‘Keep talking,’ the owner of the finger said, and now he found it easier.
‘I was excited by the thought of a child, more than a baby. Seeing a child grow, explaining things as he or she explored and learned about the world.’
The finger stopped moving and in the moonlight he saw her turn her head so she could study him as she asked her next question—study him as he answered.
‘And now?’
He touched the upturned face.
‘Now I am a coward. Although I know if I had a pregnant wife I would be far more involved with her pregnancy, the guilt I felt—still feel—at not realising all was not going well for Zara would probably haunt me.’
She brushed her finger across his lips and asked, oh, so gently, ‘Was there anything you could have done? Would being with her more have made a difference?’
He didn’t want to answer, knowing answering would release him from his guilt, but his guilt was all he’d had of Zara after her death…
‘Tell me.’
‘No.’
The word came out far too bluntly. Could he really have not wanted to lose the guilt?
‘I don’t mean, no, I won’t tell you but, no, there was nothing I could have done,’ he said, more gently now, and going on to explain the genetic heart problem that had killed his wife and child, a problem that had never been known or even suspected.
The woman who’d prised this confession from him snuggled closer and reached out to clasp his head against her breast, running her fingers across his short hair, offering solace with touch.
He reached for her hands and held them, squeezing them gently, silently thanking her for the blessing of her understanding. Thanking her for pointing out how pointless his guilt had always been.
She eased her hands away and he touched the bulge of her pregnancy, running his hand over the taut skin, wishing…
Her hand closed over his.
‘Thank you again,’ she said, as if in telling her he’d given her some kind of gift, then she moved so she could lie in comfort, and whispered a quiet ‘Goodnight’.
He lay, still propped on his elbow, watching how quickly she slid into sleep, feeling guilt—was he obsessed by it?—about their lovemaking, thinking she’d already been tired…
Once certain she was sleeping, he eased away from her and went into the tent to find a rug to cover her, but when he returned he simply stood and looked at her, bathed in starlight. He looked at the pale creamy skin, the spread of hair, the swollen belly that stirred him more than anything. To him, at this moment, she was the epitome of womanhood and he was pretty sure he loved her.
CHAPTER TEN
HE WAS asleep when Liz awoke to find herself covered by a soft, warm blanket. For a moment she lay there, remembering—first her body remembering, warming, delighting in reliving the sensations—then her mind remembered Khalifa’s conversation and her heart ached for the pain he’d carried. Meanwhile, a tiny spark of delight glimmered in the darkness—delight that he’d talked to her about something so personal.
But remembering was wasting time, because right now she had pressing physical needs of a different kind. She eased herself away from him, trying not to wake him, then pulled on her clothes rather randomly, although it was stupid to think she had to get dressed when there was no one but the bird to see her as she crept around to the back of the tent for a bathroom break.
She squatted behind the tent, feeling the unfamiliar tenderness Khalifa’s lovemaking had left behind, revelling in it and the sense of well-being in her body.
Satisfaction, that’s what it was—satisfaction that had produced enormous pleasure and great release.
Straightening up, she looked up at the heavens, searching for the Southern Cross, although she knew she wouldn’t see it in a northern sky. But all the stars looked friendly, and she thought about what people said—about stars aligning.
Her stars and Khalifa’s had aligned, for just a short time, and now she had the memory of this very special night.
She sank her toes into the sand and wondered about the sand sprite. Had her lovemaking been as satisfying? Had it been so special that she’d had no regrets about having to remain a mortal?
‘Sand sprites indeed!’ Liz muttered, and she shook herself out of her fantasies and focussed on the purely practical.
Her teeth itched!
Could she risk opening the car to get out her small overnight bag?
She was walking towards it when she saw the bag sitting on the front of vehicle. She reached for it. She’d need to find water, maybe in the tent, so she could have a wash and clean her teeth.
And put on clean clothes.
She had opened the bag and was delving in it to find her toiletries when she felt the pain—a sharp jab, so agonising she forgot about the sleeping man and screamed, hopping around on one leg while she tried to find the source of the pain on her other ankle, hopping so she tripped and fell against the car, unable to stop her cry of dismay.
The scream came to Khalifa in a dream, but he was soon awake, aware Liz was no longer in his arms, aware it hadn’t been a dream. He sat up, searching for her, angry he’d been so deeply asleep he couldn’t place the direction the noise had come from.
‘Liz?’
He heard his own panic in his cry, but her answer—‘I’m okay, something bit me and I fell’—did little to reassure him.
He rushed towards her voice, to find her struggling to her feet beside the car.
‘Stay still,’ he ordered, and, with hands he knew were shaking he bent to lift her, carrying her to the tent where a lantern still glowed softly and placing her gently on the couch.
‘The bite, where is it?’ he demanded, his voice so rough she flinched, but she pointed to her leg and without hesitation he stripped off her trousers, shaking them, seeing the scorpion that fell from them, his heart stopping with fear even as his foot lifted to squash the life out of it.
But squashed, would he be able to tell?
