‘This is supposed to be a fake marriage!’ Kirsten framed in shaken protest.
‘That was your idea. Is it also your wish? What benefit would such an arrangement offer to either of us? I don’t do fake,’ Shahir enumerated with precision. ‘You are my wife, whom I would protect with my life, and soon you will be the mother of my child. I want nothing false or pretend in our marriage. Did I mention that there will be a second wedding held for us in Dhemen?’
She stared back at him, her eyes clinging to his lean strong face, to the fierce resolve etched there. ‘No…you didn’t.’
‘Perhaps by then you too will know what you want. Even were we able to share a bed now I would prefer to honour you by restraining my ardour until you are considered truly mine by all my family,’ he admitted levelly.
‘Will your family accept me?’ she asked in sudden apprehension.
‘Of course,’ he said gently. ‘For the sake of appearances a polite fiction has been coined. According to that story, we married in secret last year because my father disapproved of our match and withheld his consent for an official wedding. The imminent birth of our child can in that way be viewed as having softened the King’s heart into accepting the wife I chose for myself, and nobody loses face.’
Kirsten veiled her eyes, for she was thinking that he had not chosen her. Sexual attraction had overruled self-discipline, and the price of succumbing to temptation had been high. But possibly he had paid the highest price, because he did not love her as she loved him and she would never be the wife he would have chosen for himself.
‘That soft shade of green suits you to perfection,’ he remarked huskily. ‘Your hair looks like white-gold against it.’
‘I didn’t even say thank you for your gifts…Thank you—you picked beautiful things.’
‘It was nothing. I only suggested the colours.’ Honesty bade him admit it, and a faint darkening of colour emphasised the stunning angle of his proud cheekbones. ‘I was lost when it came to styles, although I mentioned what I thought you would like to the manageress.’
Kirsten was watching him in fascination. ‘Haven’t you bought anything like this before?’
He frowned at the idea. ‘No…but if I didn’t take care of it, who else was there to do it?’
Kirsten dropped her head to conceal the smile creeping over her lips. Evidently he had made a special effort on her behalf, and shopping for such intimate apparel had rather embarrassed him. She was delighted to discover that she was the very first woman he had bought lingerie for. Maybe he wasn’t quite as much of a womaniser as she had imagined…
‘Ah!’ she gasped abruptly, pressing her palm to the side of her tummy as the baby chose that instant to kick with vigour.
‘The baby?’ His spectacular golden eyes shimmered and he moved closer and extended a lean, bronzed hand. ‘May I?’
Her hesitation was brief. ‘Yes…’
He spread gentle fingers to the firm swell of her belly and laughed out loud with satisfaction. His wonder and pride were reflected in his eloquent gaze. ‘What joy you are bringing me,’ he murmured, with a sincerity that touched her deep.
Shahir might not love her, but on the other hand he certainly didn’t seem to feel trapped by her pregnancy, she reflected with satisfaction. His genuine pleasure at the prospect of fatherhood meant a great deal to her. He definitely wanted their unborn child, and was prepared to celebrate his or her arrival rather than simply accept it as an inevitable event. Furthermore, although she currently had as much shape as a barrel and could not see her feet, remarkably Shahir still seemed to find her attractive. Those were very strong positives to build on, Kirsten told herself dizzily.
Yet for all that she was married to a man who still firmly believed she was a thief.
That unwelcome recollection hit her like a bucket of icy water. With difficulty she suppressed her hurt and resentment on that score. Although it mortified her to acknowledge the fact, she felt that Shahir had barely known her as a person before he had swept her into bed at Strathcraig, and he had misjudged her accordingly. Now they were finally getting to know each other, and forming a real relationship with bonds that were new and fragile. And she did not want to damage those bonds by staging a confrontation too soon. After all, what evidence of her innocence could she offer him? She had none. But when Shahir had a better understanding of her she would reopen the subject of her supposed dishonesty, and insist that he hear her out with a more open mind, she decided tautly.
