Chosen as the Sheikh's Wife

by Liz Fielding

  Then, as she lay there, icy water seeping through her bathrobe, she had a grandstand view of Tall, Dark and Dangerous lowering Sarah, very gently, into the nearest chair.

  Hero material after all.

  'Violet!' Sarah exclaimed. 'Are you all right?'

  'Me?' she replied, feeling a touch light-headed. 'I'm just peachy.' Then, as it all came rushing back to her, she scrambled to her feet. 'Forget me. What about you? Are you hurt? Is the baby okay?'

  'I'm fine,' Sarah said, rubbing at her throat. 'Really. It all happened so fast…'

  Her voice was as shaky as her brave smile, and Violet hugged her.

  'I'll call the doctor. Get him to check you over.'

  'There's no need. Honestly.

  'There's every need,' she said, picking up the telephone, hitting fast dial and asking the receptionist to get the doctor to drop everything and get over here right now.

  'You shouldn't have done that, Violet,' Sarah protested. 'She's really busy.'

  'I think it would be wise to take precautions,' their hero advised. Neither shaken nor stirred, his designer suit still immaculate, he was as steady as a rock, while Violet's legs went suddenly rubbery as reality hit her. She subsided in the chair beside Sarah.

  'I wish I'd never seen that knife.'

  Fayad, wishing something very similar, flexed his hand, using the pain to distract himself from the sight of Violet Hamilton's creamy shoulder. 'Maybe you should have the doctor check you over, too. You've had a nasty shock.'

  'I'm fine,' she snapped. 'I thought you'd run out on me.' Then, tugging her robe back into place, 'Sorry.'

  'Don't apologise. You distracted him while I came around the back. A much better plan.'

  'I didn't have a-' She stopped as she realised that, somewhat unexpectedly, he was teasing her. 'You'd better run your hand under cold water before it swells.'

  Maybe he looked as if he didn't know how to do that for himself, because she leapt to her feet, turned on the tap, filled a glass with cold water for her friend, then, taking his hand, held it under the running water.

  'How does it feel?' she asked.

  How did it feel to have this stunning girl leaning against him, holding his hand? Her hair, her temple, inches from his mouth, an unconscious display of the soft curve of her breast as she bent closer to check the damage for herself.

  She really didn't want to hear about that kind of emptiness.

  When he didn't answer, she looked up at him with those extraordinary sea-coloured eyes. 'Maybe you should go to the hospital?' she suggested. 'In case you've broken something?'

  'It's just a graze,' he assured her. 'I've had worse. My only regret is that I didn't hit him harder.'

  'It doesn't matter. He's gone.' Then, as if suddenly conscious of their closeness, she stepped back, pulled her robe tighter, refastening the belt. 'Just leave it there for a moment,' she advised. 'To be on the safe side.'

  'He's gone for now,' Fayad corrected, testing his hand, turning off the water. 'He'll be back. Or someone very like him.'

  'Not if you take it away with you. The khanjar,' She returned to the fridge, fetched a foil-wrapped parcel and laid it on the table, as if she couldn't bear to hold it for longer than necessary. 'I hope it's okay.'

  He unwrapped the foil, the bubble wrap, the black silk that was rotting at the folds, to reveal the knife. Deadly, beautiful beyond imagining. And trouble.

  For both of them.

  'I will, of course, relieve you of this burden,' he said. 'However, I'm afraid simply removing it to a place of safety is not likely to end the matter. You're a descendant of Fatima al Sayyid, a woman who ran from her husband, taking the Blood of Tariq with her.'

  'The Blood of Tariq?'

  'That's what they called it in the newspaper,' her friend said. She had now recovered her composure, along with her colour. 'You and your fancy piece of cutlery made the nationals, sweetie. It's got quite a history, apparently.'

  'What kind of history?'

  She looked not at her friend, but at him, and he said, 'My great-great-grandfather, Tariq al Kuwani, was wounded fighting for Arab freedom against the Ottoman Empire in the First World War. Yours was there, too, I understand?'

  'He was a medical orderly.'

  'The bravest of men went into battle armed only with a stretcher.'

