LITMIR.BIZ

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laughing, knowing in a short while there would be the sound of tears, and he wanted to bury his head in Amy’s hair. He wanted the escape of her mouth. And yet now there was duty.

      He stood and picked up both daughters, looked into their eyes so dark and trusting. He could not stand to hand them over, for he remembered being ripped from his own parents’ arms, his own screams and pleas, and then the campfire and the strange faces and he remembered his own fear. Right now he hated the land that he ruled—hated the ways of old and the laws that could not be changed without both Kings’ agreement.

      He had survived it, Emir told himself as the wizened old man approached. The twins shrieked in terror as he held out his arms to them.

      Emir walked over and spoke with the man, though Amy could not understand what was said.

      ‘They are upset—you need to be kind with them,’ Emir explained.

      ‘It is your fear that scares them.’ The black eyes were young in his wizened old face. ‘You do not wish to come and speak with me?’

      ‘I have decisions I must make alone.’

      ‘Then make them!’ the old man said.

      ‘They are difficult ones.’

      ‘Difficult if made from the palace, perhaps,’ the old man said. ‘But here the only king is the desert—it always brings solutions if you ask for them.’

      Emir walked back to Amy, who should be standing in silence as the old man prepared the sand. But of course she was not.

      ‘Who is he?’ Amy asked.

      ‘He’s an elder of the Bedouins,’ Emir explained. ‘He is supposed to be more than one hundred and twenty years old.’

      ‘That’s impossible.’

      ‘Not out here,’ Emir said, without looking over. ‘He gives wisdom to those who choose to ask for it.’

      ‘Do you?’ Amy asked, and then stammered an apology, for it was not her place to ask such things.

      But Emir deigned a response. ‘I have consulted him a few times,’ he admitted, ‘but not lately.’ He gave a shrug. ‘His answers are never straightforward …’

      The old man filled two small vials with the sand he had blessed and Emir knew what was to come.

      Amy felt her heart squeezing as he took the sobbing babies, and her pain turned to horror as he walked with them towards the water.

      ‘What’s happening?’

      ‘They are to be immersed in the water and then they will be taken to the camp.’

      ‘Emir—no!’

      ‘You have rituals for your babies, do you not?’ Emir snapped. ‘Do babies in England not cry?’

      He was right, but in that moment Amy felt as if she were bleeding, hearing their shrieks and not having the chance to kiss them goodbye. Listening to them sob as they were taken, she was not just upset; she was furious too—with herself for the part she was playing in this and with Emir.

      ‘Ummi!’ both twins screamed in the distance, and worse than her fear of his anger was resisting her urge to run to them. ‘Ummi!’

      She heard the fading cry and then she heard her own ones—stood there and sobbed. She didn’t care if he was angry about what they called her. Right now she just ached for the babies.

      And as he stood watching her weep for his children, as he heard them cry out for her, Emir knew his decision was the right one.

      ‘They will be okay,’ he tried to comfort her. ‘These are the rules.’

      ‘I thought kings made the rules,’ she retorted angrily.

      ‘This is the way of our land.’ He should be angry, should reprimand her, silence her, but instead he sought to comfort her. ‘They will be taken care of. They will be sung to and taught their history.’ His hand was on her cheek. ‘And each year that passes they will understand more …’

      ‘I can’t do this again.’ So upset was Amy she did not focus on his touch, just on the thought of next year and the next, of watching the babies she loved lost to strange laws. ‘I can’t do this, Emir,’ she was frantic. ‘I have to leave.’

      ‘No,’ Emir said, for he could not lose her now. ‘You can be here for them—comfort them and explain to them.’

      She could. He knew that. The answer to his prayers was here and he bent his mouth and tasted her, tasted the salty tears on her cheeks, and then his lips moved to her mouth and her fear for the girls was replaced, but only with terror.

      She was kissing a king. And she was kissing him. Her mouth was seeking an escape from her agony and for a moment she found it. She let her mind hush to the skill of his lips and his arms wrapped around her, drew her closer to him. His tongue did not prise open her lips because they opened readily, and she knew where this was leading—knew the plans he had in mind.

      He wanted her to be here for his daughters—wanted to ensure she would stay. She pulled back, as her head told her to, because for Amy this was a dangerous game. With this kiss came her heart.

      ‘No.’ She wanted to get away, wanted this moment never to have happened. She could not be his lover—especially when soon he would take a bride. ‘We can’t …’

      ‘We can.’ He was insistent. His lips found hers again and her second taste was her downfall, for it made her suddenly weak.

      His hands were on her hips and he pulled her firmly in, his mouth making clear his intent, and she had never felt more wanted, more feminine. His passion was her pleasure, his desire was what she had been missing, but she could not be his plaything, could not confuse things further.

      ‘Emir, no.’

      ‘Yes.’ He could see it so clearly now—wondered why it had taken so long. ‘We go now to the tent and make love.’

      Again he kissed her. His mind had been busy seeking a solution, but it stilled when he tasted her lips. The pleasure he had forgone was now remembered, except with a different slant—for he tasted not any woman, but Amy. And she was more than simply pleasing. He liked the stilling of her breath as his mouth shocked her, liked the fight for control beneath his hands. Her mouth was still but her body was succumbing; he felt her momentary pause and then her mouth gave in to him, and for Emir there was something unexpected—an emotion he had never tasted in a woman. All the anger she had held in check was delivered in her response. It was a savage kiss that met him now, a different kiss, and he was hard in response. The gentle lovemaking he had intended, the tender seduction he had pictured, changed as she kissed him back.

      He was surprised by the intensity of her passion, by the bundle of emotion in his arms, for though she fought him still her mouth was kissing him.

      It was Emir who withdrew. He looked down at her flushed, angry face.

      ‘Why the temper, Amy?’

      ‘Because I didn’t want you to know!’

      ‘Know?’ And he looked down and saw the lust she had kept hidden, felt the burn of her arousal beneath him. It consumed him, endeared her to him, told him his decision was the right one. ‘Why would you not want me to know?’

      ‘Because …’ His mouth was at her ear, his breath making her shiver. She turned her face away at the admission, but it did not stop his pursuit, more stealthy now, and more delicious. ‘It can come to nothing.’

      ‘It can …’ Emir said. She loathed her own weakness, but now she had tasted him she wanted him so.

      ‘Please …’ The word spilled from her lips; it sounded as if she was begging. ‘Take me back to the tent.’

      Except he wanted her now. His hands were at

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