Four years after inheriting—and liberating—a concubine, powerful ruler Sayid is shocked to see the transformation of Lina. No longer shy and naive, Lina is a feisty, irresistible woman. And Sayid has never wanted anyone more! But he’s duty bound to his country, and Sayid can only commit to a brief affair. Will Lina accept his outrageous proposal of a week in the royal bed?

Growing up near the beach, ANNIE WEST spent lots of time observing tall, burnished lifeguards—early research! Now she spends her days fantasising about gorgeous men and their love lives. Annie has been a reader all her life. She also loves travel, long walks, good company and great food. You can contact her at annie@annie-west.com, or via PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

Also by Annie West

The Sinner’s Marriage Redemption

Seducing His Enemy’s Daughter

A Vow to Secure His Legacy

The Flaw in Raffaele’s Revenge

The Desert King’s Secret Heir

The Desert King’s Captive Bride

Contracted for the Petrakis Heir

The Princess Seductions miniseries

His Majesty’s Temporary Bride

The Greek’s Forbidden Princess

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Inherited for the Royal Bed

Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07228-1

INHERITED FOR THE ROYAL BED

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one is for you, Grace Thiele: your very own sheikh story.

I love your unbounded enthusiasm for my sheikhs, which makes me want to write more.

And a huge thank-you to Ana Neves for your language assistance.

You’re a gem!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

THREE MEN STRODE through the gleaming marble corridors of the Emir’s palace.

Past the great council room where the walls were hung with decorative displays of lances, swords and ancient muskets. Where brightly coloured martial standards hung as if waiting for the next call to arms.

Past sumptuous banqueting halls and audience chambers. Past colonnaded courtyards filled with pleasure gardens, the tinkle of fountains loud in this still hour after midnight. The only other noise was the march of boots.

Past the studded medieval door to the empty harem and another that led to the passage carved down, through the very rock of the citadel, to the vast treasure chambers and dungeons.

Finally they reached the corridor to the Emir’s private suite.

Sayid paused. ‘That will be all for now.’

‘But, sire, our orders are—’

Sayid swung round. ‘Your orders change tonight. Halarq is no longer on the brink of war.’

Saying it aloud still sounded unreal. Halarq had been on the verge of war most of his life, principally, but not solely, with the neighbouring kingdom of Jeirut. It was why every male was armed and trained to defend his country to the death.

Sayid thought of all those years primed for conflict. Of unending border skirmishes and casualties. Of missed opportunities to invest in better lives for the people, as opposed to diverting energy and funds into armaments.

His mouth firmed. If he achieved nothing else, he, Sayid Badawi, the new Emir of Halarq, had done that—brought peace. Later, when it sank in, he’d rejoice. Tonight all he wanted was to lay his head on a pillow for the first time in three days and find oblivion.

‘But, sire, our duty is to protect you. We spend the night at the guard stations outside your suite.’ The soldier nodded towards the other end of the long arched corridor.

‘The palace is guarded by your colleagues on the perimeter and by the latest security technology.’ Sayid’s uncle, the previous Emir, had spent lavishly on his own protection and comfort, as well as on armaments.

It was a shame he hadn’t been as ready to spend on his people.

Still the guards didn’t shift. Sayid’s patience frayed. ‘Those are my orders,’ he barked. His eyes narrowed and the guard blanched.

Instantly Sayid’s anger eased. The man was only trying to do his duty as he understood it. Questioning the orders of the Emir would, in the past, have met with terrible punishment.

‘Your devotion to duty, and to your Emir, is noted and appreciated.’ He surveyed both men, giving them time to absorb that. ‘But our security arrangements are changing. Your commander will brief you on that later. In the meantime, it’s my desire, and my order, that you return to the guard hall.’ He didn’t wait for a response but turned away.

‘That will be all,’ he said as he strode down the corridor, his dusty boots leaving marks on the graceful inlaid patterns underfoot.

Silence. They hadn’t attempted to follow.

