The Sheikh Takes A Bride

Impatiently she tossed back the tangled skein of her hair and marched into her room. Fifteen minutes later she was washed and dressed in a white shirt, slim beige twill pants and her favorite knee-high riding boots. She gathered her hair into a high ponytail, snatched up a thin navy vest to guard against the morning chill and slipped out her door.

Kristos, one of her bodyguards, sprang to attention. “Your Highness. Good morning.”

She motioned for him to relax. “I’m going for a ride. I promise I’ll keep to the palace grounds, so why don’t you take a break.”

He was clearly not thrilled, but after a moment he nodded. “I’ll let the stable detail know you’re on your way.”

“If you must.” Swallowing a sigh, she started down the corridor, knowing the heightened security was necessary in light of what had happened to her father and grandfather, yet still disliking the increased loss of privacy.

Thanks to the thick, intricately patterned runner that covered the stone floor, the sound of her footsteps was muffled as she began the long, familiar walk toward the west stairway, which was closest to the stables. She reached the intersecting hall that led to the king and queen’s apartments, nodded to the pair of guards standing sentinel there, and continued on, moving briskly until she reached a solitary door set midway down the remaining stretch of corridor.

And there she faltered.

She wasn’t sure why. After all, she’d passed the entrance to her father’s quarters numerous times since his death. And though she’d experienced any number of emotions—disbelief, grief, guilt—not once had she been tempted to step inside.

Until now.

Yet suddenly she wanted to know if Prince Marc had read the note she’d sent him the last day of his life. The note thanking him for going boating in her place with King Thomas and apologizing for disrupting his schedule. The note asking if they might meet later that day so she might explain the real reason she’d begged off at the last minute.

Whether her need sprang from simple curiosity, a belated need to reconnect with her father or some sort of subconscious attempt to occupy her mind with a subject other than the sheikh, she didn’t care. She simply had to know. She opened the black-wreathed door and stepped inside.

The elegant sitting room looked the way it always had, as if it was waiting for the prince’s imminent return. The carved mahogany furniture was freshly polished, the plush gold, maroon and navy carpet recently vacuumed. Her father’s favorite smoking jacket lay folded over the arm of the Queen Anne chair next to the fireplace, and the cut crystal decanter on the wet bar in the corner was three-quarters full.