Engaged to the Doctor Sheikh

by Meredith Webber

  He paused and Lila knew he was back in that time, seeing pictures in his head.

  ‘We loved her, all of us,’ he added simply.

  ‘So why would she leave? And why would you think her a thief?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I was a child so I cannot answer that for you. You must realise that the theft—and Nalini’s link to it—brought shame to Second Mother and she never forgave her sister for that. You will hear many stories and not all of them will be good ones, so you will have to sift them through for yourself. One of them, perhaps it was true, was that my father had arranged a marriage for her and she didn’t wish to marry whoever it was—didn’t want to be forced into an arranged marriage. This would have angered my father, and infuriated Second Mother, who was jealous of her sister’s popularity and would have been pleased to see her go. But I can tell you that Nalini was beautiful, and she brought joy to many people.’

  Again that hesitation, then he added, ‘I was eight, and I loved her.’

  Lila closed her eyes, trying to picture her mother—to picture the man beside her as a child. She tucked the words ‘beautiful’ and ‘joy’ into the empty space and accepted that she’d hear little more from this man now.

  Some other time she’d ask again, but in the meantime, living here in what he’d called the women’s house, she did not doubt she’d hear the other stories he’d spoken of.

  Not all of them would be good, he’d also said, but maybe they would help her put together a picture of the woman who’d become her mother.

  In the meantime...

  Should she ask?

  But how else to find out?

  ‘And my father?’

  He shook his head, as if sorry this conversation had begun. Not that a headshake was going to stop her.

  She waited, her eyes on his face. He’d taken off his headscarf before meeting them in the arbour, and without it casting shadows on his face she could see the lines of weariness.

  But doctors often looked like that...

  ‘We really don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘There was a lot of talk—speculation—but there was also the fact that she might have gone away on her own. No one knew.’

  He bowed his head, as if suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

  ‘I need to sleep,’ he said. ‘It was a long night.’

  ‘Is there a problem at the hospital?’ she asked. ‘When we video chatted, you seemed so positive. You sounded excited that things going well enough for you to begin the outreach programme you want to run.’

  Dark eyes met hers—not dark dark, but with a greenish tinge, and framed by eyelashes most women would die for.

  ‘The hospital is working well, the outreach programme ready to begin, but...’

  He looked so shattered it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him—to offer comfort.

  ‘It is my brother,’ he explained, his voice deepened by despair. ‘He’s been battling leukaemia for four years and just when we think it’s gone for good, he comes out of remission. He has had an autologous stem cell transplant and an allogenic one from me, and some other close members of his family, but there’s a kink...’

  He paused then added, ‘There’s a kink—that’s a very unprofessional explanation but it’s how I think of it—just some slight difference in a chromosome that makes the sibling matches not quite right. I’ve been searching worldwide donor bases to see if I can find a match.’

  Leukaemia, she knew, came in so many forms, so many sub-types and deviations and, as Tariq had said, there were many chromosomal differences that made both treatment and likely outcomes very difficult to predict.

  ‘How old is he?’ she asked, thinking that the younger a child was diagnosed, the more chance he had.

  ‘Eighteen now. He has been ill for three years—well, ill, then in remission, then ill again. You must know how it goes.’

  Tariq’s voice told her of his despair and she knew he understood just how little chance his brother had of a full recovery.

  Of any recovery?

  ‘But Khalil is a fighter,’ he added, ‘and we’re all fighting with him. You’ll get to meet him at the hospital, of course, although probably only through glass as his immune system is wrecked.’

  Lila shook her head, aware of the stress and agony this must be causing his family.

  But what could she say?

  Then Tariq was speaking again, so she didn’t have to say anything.

  ‘You should rest now and I definitely need sleep,’ he said. ‘But perhaps, by five, you might be sufficiently rested to visit the hospital. I had planned tomorrow to be an orientation day for you—more learning your way around than work—but this afternoon the unit I ordered for the outreach clinic will be delivered and as you’ll be using it quite a lot, you might like to join me when I take possession of it?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Lila told him with genuine enthusiasm, because it had been his description of the service he hoped to provide to the children of nomadic tribes that had heightened her interest in Karuba—that had given her more reason to come than just the search for her family.

  ‘Shall we say five at the main entrance to the women’s quarters?’ he said, standing up and moving to ease kinks of what must be tiredness from his limbs.

  ‘If I can ever find the main entrance again,’ Lila said with a smile.

  It was just a smile—nothing more—Tariq told himself as he strode away as swiftly as his tired limbs would carry him.

  But the smile had touched some part of him that rarely recognised emotion.

  Surely not his heart!

  No, he believed his father was right—their people had survived for generations in a dangerous, arid land because the head ruled the heart, making decisions based on practicality, sound business principles and common sense, rather than emotion.

