Loe raamatut: «Sheikh's Pregnant Cinderella»

CHAPTER ONE

HIS EARS WERE playing tricks on him. They must be.

Otherwise they wouldn’t have relayed the unconscionable message to his brain that—

No.

‘Repeat yourself,’ Sheikh Zufar al Khalia, current occupant of the throne of Khalia, breathed softly at the short, bespectacled senior aide standing before him.

The man shrank back, very much aware that his King’s lowered, even tones were far worse than his bark. Not that Zufar al Khalia, much accomplished, master strategist and all-round frighteningly intelligent head of the exulted royal family, needed to lower himself to such unseemly actions as barking.

Marwan Farhat only managed to withstand his liege’s chilling tawny gaze for a handful of seconds before lowering his to the priceless Persian rug beneath his feet.

‘Now, Marwan,’ Zufar insisted.

‘We’ve been informed that your betrothed has disappeared, Your Highness. She’s not in her suite, and her maidservant thinks she’s been taken.’

‘Thinks? So there’s no actual evidence?’

‘Uh... I haven’t spoken to the servant myself, Your Highness, but—’

‘For all you know, my betrothed could be hiding somewhere in the palace, under the pretext of the foolish, pre-wedding nerves that normally afflict women on such a day, correct?’

Marwan exchanged glances with the other aides. ‘It is possible, Your Highness.’

Zufar heard the but not spoken, loud and clear. ‘Where is this maidservant? I wish to speak to her myself.’

The senior aide grimaced. ‘Of course, Your Highness, but I’ve been informed the girl is quite hysterical. I don’t think it will be useful—’

‘Useful?’ The cold disbelief trapped in his chest expanded. ‘Do you see what I’m wearing, Marwan?’ Zufar drawled in the soft, deadly voice that usually hushed his subordinates into fearful silence, as he rounded the massive teak desk that had previously belonged to his esteemed grandfather.

Marwan’s Adam’s apple bobbed again as he took in Zufar’s heavy burgundy-and-gold military uniform, complete with wide sash, epaulettes, and buttons made of solid gold. Where other men would have looked stiff and pompous, his King looked enviably elegant, his towering six-feet-plus height lending the uniform a regal stature few could emulate.

The accompanying cloak hung on its own specially made frame nearby. Together they formed the King’s ceremonial wedding attire, commissioned on his twenty-first birthday for this one momentous occasion. Zufar al Khalia had cut a commanding figure since he hit puberty, but on this day he rose above all men into an exclusive realm of his own.

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ he responded respectfully.

Zufar tossed the white gloves he’d been about to put on before he was interrupted onto the desk, and advanced towards the men. He had their attention, but he needed to make sure that not a single syllable that fell from his lips would be misconstrued.

‘Have you seen the dignitaries and heads of states currently making their way to the Imperial Room? The fifty thousand citizens who’ve been camping in the capital for the past seven days in anticipation of this ceremony? The three hundred journalists and innumerable cameras waiting on the south lawn to televise this ceremony?’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’

Zufar took a deep calming breath, certain that if he didn’t he would burst a blood vessel despite his supremely robust health. And that would be terribly unwise considering this was supposed to be his wedding day.

‘Tell me again why you think it would not be useful to discover the whereabouts of my betrothed as soon as possible?’

Marwan clasped his hands before him, a gesture of supplication that did nothing to appease Zufar’s rising temper. ‘A thousand pardons, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘I merely came to inform you that there might be a delay. Perhaps we can postpone the ceremony—’

‘No. There will be no postponement. You will find my betrothed immediately and this wedding ceremony will proceed as scheduled.’

‘Your Highness, the guards and all the servants have searched everywhere. She is not here.’

A red haze washed across Zufar’s vision. His collar began to constrict him, blocking his airway. But he didn’t raise his hand to undo a button or in any way indicate his discomfort.

He was the King.

Since birth, streams of instructors and governesses had drummed long-suffering poise and decorum into him, with swift and merciless punishment delivered for stepping out of line. As for rash displays of emotion like the bellow of frustration that bubbled inside him? Those came with a week’s banishment to the winter palace on the northernmost part of Khalia with nothing but the frozen mountains and endless reams of Latin recitals for company.

No, unfettered displays of emotion had been his father’s eminent domain.

