Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen

Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as ‘writer’. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation and, after chewing her pen for a moment, Carol put down the truth—‘writing’. The third question asked—‘What are your hobbies?’ Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered ‘swimming and tennis’—but, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open, I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Carol also writes for Medical™ Romance!

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Dear Reader

I love linking characters, really getting to know them and following their development through different stories and situations.

I first met Xavian at the end of the Royal House of Karedes mini-series. I could vividly picture him, and really wanted to write his story, so I was thrilled when I was asked to write the opening book for the Dark-Hearted Desert Men quartet.

At first I couldn’t imagine being in Xavian’s situation—a charismatic, powerful king who has everything, and I mean everything, taken from him. In fact, the more I explored his situation the more I understood how dire it must feel for him. Xavian was probably entitled to a little ‘woe is me’, and if I was nice I would have given him a supremely understanding heroine. But I’m not that nice—and, anyway, that would have been too easy. Layla is complex and sexy and powerful in her own right, and I loved getting to know her and watching the sparks fly between them—actually, their relationship sizzles so much that I suggest a fan.

They really were two wonderful characters to write, and I was more than a little sad to say goodbye— however, there are three sexy cousins still to come in this series, each with a fantastic story of their own, so I’m cheered to know that I don’t have to say farewell to the Kingdom of Qusay just yet.

Happy reading

Carol Marinelli x

Table of Contents

Cover Page

About The Author

Title Page

Dearreader

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Preview

Copyright

Prologue

LAYLA did not close her eyes as the handmaidens veiled her. Instead, she watched in the mirror as, one by one, her generous cleavage, her pale legs and the delicate henna tattoos disappeared beneath the golden layers of the jewelled gold dress. Then she stared as her long raven hair and her made-up face, her rouged cheeks and full lips also disappeared—till all that was left were her eyes.

Eyes that blinked nervously as the realisation hit— when these veils were removed, this time there would be none of the usual relief. It would not mean she was home at her palace in Haydar, where she could relax. No, when these veils were removed it would be before her new husband—she would be in the Qusay Desert, on her wedding night.

King Xavian Al’ Ramiz, the man she had been betrothed to since her childhood, had after all these years decided to honour that commitment and finally summoned her to be his bride.

He had kept her waiting—and, more importantly for Layla, he had kept her country waiting.

Her life had been—was—but a holding pattern.

Layla was the eldest of seven girls. Her mother had died trying to produce a male heir—Layla had heard the sobs and anger as each gruelling birth yielded yet another poor crop—and the deeply traditional Haydar people had, with each birth, further balked at the idea of being ruled by a queen.

Ah, but her father had been wise. A deal had been brokered many years ago with the King of Qusay, whose marriage had produced only one son, that the two would marry. Xavian would step in and appease the people of Haydar, and of course they would produce a son—who would one day rule both lands.

Since the union had not been forthcoming, on her father’s death Layla had become Queen. The elders had wanted her to rule in name only, so that they could advise her and keep the ways of the people safe, but she’d intended to take her role seriously. She had asserted herself—refusing to sign or add voice to anything that she didn’t agree with.

And as for her early betrothal—why, Xavian had been too busy being a bachelor to give up his ways. It had taken his parents’ death to force his hand—and she had grown up a lot while waiting for his summons to marry. Layla had ruled her land her way, and responsibility had made her wise. Xavian had left it too late to demand compliance, for she would not lie down now and meekly hand it all over to a man who had no real interest in either her kingdom or in her as a wife.

His parents’ recent death had clearly prompted an urgent reappraisal, and the playboy Prince had returned from Europe and stepped magnificently into the role of King of Qusay. A born leader, despite his private loss, he was leading his people through grief-stricken times—Layla knew, because Layla had watched. They had never once spoken, she had seen him only from a distance and merely heard about his decadent ways, but more recently she had made time in her busy schedule to follow him more closely—recording and watching his speeches, which were eloquent and commanding. He was Prince Xavian no more, but a true king.

And a king needed a bride.

It was a business deal.

Layla was aware of that, and yet as she had watched him from afar, watched the man who would one day be her husband live his wild, debauched ways, she had been jealous rather than angry. Jealous that it was all right for Xavian to take lovers, to live wild and free, while she waited.

She was twenty-six.

And tonight, finally, it was her turn.

Tonight, whether or not it was a business arrangement, a convenient betrothal, even if they would for the most part spend their lives apart, tonight he would take her to the Qusay Desert.

