Brent is a louse,’ Jacqui growled. ‘You can’t blame yourself.’
Samira sat back in her chair, warmth filling her at her sister-in-law’s instant support.
‘I do blame myself. I wasn’t a child. I made the decision to throw everything over, all I’d worked for and dreamed of, to be with him. I fooled myself into believing in him and I was utterly, devastatingly wrong.’ Her palm crept across her belly as if to prevent the clenching pain, a phantom memory from four years ago.
‘One mistake...’
‘That was enough. What if I made the same mistake again? I can’t go through that again, Jacqui, I just can’t.’ Samira ducked her head, ashamed at the welling distress that filled her even after all this time. She drew a calming breath. ‘I’m too like my mother. I let passion override judgement and I paid the price. But unlike her I won’t make the mistake of staying on that merry-go-round.’
‘And Tariq knows this?’
‘Of course he knows.’ Samira smiled, her confidence returning. ‘Don’t look so worried. This marriage is everything I want.’
* * *
‘Samira.’ Her name on Tariq’s tongue made her blink. It sounded...different. The noise of the wedding banquet faded as she met his eyes.
Or was it she who was different? Hours spent at his side through the wedding ceremony and celebration had left her unaccountably on edge. She felt his presence with every cell of her body.
Applause filled the feasting hall as he took her hand and stood, drawing her up. He was resplendent in robes as white as the distant snow-capped peaks. His jaw was lean and hard, a study in power, his eyes a glint of cool green as he looked down at her and slowly smiled.
Instantly heat shimmered under her skin, a heat that intensified when his warm fingers slid against hers, enfolding them completely. Sensation trickled through her from her tight lungs, meandering all the way down through her belly to a single pulse point between her legs.
She inhaled sharply, eyes widening as he held her gaze. There was something different about Tariq. Something she couldn’t identify.
‘My queen,’ he said in a voice barely above a whisper, yet it amplified in her ears, blotting out the sound of their guests. Or perhaps that was the thud of her pulse.
‘Your Highness.’ She dipped her gaze in acknowledgement. She owed him her loyalty as her new sovereign.
His fingers tightened around hers, making her look up.
‘Your husband.’ His nostrils flared as if drawing in her scent and shock buffeted her. Tariq looked so intent, so close, his tall frame blocking out everything else. Samira felt a heavy throb of anticipation deep inside as his head lowered purposefully towards hers.
Instantly, disconcertingly, anxiety shredded her composure. It was all she could do not to step back, but she was sure he felt the flinch of her hand in his.
His eyes narrowed, a twitch of a frown marking his brow. Then he lifted her hand. She watched him press a kiss to the delicate, hennaed pattern on her flesh and felt the warmth of those firm lips.
Her breath hitched, her breasts rising hard beneath the ponderous weight of ancient gold jewellery that suddenly seemed far too oppressive.
Tariq smiled. She felt the movement against her hand and wondered, dazed, what amused him. Finally, eyes still meshed with hers, he straightened to his full height.
The crowd stood, applauding so loud it was a wonder the crystal glassware on the tables didn’t shatter.
A herald appeared before them, bearing a golden goblet studded with cabochon emeralds and amethysts. Tariq took it in one large hand.
‘Long life to the happy couple,’ roared the herald.
Tariq lifted the goblet and drank, then held it out to Samira, turning it so her lips touched the spot from which he’d drunk. Heat sizzled through her as he watched her over the rim and she swallowed the heady, sweet mixture that tasted of honey, cinnamon and unknown spices.
‘May they be blessed with peace and happiness and honoured by all.’
Again Tariq drank. Samira watched, enthralled, as the muscles in his powerful neck moved.
He held the drink out to her, again presenting her with the same side of the goblet that he’d used. She told herself she imagined the taste of him there on the beaten gold. Yet it felt incredibly intimate, pressing her lips where his had been, even though she knew it was merely a symbolic gesture as old as the traditional marriage ceremony. She gulped a little too much, feeling the concoction catch the back of her throat.
Tariq’s hand squeezed hers and Samira’s tension eased a little. It would be all right. They were almost through the celebration that had somehow turned into an ordeal.
‘And may they be blessed with strong, fine children.’
Samira was ready for it but still the words caught her a slashing blow to the midriff. She pasted on a bright smile and watched Tariq draw a deep draft from the golden chalice.
He lifted it to her mouth, tilting high so she had no choice but to swallow more than the tiny sip she’d planned.
The hall broke out into a pandemonium of applause and ululating cheers. But all she could see was Tariq’s eyes. They’d darkened to gleaming tourmaline. Or were her senses blurring? She felt warm and somehow...undone.
Tariq lowered the goblet and Samira licked her bottom lip, catching a stray drop that lingered there. Tariq seemed fascinated with the movement and to her horror she felt tiny prickling darts of heat pepper her breasts and abdomen. Just as if he’d touched her.
Heat burned in her ears.
‘What is that stuff?’ she whispered.
He passed the goblet to the waiting herald, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘It’s harmless enough. A traditional mixture designed to promote virility.’
Samira snapped her mouth shut, her brain whirling as Tariq turned to address the assembled throng. She told herself it was a necessary part of the ritual, no more. But the feel of Tariq’s hand still gripping hers, the sensation of his long fingers threading through hers, his thumb stroking her palm, sent a warning buzzing through her.
* * *
Tariq watched from the doorway as his bride bent over the twin beds where his boys slept. A nightlight glowed at floor level and she looked like something from a fairy story, all shimmer and fragile, gossamer-fine fabrics.
But Samira wasn’t an ethereal fairy. She was a warm, flesh-and-blood woman. He’d felt her pulse stir as he held her hand at the banquet, watched the rosy heat brighten her cheeks and plump up her lips as she drank their wedding toast.
His groin had tightened unbearably as he’d looked down into those wide, anxious eyes and he’d felt the double-edged sword of lust and caution at his throat. He wanted her so badly his skin grated with it.
It felt like he’d wanted Samira most of his life.
