Desert Rogues Part 2 (59 page)

“Then you may add them to the list.”

She raised her head. Tears glittered in her eyes. “That's not what I wanted to hear.”

He knew what she wanted him to say, but he would not speak the words. To set her free…it would not happen.

“You will enjoy being queen,” he said. “There is much power in the position.”

“I've never been that interested in power.”

“You've never had it before.”

“Murat, you know this is wrong.”

“Why? You are to marry me, Crown Prince Murat. It is not as if you're being asked to wed a used-camel dealer.”

She gave a half laugh, half sob and pushed away from him. The tears had trickled down her face. He wiped them away with his fingers.

“Do not cry,” he murmured. “I offer you the world.”

“I only want my freedom.”

“To do what? To give shots to overweight dogs and cats? Here you can make a difference. Here you will be a part of history. Your children and grandchildren will rule this land.”

“It's not enough.”

He growled low in his throat. Had she always been this stubborn? Was she trying to punish him for what had happened before? All right. Perhaps he could give a little on that point.

“Why did you leave me?” he asked. “Before. Ten years ago. Why did you go?”

Her shoulders slumped again, and the pain returned to her eyes. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does. I wish to know.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“Then explain it to me. I am very intelligent.”

“Not about me.” She swallowed. “Murat, you have to let me go.”

Instead of answering her statement, he stepped forward and kissed her. He caught her by surprise—he could tell by the sudden intake of air and the way she hesitated before responding. But instead of retreating, he settled his hand on her hip and the back of her neck and brushed his tongue against her lower lip.

She parted instantly. As he swept inside he felt the heat flaring between them. Wanting poured through him, making it difficult to hold back when he wanted to rip off her clothing and claim her right there on the bench.

Instead he continued to kiss her, moving slowly, retreating, pulling back until she was the one to grab him and deepen the embrace. When he finally straightened, she looked as aroused as he felt.

“You see,” he said, “there is much between us. We will take the time to get to know each other better. That will make you comfortable with the thought of our marriage.”

“Don't bet on it,” she said, but her swollen mouth and passion-filled eyes betrayed her.

Murat brushed her cheek with his fingers, then walked out of the harem. Victory was at hand. He would wear away Daphne's defenses until she understood that their marriage was inevitable. Then she would acquiesce and they would be wed. She would love him and be happy and he…

He stepped through the gold doors and into the hallway. He would return to his regular life, content, but untouched by the experience.

D
aphne rolled the cool clay in her hands until the combination of heat from her skin and the friction of the action caused the thick rope to yield to her will. She tore off a piece of clay and pressed it flat, then added it to the sculpture in progress.

The half-finished project had finally begun to take shape. There was a sense of movement in the way the man leaned too far to the right. His body was still a squarish lump, but she knew how she would slice away the excess clay and mold what was left. The head would follow, with the arms and the tray of dishes to come last. The tray that would be on the verge of tumbling to the ground.

Around her, the garden vibrated with life. She heard the chatter of the parrots and the rustle of small creatures hiding in the thick foliage. Several of the king's cats stretched out in the sun, the slow rise and fall of their chests the only sign of life.

As far as prisons went, this wasn't a bad one, Daphne told herself, as she picked up another clump of clay. Not that she had a whole lot of experience with which to compare. She'd never been held against her will before. Still, if one had to be, the Bahania harem was the place.

She couldn't complain about the service, either. Delicious meals appeared whenever she requested them. Her large bed was plenty comfortable, and the bathroom was so luxurious that it bordered on sinful. Still, none of these pleasures made up for the fact that she had been confined against her will with the threat of marriage to Murat hanging over her head.

He had spoken of getting to know each other, but she wasn't so sure that was a good idea. Men like him didn't make a habit of letting just anyone see the inner person, and she doubted their engagement gave her extra privileges in that area. Which left her with the distinct impression that his request had been a lot more about giving himself time to convince her that this was a good idea than any desire he had to share his feelings.

Even more annoying was the fact that a part of her
was
interested in learning more about the man. Life was never easy when the one who got away was a future king.

She picked up a sharp piece of wood that was part knife, part chisel and went to work on the torso of the sculpture. When the rough shape was correct, she added features to the head, creating a face that was a fair representation of the man in question. A smile pulled at her mouth. She only had to complete the arms and the tray.