The next morning she was having breakfast when a sizeable bundle of magazines and books arrived. She smiled at yet another demonstration of his thoughtfulness. Without thinking about nausea or appetite, or indeed noticing the presence or lack of either, she somehow managed to happily work her way through a bowl of cereal, a whole buttered croissant and two cups of hot chocolate.
Over the couple of weeks that followed Shahir spent all of his free time with her, but even though she would not have objected he did not make any attempt to kiss her again.
Like Squeak, she found herself yawning and nodding off to sleep with very little warning.
Shahir cancelled his business trips abroad, and tried not to travel too far out of reach, and as her due date drew closer she felt more secure when he was around. The consultant had already warned her that the baby was too large for her narrow pelvis and would have to be delivered by Caesarean section.
In the end, she went into labour a fortnight early. It was mid-morning, and Shahir was on the other side of London. She had already been admitted to the clinic when he arrived there.
‘You will be absolutely fine…you will feel no pain,’ he whispered urgently, holding her hand a little too tightly for comfort. ‘I have discussed it fully with the surgical team. There is to be no pain…not even a twinge. I could not bear to see you suffer.’
Below his bronzed skin he was pale as death and tense as a steel girder. He seemed much more afraid for her than she was for herself. She was already suffering slight contractions, and she did not think it was possible to give birth without enduring some level of discomfort, but evidently nobody had dared to tell him that. Worried that even a moan from her might utterly unnerve him, she embraced a stoic silence until the medication kicked in.
Shahir was struggling not to betray his fear for her, and he was praying. He knew his own family history too well to assume that nothing would go wrong. Even the best medical attention could not guarantee a happy conclusion to every birth. His own mother had been young and healthy, but she had died soon after his birth from a seizure. His father had never really recovered from the loss of the wife he had adored.
Within half an hour their little boy was delivered, with an amazing lack of fuss.
Shahir touched a reverent finger tip to their son’s tiny starfish hand and swallowed convulsively, the fierce tension he had endured slowly dissipating.
‘He is…he is truly precious,’ he breathed thickly, his dark golden gaze shimmering with emotion. ‘We are blessed indeed. In a few weeks, when you are well enough to travel, we will take him home to Dhemen and show him to my people.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN the jet landed in Dhemen, Kirsten lifted her son Tazeem out of his travelling bassinet the instant she was free to undo her seat belt. Cradling his warm little body with tender care, she dropped a kiss on his satin-smooth cheek.
‘Who is the most beautiful little boy in the world?’ she whispered.
Tazeem opened big dark brown eyes that promised to be a mirror match of his handsome father’s and studied her with the unflinching regard that was equally reminiscent of his genes. He was a good-natured baby, but he had a strong will as well and could complain bitterly if given cause. She smiled down at him, noting the warm colour in his cheeks and the clearness of his eyes with satisfaction.
For the first few weeks after his premature birth, Tazeem had demonstrated a dismaying tendency to pick up every stray infection going. Shahir and Kirsten had begun to worry that their
child’s early arrival in the world had undermined his health. When the little boy overcame those initial setbacks and went from strength to strength his parents had been hugely relieved. Even so, their natural disquiet had disrupted their plans to travel.
Kirsten had ended up staying with Tazeem in London while Shahir flew round the world dealing with all the business concerns that had had to take a back seat while Kirsten was unwell. Tazeem was now seven weeks old, and it was three weeks since Kirsten had seen his father.
As a result of what felt like very serious deprivation, Kirsten’s eyes were sparkling with anticipation. She could hardly wait to see Shahir again. He had been wonderfully kind and supportive after Tazeem’s birth, especially as it had taken time for her to recover from surgery. And having said that he would honour her by not consummating their marriage until after their second wedding had taken place, he had adhered so rigidly to that decision that he had not even kissed her.
