Something that wasn’t fear, but rather...anticipation. Yet, of what? She wanted nothing from this man but her freedom.
‘And I won’t be satisfied,’ Khalil continued, ‘until Aziz is no longer on the throne of Kadar and I am.’
‘So you are one of the rebel insurgents Aziz mentioned.’
For a second Khalil’s gaze blazed fury but then he merely inclined his head. ‘So it would seem.’
‘Why should you be on the throne?’
‘Why should Aziz?’
‘Because he is the heir.’
Khalil glanced away, his expression veiled once more. ‘Do you know the history of Kadar, Your Highness?’
‘I’ve read something of it,’ she answered, although the truth was her knowledge of Kadaran history was sketchy at best. There hadn’t been time for more than a crash course in the heritage of the country of her future husband.
‘Did you know it was a peaceful, prosperous nation for many years—independent, even, when other countries buckled under a wider regime?’
‘Yes, I did know that.’ Aziz had mentioned it, because her own country was the same; a small island in the Aegean Sea between Turkey and Greece, Thallia had enjoyed nearly a thousand years of peaceful, independent rule.
And she would not be the one to end it.
‘Perhaps you also know, then, that Sheikh Hashem threatened the stability of Kadar with the rather unusual terms of his will?’ He turned back to her, raising his eyebrows, a little smile playing about his mouth.
Elena found her gaze quite unreasonably drawn to that mouth, to those surprisingly lush and sculpted lips. She forced herself to look upwards and met Khalil’s enquiring gaze. There was no point, she decided, in feigning ignorance. ‘Yes, I am well aware of the old Sheikh’s stipulation. It’s why I am here to marry Sheikh Aziz.’
‘Not a love match, then?’ Khalil queried sardonically and Elena stiffened.
‘I don’t believe that is any of your business.’
‘Considering you are here at my behest, I believe it is.’
She pursed her lips and said nothing. The Kadaran people believed it was a love match, although neither she nor Aziz had said as much. People believed what they wanted to believe, Elena knew, and the public liked the idea of a royal fairy-tale. If it helped to stabilise their countries, then so be it. She could go along with a little play-acting. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Khalil.
‘Pleading the fifth, I see,’ Khalil said softly. ‘I grew up in America, you know. I am not the barbarian you seem to think I am.’
She folded her arms. ‘You have yet to show me otherwise.’
‘Have I not? Yet here you are, in a comfortable chair, offered refreshment. Though I am sorry you hurt yourself.’ He gestured to her scraped knee, all solicitude. ‘Let me get you a plaster.’
‘I don’t need one.’
‘Such abrasions can easily become infected in the desert. A grain of sand lodges in the cut and, the next thing you know, it’s gone septic.’ He leaned forward, and for a moment the harshness of his face, the coldness in his eyes, was replaced by something that almost looked like gentleness. ‘Don’t be stupid, Your Highness. God knows I understand the need to fight, but you are wasting your energy arguing with me over such small matters.’
She swallowed, knowing he was right, and hating it. It was petty and childish to refuse medical care, not to mention stupid as he’d said. She nodded and Khalil rose from his chair. She watched as he strode to the entrance of the tent and spoke to one of the guards waiting outside.
Elena remained seated, her fists clenched in her lap, her heart beating hard. A few minutes later Khalil returned to the table with a cloth folded over his arm, a basin of water in one hand and a tube of ointment in the other.
‘Here we are.’
To her shock he knelt in front of her and Elena pressed back in her chair. ‘I can do it myself.’
He glanced up at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘But then you would deny me the pleasure.’
Her breath came out in a rush and she remained rigid as he gently lifted the hem of her skirt over her knee. His fingers barely brushed her leg and yet she felt as if she’d been electrocuted, her whole body jolting with sensation. Carefully Khalil dampened the cloth and then dabbed the scrape on her knee.
‘Besides,’ he murmured, ‘you might miss some sand, and I would hate to be accused of mistreating you.’
Elena didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. Every atom of her being was focused on the gentle touch of this man, his fingers sliding over her knee with a precision that wasn’t sensual, not remotely, yet...
She took a careful breath and stared at the top of his head, his hair ink-black and cut very short. She wondered if it would feel soft or bristly, and then jerked her mind back to her predicament. What on earth was she doing, thinking about his hair, reacting to his hands on her skin? This man was her enemy. The last thing, the very last thing, she should do was feel anything for him, even something as basic as physical desire.
His hand tightened on her knee and everything inside Elena flared to life.
‘I think that’s fine,’ she said stiffly, and tried to draw her leg away from Khalil’s hand.
He held up the tube of ointment. ‘Antiseptic cream. Very important.’
Gritting her teeth, she remained still while he squeezed some cream onto his fingers and then smoothed it over the cut on her knee. It stung a little, but far more painful was the kick of attraction she felt at the languorous touch of his fingers on her sensitised skin.
It was just her body’s basic physical reaction, she told herself as he rubbed circles on her knee with his thumb and her insides tightened. She’d never experienced it like this before, but then she was inexperienced in the ways of men and women. In any case, there was nothing she could do about it, so she’d ignore it. Ignore the sparks that scattered across her skin and the plunging deep in her belly. Attraction was irrelevant; she would never act on it nor allow it to cloud her judgement.
Escape from this man and his plans to ruin her marriage was her only goal now. Her only desire.
KHALIL FELT ELENA’S body tense beneath his touch and wondered why he had chosen to clean the cut himself. The answer, of course, was irritatingly obvious: because he’d wanted to touch her. Because, for a moment, desire had overridden sense.
Her skin, Khalil thought, was as soft as silk. When had he last touched a woman’s skin? Seven years in the French Foreign Legion had given him more than a taste of abstinence.
Of course, the last woman he should ever think about as a lover was Queen Elena, Aziz’s intended bride. He had no intention of complicating
