Border Bride (29 page)

From that day on, a cloud of happiness settled over Kildalton. Alpin was the openly affectionate bride, Malcolm the dutifully attentive groom. For the next month Saladin watched them revel in the state of matrimony. As summer came to a close and harvest time grew near, no one dreaded the hard work ahead. Meetings were held to assign crews to particular farms. If the crops weren't harvested, the people would starve. Every able-bodied person joined in.

The joy of the laird and lady was contagious.

Only Saladin was immune to the festive atmosphere. At times he even doubted his faith, and all because of an Ashanti princess with bizarre beliefs and too much pride for her own good.

To escape the torment her presence caused, he distanced himself. She had destroyed his palm-sized copy of the Koran, but like all good Muslims he knew the book by heart; still he kept to his room and set about making another copy.

Solitude offered little comfort, for Elanna came to him each evening after his prayers. She plied him with delicacies to please his palate; she tempted him with kisses to spoil a saint. He always proposed marriage; she inevitably, and often ungraciously, declined.

Life couldn't, he decided, get any worse. On a particularly balmy evening as he stood near his desk he changed his mind.

Elanna appeared in the doorway, her hair brushing her shoulders. A tightly belted robe the shade of old ivory covered her from neck to ankle and served as a perfect contrast to her brown skin.

Lust flooded his groin, but he was becoming accustomed to that torturous reaction. He could bear the frustration; the ache in his heart and the loneliness in his soul overshadowed the needs of his body. Even from across the room, he could feel her warmth.

Past pretty speeches and small talk, he put away his ink and quills and prepared for another round in their ongoing battle of wills. But she brought the art of seduction to new heights when she leaned against the doorjamb and held up a flagon. "You will invite me in to… visit?"

Her idea of a visit was to try to lure him into making love to her. But she confused love with lust. "Have you come to play push-me, pull-you?"

Her eyes brightened and she started to enter the room but stopped. "No." She settled against the jamb again. "I just want to talk."

And he was a eunuch with air between his legs. "Since when do you make social calls in your robe?"

She curled her fingers beneath the edge of the garment and moved her hand to her waist, giving him a peek at her breast. "I just had a bath. My skin is slick with oil from the coconut."

"Yes. I can smell it from here."

"You invite me in, yes?"

A fool would tell her no. A wise man would insist she leave the door open. An optimist would expect her to accept his proposal of marriage. "Close the door behind you," he said.

"Betcha that." She breezed inside and secured the bolt.

He watched her find his drinking cup. Looking inside, she frowned, then drank the contents. "I bring you berry juice."

Bearing gifts was her forte, but never the prize he wanted. "No, thank you."

She filled his cup anyway. "You drink it. You liked it before."

"
You
drink it. I'm not thirsty."

"But it's for you, and there is no more."

"Call me unselfish, because I insist you share it with me."

Reluctantly she put the cup to her mouth and drank. The dark juice appeared transparent on her lips, for they were the same shade of red.

She glided toward him, the cup in her outstretched arm. Eve. Forbidden fruit. The Christian comparison was too suitable to deny, too appealing to refuse. He took the cup.

"You have a handsome neck," she said. Her fingers touched his neck and followed the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

Her smile portended trouble for his scruples. Her hands promised disaster, for she untied the robe. It fell to the floor.

His body turned to stone. His poor beleaguered mind rattled through every helpful tenet of his faith while his eyes were fixated on her dark button nipples and his memory told him how perfectly they fit into his mouth and how delicious she tasted.

The curve of her waist drew his attention; the cradle of her hips lured his more intimate parts. In a voice pinched by lust, he said, "If this is your idea of talking, you have an odd vocabulary."

She toyed with the primitive cord she always wore about her waist. "This Ashanti princess come to make you sing happy, happy song."

Anger dulled the sharp edges of his desire. In the last month he had denied her, ignored her, even physically removed her from his room. But he couldn't put her out of his thoughts, so he decided to take a different tack. "I can't think of anything I'd like better."

She swayed, her dark eyes luminous with triumph, her lips pursed and damp, ready for his kisses. "You one smart Muslim tonight. Better you forget that polite, polite song and play push-me, pull-you with Elanna."

She radiated heat, desire, and willingness. Allah help him, but he wanted more than one night of love. He wanted her for his wife. "I thought my proposals of marriage
were
always polite, and rather eloquent."

She stopped only inches away. Stubbornness brought an elegance to her high cheekbones and a pout to her full lips. "Proposal no good."

The crux of their problem rose between them. "Because I've never seen the face of my father?"

She tapped her breastbone. "Because this Ashanti princess never look into the eyes of your father."

He stepped back but lowered his gaze to her finger and the rise of her breasts. "That's an absurd tradition," he said. "You can't refuse my noble offer because I do not know my father, then demand I make love to you."

"It's Ashanti way."

