‘Good.’ It was done. Nothing could break the bond they’d created; she was his wife both in name and physical fact. Zayed rose from the mattress in one fluid movement and shrugged on his clothes.
‘Where are you going?’ Halina asked. She suddenly sounded very young, and Zayed was reminded that she was only twenty-two—ten years younger than him.
‘I have things to do.’ His voice came out brusque so he tried to moderate it. ‘I will see you later.’
‘You will?’
‘Of course.’ He suppressed a flash of annoyance. Already she sounded needy, clinging, and that was the last thing he wanted. ‘If you need anything, you can ask Suma.’
‘Suma? But I can’t understand her.’
The flash of annoyance came again, and with it an odd sense of unease. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She speaks a dialect I can’t understand.’ She was clutching a sheet to her breasts, her hair tumbled around her face. Zayed fought the urge to climb back into the bed and take her in his arms all over again.
‘I did not realise she was so difficult to understand,’ he said stiffly. ‘You will have to get used to it. She is the only woman here to serve your needs.’
‘But...what...what are you going to do with me?’ Her voice was both tremulous and brave.
Zayed’s gaze narrowed. ‘What am I going to do with you? I have already done it, hayete. It is finished.’
She bit her lip. ‘I know that. I mean, I wasn’t expecting more than...than this. But now what are you going to...? Why did you kidnap me?’ She lifted her chin, holding her gaze steady as if steeling herself for a blow.
Zayed stared at her, completely nonplussed. ‘Why did I kidnap you?’ he repeated. ‘Surely that is obvious? I told you I could not wait any longer.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Your father will not be pleased, I grant you, but he will not be able to affect the outcome. Of that I am certain.’
Now she looked genuinely confused, her brow creased, her lips parting. ‘My father...’ She shook her head slowly. ‘But my father is dead.’
‘What?’ Zayed stared at her in complete shock. Sultan Hassan dead? When? How? But no; surely he would have heard of it? He would have known. His informants in the palace would have said something. Still, a cold fist clutched his heart. If Sultan Hassan was dead, all his plans fell apart, crumbled to dust. To nothing. The man had no sons, and his heir was a distant cousin, someone Zayed could not rely on to help him. ‘When did this happen?’ he bit out.
His bride stared at him in wary confusion. ‘Years ago. Five years now.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t understand. What could my father possibly have to do with any of this?’
‘Wait.’ Zayed felt as if he’d entered some weird, alternative reality. How could Halina be saying this? Sultan Hassan had most certainly not died five years ago. What the hell was going on?
‘Why do you care about my father?’ she asked, her voice trembling. ‘Who are you?’
For a moment he could only stare. She knew who he was. She had to know. ‘I am Prince Zayed al bin Nur,’ he said, biting off each word. She’d wed him, she’d slept with him! Of course she’d known he was her fiancé, her intended husband. Because, if she hadn’t known, why the hell had she slept with him? Agreed to marry him?
‘Zayed...’ Her face had gone pale, her lips bloodless, dawning horror in her eyes. Something was very, very wrong, and the cold fist that was clutching Zayed’s heart squeezed painfully.
‘And you,’ he said forcefully, each word a throb of insistent intensity, ‘are Princess Halina Amari.’ She had to be. He’d seen photographs—blurry, yes, but he’d watched her in the palace. She’d played with her sisters; she’d gone into her bedroom. She had to be his intended bride. His wife.
But already she was shaking her head.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I’m not Halina.’
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