The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride

by Jessica Gilmore

  Memories flooded back. ‘But somehow you persuaded me and we found ourselves up in that little town, with all the thatched roofs and the castle.’

  ‘The sun was out, so even though it was freezing we sat in the pub beer garden and shivered as we had our pints.’

  ‘Then we walked along the road and quarrelled over which house we would buy. You wanted all the tiny, impractical cottages...’

  ‘And you wanted all the boring, sensible houses with no character.’

  ‘You would love the chateau,’ he told her, sliding his fingers through her hair. ‘It has all the balconies and turrets and hidden rooms you could desire. My grandfather lived in a suite on the ground floor while the house crumbled. Restoring it has taken me five years—and now it’s done I won’t get the opportunity to enjoy it.’

  ‘You could.’ She placed a hand on his cheek, turning his face to hers. ‘You chose not to. You chose to take on Dalmaya and Sami and me even though we were the last things you wanted.’

  Had it been a choice? It had felt like an inescapable destiny. ‘I didn’t...’

  ‘You did have a choice. No one would have blamed you for walking away. No one but you. You don’t choose the easy path, Idris Delacour, and you don’t make it easy for those of us who are journeying with you, but you choose the right path.’

  ‘Even back then?’ Her breath was soft on his cheek, her eyes full of a compassion that struck him to his core.

  ‘Not the way it happened, but you’re right. I didn’t respect your need for privacy or your boundaries. I just jumped straight in wanting everything my own way. It’s funny.’ A soft, nostalgic smile curved her mouth. ‘I don’t recognise that Saskia but I do envy her. Her utter self-belief and confidence in her right to be heard and loved and her knowledge that she mattered. She was a little selfish and a little foolish but she wasn’t all bad.’

  ‘She took in a small child while she was reeling from her father’s death. That doesn’t make her selfish and foolish. That makes her someone with a huge heart.’

  Saskia’s eyelids fluttered shut, red staining her cheeks. ‘You make it sound far more heroic than it was. I did what I had to do.’

  ‘Maybe we’re more alike than we realise.’ Idris slid his hand to the back of her neck, her still-damp hair heavy on his skin. ‘Maybe it’s a good thing we ended up here together.’

  ‘Maybe.’ The word was a breath as she leaned in towards him. Idris lowered his head to capture her mouth with his. They had mutual goals, they had compatibility and they had this chemistry. Was it enough? Once he had thought he might be on the verge of falling in love with her and had recoiled from the idea, recoiled from the extra sacrifices love demanded. Now she was here, their lives irretrievably intertwined. And right now, right here, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘GOOD, YOU’RE READY.’ Idris strode by Saskia and paused at the door, clearly impatient to be off. ‘Is there a problem? There’s time to run through the briefing notes in the car.’

  Tapping one expensively shod foot, Saskia remained standing by the first of five pillars that ran the length of the aptly named Gold Salon. ‘No problem, but when it’s taken over an hour of three people’s time to get me ready I would appreciate a comment to let me know I pass muster.’

  Despite the secular nature of the country many Dalmayans were still deeply religious and old traditions ran deep. Most women still covered their legs and arms as a matter of course, and in rural areas it was common to cover hair as well, although the veil was rarely seen. Saskia had adopted these traditions out of respect for her new country. It made sense to fit in with her compatriots when she was working and mixing with Dalmayans. However, tonight’s reception was at the British Embassy and she knew her outfit would be under intense scrutiny. Her decision to wear silk trousers with a matching, long, close-fitting tunic instead of an evening dress would mark her as different, apart from her own compatriots, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that, to give up her old identity so completely.

  At least she wasn’t expected to cover her hair in the city. Her maid had styled it into a loose, gleaming chignon, the bright red locks set off by the green and gold silk of her salwar kameez. But the long diamond drops in her ears, the emerald and diamond headband holding her hair off her face, the matching collar covering her throat in tiny glittering gems and the heavy emerald and gold spheres ringing her wrists and fingers went far beyond any Western tastes in jewellery. Saskia wasn’t sure she would ever feel comfortable wearing the value of a house in Mayfair on her body.

