Sheikh, Children's Doctor...Husband

by Meredith Webber

  She passed the little lamp to him, and Azzam ran his hands over it, wanting to ask what she would wish for but already too confused about this woman to be hearing of her wishes for the future.

  The less he knew of her the better. He’d decided that while walking the perimeter of the camp with the headman. Already he knew he’d have a problem with the children who were, he’d discovered, not exactly outcasts but from a family held in disrepute by their own tribe and therefore not likely to be exactly welcome in a family here.

  He’d have to take them home with him. There were plenty of staff to care for them and they would give his mother a new interest. His family had a tradition of taking in lost or orphaned children running right back through the centuries, and his mother would take a personal interest in them.

  Yet as he sat down on the rock-hard earth and felt the proximity of the woman who was now his wife, he wanted more than anything to know her wishes, and to hear her talk and laugh again. Well, maybe not more than anything, because somewhere deep inside a desire to hold her was also building up within him, and if that wasn’t stupidity, he didn’t know what was.

  He went for the easy option.

  ‘What would you wish for?’

  ‘You can’t tell wishes,’ she told him, her voice, and her face as far as he could tell in the dim light, deadly serious. ‘Otherwise they don’t come true.’

  And now the urge to hold her had changed to an urge to give her a hug, for the words had had a wistful quality about them, and this strong woman who’d crawled into a dark crevice to rescue children, and who had worked with the men shifting rubble, sounded…vulnerable!

  ‘Money can make most wishes come true,’ he pointed out.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’ve never had enough to know if you’re right or wrong, but while I agree it could help—that it could make some things easier in a person’s life—I wonder if it’s true, generally speaking? Can it buy happiness, for instance? Can a designer handbag or a brilliant diamond bring true happiness? And can money guarantee the people you love won’t die?’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Alex regretted them. She turned to Azzam and rested her hand on his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was a totally insensitive thing to say. You must miss your brother terribly.’

  He was looking away from her, but she felt him move, and he put one hand over hers where it lay on his arm, holding it there.

  ‘Will you sit with me outside for a short time? The stars are out and everyone should see a night sky in the desert.’

  Sit under the stars with him?

  Let starlight work its magic when she suspected she was already on the way to being in love with this man?

  Of course she couldn’t!

  ‘Please?’ he added, and she knew she would. She stood up and walked in front of him, stopping just beyond the door to their shelter and looking up at the magic of a billion bright stars in a black-velvet sky.

  He took her hand and led her to a smooth rock not far from the tent, then used gentle pressure on her hand to ease her down beside him. Her hand felt safe in his.

  How peculiar!

  When had hands felt unsafe?

  And was her mind wandering down this obscure alley so she wouldn’t think about the profile she could now see clearly in the bright starlight? The clean, strong profile that would be etched forever in her mind?

  ‘I felt such anger at first,’ he said, speaking so quietly she had to strain to hear the words, but even straining it was hard to miss the pain behind them. ‘It was such a useless waste of life—and of a life that had so much to offer. Anger blotted out the grief, and now the situation—not the earthquake but being thrown into a role I wasn’t trained for, and certainly never wanted—that has taken all my attention.’

  Alex squeezed the fingers of the hand that still clasped hers.

  ‘Grief will come when you are ready for it,’ she said quietly. ‘I know this for a fact. Some people find it there immediately, and find release in it, but others need to get through that fog of disbelief—and anger too, that’s a legitimate reaction—that follows sudden death before they can remember the person they loved and truly grieve their loss.’

  He moved the hand that had held hers imprisoned, freeing her fingers.

  Was she sitting too close?

  Had her words been too personal?

  He didn’t shift away, or remonstrate, instead using his freed hand to touch her cheek, turning her head towards him in order to drop the lightest of kisses on her lips.

  ‘My good wife,’ he whispered, as he drew his head back just a little. ‘Offering comfort and wisdom to your husband.’

  Alex was still coming to terms with the kiss, attempting to still the commotion in both her brain and her body, when he added the compliment—and with it added to the commotion…

  ‘I’m not a real wife, remember,’ she said lightly, hoping to relieve the tension in the air around them.

  ‘You’re very real to me,’ he said, then he pointed to the stars, naming the constellations they could see, different names from the ones Alex knew, although apart from the Southern Cross she’d never been able to identify stars.

  ‘This is Alchibah,’ he said, pointing upwards where she strained to pick out one particular star from all the others. ‘His name means tent, and over there, beyond that bright constellation, is Adhara, the maiden. So I am sitting here, outside the tent, with Adhara, the maiden. How fortunate can a man be?’

  He slid one arm around her shoulders and held her close as they both continued to gaze in awe at the magic of the night sky, but the warmth Alex felt, being held so casually, was out of all proportion to the situation. Somehow, the words, and being pressed against his side, had raised a firestorm of reactions in her body—rapid heartbeat, heat racing along her nerves and a heaviness in her blood that made her want to let go of all her cares and, just for a while, experience nothing but feeling and emotion.

  Could he feel it? Did it have to be two-sided, this intense attraction that stroked against her skin, even brushed her breasts, making her nipples tingle? But she didn’t want to move, for to do so might spoil the moment, might break the web of sensation his body was spinning so effortlessly around her.