Tonight Layla would face her husband…She was suddenly glad of the veils, because beneath them she blushed…Tonight King Xavian Al’ Ramiz would become her lover.

Her only lover.

Bizarrely, she wished that he were just a little less good-looking, that the face she had tracked in newspapers, on television and on the Internet did not have such brooding, haughty appeal. How she had scrutinised his features—pausing the footage at times and catching her breath as his black eyes stared back at her. He looked royal—from the straight Roman nose to the razored cheekbones, to the lush, thick black hair that fell into perfect shape. He was from good lineage.

He had an aura too—a natural confidence, a presence that surrounded him. She herself had witnessed it, unseen from a distance, when their schedules had had them attending the same functions. Layla, hidden behind a veil, had watched her husband-to-be, hoping those black eyes might seek her out, that he might give her a smile or even a brief acknowledgment—anything that might indicate curiosity towards his future wife.

He had given her nothing.

Less than nothing. He had stood beside her at the Coronation of Queen Stefania of Aristo last year and quite simply ignored her.

The shame of that day still burnt—his disregard, his obvious boredom at their forthcoming union still humiliated Layla even now.

‘Your Highness…’ She screwed her eyes closed in impatience as, now that she was veiled, Imran, one of her many advisors, came into her room to deliver some last-minute concerns, to detail some points, to request final instructions in his nasal voice, before his Queen took a rare week off from official duties.

‘And we need an urgent signature on the amended sapphire mine proposal…’

It was her wedding day!

But duty had to come first, and as Queen of Haydar there was much duty. An entourage had come with her to Qusay for the wedding: a team of advisors, along with handmaidens and her chief lady-in-waiting, Baja.

Oh, how the advisors and elders rued the day the Queen had first voiced her opinion, had refused to just say yes and let them continue on with the ways of old. Instead, to their displeasure, Layla continued to assert herself—which meant reminding them constantly that, as Queen, all decisions were ultimately hers…

It was wearying, exhausting in fact, to be constantly checking and double-checking facts and figures, knowing that her so-called team were permanently on the alert for weakness, for that moment when they could slip a document past her unnoticed, when her eyes might miss a small sub-clause…They wished that Haydar might remain staid and unchanged, instead of embracing the many opportunities the rich land offered her people.

‘All of this can wait!’ Layla fixed Imran with a stare. ‘I will sign nothing today.’ She watched his lips tighten. ‘It can all wait for my return.’

‘The drilling is due to commence…’

‘It will commence on my return!’ Layla snapped. ‘When I have read the amendment and if I then approve it.’ Yet, despite her strong words, she could feel tears sting her carefully kholled eyes—tears she would never let Imran see, so she turned to the window and stared out to the Qusay ocean.

It was her wedding day!

Surely, surely, she had earned the right to be nothing but a woman for one day and one night?

Seemingly not!

‘We also need to discuss extending the King’s visit to Haydar…’ Imran was relentless.

‘There can be no discussion, till we are married,’ Layla responded with her back still to him, knowing that if he saw weakness Imran would pounce. ‘Now, if you will kindly let me get on with the small matter of my wedding, I can soon turn my full attention back to Haydar.’ He was dismissed, but still stood there, and Layla knew what was coming. Over her shoulder she spoke first. ‘Let me just reiterate: nothing, and I mean nothing, is to be approved in my absence.’

‘Of course,’ Imran replied smoothly. ‘Though naturally, if it were pressing, you would trust your Committee of Elders…’

‘Imran.’ Her tears had dried, and her eyes were steady when she turned and faced him. Her voice, like her orders, was crystal-clear. ‘I am taking my computer with me, and if for some reason I cannot be contacted by that medium, you will get in a helicopter and visit me in the desert.’

‘I would have thought you would prefer not to be disturbed,’ Imran attempted.

‘I have told you before, Imran—never presume to know my thoughts.’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’

He left then, and, even though it was but a moment from her wedding, the knot of tension in her stomach was reserved for Imran.

‘Breathe, Layla,’ Baja said gently.

Baja, dear Baja, who stayed silent in meetings but heard everything. Baja, who saw the tears she cried some nights. Baja, the only person who truly understood the daily weight on her shoulders.

‘He will use the time I am away to do something…’ Layla said.

‘He would be a fool,’ Baja said. ‘Your orders were clear.’

‘They twist my words.’

‘Then write them down.’