For Zufar and his younger brother and sister, it had been an emotionless existence in the strictest boarding schools in foreign lands. And during the holidays when they were allowed home, they would spend hours being groomed into becoming the perfect ambassadors of the Royal House of Khalia.

On the rare occasion when his temper strained and attempted to get the better of him, like today, people took notice. And fled his presence at the earliest possible moment.

Zufar gathered himself until his spine was a steel column, and fixed his eyes on Marwan. ‘You will take me to this maidservant now. I wish to hear what she has to say for myself.’

The senior aide immediately bowed low. ‘Of course, Your Highness.’

The palace guards stationed on either side of the door sprang forwards to open the double doors for him.

The moment Zufar stepped into the hallway, he knew something was very, very wrong. The excited buzz that had charged the air during the final preparations for the royal wedding had altered.

Several staff members of the royal palace wore anxious expressions as they rushed back and forth. And while it was respectful to drop one’s gaze before the King, he noticed that every single one of the staff was actively avoiding his.

The palpable tension raised the hairs on his nape. Beside him, Marwan also avoided his gaze. In fact, the man was doing everything in his power to extend his short strides in the rush to put self-preserving space between himself and Zufar.

It would’ve been amusing had Zufar not felt in his very marrow that his impending nuptials were in jeopardy.

Whispers around him grew as he entered the main part of the palace. As with most royal palaces, the women’s quarters were separated from the men’s by several wings. His own private rooms were to the west of the sprawling palace that sat on top of Mount Jerra.

Quick strides took him across to the east wing. He ignored the bows and scrapes of his palace staff and extended family members as he walked, grim-faced, towards the guest suite that Amira, his fiancée, had occupied since her arrival at the palace three weeks ago.

She was a daughter of his father’s oldest friend, and Zufar had been aware of Amira’s existence since he was a boy. But she was several years his junior and had clearly found him intimidating to the point of speechlessness at the best of times. He hadn’t taken much interest in her until his father had informed him of the agreement he’d made with Feroz Ghalib, Amira’s father, for them to marry.

Even then, the wedding had been a distant future event, arranged by others and needing only a handful of meetings for the sake of appearances. Still, he’d taken his duty seriously and ensured during their meetings that she was at ease and not being forced into a union she didn’t want. Her assurances had satisfied him enough to accept that she would be his wife when the time was right.

The medical report that had confirmed that she was healthy enough to bear his children had sealed the deal.

Beyond that, he hadn’t given her much thought, although she’d been peculiarly distracted during their twice weekly dinners recently.

But Amira was close with his sister and Zufar was confident that Galila would have informed him if there’d been a problem with the upcoming nuptials.

Nevertheless, had he dropped the ball somewhere?

He frowned.

The burden of governing his kingdom was his first and only priority. It had needed to be, considering the chaos it had been left in by his father’s sudden abdication.

Tight anger knotted inside him as he strode faster towards the suite of luxury rooms that were reserved for the Queen and other female members of the royal family.

He wouldn’t think of his father today, or the fact that the ex-King had banished himself to the summer palace since his wife’s death and hadn’t spoken to his children in months. Zufar wouldn’t think of the sleepless nights and backbreaking work it had taken for him to keep the kingdom that had already been woefully neglected by his father from falling apart.

Today, this hour, demanded his complete attention. His people yearned for a royal wedding. That was exactly what he was going to give them.

The footmen stationed outside the Sapphire Suite spotted him and immediately threw open the doors.

Zufar entered, then drew to a stop at the sight of the visibly distressed women in the living room. Two were babbling hysterically, and an older female servant was busy comforting another.

‘Which one is she?’ he demanded tersely. Eyes swivelled to him, followed predictably by shocked gasps and hurried comportment before the bows and scrapes and averted gazes commenced.

Marwan hushed them, and then uttered a sharp query to the junior aide behind him. The younger man shook his head, throwing a furtive glance at Zufar. Marwan approached the older attendant and questioned her. Clearly nervous, she pointed to the inner chamber.

Zufar strode towards smaller double doors, his temper frothing furiously in his chest. This time he pulled the doors open himself, bitter memories tossing themselves onto the pyre he was trying to contain as he walked into the huge, lavish chamber that had once been his mother’s domain.

His gaze didn’t linger on the priceless keepsakes, furniture or decoration. He didn’t know which items in this room his mother had treasured and which gifts from his father and her secret admirers had been less favoured. He didn’t know her favourite book or the preferred flower arrangement for her private sitting room because he had never been allowed in here.

