Royal Weddings

  ROYAL

  WEDDINGS

  CLARE CONNELLY

  To royal couples past, present and future

  (and adorable royal babies, all!)

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and have no existence outside the author’s imagination. They have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names and are pure invention.

  All rights reserved. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reprinted by any means without permission of the Author.

  The illustration on the cover of this book features model/s and bears no relation to the characters described within.

  First published as an anthology 2018

  (c) Clare Connelly

  Photo Credit: dollarphotoclub.com/

  Contact Clare:

  http://www.clareconnelly.co.uk

  Blog: http://clarewriteslove.wordpress.com/

  Email: Clareconnelly@outlook.com

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  Table of Contents

  MARRYING FOR HIS ROYAL HEIR

  THE SHEIKH’S ARRANGED MARRIAGE

  THE SULTAN’S RELUCTANT PRINCESS

  THE SHEIKH’S STOLEN BRIDE

  MARRYING FOR

  HIS ROYAL HEIR

  PROLOGUE

  Change has a nasty habit of sneaking up on you. It can come right out of nowhere, blindsiding those who had not thought to brace for its arrival. Sweeping change, devastating change, loss and death. These events arrive unheralded, their very nature ensuring things will never again be as they once were.

  As though a line had been marked in the desert sands of Ishala, change arrived unexpectedly, placing normality on one side and yawning grief on the other. The kingdom mourned for this change was as unwelcome as it was inevitable.

  She was dead.

  And now it was the small, mundane things that were the cruellest haunts. The way she’d flicked her fingers against her coltish knees when she’d been lost in thought. Her habit of singing nursery rhymes to herself even as a grown woman. The way she’d run as fast as the wind, so that her long, dark hair flowed behind her as a super-hero cape. Her love of books and ability to sleep through the loudest interruptions. The hatred of their desert heat that had led her to seek comfort in faraway climates.

  He had only these simple memories. A collection of behaviours that would not mean a thing to anyone else. But to Sheikh Malakhi Siti-Omari they breathed life back into his sister – her memory, at least.

  And with her body lifeless now for all eternity, memories were the only consolation he had.

  * * *

  She hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year.

  In truth, if she’d known the strange cacophony of numbers that had displayed on her screen heralded his intrusion, rather than a welcome phone call from her brother or beloved sister-in-law, Evie might have avoided answering.

  Might have? She caught herself on the errant thought. Definitely would have. Sheikh Malakhi Siti-Omari, with his brooding eyes, inherent cynicism and unmistakable arrogance, was a man she didn’t ever want to see again.

  “What do you want?” The question was brusque, even for how their relationship stood.

  “Where are you?” His voice. Oh, his voice. It was an invitation and it had the same effect on her now as it had then. Those spiced words with their exotic twists made her stomach roll uncomfortably; her insides clenched with longing.

  “Why? Are you planning on coming over for tea?” Evie forced the words to sound scathing, though suspected he could see past it. Her bright green eyes fixed to the photograph of Dave and a heavily-pregnant Sabra that was stuck to her fridge. Taken about twelve months ago it showed clearly the strength of their relationship.

  “No.” There was a pause and it crackled with poisonous tension. Evie squeezed her eyes shut. The less she had to do with this man the better – for her sanity’s sake.

  “Look, Malakhi,” she muttered darkly. “I’m in the middle of something.” A guilty flush stole across her cheekbones as she thought of the romance novel she was halfway through reading. “Can you get to the point?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.” She straightened her shoulders. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “There is something --,”

  A loud noise came from her front door. “Is that you?” She asked in disbelief, shaking her head as she crossed the room.

  “Is what me?” He was impatient, a dark warning frayed the edges of the question.

  “At the door?”

  “Stop.” The word rang with the authority that was not just his birthright but also his bearing. “Do not answer it.”

  Evie wasn’t usually so difficult and prickly, but something about Malakhi made her contrary to the extreme. Something? She knew exactly what it was. The night they’d made out and almost had sex.

  Determined to push that memory into the recesses of her brain, she wrenched the door inwards. Her spirit of jubilant defiance gave way almost immediately to confusion as dozens of photographers, littering the narrow staircase to her home, began to clamour forward like a tidal wave of invasion.

  Their voices rose as one and above the din she could discern only fragments of words. Crash. Brother. Ishala. Helicopter.

  She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, her auburn hair a spectacular cloud of colour framing her now-pale face. “Malakhi?” Her heart was hammering in her chest but she didn’t feel it above the squirming ache in her gut.

  “There’s been an accident.” Those simple words filled her with more pain than she had known possible. “It happened tonight. Hours ago.”

  “What’s happened? Is Dave … okay?”

  Another pause, this one radiating not with tension so much as grief. It throbbed with the stuff, strangling Evie around the throat.

  “No.”

  “What … Sabra?”

  “They are dead, Evie.”