Sayid filled his lungs with the cool night air wafting from a nearby courtyard. This was the first time he’d been alone in days. The first time he could allow himself to relax.

Tonight’s ebullient celebrations with every Halarqi clan leader, regional governor and warlord, plus most of their fighting men, had been on a monumental scale. The plain beyond the city walls was filled to the brim and the scents of festive cooking fires drifted through the whole city. Every so often the crackle of rifle fire indicated the celebration continued. They’d probably still be at it as dawn broke.

Whereas he’d be up at sunrise, in the office he hadn’t had time to make his own since his uncle’s death, immersed in the paperwork and diplomatic detail that would put flesh on the bones of the peace agreement. A peace that guaranteed the borders, the safe passage of travellers and even, potentially, trade and mutual development between Halarq and Jeirut.

Sayid’s pace slowed and he smiled, the action tugging his cheek muscles taut.

Who could blame his people for celebrating? He’d do the same if he weren’t weary from the long negotiations with Huseyn of Jeirut. And from keeping his more bellicose generals in check long enough to prevent provocation and violence. Some had thought, despite his military record and his reputation for decisive action, he’d be easily swayed into supporting his predecessor’s war plans. But Sayid’s priority was his people, not the posturing of old men who thought others’ lives expendable.

Reaching the Emir’s private suite, he entered, a sigh of relief escaping as the tall door closed behind him. Alone, finally.

Sayid strode through, past the study and the media room, through the vast sitting room and lavish private dining parlour, to the bedroom. His eyes went immediately to the vast, beckoning bed. Its cover, embroidered in the royal colours of blue and silver, was pulled back invitingly. The overhead light was off, leaving only the gentle glow of a few decorative pierced lamps.

He rocked to a halt, tempted to forget about the state of his clothes and just topple onto the mattress as he was. He’d be asleep within seconds.

Instead he crossed the spacious room towards the bathroom. He’d shower first.

Sayid pulled off his clothes as he walked, his tension easing as the hand-stitched layers came off. The fine cotton of his shirt masked a jaw-cracking yawn as he tugged it up, over his head, rolling his shoulders in appreciation as he felt cool night air brush his flesh.

He was about to toe off one boot when something made him pause. He stilled, his weight on one foot, his senses prickling at the certainty something was out of place.

A lifetime’s training as a warrior, always aware, put him on alert.

Something was wrong. He was certain in less time than it took to form the thought.

It would serve him right if he’d dismissed his guard only to find himself under threat in his own chambers. The youngest and shortest-lived Emir of Halarq in all its history. That would be a fine epitaph!

Keeping his movements easy, Sayid wrapped the cotton of his discarded shirt around his left hand and forearm. The cloth wouldn’t stop a bullet but might deflect a knife in a pinch. He didn’t spare a glance for the long silvered scar running up that arm from his wrist to well past his elbow. It proved a well-honed knife could easily cut through several layers of clothing.

Slowly he turned, nostrils flared to capture any unusual scent, eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkened corners of the room.

Nothing. Exhaustion must be interfering with his perception.

Sayid swung right around towards the bed again and—

He stiffened, his hand going to the ceremonial but razor-sharp dagger at his hip.

‘Who are you?’ The words issued through clenched teeth. ‘What are you doing here?’

As he spoke the figure in the dark corner beyond the bed rose. A small figure, its outline blurred by a swathe of fabric wrapped around its shoulders and over its head.

Having risen, the person immediately bowed low in a silent gesture of obeisance.

Sayid’s senses screamed a warning. What would have happened if he hadn’t noticed that still, silent figure hiding in the corner? Would they have waited till his back was turned in the shower, or he was fast asleep, to slip a knife between his ribs?

Had he been foolish to write off his dead uncle’s preoccupation with security? The man had been dangerously paranoid and increasingly erratic but he’d been wily.

‘Come here!’

Instantly the figure glided closer.