  'Yes,' she said, finally finding a smile, and he knew he'd said the right thing. 'He was given a medal.' Then, 'Your great-great-grandfather was armed with this khanjar, I suppose?'

  'I doubt the Blood of Tariq ever saw action. It's a showpiece, a symbol of wealth and power. A prize captured in battle that Lawrence placed in his hand, declaring that victory had been won with the blood of Tariq. Nonsense, of course, but great PR. And it became a potent symbol in my country.'

  'So potent that someone would threaten a pregnant woman to get hold of it?' The smile had gone; her laugh was derisory. 'All that must have happened nearly a hundred years ago!' she protested.

  She put on a good show, but there was no doubt that she was quaking to her bare toes.

  'Excuse me,' her friend-Sarah-intervened. 'This is all very interesting, but isn't someone going to call the police?'

  'I'm sorry you were caught up in this…Sarah?' She nodded. 'My car is outside. I would be happy to take you to the hospital.'

  She waved away the suggestion. 'Honestly, I'm fine.' She had quickly regained her colour, and, apparently, her sense of humour. 'And it was my own stupid fault. When I came through the hedge and saw him forcing the door I just screamed.'

  They both looked at the splintered doorframe.

  'The bolt is only as good as the wood that was holding it,' Sarah said. 'Pathetic. If I'd kept my head I could have slipped home and called the police myself, but you just don't think, do you?'

  'Oh, Sarah! I'm so sorry…'

  'It wasn't your fault.'

  'Of course it was. If I hadn't blabbed about the family history it wouldn't have been all over the newspapers.' Then, 'I'd have given him anything he asked for-you know that, don't you?'

  'You were wonderful.' Then, regarding him with a frown, 'As for you-heroic is the only word for it. But where did you spring from? And why do I think I know you?'

  'I was at the front door when you screamed, and since I was unable to prevent Miss Hamilton's heroic, if foolhardy, frontal assault, I came around the back.'

  'The classic pincer movement.'

  'Indeed.' Then, 'As to your second question, I think you'll find that my photograph is also on the front page of the newspaper you're holding.'

  It had been brought to him the instant the first edition had hit the streets. The later editions of some of the other papers had picked it up, too.

  'Oh, right,' Sarah said. 'That's why I was coming round. To show Violet,' she said, opening it up. 'As I said, you made the nationals. The Blood of Tariq appears to be some long-lost treasure.' Then, 'Oh, good grief…'

  'What?' Violet demanded.

  Sarah gestured in his direction. 'Listen to this. "A spokesman for Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani,'" she read, angling the front page so that Violet could see the headshot of him they'd found in their files.

  They both looked at him, and he acknowledged the likeness with the slightest of bows. Sarah smiled. Violet did not.

  Despite the damp, tousled hair, the appalling bathrobe, there was something intensely regal about her. The height helped, of course-she was tall for a woman-but she had a look that could, he suspected, quell the slightest familiarity.

  '"…Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani,' her friend Sarah continued, emphasising his title, '"heir apparent to the throne of Ras al Kawi and a direct descendant of Tariq al Kuwani, who is in London this week for an energy conference, suggested that the khanjar might be one of a number of fakes that are known to be in existence…'"

  Sarah held out the paper to Violet and, smiling, looked up at him. 'So? Is it a fake, Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani?'

  He looked at Violet, then said, 'I think not.'

  '
She does have a look of her great-great-grandmother, doesn't she?'

  'Excuse me?'

  Sarah nodded at the dresser, and his heart almost stopped beating as he saw the photograph on the top shelf.

  From the moment he'd set eyes on Violet Hamilton he'd been certain that she was a direct descendant of Princess Fatima. Ebony-black hair, skin so fair that it was almost luminous, and eyes the curious colour

  that was the legacy of Portuguese invaders, who had built their forts along the coast of Africa and the Gulf centuries earlier, told their own story.

  But here was proof indeed-a face he recognised from his own generation of the Sayyid family. Boys he'd grown up with. Their mothers, aunts, sisters.

  They were one of the great tribes of Ras al Kawi, equal in status, wealth, influence to the Kuwani, until Lawrence had singled out his great-great-grandfather and in one romantic gesture made him the rallying point for all the tribes of the region, placing him at the head of the newly formed nation of Ras al Kawi.

