Secret Sheikh, Secret Baby

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘If this is my child then there is no question that we marry—and the sooner the better. We will just have to hope that the baby comes a little late.’ He flashed a very black smile. ‘My guess, however, is that this baby is going to come early. Still, we will know where we stand in a few weeks.’

  ‘A few weeks?’

  ‘You will have an amnio, of course, and a DNA match will be performed.’

  ‘No.’ She stood up. ‘Absolutely not.’ She said it again. ‘No.’

  But Karim just shrugged. ‘Come—the papers have been drawn up. You will be prepared for marriage now. Hassan and his wife, Jamal, will be witnesses.’

  ‘Karim, no!’

  ‘Felicity!’ He snapped the word—an impatient snap that silenced her. Then the room fell silent and he spoke again. ‘You do not argue with me. I do not discuss things with you. But, given you are new to our ways, I will explain things to make you feel better. I will look after your family.’ Karim stared coolly at her. ‘There are merits to our ways, and looking after the extended family is one of them. Our marriage will bring peace to my father in his final days. In return, whatever the test results, I will secure your mother and sister’s finances—yours too.’

  ‘There won’t be a test.’ She wasn’t going to take a test simply to satisfy his curiosity. ‘This is your child, Karim.’

  ‘Then,’ he said patiently, ‘there is no question that you can leave.’

  It was like talking to a stranger. The beautiful, rational, sensitive man who had held her, to whom she had entrusted her body, must surely be there beneath the surface. But all Felicity could see was a strange clone of him.

  ‘You come to this country, you live by our rules. We will marry today. When questions are asked, we will say this is a honeymoon baby. And if it is not mine…’ Karim did not continue. Now was not the best time, perhaps, to tell her of his intentions for her bastard infant!

  ‘Won’t your people expect a big wedding? How are you going to explain?’

  ‘My country is holding its breath for the King. It would be crass to hold a party now. For now we will be discreet, and in a few weeks we can arrange DNA testing.’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes shone with tears. On this she would not bend. ‘No—it could be dangerous to the baby.’

  ‘It is a routine procedure. We will then both know where we stand.’

  ‘No.’ She knew the more she resisted, the more Karim thought she was lying about him being the father—but there was no way Felicity would allow him to risk her child, their child, just so that he might believe her.

  ‘Felicity…’ He was bored with explaining now. ‘You say that you are having my child—you demand that I believe you—and then you resist my proposal of marriage.’ Karim truly didn’t understand. He accepted he had been less than enamoured with the news she had delivered, but now that he had proposed, now that he was offering a commoner marriage, he could not fathom her resistance.

  He was right. Slowly it dawned on her—she was having his child, was pregnant by a prince. There wasn’t much she could dispute.

  All her clothes and her belongings had been brought to a vast bedroom. Her life was contained in one suitcase and the handbag a maid had placed in a large wardrobe. A scented bath had been run, and in minutes she had been relieved of her clothing. The handmaidens now chatted excitedly as they prepared the bride for their Prince. They oiled her body, and her scalp too, and then tied her hair so it hung in a long coil over one shoulder. They rouged her lips and cheeks, and kholled her eyes, then dressed her in her wedding costume—a white beaded hand-embroidered gown that looked heavy but, when slipped over her head, Felicity found was actually light. Her head was wrapped in a veil, and her feet were placed in beaded slippers.

  She was ready to meet her groom.

  She stood and sat as instructed.

  She knew that in this she had no say—but her mind was working overtime.

  Karim was her baby’s father.

  Despite his harsh words yesterday, despite his cool demeanour today, somewhere within was the man she had fallen in love with. Somehow she knew she must reach him, and this was her only way.

  It felt surreal as she walked into a large study. Jamal was smiling, greeting her, and a man who must be Hassan nodded. Karim merely gave a nod of approval as she entered.

  It did nothing to soothe her nerves.

  ‘Karim…’ Her eyes met his as she made a request she was quite sure he would refuse. ‘Can I ring my family first?’

