Sheikh's Mail-Order Bride Read Free

eyes set beneath luxuriantly bushy brows, his beard was trimmed to a sharp point. His bony fingers were impeccably manicured. His pinched face and pained expression were at odds with his expensive-looking robes. Screwing up his face, he produced a piece of parchment and unrolled it with a flourish. ‘Lady Constance Montgomery?’
    Her name sounded odd when spoken with his accent, but it was definitely her name. With a sinking heart, Constance made an awkward curtsy. The wound on her head began to throb. One of the women had removed the tiny stitches only that morning. The skin felt tight, but the stabbing pain behind her eyes had long since faded, and the resultant headaches were all but gone.
    â€˜Welcome to the kingdom of Murimon. You will come with me.’
    It was a command, not a request. Constance had time only to make swift and rather tearful farewells while the official took Bashir aside. A few minutes later, she clasped the elder’s hands, expressing her abject thanks as best she could, before being ushered aboard the dhow.
    She spent the journey huddled in the cabin, unexpectedly overcome with fear as the ship set sail. It was ridiculous of her, for the sea was flat calm, the skies above perfectly clear, the wind a gentle zephyr, but as she placed her bare feet on the deck and felt the gentle sway of the boat, a cold, clammy sweat broke out on her skin. Her ears were filled once more with the roar of the waves, the crack of the masts, and the screams of the Kent’s passengers. Thankfully, the official who escorted her seemed content to leave her alone, though whether for reasons of propriety or simply because he was offended by her presence here, she had no idea.
    * * *
    The sun was going down when they arrived at the port. Constance staggered from the dhow and into a covered chair, caring nothing save that they were on dry land. The chairmen moved off swiftly. As she closed her eyes in an effort to compose herself, she was aware that they were climbing but of little else. Set down in a huge enclosed courtyard, she blinked in the glow of what seemed like a thousand candles, but the zealous official was already waving her on urgently, giving her no choice but to follow.
    She padded in the wake of the man along the smooth, polished marble floors of endless corridors. She couldn’t begin to imagine how she must look, with her skin burning from the day’s sun, her wound like a brand on her forehead, her feet bare, and the rough brown tunic she wore big enough to encompass at least two of her.
    As they came to a massive double door presided over by a hulking guard with a huge sabre, the reality of her situation dawned abruptly on her. She was in a foreign country, quite alone, and completely at the mercy of whoever was on the other side of this door. Captain Cobb? She presumed there must be other survivors of the shipwreck. It was too awful to contemplate that six hundred souls had perished and that miraculously she had not.An official equerry? A prison guard? A harem eunuch? The colour drained from her cheeks.
    Constance shook out the copious folds of her borrowed tunic over her bare toes, and pushed her hair back from her face. Her heart was racing. Her legs were shaking. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly as the doors were flung open.

Chapter Two
    C onstance found herself in a huge room with a domed ceiling illuminated by three massive, glittering chandeliers lit with hundreds of candles so bright they dazzled her, making bright spots dance in front of her eyes. In the doorway beside her, two identical statues stood sentinel, some type of mythical sabre-toothed felines who looked as if they were about to pounce and devour her. She shivered.
    A man stood at the far end of the salon gazing out of a row of tall windows into the darkness beyond. He was dressed from head to toe in white silk robes, his cloak woven with golden threads. Diamonds glittered in the band which held his