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A spark of something like respect shifts across his face.
“Is that everything, your highness?”
I know I’m not imagining the heat in his eyes. My pulse races and I look away, needing desperately to put some space between us.
“Not quite.”
I wait, on tenterhooks. “No?”
“This marriage is not simply for show.”
My pulse kicks up about a dozen gears. I say nothing; I’m not sure I’m capable of speech.
“To cement the peace I hope our wedding will bring about, we will need a child.”
My knees feel weak. “A…child?”
Now it’s his turn to be silent.
“Whose child?”
Though I know, of course.
“Ours.”
My eyes sweep shut.
“To this end, we’ll take a three-night honeymoon once we’re married.”
I stare at him as though he’s lost the plot. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”
His eyes narrow. “You agreed to marry me.”
“Yes, so you could say we’re married and people would stop looking to my father as some kind of rebel leader,” I snap. “And so that my dad can finally come home and live out his days in the only place he thinks of as home. But I never agreed to a real marriage.”
His head tilts back and a short, sharp laugh drops from his lips. “As I said, you are naïve.”
I suck in a deep breath of surprise. “Why? Because I took you at your word?”
“Because you misunderstood my word. I proposed marriage – if you thought it was not to be a real marriage then that is your mistake, not mine.”
I’m rendered completely mute by this revelation. And annoyingly, I’m torn. Part surprise and fear of the unknown but there’s also a portion of me that feels a rush of anticipation, a hot, sensual wave that makes my abdomen squeeze.
While I’m silent, he moves to the door. “Aliya will prepare you for the wedding ceremony. Try not to be late.”
I stare at him, irritation clipping at my heels. I do not like surprises and I particularly don’t like being dismissed. I glare at him, contemplating refusing to leave, wondering what he’d say if I stood my ground, and deciding there’s something I want more than to antagonise him: some time alone to think, and prepare.
Chapter 2
Amy
THE DRESS IS LIKE gossamer silk, so soft against my skin. It is not white, but rather a deep turquoise with gold embellishments. The sleeves are long and drape past my wrists. At the front, the dress comes high across my neck, a delicate lace thread forming a detailed pattern there, in lieu of jewellery. At my back though the dress scoops low to the base of my spine, and an ornate gold necklace hangs in reverse, the jewels glittering against my spine. I wear flat shoes, a soft leather dyed turquoise.
I have been primped to within an inch of my life. My hair was treated yesterday, my body waxed then massaged with fragranced oils until my skin is supple and smooth, my brows were threaded, a facial was applied, and my nails were neatened into short ovals then painted a creamy white. For the wedding, a makeup artist arrived but I sent her away again. I don’t particularly like wearing cosmetics and despite the fact it’s my wedding, want to have only the bare minimum on my skin. A dash of mascara, a lick of gloss and I’m done.
It’s not until I enter the grand hall that the realisation of what I’m about to do hits me like a tonne of bricks.
Not just that I’m getting married, but who I’m marrying. On two fronts, this is overwhelming. First of all, his hyper-masculinity is something I wasn’t prepared to face, but there is no doubt in my mind that he’s unlike any man I’ve ever known.