He brushed it further from her then lifted the lantern, relief swamping him as he saw the square-shaped sternum rather than the triangular shape of the deadly Leiurus.
Now he squashed it, then returned to Liz, kneeling beside her, examining the reddened mark on her calf.
‘I’m sorry, I should have warned you about the little beasts. It will be painful for a while, but it wasn’t poisonous. Did you hurt yourself in the fall?
Even as he asked the question his hands were moving over her, calmer now, although not as calm as a professional’s hands should be, for his heart was still racing, his mind now caught up in the inevitable ‘what ifs’, his chest tight with the knowledge that she could have died.
Had she felt his fear that she took his hands and looked into his face?
‘Khalifa, I’m fine. Yes, my leg hurts—it’s like a bad ant bite but that’s all. Stop panicking.’
She smiled as she spoke, her beautiful, warm, open smile, and although he’d have liked to tell her he never panicked, the words wouldn’t come because now he couldn’t breathe properly, he was so overwhelmed by the thought of losing her.
He wanted to tell her, to explain how he felt—how the revelation that had come to him when he’d looked at her body in the moonlight, and how hearing her cry had nearly killed him—but he’d lost her. Her eyes were no longer on him but looking inward. There was a small frown of concentration on her face.
‘What is it?’ he demanded, but she didn’t reply, her hands moving to her belly, holding it.
Now new alarm spread through him, especially when he saw the movement—the bulge of her stomach tightening into a ball, obvious because she was so slim.
She was in labour?
Out here?
Now?
Great!
‘Is it a contraction?’ he demanded. ‘Was that the first? Are you timing them? Are you in pain? Did you fall heavily?’
Or had their lovemaking brought it on?
Whatever the cause, it was he who
had, selfishly, wilfully, wished to spend the night in the desert with her—he who had made love to her.
Now another woman and her baby’s lives were in jeopardy.
‘Khalifa.’
One word, just his name spoken softly, brought him out of his panic. He took her hands in his and looked into the blue eyes.
‘I think this time it’s for real,’ she whispered, then stopped as another contraction ripped through her body, her hands clutching his, clamping on them, squeezing tightly.
‘I’m sorry—such a nuisance,’ she gasped as her grip loosened, telling him the pain was gone.
‘Never!’ he said. ‘I might have put you in this position, Liz, with my own stupidity, bringing you out here, but I’ll take care of you and the baby, believe me.’
She half smiled, although her abdomen was contracting again and the smile turned into a grimace, though she pushed out the words she wanted to say.
‘Not your fault—no more guilt!’ she told him, then grabbed his hands again as if they were her only lifeline, her main connection to reality.
And he should have been timing the contractions! They seemed to be coming far too close together, but she was right, no more guilt. This woman was not going to die! He was a doctor, he could deliver a baby, and even though it would be preemie, he could handle that until help arrived. Help would come. He had no radio contact here, but back at the well he could use his mobile and call in a helicopter to airlift Liz safely to the hospital.
She was resting, now, her face damp with sweat. He should wipe it, make her more comfortable, but getting her to the well where he could summon help was more important.
‘I’m going to check the dilatation of your cervix,’ he told her, brushing his hand across her cheek because he couldn’t say all the things he wanted to say to her, not now when he had to concentrate on her welfare, not his feelings. ‘If it’s not too dilated, I’ll drive you to the well. I can contact the hospital from there and get a helicopter to collect you.’
She pressed her hand over his and nodded her thanks, biting her lip, so he knew another contraction was on the way.
He also knew that they wouldn’t get to the well.
What did he have with him? An emergency kit in the car—it would have scissors that would be useful to cut the cord but little else as far as he could remember.
Water—he’d have plenty of water.
Think!
The mental order slowed his panic, and he found more damp napkins in a sealed container and used one to wipe Liz’s face. She smiled at him and he thought his heart might break, then she whispered, ‘You do remember how to deliver a baby!’
The gentle tease was worse than the smile, as far as affecting him went, but just in case she wasn’t teasing he was quick to reassure her.
‘Of course!’ he said, then teased her back. ‘I’m already boiling water on the fire, although I’ve never been quite sure what the boiling water you read about it stories was for. Maybe to sterilise the scissors.’
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and added more seriously, ‘I’m going to the car. I’ll be right back.’
He left the damp napkin with her and made sure she was comfortable on the couch, then headed for the car, finding the first-aid kit easily, and the drum of water, which he took with him, although Saif had left plenty in the tent.
He returned to find she’d moved, and was standing, gripping the tent pole.
‘Better this way,’ she gasped through pain, and he remembered his grandmother telling him how she had given birth, squatting while she gripped a solid pole set in the ground.
He held Liz while the contraction racked her body, so much stronger now that he wondered she could stand it, but as it passed she leant back into him and, holding her in his arms, a weird kind of happiness, something he’d never felt before, pulsed through his veins and calmed his panicked mind.
Though not for long! As Liz’s labour continued, at what seemed to him an alarmingly rapid rate, he wished he could remember more about childbirth. His obstetric days, back when he had been a student and an intern, were long behind him, and any knowledge he’d ever had about a situation like this had to be retrieved from a long-unused part of his brain.