She was so grateful for Baja, for her wisdom, her patience, and almost absolutely Layla trusted her.

Almost—because Layla had long ago learnt that the only person she could truly trust was herself.

‘I will.’

‘First, though,’ Baja said, ‘you are to marry.’

She was led through the Qusay palace, its corridors lined with ancestral portraits. It was easier to think of a painting on a wall, to focus on the wide doors that were being opened or listen to the swish of her veil as she walked, than to attempt to comprehend that in just a moment she would be beside him.

The desert heat hit her as soon as she stepped outside. She was led down a white path and through manicured gardens—a true desert oasis. Tiny birds like jewels coloured the trees, their wings flapping as rapidly as Layla’s eyelashes as finally she stood and waited for her groom.

The marriage service would be small—next week when, as was Haydar tradition, she was unveiled as a married woman, they would be presented to dignitaries and rulers at a formal reception, but for today it was only the judge and senior elders from both lands that would bear witness.

She stood in the relatively cool shade of an orange tree, smelt the fragrant blooms of the gardens, listened to the continual trickle of the fountains, and still she waited.

He had kept her waiting ten years, so what did ten minutes more matter? Layla asked herself.

Or another ten!

A chair was brought for her, but Layla refused. Instead she stood, burning in shame—could this man make it any clearer how little regard he had for her?

She wanted to walk.

She wanted to turn her back on tradition, to demand transport, to tell him where he could shove his business arrangement.

‘The King will be here shortly.’

She stared down at her hands, saw her fingers tightly knotted, had to physically plant her feet to the ground to stop herself turning and walking—had to purse her lips behind the veil to prevent herself from saying something that her people would surely regret if she did.

‘Perhaps Your Highness should sit…’ Again the chair was suggested. One of the ancient judges was already sitting and fanning himself. Perhaps they would bring out refreshments, Layla thought wildly, or cut up the oranges from the heavily fruited trees. And then they could all stand around sucking their quarters as they discussed what to do when a King refused to appear for his own wedding.

This was the hell of duty.

To stand.

To be shamed.

To wait.

Layla would take it for her people—would go ahead with this union if that was what tradition dictated—but she swore to herself as she stood there, pale and close to fainting, yet still refusing to sit, that he would pay for his offensive behaviour.

If he thought he could treat her so poorly, if he thought she would meekly comply, would trot along by his side and follow his orders, then that was his misfortune.

King Xavian should have done his research more thoroughly. Should have known that behind these veils was a strong, proud woman.

That behind the throng of elders and aides was a ruler who was strong—too strong, according to them.

Tonight she would tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his behaviour. He had no idea what awaited him, Layla thought, a small smile of satisfaction spreading over her lips. But it soon faded…

As still he made her wait.

Chapter One

KING XAVIAN AL’RAMIZ read the letter again.

It was one of many wishing him well for his wedding day.

It was from King Zakari of Calista, extending his congratulations and saying that he was looking forward to greeting him formally next week at the official reception.

It was the third letter.

The first had offered condolences on the death of his parents and invited him to stay as a guest at the Calistan palace.

Xavian had not responded. That letter he had burnt.

Then another had arrived, to thank him for the Qusay people’s gift on the birth of their son, Prince Zafir.

Still Xavian had not replied, though he had kept the letter for a few days, taking it out and reading it over and over till finally it had been tossed into a fire.

And now this.

There was nothing untoward about it, Xavian told himself as he read the letter for perhaps the hundredth time. He did not know what he sought from the words. There were hundreds such letters, offering good wishes, yet Xavian couldn’t help himself reading between the lines of this one…

His bride was waiting for him, he was already unforgivably late, yet still he pondered over the page.

It was a formal letter from King Zakari of Calista and his wife Queen Stefania of Aristo. Their union had reunited the Kingdom of Adamas. So why, Xavian pondered, had Zakari, instead of using the Adamas crest, chosen instead to write on Calistan paper? Xavian stared at the coat of arms, ran a finger over the crest, and could not fathom why it troubled him, it just did.

He had been troubled since Queen Stefania’s coronation, since she had looked into his eyes and he had registered shock…

No, Xavian told himself, not shock. She had been close to fainting, and he had spoken to her till her husband had realised there was a problem and gently led her away. She had been pregnant, as it turned out, which explained everything.

Except it didn’t.

Because the trouble in his soul had started before Stefania had greeted him—as King Zakari had made his way down the line. The rapid beat in his heart had started…a rapid beat that woke him at night, that was here again at this very moment.