‘Sire.’ A soft, whispery voice feathered his skin like a lover’s caress. Another bow. This time when the figure straightened, it tugged off the enveloping blanket.

Sayid stared.

His privacy had been invaded by a dancing girl? He shook his head. Did weariness play tricks with his vision?

Women in his country didn’t dress like this. Women in Halarq dressed modestly. Some covered their hair but all covered their bodies.

This one didn’t.

Heat speared his belly and drilled into his groin as he surveyed her. She wore a low-slung skirt that fell in gauzy folds from the curve of her hips. He clearly saw long slim legs through the fabric. She shifted and a glimpse of toned, honey-coloured thigh appeared through a slit in the skirt.

His gaze rose to a bare midriff, deliciously curved into a tiny waist, then up to a cropped, sleeveless top of shiny material that clasped her like a second skin. It was cut low, showing off the upper slopes of enticing breasts that rose and fell with her rapid breathing.

Sayid’s throat closed as if he’d gulped down half the eastern desert. His fingers stretched then curled into fists, bunching at his sides.

Competing impulses warred.

To command she cover herself instantly.

But that wasn’t his first reaction.

To reach out and touch that inviting body.

Yes. That.

To haul her against him and revel in the pleasure a woman’s soft body could afford a man wearied by days, no, weeks of achieving the impossible—first keeping his uncle from invading Jeirut, then, on his uncle’s death, finding a way to ensure a lasting peace between nations that were traditional enemies.

His gaze rose further, taking in a face of extraordinary loveliness. Dark hair, unbound, was pushed behind her shoulders. Her breasts, pert and high, rose shakily with each breath.

Imagination told him her skin would be warm silk, soft and pleasurable.

Sayid, like his uncle before him, was a man of strong desires, with a predilection for pleasure. Yet, unlike his dead uncle, Sayid prided himself on ruling his sensual side. He’d seen what unbridled self-indulgence did to a man. He had no intention of following his uncle down that path. Instead he emulated his father who’d been a warrior prince, bound by an unshakeable code of conduct. A man who channelled strong appetites into a drive to protect and serve his people.

‘Look at me.’ The command was overloud. But Sayid’s control over his body was sorely tried.

Instantly her bowed head tilted up.

Sayid registered another unseen body blow. This time to his solar plexus. For her eyes were unlike any he’d seen. They were the colour of wild violets in the mountains. Darker than blue, softer than purple.

He scowled. Not only was she remarkably pretty, she was young—too young to be alone in his room.

‘Who are you?’

‘Lina, sire.’ Again that low bow, which now, to his horror, made his groin grow tight and hard, for he got an eyeful as she bent forward. It looked as if her breasts might pop free of her top at any moment.

‘Don’t do that!’

She blinked, emotion he couldn’t read flashing across her features. Then it disappeared as she lifted her chin to look somewhere near his shoulder, her hands clasped neatly before her. ‘Do what, sire?’

‘Bowing. Don’t do it again.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘But sire! You are the Emir. It wouldn’t be seemly—’

‘Let me be the judge of seemly.’ Sayid raised a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at too-tight muscles.

‘Yes, sire.’ Yet her brow twitched as if in disagreement and he’d swear she bit her lip as if to stop herself saying more.

‘Don’t call me that, either.’ His uncle might have enjoyed constant reminders of his status as ruler of the nation, but Sayid had heard the title too often from too many toadying courtiers trying to ingratiate themselves. It grated.

He’d give a lot to talk with someone who didn’t bow and scrape. He scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing fatigue shortened his temper.

His mouth kicked up at the memory of his tense negotiations this week with Huseyn of Jeirut, the man known as the Iron Hand. There’d been no bowing and scraping then. The man was the toughest negotiator Sayid had met, as well as a formidable warrior. Yet, despite the weight of responsibility on their shoulders as they worked towards a peace deal for their nations, Sayid had enjoyed the stimulation of dealing with the man.