  He reached up and took the photograph from the shelf, then turned to Violet Hamilton and, with the slightest of bows, said, 'Will you come to Ras al Kawi with me, Princess? Bring the khanjar home?'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'Princess! Oh, please…'

  'The daughter of a sheikha is a sheikha. As a direct descendant of Fatima, the title is yours by right.'

  She shook her head emphatically. 'No.'

  'It's the truth, and I am inviting you to see for yourself where you come from, to learn your history. To return the Blood of Tariq and place it where it belongs, in the hand of my grandfather.' He glanced at her neighbour, then back at Violet. 'In Ras al Kawi I can offer protection from those who would stop at nothing to use you.'

  Use her? How? She was nobody…

  'I…I can't,' she said. 'I can't just up sticks and go to Ras al…'

  'Kawi. Ras al Kawi.'

  'Ras al Kawi.' She repeated the name as if it echoed, like some precious tribal memory, deep in her heart.

  'If you are not here, they cannot use you. Or threaten your friends to get what they want.'

  'They wouldn't!' she exclaimed. Then realised that they already had. 'What do they want?'

  'Power,' he said.

  'What about you, Sheikh Fayad?' she asked, apparently unimpressed. 'I don't know you. Are you using me?'

  She looked at him as if she could see right through him. Remembering the way he'd spoken to his cousin about her, his utter disregard for her own wishes, his only concern with what was expedient for his country, that was not a comfortable thought.

  It was, nonetheless, essential to convince her of his sincerity. But while some people were easily won round with smiles and charm, he sensed that this was not the way with Violet Hamilton. Some inner sense warned him that she would mistrust them.

  'I understand your hesitation, Princess. No sensible woman would fly into the unknown with a stranger. What can I do to satisfy you that I mean you no harm? Whose word would you trust? The Mayor of London?' he suggested. 'I'm having lunch with him. Or maybe you'd prefer to have my character from the Foreign Secretary?'

  'Go for the Prime Minister,' Sarah urged. 'If you can get him down here I'd really like a word with him about local schools.'

  Violet simply regarded him with reproachful eyes, and he understood instantly that it had been a mistake to offer such people to vouch for his honour. As heir to a country with whom they wanted to do business, she knew they wouldn't hesitate to put his needs before that of some ordinary girl.

  'Maybe you'd have more trust in the Englishwoman who was my son's nanny?' he offered.

  'Why his nanny? Why not his mother?' she asked.

  Inwardly, he flinched at the directness of her question. Outwardly, he allowed nothing to show.

  'My son and his mother both died when he was no higher than my knee,' he replied.

  Behind him, her friend caught her breath, and for a moment he thought he had Violet, too. It gave him no satisfaction. On the contrary, it felt like a tacky play for sympathy, something he neither deserved nor wanted, when all he wanted was her trust.

  He was a diplomat, well used to dealing with awkward situations, using words to make things happen, and yet, confronted by this young woman wearing nothing but a shabby bathrobe, he appeared to have lost control of the situation. Of his thoughts. Of something more. Something that he didn't want to think about…

  'I'm sorry,' she said. Her eyes were soft with genuine sympathy but her gaze was direct and, standing straight and tall, steel in her backbone, she said it again. 'I'm sorry, Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani. Take the Blood of Tariq to your grandfather, but I must stay here. I have to pack up the house. Clear everything…'

  Without warning the steel buckled, and for the second time she grabbed for a chair as if, suddenly, the shock of what had just happened, the realisation of what was ahead, had drained the fight from her.

  He caught her, lowered her into it, filled a glass with water and held it while she took a sip. Held it until her long, slender fingers stopped shaking sufficiently for her to take it safely.

  'Stupid… Stupid…' she said.

  'Don't be so hard on yourself. Your friend is not the only one who has had a shock, Princess.'

  'Don't…' She shook her head. 'Don't call me that. It isn't right.'

  'It is not only right, it is your heritage,' he said. And it was true. She did not need silk, jewels. It was in her manner, her bearing, some edge to her character…' Come to Ras al Kawi and you will see for yourself,' he urged.