In truth it had been hard for Kirsten not to feel rejected, and even harder for her to overcome the suspicion that Shahir was not unduly taxed by his restraint because he no longer found her much of a temptation. Indeed, it seemed to her that she was continually faced with the humiliating reality that a shotgun wedding such as theirs carried no promise of love or even desire—only the far more prosaic assurance that their child’s needs had taken precedence over their own.
Passing her infant son over to the caring attentions of his nurse, Kirsten rose with a rueful sigh from her comfortable seat and prepared to leave the jet. Long before landing she had taken the chance to freshen up, and had changed into the blue suit she had picked with care for her arrival in the kingdom of Dhemen. She had read every book about her husband’s country that she could lay her hands on. Certain colours were considered auspicious, and blue was one of them.
Hearing Shahir’s rich dark drawl, she realised that the cabin door was already open and that her husband must have come to collect her off the jet. Delighted by what she assumed to be his impatience to see her, she hurried down the aisle to greet him. ‘Shahir…’
Brilliant dark as ebony eyes assailed hers and he smiled, his sculpted mouth curving with megawatt charm. Her heart went on a rollercoaster ride. ‘You have been missed,’ he murmured, clasping her hand in greeting and then stepping back from her again with a formality that took her by surprise.
‘Tazeem…’ Shahir paused to look down at his son and laughed softly, ‘He looks happy—and so he should be now that he is finally coming home.’
Feeling rather hurt by his cool, calm welcome, Kirsten bent to glance out of the nearest window. She was aghast when she saw the serried ranks of people standing out in the baking sun. ‘Oh, my goodness, what’s going on? Who are they waiting for?’
‘You and Tazeem. Are you ready? It would be most discourteous to keep our well-wishers hanging around in this heat.’
‘Waiting for me and Tazeem?’ Dismay made her voice strike a shrill note. ‘My goodness…’
‘All you have to do is smile. You’re a bride, and already the mother of the second inline to the throne. You are also incredibly beautiful. All of those facts will ensure that you are very popular,’ Shahir pointed out bracingly, while he edged her with gentle determination towards the exit.
The sunlight almost blinded her and the heat closed round her like a velvet cocoon. A band struck up a rousing musical arrangement. Before she could carry on down the steps, Shahir closed a staying hand round hers.
‘Don’t move. Keep your head up,’ he instructed, half under his breath. ‘That’s our national anthem.’
Embarrassed pink suffused her fine skin.
At the foot of the steps a few minutes later, Shahir exchanged salutes with a man in a military uniform. The crowds behind the barriers bowed and cheered and applauded, but did so in a very restrained and respectful way. Shahir guided her straight into the welcome shade of an elaborate marquee, where she was ushered towards the seats raised on a dais.
‘Don’t sit down until I do,’ Shahir warned her in an undertone, belatedly appreciating that she would have to be taught royal protocol—and fast.
It was dawning on him that he had been thoughtless in not equipping her better for the challenge of this rarefied world in which he lived. The many privileges of royal status came at the cost of an equal number of restrictions. When his wife appeared in public she would be expected to demonstrate an impeccable grasp of etiquette and the old-fashioned formality that was the hallmark of his family.
An adorable little girl presented Kirsten with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Kirsten’s generous smile lit up her face and she thanked the child in Arabic, grateful that she had taken the time to learn a few basic words.
‘I’m impressed,’ Shahir admitted.
‘Don’t be,’ she said shyly. ‘I bought a tourist vocabulary book and I’ve only managed to learn about fifty words.’
A court ministerial advisor gave a rather lengthy speech of welcome with great enthusiasm. Then an impossibly long white limousine with a Dhemeni flag on the bonnet pulled up, and at Shahir’s covert signal they stood up and left the dais. The band immediately began to play a classical piece that was familiar to her.
‘In your honour, the musicians have selected a piece by an English composer,’ Shahir explained.
She was touched. ‘It’s called “Chanson de Matin.” It was a favourite of my mother’s.’
For an instant he was surprised, until he recalled that her mother had taught music. ‘I didn’t realise you were so knowledgeable.’
