Stolen Lives (Blood Brothers Book 1) (21 page)

“Stop that! Why the fuck do you think you’re overweight?” His hands move down to my bum and squeeze gently. “There’s not an ounce of fat on you.” He tenses as a thought occurs to him. “You’re not anorexic, are you?”

“No, but …”

He’s not going to let me finish. “And you don’t know what attraction we’d have felt had we met under different circumstances. Maybe it’s fate that brought us together. Who knows?” He pauses. “And it works both ways. I very much doubt you’d have chosen me.”

Again I laugh, this time more loudly. “No, of course I wouldn’t have chosen a handsome sheikh to be my husband. Come off it.”

He chuckles. “Handsome?”

“You’ve seen me. All of me. You can’t pretend …”

“Stop! Stop it now!” His harshness halts me in my tracks. “You were about to accuse me of being a liar, and I’ve already told you: I do not lie.” He rolls over. He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face as he gently caresses it with one hand. “I need to know, Cara. You’re going to tell me why you have such low self-esteem.”

I go to pull away, but his other hand closes around my waist and holds me trapped in place. “Please, don’t …”

“Tell me.” It was that voice again.

I have the strong feeling he’s not going to let this go. Can I tell him? Here, in the darkness surrounding us? Can I expose that part of myself? That dreaded night? Maybe it’s time to tell someone. Hunter knows some of it, but not all. Nijad gives me a squeeze of reassurance and, strangely, I feel safe with him. He’s accepted my physical scars; maybe he’d accept my mental ones as well. I draw in a deep breath; it’s so hard for me to go back there, and my voice shakes as I start to explain. “It was Joseph Benting.”

His hand tightens around mine. “Your father?” When he feels me shrug rather than give a verbal response, he prompts me. “Continue.”

“I don’t, and didn’t, think of him as my father. I’d never met him. I knew his name; that was it.” I swallow, and his fingers press against me in encouragement. “It was my eighteenth birthday,” I tell him, closing my eyes, visualising the scene in my head. “Mum had moved us around all our lives so he couldn’t find us. I went to so many schools, never long enough to make friends.” I stop briefly, getting the strength to continue. “I didn’t understand why we had to travel so much. I was fifteen when Mum died. I stopped moving. The state found me a place in a community home, so there I stayed until I finished school.”

I risk a glance at him. Dawn must be breaking because there is just enough light to see him studying me intently. He stays silent, waiting for me to carry on.

“On my eighteenth birthday, I went to a pub with a few friends from college. Suddenly he appeared. He’d found me. I’d stayed in one place too long.”

“Benting?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?” he asks when I don’t resume immediately.

I take a deep breath. “He took one look at me and, in front of my new friends, told me that I was completely useless to him. He’d made plans for me, but I was so fat and ugly he’d have to shelve them. He said he had no idea how I’d turned out the way I had – my mother being such a beauty. He told me he’d been right: an atrocity like me should never have been born.”

As I spoke, Nijad folded his arms around me. He tensed as I finished my story.

“He told you that?” He sounds incredulous, his voice full of anger.

“Yes. His exact words. Well, it wasn’t news. I’d had acne from an early age, possibly down to the stress of being moved around so often. New girls, particularly chubby, unattractive ones, are often bullied at school. I didn’t make friends easily.”

“You didn’t have a good childhood.”

“Mum did what she could to protect me. I didn’t understand at the time. And she was so intent on keeping me safe, well, she wasn’t the most demonstrative of people. But I survived, and she loved me in her own way. I think I was a disappointment to her too. She’d been a model and there was no way I was walking in her footsteps.” I pause, and in the dark I grin, thinking about my passion. “It wasn’t all bad; there were always the horses.”

“Horses?”

“Yup.” My smile makes my voice lighter. “I soon discovered animals don’t criticise, and horses and horsey people don’t care if you’re chubby and spotty. No one looks good on a cold, wet morning, shovelling muck on the muck heap. Wherever we went, I used to find a yard that was happy to accept my help. They were always looking for someone willing to help clean out, tack up, and lead the learners around. I got paid in riding lessons.”