  ‘Is it too much?’

  Idris’s eyes gleamed as he looked her over, head to toe, her body tingling in response to his deliberate scrutiny. ‘You look stunning—and I am looking forward to unwrapping every inch of you later.’

  Her stomach clenched at his words and the wolfish smile that accompanied them. ‘Promises, promises,’ she said, walking forward and taking the arm he proffered, allowing him to lead her out of the palace and to the waiting car.

  He came to her every night now and although he still usually slipped away to sleep in his own rooms, occasionally, worn out by the demands of the day, he would fall asleep in her bed. Saskia loved those nights, loved curling up next to him. She had to keep reminding herself not to be too happy. Not to take any of his affection for granted. Not to consider their intimacy as anything more than two people thrust together and making the most out of a difficult situation. As anything more than lust. To remind herself that they were getting close to a real friendship and that was more than she had ever thought possible four months ago. Remind herself that there could be nothing more.

  Idris had warned her, back on their wedding night. Told her that he didn’t know if he was capable of love, confirmed that he had walked away from what they had shared then without a backwards glance. Only a fool would be ensnared twice.

  But no matter how much she reminded herself she still would find herself sneaking looks at him during formal occasions, find herself shivering at the touch of his hand, find herself basking in his approval when he bestowed one of his rare smiles on her, find herself needing him every night.

  She told herself that this was perfectly normal—after all, he was still her only confidant in the whole country, the adult she spent most of her time with—but deep down inside, she knew. She was falling in love with him again. Not with all the fire and drama of first love: a crush mixed with lust mixed with the hedonistic optimism of youth. But with a deeper, steadier, more realistic love. This wasn’t just passion or a need to be liked. It wasn’t about winning, about craving, about impressing. She was falling in love with the way he made time to listen to everyone at Council meetings even when they seemed interminable. She was falling in love with the man who had a framed picture of his vineyards and chateau on his desk but had walked away from his beloved business to do the right thing. She was falling in love with a shrewd negotiator and a patient diplomat. She was falling in love with the man teaching her brother to ride. The man who spent an entire hour playing peekaboo with Sami. The man who had safeguarded Jack’s future. The man who made her feel that she had something to offer. The man who made her feel that she was worthwhile.

  Dangerous, forbidden feelings. But try as she might she couldn’t push them aside.

  Idris seemed preoccupied as their car drove smoothly along the great driveway leading from the palace to the gates, barely speaking for the first few minutes. Saskia smoothed her tunic, trying to calm her nerves with deep breaths. She had been to several formal receptions over the last few weeks, she had done her research on tonight’s hosts and guests but still her stomach tumbled with nerves.

  ‘Thank you for wearing traditional dress,’ Idris said abruptly and Saskia turned from her perusal of the narrow city streets.

  ‘Of course. I probably would have even if you hadn’t r
equested it. It seems appropriate somehow.’

  ‘There is still an inordinate amount of interest in us, especially in the UK press. They print stories every day, all inaccurate, print photos every time we’re in public...’

  The air swirled and stilled. Whenever she closed her eyes it was easy to conjure up those claustrophobic few weeks after her father’s death, cameras everywhere, her face on the front pages as every detail of her extravagantly funded life was laid out for people to moralise over. ‘They photograph us?’

  He waved an impatient hand. ‘That’s to be expected but what wasn’t expected is the amount of interest after several months, several quiet months at that. They report that we argue about your spending, that my mother hates you and wants to be crowned Queen...’