  Worry over Khalil was confusing him, and seeing Nalini again—well, Nalini’s daughter—remembering that bitter time in the palace when even the children had been affected by the poisonous atmosphere—anyone would be confused.

  Barirah was right, he shouldn’t have brought her here.

  But the Ta’wiz!

  With Khalil so ill...

  His head could scoff all it liked but some ancient instinct, not necessarily in his heart but something deep in his soul, told him the Ta-wiz should be here in the palace...

  He made his way slowly through the gardens towards his own quarters. He needed sleep more than anything—just a few hours—but as he reached the small courtyard in front of his wing of the palace, he saw again his father’s words, this time rendered in the mosaic tiles in the courtyard.

  He should speak to his mother, tell her of Lila Halliday’s arrival, even though gossip about it would surely have reached her by now.

  All the more reason to talk to her personally, he told himself. But weariness overcame duty and he walked up the shallow steps and shuffled off his shoes, heading into the house to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

  He would sleep, and later, when he met the doctor, he would set aside the confusion of this morning and meet her as a colleague, a colleague he hoped would help him fulfil a dream he’d held for a long time.

  To bring better health to the children outside the cities and towns—to ensure they were inoculated against the worst of childhood diseases—because he knew the divide between the towns and the desert was diminishing, and the children of the nomads were part of the future of his country. Health and education—with these two platforms, they could become anything they wished...

  He slept...

  * * *

  Lila woke with a start to find a young woman sitting on a mat by her door, her hands busy, fingers flying as she did some delicate needlework.

  ‘I am Sousa,’ she said, rising gracefully to her f
eet. ‘I am here to look after you. You would like refreshment? A cool drink? Tea, perhaps? I know English people like tea, but I don’t know very much about Australians.’

  She was so openly curious Lila had to smile.

  ‘Australians drink a lot of tea,’ she said, not adding that many of them drank a lot of beer and wine as well. Her family hadn’t, though not for any apparent reason, happy to accept a glass of wine to toast a special occasion but not bothering otherwise.

  But thinking of her family—the one that was real to her—reminded her that she was here on a mission, a double mission now, not only to find out all she could about her parents but also to clear her mother’s name.

  And Sousa might at least know something!

  ‘I’d love some tea,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could join me and explain a little about how things work at the palace. I am to meet my boss—Sheikh al Askeba—at five, but that still gives us time for a chat.’

  Sousa disappeared with an alacrity that suggested she was dying to find out more about the foreign visitor, returning with a tea tray only minutes later, complete with warm scones wrapped in a table napkin, and jam and cream to go on them.

  ‘Sheikh al Askeba—that’s Tariq, your boss—he should be Crown Prince because he’s the oldest son, but he wanted to study and fought with his father for the right to be a doctor, which is very good for our country as he has built the hospital, and brought in many famous medical people from overseas, but that meant Khalil had to be Crown Prince and now he is so ill, everyone is worried. If he dies, who will the King choose as his successor?’

  ‘Are there only the two sons? And can daughters not take over?’

  Sousa looked horrified at the second idea.

  ‘Daughters are women,’ she said, making Lila smile. Talk about stating the obvious! ‘The King, he has many daughters, and maybe one of their husbands could take over as the country’s ruler because most of the daughters are married to other members of the royal family.’

  ‘Is it a worry?’ Lila asked. ‘Does it matter who takes over as long as he’s a good ruler?’

  Sousa’s eyes widened with might have been horror.

  ‘Of course it matters,’ she said. ‘Whoever takes over—the crown will pass down through their line of the family, and the old king’s line will lose...I do not know the word. It is more than power, it is to do with presence.’

  ‘Lose face?’ Lila suggested, and Sousa nodded.

  Great, Lila thought. Not only am I here as the daughter of a thief, but it seems I’ve stepped into the middle of some complicated family intrigue.

  But she’d take the King’s words as advice and let her head rule her heart, do her job, find out all she could about her parents, then go happily back to Australia to get on with her life—a life she’d put on hold for far too long already.

  She finished her tea, only half listening to Sousa’s chat as she dressed in another conservative outfit ready for her visit to the hospital.

  With Sheikh Tariq al Askeba...

  No, with her colleague and her boss.

  Head—remember, use your head.

  Besides, she was reasonably certain she’d only been attracted to him because he’d seemed so exhausted, and having felt that way herself many times during her career, it had been fellow feeling for a colleague, nothing more.

  Sousa led her to the front door, where one of the big black cars was already waiting, Tariq standing outside, chatting to the driver.

  ‘Right on time,’ he said to her, glancing at his watch, then smiling at her.

  Whoosh! All composure fled. Where was her head? One smile and she went weak at the knees.

  Jet-lag, she reminded herself. It must be jet-lag!

