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She groaned impatiently. “In my culture, love is the cornerstone of marriage.”
“Your culture is not renowned for its track record of marriage. In fact, your country is more famous as the father of divorce.”
She ground her teeth determinedly. “I could never marry a man like you.”
“Why not? And please, Phoebe, remember that our wedding is not up for negotiation. However, for the sake of interesting discourse, tell me why you think I am so unsuitable.”
One very, very
big reason. Etienne. If she married Hakim, Etienne would be forever in the shadows of their union. It would keep him alive in a way she would never allow. “You’re too… bossy.” She said airily.
“I am a King!” He laughed, kissing the tip of her nose. “Besides which, you are the one person who takes no notice of my commands.”
“I do when they’re reasonable,” she contradicted sweetly.
He grabbed her shoulders and flipped her easily, so that he sat across the lower part of her abdomen. She stared up into his face, and beyond it, the star-dotted sky.
“Have you even thought about the fact that you might be pregnant?”
“Pregnant?” She pushed up onto her elbows, her face stricken. “I didn’t… It didn’t occur to me, no.”
No, but it should have occurred to Hakim. Only he’d assumed she had been lying about her innocence. He assumed therefore that she would be on birth control. He had completely misread that situation, and now they both needed to look at the consequences.
“You were entrusted to my care, and I took advantage of you. That alone makes me honor bound to marry you. The fact that you might have a royal heir inside you makes me honor bound to protect that baby.”
“Protect the baby!” She interrupted indignantly. “From what? From me?”
His eyes flashed a warning. “From growing up as you did, in the knowledge that your father didn’t want you. No child of mine will feel that, Phoebe.”
It was a consideration that even Phoebe couldn’t dismiss easily. “Then we’ll wait a month,” she said thoughtfully. “Just to be certain I’m not.”
Something painful lodged in his chest. She was hoping she wasn’t. She would be glad if there were no baby. No tie to Hakim.
“That’s not good enough,” he said with a firm shake of his head. “If we wait until then, people will presume we are marrying purely for the baby. I do not want that. It will do neither you, nor our child, any good for people to attribute our marriage to a surprise pregnancy.”
“You’re really serious about this,” she said quietly, falling down onto her back and staring up at the sky once more.
“Completely,” he promised conversationally, as though they were discussing the flavor of strawberries. “And I would prefer you to agree so that I don’t have to force you.”
“Force me?” It was the wrong thing to say. To any woman who was born and raised in a progressive country. But especially to Phoebe Douglas, whose personal courage and liberties had been hard fought and were tenuous at best.
“Yes. In my country, my power is absolute. If I want to marry you, your options are, well, non-existent.”
Phoebe’s outrage grew. “That’s barbaric.”
“It is,” he agreed almost sympathetically. “And I would prefer not to have to make a spectacle of our union. I would, in fact, prefer you to admit that you want me, that you want me enough to marry me, and stop being so stubborn.”
She shook her head from side to side. Her voice was bleak. “It would never work.”
“If I want something, I make it work. And I want you, Phoebe.”
“But why?” She pleaded, fixing him with a tormented stare.
“I have already told you. I cannot sleep with you and not marry you. Not given your age and experience. And I cannot have a pregnancy scandal. So we marry.”
“That’s it? So we marry. How nice it must be to dictate with such complete confidence.”
His smile was infuriating. “At times like this, it makes things easier.”