  ‘Of course.’ Again she had read him wrong. He even helped her dial, and she stood dressed in her finery, in a study looking out over the desert, her groom by her side, and heard her mother’s anxious, excited voice at her daughter’s unexpected call. Felicity closed her eyes and knew she couldn’t tell her. Knew that until she had sorted things out with Karim she couldn’t burden her family with all this.

  In minutes she was married. The celebrations would take place later. She put her thumb print on a document and apparently she was his. And now, unless she wanted to jump out mid-flight, she had no choice but to sit as a helicopter whirred them deep into the desert towards the red setting sun and Karim’s vast tented kingdom.

  Her first true glimpse of the desert was at dusk. Stepping out of the helicopter, she felt the sting of sand around her cheeks, the whistle of wind in her ears and the heat of the day that had been absorbed by the land. Then she felt his hand on her elbow as he guided her across the sand to a huge tent. As they reached it, they stepped into a small entrance and Karim instructed her to remove her slippers.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Put these on.’ Her feet were slipped into another pair of jewelled slippers, which seemed rather pointless, but as he parted the drapes and she padded through she understood why. There was no sand inside—the desert floor was smothered in thick patterned rugs, the walls of the tent too. Lanterns cast light and shadows as Karim parted swathes of silk and led her deeper within his desert abode.

  Somewhat shaken and stunned, she stood quietly as he introduced her to his staff: a woman called Bedra and her husband, Aarif. They seemed delighted by their arrival, and guided them further into the bowels of the tent, where a lavish feast awaited them.

  They were seated on cushions, apart and opposite each other, and a heavy purple runner was laid between them as Bedra served food and drinks on a low tray.

  Felicity was poured some tea, and Karim instructed her to drink the syrupy brew that tasted of mint and sugar. Each mouthful, Karim explained to her, was part of a necessary ritual.

  The food was endless, all eaten with the hands: Bedouin bread with olives and camels’ milk cheese, pitta wrapped around richly spiced lamb. It was delicious, but she was too nervous to eat. Still she tried, because Karim was eating, and she was sure it would be rude to refuse. Yet the more she tried to eat the more Bedra served and the more Karim ate—until she was sure it would never end.

  ‘Karim.’ She gave a nervous swallow, not wanting to offend. ‘All of this is delicious, but…’ She couldn’t speak of the baby in front of Bedra, but she truly couldn’t eat another thing or she might offend him in a way that was unthinkable.

  Karim, the haughty Prince who had rebutted her in the hospital, who had married her because he could, was now smiling. ‘You are full?’

  ‘Yes!’ she hissed in a loud whisper. ‘I can’t eat another thing. I don’t want to be rude…’ She shook her head as he pushed his plate away and summoned Bedra to clear the tray. ‘You carry on, though.’

  ‘I’m not hungry either. But you see…’ He was almost laughing, and that beautiful smile she had once been privy to dazzled her now again. ‘I must not rush you. Custom says I should eat till my bride or my guest is full. Only when you are finished…’

  She was almost smiling too—well, not almost, she did smile. ‘You could have told me that before the camel milk cheese!’

  And she glimpsed him again—glimpsed the Karim she had so quickly and heavily fallen in love with, the ma
n who was the father of her child. And somehow, somewhere deep inside, Felicity knew this could work.

  As Bedra approached, she took Felicity’s reluctant hands. ‘She is going now to paint you,’ Karim explained. ‘Henna for beauty and luck and health.’

  Bedra painted Felicity’s hands, and her feet as well as an intricate coil of flowers that crept up her calves and forearms. Yet all she wanted was to be alone with Karim.

  ‘They are our witnesses,’ Karim explained. ‘Soon we will be alone.’ Karim took her hand, slid on her finger a silver knotted ring that was studded with turquoise and agate and decorated with symbols. Karim’s voice was serious. ‘This symbolises not just two lives, but two families that are now intertwined.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Felicity asked. Perhaps not the most romantic response, but she wanted to know—wanted to know about his ways so that she might understand him better.