  She had to move!

  She had to rub her hand across her chest to stop the ache that started there and zeroed down between her thighs.

  ‘You feel it too?’ he murmured, then he was kissing her, kissing her properly. ‘Is it nothing more than the magic of the night, do you think?’ he continued murmuring against her lips, ‘or something very special that involves just the two of us?’

  She answered by initiating the next kiss, and when she drew away to catch her breath found herself admitting ignorance.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she told him honestly, revelling in the arms that held her firmly against his chest, revelling in the feel of his hard body against hers. ‘It probably is the night—moon magic or starstrike, perhaps—because it’s nothing I’ve ever felt before.’

  She’d offered him a gift with that confession, Azzam realised. A gift he would hold close to his heart.

  But it was a gift that prevented him from taking this attraction further—not here and now anyway. Yes, she was ripe for seduction, he could feel desire thrumming in her body, but would it not be a betrayal of her innocent admission, to take advantage of her? And what of later—back in the real world—what of the consequences of such an action?

  Having finally sorted out the reasons the pain of Clarice’s defection had lingered so long, he knew he couldn’t go into an affair with this woman lightly. It was something he needed to think clearly about, and his mind, right now, was beyond clear thinking.

  He kissed her once again, but gently this time, and equally gently disengaged himself from her.

  She looked at him, questions in her eyes, then must have read something in his face that made her offer him a rueful smile and a little nod before she rose to h
er feet and went inside their little shelter.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THEY flew back to the palace at about midday, Alex, Azzam and the three children the only passengers in the helicopter.

  After a relatively sleepless night—he shouldn’t have kissed her or mentioned the attraction, he shouldn’t have seen her face by moonlight, the pale, ethereal beauty of her remaining in his head to haunt his dreams, he shouldn’t have unburdened himself to her or talked about the stars or held her close—Azzam was happy to be returning home.

  Until the helicopter landed and he stepped out to realise Clarice was there to meet them. For all her earlier protests that she was too distraught to handle her duties as the ruler’s widow, mourning had obviously passed her by. The traditional white that was the colour of mourning had been set aside and she was dressed in the bold, vivid blue she knew set off her eyes, her skin and her hair tones, the tunic and the bottom of her loose trousers elaborately bejewelled so she dazzled in the sunlight.

  The draught from the rotors had blown the head-scarf—something she’d never secured too well—back from her golden locks, so she came hurrying towards him, all bright and golden, crying out his name.

  ‘I have been so worried for you,’ she said, ignoring the staff gathered there and the other passengers and flinging her arms around him. ‘Had anything happened to you on top of Bahir’s death, I would have had to die myself.’

  Her lush body pressed against him and for a moment he was a young man once again, meeting this golden beauty for the first time. She had dazzled him then in a way he’d never felt before and he’d fallen headlong into love, only to discover, once she met Bahir, that he, Azzam, was not the man for her.

  The chatter of the children as they disembarked reminded him of where he was, and he turned to see Alex carrying the baby and herding the boy and girl away from the rotors of the aircraft. He eased away from Clarice, suspicious now of this unexpected welcome. Clarice, he had long since learned, always had an ulterior motive.

  He reached out to Alex, took her hand, and drew her forward, aware that what he was about to do was wrong, yet unable to resist. He told himself it wasn’t payback for that long-ago rebuff, and in truth it wasn’t. This was instinctive, preparation for something that lay ahead, although he wasn’t quite sure what.

  ‘Clarice, this is Alex, my wife.’

  Alex stared at the vision of golden beauty in front of her, frozen in place by the words Azzam had uttered. She realised this was some kind of ploy, one she didn’t understand, and anger at being used this way began to grow inside her.

  ‘I need to get the children inside, to bath and feed them and find a bedroom for them,’ she said to Azzam, removing her hand from his grasp. ‘Then I must get the boy to a hospital so his arm can be x-rayed.’

  ‘I will organise it,’ he said quickly, perhaps registering, even regretting, that he’d upset her. ‘I will find a woman who will care for them. As for the boy, I shall take him myself. If the break is well aligned, we can put a cast straight on it.’

  The woman, Clarice, made a protesting noise, but Alex’s problem was with the man, not her.

  ‘The boy is injured,’ Azzam told Clarice, then he turned again to Alex.

  ‘I will find someone also, to help you. You, too, need food.’

  ‘Not to mention a bath!’ she snapped, disturbed in ways she didn’t understand by the tension she could feel in the air.

  Who was this woman?

  His girlfriend?

  And if so, why aggravate her by introducing his ‘wife’ when she, Alex, wasn’t a real wife at all?

  Clarice?

  Had she heard the name before?

  She was far too tired to think right now, and getting the children bathed and fed was a priority. Several servants had appeared, Azzam rattled off some orders, and one young girl came forward, talking gently to the children, another stepping forward to take the baby from Alex.

  ‘No, I’ll take him. Just lead me back to my room,’ Alex said, remembering this young girl as one she’d seen helping serve at dinner with Samarah about a hundred years ago. Could it only have been three days?