‘I was still quite young when my father decided to get rid of the family television. Mum used music to keep Daniel and I occupied in the evenings. We were quite happy without a TV. Then Dad decided we were enjoying music too much and he sold the piano.’
His fine ebony brows pleated. ‘It must have been grim.’
‘It hurt Mum the most, and I promised myself that one day I would have a piano of my own and I would play it all day!’ Kirsten confided with a rueful laugh. ‘I’d be pretty rusty at the keyboard now.’
His dark golden eyes had a sombre light. ‘I don’t think that would matter.’
The interior of the air-conditioned limo was blissfully cool, and Kirsten stretched out her long slender legs and relaxed with a contented little sigh.
Shahir studied her delicate profile with keen masculine appreciation. Her wilful independent streak was matched by a surprising level of sensitivity. The more he found out about her, the more he wanted to know. Like an exquisite painting, she never lost her appeal. And the plain tailored suit she wore was the perfect choice for a woman of such stunning beauty. In so many ways, he acknowledged, she continually exceeded his expectations.
But no sooner had that thought occurred to him than he remembered the theft of the pendant. His proud bone structure hardened, and distaste filled him before he could suppress it. He removed his attention from her. Once again he reminded himself that she had made an appalling mistake in fraught circumstances, and that he had to find it within himself to understand and forgive.
‘My word!’ Kirsten sat bolt upright, her eyes rounding in astonishment when she saw the giant advertising hoarding on the outskirts of the city. Unbelievable as it seemed to her, it carried a huge picture of her face and Shahir’s. ‘I don’t believe what I’m seeing. What’s that for?’
‘It is announcing our wedding, which will be a public holiday. All of Dhemen will be celebrating with us,’ Shahir proffered coolly.
She swallowed hard and wondered why he was being so distant with her. Was he wishing he did not have to go through another wedding with her? Was it the ultimate horror to be forced to marry the wrong woman twice over? Or was she simply being over-sensitive? It was not his fault that she suffered from such low self-esteem, she told herself uncomfortably.
The capital city, Jabil, was composed of wide thoroughfares shaded by mature trees. The busy streets were softened by enticing glimpses of lush green parks. Contemporary buildin
gs sat side by side with ancient domed mosques and rambling villas, and there was a definite air of prosperity to the upmarket shops and hotels. The people wore both European and Arab dress, and many of them stopped to look and wave as the royal motorcade rolled past complete with outriders on motorcycles.
‘We are to have a traditional wedding,’ Shahir breathed tautly, suspecting that culture shock was about to engulf his European bride. ‘The festivities begin tonight and will not end until late tomorrow. We will not meet again until the ceremony takes place.’
Kirsten was thoroughly dismayed at the prospect of being parted from him again so soon. ‘Does it have to be like that? I mean, why can’t we be together?’
The note of panic in her soft voice tugged at his self-assurance until it broke through his defensive barriers. Dark golden eyes intent on her, he closed a lean bronzed hand over hers. ‘It is the way it has been done for centuries, and we have broken quite enough rules already in our courtship. As it is, the usual three days of festivities are being compressed into one and a half to suit my father’s schedule.’
‘But I don’t know anybody…’ She could hear her voice wobbling and she was ashamed of the tears gathering.
Shahir reached for her other hand as well. ‘But there are many English speakers in my family, and they will be very kind to you,’ he swore. ‘My relatives are very relieved that I have finally found myself a wife.’
The level of his conviction soothed her. ‘Relieved?’ she queried.
‘Apparently my father didn’t put any pressure on me to marry because he believed that was the best way to encourage me to take a bride.’ His darkly handsome features were wry. ‘But I was in no hurry, and my indifference had become a source of concern.’
Curiosity about Faria stabbed at her. How many people were aware that he loved another woman? Had the awareness that his son could not have the woman he really wanted lain behind his royal parent’s willingness to be patient?
Sexy Sheikh Bundle (Harlequin Presents) Page 25
