down the now-deserted hallway, footsteps ringing on the tile floor.

Protected by an icy shell of calm he knew must be shock, Cade watched until the massive doors at the end of the hallway had closed upon the sheik’s broad back. Then he retreated into his own chamber and carefully pulled the door shut after him.

On the whole, he thought as the quivery aftereffects of shock hit him, that had gone pretty well. At least he hadn’t been executed on the spot.

Like a gracefully pensive statue, Leila stood in steamy and fragrant warmth and gazed at the familiar back of the woman who knelt beside the bath. Gazed at, but did not really see. Her mind was empty, as bereft of thoughts as her eyes were of tears. She did not dare allow herself to think, not even so much as a single thought; if she did, she feared the anger, humiliation and despair would simply overwhelm her.

Salma Hadi, her mother’s most trusted servant and once upon a time Leila’s own nanny, hummed nervously as she fussed over the bathwater, adding scent and soap bubbles, swishing the water with her fingers to test the temperature. The tune she hummed was simple and familiar, a children’s play song she had sung to Leila long, long ago. Leila found it oddly soothing.

Pushing stiffly to her feet, Salma turned to smile up at her. Holding out her hand, she spoke in Arabic, the language of her youth. “Ah, yes, now it is good. Come, my treasured child, let me help you undress.”

Mindlessly, Leila obeyed the familiar voice, lifting her hair to allow access to the fastenings of her gown. She stood, docile and numb, while well-remembered hands gently removed her clothing and twisted her hair into a pile atop her head, securing it there with jeweled clips and combs. Naked, she allowed herself to be taken by the hand and led to the edge of the bath.

“There, my sweet…gently…gently,” Salma crooned. “The water will sooth you…take away the pain.”

Leila gave her former nanny a puzzled look. Pain? What pain? Was Salma getting old? Losing her mind? The pain she felt was all inside, deep in her heart, and it would take much more than a hot bubble bath to make it go away.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she lowered herself into the fragrant suds, for she had been taught never to take loyal servants for granted. “This does feel good.” Closing her eyes, she lay back with a sigh and stretched herself languidly, like a sleepy cat. How good it felt to relax, after such a tumultuous day. How good it would be if she could simply go to sleep right here, and not have to think…

“Princess? Are you—”

There was concern, and something else—embarrassment, perhaps?—in Salma’s voice. Leila opened her eyes. “Yes, Salma, what is it?”

The servant’s round face was flushed, and her eyes glistened with kindness. “Princess, I have some oil—it is very soothing. When you have finished—”

“Oil?” Leila frowned. “What kind of oil? What for?”

Salma touched Leila’s cheek with gentle fingers. “My little one…it is normal for a woman to have pain, the first time she…is with a man. But after a hot bath…the soothing oil…it goes away quickly—” She stopped, for Leila was shaking her head wildly. She continued in distress, “Princess, it is all right—” But Leila went on shaking her head, and brushing aside Salma’s anxious fingers, covered her face with her hands.

Her face, her whole body burned with shame; even the bathwater felt cool on her fevered skin. Oh, how she wished she could just…sink to the bottom of the tub and disappear forever.

“Princess—what is it?” Salma’s voice had risen with alarm. Lifting her hands heavenward, she uttered a rapid, wailing prayer, which she almost immediately interrupted to ask in a despairing whisper, “Oh, tell me—did he harm you? Are you injured, truly? Tell me—what has he—”

“No, no!” Leila cried, “you don’t understand. He did nothing. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Salma rocked backward, hushed and wondering. “You mean, you are not—he did not—”

“No,” Leila moaned, putting her hands over her eyes once more, “he would not. Oh, Salma, it was awful. Just awful…” And all at once she felt herself gathered into loving arms, soapsuds and all, and she was sobbing like a little child on her nanny’s shoulder. “Salma,” she gulped,

“I have been a fool….”

“Yes, my treasure,” Salma crooned, rocking her. “Yes….”

* * *

Alima Kamal was worried about her husband. She had never before seen him so angry—his color was quite alarming. Hadn’t the doctors warned him about his blood pressure, insisted he must lose some weight? And after such a weekend, so much excitement, too much rich food—and perhaps more of the mild Tamari wine than he was accustomed to—now this. What had Leila been thinking of, to do such a thing?

Ah—Leila. That was another worry entirely. She was in Salma’s capable hands—that problem could wait until tomorrow.

At the moment Ahmed was in the bathroom, Alima having persuaded him that a warm bath might help him to relax—with the help of a little subtle bribery, naturally, in the form of the promise of a nice massage afterward. She had in mind an old family recipe of Salma’s—passed on to her by her maternal grandmother—a mix of fragrant oils and certain herbs that were designed to soothe the mind as well as the body. She had used it on her husband before, with most satisfactory and highly enjoyable results, for her as well. Although, under the circumstances she didn’t hold out hope for such a conclusion to this evening’s activities. Ah, well… Alima sighed.