  She followed the two young women and the children from the helicopter pad into a rear entrance to the palace, then along a familiar corridor to her room, where Hafa was waiting for her.

  ‘We had word from the helicopter that the children were coming,’ she said. ‘The room next to yours is prepared for them and Ghaada, who loves all children, will be looking after them. I will help her bath and clothe and feed them, and His Highness will take the boy for X-rays, leaving you free to have a bath yourself.’

  Brooking no argument, Hafa took the baby from Alex’s arms and went with the children to the room next door, now talking in their language and waving her free arm, apparently assuring the little girl that Alex would be nearby.

  Another young servant was waiting in Alex’s bedroom, and to Alex’s delight she, too, spoke English.

  ‘I will help you,’ she said simply, then she moved forward and as Alex raised her arms, the woman drew the filthy tunic over her head. Then she released the band around the plait and teased out Alex’s hair, murmuring at the state of it.

  ‘I have run a bath for you,’ she said, ushering Alex into the bathroom, where there was a foaming tub with the scent she now knew so well rising from the bubbles with the steam.

  Stripping off the rest of her clothes, Alex stepped into it, lying back in the warm water and feeling fatigue, as well as grime, ease from her body.

  The young woman had followed her, and now she proceeded to wash Alex’s hair, ignoring Alex’s feeble protest that she could manage. Instead, she gave herself up to the luxury of it, and lay there, relishing the woman’s fingers massaging her scalp—relishing the simple pleasure of being clean.

  She eventually emerged from the bath and had a quick shower as well, washing off the grime she was sure would have lingered in the bath water. As she stepped out, the young woman wrapped her in a thick, warm towel, patting her dry.

  ‘Enough!’ Alex finally told her. ‘I can look after myself now, but thank you anyway.’

  ‘No, I am to see you eat and rest,’ she said, polite but stubborn. She held out a white towelling robe for Alex to put on then led her to a table by the window in the huge bedroom. An array of food was laid out there, with jugs of fruit juices and pots of coffee as well. Suddenly aware of her hunger, Alex sat down at the table and began to pick at what was on offer—sliced fruit, flat bread, meat and cheeses of different kinds, all things chosen to tempt a very tired woman’s appetite.

  Once fed, she realised sleep had become a priority, and she explained to the girl that she really needed a short rest. The short rest became three hours, and she woke with a start, unable to believe she could have slept so long and so deeply.

  ‘Where are the children? Are they all right? The boy, how is his arm?’

  Hafa had returned and must have been watching over Alex as she slept, for she came forward, assuring her all was well and that the older children had been playing in the garden once the boy’s arm had been set.

  Now she waved her hand towards the dressing room.

  ‘When you are dressed, I will fix your hair,’ she said. ‘His Highness wishes you to bring the children to his mother in half an hour. We do not have much time.’

  Alex found herself smiling for the first time since her return to the palace.

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ she said. ‘I can be dressed and ready to move in two minutes. Half an hour is a luxury.’

  Hafa returned her smile.

  ‘But today you need not hurry like that,’ she said, leading Alex, still clad in the cotton robe, across the dressing room and opening the doors to reveal that Alex’s meagre wardrobe had been supplemented by at least another dozen outfits, far more exotic looking than the plain tunics and trousers that had been there originally.

  Before Alex could protest the children returned, the boy and girl now dressed in pristi
ne white clothing, the baby swaddled in a soft white muslin cloth. The little girl, Tasnim, Alex remembered, stared in awe at the clothes in the closet then pointed to a pale, silvery tunic and trouser set, pointing next at Alex.

  Laughing at the child’s delight, Alex stooped and hugged her, then turned to Hafa.

  ‘I know she is Tasnim, but could you find out the other children’s names, and tell her mine is Alex? I have tried with sign language but we both get muddled.’

  Excited conversation followed and in the end Alex knew the boy was Zahid, the baby Masun.

  Ghaada removed the children, promising to wait in the colonnade just outside the door until Alex was ready to take them to meet Samarah. Alex dressed in the outfit Tasnim had chosen, although she felt self-conscious about donning such beautiful clothes. The material was the finest silk, the palest blue-green colour shot through with silver. She had no make-up, but Hafa produced a box of lipsticks and a beauty case of unused cosmetics.

  Shaking her head at such unimaginable luxury—that a guest room should come complete with new, expensive cosmetics—Alex chose a pale pink lipstick and used that on her lips before brushing her hair, tugging at the tangles, then covering it with a scarf that matched her outfit.

  ‘I’m done,’ she said to Hafa, who looked concerned that anyone could pay so little attention to her toilet, but Alex waved away the protest she began to make, saying, ‘Samarah wishes to meet the children. She already knows me, although she might not recognise me in these beautiful clothes.’

  She came towards them like a silvery ghost, carrying the baby and herding the two little ones in front of her. Azzam knew he was staring, but he couldn’t stop himself. He, who’d always thought golden beauty unsurpassable, was now struck dumb by this delicate, silver wraith.

  ‘You have brought me children to love,’ his mother cried, holding out her arms and speaking now to the two little ones in their own language. They came to her, as children always did, and she held them close then looked up at Alex, standing there with the baby.