And if he hadn’t then, surely now he had.
Marriage. He had no idea what he’d been thinking. On a personal level, anyway. On a political level he’d been thinking quite clearly.
But Samarah Al-Azem, in his life, in his bed, was the last thing he’d been looking for. In part because he’d thought she was dead.
Though he needed a wife, and he knew it. He was long past due. And yet…and yet he’d never even started his search. Because he was too busy. Because he had no time to focus on such matters.
Much easier to marry Samarah. Heal the rift between the countries, ensure she was cared for. His pound of flesh. Because it wasn’t as though he wanted this for himself.
But then, it was better that way. He didn’t allow himself to want.
This was about atonement. About making things right.
Want didn’t come into it. For Ferran, it never had. And it never would.
* * *
Samarah woke up. She had no idea what time it was. There was no natural light in the dungeon. If there had been a torch on the wall, she wouldn’t have been terribly surprised.
But then, that might have been a kindness too many. Not that Ferran owed her a kindness at this point.
Not all things considered.
But she hadn’t been looking to repair bridges. She’d been looking to finish it all.
You can’t finish it from in here…
“No,” she said out loud. “Fair enough.”
But the alternative was to agree to marry him. Or to give the appearance of an alliance.
Anger, revulsion, burned in her blood.
She could not ally herself with him. But…
But every predator knew that in order to catch prey successfully, there was a certain amount of lying in wait involved.
She squeezed her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms, the manacle heavy on her ankle. Diplomacy was, perhaps not her strongest point. But she knew about lying in wait. As she’d done in his room last night.
This would be an extended version of that. She would have to make him trust her. She would have to play along. And then…then she could have her revenge before the world if she chose.
The idea had appeal. Though, putting herself in proximity with Ferran, pretending to be his fiancée, did not.
She lay back down on the bench, one knee curled into her chest, the chained leg held out straight. She closed her eyes again, and when she opened them, it was to the sound of a door swinging open.
“Have you made up your mind?”
She knew who the voice belonged to. She didn’t even have to look.
She sat up, trying to shake out the chill that had settled into her bones. She looked at Ferran’s outline in the darkness. “I will marry you,” she said.
* * *
The room Ferran showed her to after her acceptance was a far cry from the dungeon. But Samarah was very aware of the fact that it was only a sparkling version of a cell. A fact Ferran underlined as he left her.
“You will not escape,” he said. “There are guards around the perimeter. And there will be no border crossing possible for you as my patrol will be put on alert. You will be trapped in the country should you decide to try and leave, and from there, I will find you. And you will have lost your reprieve.”
He was foolish for worrying, though. She had nothing to go back to. No one waiting for her. And she had arrived at her goal point. Why would she go back to Jahar with nothing accomplished?
It was true that Jahar was not as dangerous for her as it had once been. In the past five years there had been something of an uneasy transition from a totalitarian rule established by the revolutionaries, who had truly only wanted power for themselves, into a democracy. Though it was a young democracy, and as such, there were still many lingering issues.
Still, the deposition of the other leaders had meant that she no longer had a target on her back, at least. But she had no place, either.
That meant she was perfectly happy to stay here, right in Ferran’s home, while she thought of her next move.
Well, perhaps perfectly happy was an overstatement, but it was better than being back in an old room in a shop in Jahar.
She looked around, a strange tightness in her chest. This was so very familiar, this room. She wondered if it was, perhaps, the same room she’d sometimes stayed in when she and her family had come to visit the Bashar family. In happier times. Times that hardly seemed to matter, given how it had all ended.
Lush fabrics were draped over marble walls, the glittering red and jade silks offering a peek at the obsidian and gold beneath. Richness layered over unfathomable richness. The bed was the same. Draped yards of fabric in bold colors, the frame constructed around the bed decorated with yet more.
Divans, pillows, rugs, all of it served to add softness to a room constructed from stone and precious gems.
And the view—a tall, tower room that looked beyond the walls of the palace gardens, beyond the walls of the city and out to the vast dunes. An orange sun casting burning gold onto the sands.
There was a knock on the grand, carved double doors and she turned. “Yes?”
One door opened and a small woman came in. Samarah knew her as Lydia, another woman who worked in the palace, and with whom Samarah had had some interaction over the course of the past month.
“Sheikha,” Lydia said, bowing her head.
So it had begun. Samarah couldn’t deny the small flash of…pleasure that arched through her when the other woman said her title. Though it had been more years gone than she’d been with it, it was a title that was in her blood.
Still, she was a bit disturbed by the idea of Lydia knowing any details of what had passed between Ferran and herself. More disturbing though was just what she’d been led to believe about their relationship.
The idea of being Ferran’s wife…his lover…it was revolting.
She thought of the man he was. Strong, powerful. Broad shoulders, lean waist. Sharp dark eyes, a square jaw. He was clean shaven, unusual for a man in his part of the world, but she couldn’t blame him. For he no doubt used his looks to his advantage in all things.
He was extraordinarily handsome, which was not a point in his favor as far as she was concerned. It was merely an observation about her enemy.
Beauty meant little. Beauty was often deceitful.
She knew that she was considered a great beauty, like her mother before her. And men often took that to mean she was soft, easy to manipulate, easy to take advantage of. As a result some men had found themselves with a sword trained at vulnerable parts of their body.
Yes, she knew beauty could be used to hide strength and cunning. She suspected Ferran knew that, as well.
She had spent the past month observing his physical strength, but she feared she may have underestimated the brilliance of her adversary.
“I have brought you clothes,” Lydia said, “at the sheikh’s instruction. And he says that you are to join him for dinner when the sun sinks below the dunes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did he really say it like that?”
“He did, my lady.”
“Do you not find it odd?”
A small smile tugged at Lydia’s lips. “I am not at liberty to say.”