“Men have died for less.”

Daphne heard the voice about the same time the sound of footsteps entered her consciousness. She'd been so focused on her work that she hadn't been paying attention. Now she pressed clay into the shape of a tray and did her best not to react to Murat's nearness.

“I thought there was artistic freedom here in Bahania,” she said, not looking up from her clay.

“Most artists are too intelligent to mock me.”

Daphne spared him a glance. As always he wore a suit, although this time he'd left the jacket behind. The crisp white shirt he wore contrasted with his dark skin. He'd rolled the sleeves up to the elbow, and she found the sight of his bare forearms oddly erotic.

Sheesh. She really had to get out more.

“My intelligence has never been an issue,” she said. “Do you doubt it now?”

He glanced at the tray taking shape in her hands. “You sculpt me carrying dishes?”

She grinned. “Actually I sculpt you about to drop the dishes you're carrying. There's a difference.”

He made a noise low in his throat, which she knew she should take for displeasure, but there was something about it that made her stomach clench. Perhaps the noise was too close to desire.

Stop that! She grabbed hold of any wayward emotions and reminded herself she needed to keep things firmly in check. Wanting Murat wasn't in the rules. It would only make things difficult and awkward. Hadn't she already had to deal with a broken heart once where he was concerned? Was she really willing to forget that the man held her prisoner and threatened a wedding, regardless of her wishes?

“Why are you here?” she asked as she felt her temper grow and with it her strength to resist him.

“Am I not allowed to come and visit with my bride?”

She rolled her eyes and set down the small tray. Next up she began to form tiny glasses and plates.

“I will take your silence as agreement,” he said.

“You may take it any way you'd like, but you'd be wrong.”

He sighed. “You are most difficult.”

“Tell me about it. Of course you've made ‘difficult' an art form. I'm still little more than a student.”

He ignored that, saying nothing as he walked around her and the sculpture. “You have an energy I haven't seen before,” he said. “Perhaps you needed this time to relax.”

Perhaps, but she wasn't about to admit that to him. “Is there a point to your visit or are you simply here to annoy me?”

“You will be visited by someone later.”

“The first of three ghosts?”

He frowned slightly, then his expression cleared. “Are you in need of a visit by the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future?”

“No. I've always kept the spirit of Christmas in my heart.”

“I am pleased to hear it is so. That will bode well for our children. They will have a festive season to look forward to.”

Her jaw clenched. “Is this where I point out, yet again, that I haven't agreed to marry you, nor am I likely to?”

“You may if it makes you happy. However, I will not listen. Instead I will inform you that Mr. Peterson is an old and valued member of our staff here. He specializes in coordinating formal state events.”

She got it right away. “Like weddings.”

“Exactly. I would appreciate it if you were polite and cooperative.”

She formed a tiny clay bowl and set it on the tray. “I would appreciate being set free. It seems we are both destined for disappointment.”

Murat moved closer. “Why do you attempt to thwart me?”

“Because I can't seem to get through to you any other way.” She wiped her hands on the damp towel on her workbench, then turned to face him. “I don't get it, Murat. What's in this for you?” She held up her hand. “Spare me the party line about marriage and destiny or whatever. Why on earth are you insisting on marrying a woman who doesn't want you?”

Her gaze met Murat's with a familiarity that should have annoyed him, but this was Daphne, and he found himself enjoying most everything she did. Even her challenges.

He smiled as he moved close, crowding her. Daphne, being stubborn and difficult
and
predictable, didn't move back. She made it so easy, he thought with pleasure. He liked that about her.

“You claim not to want me,” he murmured as he cupped her head in one hand and bent low to kiss her. “Your body tells me otherwise.”

Then, before she could speak whatever nonsense she had in mind, he brushed his mouth against hers.

She squirmed, but he wove his fingers through her hair to hold her in place. When she pressed her lips together to resist his claim on her, he chuckled, then raised his free hand to her breast.

Instantly she gasped. He took advantage of her parted lips and swept inside. At the same time, he brushed his thumb against her hard nipple.

She held out against him for the space of a heartbeat before she wrapped her arms around his neck and surrendered. Her mouth softened against him, her tongue greeted him with an erotic dance, and her entire body melted into his.

