Olivia Gates
The Desert Lord’s Bride
The second book in the Throne of Judar series, 2008
Dear Reader,
When the throne of a phenomenally prosperous desert kingdom is at stake, and with it the peace of a whole region, what will its heirs do to secure it? Anything, of course! Even if that duty is the worst thing that could happen to sheikh princes who value freedom above life-entering the permanent prison of a marriage of state.
In
The three-book THRONE OF JUDAR miniseries is, I hope, the wonderful beginning to my writing for the Desire line. I immediately felt at home creating irresistible, larger-than-life heroes who meet their matches and destinies in passionate heroines; they are brought together on tempestuous journeys filled with pleasures and heartaches, until they reach their gloriously satisfying happy ending.
The miniseries began in May with
I would love to hear from you, so please contact me at www.oliviagates.com.
Prologue
It was happening.
And Shehab ben Hareth ben Essam Ed-Deen Aal Masood could still barely believe it.
Yes. He was really here. So was every member of Judar’s Tribune of Elders, every member of the royal family, every noble house representative, every gaze focused on him.
He blocked out all but his older brother, Farooq, standing right there in his own ceremonial robes, white on white, signifying the transfer of power, his golden eyes flashing his regret, asking understanding.
Shehab squeezed his eyes shut once, acknowledging, everything once again explained and sanctioned through the elemental bond that had bound them since Shehab was born.
Yes. Shehab understood. And accepted. Farooq was only doing this because he had to. Because he knew Shehab was capable of shouldering the burden.
Then Farooq spoke, his voice reverberating in the gigantic hall, fathomless in tone, final in intent.
Then their uncle, the king, barely upright on the throne with the toll of crises, both physical and political, made the intent a reality, in a voice ravaged by infirmity and deep worry.
Shehab went down on one knee in front of his older brother, extending both hands, palms up, to accept the bejeweled sword of succession. The moment the heavy weapon rested on his upturned hands, it felt as if he’d just taken the weight of the world there.
And he had. He’d taken on the weight of Judar’s future.
He closed his eyes as the cold steel singed his flesh.
Days ago he’d been going about his multi-billion-dollar IT business, his contribution to his kingdom being to ensure its avant-garde position in the global technological race. Days ago the throne had been a nonexistent specter with an older heir in his prime preceding him in line to it.
Then came today. Came now.
In place of the freedom to lead his own life, there loomed in his future undreamed-of power. And unspeakable responsibility. All it had taken was ten words.
And now he was Judar’s crown prince. Judar’s future king.
If there remained a Judar to be future king of. If there remained a throne for him to sit on.
Neither was certain any longer.
Not if he didn’t fulfill the terms of the pact demanded by the Aal Shalaans, the second-most powerful tribe of Judar, who formed Judor’s most influential minority.
Not if he didn’t marry a woman he’d never laid eyes on.
One
Shehab’s lips thinned as he recalled the catchphrase, his eyes slicing through the sea of costumed people who impinged on his senses and turned the ballroom into a battleground of material excess and self-serving agendas.
Still no sign of the woman who’d warranted this slogan.
He played it again in his mind, unwillingly finding the rhythm to it, humming it along with the exuberant live orchestral performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 9.
One man had even added
Now
The descriptions sounded like titles. Like the ones he’d been saddled with since birth. Sheikh Aal Masood. His Royal Highness. And now His Majestic Eminence the Crown Prince.
But according to common consensus, hers had been earned.
And he was expected to marry the woman.
No. He wasn’t expected to. He was going to. He
His every muscle clenched. His teeth grated against each other.
At times he could almost hate Carmen.
It was because of Farooq’s overriding love for his wife that he’d thrown the burden in Shehab’s lap.
Still, Shehab could have endured a fate he’d always proclaimed worse than death, an arranged marriage, if the designated bride had been anyone acceptable.
But Farah Beaumont, the illegitimate daughter of King Atef Aal Shalaan, king of Zohayd, wasn’t acceptable.
Not because she’d been born out of wedlock. And not because she’d refused to acknowledge her heritage, or to be the instrument of peace. The first she had no hand in, the second could have been a temporary inability to deal