Halarq, under the rule of Sayid’s uncle, hadn’t been a place where people spoke their mind. The palace was full of advisers trained to agree with their Emir, rather than advise without fear or favour.

Yet another thing Sayid aimed to change.

‘As you wish...sir.’

He opened his mouth then shut it. ‘Sir’ was marginally better than ‘sire’. What did it matter anyway? He was so tired he’d allowed himself to be distracted.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘I’m Lina. I’m here to serve you—’ her gaze skittered away to fix on a point beyond him ‘—in any way you wish.’ She swallowed, the movement accentuating her long slender throat and the beauty of her pale gold skin.

For a dazed second Sayid’s brain snared on the idea of nuzzling her fragrant flesh. He caught the scent of roses on her skin and wondered how she’d taste.

The temptation was so alluring, he stepped back to be sure he didn’t act on it. She stiffened at his movement, revealing a tension she fought to hide.

‘Who sent you?’

‘My father’s brother. He sent me as a goodwill gift to the previous Emir.’

A goodwill gift! Sourness filled Sayid’s mouth. That was the sort of nation his uncle had ruled. Where a woman could be treated as a commodity. Old memories stirred, leaving a rancid taste on his tongue.

As the new Emir, he had a lot of work to bring the country into the current century.

‘The previous Emir is dead.’

Sayid had believed the women in his uncle’s harem had been sent away as the old man’s prostate illness worsened and he became impotent.

‘I know, s...sir. He died soon after my arrival and I never met him.’ Her eyes flickered to his, then away. ‘My condolences on your loss.’

‘Thank you.’ Sayid felt neither loss nor sorrow at his uncle’s death. The old man had been a poor steward for their country and personally deplorable, a mean, brutal voluptuary. ‘But with his death, you are free to go. You’re not required here.’

Huge violet eyes met his. Was that fear he read there? ‘Oh, no. You misunderstand. That is—’ she swallowed, dropping her gaze to the floor as if afraid she’d said the wrong thing ‘—not misunderstand, of course.’

She shook her head and a lock of glossy dark hair slid over her shoulder, curling past her breast all the way to her waist. For the life of him, Sayid couldn’t tear his gaze from it.

‘I can’t leave, sir. It’s all been arranged.’ She curved her lips in a tentative smile that didn’t show in her eyes. ‘With your uncle’s death I now belong to you.’

CHAPTER TWO

IF LINA HAD thought Sayid Badawi had looked stern before, he was positively thunderous now. His brow scrunched in a furrow of disapproval and his honed jaw clenched as if biting back an oath.

Yet the gleam of those dark eyes and the sudden flare of his nostrils spoke of something more intimate than fury.

Masculine awareness.

Lina knew something about that. She’d witnessed the way men had reacted to her mother’s beauty. And since Lina herself had reached puberty she’d seen a similar look from the men who’d occasionally visited her home.

She swallowed hard.

Not her home now. Her uncle’s home.

Yet unlike her male cousins, who didn’t just look but who tried to touch, the Emir kept his hands to himself.

Lina dropped her gaze, as she’d been taught. But without the magnetic draw of those dark, glittering eyes to distract her, she became far too aware of the rest of him.

A long, lean body that tapered from straight shoulders down via an intriguing display of bronzed skin and taut muscle to narrow hips that thankfully were still covered in pale trousers. Nor could she help but notice the muscled strength of his thighs. A rider’s thighs. The only thing marring the perfection of his toned form was a pale scar extending down one arm.

Lina didn’t know whether to blame the shock of finally being alone with the man who was to be her master, or her first sight of a half-naked man. Or perhaps his stunning attractiveness. But she felt light-headed. Her breathing came too fast and her thoughts scrambled.

She’d arrived at the palace expecting to be at the beck and call of a much older man, renowned for his short temper and unforgiving nature. Instead she found herself bequeathed to a man in his mid-twenties whose looks would make any woman sigh. He was fit and handsome. But more, there was an inner strength about him and a quality she couldn’t name, yet read in his proud face with its heavy-lidded eyes, strong nose and square, solid jaw.

