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“Good enough.” The sheikh sat down on the couch next to her, far too close to her. And then he turned so that he fully faced her. “How about we start with ‘Your Royal Highness’?”
She swallowed, nodded and scribbled the words onto the top of the page before looking up at him.
“Something has come to my attention that cannot be ignored. It is an urgent personal matter, and I wouldn’t bring it to you if it weren’t important.” He paused, looked over her shoulder to see what she’d written. “Good. You’ve almost got it all. And it’s very nice handwriting, but I’d appreciate it if you took shorthand. It’s hard to get my thoughts out when you’re writing so slowly.”
She nodded, staring blindly at the notepad, so hot and cold that she barely registered a word he said.
She couldn’t do this. Heavens, how could she when she couldn’t even breathe? Couldn’t seem to get any air into her lungs at all. Was she having a panic attack? It had happened once before, on the night of her sixteenth birthday after her father had broken the news about her adoption.
She’d nearly collapsed that night as her throat had seized.
Her throat felt squeezed closed now. Her head spun. And it was all because Sheikh Al-Koury was sprawling on the couch next to her, taking up all the space, as he dictated a letter to her fiancé, King Patek.
A letter about an urgent personal matter.
Emmeline’s head swam.
What could Makin Al-Koury possibly have to say to King Patek that was urgent or personal? If they were close friends, the sheikh wouldn’t have her dictate a letter. He’d send Zale a text, or an email or pick up the phone and call. No, a formal letter was reserved for acquaintances. And bearing bad news.
“You missed a line,” Sheik Al-Koury said, leaning close to point to the page. “The last thing I just said, about me discovering some disturbing information concerning his fiancée, Princess Emmeline d’Arcy. Write it down, please.”
He waited while she slowly wrote each word.
“Your handwriting is getting smaller,” he said. “Good thing I’ll have you type it before sending. Now to continue. Where were we? Right, about his duplicitous fiancée, Princess—”
“I have that part,” she interrupted huskily.
“Not duplicitous.”
“You didn’t say it the first time.”
“I said it now. Put it in. It’s important. He needs to know.”
Her pen hovered over the page. She couldn’t make it move. She couldn’t do this anymore.
“Hannah,” he said sharply. “Finish the letter.”
She shook her head, bit her lip. “I can’t.”
“You must. It’s vital I get this letter off. King Patek is a good person—a man of great integrity—and one of the few royals I truly like. He needs to be told, at the very least warned, that his fiancée can’t be trusted. That she’s unscrupulous and amoral and she’ll bring nothing but shame—”
“If you’ll excuse me,” she choked, rising from the couch, eyes burning, stomach heaving. “I don’t feel so well.”
Emmeline raced to the bathroom, closed the door and sat down on the cold marble floor next to the deep tub. She felt so sick she wished she’d throw up.
Instead she heard Sheikh Al-Koury’s words swirl and echo around in her head. Duplicitous. Unscrupulous. Amoral.
They would be her mother’s words, too. There would be no one to take her side or speak up for her in defense. Her family would judge her and punish her just as they always had. Just as they always did.
The bathroom door softly opened and a shadow fell across the white marble floor. Jaw set defiantly, she glanced up at Makin as he filled the doorway, a silent challenge in her blue eyes.
Makin gazed down at the princess where she sat on the floor, a slender arm wrapped around her knees.
Considering her precarious situation, he would have thought she’d be timid or tearful, or pleading for forgiveness, but she was none of those things. Instead of meeting his gaze meekly, she stared him in the eye, her chin lifted rebelliously, her full lips stubbornly compressed.
One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. Was this how she intended to play it? As if he was the villain and she the victim?
How fascinating.
She was a far better actress than he’d given her credit for. Last night she’d moved him with her touching vulnerability. He, who felt so little real emotion, had felt so much for her. He’d wanted to strap on a sword and rush to her defense. He’d wanted to be a hero, wanted to provide her with the protection she so desperately seemed to need.
But it had all been an act. She wasn’t Hannah, nor was she fragile, but a conniving, manipulative princess who cared for no one but herself.
