Desert Rogues Part 2 (70 page)

Not all of them, Murat thought as he took another drink. He wondered what Daphne would make of being called the steward of his household. The title implied employment and a distance between the parties far greater than in a marriage.

One of the elders cleared his throat. “We could not help but notice the princess has left us. We hope she was not taken ill.”

“No. Her health continues to be excellent.”

“Good. That is good.”

Silence descended. Murat stared into the flames and wished the old men would get to the point, then leave him alone.

“She is American.”

“I had noticed that,” Murat said dryly.

“Of course, Your Highness. It is just that American women can be strong-willed and stubborn. They do not always understand the subtleties of our ways.” The man speaking held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Princess Daphne is an angel among women.”

“An angel,” the others echoed.

“Not the word I would have chosen,” Murat muttered. She was more like the devil—always prodding at him. If he wasn't careful, she would soon be leading him around by the nose.

“Have you tried beating her?” one of the men asked.

Murat straightened and glared. The old man shrank back.

“A thousand pardons, Your Highness.”

Murat rose and pointed into the darkness. “Go,” he commanded. “Go and never darken my path again.”

The man gasped. To be an elder and told to never show his face to the prince was unheard of. The old man stood, trembling, then crept away into the night.

Murat sank down by the fire and looked at each of the six remaining men. “Does anyone else wish to suggest I beat my wife?”

No one spoke.

“I know you are here to offer aid and advice,” he said. “In the absence of the king, you are my surrogate family. But make no mistake—Princess Daphne is my wife. She is the one I have chosen to be the mother of my children. Her blood will join with mine and our heirs will rule Bahania for a thousand more years. Remember that when you speak of her.”

The men nodded.

Murat turned his attention to the fire. As much as Daphne frustrated him, he had never thought to hit her. What would that accomplish? He already knew he was physically stronger. Old fools.

“Do you know why the princess left us?” one of the men asked in a soft, timid voice.

Interesting question. Murat realized he did not know. One minute they had been fighting and the next she was gone.

“She angered me. I spoke in haste,” he admitted.

“You could demand her return,” a man said.

Murat knew that he could. But to what end? To have her staring at him with anger in her eyes? That was not how he wished to spend his days. Yet to spend them without her was equally unpleasant.

“The prince wishes her to return on her own,” another man said.

Murat squinted at him through the flames. He was small and very old. Wizened.

“The elder speaks wisely,” he said. “I wish her to return to me of her own accord.”

The tiny man nodded. “But she will not. Women are like the night jasmine. They offer sweetness in the shadows, when most of the world slumbers. Other flowers give their scent in the day, when all can enjoy them. A very stubborn flower.”

“So now what?” Murat asked.

“Ignore her,” one man said. “Give her time to get lonely. She will be so grateful to see you when you do return that she will bend to your will.”

An interesting possibility, Murat thought. Although Daphne wasn't the bending type.

“You could take a mistress,” another suggested. “One of the young beauties who travel with us. A man does not miss the main course when there are many sweets at the table.”

He shook his head. Not only was he not interested in any other woman, he had given his word. He would honor his vows until his death.

“A flower needs tending,” the little old man said. “Left alone it grows wild, or withers and dies.”

The other elders stared at him. “You wish Prince Murat to go to her? To go after a woman?”

Murat was equally surprised by the advice. “I am Crown Prince Murat of Bahania.”

The old man smiled in the darkness. “I do not believe her ignorance about your title and position are at the heart of the problem.”

Daphne had said much the same thing.

“The gardener yields to the flower,” he continued. “He kneels on the ground and plunges his hands deep in the soil. His reward is a beauty and strength that lasts through the harshest of storms.”

The cognac had muddled Murat's brain to the point that the flower analogy wasn't making any sense. “You want me to what?”

“Go to her,” the old man said. “Provide her with fertile soil and she will bloom for you.”

If Daphne grew anything it would be thorns, and she would use them to stab him.

Go to her? Give in?

Never. He was a prince. A sheik. She was a mere woman.

He reached for the bottle, then stood abruptly and stalked into his tent without saying a word. When he reached the bedroom, he stood in the silence and inhaled the scent of Daphne's perfume.

