They had just reached her door when Saladin suddenly reached out to wrap his fingers around her wrist, and the unexpected gesture shocked Livvy into stillness. She wondered if he could feel the sudden hammering of her pulse. He must do. It sounded so thunderous to her own ears she was surprised it hadn’t brought the servants running.
‘Thank you for what you did today,’ he said.
‘I did very little.’
‘On the contrary. You calmed a horse who has been nothing but vicious since his accident. It was the first time I’ve seen a fleeting moment of peace in his eyes.’
And Livvy found herself looking into his eyes, helplessly snared by their ebony light. She’d seen many emotions in them since that snowy afternoon when he had first walked into her life. She’d seen them harden with irritation and determination. She’d seen them soften with desire and lust. And she’d seen them cloud over with something that had looked very like sorrow as they had stared at the Faddi gate leading to the rose garden. Did Saladin have his own dark demons raging within him? she wondered.
Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away from his—even though deep down she wanted to curl her fingers into his palm, like a cat settling down for the evening. But that way lay danger. He’d already set out the boundaries and, even though her body wanted to push at those boundaries, she recognised that distance from Saladin made perfect sense.
‘You really must excuse me,’ she said, bringing a note of formality into her voice. ‘I need to call England to check that Peppa is okay and that the snow hasn’t caused any lasting damage.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll see you at lunch—presumably you will send someone to collec
t me?’
And with that, she walked into her suite, quietly closing the door—not caring that he was still standing there looking darkly displeased by her dismissal. Not caring about anything other than a need to put some distance between them before she did something crazy like fling herself against that hard and virile body and beg him to make love to her again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WASN’T AS easy as he had thought it would be.
It wasn’t easy at all.
With an impatient flick of his hand, Saladin waved the servant away and lowered his body into the deep tub of steaming water. How was it possible to feel exhausted when you had only just risen from your bed? Could it have anything to do with the fact that he’d spent yet another sleepless night frustratedly recalling that erotic fireside encounter when the innocent Livvy Miller had cried out her passion in his arms?
Maybe he’d been naive to think it would be easy to adhere to his self-imposed sex ban when she was living here at the palace. When thoughts of her kept drifting into his mind at the most inconvenient times—usually without warning or provocation. Sometimes he found himself sitting through meetings of state and thinking about her pale skin and fiery hair. About the way he had cupped her narrow hips and driven into that slender body. He would sit uncomfortably with a massive erection hidden by his flowing robes, and wonder why he had insisted that she remain totally off limits.
Because he could not trash his sacred memories of the past by indulging in a casual fling, especially here in the palace.
For a while he lay in the cooling water and thought about the long days that had passed since Livvy’s arrival. The Englishwoman had settled in well—better than he could ever have anticipated. She had worked diligently with Burkaan four times a day and, although she grudgingly permitted his presence at these sessions, she had made it clear that she expected total silence from him—and he had found himself complying!
At other times he had barely seen her. She hadn’t seemed to mind missing any of the holiday celebrations she would have enjoyed back in England. He’d heard from the servants that she spent much of her time reading on the shaded terraces outside her suite. And it infuriated him to realise that it would be completely inappropriate to disturb her there, even though he was master of all he surveyed. He felt as if he was caught in a trap of his own making. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of her as she made her way out to the sprawling expanse of the palace gardens and watched as she peered through the Faddi gate. And wondered why it was no longer Alya’s face he could see in his mind, but the face of the freckly Englishwoman.
Because she was off limits?
Because she wasn’t coming on to him? That was something else he found it hard to get his head round. There had been no coy glances or lingering looks. She hadn’t been flaunting her body in close-fitting clothes to torment him with memories of what lay beneath. No, she had acted with an admirable—if infuriating—decorum.
Only at mealtimes were the wretched rules relaxed—and then he found himself eager to talk to her. He quizzed her about his horse’s progress and gradually, once she had lost some of the new guarded expression she seemed to assume around him, she began to open up a little more. It was a unique situation, he realised, for rarely did he have the opportunity—or inclination—to get to know a woman. Women were there for his sexual pleasure, and once he had taken his fill he walked away. But with Livvy, there was no opportunity for sexual pleasure. And not only was he unable to walk away—bizarrely he found he didn’t want to. This pale and stubborn Englishwoman was intriguing him more than he had expected to be intrigued.
She told him about getting on her first horse at the age of three, and her mother’s love of riding. Of her own increasing skill on horseback and the way the two of them used to gallop across the dewy fields around Wightwick Manor. She spoke of frosty landscapes washed pink with the light from the rising sun. She told him about the first time she realised that she could understand horses in a way that most people couldn’t and the ‘awesome feeling of responsibility’ it had given her. She described the day she’d brought home her first rosette, aged six, and then her first shiny silver trophy a year later.
It was after one such recollection after lunch one day that he heard her voice falter and Saladin found himself leaning back in his chair to study her.
‘You must miss it,’ he said. ‘Riding.’
She gave a little shrug. ‘Sometimes.’
‘So what can I do to tempt you back into the saddle?’
‘You can stop trying—I’m not interested.’
‘Aren’t you?’
She put down her golden goblet with a thud. ‘No.’
And suddenly Saladin wanted to break all his own rules. He wanted to forget that he was a king and a widower and to behave like any other man. To seek pleasure and comfort when it was available. To try to rid himself of some of this obsession he had for the titian-haired Englishwoman. Because soon there would be no reason for her to remain. Burkaan was improving daily—everyone had commented on the fact. Soon she would be headed back to England and he would never see her again. Because deep down he suspected that, unlike other lovers, Livvy would not be interested in a brief relationship back in England, simply to burn their passion away. He suspected that she would disapprove of such a cold-blooded suggestion.
So couldn’t it burn itself out here and now? Wasn’t he the king of all he surveyed, who could change the unspoken rules of his land, just as long as he wasn’t blatant about it?