Beloved Sheikh

She Was A Stranger In A Strange Land, A Woman Desired By A King. Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication ALEXANDRA SELLERS Rafi’s Inheritance The Sword of Rostam 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 Epilogue Copyright

She Was A Stranger In A Strange Land, A Woman Desired By A King.

Suppose Zara gave in to Prince Rafi for one night, or one week, or... What would it mean, in the end? Did kings let women go, after they had loved them, or did they guard them jealously, not willing that any other man should ever have the power of being compared with the king as a lover?

Zara heard a clinking sound, and something that sounded like a horse whinnying. In sudden alarm, she lifted her head.

“Who’s there?” Zara called, realizing she had been a fool to come wandering in the desert on her own. She ran light as wind toward the sheltering rocks. Damn the moonlight!

Then a black horse reared up in front of her. Out of the shadows, a body bent down and dark hands reached for her.

The prince?

She clung to him for safety; there was nothing else to do.

Dear Reader,

Why not sit back and relax this summer with Silhouette Desire? As always, our six June Desire books feature strong heroes and spirited heroines who come together in a highly passionate, emotionally powerful and provocative read.

Anne McAllister kicks off June with a wonderful new MAN OF THE MONTH title, The Stardust Cowboy. Strong, silent Riley Stratton brings hope and love into the life of a single mother.

The fabulous mimseries FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES concludes with Undercover Groom by Merline Lovelace, in which a sexy secret agent rescues an amnesiac runaway bride. And Silhouette Books has more Fortunes to come, starting this August with a new twelve-book continuity series, THE FORTUNES OF TEXAS.

Meanwhile, Alexandra Sellers continues her exotic SONS OF THE DESERT series with Beloved Sheikh, in which a to-die-for sheikh rescues an American beauty-in-jeopardy. One Small Secret by Meagan McKinney is a reunion romance with a surprise for a former summer flame. Popular Joan Elliott Pickart begins her new miniseries, THE BACHELOR BET, with Taming Tall, Dark Brandon. And there’s a pretend marriage between an Alpha male hero and blue-blooded heroine in Suzanne Simms’s The Willful Wife.

So hit the beach this summer with any of these sensuous Silhouette Desire titles...or take all six along!

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Beloved Sheikh

Alexandra Sellers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my niece

Jessica Sellers Stones,

that rarest of creatures—a poet

ALEXANDRA SELLERS

was born in Ontario, and raised in Ontario and Saskatchewan. She first came to London to attend the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and fell in love with the city. Later she returned to make it her permanent home. Now married to an Englishman, she lives near Hampstead Heath. As well as writing romance, she teaches a course called “How To Write a Romance Novel” in London several times a year.

Because of a much-regretted allergy, she can have no resident cat, but she receives regular charitable visits from three cats who are neighbors.

Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 9449, London, NW3 2WH, England.

SHEIKH’S RANSOM, Prince Karim’s story, April 1999

THE SOLITARY SHEIKH, Prince Omar’s story, May 1999

BELOVED SHEIKH, Prince Rafi’s story, June 1999

Available only from Silhouette Desire.

Rafi’s Inheritance The Sword of Rostam

To Prince Rafi’s lot fell the Kingdom of East Barakat, a land of richly varied landscape, extending from marshlands at the seacoast, through the broad desert with its ancient remnants of civilisations long dead, to the broad flowing river called Happiness, and into the mountains, where his palace lay.

To him also was given the great Sword of Rostam. This fabulously jewelled and inscribed sword had, according to the ancient story, once been the battle sword of the great hero Rostam. Since that time, any King of Barakat who drew the sword in anger signalled to his people and to the enemy against whom he drew it that there should be no respite from battle until one or the other was vanquished. Once the Sword of Rostam was drawn, negotiation was no longer possible.

Therefore a king must be very certain of his ground before drawing the Sword of Rostam.

There was once a king of ancient and noble lineage who ruled over a land that had been blessed by God. This land, Barakat, lying on the route of one of the old Silk Roads, had for centuries received the cultural influences of many different worlds. Its geography, too, was diverse: it bordered the sea; then the desert, sometimes bleak with its ancient ruins, sometimes golden and studded with oases, stretched inland for many miles, before meeting the foothills of snow-capped mountains that captured the rain clouds and forced them to deliver their burden in the rich valleys. It was a land of magic and plenty and a rich and diverse heritage.

But it was also a land of tribal rivalries and not infrequent skirmishes. Because the king had the ancient blood of the Quraishi kings in his veins, no one challenged his right to the throne, but many of the tribal chieftains whom he ruled were in constant jealousy over their lands and rights against the others.

