Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (18 page)

Surrendering, she looks into my dark eyes, such a contrast to hers. I narrow mine, and can’t begin to comprehend what she means, when she tells me self-depreciatingly, “You got the wrong end of this bargain. I’m sorry.” Again the slight tug to escape my touch.

My grip tightens a little. “What the hell do you mean?” There’s a touch of anger in my voice which I can’t control. The bite in my voice increases her nervousness; I feel her tension through my fingers. She tries to pull against me, so I release my hold, not wanting to scare her more that she already is.

“What do I mean? Just look at me?” Her voice is sharp. Free, she takes a step aside, moving away from me. “This marriage is a joke.” Her eyes flicker around the room as though she looking anywhere but me. “It’s beauty and the beast, but I’m certainly not the beauty.” The final words come out as a whisper, and a tear drops from her eye.

She might not have meant it as an admission, but I have a sudden surge of relief as I realise that, in a roundabout way, she’s just admitted she finds me attractive. Maybe tonight has possibilities after all. But referring to herself as a beast? My hands pull her back to the position she’d been standing in before. This time, I use a rougher, stronger grip as I take hold of her chin, and force her head up. Once more I command so she cannot disobey. “Eyes on me!” I speak sharply.

“Should I put my veil back on?” She spits the words out.

I study her, seeing unshed tears in her eyes. For some reason she thinks she’s a disappointment to me, but that assumption couldn’t be further from the truth. Her reaction arouses some long-forgotten caring instinct. I thought such feelings were dead but, instead, they must have been buried, lying dormant, deep inside of me.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her.

“Beautiful?” She pulls her body up straight and snaps. “I don’t need your pity or your lies.” Taking me by surprise with her vigour, she shrugs away from my touch.

She’s angry. It’s the first sign of animation she’s displayed since entering the tent. I’d like to see her spirited, but not when it’s at her expense. She’s intimating I’m not telling the truth, and I baulk at the suggestion I’m a liar. But I hold my temper, wondering what’s behind it all, and trying to understand her behaviour. I shake my head slowly; in truthfulness, she’s much more than I had envisaged of my kidnapped bride. But how can she not know how attractive she is? Perhaps not in a classical way; with her small, slender frame and the way her features are put together,she reminds me of a pixie.

“Haven’t you looked in a mirror?” I ask.

“I never look in mirrors. I know what I look like,” she barks back, almost baring her teeth, as her eyes challenge me to disagree.

Staring at her, taking her in, I realise that, despite her apparent anger and the strength she showed in winning the battle over her tears, she’s broken. Broken, just like me. Instead of wanting to break her further, I have the sudden urge to fix her. Realising she has no fucking idea how she appears to me, I close my eyes, gathering the words to convince her. Opening them again, I give her an intense stare, confronting the defiance in her expression. Gentling my voice, I tell her, “Let me be your mirror.”

Inching closer I push forwards until I’m invading her personal space. I raise my hand, smoothing it over her face. My fingers rest by her right eye. “Your eyes are big, and a beautiful blue.” They were shimmering with tears, but I ignore them. My hand moves down gently, but with enough pressure so she’s aware of my touch. “Your nose is small; it turns up at the end.” I smile. “I like that.” My fingers now move across her mouth. “Your lips are full and round. They’re sexy.”

Cara

I’ve become angry with the sheikh! I can’t help it; I know what I am, what I look like, and I can’t stand people bloody lying to me. All my life I’ve had it, and I’m sick of false platitudes. I’m overweight and scarred: let’s call it for what it is. My temper burns inside and I can’t control it, even though there’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me this is the one man in the world I seriously can’t afford to anger. I shrug his hand off my face and turn away, embarrassed by his scrutiny. A tear escapes from my eye as I admit to myself how much I want this man to want me, rather than being forced to take me – and how impossible that desire is.