On the rare occasions his mother had tolerated him, they had been in public where her pretended adoration could be captured for the world to see and praise and to provide moments of smugness as she perused the gossip rags. Beyond that, she’d never had a kind word for him or his siblings.

But he wasn’t here to dwell on the subject of his mother.

He trained his focus on the figure hunched over near the headboard of the vast bed. She was so slight he almost missed her.

Had it not been for the drab, body-shrouding beige clothes that painfully and distastefully stood out against the gold and cream bed linen, he would’ve mistaken her for one of the pillows or part of the rich drapery that decorated the four-poster bed.

As he advanced towards her he noticed that her slim shoulders were shaking. Another few steps and the small sniffles of her quiet sobs reached his ears.

Zufar stifled his curse before it ripped free.

He didn’t care for weak women. He cared even less for weak, crying women.

Behind him, Marwan clicked his tongue sharply.

The figure jumped up, stumbled over her long, shapeless skirt, and immediately tumbled to the floor in a graceless heap at Zufar’s feet.

He waited, impatient breath slowly spilling through clenched teeth, for her to rise. But she didn’t seem interested in regaining her feet. Instead, she was developing an almost mesmerised interest in his shoes.

He took a step forwards, hoping to dislodge her hypnosis. When that failed to work, he cleared his throat.

‘If that is a shoe fetish you’re exhibiting, may I suggest you indulge in it another time? When the reputation of my kingdom isn’t at stake, perhaps?’ Zufar drawled.

A sharp intake of breath, then, finally, she raised her head.

Large, tear-soaked dark eyes rose from his feet, and plotted an excruciatingly slow journey up his body. By the time they reached his face, her expression was creased into abject horror.

Coupled with a face blotched and bloated with tears and a mouth frozen in an unattractive O, she was the most unsightly girl Zufar had ever seen.

‘What is your name?’ he bit out, praying she could actually string enough words together to answer.

She didn’t respond. She simply stared up at him, her horror intensifying by the second.

‘Do you not hear your King addressing you, girl?’ Marwan demanded sharply.

Her mouth closed. She swallowed noisily, but still uttered no word.

Zufar’s fists started to curl. Almost a year’s worth of meticulous planning hung in the balance because of one tear-streaked, dumbstruck girl.

About to move, he paused as her gaze darted to his fists and she recoiled.

The sight of her naked fear struck an uncomfortable chord in him. He breathed out and slowly unfurled his fingers. There would be no coherent conversation with her unless he found a way to defuse some of her fear, he realised.

He sensed Marwan moving towards her and held up his hand. ‘Leave us,’ he instructed.

Marwan made a small sound of surprise. ‘Are you sure, Your Highness?’

Zufar’s lips tightened. ‘Leave. Now.’

The room emptied immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on the girl crouched before him, and slowly extended his hand towards her. Again, her gaze darted between his face and his hand, as if terrified he would do something unpredictable. Like bite. Or strike.

He frowned.

She reminded him of the skittish colts in his stable. The ones that demanded substantial time and patience to respond to his commands.

Except he was in gross negative supply of either today. His marriage ceremony was scheduled to commence in less than two hours.

Zufar leaned down and extended his hand further. ‘Stand up,’ he instructed, firming his voice.

She placed her hand in his, scrambled upright, and immediately gasped and dropped his hand as if she’d been scalded.

He ignored her reaction, his gaze moving over her, confirming that the drabness indeed extended from the top of the dishevelled tufts of dark hair peeking out of her beige scarf to the soles of her feet.

Except, she wasn’t a girl as he’d initially surmised.

She was long past adolescence, if the pronounced swell of her chest and the hint of curves beneath the clothes were any indication. She came up to his chin in her flat, tasteless shoes, her covered arms slender and her jaw holding a delicate strength.

His eyes were drawn to her chest again. It was just her agitated breathing that was snagging his attention. Nothing else. He stepped back, folded his hands behind his back and assumed a gesture of ease that never failed to work on his horses.

‘What is your name?’ he asked again in a lower voice.

Her gaze dropped to the ground and she mumbled.

‘Speak up,’ he said.

Her chin jerked up a little, but her gaze remained, once again, on the tips of his shoes.

‘Niesha Zalwani, Your Highness,’ she repeated.

