The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride

by Jessica Gilmore

  She didn’t have to wait long. The sound of his decisive tread reached her within two minutes of sending Leena for him and within seconds he stood at the door of her room, unfairly devastating in a traditional high collared cream tunic embroidered with gold thread and matching loose trousers. Saskia’s heart thumped and despite herself she felt the old sweet tug of attraction low in her belly.

  How could this still happen? She knew exactly who Idris Delacour was: a man who had no compunction about blackmailing a vulnerable woman, hijacking her life with no care for the consequences. But somehow her body was out of step with her mind. She noted his every detail without trying: the cut of his cheekbones, the stubble grazing his jaw, the quizzical slant of his brow, the coiled strength in his stance. His body had filled out since university, no longer a boy’s rangy torso but a man’s body. One used to hard work. Strong, capable.

  ‘You didn’t need to make such an effort,’ she said, her mouth dry.

  He cast her plain dress a contemptuous glance. ‘One of us had to.’

  Ignoring his cutting tone took every ounce of self-control she had. Summoning a smile from goodness knew where, she waved a hand at the chair opposite her. ‘Will you sit?’

  * * *

  Idris didn’t take the offered chair; instead he stayed leaning against the door, his arms folded. ‘What can I do for you? Or have you decided you don’t want to go through with it after all?’ He wasn’t sure whether he would be more furious or more delighted if she changed her mind about the wedding.

  ‘Do you want me to change my mind?’

  He didn’t dignify her with a response. ‘Saskia, my uncle, his wife and the lawyer are downstairs waiting for you. If you have cold feet...’

  ‘I need to know what this marriage entails,’ she cut in. ‘What it is you expect of me. And I need to know what I can expect from you.’

  ‘You read the contract?’

  ‘No, it was a little tricky seeing as it is written in Arabic, but it has been read to me. Idris, I don’t want to know about clauses and agreements. I want to know about you and me. About our marriage and your expectations.’

  ‘My expectations?’ He drawled the word out, allowing a cold smile to curve his mouth. ‘You don’t have to worry, Saskia. We may be married but I have no intention of consummating our marriage at any point. Your honour...’ he put a faint stress on the last word and watched the flush spread across her pale cheeks ‘...is quite safe with me. I have no interest in rekindling our past relationship.’

  Liar, his conscience whispered. Saskia Harper had been a pretty girl but she had grown into a beautiful woman. The strawberry blonde hair had darkened to a bright auburn, a colour that reminded him of the grapevines back home in France as autumn fell. She was slightly tanned, a few more freckles sprinkled across her nose, her cheeks, and her body matured and ripened. But she had changed more than physically; Saskia had always been marked by her utter confidence. No nervous freshman, she had arrived in Oxford looking as if she fully expected the world and everything in it to fall at her feet—and they had. Idris had instantly placed her in the category of privileged girls who treated Oxford not as an education but as a launch into society, a place to meet influential people and date—and marry—influential men. Her instant friendship with Maya had made it hard for him to avoid her, but, despite the naturally flirtatious way she had treated everyone, he had been immune to her enchantment.

  Or so he’d thought. Looking back, he’d been a little too smug about his immunity, a little too aware of her conquests, a little too surprised to find her in the library that Saturday afternoon, struggling with her essay on Marlowe, frustrated because she’d desperately wanted to impress a notoriously difficult tutor. After he had talked it through with her, Marlowe’s immortal words had made sense in a way they never had before.

  O, thou art fairer than the evening air

  Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars

  A woman like Saskia could launch one thousand ships, her beauty and intelligence and the depths he spied under that confident exterior utterly beguiling. Utterly dangerous. But in the end, just like Faustus’s creation, the woman he’d thought he’d seen was just an illusion.

  This new, older Saskia was no pushover either, but she didn’t look as if she expected life to roll over at her feet any more. There was a hardness in the green eyes that hinted at past hurts.

  ‘No, Idris. I’m not even remotely concerned with your sleeping arrangements.’ That voice though! Still clear and cold, each word spoken with precision in her most English of accents, like a lady dowager in a breeches and bonnets film. ‘I want to know how this works day to day.’

