‘As far as you...’ Her lips compressed and she didn’t speak for a long moment. They reached the edge of the vineyards, stretching out over undulating low hills, the sky a clear blue, the air crisp with the hint of an autumnal chill. The Princess tugged him towards a bench, set in the side of the vineyard, placed there for the tourists who came to watch the grapes grow, the wine made, to sample and to buy, and, after gingerly inspecting it for dirt, sat down and looked at her son.
‘I blame myself, Idris. Your father, he likes me full of joie-de-vivre and so I am. Not thinking about tomorrow or worrying about what-ifs. He didn’t want to be weighed down by responsibility, by all this...’ She waved her hand, encompassing the vineyards and the chateau. ‘By his name and expectations. That was a breath of fresh air to me, as someone for whom family expectations had been so all demanding.’
‘So you both just turned your backs on everything and everyone.’ Leaving him to fulfil both families’ expectations.
‘No, no. I was already disgraced, remember? Your grandfather. He had plans and we all had our place in those plans. Me? I was to be the example of perfect modern womanhood: educated and career-minded, chaste and sensible. I was to study and then come back to Dalmaya and spearhead women’s education. Marry wisely and raise my children to carry on his dreams. I hated to study, Idris, and knowing I had years and years ahead of me... Running off with Pierre wasn’t a moment of madness, it was calculated. A Dalmayan Princess who eloped with her ski instructor? Worse, who left him within a year? I knew I would be free. I didn’t realise...’ here her voice faltered ‘...that my freedom would be so absolute. That your grandfather, your uncle would cut me off so completely. But if I had known I would still have done exactly the same.’
Idris sat and stared over the fields as his mother’s words sank in. He had always thought of her as impulsive and thoughtless. Not someone weighed down by expectations who sought her own path to freedom.
‘I met your father soon afterwards. He was so talented and his ideas, his rejection of his birthright and all that went along with it called to me. It’s not easy being married to a genius, especially one who thinks commercial is a dirty word. Neither he nor I were brought up to budget and I know it wasn’t easy living from boom to bust over and over. Travelling around all the time. And I know that we are both so volatile, it wasn’t the most peaceful of childhoods. Too much smashed crockery. That’s why I made sure you spent so much time here, or in Dalmaya. I was happy that my father wanted you there, if not me. But maybe those two old men put too much on you. Wanted you to make up for the sins of your parents. I was so angry when my father went against convention and named you in the succession, when your grandpère left you this place with its debts and obligations. But you like responsibility. You have made the vineyard a success. I know you will be a great King, my son.’
‘Thank you.’ It was hard to get the words out.
‘But you can be...’ she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, it seemed ‘...rigid. You make your mind up and that’s that. I am feckless and court scandal. Well.’ She shrugged. ‘I see why you think that. I don’t always think first and the papers will never allow me to forget my transgressions. But I love you—I always have. I love your father. I would never do anything to endanger our family. Even when your father had that infatuation with that model of his, you remember?’
‘I remember.’ His mother had phoned him, hysterical. That was the day Saskia had come to him for help and, angry at already losing his day to one woman’s drama, he had turned her away, turned his back on her for good. Shame lay, heavy and painful on his heart.
‘I was so angry. So humiliated, Idris. I could have walked away. But he is my husband and you are my son and so I swallowed my pride and I stayed—although he knows there must be no more affaires. He may be French and an artist but I cannot abide anything as boring as a cliché. I know you don’t see it, think it, but I love you, yaa bunaaya. I am so proud of you. But I just want you to be happy.’
‘You don’t think I am happy?’
‘I know you’re not. I think you’re scared to be, Idris. I think you see your worth in work and solving problems and taking on the world. You were embarrassed by me, I know that. And I think that photo has embarrassed you too. Love is about forgiving, Idris. About looking beyond the obvious to what is real and true. About never being too proud to say sorry. And true happiness is loving and being loved, no matter how inconvenient, and I think you are too scared. And that must be on me. And I am so sorry.’ Her large eyes shimmered with tears. Idris sat rigid and then sighed, leaning against her for the first time in a long, long time as her words sank in, each one painful in its truth.
‘Thank you, Maman. I need to get back to London. Do you want to come with me and meet your grandson and your daughter-in-law? If she still wants to stay married to me, that is.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NEITHER IDRIS NOR his mother spoke much on the walk back to the chateau, his mother’s words spinning round and round in his head. She had never been the kind of mother to dish out advice or talk about feelings; he loved her, but, he acknowledged, maybe he’d allowed his view of her to be shaped by his disapproving grandparents, by the persona she adopted. He’d never wondered what it must be like being exiled from your home, cut off from your family, married to someone whose work always came before anyone and everything.
Shame flushed through him, scalding in its intensity. His mother had been badly hurt by his father’s affair, so hurt she had turned to her only son for advice and help—and all Idris had wanted was to end the phone call and get back to work. Just as he had wanted to put Saskia in a taxi and close the door on her. He had thought his work, his peace more important than two people who had so desperately needed him. What kind of man did that make him?