“Do you still ride?”

“No, I gave it up when Mum died.” My voice catches as I continue my tale. “A year before she died we moved for the last time. But it wasn’t until that night three years later I found out how right Mum was to try to keep me hidden from my father. His plans were to marry me off to one of his contacts as part of a business deal. He saw me as a possession, but when he met me in the flesh, well – to say I was a disappointment to him is an understatement. He’d expected me to inherit my mother’s looks. He disowned me.”

“For fuck’s sake!” he swears, and then adds something in his language that sounded vicious.

Suddenly I laugh. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? Your family wanted revenge, but you’ve done exactly what he wanted: married me off for his profit.”

He stays quiet for a while and I don’t know what he’s thinking. Just as I start to worry he moves his weight over me, his hands cradling my face, stroking down and over my scars. “I don’t lie, Cara,” he tells me forcefully. “I’m attracted to you. Fuck, after what we did earlier you must know that. I don’t think you are fat, or ugly.”

He puts his hand over my mouth as I take a breath, ready to speak.

“At eighteen you might still have had puppy fat, and your scarring was possibly worse, but you’ve grown into a beautiful woman. Feel how attracted I am to you.” Taking my hand in his, he pushes it down to where he’s sporting a very impressive erection. “I know you’ve been forced into this marriage with me, and I have no idea where we’re going to take this. But believe me, in no way do I find you or your looks a disappointment to me. You are more than I expected.”

He’s so soft, so kind, so comforting. And I can’t deny the hardness of the cock underneath my hand. But I’m still anxious.

“Nijad, I can’t be enough for you. I don’t know what to do. You have so much experience, and I have none …”

“Stop, stop right there.” He leans over and brushes his lips against mine, his hand moves down, covering my breast, his fingers teasing my nipple. I squirm in his arms. He chuckles. “You’re so responsive, Cara. I love the way you respond to me. Just let yourself go and follow my lead. I’d rather have you in my bed than any experienced courtesan.”

He doesn’t wait for my response. He just takes my mouth again and kisses me, his hands exploring my body, and all I can do is follow his lead as he takes me again to those heights again I’d thought impossible to reach.

Cara

Next time I open my eyes, daylight is seeping through the walls of the tent and, as sleep retreats, my brain starts to kick into gear as I realise I’m alone. The fact hits me like a blast of cold water. I turn over on to my stomach, leaning on my elbows and putting my head in my hands. In the hard light of day, I start to feel ashamed. I’ve lost my virginity to a complete stranger. Someone I know little about except that he has a virile body, and knows how to use it. My face reddens as I think about the night before, unable to deny I enjoyed every minute. Blushing, I recall his touch which caused the unfamiliar soreness between my legs, and the slight ache in my overused muscles. How many times did he bring me to orgasm? Too many to count!

But now it’s day, and I’ll have to face him. Sitting up, I look to the empty side of the bed and reach out my hand; the sheets are cold. He must have left me some time ago. I bite my lip. After the closeness in the dawn hours, I didn’t expect to wake on my own. His absence causes me to wonder. What will he expect or think of me in the harsh light of day? Is my role just to be a wife at night, a convenient bed partner? Or will I be involved in his life and, if so, what on earth can I expect that life to be? I can’t begin to imagine day-to-day living in this lonely small desert camp, so far removed from my work and my home. Just what will I be expected to do as the wife of a desert sheikh? The thought of snuggling back down into the bed and pulling the covers over my head to shut out the world seems extremely attractive, but then it strikes me: that was the old Cara. Something changed last night, something more than losing my virginity. I’ve spent far too long hiding away from the world. I can’t totally suppress my fear of this strange new life, but beneath that is excitement, an eagerness to embrace it. I was so frightened when I was kidnapped and brought here, but what have I got to go home to? Whatever my daytime relationship will be with Nijad, wouldn’t I prefer to experience a new way of living? Why not make the most of this new opportunity? I smile. My accountancy skills may not be in high demand in the desert, but I am apparently now a sheikha. Surely that must count for something?