He doesn’t respond to my flash of anger in any way I expect. He tilts his face to one side, looking serious, and I tense, realising he’s not going to let it drop. He begins caressing my face, speaking to me with a voice that’s mesmerising, the same deep, authoritative tone I noticed his brothers use. I feel hysteria bubble up, fleetingly wondering whether they teach that at sheikh school or something. But as his words drift over me, repeated so I start to absorb their meaning, he seems to be instilling a sense of calmness in me. Suddenly I begin to comprehend his words.
Sexy? He thinks my mouth is sexy?
For Christ’s sake, is the man blind?

My eyes open wide as his examination and verbal descriptions continue in that velvety voice that resonates within me, instigating feelings I’ve never felt before. No one has ever touched me so gently, or even caressed me at all. The only touches I can recall are the ineffective potions and lotions applied to try to counteract the rampant acne that plagued me. The feeling of his hand on my skin is sending messages to other parts of my body, setting off a cascade of tingles reaching right down to the tips of my toes; alien sensations and longings that I’ve read about, imagined, but never experienced before. This handsome man standing before me, his bare chest allowing me to see the rippling of his muscles outlining his graceful movements … I wish he’d stop touching me; no, that’s wrong: I don’t want him to stop. No longer do I want him to walk away from me in disgust. I pray there’s something weird about him and he
does
find me attractive. I’m still scared, but something stronger than my fear is glueing my feet to the ground encouraging me to stay, to see where this leads.
Would I enjoy being bedded by him?
My breathing quickens as though my body is out of my control. The drum beats filtering into the tent have speeded up, pounding in my head, controlling the pace of blood flowing through my veins. I’m losing control of my body and my mind, and it scares me stiff.

As he continues to examine my face, I try to break the mood. “Are you going to check my teeth next? I promise they’re all my own.”

He laughs softly, shaking his head, and brings up his other hand so both cup and caress my cheeks.

I flinch as I realise what he is touching. “My scars,” I whisper, ashamed. “They’re so ugly. I had acne as a child.” I know he must be feeling the raised, discoloured bumps which mar my skin.

“We’ve all got scars.” He’s dismissive, as if it’s of no consequence. “And yours are hardly noticeable.” Before I can object, explain he’s wrong, describe how my scarring has ruled my life, he deepens the tone of his voice. “Take off the hijab! Your headscarf.” His palms cease their exploration of my face.

I hesitate, only for a second, thoughts of the way I look for once vanishing into the background. He seems to be the one in control as my hands reach up automatically and pull off the scarf. My hair’s long, a nondescript, mousy-brown colour, the one most people cover up with dye. I don’t bother cutting it in any particular style it so it falls straight, reaching almost to my waist.

He touches it, almost reverently. “So soft,” he murmurs.

Again I shrug. It’s hair. It’s long. It flops down over my face and gets in the way. Nothing special. So I tell him: “It’s mousy, lank …”

Nijad takes a step back; his beautiful olive skin illuminated by the golden light of the lamps hanging from the roof. His brow furrows and his demeanour changes as he hazards a guess.

“Who did this to you? Who destroyed your confidence?” He sounds furious and looks like a warrior. His posture frightens me, but I quickly realise he’s not angry with me. My first glimpse of the fierce sheikh and his wrath is in my defence.

“No one,” I gasp back. He’s hit the nail on the head, but I’m not going to discuss it. I’d been told the truth; I confirmed it the last time I looked into a mirror, and have carried that mental picture with me ever since. Everything Nijad has told me flees my mind; the words spoken seven years ago coming back into my head. I hear his voice again. The voice of my father. I look round one way then the other, frantically trying to find an escape route. I can’t have this conversation, can’t admit how that man destroyed me with just a few well-placed words. I’ve nowhere to run, so there’s only one thing I can do to avoid this conversation. I take a deep breath.

“Look, can’t we just get it over and done with?”

“It? What do you mean: it?” His eyes are hooded, unreadable.

As blood rushes to my face, my only answer is a blush. He’s trying to hold back a smile.