  ‘How this works? You’re going to be the Queen, Saskia.’ And he the King. The words still sounded absurd, the whole situation unreal. He, Idris Delacour, a King, with all the pomp and circumstance and responsibility and lack of privacy it entailed. His chest tightened. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t think he would ever be ready.

  Idris glanced at Saskia, noting the tension in her shoulders and tell-tale shimmer in her eyes and a bolt of sympathy shot through him. He instantly clamped down on it. Like him she was a victim of circumstance. Like him she had no choice but to see this through. Pity wouldn’t help either of them.

  ‘Queen, yes. But, what does that entail? Can I drive Jack to school, go shopping in the bazaar, have some kind of job?’ Idris understood the subtext all too well—she wanted to know if she’d have any freedom. The sooner she understood—the sooner he accepted—that freedom as they knew it was over for both of them, the easier the rest of their lives would be.

  ‘Saskia, you are about to become a very privileged woman. A woman with a driver, an expense account, a bodyguard. There’s a gym and spa in the rooms at the palace being prepared for you, the palace stables are world renowned, you’ll want for nothing. Sure, take your brother to school, shop to your heart’s content but always have at least two guards and your driver with you. Try the bazaar every now and then by all means, it will make good PR, but there are some very exclusive malls, some with Dalmayan designers, who would love your patronage.’

  Her lips tightened, frustration clear on her face. ‘Malls. Right. That’s one day a month at the most sorted. Working out, an hour a day or so. What about the rest of the time? Maya was on the Council, wasn’t she? And Patron of several projects. Will I do that?’

  ‘Maya had a degree in economics from Oxford. You dropped out of your English degree before you even took your first-year exams,’ he reminded her.

  ‘And I’ve been working ever since,’ she retorted. ‘I’m used to being busy.’

  ‘You’ll be busy,’ he said silkily. ‘Schools to open, dinners to attend, dignitaries to entertain, that kind of thing. You are going to need more than a day a month at the mall because you will be photographed and judged and God help you if you are found lacking. You will need to research every guest, every function, dress appropriately and make the right kind of small talk. And you will need to look like you want to be there and like you want to be with me. That’s your role. That’s what I expect from you as a wife. What Dalmaya needs from you as Queen. A hostess. A well-paid, professional hostess. Is that within your capabilities?’

  If he hadn’t been studying her so intently he would have missed the wobble of her chin, the flash of hurt in her eyes. ‘A hostess. Thank you for clarifying. That’s what I needed to know. If you will give me five minutes I will meet you downstairs.’

  Returning to the downstairs study, Idris tried to pull his mind back to the documents in front of him, but all he could see was the look on Saskia’s face as he had spoken. She had tried to look impassive, he could tell, her hands twisted and her chin tilted high. But those green eyes were as impressive as ever and they had been burning with emotion; with anger, with humiliation.

  ‘Dammit,’ he swore. He had promised himself he
would never let Saskia Harper get under his skin again but in one conversation she had brought out the very worst in him, just as she had all those years ago.

  She was about to become his wife and he owed her his loyalty and courtesy at the very least. If he continued to forget himself around her then this marriage was going to be a long, bleak affair. He had to do better. For the baby’s sake if not his own.

  * * *

  The ceremony took so little time Saskia couldn’t believe she was actually married. Sheikh Malik, Idris’s uncle, made a speech in Arabic and then she and Idris signed the documents. That was all. Usually, Sheikh Malik informed her, this was just the precursor to the marriage celebration, but in their case there was to be no party, no celebration. No family and friends gathered round to mark the occasion. That was fine. She didn’t feel much like celebrating anyway. A speech she didn’t understand, a contract she couldn’t read and no ring. The stuff of daydreams. It was a good thing she didn’t believe in romance.