Whatever it was, it made sensation fizz and burst through her veins. Was she ill? Coming down with a fever? She’d never felt like this before.

‘Lina?’

She darted a look at his face. Clearly he’d spoken and she hadn’t responded. A chill clamped the back of her neck and skittered all the way down her spine. Was his temper as volatile as the old Emir’s? Her aunt had told hair-raising tales of what awaited if she didn’t do exactly as commanded by her royal master, no matter how difficult or...unfamiliar.

‘Sir?’

‘I said you are not needed here. You can return to your home.’

Lina blinked, her eyes widening in dismay. She’d been horrified by the whispered gossip about what the previous Emir would expect her to do for him. Had wondered if some of the suggestions were even physically possible. But to be dismissed from the palace! That held its own terrors.

She swallowed, pain slicing as if her throat closed around a sharpened blade.

‘Please, sir. I can’t.’

Belatedly she lowered her gaze, knowing it was her place to obey, not argue. Her uncle and aunt had warned time after time that she must learn humility and silence. They’d made it their business to try turning her into a mute, obedient damsel. They would be horrified if they could hear her.

‘You can if I tell you.’ The Emir’s tone was brusque, allowing no room for argument.

Lina felt herself stiffen as the enormity of her situation hit her. The freedom he offered, no, commanded she take, was an illusion.

She was utterly alone, with nowhere in the world to call home and no one who cared for her. She had no rights, no call on his compassion. She was nothing to him, or to anyone else.

Everything she’d been taught told her to nod, to back away and make herself scarce, for it wouldn’t do to disobey the man who held her fate, even after he’d washed his hands of her.

He shifted and she sensed his impatience for her to be gone.

Yet Lina knew once she left this room she’d never be allowed to enter again. Once out of the palace she’d be on the street, literally, with no resources, no friends and not even a scrap of respectable clothing.

She shuddered, imagining what would become of her.

Clasping her hands before her, willing them not to shake, she took a fortifying breath, which reminded her of the hated clothes she wore as her breasts swelled against the low-cut top.

‘Sir.’ She swallowed and lifted her chin. The Emir had already begun to turn away. He’d dismissed her and that meant she must go.

Except Lina couldn’t.

‘Well?’ Ebony brows angled down above that imperious nose and his dark-shadowed jaw was set at an angle that warned his hold on patience was precarious.

She tilted her face higher, meeting his narrowed gaze. ‘I have no home to go to, sir. Not any more. Or any family.’ She bit her lip, refusing to let it tremble. ‘Could I be allowed to remain in the palace? I’m a hard worker. I can make myself useful at any task. In the kitchens, the laundries, the...’ She paused, racking her brain, wondering what the multitude of royal servants did all day. ‘I can sew and embroider too.’ Not well enough, as her aunt was fond of reminding her. But then she didn’t do anything well enough for her aunt.

‘You must have a home. Where did you come from?’ No softening in the austere masculine beauty of that sculpted face. But at least he’d paused to listen. Her heart throbbed a hopeful beat.

‘From the home of my father’s brother, sir. But that door is no longer open to me.’ It took everything Lina had to stand erect, meeting his gaze headlong, when harsh memories bombarded her. Of becoming little more than a slave in her own home.

The Emir sighed and lifted his hand to rake his fingers through his short hair. Intriguingly, the movement made muscles swell and tug in his arm, shoulder and chest. Lina had never before realised that such a simple movement could be so spellbinding.

But then she’d never seen a man like the Emir, naked or clothed.

He sighed and turned away. Abruptly her straying thoughts focused sharply. He was walking away, leaving her to her fate. Fear and despair vied with indignation. Lina was sick of fate, in the form of the men who had ruled her destiny, ignoring her.

Yet instead of continuing to the bathroom, he merely flung open a wardrobe and withdrew a shirt.