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she said brightly, possibly too brightly, because she’d realised that if he’d been impressive in his regal outfit, he was just as impressive in what were obviously ‘work’ clothes. Pale fawn chinos that clung to his hips and showed a shapely butt and strong legs, and a pale blue denim shirt that for some reason made his eyes seem greener.

  And she was noticing?

  She didn’t do noticing men—well, not much anyway—too busy with study, then work, and the continual search for her identity. There’d been boyfriends from time to time, but no one serious, and she suspected it was a psychological block to do with her identity, or lack of one...

  But this man drew notice like no one else ever had.

  Was it the aura of power he had?

  The power she’d experienced as he’d swept into her life, claimed her as family, and insisted she stay at the palace...

  She climbed into the car, determined to be professional, asking about the mobile clinic he’d set up. Had he seen the specially designed unit? He’d still been awaiting its delivery when they’d spoken.

  But while her questions had been polite professionalism, his responses surprised her, for his passion for the project echoed like warm treacle in his voice, and she found her own excitement building.

  ‘Our first trip will be to the mountains,’ he was saying. ‘They are on the very border of Karuba, and for thousands of years have been the location for the summer camp of the largest nomad tribe. Years ago they hunted the leopard there, but today many of the same tribespeople work in conservation, for the Arabian leopard came close to extinction.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there was such a thing,’ Lila said. A tiny thread of memory sparked something in her brain. She tried to catch it, but it was gone.

  ‘Our leopard is smaller, and paler than leopards in other countries, almost sand coloured between its spots, but it is still a beautiful animal.’

  Lila heard again the passion in his voice and knew this was a man who not only loved his country, but would dedicate himself to it.

  So much for his head ruling his heart!

  She looked out the window to see that the car was entering yet another walled garden, this one with a new, modern building rising up in the centre of it.

  ‘The hospital?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you want to see your brother before you show me around?’ she asked, and knew it had been the right question when his lips twitched in what might almost have been a smile.

  ‘I would if it won’t inconvenience you too much.’

  ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’d like to meet him, even if it’s only through glass.’

  No reaction.

  She glanced towards him and wondered if his silence was telling her she wouldn’t be welcome—though why that would be, she couldn’t say.

  The car drew up at a small side entrance.

  A private entrance?

  Royal privilege?

  But the group of people coming out, men and women, dressed much as she and Tariq were, suggested it was for staff. One or two of them greeted him, one of the women stopping to talk for a few minutes. Unsure of herself now, Lila waited by the car, until her host, apparently forgetting she was with him, strode inside, appearing a few seconds later and looking relieved when he realised she was following.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was distracted. Khalil’s mother, Second Mother, might have been with him. But I’ve been told she’s resting in a nearby room.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘This is awkward for you?’ Lila guessed. ‘I can wait in the car, or anywhere really.’

  To her surprise, Tariq smiled, and she realised it was the first spontaneous smile she’d seen, others having been nothing more than a twitch of his lips or efforts at politeness, strained efforts at that.

  It was a smile that lit up his face, and sparkled in his eyes, doing strange things deep inside Lila’s chest.

  Lungs, not heart, she told herself, and smiled back.

  ‘Less awkward now,’ he said, ‘but, as I said, Second Mot
her blamed Nalini for many things.’

  He paused, before amending the words to, ‘Most things, including, I’m sure, the fact that she had more daughters than sons.’

  The smile still twitched at his lips, but disappeared when he said, ‘She could well be unkind to you. To her, within the hospital you will be staff so accorded no more attention than she gives to our servants—which is very little—but at the palace, remember you are my guest. You do not need to put up with rudeness from her.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like heaps of fun,’ Lila told him, hoping to see the smile again. ‘I can’t wait.’

  But his eyes were sombre when he said, ‘I’m sorry—talking of Second Mother this way—but she is a deeply unhappy woman.’

  ‘Her son has been battling death for three years—it must have put great pressure on her.’

  ‘Ha, you are like Nalini,’ he replied. ‘Seeing the good in everyone. Even at eight I remember that of her. She reprimanded me for teasing my sisters, telling me that just because I was born a boy it didn’t make me better than them.’

  Again the smile and that little flip in Lila’s chest.

  ‘Though of course I was—everyone knew that—and all the servants treated me accordingly. Wrong in this day of political correctness, but it’s how things were—the son was the Little Prince; the daughters were currency to be traded for wealth or ambition.’

  ‘And my mother didn’t like that?’

  ‘Not one little bit! In fact, she encouraged my sisters to tease me, and probably helped make a better person of me as a result.’

  This time Lila’s reaction was a bloom of warmth, definitely in her heart.

  Tariq had given her another scrap of the picture she would build of her mother, to be carefully stored until she had a whole.

  Tariq was talking now of families whilst leading her along corridors he obviously knew well. So it was as family Lila stood outside the glass observation window and looked in at the pale, emaciated young man, his skin as pale as the sheets he lay on.