Her voice was soft, smoky and lyrical, if a little too timid for his dwindling patience. But at least he was getting somewhere. He had a name.

‘What is your role here?’

‘I—I’m... I was a chambermaid until last week, when I was added to Miss Amira’s personal staff.’

‘Look at me when I’m addressing you,’ Zufar drawled. It took an interminable age for her head to rise once more. But eventually, her gaze met his, then promptly flitted down to rest on his nose. Zufar prayed for strength and continued, ‘Where’s your mistress?’

Immediately her lower lip wobbled, her wide eyes grew haunted and her breathing turned agitated again. Zufar forced himself not to stare at the soft globes of her breasts or the pale creaminess of her throat as she trembled before him.

‘She...she’s gone, Your Highness.’

Zufar’s fist threatened to ball again. Resisting the urge was difficult. ‘Gone where?’ he managed through clenched teeth.

‘I don’t know, Your Highness.’

‘Very well. Let us try another way. Did she leave alone?’

Another frenzied twisting of her fingers, and then she cleared her throat. ‘No, Your Highness. She...she left with a man.’

A detached, icy sensation stroked his nape. ‘A man? What man?’ he asked softly.

‘He did not tell me his name, Your Highness.’

‘But you are certain she has been taken against her will by an unknown male?’ he pressed.

The woman before him bit her lip, drawing his attention to the plump, reddened curve of her mouth as she nodded. ‘Yes...well...’ Her distress grew.

‘Tell me what you know,’ he insisted.

‘I may be wrong, Your Highness, but she didn’t seem...unwilling.’

The possibility that he’d been jilted arrived with ice-cold anger. Except, curiously, Zufar wasn’t enraged on his own behalf. Rather, the impending disappointment for his people, the chaos for his kingdom, was what caused his fists to clench behind his back.

‘Did she say anything? Did he say anything to make you think this?’

‘It—it all happened very quickly, Your Highness. But...’ Her hand disappeared into the folds of her skirt and emerged with a folded piece of paper. ‘He...he instructed me to give this to Princess Galila to hand to you.’ She held out the piece of paper, her slender fingers trembling.

Zufar took it from her, his insides frozen as he unfolded the sheet he recognised as a torn piece of his own royal stationery.

He read the message once. Then again.

With a thick curse, he crumpled the heavy, embossed paper between his fingers, his fist clenched tight until it shook with the force of his emotions. The red haze of fury returned, deeper, steeping his lethal mood as he crossed to the window and pressed his fist against the wide pane.

Before him, the palace grounds sprawled in sun-dappled splendour. Beyond the windows, the muted buzzing of an expectant crowd rolled over the horizon. Excited citizens and eager tourists who’d flown in especially for this occasion were anticipating a fairy-tale royal wedding of their King to his chosen Queen. The whole kingdom had been gripped in wedding fever for months.

Only to have his heathen bastard of a half-brother claim in writing that he’d seduced and stolen his betrothed!

In another life, perhaps, that tiny sliver of emotion piercing through his fury could’ve been called relief from yet another responsibility. But Zufar gave it absolutely no room whatsoever, because he now faced a monumental problem. Aside from the humiliation of announcing that he was no longer in possession of his fiancée, this arrangement had held great economic advantages for Khalia.

He needed to find Amira. Confirm for himself that his half-brother’s claim was the truth.

But how could he, when he had no idea where he’d gone? The dossier he’d collated on Adir when he’d first made his unforgettable appearance at his mother’s funeral had revealed he had no fixed abode, or, if he did, he’d kept it very well hidden.

Even if Zufar knew his whereabouts, he had no time to go chasing after him. He acknowledged with a bitter laugh how well timed Adir’s revenge had been. His half-brother knew that doing this now would cause the most humiliation. The most uproar.

Zufar wasn’t about to hand him that victory. Not in this lifetime.

He whirled to face the young chambermaid. ‘When did they leave?’

Her throat worked again. But this time she wasn’t silent for very long. ‘I brought her tea, and left her alone for just ten minutes.’ Her voice was wracked with nerves and anguish. She began to wring her hands again. ‘I had gone to get the royal jewellery when I heard the commotion.’

‘So you saw them leave together?’

Her head moved in a shaky nod. ‘Yes.’

‘And you’re sure he didn’t harm her?’ Zufar demanded.

‘She—she didn’t appear in distress, Your Highness. She seemed...willing.’