  Her scream tore through the old house, high up on its hill in Brisbane. Her body slumped to the ground as reality began to shift strangely for her. A world without Sabra, Dave and their beautiful baby boy. “It can’t be true. What …”

  “I’m sending a driver for you from the embassy. You will come here to Ishala.”

  She sobbed but nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. Thank you.” Her legs were shaking uncontrollably as she stood. Desperately she tried to marshal her thoughts into order but her brain was like uncooked fudge.

  “And your husband?” He enquired and in that moment of their combined grief, for once Malakhi didn’t speak of Nick with distaste.

  She shook her head, with no emotional room for the regrets she usually indulged when thinking of those two men. “No. I’ll come alone.”

  Another silence.

  “Evie? There is one other thing.”

  She physically braced herself on the kitchen bench as she passed it. “What?”

  “Our nephew was not in the helicopter.”

  Tears were falling thick and fast, dropping to the floor. “Kalem? He’s… do you mean…?”

  “Yes. The child lives.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Two months later

  The heat was suffocating. Sweat trickled between Evie’s breasts despite the skimpy singlet top and pants she wore. The fan overhead did little but circulate the hot, dry air around the luxurious room. She banged her pillow and rolled over, her eyes focused on the large shuttered windows that framed a view of desert and the blanket of milky stars overhead.

  One of the Athalin-aî let out a telltale cry from the trees surrounding the palace and goosebumps danced along her
skin. How frightened she’d been when first she’d encountered its deep, musical call! How eerie it had seemed, carried by the winds, telling of sadness and loss.

  Perhaps it was a presentiment of fear that kept Evie awake that night; or possibly, since losing Sabra and Dave, she had come to accept that she would never again feel relaxed and at ease.

  “Madam?”

  Evie pushed up instantly, her eyes swiveling in the darkness to pinpoint the source of the voice. One of the maids who attended her regularly was hovering just inside the door. Her English was excellent; Evie suspected it was the main reason she’d been assigned to her.

  “Yes, Amina?” Her voice was croaky. She cleared her throat but didn’t smile. Her intuition was tingling; the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. Amina moved deeper into the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  Impatience flared through Evie. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry, Madam, to disturb you like this.” Her eyes were nervous, they fidgeted in her face, flicking from Evie to the window, then back again.

  “It’s fine. What is it?” Evie toyed with the strap of her singlet.

  “His Highness is ill.”

  “Malakhi?” She frowned, confused by the relevance of this information to her. She had only seen The Man Himself, as she’d begun to think of him, three times since arriving at Ishala. At the formal, state funeral, and at the private ceremony, and then once by accident in the corridors of this private wing of the palace. Each time he had regarded her with the marked disdain of a man who considered himself to be many, many, social rungs above her. As though she were nothing to him beyond a bug under foot. Contrasted to the way they’d touched one another on her last visit to the country, his indifference made her chest hurt.

  “No, no. His Highness Kalem,” she corrected, her face etched with worry. “I wasn’t to bother you. The nurse isn’t worried. But I thought … you would …”

  “Oh, yes.” Evie’s voice throbbed with emotion. She stood quickly, pulling a robe around her shoulders and cinching it at the waist. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

  “A fever. His temperature has been high all evening.”

  “All evening?” She cast a look of surprise at the younger woman. “Why wasn’t I told?”

  “Miss Fatima, madam. She said you should not be involved.”

  “Oh, she did, did she?” Evie pursed her lips.

  They were at the door when Amina wrapped her fingers around Evie’s forearm. “Shoes, madam.”

  “Oh, right.” She cast around the room, frowning.

  “Here.” Amina moved swiftly, pulling a pair of cream slippers from somewhere in the wardrobe.

  Evie took them before Amina could crouch down and begin fitting them to Evie’s feet for her. Such treatment was enormously embarrassing for someone not used to it.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, her cheeks pink as she slipped them on. “Let’s go.”

  The private wing of the palace was just big enough to sleep perhaps one’s closest two-hundred family members. It took them several minutes to walk to Kalem’s room. Evie had not approved of this, but the redoubtable Fatima had insisted. Kalem’s room had been used by His Highness Malakhi as a baby, and by his father before him. It was the room for the royal heir.

  And that was what Kalem was, Evie had been forced to accept.

  She moved quickly through the corridors, and when they reached his quarters she could hear his feverish cry. She swept into the room without knocking, her eyes fixing to her nephew.

  Fatima was, at least, cradling him, rocking him in a chair and whispering soothingly in her own tongue. Evie crouched down beside the woman; her fingers flying to his brow. He was warm, but not burning up. His cheeks though were bright pink, his eyes red from crying.

  “Darling,” she whispered soothingly, her heart contracting at this blessed souvenir of Dave and Sabra. Their features mingled in his face, begging her to soothe him. “Come here, darling.”

  Fatima perhaps contemplated resisting but, at the sound of Evie’s voice, two plump, tanned arms extended to Evie and his cries softened.

  She held him close to her breast, letting her heart comfort his. He was whimpering, and she stroked his back, wishing she could take away whatever pain was troubling him.

