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CHAPTER THREE
THE FLIGHT WAS smooth and the aircraft supremely comfortable but Suleiman couldn’t sleep. For the past seven hours during the journey to Qurhah, he had been kept awake by the tormenting thoughts of what he was doing.
He felt his heart clench. What was he doing?
Taking a woman to a man she did not love.
A woman he wanted for himself.
Restlessly, he moved noiselessly around the craft, wishing that there were somewhere to look other than at the sleeping Sara. But although he could have joined the two pilots in the cockpit or tried to rest in the sealed-off section at the far end of the plane, neither option appealed. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from her.
He wondered if the silent female servants who were sitting sentry had noticed the irresistible direction of his gaze. Or the fact that he had not left the side of the sleeping princess. But he didn’t care—for who would dare challenge him?
He had fulfilled the first part of his task by getting Sara on board the plane. He just wished he could shake off this damned feeling of guilt.
Their late exit from the cottage into the driving rain had left her soaking wet for she had stubbornly refused to use the umbrella he’d opened for her. And as she had sat shivering beside him in the car he’d fought the powerful urge to pull her into his arms and to rub at her cold flesh until she was warm again. But he had vowed that he would not touch her again.
He could never touch her again.
He let his eyes drift over her.
Stretched out in the wide aircraft seat in her crumpled jeans and sweater, she should have looked unremarkable but that was the very last thing she looked. He felt his gut tighten. The sculpted angles of her bone structure hinted at her aristocratic lineage and her eyelashes were naturally dark. Even her blonde hair, which had dried into tousled strands, looked like layered starlight.
She was beautiful.
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
His heart clenched as he turned away, but his troubled thoughts continued to plague him.
He knew the Sultan’s reputation. He knew that he was a charismatic man where women were concerned and that most of his former lovers still yearned for him. But Murat the Mighty was a desert man and he believed in destiny. He would marry the princess who had been chosen for him, for to do otherwise would be to renege on an ancient pact. He would marry and take his new bride back to the Qurhahian palace. He would think nothing of it.
Suleiman winced as he tried to imagine Sara being closed off for ever in the Sultan’s gilded world and felt a terrible darkness enter his heart.
He heard the small sound she made as she stirred, blinking open her eyes to look at him so that he found himself staring into dark pools of violet ink.
Sitting up, she pushed her tousled hair away from her face. Was she aware that he had been watching her while she slept, and that it had felt unbelievably intimate to do so? Would she be shocked to know that he had imagined moving aside the cashmere blanket and climbing in beside her?
She lifted her arms above her head to yawn and in that moment she looked so free that another wave of guilt washed over him.
What would she be like when she’d had her wings clipped by the pressures and the demands of her new position as Sultana? Did she realise that never again would she wear her faded blue jeans or move around anonymously as she had done in London? Did she realize—as he now did—that this trip was the last time he would ever be permitted to be alone with her?
‘You’re awake,’ he said.
‘Top marks for observation,’ she said, raking her fingers back through her hair to subdue it. ‘Gosh, the Sultan must miss having you around if you come out with inspirational gems like that, Suleiman.’
‘Are you going to be impertinent for the rest of the journey?’
‘I might. If I feel like it.’
‘Would a little tea lighten your mood, princess?’
Sara shrugged, wondering whether anything could lighten her mood at that precise moment. Because this was fast becoming like her worst nightmare. She had been bundled onto the plane, with the Sultan’s staff bowing and curtseying to her as soon as she had set foot on the private jet. These days she wasn’t used to being treated like a princess and it made her feel uncomfortable. She had seen the surreptitious glances which had come shooting her way. Were they thinking: Here’s the princess who ran away? Or were they thinking what an unworthy wife she would make for their beloved Sultan?
But the most troubling aspect was not that she was being taken somewhere against her will, to marry a man she didn’t love. It was the stupid yearning feeling she got whenever she looked at Suleiman’s shuttered features and found herself wishing that he would lose the uptight look and just kiss her. She found herself longing for the closeness of yesteryear, instead of this strange new tenseness which surrounded him.
She could guess why he was behaving so coolly towards her, but that didn’t seem to alleviate this terrible aching which was gnawing away at her heart, despite all her anger and confusion.
‘So. How did your “chat” with the journalist go?’ she asked. ‘Did he agree to kill the story?’