The tightness in his chest eased a tiny fraction. ‘How did they leave?’

She pointed to the very window where he stood.

Zufar’s jaw clenched tight. They were on the second floor, with nothing outside the windows but climbing vines. Granted, they were over a century old and sturdy enough to hold a horse, but had his barbarian brother really whisked his betrothed out of a second-floor window?

‘Did anyone else see them?’

‘Only Her Highness, the Princess, but they were almost on the ground when she came in.’

Zufar frowned. Why hadn’t Galila informed him?

Had she tried to stop them and been unsuccessful? Most likely Galila was keeping well out of Zufar’s way because she knew how he would take the news.

‘How soon after did you raise the alarm?’

Guilt flickered across her face and her lower lip trembled once more.

‘Seconds? Minutes?’ he snapped.

She paled. ‘I—I’m sorry... I thought... I thought it was a prank.’

‘It wasn’t. And your failure to raise the alarm in time may have aided his getaway.’ Zufar was sure of it.

She shrank further into the wall. He whirled away, tension threatening to break his spine.

The scandal just waiting to be triggered by such a revelation struck him stone cold. But under no circumstances was he going to let that happen.

He shoved the piece of paper into his pocket and closed his mind to the burning gross insult against his kingdom and his crown. He would deal with his half-brother later. For now he needed an interim solution to this situation. One that did not involve calling off his wedding.

A quick glance around the room showed the suspended state of preparation.

The gown that should’ve been adorning his bride-to-be by was draped over a mannequin, the heeled slippers peeking out beneath its hem.

Detachedly, he inspected the rest of the room as he mentally ran through the list of other bridal candidates that had been presented to him when the subject of his nuptials first came up a year ago. Like most royal arranged marriages, although one choice had been favoured above the others, there were always contingencies in case of sudden unsuitability.

Three of those candidates were downstairs, ruled out as potential brides to the King and reduced to honoured guests at his wedding. Could one of them be elevated to the position that would turn out to be a dream come true for them?

Zufar’s lips twisted.

There was no way to execute that plan without announcing to the whole world that he’d been jilted. That would only result in frenzied tabloid gossip the media would feed off for years.

Not that any solution he came up with wouldn’t cause ripples. But keeping it under wraps until he was ready would control the beast.

Which meant he had to keep the circle of trust as tight as possible while he found a quieter, interim solution.

But to mitigate the uproar of impending scandal, he needed a bride; needed to ensure he was married within the next two hours before news that he’d been jilted got out.

His reason for choosing his new bride would need to be explained, of course. That would be a problem for tomorrow.

He turned away from the wedding gown and came face to face with the chambermaid. He’d forgotten about her. To be honest, she was barely breathing, striving to be as unobtrusive as possible. Zufar was surprised she hadn’t fled while his back was turned.

Her wide-eyed gaze fixed on him, watchful and wary as she followed his pacing figure.

He slowed to a stop on the next pass, an impossibly ludicrous idea taking root in his brain. ‘How long have you been in my palace?’ he asked.

‘All...um... Most of my life, Y-Your Highness,’ she stammered.

He gave a satisfied inner nod. She would know his customs, know the value of discretion.

Sweet desert stars, was he really entertaining this preposterous notion? ‘And how old are you?’ Zufar growled.

She swallowed, her nostrils quivering delicately as she inhaled. ‘Twenty-five, Your Highness.’

He stared at her for a full minute, then nodded briskly. There was neither chagrin nor prevarication in the decision his brain latched onto.

He needed a solution, and he’d found one. His gaze dropped down to her twisting ringless fingers. ‘Do you have a husband?’ he asked.

A deep blush flamed her cheeks, her gaze flitting away from his again as she shook her head. ‘No, Your Highness, I am unmarried.’

Just to be sure, he probed deeper. ‘Are you committed to another?’

Her mouth tightened for the briefest second, but she shook her head before she mumbled, ‘No.’

He wanted to demand that she repeat that. To look him in the eyes while she did so. But time was slipping through his fingers.

Zufar’s chest filled with grim purpose as his gaze sprang from the unsuitable woman before him to the wedding dress, and back again. She was roughly the same size as Amira, if perhaps a little bustier and wider of hip than his...former fiancée. Their heights too were similar and so, from what he could see beneath the blotchiness and drabness, was their colouring.