Free Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child by Annie West Page A

a conscience. He’d cultivated that view since he’d given up trying to be a perfect son and yielded to the weight of his father’s hatred.
    If you can’t beat them join them.
    Tahir had emulated his father in developing a taste for sybaritic decadence. By the time he was eighteen his family hadn’t been able to stomach the sight of him. There’d been no tears shed at his exile.
    But, despite his reputation for dissoluteness, he had some standards, even if he didn’t broadcast them. He never harmed the innocent. He’d even privately helped a few of those whodidn’t have the benefits of wealth. Casual charity was easy. It didn’t make him a good man. It was simple to give away what you didn’t care about.
    And he had never stooped to deflowering virgins.
    Until last night.
    That cold sensation was back again, slipping like ice down his spine and cramping his belly.
    He didn’t even have the excuse of amnesia. He’d known who he was last night: the sort of man who had no business consorting with innocents. He’d known his past, his present and, fate preserve him, his future.
    Tahir hated thinking about the future. Other people dreamed of it. Like Annalisa. She’d been incandescent with delight about travelling and seeing the world. He’d been riveted by the sight of her excitement.
    He couldn’t remember ever feeling that happy.
    His future would be the same as his past. Nothing significant enough to hold his attention.
    Boredom.
    Yet he hadn’t been bored with Annalisa. The feral thought lodged in his brain.
    Despite the pain and the infuriating slowness of his recovery, he’d enjoyed being here.
    The realisation sideswiped him.
    Talking with an inexperienced girl who’d never left Qusay about astronomy, the need for local schools, the latest plans for irrigating the edge of the desert. About customs he remembered from another life and people he’d never met, about the small communities that made up her world. Even about the care and feeding of an orphan goat. And he’d been content!
    For days the bounds of this oasis had circumscribed his world and he hadn’t hankered for more.
    An image of Annalisa’s smile appeared: the way her eyes softened when she laughed, the way the sun brought out gold and bronze highlights in her rich brown hair. The way her slim fingers felt as she tended his wounds. The scent of cinnamon and honey that haunted his sleep.
    She was the reason he’d been content.
    More than content. He’d been happy!
    A sound interrupted his thoughts. Soft humming, off-key yet delightful.
    He slitted open his eyes, seeing daylight. He’d slept late. He might even have been unconscious after the sheer stupidity of having sex despite cracked ribs and head wounds.
    Ripping off his shirt last night had almost killed him. But he’d have died for sure if he hadn’t felt Annalisa’s hands on him, her sweet body against his.
    His erection was instantaneous and achingly powerful, just at the memory of her.
    The humming ceased and the tent flap lifted. His heart banged painfully against his ribs as she entered, wearing her hair down for the first time. Tendrils curled invitingly around her full breasts. She turned and a shaft of sunlight caught her back. Her hair rippled like finest silk, spun with threads of mahogany and gold.
    She bent and retrieved something from the ground and his gaze fixed ravenously on the perfect peach shape of her bottom. His mouth dried.
    Yet her movements weren’t as graceful as usual. When she stepped across to tie up the tent flap he was sure of it.
    She moved as if it hurt to walk.
    As a woman might walk after a stranger had stolen her virginity. Then followed it up with a second bout of sex that had been far less restrained and even more desperate.
    He’d been so needy. Despite his pain and her exhaustion he hadn’t been able to resist kissing her awake and taking his fill of her again. He’d ensured she’d climaxed again, not once but twice. Yet he should have