weakness. But it is a weakness which will never be repeated,’ he ground out. ‘And yes, I blame you if you have now given an interview which will bring shame on the reputation of the Sultan and his royal house.’
‘Then ask him to set me free,’ she said simply. ‘To let me go. Please, Suleiman.’
Suleiman met the appeal in her big violet eyes and for a moment he almost wavered. For wasn’t it a terrible crime to see the beautiful and spirited Sara forced to marry a man she did not love? Could he really imagine her lying in the marital bed and submitting to the embraces of a man she claimed not to want? And then he told himself that Murat was a legendary lover. And even though it made him feel sick to acknowledge it—it was unlikely that Sara would lie unresponsive in Murat’s bed for too long.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said, but the words felt like stone as he let them fall from his lips. ‘I can’t allow you to reject the Sultan; I would be failing in my duty if I did. It is a question of pride.’
‘Pride!’ Angrily, she shook her head. ‘What price pride? What if I refuse to allow him to consummate the marriage?’ she challenged. ‘What then? Won’t he skulk away to his harem and take his pleasure elsewhere?’
He flinched as if she had hit him. ‘This discussion has become completely inappropriate,’ he bit out angrily. ‘But you would be wise to consider the effect of your actions on your brother, the King—even though I know you never bother to visit him. There are some in your country who wonder whether the King still has a sister, so rarely does she set foot in her homeland.’
‘My relationship with my brother is none of your business—and neither are my trips home!’
‘Maybe not. But you would do well to remember that Qurhah continues to shoulder some of your country’s national debt. How would your brother feel if the Sultan were to withdraw his financial support because of your behaviour?’
‘You bastard,’ she hissed, but she might as well have been whispering on the wind, for all the notice he took.
‘My skin is thick enough to withstand your barbed comments, princess. I am delivering you to the Sultan and nothing will prevent that. But first, I want the name of the journalist you’ve been dealing with.’
She made one last stab at rebellion. ‘And if I won’t tell you?’
‘Then I will find out for myself,’ he said, in a tone which made a shiver trickle down her spine. ‘Why not save me the time and yourself my anger?’
‘You’re a brute,’ she breathed. ‘An egocentric brute.’
‘No, Sara, I just want the story spiked.’
Frustration washed over her as she recognised that he meant business. And that she was fighting a useless battle here.
‘His name is Jason Cresswell,’ she said sulkily. ‘He works for the Daily View.’
‘Good. Perhaps you are finally beginning to see sense. You might learn that co-operation is infinitely more preferable to rebellion. Now leave me while I speak with him in private.’ He glanced at her as he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.
‘Go and get your coat on. Because after I’ve finished with the journalist we’re heading for the airfield, where the plane is waiting to take you to your new life in Qurhah.’
THE FLIGHT WAS smooth and the aircraft supremely comfortable but Suleiman couldn’t sleep. For the past seven hours during the journey to Qurhah, he had been kept awake by the tormenting thoughts of what he was doing.
He felt his heart clench. What was he doing?
Taking a woman to a man she did not love.
A woman he wanted for himself.
Restlessly, he moved noiselessly around the craft, wishing that there were somewhere to look other than at the sleeping Sara. But although he could have joined the two pilots in the cockpit or tried to rest in the sealed-off section at the far end of the plane, neither option appealed. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from her.
He wondered if the silent female servants who were sitting sentry had noticed the irresistible direction of his gaze. Or the fact that he had not left the side of the sleeping princess. But he didn’t care—for who would dare challenge him?
He had fulfilled the first part of his task by getting Sara on board the plane. He just wished he could shake off this damned feeling of guilt.
Their late exit from the cottage into the driving rain had left her soaking wet for she had stubbornly refused to use the umbrella he’d opened for her. And as she had sat shivering beside him in the car he’d fought the powerful urge to pull her into his arms and to rub at her cold flesh until she was warm again. But he had vowed that he would not touch her again.
He could never touch her again.
He let his eyes drift over her.
Stretched out in the wide aircraft seat in her crumpled jeans and sweater, she should have looked unremarkable but that was the very last thing she looked. He felt his gut tighten. The sculpted angles of her bone structure hinted at her aristocratic lineage and her eyelashes were naturally dark. Even her blonde hair, which had dried into tousled strands, looked like layered starlight.
She was beautiful.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
His heart clenched as he turned away, but his troubled thoughts continued to plague him.
He knew the Sultan’s reputation. He knew that he was a charismatic man where women were concerned and that most of his former lovers still yearned for him. But Murat the Mighty was a desert man and he believed in destiny. He would marry the princess who had been chosen for him, for to do otherwise would be to renege on an ancient pact. He would marry and take his new bride back to the Qurhahian palace. He would think nothing of it.
Suleiman winced as he tried to imagine Sara being closed off for ever in the Sultan’s gilded world and felt a terrible darkness enter his heart.
He heard the small sound she made as she stirred, blinking open her eyes to look at him so that he found himself staring into dark pools of violet ink.
Sitting up, she pushed her tousled hair away from her face. Was she aware that he had been watching her while she slept, and that it had felt unbelievably intimate to do so? Would she be shocked to know that he had imagined moving aside the cashmere blanket and climbing in beside her?
She lifted her arms above her head to yawn and in that moment she looked so free that another wave of guilt washed over him.
What would she be like when she’d had her wings clipped by the pressures and the demands of her new position as Sultana? Did she realise that never again would she wear her faded blue jeans or move around anonymously as she had done in London? Did she realize—as he now did—that this trip was the last time he would ever be permitted to be alone with her?
‘You’re awake,’ he said.
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