  Short as the ceremony was her head throbbed by the end of it, her feet aching in the unaccustomed heels. All Saskia wanted was to be left alone by everyone including—especially—her new husband and go straight to bed. The beaming smiles on her staff’s faces and the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen suggested she was unlikely to get her way. She glanced over at Idris. The last thing she could cope with was a cosy evening à deux and she had sent Jack to his friend’s house for the night, not wanting him to witness the short, loveless ceremony. Her mind raced with possible excuses, reasons to put the meal off and then inspiration struck; she turned to Sheikh Malik and his sweet-faced wife with her most welcoming smile.

  ‘I know we are all still in mourning.’ The words were a guilty jolt at her conscience. So few days since her friends had died, but she was so caught up in her own tragedy the bigger tragedy seemed distant somehow. ‘But my kitchen staff wanted to mark the wedding and have been cooking up such a feast there is no way Idris and I will be able to manage it all. Would you join us for dinner? And you are very welcome as well,’ she added to the lawyer. Idris’s narrowed eyes made it clear that he understood exactly why she had extended the invitation. But he didn’t gainsay her; he probably looked forward to a romantic meal as little as she did.

  A white-covered table and chairs had been set up on the terrace, overlooking the sea. Jewel-coloured lanterns were strewn through the trees and plants creating a magical effect straight out of The Arabian Nights. Saskia stepped out onto the mosaic-tiled floor, her throat swelling as she took every carefully constructed detail in: the candles on the tables, the cushions scattered over the benches, the beautiful table decorations, the soft music floating out of hidden speakers. Her staff had gone to such an effort and if this really were her wedding night, if she had married someone she loved, then this would be the most charming, romantic dinner possible. Blinking back sudden, hot tears, she stepped over to the terrace rail and looked out at the floodlit beach below, the sea a dark shadow beyond.

  ‘The city is that way.’ She jumped as Idris spoke, unaware he had followed her. ‘The mouth of the river is just there, you see? Where those lights are, that’s the ships heading up to the port. Ships have been sailing up the river Kizaj for thousands of years to unload their cargoes at the harbour here and to take spices and silks back to Europe and further afield.’

  Saskia turned and shivered when she realised just how close he was standing, almost within touching distance. The lanterns cast a soft jewelled glow on him, his face a mosaic of reds and greens and blues. The light made him seem younger, like the boy she had once known. The young man she had been so desperately in love with. Her heart ached, the locked-away memories flooding back as she looked into his dark eyes.

  She had been so young, just eighteen. New to university, new to Oxford, she hadn’t taken long to fall in with a crowd as self-assured, as gilded as she had been then; it hadn’t taken long to realise she and Maya were kindred spirits. Young, beautiful, rich, indulged, confident. Looking back, she barely recognised that Saskia Harper. Did she envy her that innocence? Maybe.

  Maya had already been engaged to Fayaz. Saskia, fresh from school and ripe for adventure, had been shocked that the poised girl with laughing eyes was ready to make such a commitment, but as soon as she had seen her with Fayaz she had understood; they had fitted together in a way she had never imagined fitting with anyone, fitted in a way she found herself envying. The revelation that Fayaz was Crown Prince she had taken in her stride; her exclusive boarding school had been full of royal offspring, many without a throne, the children of oligarchs and old aristocratic families.

  But she hadn’t been able to take Idris in her stride. He had already graduated from the Sorbonne and was doing a postgraduate year at Oxford. Older, serious, disapproving; she hadn’t understood why she was so attracted to him then, naive for all her sophistication, but somehow he had got under her skin, into her very blood, with that first unsmiling nod. It hadn’t been his looks—he was handsome but she had known many good-looking boys—nor his conversation—he barely spoke to her—but she had craved his approval more than anything she had ever known.

  And when she had finally got it, when he had finally looked at her, into her, as if he knew her very soul, she had fallen. Hard.

  It hadn’t been easy. He had been so disciplined, so focussed on his future, and she had known he thought she was too flighty, too flirty, too frivolous. She had been all of the above, unapologetically so, refusing to change for anyone, wanting Idris to love her despite her flaws. She’d thought he did love her.

  She’d been wrong.