How he ached for her.

“Go to her,” the old man had said.

And then what?

 

Daphne stood her ground with the servants and basically bullied them into helping her set up her art table and supplies in the garden of the harem.

“But the crown prince said you were not to return here,” one of the men said, practically wringing his hands.

“I'm not moving in,” she said, trying to be as patient as possible. “I just want to work here. It's quiet, and the light is perfect.”

With a combination of prodding, carrying most of the stuff herself and threatening to call the king, she got her supplies in place and finally went to work.

The clay felt good against her bare hands. She had a vision for what she wanted the piece to be, but wasn't sure if her talent could keep pace with her imagination. Sleeplessness made her a little clumsy—she'd spent the past three nights tossing and turning—but she reworked what she had to and kept moving forward with the piece.

The sun had nearly set when she realized she'd had nothing to eat or drink all day. Dizziness made her sink onto the bench in the garden. But the swimming head and gnawing stomach were more than worth it, she thought as she stared at the work she'd accomplished so far. She could—

“I forbade you to come to this place.”

The unexpected voice made her jump. She stood and turned, only to see Murat stalking toward her.

“I left specific instructions,” he said. “Who allowed you to return to the harem?”

He wore a long cloak over his riding clothes. The fabric billowed out behind him, making him seem even taller and more powerful than she remembered.

She'd missed him. The past seventy-two hours had passed so slowly. Only getting back to her art had kept her sane. She longed to hear him, see him, touch him, but now as he stalked toward her, she wanted to ball up the unused part of her clay and throw it at him.

“I'm not giving you any names,” she told him. “And for your information, I'm simply using the garden as my art studio. I can't get the right light in our suite, and the main gardens are too busy. All those people distract me. The harem isn't used, so I'm not in anyone's way.”

He glared at her. “You are still living upstairs with me?”

“I was, but I have to tell you, I'm seriously rethinking that decision.”

She wiped her hands on a towel and walked away.

Murat watched her go. On the helicopter flight back to the palace, he had thought about all the things he would say to Daphne when he saw her. They had been soft, conciliatory words designed to make her melt into his arms. When she wasn't in their suite, he had gone looking for her, only to be told she was in the harem.

He had thought that meant she had moved back, but he had been wrong. Now what?

He walked out of the garden only to find his father entering the harem. King Hassan shook his head.

“I just passed your wife. She seemed to be very annoyed about something.”

“I am aware of that.”

His father sighed. “Murat, you are my firstborn. I could not wish for a better heir. You have been born to power and you will lead our people with strength and greatness. But when it comes to Daphne, you seem to stumble at every turn. You must do better. I worked too hard to get her back here and into your life to have you destroy things now.”

D
aphne reached the suite she shared with Murat in record time, but once there she didn't know what to do with herself. She wanted to burn off some of the excess energy flowing through her. She wanted to throw something, but everything breakable was far too valuable and beautiful.

After pacing the length of the living room twice, she stopped by the sofa where one of the king's cats slept. Petting a cat or dog was supposed to be calming, she reminded herself. She stroked the animal and scratched under its chin, but still her blood bubbled within her.

“Of all the arrogant, terrible, hard-hearted men on the planet. To think I
missed
him.” Talk about stupid.

“Never again,” she vowed. “Never ever again will I think one pleasant or kind thought about—”

The door to the suite opened and Murat walked in. She stood and glared at him. “Don't even try to talk to me. I'm furious.”

Murat closed the door and walked toward her. “I just spoke with my father.”

“Unless you're going to tell me he's agreed to us getting a divorce, I'm not interested.”

He unfastened his cloak and draped it across a chair. “He took me to task for annoying you.”

“Really? Well, he's a very smart man.”

Murat ignored her comment. “He was most disappointed we were not getting along better, especially in light of all his effort to bring us back together.”

“I…” She blinked. “What?”

He motioned to the sofa. She sank down next to the cat she'd been petting and waited while Murat sat across from her.

“He told me that he has been waiting a long time for me to pick a bride. When I seemed reluctant, despite the various women in my life, he decided there must be some reason from my past. He made a study of my previous relationships and kept coming back to you and our broken engagement.”