  ‘I’ve never met your mother!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ His eyes were weary. ‘My parents were tabloid staples in their day. Your father dominated the headlines. You’re the spoiled socialite brought down to earth, I’m the wine king. To them we’re a match made in heaven and truth has no place in the fictions they spin. Tonight, we will be on British soil for the first time since we married. This is a good chance to make the right impression. There will be members of the press there, influential people. Let’s start putting these lies and rumours to bed. I don’t want Jack or Sami reading about us the way I grew up reading about my parents. I want this intrusiveness to stop. Show them you have changed, Saskia, that you are the dignified, compassionate Queen Dalmaya needs.’

  Saskia’s hands began to tremble and she folded them together so Idris wouldn’t notice. How had she not known that these stories were circulating—and why hadn’t Idris warned her before? ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Do better. These parties aren’t fun, not for you and I, they’re work. You mustn’t let your guard down just because every accent is English and the people seem like friends. They’re not.’

  He leaned back, every inch the unapproachable King. Saskia swallowed, trying to quell the nausea swelling inside at the thought of the ordeal that awaited her. Usually she felt a little as if she was playing a part, the traditional dress and elaborate jewellery her costume, her briefing document, her lines, and it was getting easier to step into each situation and perform. Idris was right—tonight would be different. Everyone there would be watching her, scrutinising her, would think they knew all about her and suddenly she felt more like a child playing dress up than a Queen.

  The British Embassy was housed in a walled palace in the old town. Armed guards manned the outer walls but the royal car was waved straight through to the inner courtyard. The building was an odd contrast of traditional Dalmayan architecture, all mosaics, courtyards and pillars, and bureaucratic efficiency. As Saskia was escorted through the courtyard and double-height hallway, with its domed ceiling and pillars standing to attention on either side of the walkway, she caught glimpses of glass-walled offices, of laptops and printers and all the other accoutrements of modern-day work life. The hallway opened into a huge receiving room, which was all luxurious charm from the fountain in the middle to the sparkling chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, each ray of light rebounding off the diamonds she was so liberally bedecked in so she felt as if she were in a spotlight as she moved into the room.

  It was already full. Men and women in evening dress stood in intimidatingly glamorous and confident groups, every single eye turned to her, assessing her. Wait staff circulated with canapés and drinks and, with a jolt, Saskia realised that nearly everyone was drinking champagne. Dalmaya wasn’t a dry country but most Dalmayans didn’t touch alcohol and the export duties on wine and spirits were so high that even those that did rarely partook. Idris drank wine most evenings—his own brought straight to the palace from the Delacour vineyard’s cellars—but not one of the dinners she had been to had served it.

  The tray was presented to her and she hesitated, glancing at Idris for guidance, but he was talking to the British Ambassador and didn’t notice her dilemma. Then he reached out and took a glass without breaking off the conversation. Saskia exhaled. In that case... With a smile of thanks she took a glass and took a sip. The champagne was tart and refreshing, as unlike the cheap cava she had occasionally treated herself to as the diamonds on her wrists and at her throat were unlike her mass-produced high-street jewellery.

  ‘Welcome, Your Highness, it’s an honour to have you here. It’s been quite a few months, motherhood, a new country and such a prominent role,’ the Ambassador’s wife said as she escorted Saskia away from the group. ‘It must be a lot to adjust to.’

  Some of Saskia’s tension ebbed away at the friendly tone. It was nice to be able to speak her own language without feeling like an ignorant foreigner. She had been so busy letting Dalmaya adjust to her, get used to her, that she hadn’t put any thought into her own life here. She had her boys and, now, work of sorts, looking out for communities and people who needed help and finding ways to alleviate that need, but she still had no friends. Maybe Idris was being pessimistic; this could be her chance to meet some women she clicked with. Potential friends.

  She smiled. ‘It is. I have a lot of help, of course, so I haven’t had to do any of it on my own.’

  ‘And His Highness Sheikh Idris must be of great help as well. After all, he’s had to straddle two cultures for many years. Have you known him long?’ The Ambassador’s wife’s eyes were bright with curiosity and, with a sinking heart, Saskia knew she would need to tread carefully. Everything she said would be remembered and repeated.