One day, the king of this land fell in love with a foreign woman. Promising her that he would never take another wife, he married her and made her his queen. This beloved wife gave him two handsome sons. The king loved them as his own right hand. Crown Prince Zaid and his brother were all that he could wish for in his sons—handsome, noble, brave warriors, and popular with his people. As they attained the age of majority, the sheikh could look forward to his own death without fear for his country, for if anything should happen to the Crown Prince, his brother Aziz would step into his shoes and be equally popular with the people and equally strong among the tribes.

Then one day, tragedy struck the sheikh and his wife. Both their sons were killed in the same accident. Now his own death became the great enemy to the old man, for with it, he knew, would come certain civil war as the tribal chieftains vied for supremacy.

His beloved wife understood all his fears, but she was by now too old to hope to give him another heir. One day, when all the rituals of mourning were complete, the queen said to her husband, “According to the law, you are entitled to four wives. Take, therefore, my husband, three new wives, that God may bless one of them with a son to inherit your throne.”

The sheikh thanked her for releasing him from his promise. A few weeks later, on the same day so that none should afterwards claim supremacy, the sheikh married three beautiful young women, and that night, virile even in his old age, he visited each wife in turn, no one save himself knowing in which order he visited them. To each wife he promised that if she gave him a son, her son would inherit the throne of Barakat.

The sheikh was more virile than he knew. Each of his new wives conceived, and gave birth, nine months later, to a lusty son. And each was jealous for her own son’s inheritance. From that moment the sheikh’s life became a burden to him, for each of his new young wives had different reasons for believing that her own son should be named the rightful heir to the throne.

The Princess Goldar, whose exotically hooded green eyes she had bequeathed to her son, Omar, based her claim on the fact that she herself was a descendant of the ancient royal family of her own homeland, Parvan.

The Princess Nargis, mother of Rafi and descended from the old Mughal emperors of India, had in addition given birth two days before the other two wives, thus making her son the firstborn.

The Princess Noor, mother of Karim, claimed the inheritance for her son by right of blood-she alone of the wives was an Arab of noble descent, like the sheikh himself. Who but her son to rule the desert tribesmen?

The sheikh hoped that his sons would solve his dilemma for him, that one would prove more princely than the others. But as they grew to manhood, he saw that each of them was, in his own way, worthy of the throne, that each had the nobility the people would look for in their king, and talents that would benefit the kingdom were he to rule.

When his sons were eighteen years old, the sheikh knew that he was facing death. As he lay dying, he saw each of his young wives in turn. To each of them again he promised that her son would inherit. Then he saw his three sons together, and on them he laid his last command. Then, last of all, he saw the wife and companion of his life, with whom he had seen such happiness and such sorrow. To her willing care he committed his young wives and their sons, with the assistance of his vizier Nizam al Mulk, whom he appointed Regent jointly with her.

When he died the old sheikh’s will was revealed: the kingdom was to be divided into three principalities. Each of his sons inherited one principality and its palace. In addition, they each inherited one of the ancient Signs of Kingship.

It was the will of their father that they should consult the Grand Vizier Nizam al Mulk for as long as he lived, and appoint another mutual Grand Vizier upon his death, so that none would have partisan advice in the last resort.

Their father’s last command had been this: that his sons should never take up arms against each other or any of their descendants, and that his sons and their descendants should always come to each other’s aid in times of trouble. The sheikh’s dying curse would be upon the head of any who violated this command, and upon his descendants for seven generations.

So the three princes grew to maturity under the eye of the old queen and the vizier, who did their best to prepare the princes for the future. When they reached the age of twenty-five, they came into their inheritance. Then each prince took his own Sign of Kingship and departed to his own palace and his own kingdom, where they lived in peace and accord with one another, as their father had commanded.

One

A horseman, his companions lined on either side, his black charger beneath him, galloped across the desert under the morning sun, while the wind scorched his face and lungs, and his horse’s tail streamed out behind. His companions, in high spirits with the impromptu race, laughed and called, their voices ringing on the air as they urged their mounts on.

Some distance ahead of them, beyond a harsh rocky outcrop enclosing a few date palms, stood the fallen white stone pillars of an ancient ruin, encircled by the low green roofs of tents. But it was not towards this settlement that they headed. The goal of the race was the rocky outcrop and its sparkling waterfall and pools. The rider on the black broke from the rank with a cry, surged ahead of the others and passed through a narrow defile in the rock walls, one arm and his horse’s tail high in the air to signal his triumph.

His companions followed closely, but the gap was torturous and some were obliged to check their mounts as others passed in. Three who were hot behind were in time to see their leader halt his snorting mount abruptly and give a smothered cry. Then they, too, pulled up in amazement.