  “Why has a doctor not been called?” She spoke to Amina, for Fatima’s English was not as reliable.

  Amina translated, her own expression showing fear at having contradicted the older, more experienced maid’s edict.

  The answer came from Fatima in her heavy accent. “No need. Not needing this.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Evie kept her voice level with great effort. “The heir of Ishala is sick and you do not think you should call a doctor?”

  Fatima’s expression was wooden. “I do … nothing … is …” She switched to her own tongue, in a hoarse whisper.

  Amina translated. “She says she has a lot of experience and that your place isn’t to interfere.” Amina shook her head apologetically but continued. “She says you are nothing to the heir of Ishala. This is not your business.”

  Amina shook her head but Fatima continued crossly.

  “Go on,” Evie muttered, stroking Kalem’s sweaty brow.

  “She says that you should go home.” Amina lowered her eyes. “That your brother is dead and it is time for you to leave.”

  Colour drained from Evie’s face but she could not visibly react. She stared at Fatima and nodded. “We’ll just see about that.”

  Holding her nephew tight to her chest, she moved towards the door but Fatima forestalled her. “You not take him.”

  “Oh, yes. I take him.” And as Fatima lifted a hand, perhaps to hold her physically, Evie looked at her with such furious disapproval that Fatima hesitated.

  “Amina? Come with me.”

  Amina, who until that night had never defied her superior’s orders, fell into step behind Evie.

  “Where is his room?”

  “Whose room, madam?”

  “Malakhi’s.”

  And now Amina stopped walking altogether. “No. We cannot … it is two o’clock.”

  “So?” Evie spun around, her eyes showing madness and fear.

  “I cannot be a part of this.”

  “I need you to show me his room,” she responded through gritted teeth. “I will make sure he knows I forced you.”

  Amina swallowed. Admiration flowered in her gut despite a growing certainty that she would soon be out of a job she badly needed. She began to walk again, a smile twitching at the sides of her lips. “It is sweet that you think you would be able to force me,” she said softly.

  Evie grinned distractedly. “Hey, I might look small but I pack a punch.”

  The royal suites were located up a flight of stairs and then almost directly above Evie’s room. Or thereabouts. It was hard to keep track with so much marble and gold and ancient tapestries along the way.

  “It is here,” Amina murmured, nodding towards a set of golden doors.

  “Of course it is.” Evie would have rolled her eyes if she’d been less angry. Such ostentatious luxury was befitting of a man such as Malakhi. Although … no. She couldn’t think of his primal, animalistic power in that moment.

  She walked towards his suite before she lost her nerve and knocked sharply. When the doors didn’t immediately open she knocked again, then stepped backwards to wait. A noise came from inside. A deep rumble which she recognized as his voice. Shivers danced coldly across her flesh.

  Amina, beside her, looked terrified.

  The door was opened inwards by a woman. Dressed in a sheer top, her nipples were clearly visible. She wore flowing pants. It took Evie a minute to realize that it was what she had always imagined a traditional harem outfit would be. Disgust and another dark emotion churned her belly.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is Malakhi here?” She asked, refusing to notice the woman’s perfect skin and incredible figure.

  “It is the mi
ddle of the night,” the woman snapped.

  “Is. He. Here?” Evie’s thinly-worn patience was evident in the sentence.

  He appeared behind the woman and Evie’s blood began to boil unbearably. Not with anger though. He was wearing a pair of loose pants but they left little to the imagination. His chest, broad, tanned and covered with dark hair, tapered to a slim waist and hips, and beyond that … she gulped and forced her eyes back to his face. That face! How it had tormented her. With his wide-set eyes, almond-shaped and rimmed by curling black lashes, a nose that was crooked half way down, and lips that could have been carved from stone. His cheekbones were high and his brows thick, and though each feature on their own was unique and interesting, the combination of them on this man was stunning.

  The look he gave her was coldly assessing. “What is it?” His eyes were focused on their nephew.

  “He’s sick,” Evie said quickly. “And that henchwoman you’ve hired to care for him is doing nothing about it. She won’t even call a doctor.”

  He expelled an angry sigh and turned to his companion. His hand curled around her shoulder and squeezed. In his own language, he said, “Go now.”

  She smiled up at him and then sent Evie a fierce look before sashaying down the royal corridor.

  “You too,” he said to Amina.

  Amina’s eyes lifted to Evie’s. “His Highness has asked me to go.”

  Evie shook her head. “Wait here.” She kissed Kalem’s sweet little head and passed him gently to the servant. “If he cries or makes any sound, get me. Otherwise, wait here.”

  Unused to having his orders usurped, Malakhi fought a wave of outright fury.

  “This is a private conversation,” Evie said coldly. “Do you mind if I come into your den of iniquity? I’ll ignore the scene of passion.”

  He pulled the door inwards, admitting her to his most private space. But try as she might, Evie was powerless not to see it. The bed, crumpled linen showing signs of passionate abandon. Candles. Wine.