  ‘It means that your celebrations I applaud and your problems I help with.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘Your family is mine. There is no burden that is not shared. This is what it means to be loved.’

  She must be drunk on mint tea, because calm invaded her. This was her love that greeted her. This was the father of her child. And, yes, he was different here, yes, tradition invaded, but as she was taken aside—as Bedra smeared her body in fragrant oils and slipped a flimsy white muslin gown over her head and then directed her to his sleeping chamber—she was barely nervous. Because finally they could be alone.

  He watched her walk over, her hennaed feet and hands stunning on her pale skin, her blue eyes dazzling, and the thin nightgown revealing her feminine shape.

  Every night she would be his.

  The rules had been waived now that she carried a child, and it meant that every night he could have her.

  He must be gentle, Karim reminded himself as she padded towards him. His needs did not matter when the kingdom was at stake. He must remember that she was with child.

  And then she was at his bedside. Shy and nervous, but decorated for him and forever his.

  He pulled her down beside him. As he kissed her he could smell the oil in her hair, could feel the body that had aroused him so, and for once duty was a pleasure.

  For Felicity, any nerves had vanished when he held her—just as they had the first time they’d made love. He slid off her nightgown and kissed each waiting breast in turn. His lips moved up to her neck and then on, deliciously, to her waiting mouth. And finally he was kissing her—heavy, deep kisses that urged instant response. Her body leapt at the memory of him. Here in bed they could communicate. Here they could discover each other again and work out their differences.

  As his fingers went to a place that was already moist, Felicity knew that this was the one thing they had in common. Her legs were parted by his knees and she let them relax. She was having his baby. He was her husband.

  His hand reached over her head, and at first Felicity didn’t know what he was doing. As he opened a small drawer in the heavy wooden bedhead and produced a sheath she was confused.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ she pointed out breathlessly.

  ‘It is not just for—’ He didn’t get to finish. She slapped her hand hard across his cheek.

  ‘How dare you?’ She spat, then recoiled on the bed at his expression. Felicity wondered, in fact, how dared she. But she would not be so insulted.

  ‘How do I know?’ he demanded of her. ‘Have you any idea the number of women who try this? Two weeks!’ He shook his head at the improbability of it. ‘I was using protection.’

  ‘Then why marry me?’ Felicity demanded—but Karim couldn’t answer.

  She was covering herself with her nightgown, her face wounded and angry, tears in her eyes. He wanted to believe her, yet he could not allow himself—because if it was his child she carried then unbeknownst to her everything had already changed, would change again.

  He had to believe the baby was going to be Hassan’s. Had to detach from the baby she grew inside. Because one day so must she.

  He climbed out of bed, and when she saw he was holding a dagger, running his finger along the blade, there was a terror in her soul that she had never before experienced. Here in the desert, here amongst his people, who would respond to her scream? She watched. The blade was so sharp as he ran it along his finger that blood trickled, and then he looked over, saw her fear, and his face was as cold as granite as it registered.

  ‘You imagination runs too wild. You are not a prisoner. I would never force you,’ he sneered. And just as quickly as that he lay down the dagger, walked over to the bed and smeared the silk sheet with a trickle of his blood. ‘I cover for your lies.’

  ‘Why won’t you accept that this baby is yours?’

  ‘When I get the test results, then I will believe it.’

  ‘There will be no test.’

  ‘You do not argue with me.’

  ‘Oh, but I do, Karim,’ Felicity said. ‘You chose to marry me today. You chose me to be your wife, and now you have me. I will respect your ways and your traditions in public, but here in private I will always speak—this is me. There will be no threat to my baby’s safety just to satisfy you, and there will be no condoms just because you cannot trust that you have been the only one. So,’ Felicity concluded in a voice that was shaky but somehow assured, ‘it looks like there will be no consummation.’

  ‘You do not leave here till our marriage is consummated.’

  ‘Then we’ll die in the desert,’ Felicity replied.

