Yet wouldn’t a pregnancy have reassured him that his all-important bloodline would continue? Wasn’t her fertility the most vital aspect of this union?
‘Mistress,’ said her lady-in-waiting again. ‘Your Sheikh awaits you.’
Jenna stared into the floor-length mirror as if scarcely believing the image which was projected back at her.
She did indeed look fit for a king!
She wore a heavy gold satin gown, richly and lavishly studded with jewels, which weighed almost as much as she did. Her hair had grown a little in the weeks leading up to the wedding. Rashid had not demanded it—he had not needed to. She had seen the unmistakable glitter of disapproval every time those dark eyes had surveyed her long, bare neck. Quador women wore their hair long—and now that she was the public representative of those women she would have to do the same. And, in truth, she had missed the weight and the silken caress of her waist-length locks.
Today, her hair was adorned with tiny jewelled clips—and every jewel was the real McCoy. She was wearing a king’s ransom on her head!
Diamonds. Sapphires. Rubies and emeralds. All gleamed with multi-coloured splendour—dazzling and bright—making her face look pale by comparison. Her amber eyes glittered back at her, huge and haunted and distracted, and the fingers which were clasped together by the heavily encrusted belt which lay low over her hips were trembling like the first leaves of spring.
And no wonder. For the day she had so been dreading had finally arrived.
Her wedding day.
For the past forty-eight hours world leaders had been flying into Riocard, as had film stars and models and moguls—rich and powerful friends and acquaintances of the man who seemed like a cold-faced stranger to her.
The world’s press were camped along the wedding route and glossy magazines from just about every country in the world had been sent to cover the ‘wedding of the year’. She had received countless requests for interviews, but she had refused them all—for surely perceptive journalists would easily be able to detect her uncertainty. And her insecurity about the future.
From outside she could hear the sounds of the jubilant crowds lining the main streets of Riocard, in the hope of catching a glimpse of their Sheikh’s bride as she travelled with her father to the palace for the ceremony which would make them man and wife.
Rashid’s wife.
Jenna shivered, trying not to think about what lay ahead. First there was the ceremony itself—with all the eyes of Quador on her, along with the eyes of the world. They would be expecting a bride who was rapturous with joy at the thought of marrying one of the world’s most eligible bachelors.
She allowed herself a wry smile. If only they knew! What would they say if they discovered that she and Rashid had barely spoken a word to each other in the intervening weeks—let alone loving words. They had discussed only what had been absolutely necessary.
Only once, with her father in proud attendance, had she summoned up the courage to ask Rashid about what her future ‘role’ as his wife would entail.
And Rashid had narrowed his black eyes and fixed her with a look of bemused tolerance.
‘Why, Jenna,’ he had responded softly, ‘your role is to support your Sheikh.’
‘But I have been studying law, Rashid,’ she had pointed out. ‘Could that not be put to some use?’
Her father had shaken his head and smiled. ‘Your role as consort will leave you little spare time, Jenna.’
And Rashid, murmuring his agreement, had risen, his silken robes flowing, signalling that the discussion had come to an end.
The chaperons had put paid to all but the most formal communication between them. Like questions from Rashid about her preferences for the wedding feast—and, on one memorable occasion, a drawled query about where she would care to spend the honeymoon.
As far away from you as possible, her eyes had said, but she had given him a sarcastically submissive smile. ‘That choice must be yours, O Sheikh,’ she had answered softly, and had seen his mouth tighten in response. ‘Perhaps Paris?’ she had questioned, with mock innocence. ‘I believe that the Sheikh knows the city very well?’
He had drummed his long fingers on the exquisite inlaid desk at which he’d sat, and his dark eyes had frosted her a look of pure ice.
‘Perhaps we should stay right here in Quador,’ he had murmured in a little-spoken Quadorian dialect which he knew full well that she alone in the room understood. ‘After all—one bed is pretty much the same as any other!’
Jenna shivered again. After the wedding and the feast would come the wedding night itself, and that was the part she was dreading most. She had declared that she would not respond to him, that she would tolerate his caresses but not enjoy them. Yet over the last few headachy days she had begun to wonder whether she would have the resolve to withstand his raw and heated sensuality.
But even if she didn’t there was no guarantee that she would enjoy it—not if that single, frantic bout in the bedchamber was anything to go by. And if she was worried that Rashid would be unable to resist the lure of mistresses past, present and maybe future—then she was almost certain that a frigid wife would send him running straight to their beds.
She stared into the mirror one last time and fixed a practised smile onto her lips. She would go forward towards her future, and put her trust in fate.
There was little else in which she could trust.
Rashid stood with narrowed eyes as he surveyed the horizon for the first sign of her carriage.