  It would be so easy to fall into that trap again. To believe that she could win him round. To think that behind that cool, sardonic mask there was a boy who needed saving. A boy only she could save. But if the last seven years had taught her anything it was that there were no happy endings and, in the end, the only person she could rely on was herself.

  And yet she didn’t step back. His eyes were so dark, like the bitterest chocolate, his skin a warm olive, his profile proud and aloof. She knew every millimetre of his face by heart. It was imprinted on hers. Trembling, Saskia raised her gaze to meet his, preparing herself to meet the old disdain, only for a fiery jolt to blaze through her whole body when, instead, she saw the old flicker of desire, a hunger she hadn’t seen or felt for such a long time.

  ‘Idris,’ she whispered, raising her hand to his cheek, the rasp of his roughened skin setting every nerve in her fingertips on fire, a flame that licked its way right down to her toes with an almost painful intensity. He had always been able to ignite her with just one touch. Slowly his hand travelled up to cover hers and she closed her eyes, all her senses concentrating on his touch, only for them to fly open as his hand dropped hers and he stepped back, beyond her reach, shutters slamming down over his gaze, the desire extinguished as if it had never been.

  ‘Sheikh Malik, Sheikha Salma,’ he said, walking past her as if she weren’t there, hands open, a smile on his face as he greeted his aunt and uncle as they stepped onto the terrace. Saskia took a deep trembling breath and turned, her own smile firmly in place. She could do this. What other choice did she have?

  * * *

  It was like being in a play, remembering her lines and her cues, ensuring she had the correct expression at all times and that her audience believed her confidence and interest to be real, even when her thoughts strayed to those brief seconds she and Idris had stood looking out over the sea. Luckily Idris’s uncle and aunt were all too aware of the reasons for the hurried ceremony and worked hard to put Saskia at her ease. Sheikha Salma was a charming woman in her mid-fifties and she spent much of the meal asking Saskia about her pregnancy and plans for the baby and suggesting shops and places to visit that Saskia might like.

  The conversation moved naturally on to the Sheikha’s own children, all now grown up and living away from home. ‘They are al
l so independent, not like when I was young,’ she confided in Saskia. ‘Adil is right here, in the army, but Aida works for a bank in London. Very clever girl. But clever won’t bring me grandchildren.’ She cast a longing look at Saskia’s stomach. ‘Farah is a teacher in Jayah but she lives in an apartment with other girls. In my day such a thing would have been completely scandalous but she just laughs and tells me I am old-fashioned.’ She shook her head. ‘There we are with our big house, room for sons-and daughters-in-law, for grandchildren, and it is just us rattling around.’ She laughed but there was a sadness behind the laughter. ‘Progress is not always such a wonderful thing.’

  ‘I’ve looked after my brother, Jack, since he was two. The hardest thing to adjust to was the lack of privacy or time to myself—he wanted to talk to me even when I was in the shower! But now I can’t imagine life without him. The thought of him growing up and moving on is unbearable. I hope you get some grandchildren soon but, please, you must visit the baby whenever you like.’ As if on cue the baby kicked and Saskia automatically ran her hand over her bump, offering unspoken reassurance, an unspoken promise. The decisions she had made were hers alone; she would never burden the baby with guilt, never let it know that raising it, loving it were thrust upon her.

  ‘And what about you, Sheikha Saskia? What did you do when you lived in London?’

  ‘I was a temp,’ she said. Idris and his uncle were both listening in and she forced a smile. ‘Not the most high-powered career but it had variety.’

  Sheikh Malik smiled back at her in response. ‘There is always a need for good temps in the world.’

  ‘That’s true. I always had work.’

  His wife patted Saskia’s hand. ‘But now motherhood will keep you busy. For the next few years at least.’

  Saskia stilled. She needed to prove that she was more than just a brood mare. Prove to herself—and to Idris—that she had worth beyond that which her body gave her. ‘I’m sure that’s true and I know the first few months will be hard, but I would like to work as well. I have just completed the first year of a law degree, long distance, and, even though I know I won’t be able to practise, I would still like to finish it and maybe find a way to use it.’