Wedlocked: Banished Sheikh, Untouched Queen. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
we will eat.’ Xavian broke into her thoughts with his clear order—so clear Layla realised it would be petty to argue. ‘Our wedding feast awaits.’
She sat at the low table, her knees towards him, her feet behind, as a discreet servant filled two heavy gold cups with a rich sweet nectar. She knew from her readings, and from Baja’s teachings, what it was: a thick, unique strain of honey that had been mixed with twenty ground almonds and one hundred pine nuts to aid in arousal. To that rare mix ground poppyseeds had been added, to foster disinhibition, and it would be fed to them each night in the desert, as was the correct way. She let him feed her the potent brew that promised him her full arousal, and had to gulp the sticky liquid as he poured it quickly, too quickly for her taut throat and mouth. Some trickled down her chin, and her fingers caught the stray droplets. Because she must drink each last drop, as was the rule, she licked her fingers clean and realised she was shaking—realised, as she picked up the cup to feed Xavian his share of the potion, that she did not want to.
Didn’t want to feed him or his ardour,
He was so male.
And soon she would be glad of that, Layla reminded herself. Soon, she would be grateful that her chosen mate had such an excellent physique, that the man who would be her only lover, who would father her children and give her Haydar’s heirs, was such a fine specimen.
She just had to get this night over with—had to see for the first time a naked man, had to perform her wifely duty—and one day soon, Layla told herself, his body, his maleness, would not scare her so; one day soon, she promised herself, this would no longer be foreign.
The seated musician was still gently playing the qanoon, skilfully plucking the strings far slower than her rapid heartbeat. The harp-like music was filling the tent and inflaming her nerves.
She held the cup to his mouth and poured the brew tentatively, watching him swallow, fearing those lips that would soon be on hers and that body that would soon be pressed to her own.
She was dizzy with a fear born of too many nights alone. Baja had told her a little of what to expect and would, she had promised, tell her more when she prepared her.
He finished his potion and she remained by his side.
As was correct.
The wedding feast had been carefully prepared. Far from the lavish feast that would adorn the tables at their formal reception, this was a light, thoughtfully chosen meal for a bridal couple, so their bellies would not be full and their senses would still be sharp. It consisted of sweet, succulent fruits that would give energy and promote fertility, and was to be eaten with their fingers.
There was no conversation, just eyes watching and waiting as they fed each other—once he leant forward, so close she could feel the heat from his skin as he pushed back her hair so she could eat the sticky fruit, and she felt her stomach tighten in anticipation of all that was to come. He inhaled her scent and she felt his breath on her neck, just a cool dust of a breeze, and the fear that was rising within tipped into something different. A strange flutter of excitement was stirring deep inside—tonight she would know, tonight, it would be revealed: the secret, the reward, the answer she had sought on those lonely, empty nights.
Small dishes were offered, eaten, and then removed, till the table was bare. It would be time soon. She watched as he parted a pomegranate and offered her half. The tiny beaded seeds were sweet on her tongue, but still her head was spinning. The scent of musk was having a giddying effect, and the qanoon’s notes were more urgent now. She drank mint tea so her mouth would be fresh for him, and his eyes roamed her body, lingering on her breasts, which felt heavy now. She had never been more aware of them. Safely hidden behind robes, she rarely gave them a thought, but now they ached under his languishing scrutiny. And then his eyes slowly moved along the flood of pink that swept up her chest and neck, that warmed her cheeks. His eyes met and held hers, and she didn’t know how to breathe. Her tongue felt too slow, too taut as it bobbed out to moisten dry lips, and she was flooded with the urge for his mouth to claim hers, to taste not the fruit but him.
She was, Xavian realised, ready.
And then it was time, and she wished she could have stayed at the table for a little while longer, wished he had kissed her, wished the night was not so formal, wished they were alone. Because for just a moment or two she had had her first glimpse of arousal. His rare beauty, the unique scent of him, the bold way he had looked at her, made her greedy with a sudden need for more—except Baja was leading her away for bathing as Xavian headed to the bed, and never had her terror been more acute, but never had she been so excited.
Part of her wanted to run out to the desert, to flee, but now she found she wanted the moment too. She no longer wanted it over with, because her body was curious in a different way, because out of the circle of his aura her heart and senses were fading to near normal—and she was sure it had nothing to do with the fruits or the poppyseeds.
In the bathroom the maidens bathed and oiled her. She had been hennaed for him in Haydar: apart from the trail of flowers coiling over her ankles and hands, low on her stomach there was a butterfly, and she shuddered with the sudden thought of that decadent mouth there…
Only Baja was telling her to expect something different.
There would be perhaps a perfunctory kiss, Baja explained as she climbed out of the scented bath and the maidens readied her, and then the King would take care of everything. She would lift her nightgown, more oil would be by the bed, and hopefully the King would use it. If not the bath she had lain in was loaded with oil, so she would be soft and tender.
It would not take long, Baja assured her. Two, maybe three thrusts to take her virginity. And because the King would be unsheathed, and after the potent food, and with the heady rose and musk in which she had bathed, it would be over with quickly.
But Layla wanted more—wanted more of what she had glimpsed at his table.
‘Should I touch him…?’ Layla asked. She was a perfectionist, good at everything, and suddenly she wanted to be a good lover for her husband too. But Baja just laughed, and even the maidens giggled. Oh, they knew all about King Xavian and his endless women. Gossip amongst palace staff was rife, even if the kingdoms were separated by miles. Baja had a cousin who worked in the royal chambers at the Qusay palace, and knew there were lovers ready and waiting to step in as soon as Layla was safely home and the King back in his palace.
Layla’s body was needed for one reason only; she did not have to worry herself with such things!
‘His mistresses will take care of all that for you.’ Baja was attempting to reassure her, but her words were hailstones on Layla’s warm body. Cold and stinging, they forced a new emotion: jealousy, for the unknown faces that would take care of her husband’s most private needs. ‘Don’t worry, Your Highness,’ Baja continued, calling her by her title, as she always did in front of the maidens. ‘It will be just once or twice a month till you’re impregnated that you must suffer his attentions, and then you can rest for a year at least.’
A nightdress was slipped over her damp, oiled body, her hair brushed and her lips rouged, and then she was declared ready.
She parted the flimsy drapes and walked into his chamber.
Oil lamps and candles lit the room; the vast low bed was decorated with sheer organza. The qanoon was still being played in the main area of the tent, breaking the silence of the desert, its soft seductive notes meant to ease her passage to his arms.
He was on the bed—naked, she was sure, beneath the silken sheet that covered his lower half. He was just as impressive out of uniform. His broad chest and long muscular arms would make light work for the palace tailor, for his masculinity did not need enhancing. There were dark scars around his wrist. At first, in the candlelight, Layla thought he had been hennaed too, but, no, they were scars. But it was not her place to notice, so instead she looked up at him, watched as his arrogant, haughty face softened a touch as she walked towards him.
She wished for a moment that she was his lover, not his wife.
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