The Inherited Bride by Maisey Yates Page A

stomach bottomed out, her heart twisting in her chest. She was about to come face to face with the man she was to marry. About to meet the Sheikh who had gifted her with his ring. The man she did not want. While she stood next to the man she’d grown to desire. The man who was slowly winding his way around her heart with his hardened demeanor and his battle scars.
    Adham opened her door for her and she got out of the limo, trying to avoid brushing against his hard body. She was too weak for that. She couldn’t touch him without betraying how much she wanted him, how much she ached. And she did—her stomach, her heart and her head hurt.
    Suddenly the thought of being separated from Adham made her want to sink to her knees and weep, made herwant to cling to him in desperation. She had no idea what it meant, only that it seemed like life or death.
    She kept her arms tightly at her sides to discourage him from placing his hand on her. If he touched her, even by accident, she would shatter. She noticed he was holding himself rigid too, his jaw tense, his entire body locked tight, his muscles strained as though he were engaged in a physical war.
    But that horrible, flat look in his eyes made it impossible to read what he was truly thinking. Only the tension in his body made her aware that there was anything behind the stony mask he wore. She hated it. Hated that she couldn’t read him. Hated that what she needed more than anything was comfort. From him. Comfort she was certain he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give to her.
    She gripped her arms, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. Nerves swept over her. She swallowed convulsively, trying to keep from crying. She felt ridiculously weak, and she also felt like her life was ending.
    They walked up a long walkway lined with ash trees that were immaculately trimmed, as was the bright green lawn. The greenery was a show of the High Sheikh’s wealth, Isabella assumed. Water in a desert nation was likely worth more than gold or oil.
    The double doors to the palace were opened by two armed guards who stood still, faces stoic, as she and Adham passed them and walked into the outer chamber.
    The palace in Turan was beautiful, but it was comprised of hand carved stone and antique, woven tapestries, sedate next to the inlaid marble that covered the domed walls and ceiling in the entryway of the Umarahn palace. The floors were black high-gloss tile, the walls a deep green and blue, with fine gold filigree separatingthe different stones. There was so much color—color that was designed to show the riches of its owner.
    “So,” she said, exhaling, “this is my palace?”
    A short laugh escaped Adham’s lips. “Indeed it is,
Principessa.”
The Italian version of his usual name for her made her heart trip. His accent was more pronounced when he spoke Italian—a language he was obviously less comfortable with than English. She found it very sexy, his heavy Arabic accent putting a unique stamp on her native language.
    She turned her face away from him sharply. There was no point in lingering over all the things about Adham she found attractive. Not when she was about to meet her future husband.
    She gritted her teeth, fighting the sting of tears again.
    A man dressed in flowing robes came sweeping into the room, and Isabella’s heart sank. But as he walked closer she could see that it was not her fiancé. She’d only seen a couple pictures of Hassan, but she remembered his face.
    “Numair.” Adham inclined his head.
    “Sheikh Adham,” the other man returned.
    So she’d been right. He was nobility of some kind, an important man. Not simply a bodyguard.
    “I am here to see High Sheikh Hassan. I bring him his bride.” Adham’s words were clipped, his manner formal.
    Numair looked to the side, as though he were reluctant to look at Adham directly. “Hassan is not here. He is on retreat.”
    Adham stiffened. “And how long will he be gone?”
    This time Numair turned shifty eyes to