Feeling certain sheikhas don’t hide away under the bed sheets, I pull myself up with a new determination. Immediately my eyes fall on an object by the side of the bed. I pick it up, curious. It’s a sheath with straps, and a handle is sticking out. I pull on it and expose a small, very sharp, dagger. Covering my mouth with my hand, I can’t stop a shout of laughter escaping as I realise my husband has fulfilled his promise with this unusual gift. As I handle its light weight, I understand that this present signifies he trusts me. The keenly honed blade could do serious damage, unlike the fruit knife of the night before. And the fact he remembered hasn’t escaped me. Feeling light-hearted and still giggling,

Seeing a robe obviously laid out for my use, I get out of bed and put it on, then make my way to the small, simple bathroom I find set up at the rear of the tent. There’s a mirror hanging on the wall and I automatically lower my eyes to avoid it. Then I hesitate. I’ve avoided looking directly at my reflection for too long. Was Nijad right? Have I changed? I try to raise my eyes, try to face it, but seven years of avoidance is a hard habit to break. Stupidly, I return to the bedroom and take hold of the dagger in its sheath, and then come back to the bathroom. I grasp the soft leather, gaining strength from it, remembering his words in the middle of the night. It still takes all my will power to set my line of vision on the glass in front of me, but I do it. I look into the mirror – and find a stranger looking back. A different
face, thinner. I run my hand down the scarring that covers my skin. It’s still there, but somehow it’s not as prominent as I remembered. I reach out my hand, touching the reflection as if to make sure it’s mine.
Hunter was right, I have changed.
I’m not that eighteen-year-old girl my father had insulted.
Is this really me?
Slowly I watch a smile come to my face.
It is me!
I put my hand over my mouth to suppress the giggle, feeling a weight lifted from me, and a new determination.

Pulling my hand back I notice a new toothbrush has been put out. I set about cleaning my teeth and relieving myself, unable to stop myself glancing at my reflection every now and again. I wouldn’t be gracing the cover of a magazine any time soon, but neither would I be sending children screaming for their mothers! I laugh again. Jeez! It took being kidnapped for me to realise I’d changed.

Realising I’ve been dallying, I turn to the shower. Well, if you can call it that. It isn’t very powerful, little more than a trickle really, but it’s a luxury I wouldn’t have expected to find in the desert wilderness. Once washed, I feel invigorated and bubbly inside. I’m a new person; my marriage has given me a second chance and I’m determined to take it and make of it what I can. Wincing slightly from my husband’s amorous attentions the night before, I re-enter the main tent to find I’m not alone.

“Good morning, Sheikha.” Lamis greets me with a bow and a friendly smile. “Your breakfast.” She waves a hand at food laid out on a flat table. “Eat, and then you dress.” A broad grin appears on her face. “His Excellency, the sheikh” – she pauses as if trying to find the right words in English – “is moving your clothes to this tent.”

She’s apparently making an important point, but I don’t get it. As I put my head on one side in a universal gesture of uncertainty she continues, “You are living in the sheikh’s tent, Your Highness. Not living in different
tent.”

As Lamis leaves, I ponder her announcement. Sharing Nijad’s tent? Lamis made it sound like it wasn’t the original intention, and that Nijad must have changed his plans. Not wanting to read any more into it than I should, I can’t help the whisper of pleasure inside me. It certainly sounds we were going to live separately, but that now I was to stay with him. Though my knowledge of the man is, admittedly, limited to his rather impressive prowess in bed, the implication that perhaps he’s willing to try to make this a real marriage – or, at least, give the relationship a go – makes me happy. Or is it just sex, and he wants me available in his bed? Oh, bloody hell!
Don’t overthink this, Cara
.

I’m starving, and by the time Lamis returns I have demolished the food that has been brought for me and am just finishing my coffee. After a nod of appreciation that I’ve cleared the plates entirely, Lamis turns to me.