And here he was doing the same again. Saskia had worked incredibly hard to fit in at the palace, to be the Queen Dalmaya needed her to be. She sat up late revising customs and history and language. She knew the names of the wives and children of everyone they met, when to speak and when to stand back. She had a gift of summing up a situation with one glance and defusing it or working out a solution, whether it was an air ambulance for the Al Bedi or a new community centre in the poverty-stricken town they had visited last. The only thing she complained about was not having enough to do.
How had he thanked her? By treating one mishap as a catastrophe. By freezing her out. Just as he’d frozen out his own mother. His fear of drama and confrontation when it came to anything personal meant he would rather walk away than sort out a difficult situation. Rather leave Saskia to face the press alone.
He loved both his grandfathers and was grateful for everything they had given him, but from them he had inherited a sense of shame. Shame every time his mother was on the front page of a gossip magazine, shame when his father’s latest, controversial exhibition hit the headlines, shame when their relationship was the subject of speculation. From them he had learned the value of hard work, a good lesson it was true, but not of compassion. Of pride but not of humility.
Saskia knew all about humility and hard work. She was filled with more compassion than anyone he had ever known. She was straight and true, always putting her own needs last—which was why she needed him. Needed him to put her first. But he had let her down again.
There would be no third time. That he swore.
‘I’ve messed everything up, Maman.’ Idris felt her falter as he said the words, then she slipped an arm through his and squeezed it.
‘Idris, you of all people know that there is nothing that can’t be fixed. Just look at this place. Your grandfather left a tumbling-down building, cellars full of antique equipment and a work ethos steeped in traditions that were out of date before he was even born. In just a few years you have restored the chateau and made Delacour wine one of the most sought-after brands.’
‘Places and things and figures I can fix, but neither Oxford nor the Sorbonne offered me a course in human emotions,’ he said. ‘Even if they had I probably wouldn’t have taken it.’
‘Do you love her? This Saskia?’
He winced at the directness in his mother’s gaze. ‘That’s a complicated question.’
‘No, no, yaa bunaaya. It’s the easiest question of all. If the answer is no then you must decide whether you can live with a lifetime of duty with no chance of love. If the answer is yes then you must win her back.’ She patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you.’
Idris touched his mother’s hand in thanks while her question repeated over and over in his mind, in his heart. Did he love Saskia? He’d told her once that he’d been as close to loving her as a man like him could ever be. Was that true or was it a way of hiding from anything as messy and real as love?
He desired her, that was true enough. He respected her intelligence and compassion. He liked the soft expression that stole over her face when she was rocking Sami, as if he was the most precious thing in the world. He admired the way she had raised Jack, the comradeship between them, her determination to give him the best childhood she could. She frustrated him, her obstinacy out in the desert when she wouldn’t allow him to call the helicopter—but it had paid off. The Al Bedi had been impressed by her courage and her insistence on owning the horse that had thrown her.
She was beautiful, that went without saying. But hers was a beauty that went beyond the physical, a sweetness in her soul that hadn’t been soured by the hardships she’d endured.
And he desired her. No matter he had already listed it. It was important enough to list twice. He couldn’t imagine holding another woman, kissing another woman. Loving another woman...
His hands curled into fists. Of course he loved her. How could he not? Deserve her? That was a different matter. He had to prove he deserved her, prove he was worthy, show her how much he loved her—everything that she was. He stepped up his pace, heading towards the chateau.
How did a man prove his love? Especially a man who had screwed up so royally. His brain began to tick, pulling in ideas and thoughts and images, discarding others. He’d always been a good problem solver, now was the time to prove it. ‘Don’t worry, Maman, I have a plan.’ He fished his phone out of his pocket and searched for a number. ‘Faye? Is Jack there? Great, pass him to me. I need to check something with him.’ For his plan to work he needed to enlist some help and Jack was his go-to guy.
* * *
Saskia didn’t know whether she was more grateful that Idris made it to London in the nick of time or furious that he had waited until barely a half hour before the social worker was due before sauntering in, a glamorous, petite woman at his side. It took her one glance to identify the woman as Zara Al Osman Delacour, the famous Runaway Princess herself. She didn’t look scandalous in her neat little black suit, her coiled dark hair only lightly streaked with grey and an emotional smile on her face; she looked happy.
‘Saskia, I am so excited to meet you at last. And you, Jack. I am to be your grandmère, I understand.’ She pronounced the French word with a distinctly Anglo-Dalmayan accent. ‘I have many, many plans for the two of us. I do hope you like trips out to exciting places. And this? This must be Sami.’ Her face softened.
Saskia glanced over at Idris, uncomfortable with misleading his mother about Sami’s parentage, but his expression was inscrutable and she couldn’t catch his eye.
‘Ah, he does look like Fayaz. That makes me so happy. A fragment of happiness from such a tragedy. Yes, Idris told me,’ she said quietly as Saskia looked at her in surprise. ‘You are a very brave young woman.’
‘Thank you.’ Saskia swallowed, the lump in her throat almost more than she could bear as Sami’s great-aunt kissed him, sadness mingling with love on her vivid face.