Though he could not quite accept it as such, it was fear.

‘All is ready, Your Highness.’ Xavian didn’t turn his head as Akmal, his vizier, came into his suite. ‘Your bride awaits.’ He could hear the slightly uneasy note in Akmal’s voice—after all, his bride, Queen Layla of Haydar, had been waiting for a while now, the proceedings were ready to commence, and yet the groom so far had not made an appearance. Akmal had come yet again to the royal chamber himself, to ensure nothing untoward had occurred, only to find the groom where he had left him last time—still standing at the French windows, still holding the letter and staring broodingly out to the ocean.

‘I will be there shortly.’

‘Your Highness, may I suggest…?’

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Only then did Xavian turn, his black eyes furious at the intrusion, shooting the aide down and reminding him who was King. Dressed in the full military uniform of Qusay—superb olive cloth, his chest decorated with medals, his legs encased in long black leather boots, a sword at his side and golden thread holding on his kafeya—Xavian cut an imposing figure. But then, Xavian always did—standing six feet two, with broad shoulders and a strong, muscular frame, he did not need medals or swords or royal gold braid to command respect.

‘She can wait till I am ready.’

‘Your Highness.’ Akmal knew better than to argue, so instead he gave a small bow and left. Alone again, Xavian carried on gazing out to the ocean.

She would wait. Xavian knew that.

She had already waited a decade for this day. Betrothed to her since childhood, he should have married her ten years ago, but he had chosen not to—he had concentrated on enjoying his freedom instead.

Only now it was over.

Xavian walked out onto the balcony and wished that it gazed to the desert, not the ocean. To the desert, where he found rare peace, to the desert, where he would take his bride tonight.

How weary he was at that thought.

Since his parents had been killed in a plane crash, his advisors had been working overtime. His playboy ways were to end—he was King now, and kings did not live as princes. Kings married and produced heirs, and it was time for Xavian to do the same. After three months of deep mourning, the wedding that he had been putting off must now occur.

It would be a subdued affair, given the circumstances—huge celebrations deemed inappropriate so soon after the country’s loss. The people would be informed tomorrow that the King had married, and he would retreat with his bride to the desert before the official reception. After another suitable period of mourning the coronation would take place, and then the people would celebrate. A double celebration, perhaps? The elders had been light on discretion: nine months from the wedding, it would be nice to have a prince on the way.

Xavian had been advised by Akmal to refrain from sexual encounters for a week prior to the wedding—to ensure his seed was plentiful and potent. It was advice Xavian had absolutely chosen to ignore.

Always it was plentiful!

This was a business arrangement and no more. Haydar was struggling under a woman’s rule, and Xavian’s strong, albeit occasional presence would help guide the troubled country.

Of course he would take a mistress—several, perhaps.

He had no intention of sleeping alone at night.

The unease Xavian felt now wasn’t down to wedding nerves, and it wasn’t pride that made him deny that he was uneasy. Long before the wedding had been announced, long before his parents had been killed, there had been a deep unrest in his soul.

Trouble he could not define.

A place within that he didn’t want to visit.

Sometimes as he stood and stared at a letter, as he did now, searching for clues that surely didn’t exist, he actually though he was going mad.

Sometimes at night he would wake with his heart racing. He would feel the beauty in the bed beside him, feel her coil around him, yet he would shrug her off, get up and dress himself, or send her to the mistress chambers. It was not how he wanted to be seen. His heart was racing now, his breath tight in his chest as his black eyes studied the rolling ocean. He felt nausea rising as if he were out there. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, could feel his body rolling with the waves. The thick scars on his wrists burnt and itched, as they did at times. His eyes scanned the vast ocean, searching for what he didn’t know, and then he dragged his gaze away, willed his heart to slow down, for the madness to stop. He comforted himself not with the thought of a virgin bride, but with the solace of the beckoning desert.

Yes!

He would get the wedding over with, take her to the desert, consummate the marriage and then tomorrow he could wander—tomorrow he could take guidance from the heart of the land he now ruled and ask it to bring him peace.

Happier now, he walked from the balcony and through his chamber, the letter still in his hand. He paused at a thick pillar candle and stood watching the heavy cream paper curl and the Calistan crest flare as the flames licked around it. Then he tossed it into the ancient fireplace—just as he had done with the other letters—and with that ritual over he headed to his wedding.