  'I can't. Truly. There's just too much to do here'

  'Her grandmother used a dodgy equity release-scheme to raise some money on the house years ago,' Sarah explained. 'Before they were properly regulated. Now she's dead it's all theirs. Lock, stock and rotting floorboard. They want her out by the end of the month.'

  So, it was as he'd been told. Violet Hamilton was without fortune, homeless, and yet she did not ask for money for the khanjar, nor grab at an invitation to be feted as a princess.

  'Where will you go?' he asked.

  'It depends how much she gets for the khanjar' Sarah replied, meaningfully.

  'Stop it, Sarah. It's not mine to sell.' Then, gathering herself, 'If you'll excuse me, Sheikh Fayad, I have things to do.'

  She meant it, he realised. Was immovable.

  He wasn't used to being refused anything, wasn't prepared to accept defeat now, but continuing to press the matter would only intensify her resistance.

  'Very well. If you insist on staying, I have no choice but to accept your decision.' He took a pen from his pocket. 'Give me the card.'

  For a moment she looked as if she might resist, but then fished it out of her pocket.

  He wrote a number on the back and returned it to her. 'I have to go now, but I will arrange for your door to be repaired. Someone will come before the end of the day. And if you should change your mind about coming to Ras al Kawi, you can reach me on that number day or night.' He handed it to her. Looked directly into her eyes. 'While I have a breath in my body my family will be at your command, Violet Hamilton. All you have to do is call.' Then he picked up the khanjar, bowed, slightly, and said, 'Princess… Sarah…'before turning and walking out through the still wide open front door.

  Curious neighbours had gathered, but, looking neither to left nor right, he stepped into his car and, as it sped away from the kerb, began to make a series of phone calls.

  'He might at least have said thank you,' Violet said, as the front door closed behind him. 'He just walked away, didn't look back.'

  'They don't. It's their way. But they never forget a debt. And that "breath in my body" pledge is not meaningless. You will be paid one way or another.'

  'I don't want to be paid,' she said, shaking her head. 'I'm just glad to be rid of the thing. Then, unable to help herself, she asked, 'What's it like, Sarah? Have you been there? Ras al Kawi?'

  'We were next door in Ras al Hajar. The ruler there has an English wi
fe. Did you know that? She used to

  be a foreign correspondent.' She sighed. 'Terrific place to live.' Then, 'Ras al Kawi is less developed, and the old Emir is a bit of a recluse. I always wanted to go there. It's mountainous, and has the most fabulous coastline.'

  'It sounds lovely.'

  'You're wishing you hadn't been so quick to turn him down now?'

  'No. No, of course not.'

  Sarah laughed, clearly not believing her. 'Violet, sweetheart, you remember me saying that you should be careful not to get swept off your feet by the first good-looking man that came your way?'

  'I remember.' Not that she'd needed telling. With a father like hers, trust in the male did not come easily. Then, managing a grin, 'Did I do good?'

  'Oh, you were faultless. You had the heir to a sheikhdom wanting to treat you like a princess and you were ice.' She shook her head as she got to her feet. 'No need to worry about you losing your head. If you can resist such a killer combination of cheekbones and tragedy you'll probably die an old maid.'

  Sarah was joking. If only she knew… 'Are you saying I should have gone with him? Just like that?'

  'You said you wanted a life.'

  'I did. I do. But I was thinking of starting on the nursery slopes and working up to dangerous. Going with Sheikh Fayad would be like taking a ski-run down Mount Everest.' Then, because she might be regretting it just a little bit, and would rather not think about quite how much, 'That guy at the library keeps asking me out.'

  'Really? Not so much nursery slopes as totally flat, then. You do know that he never goes anywhere without his mother?'

  'I had heard she was a touch…possessive,' Violet replied, laughing despite everything. 'But just think how safe I'd be.'

  'Oh, please. I didn't expect you to take me that literally. Life doesn't start small and build up in carefully managed steps to exciting. Exciting is so rare that you have to grab it when you get the chance. You've got a lot of catching up to do, and even if you did live to regret it at least you would have lived.'