Her careless disregard for his feelings robbed him of patience. "May I remind you that you are not among your people."

She leveled him a scornful look, then gave him her back. He wanted to yell at her, but found himself staring at her narrow waist, her high rounded buttocks, and the sleek line of her flanks. His loins grew heavy and ached with need. Humility, he decided, was a state of grace he had yet to achieve.

He held out his hand. "Come here, princess."

She turned. Determination shone in her eyes. "Tell your principles farewell. Gods send you this princess. Enjoy her."

Softly he said, "What about enjoyment of the heart?"

"Elanna sing you sorry, sorry song, but she must save her heart for her forever mate."

"Forever mate. You've said that before. I want to be your forever mate."

"Never, never." She sat on the bed and fluffed his pillows. "Ashanti princess choose you as now-time mate."

Incensed, he said, "Am I supposed to be flattered?"

She grinned. "Yes, yes."

He turned away. "No! No!"

The mattress rustled as she stood up. Then she was behind him, her arms circling his waist, her hips undulating against him. "I make you sing happy, happy song."

He'd heard the statement every night for the last month. The ignoble offer still stung his pride. "So you would have us mate at will, here in this bed?"

She eyed the mattress. "Quick as you sing yes, yes song and get naked." Her hands made fast work of the buttons on his shirt; her fingers made stones of his nipples.

Amazed by her persistence but unwilling to let the matter drop, he turned in the circle of her arms and held her wrists. "But we needn't trouble ourselves with promises of lasting devotion or, Allah forbid, vows of marriage."

Like a child getting her way, she beamed. "Betcha that."

His fingers coiled around her fragile bones. He stepped back. "Find yourself another rutting beast, princess. I'm unavailable."

She arched her eyebrows in query. "Same stupid principle?"

If ever a female deserved a man's wrath, it was she. Were he a violent man, he'd go searching for a rod. He released her and put a safe distance between them. "Decency and honor are hardly stupid principles."

With a sad smile she said, "You make mighty big mistake."

"Then help me unmake it."

She put her hands on her hips and swayed. "I'll help you."

He closed his eyes. "No."

Her breath fanned his face and set off an explosion of desire. "You want to." When her lips touched his, he couldn't help himself, couldn't deny the need that burned in his soul. He tore into the kiss. She tasted of sweet berries and bitter torment. Her tongue plunged past his lips, made a sweeping raid on his misgivings, then retreated. Knowing he must stop or cast his honor to the wind, he set her away from him.

"Oh," she moaned, her mouth open and ripe, her eyes wide with desperation.

Conversation seemed prudent. He touched the cord at her waist. "What's this?"

She sighed so profoundly that her breasts jiggled. "You always ask. I always say it is Ashanti business." She flung her arms around his neck and went for his mouth again.

Unable to resist, he reveled in the kiss until she touched him intimately. Jolted by a desire that made his senses spin and his head light, he untangled her arms. "Then I'll say good night."

She glared at him as if he were an inferior. "You want this Ashanti princess."

"No, I don't, not in the way you say it must be. However, I do want to know why you always wear this belt around your waist."

She stared at his groin and smiled. "You want me, and mighty bad. Your body sings to me."

He stretched the truth by a Highland mile. "My body doesn't rule my mind."

"I'll tell you about this cord, but Muslim won't like what he hears."

All he could hear now was lust ringing in his ears. "Tell me anyway. I insist."

"It's a princess belt, and I wear it until I'm a queen."

More tribal custom. Oh, Allah, how many of these primitive obstacles must a weak mortal climb? "How do you become a queen?"

She rolled her eyes. "Simple, simple. Ashanti queens give birth to Ashanti princesses."

He understood; only by giving birth could she become a queen. He reached for her. "I'll give you a princess."

As always she came willingly into his arms. "Give me joy."

Compared to the emotions her kiss evoked, joy was blandness.

Her hand found his groin. "You want me plenty, plenty bad."

"Saying I am ready and capable of giving you a child is an understatement. Don't you agree?"

"Tricky question, Muslim." She caressed him in the intimate way he'd taught her weeks ago. "Child, yes. Princess, no. Only forever mate can make Ashanti princess a queen."

In her twisted pagan way, she had said something he didn't like, for the negative reaction registered in his mind. But his body was too far gone to listen. A voice in his soul cried out for him to grasp her meaning. When logic plowed through the morass of desire his mind had become, Saladin's patience snapped. There would be no marriage between them.

Disgusted with his abundance of morals and her lack of them, he accepted the sad truth that she would never be his. Removing her hand, he pushed her toward the door. "Go, and take your primitive beliefs with you."

Tears pooled in her eyes. "You hate me."

"No, Elanna. I love you."

"You cannot love me!"

He needed relief, but even ten thousand prayers would not get him through this night. Under the circumstances, religion and principles made poor bedfellows. To ease his torment, Saladin chose a path he knew he would regret.

Chapter Fifteen