To see a woman in the desert is not entirely unexpected, of course. To see a half-naked, perfectly formed beauty of delicate stature standing under the waterfall of their favourite resting place, her curling black hair streaming down around her shoulders and back as she raised her face and arms to the cool torrent, was like something out of the ancient tales.

Still unconscious of their presence, for no doubt the sound of their hooves had been smothered by the thunder of water in her ears, the girl lazily moved out of the stream of water, opened her eyes, and saw them. Her eyes and mouth opened wide for a moment of startled stillness as she stared at the dark, handsome horsemen all around her.

There was silence. Then the girl stepped a little away from the waterfall on the rock ledge and said gravely, “Salaam aleikum.”

Her accent was foreign, and so was her cool, haughty dignity, the faint air of challenge. The leader gazed speechlessly. She was lovely as a gazelle, the water drying on her skin as he watched, leaving it soft and glowing, her mouth the perfect bow of the ancient paintings that adorned his palace, her wet hair a wild mane of curls that the paintings also showed. Her breasts were high and rounded, her hips slim but very female. Her bathing suit was a soft colour that matched her lightly browned skin. Her legs were slender and curved, her bare feet sure on the smooth wet rock.

His brain stupidly told him that she was one of the Peri of the old tales. In a moment she would disappear.

Around him his men flicked him glances and waited for their lord to speak. Her dark eyes, too, were upon him. Her eyes had been drawn to him from the first, and she seemed to realize that he was their leader.

He gazed steadily at her. When the silence stretched too long he saw alarm kindle behind her gaze, and then, still speechless, he saw decision there and watched aghast as she turned and agilely began to climb the dangerous rock face beside the falling water. It was not a long way up to that other small pool above. In a moment, just as in the tales of Peris, she had indeed disappeared.

Around him, his men began to talk and exclaim. The leader shook himself as if from a dream. He realized that, from the moment of their entering the place, no more than a minute or two had passed. In so short a space of time, his world had changed.

“What the heck is happening out there?” Gordon asked. Most of the team were already sitting around the long lunch table by the time he arrived, stepping under the long green canvas roof with relief and pulling off the hat that was an absolute necessity for anyone working under the blazing sun.

“Haven’t you heard?” squealed Lena, delighted to have someone to pass the news on to, since she herself had been one of the last to hear. “That’s the tent of the sultan himself going up.”

Gordon blinked, but whether it was from his eyes’ difficulty in acclimatizing to the shadow or from astonishment was impossible to say.

“We’ve all been invited to dinner tonight, the whole team,” Ryan, the site director, informed him. “Those are his minions out there preparing for the feast.”

Gordon strode to the edge of the canvas shelter and gazed out over the desert to where the circular red-and-blue tent was going up. “It looks the size of a football stadium,” he observed mildly. “How many of us does he think there are?”

Gordon was English and it was a point of honour with him never to show excitement. Zara had seen the facade crack only once—when the first clear evidence was found that they really were at the site of ancient Iskandiyar, that all his educated guesswork had paid off at last. This would be the crown of his long career as an archaeologist They had all stood around cheering and jumping for joy then, and Gordon had joined in. No mere feast laid on by the Prince of East Barakat would evoke such a response in him, though.

“He asked for exact numbers,” Zara said now, “but who knows how many of his own court will be in attendance?”

Someone said, “What’s the point of it all? Why is he doing it?”

“To welcome us to his country, according to his messenger.”

“We’ve been in his country for three months.”

“The wheels of princes grind slowly.”

“I suppose it’s possible that someone finally gave him the message I sent telling him that we had found the gates that confirm that this is ancient Iskandiyar,” said Gordon.

“Maybe he figures it’s time to check up on us in case we’re about to find treasure.”

“He’s as rich as a sheikh already,” said Warren.

“He is a sheikh,” Lena pointed out in her scratchy, breathless voice. “He’s not married, either,” she went on. She was completely unaware of the non sequitur, and when the shout of laughter went up she looked around.

“Why are you all laughing? He really isn’t, I heard it on the radio. Don’t you remember when that woman was kidnapped by the sheikh of West Barakat awhile ago when that guy stole something from him?” Of course they all remembered, they had talked of nothing else for days. “Then she ended up engaged to him. They said then that his two brothers weren’t married.”

Lena sighed, making them all laugh again. She blinked at the grinning faces around her and shrugged goodhumouredly. “All right, what did I say this time?”

“Nothing, Lena, it’s just that you’re so obviously hoping that this one will kidnap you,” Zara told her kindly.

“Oh, am I that obvious? Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?”

Zara shuddered involuntarily. She still hadn’t told the others about her experience at the wadi. Partly because she knew she would get blamed: they had all been warned that there were bandits in the desert and they should never venture off the dig unaccompanied. But there was more to her reluctance to talk about the incident than that.