Heat exploded between them, and Murat found himself fighting his own desire. He had touched her in an effort to teach her a lesson, but now he was the one being schooled on the power of unfulfilled need.

Her hands clutched at him, pulling him closer. She tilted her head and deepened the kiss, even as she pressed into his hand. He explored her breast and found himself hungering to know the taste of her hot skin.

But that was not for now, he reminded himself as he gathered the strength to step back. He would know her soon enough—once she understood that their marriage was as inevitable as the tide.

“You see,” he said with a calmness he did not feel. “You
do
want me.”

She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. Her eyes were large and unfocused, her face flushed.

“There's a difference between wanting a man in my bed for a couple of weeks and wanting him in my life permanently,” she said, her voice low and angry. “If you were trying to prove a point, I'm not impressed.”

“Your body says otherwise.”

“Fortunately I make my decisions with my brain.”

“Your brain wants me, as well,” he told her. “You resist only to be stubborn. I am pleased the sexual spark has lasted so long between us. It bodes well for our marriage. You will be a good wife and provide me with many strong, healthy, intelligent children, including an heir to carry on the monarchy.”

“And my reward in all this is your pleasure. Gee, how thrilling.”

He refused to be provoked by her. “Your reward is in the honor I bestow upon you. I believe you already understand that, and in time you will grow more comfortable showing me your pleasure in your situation.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. He could almost see the steam building up inside of her.

“Of all the arrogant, egotistical, annoying things you've ever said to me,” she began.

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Say what you like, but I know the truth. You're already begging to love me. In a matter of weeks you will want nothing but the pleasure of being near me.”

“When pigs fly.”

Daphne thought Murat was assuming an awful lot, especially that she was interested in him sexually. Whatever warm and yummy feelings he'd generated a couple of minutes ago with his hot kisses and knowing hands, he'd destroyed with a few badly chosen words.

“I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man alive. I said no before, I'm saying no again. No. No!”

The infuriating man simply smiled. “Mr. Peterson will be here shortly. I trust you will act appropriately.”

Anger filled her. She reached for something to throw, but there was only her clay statue, and she loved it too much to smash it.

“Get out!” she yelled.

“As you wish, my bride.”

She screamed and grabbed the remaining block of clay. When she turned back, Murat had already walked toward the harem itself. Even though she knew she couldn't throw that far, she pitched the clay at him and had the satisfaction of hearing it splat on the stone path.

“I'll get you for this,” she vowed. Somehow, some way, she would come up with a plan, and he would be sorry he'd ever tried to mess with her.

 

Mr. Peterson might be old and valued but he was also the prissiest man Daphne had ever met.

He was small—maybe five-four—so she towered over him even in low-heeled sandals. He had the delicate bone structure of a bird, with tiny hands and feet. Next to him she felt like an awkward and ill-mannered Amazon giant.

“Ms. Snowden,” he said as he entered the harem and bowed. “It is more than a great pleasure to meet you.”

She wasn't sure how it could be
more
than a great pleasure, but she wasn't the fancy-party expert.

“The pleasure is mine,” she said as she led the way to the sitting area and motioned to the collection of sofas there.

Mr. Peterson looked them over closely, then chose the one that was lowest to the floor. No doubt he hated when his feet dangled.

She sat across from him and wondered how badly this was going to go. Mr. Peterson wanted to plan a wedding and she didn't. That was bound to create some friction.

“We're working on a very tight schedule,” he began as he set his briefcase on the table in front of him and opened the locks with a click.

She noticed that the silk hankie in his jacket breast pocket perfectly matched his tie. He sounded as if he'd been born in Britain but hadn't lived there in a number of years. Perhaps he'd moved here with his parents back in the eighteenth century.

“Prince Murat informed me that the wedding will be in four months,” he said. “I'll be providing you with historical information on previous weddings, along with my list of suggestions on flower choices and the like. Some of my ideas may seem silly to a modern young woman such as yourself, but we have a history here in Bahania. A long and honorable history that needs to be respected.”

He drew in his breath for what she assumed would be another long speech specifically designed to make her feel like a twelve-year-old who had just spilled fruit punch on a very important houseguest.

She decided it was time to change the direction of the conversation.

“There isn't going to be a wedding,” she said, and had the satisfaction of watching Mr. Peterson freeze in place.