  Karim just shrugged. ‘I have told you how it will be,’ Karim said, and then he climbed into bed and turned his back to her. ‘When you’re ready, you will come to me.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MAYBE they would die in the desert.

  As the days moved slowly on, it became clear that neither of them had any intention of changing their mind.

  Absolutely she would not give in—would not sleep with a man who offended her.

  And absolutely neither would Karim.

  He took her out sometimes. This land that looked so barren and bare was, Karim explained, full of gifts if only you knew where to look.

  He was right.

  In the seemingly bare desert he showed her landmarks, canyons that moved maybe ten inches in a lifetime, and the simple, endless rule of a sun that rose and set and always offered direction.

  There were oases too—a full day’s walk from each other. He took her once in his four-wheel drive, and they picnicked by one.

  ‘They prove the land is fertile,’ Karim said, stretching out on his back and staring up to the sky. ‘You just have to know how to treat it.’

  There was a response there on her tongue, but to her credit she chose not to offer it. She was biding her time till the Karim she loved returned again.

  Bedra was her only real outlet. They chatted as Bedra dressed Felicity, or did her hair. But Bedra was always covered in a black abaya. How Felicity wished she would take it off, so she could see her face when she spoke to her. One day she asked Bedra about it.

  ‘I do not wear it at home. There I can be myself,’ Bedra explained. ‘But here, at work…’

  This upset Felicity—not a lot, but it niggled. For all their chatting, for Bedra it was work, and Felicity didn’t want it to be like that. Bedra’s husband, Aarif, tended to Karim, and sometimes when she was resting in the afternoon, while Karim wandered in the desert, she heard Bedra and Aarif laughing. She wanted it to be the same for her and Karim—because Aarif treated Bedra as if she were golden.

  She asked Karim when he returned that day from the desert.

  In a black robe and unshaven, he didn’t look very approachable, but still Felicity asked—although she didn’t much like the answer.

  ‘Of course he is nice to her,’ Karim said. ‘Why would he not be? She is a good woman, a nice lady.’ He frowned down at her. ‘Why would he not be nice to her?’

  ‘Well, you’re not exactly nice and communicative with me.’

 
; ‘Till our marriage is consummated you’re not my wife.’ Karim shrugged. ‘Anytime you’re ready, Felicity, you can find out how nice to my wife I can actually be.’

  As the days ticked on occasionally they spoke, and sometimes even laughed, but both remained immutable on that point. And the more they spoke, the more he taught her of his people’s ways and he learned of hers, the more impossible it seemed to be.

  ‘Poor Hassan.’ She was lying on the cushions eating figs, which Felicity had found out she liked—not just liked, loved. Pregnancy cravings, along with morning sickness, were starting, and figs—sweet, juicy figs—were the only food she could keep down. There was a lot to stomach now, and her head reeled as Karim told her about his family and what was expected of them.

  ‘Why poor Hassan?’

  ‘To have to be King.’

  ‘He is honoured that he will serve his people. There can be no higher honour,’ Karim said sharply.

  ‘Then poor Jamal.’ She refused to be quiet, even though she knew she was angering him. ‘I don’t blame them for not wanting children.’ She shuddered a touch. ‘It would be horrendous.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Karim barked. ‘How dare you say our ways are horrendous? Their baby would be born to be King.’

  ‘Which to me—’ Felicity smiled ‘—would be horrendous. I’m just glad—infinitely grateful, in fact…’ she paused as she took another bite of her fig ‘…that when you concealed your identity—’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘When you forgot to mention you were a royal prince, I’m just glad that your name didn’t happen to be Hassan.’ She shook her head at the horror of it all. ‘I could think of nothing worse. At least you get your freedom, get to follow your career…’ Felicity frowned at that very thought. ‘Why don’t you practise any more?’

  ‘It is not for me.’

  ‘But you did?’ Felicity pushed.

  ‘For a while.’ Karim shrugged. ‘Then I realised I could do better for my people by overseeing the commissioning of the new hospital and university.’