She had felt so exposed when the bandit chief—she supposed he must have been that—had stared at her. It was as if her whole being had stopped for a moment while he had entered like a conqueror and taken possession. Even now she wasn’t sure what had given her the strength to break out of the prison of his gaze and climb the rock face. Or why he had let her escape.

She had been terrified that when she got to the other side of the outcrop he and his men would be waiting there, and when he was not she had run, slipping and gasping, sobbing with exertion, all the way to the camp, not looking back, but with every cell of her body listening for the sound of hooves.

She knew that Lena was a fool to fantasize about being kidnapped—it must be a dreadful, hellish experience, and if that had been the bandit’s impulse she was glad he hadn’t acted on it. And yet there was a part of her that was sorry to think she would never see him again... sorry that...

“Listen, that reminds me,” she said now, still unwilling, but knowing it had to be confessed. “I think I ran into that bandit and his men.”

That got their attention. Some of them choked on their coffee, and everyone’s eyes were on her. “Where?” two or three demanded at once.

“I went to the wadi early a couple of days ago,” she said softly.

“By yourself?” said Gordon. “Zara, that was very unwise.”

“Yes, well, I won’t do it again. They galloped in while I was standing under the waterfall. I didn’t hear a thing. I opened my eyes and there they all were, on horseback, snorting and stamping.”

“The bandits were snorting and stamping?”

They laughed lightly, but this was serious and no one was pretending it wasn’t. “Did they see you? How did you get away?”

Zara swallowed. She was not sure why she was so reluctant to tell them the details. “I went up over the rocks and ran like hell.”

“If they’d seen you they could have caught up with you, on horseback,” someone said. “They must not have seen you.”

Zara said nothing, got up and wandered over to the fridge to get a cold drink, then leaned against it, drinking and staring out over the site, leaving the rest of the team to talk over this latest development.

She was amazingly lucky to be on this dig, which was now certain to make archaeological history. The fourth- and third-century B.C. city called Iskandiyar had been mentioned by several classical authors. Its whereabouts had puzzled modern archaeologists, though, because it was described as being on the banks of the river which now bore the name Sa’adat, Happiness. For more than a century travellers had searched in vain for some sign of it. Such an important city should have left extensive ruins.

Some had even suggested that the classical writers were confused, or inaccurate . . . but Gordon had never doubted them. Gordon had researched Iskandiyar throughout his career, and one day had stumbled on a much later reference to the fact that, “in her lifetime Queen Halimah of Barakat built bridges and tunnels and many public buildings. She changed the course of rivers, even the mighty River Sa’adat, when it suited her...”

That was the clue he needed. If the course of the river had been changed eighteen hundred years after the city had been built, then it followed that the city’s ruins would no longer be on the banks of the river.

By good luck and good timing, Zara was taking Gordon’s classes during the time that he found a possible site in the desert south of the river, and by even better chance she had graduated by the time his funding was in place. And best of all, he had offered her a place on the team.

Until they had uncovered the massive marble lion from the sands of time, there could be certainty only in their hearts. But the classical authors had described Iskandiyar’s “Lion Gates,” and now it was proven almost beyond doubt. This was a city founded by Alexander the Great on his victorious Eastern march more than two thousand, three hundred years ago. Not long after his conquest here, he would weep because there were no more worlds to conquer.

And now here she was, finding history and making it at the same time Zara gazed out at the white pillars that shone so harshly in the fierce sun. She wondered sometimes about Alexander’s tears on that occasion. Had there been a hollow inside him that he could ignore as long as he kept on the move, kept fighting, kept conquering all he met and saw? Was it a lack in his own life rather than the lack of new worlds that had made him weep?

Zara wasn’t thirty-three, the age by which Alexander had conquered the then known world, and although to be associated with such exciting success was a wonderful piece of luck for someone so young, she still had plenty of worlds left to conquer. But sometimes she had the urge to weep, because in unguarded moments her life seemed empty. She didn’t understand why. It was as if she had a voice inside telling her she had missed something, had left something out, as though there was something else she should have done or be doing.

She loved her work. She had always loved history, right from the moment she had understood what history was. She enjoyed the mental exercise of trying to understand old ways, the things that had motivated cultures long disappeared. As a child she had been taken on a class field trip to a new archaeological dig on a site in downtown Toronto, and she could still remember her thrilled amazement when she realized that history could be touched, smelt, dug up out of the ground. From that moment she had known what she wanted to do with her life.

Nothing at all stood in her way. She got the marks, she was accepted at the University of Toronto, and Gordon had recognized her commitment and taken her under his wing, as he had several promising students before her, who now had reputations of their own in the field. She couldn’t have asked for a better start to her professional career than to work under a man of Gordon’s calibre on a find of such importance.