  ‘Many years,’ she answered with a polite smile. ‘We met at university. I was at Oxford with his cousin’s then fiancée.’ They had discussed whether to keep her friendship with Maya quiet, another layer of protection for their secret, but although Saskia’s stay at Oxford had been cut short she’d been well known there and there must be many pictures of Maya and her floating around.

  As they toured the room Saskia’s optimism ebbed even further as she conceded that Idris’s caution hadn’t been misplaced. Everyone wanted to meet her, but all they seemed to be interested in was finding out any gossip about her marriage or trying to get a contact at the palace. In the first, long, hot hour she didn’t meet one person she could imagine having a relaxed coffee with, let alone an actual friendship, and the lonely reality of her new life hit her anew. Her feet ached, her head ached, the jewels weighing her down as she smiled and made small talk feeling more like a robot fulfilling a role than a real person.

  ‘Rob, can I introduce you to Her Highness Princess Saskia Delacour Al Osman. Your Highness, Robert McBride runs a well-known adventure travel company specialising in Middle Eastern excursions.’

  Saskia held out her hand, an automatic greeting on her lips when she caught the twinkling blue eyes of the man she was being introduced to and stopped, her first real smile of the night curving her mouth. ‘Robbie? What are you doing here? I thought you were destined for accountancy! It’s so good to see you. Robbie and I were at the same college at Oxford,’ she explained to her hostess. ‘It feels like a million years ago since we were karaoke duet champions in the union bar!’

  ‘Saskia Harper! I mean...’ he took her hand and executed a perfect sweeping bow over it ‘...Your Highness—or as I always remembered you, the Sandy to my Danny. I was always hopelessly devoted to you but you only had eyes for one man—and...’ his gaze cut across to where Idris stood in a sea of suits ‘...I see you still have. You look beautiful as always, like a vision from The Thousand and One Nights. So what have you been up to since disappearing from Oxford? If Royal Highnesses are allowed to make small talk with lowly subjects like myself?’

  ‘I think I can make an exception.’ Saskia took the champagne he handed to her and allowed him to usher her to a place near the spectacular fountain. ‘Never mind me. I want to hear all about you and why you are organising desert adventures not spreadsheets. What on earth are you doing here
?’

  * * *

  These events were always the same. A lot of hot air and people trying to get his approval ahead of more formal meetings. Not that Idris could blame them. He had once been on the other side, the exporter looking for good deals and favourable tariffs, the producer knowing if potential customers would just try it then they would instantly be converted to his wine, his brandy, his brand.

  It would be nice though not to have to spend an entire evening never committing himself, on guard at all times. Fayaz had known what was in store for him and, from an early age, had built a small but trusted circle of friends including Maya so he could have time away from responsibilities, commitments and those attempting to take advantage of his position. Idris had always been slower to make friends and to trust people and now he had no one. Nobody except Saskia.

  Had they ever really talked during those long ago lust-fuelled nights? He didn’t remember much conversation. But now they talked. Now he listened to her thoughts and ideas, ran his ideas past her, trusted her advice. It was as if they had been set adrift from the rest of humanity and they might never have chosen to spend their lives cooped up in a small boat together but somehow they had made peace with their situation, realised that by cooperating they would somehow make it even if that destination was unknown and not where either of them had set out to go. Or something, his mouth twisted wryly. Overblown metaphors had never been his style.

  The noise was almost overpowering. Although most people were speaking in English there were enough other languages audible enough to make the room resemble a flatter Tower of Babel. Idris himself had conducted conversations in Arabic, French and his faltering Italian as well as English. The most relaxed group seemed to be by the fountain; a younger, more fashionable group had congregated there and judging by the peals of laughter they weren’t discussing trade tariffs. For one self-indulgent second he wished he were free to head over and see what was so amusing—but the truth was he had never been one of the cool crowd. Always working, always aloof. What had Saskia seen in him all those years ago? What did she see in him now? Or was she just making the best of a bad deal? She was pragmatic, especially where providing for the boys was concerned.