The Sheikh King's Ward (Halabi Sheikhs #1) - Leslie North Page 0,2

“Then you’ve won, I suppose. All hail the conquering hero.”

Bas thought she might cry, but Fiona just loosened her painting smock. She slipped it off and slung it over a chair. She’d lost, but she wouldn’t break. He could see it in the set of her shoulders, in the tilt of her jaw. She shook out her skirts and pushed her hair back.

“Shall we go?”

“We shall.” He stood aside to let her pass. Fiona swept past him like a queen. Her hand brushed his cuff, leaving a bright smear of red. He’d wounded her pride; she’d gone for his wardrobe.

The next four months would be interesting.

2

Fiona softened in the car, much to Bas’s relief. Her cold façade melted as the towers of the capital rose on the horizon, and she seemed to be trying to make the best of the situation.

“What should I call you?” she asked.

“My subjects refer to me as Your Majesty.”

“Not Commander of the Faithful?”

Bas stifled a snort. “I’m not deserving of that title.”

Fiona’s eyes sparkled. “Your Radiance, then?”

“I’m not the sun, either, as you very well know.” He covered his mouth to hide a smile. “You grew up here, didn’t you?”

“Mostly.” Fiona’s grin widened. “But you’re more than my king. You’re my guardian. My shield against the terrors of the night.” She clasped her hands together. “Sir Guardian. Most noble guardian. Oh Guardian, my Guardian.”

“Never call me that.” He pressed his lips together, pretending to consider. “My family calls me Bashar. Bas for short.”

Fiona looked him up and down, as though taking his measure. He stiffened under her scrutiny, unused to anyone drinking him in like that, with curiosity instead of deference. At last, she nodded to herself.

“Bas it is, then.”

Bas it is. He couldn’t contain his smirk. Fiona was messing with him, but he found himself enjoying it. Maybe it was her tone or that satisfied little smile, but his name on her lips felt like an olive branch. He leaned in, emboldened.

“I have to ask—most women in your position would be lining up for a place at court. And your father wanted that for you. It’s the right thing, so what’s the downside?”

“The right thing?” Fiona’s smile withered and died. “What, living someone else’s dream? Being herded down a path that was never mine to choose? Do you think my father asked my opinion? Do you think he cared?” Her expression tightened. “Don’t think I’m blind to the rest of it. You’re to find me a husband, aren’t you?”

Bas harrumphed. He hadn’t meant to broach that subject just yet.

“Well?”

“Your father might have suggested something to that effect,” he said. “Do you not want to be wed?”

“To a stranger? Of course not.” Fiona made a frustrated sound. “In what world is that the right thing, pledging myself to a man I hardly know? Wasting away in a loveless marriage?” She looked away, shaking her head. “I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

“And?”

“The king can hold out for love, but us peasants have to—”

“Miss Nadide.” Bas cut her off a little too sharply. “I’m willing to forego certain formalities, given our situation, but I’m still your king.”

“Still my lord and master.” Fiona lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I just hoped…”

Bas cocked a brow. “What?”

“I’m curious, I suppose. We’ll be spending a lot of time together. I thought it might be easier if we had some common ground.”

Bas nodded. “You’re not wrong. Or not entirely so. I could find myself a match, someone convenient, but I do think about…love.” He frowned at the heat rising in his cheeks. This wasn’t a conversation he’d anticipated having. “But love takes time. I’m a busy man.”

“Keeping those peasants in line.”

“Indeed.” He licked his lips, eager to have the spotlight off himself. “What about you? If you were free to do anything, what would it be?”

“Run,” she said. “Get on a plane and just…did you know I have a master’s in art history?”

Bas opened his mouth to respond—no, he didn’t know—but Fiona wasn’t done.

“I’d go to New York, maybe Rome. Somewhere I could put that to use. I’d work for an auction house, a big one. One where I could have my hands on a Gentileschi one day, a Basquiat the next, centuries of great art mine to admire.”

Bas stared, speechless. Fiona was still talking, the words spilling out in a rush. That high color was back in her cheeks, not anger but passion. He found himself captivated by her lips, imagining them parted for