A discreet tapping at the royal bedchamber’s heavy wooden door almost went unnoticed, so engrossed was she in her preparations. When it continued, now a little louder, she glanced at the antique French clock on the mantelpiece. Who would dare disturb the sheik in his chambers at this hour? With a mildly vexed sigh, Alima went to answer it.

“Salma!” Her heart gave a leap of alarm when she saw her oldest and most trusted attendant standing there, almost bouncing on her tiptoes with ill-concealed emotion. “What’s wrong? Is Leila all right? Is something—”

“Oh, no, Sitt,” Salma interrupted breathlessly, “Princess Leila is fine. That is why—Oh, Sitt, please forgive me for disturbing you, but I must speak with you.”

Casting a hurried glance toward the bathroom where, judging from the sounds coming from within, her husband—perhaps in anticipation of what was to come after?—seemed to be enjoying his bath more than he’d expected, Alima stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her.

Flat on his belly with his eyes closed, Sheik Ahmed drifted on waves of pleasure. Ah yes…there…Alima’s strong fingers never failed to find the spot that needed them most.

She wanted something from him, of course. She only resorted to the oils and herbs when she was hoping to cajole him into giving her her way. He knew this, but it did nothing to lessen his pleasure. He trusted his wife implicitly. He knew she would never use the considerable influence she had on him lightly. If she was attempting to manipulate him now, it would only be for something she considered to be of utmost importance. Ah well…she would get to it in her own good time. And meanwhile, as far as Sheik Ahmed was concerned, getting there was the most enjoyable part.

“Ahmed, my beloved…”

“Yes, jewel of my heart? Speak to me.”

They had been speaking Arabic, as they often did on intimate occasions, but Alima switched now to English. “Ahmed, Salma was here, while you were in the bath. She brought news of Leila—”

“Leila!” A snort lifted his head and shoulders from the pillows.

Gently but firmly, Alima pushed them down again. “Hush, my husband—please, hear me.” After a pause, which she decided to take for acquiescence, she continued in a musing tone, “What she had to say was interesting. I think you will want to hear it.”

Ahmed gave a resigned grunt. “Very well…if you must.”

Bracing herself for the expected upheaval, Alima bore down with all her strength on one of her husband’s most troublesome spots, took a deep breath, and said lightly, “It is possible we have misjudged Elena’s friend from Texas.” A growl resonated beneath her fingers. She hurried on. “It seems this American may not be entirely without honor, after all. I say this—” she spoke calmly, but her fingers were kneading her husband’s tensed muscles as hard and fast as they possibly could “—because of what your daughter has confessed to Salma. In tears.” There was that growl again. “Yes, tears,” she said firmly. “But not because this man had dishonored her. Quite the opposite. Your daughter was in tears because he had sent her away.”

Like a small mountain shifted by an earthquake, Sheik Ahmed rolled himself onto his back. Raising himself up on his elbows, glowering fiercely, he bellowed, “Away? What do you mean, he sent her away? Explain yourself!”

Alima sat with her legs tucked under her, head high and eyes downcast. Her heart was beating rapidly and her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap, were cold. She was desperately afraid, though not of her husband—she could never be afraid of Ahmed! This was another kind of fear entirely—the fear of a mother for her beloved child. Her youngest daughter’s future happiness was at stake.

“Yes,” she said on a soft exhalation, “I fear it was not the American who behaved badly this evening, but our daughter. And I—” Her voice broke—she had not planned it. “I must say that I am not surprised. I have been afraid something like this might happen. Oh, Ahmed—” She rose and turned quickly from him to hide the tears that had sprung unexpectedly to her eyes. “Leila is so impatient and impulsive—she has always been so.”

“Yes.” Ahmed actually chuckled.

Whirling back to him, Alima was just in time to see him rearrange his face in its customary glower. “Ahmed, she is a woman. She has the feelings, the needs, the impulses of a woman. Every day I have watched her grow more impatient, waiting her turn, waiting for her sisters to choose husbands…”

Yes, and impatient for other things, for other reasons, too, about which Alima knew she could never tell her husband. Ahmed was a good man and a progressive leader in many ways, but he would never understand how bright, intelligent women like his daughters might feel frustrated at being patronized, overlooked, discounted and ignored. Particularly Leila, whom everyone considered silly and shallow, and whom possibly only her mother knew was anything but.

And there was another thing Leila’s mother knew. She had noticed the way her youngest child looked at the tall oilman from Texas. Tonight she had seen the soft shine in her eyes, the pink flush in her cheeks….

“Humph,” said Ahmed. “I have been more than patient with Nadia, it is true…” He scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Butrus wishes to marry her, and she seems willing enough.” He shrugged and gave a regal wave of his hand. “Pah—I see no real value in this tradition of marrying off daughters in order of their birth. So—if you are certain that Leila is eager to marry, and impetuous enough to do something foolish, then the answer is simple enough. I must find her a suitable husband. And now, my beloved, if that is all that is troubling you—” He smiled, and his eyes gleamed wickedly.