‘Fayaz came to visit me when he started Oxford,’ Princess Zara said. ‘He and Maya, he wanted to meet the fun side of his family, he told me. He was a lovely boy. I cherished my friendship with them. Thank you for giving them this hope, Saskia. And thank you for doing what needed to be done. It can’t have been easy.’
‘Nothing worth doing usually is,’ Saskia replied, taking her son back, conscious of the older woman’s scrutiny as she did so. She caught Idris’s eye and for a moment she thought he was going to say something to her, but at that moment the social worker was announced and everything around her, every other emotion and problem, disappeared, her entire focus and will centred on convincing this stranger that she was a fit mother for the small boy.
Thankfully a scandal involving two reality-show stars, a fight and an arrest had lured the press away late last night so they could welcome the adoption official through the front door of the Embassy. She didn’t mention the photo at all; the only hint that Saskia and Idris weren’t like any normal couple looking to adopt came in a few questions about living with security and how Jack was adjusting to palace life. Luckily Jack was so enthusiastic about his life in Dalmaya the subject was quickly dropped.
‘That’s a lovely wee boy you have there,’ the social worker said with a smile as Saskia saw her out at the end of the two-hour session. ‘You’ve done a good job, Your Highness.’
‘I’ve been very lucky,’ Saskia answered, more than a little choked. ‘What happens next?’
‘Next?’ The social worker looked surprised at the question. ‘We’ll notify your lawyers of the court date. I don’t think you will be waiting long, not in a case as straightforward as this.’
Saskia waited until she had left before sagging against the wall. Straightforward? That had to be good, right? She glanced up the stairs to where the family were waiting for her. Idris had been wonderful throughout the interview, calm and measured, even when the questioning had felt intrusive, no hint of the coldness that had characterised the last week. And he had brought his mother to the Embassy—officially Dalmayan soil. The first time the Princess had been anywhere near her home country in over thirty years. Saskia didn’t know what to think. All she knew was that it was time she and Idris had a good, long talk and this time she was going to be the one calling the shots.
Intentions were all very well, but try as she might Saskia didn’t manage to get Idris alone at any point for the rest of the morning. He disappeared several times for long periods, once or twice with Jack. If the idea didn’t seem ridiculous, she would have said he was avoiding her on purpose. He didn’t seem cold or angry—at times his expression rested on her with a heat that made her quiver. But every time she made a move to draw him away he slipped away so seamlessly she couldn’t see how he had managed it.
‘We need to talk,’ she managed to quietly say as they finished a celebratory lunch in honour of Jack’s interview and Idris paused, his gaze serious.
‘I know. Later. I promise.’
Frustrated, she made to turn away and he caught her arm gently, pulling her around to face his scrutiny. ‘You look tired.’
‘I’ve not been sleeping, worrying about this interview I suppose. My head is pounding,’ she admitted, softened by his concern.
‘Why don’t you lie down for a couple of hours? I’m sure two nannies, one man and one doting grandmother can take care of two boys for an afternoon.’
Excuses sprang to her lips. She didn’t want to show weakness to anyone, especially not Idris, but the words wouldn’t come. Truth was she was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and although an afternoon nap wouldn’t cure either it could only help. ‘Okay. I will. Thank you.’
* * *
The short sleep refreshed her more than she thought possible; a quick shower and a change of clothes and she felt like a new woman, ready to talk to Idris, ready to make sure her feelings were not just heard but that some kind of consensus about the future would be made. She put a hand to her stomach, trying to press away the nerves, th
e fear she might get this wrong. The boys deserved a loving family, that wasn’t in doubt, she just needed to ensure there was a place for her in Idris’s life. A place where she would be happy and respected if not loved.
The spacious living area seemed strangely quiet. Saskia wandered through the snug, the living room and the less formal sitting room used primarily by the boys, but there was no sign of anyone. She sat by the window and looked out at Kensington Gardens, feeling a little ridiculous at how forlorn she was. Of course there was a reasonable explanation for their absence; they were probably in the park. She was overtired and a little overwrought, that was all.
She blinked back a tear. ‘I don’t even know why I’m crying,’ she said aloud. Maybe it was the relief that the adoption seemed to be going well. Maybe the anticlimax that after gearing herself up to tell Idris how she felt, she hadn’t managed to say more than a few words to him. He couldn’t just waltz in here and expect everything to be okay...
She should head out to the park and see if she could find them. Now the press had gone she’d be able to walk out of the front door and straight over the road like any normal tourist. Mind made up, Saskia headed back to the pretty master bedroom she had chosen to occupy, only to come to an abrupt halt. A small bag she had never seen before sat on her bed, a note on the top. Her heart sped up to a panicked thrum. That hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. Who had put it there? Was Idris sending her away? She stared at the note for a long moment then slowly walked towards it, picking it up gingerly as if it might come to life under her fingertips.
There’s a car downstairs.
You’re expected at the London Palatial Hotel spa.
There may be scones.
Enjoy.
I
Saskia read the note through and then through again, her heart slowing as she took in the words. An afternoon to herself in a spa was an unusually thoughtful gesture—or not that unusual, she thought, fingering the charm bracelet she rarely took off. She took a deep, steadying breath. Maybe it would be a good thing to have some time out before she tackled Idris.
The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride Page 15