“You’re going to have to tell me what you mean. It was you who wanted to talk. For us to get to know each other.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” I’m flustered. I don’t talk about myself; I never admit what made me who I am.

“So have I,” he replies thoughtfully. He takes another step back as though giving me space, and I feel a sudden chill, missing his closeness. “Talk to me. Who was it?” His voice changes again; while not loud, it was still commanding. “Tell me!”

I can’t tell him. I start to beg for him to leave it alone; my voice comes out as a whisper.

“Please, please no. Not now. I can’t talk about it. I can’t tell you.” It’s embarrassing and humiliating, and I want him to leave the subject alone.

He looks at me for a long while. What he sees makes him take pity on me, as he relents and doesn’t press me further. I find I can breathe again. But his next words stun me.

“Cara, you are a beautiful woman.” He smiles. “Believe me: I, your husband, think you’re beautiful.” He touches his fingers briefly to my lips. “That’s all you have to think about tonight. No one else matters. But one day, and soon, you will tell me why you find that so hard to accept.” His voice lowers, and his face grows stern. “Trust me, Cara. Believe me. I can’t abide liars and I, myself, never lie.”

My mouth drops open as I read the sincerity on his face. Can it possibly be true? Can he find me attractive? How can he? Then the other word in the sentence hits me hard. Husband! God, he really is my husband. And he isn’t put off by the way I look. Immediately I find an explanation: cheap words to get me into his bed.
But hang on: he’s on a certainty tonight
.
He needn’t lie or cajole to get me there
. I stare at him, but however hard I try I can see no disgust on his face, no disappointment. I exhale a sigh, as if an enormous weight has been lifted off me. I feel my shoulders relax, and my fear begins to transform into something else, the beginnings of hunger that his words have awakened deep inside. Now a different type of shiver that runs down my spine and my breathing quickens as I raise my eyes to his. What he sees there makes further conversation unnecessary.

The atmosphere becomes charged; we both know we’ve reached a turning point. I watch his face grow taut with expectation and intention. Cocking his head to one side, he considers me. I feel a rising excitement as I wait for his next words.

“I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Cara.” His soft, but authoritative tones allow his earnestness to shine through. “But I hope you want to please your sheikh, your husband.”

My insides seem to twist at his words. I look up into his ruggedly handsome face. As innocent as I am I can’t misunderstand what he is asking. I realise it’s equally impossible for me not to agree. Yes, I do want to please this incredible vision of a man standing in front of me, although I’m sure that I’ll be a disappointment to him. My experience is zero; anything I know about what might happen between us is purely theoretical, and vicariously gained from the books I have read. But I trust him to open up a whole new world for me; I don’t know why, or at what point it started, but I feel safe enough to place myself in his hands. So with a husky catch to my voice I give him a simple, but honest, answer. “Yes.”

He nods slowly, indicating his pleasure. His features remain tight, looking like he’s fighting to maintain control as he commands me softly, “Take off your tunic.”

His request startles me. In my anticipation of this moment, I’d pictured him tearing off my clothes while I resist him, valiantly trying to protect my virtue. Or even of him undressing me slowly and seductively, like I’d seen on films. I had never envisioned that I would voluntarily bare myself for him, but my heartbeat quickens with this almost illicit instruction as I prepare to be naked in front of him. I hesitate, uncertain I can do this, but, as he stands patiently waiting, giving me time to process his command, I find my hands going to the buttons of their own volition and the action thrills me. As I slowly undo them, one by one, I see his eyes narrow and darken in appreciation of my uncertain striptease, and his legs shift, drawing my attention to his groin where his jeans are bulging. Warmth from my core makes my skin flush.
I didn’t expect to have this effect on him
. The knowledge makes me bolder so I push the robe off my shoulders.

“Fuck! What the hell is that?” he barks, incredulously, breaking the moment.

As his eyes open wide in surprise, homing in on my wrist, I suddenly remember with horror the knife, still bandaged to my arm. I start as fear and embarrassment flood through me.