“That's right,” she said. “Broken and not fixed.”

“When he discovered you were unmarried, as well, he decided to bring us back together to see what happened.”

“That's not possible.” She refused to believe it. “I wasn't brought here for you. I came because of Brittany…”

She felt her mouth drop open and quickly pressed her lips together. Sensible Brittany who, out of the blue, suddenly decided to marry a man she'd never met and move half a world away.

“She was in on it,” she breathed.

“Apparently. No one else in your family knew. My father found out that the two of you were close and contacted her. Together they hatched this plan.”

“No.” Daphne shook her head. “She would never do that to me. She's not that good a liar.”

“Apparently she is.” He motioned to the phone. “Feel free to check with her.”

“I will.” She picked up the receiver and punched in the number for her sister's house. When the maid answered, Daphne asked for Brittany.

“Hey, Aunt Daphne, how's it going? College starts in ten days and I'm
so
excited. Mom's still annoyed with you, but she's getting over it. She thinks I should start dating the governor's son. He's okay, I guess, but not really my type. What's up with you?”

Despite Murat's revelation and the possibility that Brittany had been a part of some plan, Daphne couldn't help smiling as she listened to her niece's monologue.

“I'm good,” she said. “I've missed you.”

“I've missed you, too. Think I could come over there for winter break? We could go shopping and ride a camel. It would be fun. Plus I'd love to finally meet Murat.”

“I'll bet you would. Sure. You can come here. But first I need to ask you something. Did the King of Bahania get in touch with you a couple of months ago?”

Brittany sucked in a breath. “What?”

“Did he want you to pretend to be willing to marry Murat to lure me back to Bahania? Brittany, I want the truth. This is very important.”

The teenager sighed. “Maybe. Okay, sort of. Yes. He called and we talked. He was really nice. Not at all like I imagined a king would be. He said that the reason you hadn't fallen in love with any other guy was that you still loved Murat but you wouldn't admit it to anyone. Not even to yourself. At first I told him he was crazy, but then I thought about it for a while and I decided he might be right.”

“Oh, God.”

“So I said I would marry Murat so that you'd get all worried and stuff. Which you did. I felt bad on the plane. I was acting so shallow, but it was important. And then you went to see Murat and I came home.”

“Did anyone else know?”

“Are you kidding? Mom would never have agreed. I sort of felt bad about how excited she got over me marrying a prince and all. But, sheesh, how could she take it seriously? He's so old.”

“Practically in his dotage.”

“But it worked out great. Right?” Brittany sounded slightly unsure of herself. “I mean you married him and everything. You're happy, Aunt Daphne, aren't you? I'd never hurt you for anything. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that. I love you, Brittany. You'll always be my favorite niece.”

Brittany laughed. “I'm still your only niece, but I know what you mean. How did you find out?”

“The king told Murat.”

“Was he furious?”

“He was unamused.”

“But you're okay.”

Daphne thought about the young woman she'd loved for eighteen years. Whatever Brittany had done, she'd acted out of love and concern.

“I'm completely fine. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Let's talk soon.”

“Absolutely. Bye.”

Daphne hung up the phone and looked at her husband. “It's true. Brittany was a part of it from the beginning. She pretended to be interested in marrying you to get me on the plane.”

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “And I played right into my father's hands by losing my temper and locking you in the harem.”

Not to mention marrying her against her will, but she didn't say that.

“I'm pretty mad,” Daphne admitted. “But I also feel kind of stupid. I can't believe those two were able to trick us like that.”

Murat looked sheepish. “It does not say much about our powers of reasoning. I kept telling my father I was not interested in a teenage bride, but he insisted she be brought over for my inspection.”

“I got all maternal and demanding,” she said. “I was terrified Brittany was throwing away her life.” She glanced at him. “Not that life as your wife is so terrible, but it wasn't right for her.”

“Believe me, I did not want her, either.”

Daphne felt as if she'd shown up for a big party only to find out the celebration had been the previous night. She felt both awkward and let down.

“So, um, now what?” she asked.

He straightened. “I should not have yelled at you before,” he said, “when I found you in the garden. As I told you, I thought you had moved out of our rooms.”

