The Sheikh's Jewel. Melissa James

he walked around the bed as if she weren’t there. He didn’t touch her, didn’t even look at her. At the other side of the bed, he put something down, and used both his hands to sweep all the rose petals from the coverlet. ‘I don’t like the smell. Cloying.’

      ‘I like it,’ she said, halfway between defiance and stupidity.

      He shrugged and stopped brushing them away. ‘It’s your bed.’ Then he lifted the thing he’d put on the bed: a ceremonial knife, beautifully scrolled in gold and silver.

      ‘What’s that … Harun …?’ Her jaw dropped; she watched in utter disbelief as he made a small cut deep in his armpit, and allowed a few drops of blood to fall into his cupped palm.

      ‘What—what are you …?’ Realising she was gaping, she slammed her mouth shut.

      ‘Making a cut where it won’t be seen and commented on,’ he said in a voice filled with quiet irony. ‘Thus I’m salvaging your pride in the eyes of others, my dear wife.’

      ‘I don’t understand.’ Beyond pride now or remembering any of her instructions for tonight, she gazed at him in open pleading. ‘What are you doing?’

      He sighed. ‘As you said, virgins bleed, Amber. It’s my duty to ensure that your reputation isn’t ruined. Pull the coverings down, please, and quickly, before the blood drops on the rug. Imagine what the servants would make of that.’ His tone was filled with understated irony.

      She closed her mouth and swallowed, and then swivelled around in the bed to pull the covers down.

      She watched as he dripped blood into his other hand. ‘It seems enough, I think,’ he said after thirty seconds. Her husband of six hours looked at her. ‘Which side of the bed do the servants know you prefer?’

      Torn between shock and fury born of humiliation, she pointed.

      ‘Thank you.’ As casually as if he’d spilled water, he smeared his blood on the bed. Then he walked into the bathroom; she heard the sound of running water.

      When he came out he returned to the desk, picked up his bridegroom’s clothing, pulled it back over his head and let it fall to his feet. He sat down again, reading, scrolling and making notes.

      Not knowing what else to do, she sat on the bed, drawing her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped tight around them. And for the next hour, she watched him work in growing but helpless fury.

      Why won’t you touch me? she wanted to scream. Why don’t you want to touch me? What did I do wrong?

      But she’d made an innocent scene with Fadi when it was obvious he was running from her, and he’d told her about Rafa. I can’t marry her, but I love her, Amber.

      She’d made another scene before her father when Alim fled the country rather than marry her. He has rejected both Fadi’s position, and Fadi’s bride.

      She was already the bad-luck bride in the eyes of the servants and the people—but if they found out about this, she’d never recover. Fadi had loved another; Alim fled the country—but neither of them had made the rejection this obvious.

      Asking him why would only humiliate her further.

      After a while, her husband said without looking at her, ‘It would be best if you went to sleep, Amber. It’s been a very long day for you.’

      She lay back on the sheets, avoiding the smeared blood—but she kept watching him work out of a stubborn refusal to obey anything he asked of her. If he wasn’t going to be a real husband, it relieved her of the necessity to be any kind of wife.

      Suddenly she wondered how long a day it had been for him. How long had he been working—right up until he’d dressed for the wedding? During the ceremony and after he’d kissed her hand, touched her face with a smile, played the loving bridegroom—for the cameras and the people, no doubt. Now he was working again. Barely two months ago, Harun fought for his life, for the sake of a nation that didn’t belong to him.

      Did he ever stop, and just be a normal man?

      Harun, just look at me, be kind to me for a minute. I’m your bride, she wanted to say, but nothing emerged from her mouth. She was lying on their marriage bed, his for the taking in this shimmering piece of nothing, and he was doing stupid paperwork.

      He didn’t even look at her, just as he never had before.

      As a soldier, they said, he’d fought with a savagery beyond anything they’d seen before. Like Fadi, had he done it to escape her? What a shame for him that he’d lived, forced into taking a wife he clearly didn’t want in the least.

      She hated him. She hated this bed … and she couldn’t stand this ridiculous situation any more.

      Pulling her hair into a messy knot, she got to her feet, stalked into the bathroom, shredded the stupid negligee in her haste to take it off, and scrubbed away all traces of perfume and make-up under the stinging heat of the shower.

      Using the pumice stone she scrubbed at her skin until it was raw, and took minimal comfort in the fact that Harun would never know how he’d made her cry.

      But as she scrubbed herself to bleeding point she vowed she’d never make a fool of herself for an el-Kanar man again. No, she’d show Harun nothing, no emotion at all. She’d be a queen before him at all times, damn it! And one day he’d come to her, on his knees, begging for her …

      If only she could make herself believe it.