‘Here.’ The white garment flew through the air towards her. ‘Put that on and sit down.’

Lina’s fingers tightened convulsively on soft white cotton. So finely woven it was translucent. Only the finest material for the leader of the nation.

‘Go on.’ He nodded at the garment in her hands, then turned towards the bed. For a second she thought he was going to sit there, till he abruptly changed direction and headed for an armchair, sinking onto it with a sigh.

Hurriedly, Lina lifted the cotton over her head, pulling it down till it covered her almost to the knees. She had to roll up the sleeves to free her hands.

No doubt she looked like a child playing dress-up.

She puzzled over why the Emir thought the extra layer necessary. It was true, she was more comfortable with the bare skin of her waist and breasts covered, but from what she’d observed of men, they enjoyed such displays.

Unless the Emir wasn’t interested in women?

The startling thought kept her rooted to the spot. Surely not! Such a waste that would be. Besides, there’d been that shimmer of heat when he’d looked at her before. It had been unmistakable.

She darted a curious glance at the man who would decide her future. He wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he’d shut his eyes, which gave her time to take in more of his appearance, to see beyond that grave masculine beauty to the weariness bracketing his eyes and mouth. The slight droop of his head. The slump of that long frame in the cushioned chair.

The man was exhausted.

* * *

Sayid opened his eyes to see the girl dart into his bathroom. What the devil was she up to?

He was about to follow when she emerged, carrying a bowl of water. She sank to the floor before him in a show of fluid grace that made him wonder if she really was a dancer, as that scanty costume suggested.

Savagely he ignored the scorching trail of desire searing through his belly. He reminded himself he’d learned to master his impulsive, carnal nature.

Yet, to his chagrin the addition of his shirt did nothing to hide her allure. With fatigue testing both his patience and his willpower, it had seemed safest to cover her up so he couldn’t see that too-inviting expanse of honey skin, the alluring dips, swells and hollows of her breasts, waist and hips.

Sayid hadn’t reckoned on her being just as sexy, if not more, wearing his shirt. Because it was his shirt? It conjured a sense of intimacy, as if she were a lover who’d already shared her body with him. The thought snagged in his brain, stirring heat in his groin.

The extra covering hinted at her shape, the fine fabric clinging here and there, teasing with what lay beneath.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice emerged brusque, making her jump, yet she didn’t back away.

‘Helping with your boots, sir.’ She’d put the bowl to one side and reached forward as if to touch him, then halted, clearly waiting for permission.

‘Look at me.’ He was tired of the tradition that deterred people from daring to look their ruler in the face. Besides, it made it more difficult for him to read their thoughts.

Violet eyes met his. A burst of dark colour so deep it seemed Sayid could fall into it. Beautiful eyes, wide and slanted at the corners, giving her the look of a woman with secrets, or whose face was made for smiling.

There was no smile now. She still wore that tense expression, as if her flesh had shrunk around her bones, making her look wary, even scared, except the firm angle of her chin belied fear.

‘How old are you?’ The question wasn’t the one he’d planned.

‘Seventeen, sir.’ She swallowed, then licked her bottom lip as if nervous.

A mere teenager. A judder of regret vibrated through him. Seventeen and scared despite her determination not to show it. While he was twenty-five and, right now, felt old beyond his years.

Sayid couldn’t accept the invitation to let her serve him in any way he wished. Having a woman who’d been ordered to serve him was utterly unpalatable.

Or it should be.

Yet despite exhaustion part of him was disappointed. For Lina, with her pouting lips, her intriguing air of composure despite her nerves, and her outrageously luscious body, made the blood roar in his veins and heat stir. After all, he was descended from generations of marauding warriors, used to taking whatever they wanted, including women.

‘May I help you with your boots, sir?’

‘Very well.’ If it helped her to feel useful, he wouldn’t object. It would be tough getting her to speak if she were frozen into silence.

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