Had Crown Prince Murat of Bahania just apologized? “I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give that impression. I just wanted to work with my clay.”

“As you should. I enjoy the things you create.” He smiled. “Even when they mock me.”

Something tightened her heart. She felt happy and nervous at the same time. She cleared her throat.

“I didn't really want to leave. Before. Our trip into the desert. All this is so confusing and I reacted to that and what happened with Aisha. I don't always know what I'm feeling. Then we were fighting, and you said I could go and I said I wanted to and then I was here.”

He stood and crossed to the sofa, where he sat next to her. He took both her hands in his.

“I missed you, Daphne. So much so that the tribal elders came to offer me advice.”

She liked him touching her, but even more than that, she liked the sincerity in his gaze and that he'd missed her.

“What did they say?”

“One suggested I beat you. I sent him away.”

“Thank you. I wouldn't respond well to a beating.”

“I am many things, but I am not a bully.”

“I know.” He would never use his position of strength to take advantage of someone physically.

“One thought I should take a mistress.”

Her stomach clenched. The sharp pain made her gasp. “What did you decide?”

He pulled one hand free and touched her cheek. “I want no other woman. Even if I chose not to be bound by my vows, I would still be true.”

The pain eased.

“Finally, the oldest of the elders told me you were like a flower and that I should tend you in your garden.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I haven't a clue.”

He stared deeply into her eyes as he slid his hand from her cheek to her mouth. He brushed his fingers against her lips. “Stay with me.”

She didn't know if he meant that night or for always. Her heart told her to give in, that in time Murat would learn to yield, while her head reminded her that to stay based on an expected change in behavior was foolish.

Could she accept Murat as he was? Could she be with him knowing he would overrule her at will and never let her be an equal in their relationship? It wouldn't take much for her to fall in love with him again, but would he return those feelings? Could a man who thought of her as a mere woman ever give his heart?

“Stay,” he repeated, then saved her from answering by kissing her.

She surrendered to his touch, still not sure how far to hold her heart out of reach.

 

“You can't be serious,” Daphne said over dinner, several days later.

“It will never happen. The Americans are not ready to elect a woman president.”

“But if they did…”

Murat shrugged. “You expect me to meet with a woman as an equal?”

“Of course. Didn't your father meet with Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher?”

“Perhaps. I am too young to recall.” He cut into his meat. “You seem agitated.”

“I'm trying to figure out what I should throw at you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Such threats of violence over a simple discussion. You see why women are not good in politics. There is too much emotion.”

She narrowed her gaze, just as she caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You're toying with me,” she said, both relieved and determined to get him back.

“Perhaps.”

“I should have known. You
would
meet with a woman president.”

“Of course, but I doubt it will happen during my lifetime. Perhaps our son will have to deal with the situation.”

She was about to say that any son of hers would respect women and their rights, only to stop herself at the last minute. Perhaps that wasn't the best conversational tack to take. Not when the truce between them was so fragile.

It had been three days since Murat had returned from the desert. Three days in which she'd slept in his bed, made love with him and toyed with the idea of simply accepting her marriage as permanent.

Her feelings grew, and she knew that the point of no return was at hand. If she fell in love with him, she wouldn't want to go, regardless of their past.

“You grow quiet,” he said, setting down his knife and fork. “Are you troubled about some matter?”

“No.”

Troubled didn't begin to describe her emotions.

“At the risk of starting another battle between us,” he said. “It has been nearly three weeks since the first time we made love. You have not started your period.”

“I know. I'm late.”

She watched him carefully, but his expression didn't change. She wondered if he was crowing on the inside.

“Do you think you are pregnant?”

She wasn't sure. “I don't feel any different, but I don't know if I should. I could get a pregnancy test and take it if you would like.”

“What would you prefer to do?”

“Wait a few more days. Sometimes stress upsets my cycle.”

She'd certainly had her share of that in the past month or so.

She expected him to insist that she find out that very evening. Instead he nodded. “As you wish.”

She couldn't help smiling. “Are you unwell?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“You never give in on anything.”

He sighed. “I am doing my best to nurture the flower in my garden. Do you feel nurtured?”