What he did know was that he had to be ready—ready to handle a fragile, newborn baby. He searched the tent, found clean headscarves and a clean kandora, thanks to Saif, who believed his master should never appear with a spot on his clothing or the wrong crease in his headdress.
Leaving the kandora—he could put that on Liz later—he piled the other things he might need on a towel beside where Liz now squatted, her hands still gripping the pole, so involved with the process going on within her body he might as well not have been there.
A baby catcher, that’s all he was—yet even as he had the thought, new excitement shafted through him. He was going to deliver Liz’s baby!
Well, she’d do all the work, he’d just be on hand—but now the tension in his body was different, more like elation than panic. He held her again, squatting behind her so his arms could support her, talking to her, encouraging her, whispering things he doubted she’d remember later but words he wanted to say.
He felt the moment she began to push and sat behind her, his hands, washed and rewashed, ready for the arrival. He felt the head as it crowned, disappeared, then crowned again, emerging fully, the little body twisting so the shoulders would come through the narrow passage, then with a final push the baby was in his hands and Liz had collapsed onto the blanket he’d spread beside the pole.
He stared at the baby, transfixed by her beauty and perfection, and smiled when she gave a cry that sounded full of resentment at being ejected from her sanctuary. She even blew a little bubble when he used a straw to clear her mouth and nose of mucus.
When he felt her chest moving as she breathed, he held the little bundle towards Liz.
‘A little girl,’ he whispered, his voice so husky with emotion the words croaked out.
But even in the dim light of the lantern he could read the despair in Liz’s eyes and see the way her hands moved towards the tiny infant then were pulled back with what seemed an almost superhuman effort.
‘Will you cuddle her for me?’ Liz whispered, tears streaming down her face. ‘Hold her against your skin for a few minutes and talk to her. She’s used to men’s voices.’
Liz’s voice broke on the last few words and she turned away, her hand pressed against her mouth to stem the emotion she was obviously feeling.
He held the baby as she asked, glad he hadn’t had time to dress so she could feel his skin, but his mind was on the woman, not the baby, for all she, premature as she was, should have all his concentration.
‘Just keep breathing, farida, my precious pearl.’ he whispered to the little girl, wrapping her carefully before setting her down to turn his attention to her mother.
How could this be so hard? How could she possibly be hurting more than she had during the brief labour?
The questions jostled with more practical matters in Liz’s head and although she knew she should be gathering her wits and making sure Khalifa was doing all the right things for the baby, the ache of loss, so unexpected, was too overwhelming for her to think straight.
Perhaps if she held the little girl?
Then gave her up when Oliver recovered and wanted her?
She doubted she’d be strong enough to do that, knowing how much she already loved this infant, for all her determination to remain detached.
The bulge on her abdomen told her she was ready for the third stage of labour but it seemed Khalifa had remembered enough of his obstetrics training to have also recognised this fact. He’d set the baby, wrapped, it appeared, in one of his red-checked headscarves, quite close but not right beside her, and was preparing to deliver the placenta.
What must he be thinking of her? All he’d wanted was to share his delight in the desert with her, and here she was, causing all this trouble. And she had no doubt, kno
wing him as she now did, that he’d blame himself for the baby’s premature arrival.
She wanted to say something, to thank him, but the words wouldn’t come, because now something else had bobbed into her erratic brain and she was crying again.
‘Liz?’ His voice was gentle. ‘Is it the baby? Do you want to hold her?’
Liz shook her head, swallowed hard, then poured out more grief on the poor man, knowing she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself.
‘It wasn’t meant to be like this! They should have been here, and we were going to keep the cord and donate it for research. It was all planned.’
She knew her voice had risen to a pathetic wail, but Khalifa, who probably should have found an excuse to be busy elsewhere, was lifting her so he could take her in his arms, lifting her and carrying her outside, setting her down on the mattress where they’d made love—had it only been hours earlier?
‘You’ve had so much pain—too much really for anyone to bear—but you are strong, Liz Jones, the strongest woman I have ever known. Yes, it hurts, but you’ve brought life to a new soul and now, if you look over there, you will see the sun coming up on a bright new day. You’ve seen desert sunsets, now watch the sun rise over a new day and know that we are given new days so we can start again and make each day better than the last one.’
He kissed her lips then left her, leaning back against the cushions, thinking of his words as she watched the slowly rising sun bring the desert to life.
Khalifa lifted the baby and, holding her cradled in one arm, walked out to the car, checking the crib they were carrying around. But there was no way he could see to secure it in the vehicle so back at the tent he packed one of the picnic baskets with towels, making a nest for her for before settling her into it. Once sure she was secure, he carried the basket out to the car where he strapped it in as tightly as he could, using a seat belt.
He’d already mentally debated asking Liz to hold her, but had decided that was probably less safe than his makeshift baby capsule. One abrupt stop and she could fly out of Liz’s arms.
The Sheikh and the Surrogate Mum Page 14
