The Sheik's Unsuitable Bride

by Liz Fielding

  It was dark, the middle of the night, when they arrived at Nadira Creek. Even so, the air was soft, warm, scented with exotic blooms, and, as she looked up, the stars were like diamonds scattered over black velvet.

  Zahir was right. It was awesome.

  Like the villa that had been put at their disposal. What she’d seen of it was like something out of a dream. Not that she’d seen much. They were all too shattered by the swift turn of events, the rush, the tension.

  But finally Freddy was tucked up and at last she was able to get out of her working clothes and take a shower in a bathroom that was about the size of her bedroom back home, using the kind of soaps that she’d only ever heard of.

  Afterwards, wrapped in the softest towelling robe, she checked on her parents. They were already asleep, but, when she tried to follow suit, her mind wouldn’t let go. All she could think about was Zahir. What he was doing. What he was thinking.

  Had he been mobbed on arrival at the Mansion House? Probably not. With heads of state and cabinet ministers attending, security would be tight.

  At the hotel?

  Almost certainly. Not that he would say anything. He’d just have given the waiting photographers one of his show-stopping smiles. The kind that meant nothing.

  But what was he feeling?

  Anger. With himself, no doubt, for behaving like a fool. But with her too, for what he must feel had been her deceit.

  She might not have lied about Freddy and if he’d asked her outright she would have told him the truth. But what she hadn’t said had left him with a contradiction and he would not, could not, think well of her.

  When the pale silver edge of dawn filtered through the lattice shutters of the balcony it came as a relief. She pushed one back and caught her first glimpse of Nadira Creek, shimmering, a pale and milky pink in the early morning light.

  Shreds of mist clung to cliffs that rose on the far side of the water. Draped itself like silk chiffon amongst the date palms and what, unbelievably, looked like pomegranate trees in the gardens that sloped away from the terrace below her.

  If yesterday had ended on a nightmare, today was beginning with something like a dream.

  She quickly showered, dressed and, after looking in on Freddy, still dead to the world, she went downstairs to a huge sitting room where sofas, cushions and beautiful rugs were strewn across the dark polished floor.

  But she didn’t linger there.

  Wide French windows stood open to an arcaded courtyard and she walked out into the misty dawn, drawn by the sound of water trickling down a narrow rill to steps that led down to a lily-covered pool. Beside it, a raised open-sided pavilion was almost hidden beneath a vast fig tree.

  Like the house, it was furnished with luxuriously rich carpets and silk cushions, inviting her to curl up and sleep until the world forgot her. Before she gave in to the temptation, a phone resting on a low carved table, the only thing that was out of place in this Arabian Nights fantasy, burbled softly.

  She looked around, but there was no one else in sight and, when it rang again, she picked it up. ‘Hello?’

  For a moment no one answered and, absolutely certain that she’d done the wrong thing, she was about to hang up when Zahir’s voice said, ‘Diana…’

  Just her name, like a sigh, and her legs seemed to buckle beneath her so that somehow she was lying amongst the cushions, for all the world like some pampered houri waiting for her lord.

  ‘Zahir…’

  ‘It’s early,’ he said. ‘You could not sleep?’

  ‘The sun is telling me that it’s early, but my body clock is telling me I should be at work,’ she replied.

  ‘So you’re exploring?’

  ‘Nothing so energetic. Just enjoying the view. It’s beautiful, Zahir. Totally wasted on a bunch of journalists…’

  She stopped. Not the wisest thing to have said, but when had she ever thought before she spoke?

  ‘They have their uses,’ he replied, with what sounded like a smile colouring his voice. ‘But rest assured, no journalist will ever enjoy the view from where you are lying now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Diana swallowed, blushing. What was it about the word ‘lying’ that was so…suggestive? And how did he know…?

  She almost felt as if he could see her, touch her. As if he were there with her amongst the silken pillows, his hand cradling her hip, his mouth…

  She cleared her throat. Struggled, determinedly, despite the unwillingness of the cushions to let her go, into a sitting position. Then, feeling slightly more in control, said, ‘Do you want me to go and find someone for you? I haven’t seen anyone, but the doors were open so I imagine someone is about.’

  ‘No need. I just wanted to be sure that you’d arrived safely. That you’re comfortable.’

  ‘Comfortable is rather understating the case. I know your resort is supposed to be luxurious, but this is something else. Not at all what I’d expected.’

  ‘Oh?’ He sounded amused. ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking up at the beautiful house built into the rock. The cool blue tiles of the arcaded courtyard, the wide wooden balcony with its fretwork shutters. Another floor above that. ‘I somehow imagined a series of cottages set in a garden.’

  Definitely not this Arabian Nights palace that looked as if it had been there for all time.

  ‘Maybe I’ve seen too many travel programmes on the television.’

  ‘Rest assured, Diana. Your imagination is in full working order. The resort is on the other side of the creek. There is still work going on there, little privacy. I thought you’d be more comfortable in the house. Hamid, my steward, will take you across the creek in the boat, give you the tour whenever you wish. Does your father enjoy fishing?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s ever tried,’ she said. ‘But he loves boats.’

  ‘Which explains the book of nautical knots.’

  ‘Oh, no, that was for…’ Her hand flew to her mouth, stopping herself from saying the name. Idiot!

  ‘I see.’

  Did he? Had Freddy been mentioned in the newspapers? ‘Single mother chauffeur dances with sheikh in the street…’ would appeal to a certain section of the press.

  The silence stretched to breaking point until she could no longer bear it.

  ‘Zahir…’

  ‘Diana…’

  They spoke at the same time, apparently both equally anxious to fill the void.

  ‘What is it, Diana? Tell me…’

  Tell him what?

  That she wished he were here with her? That she’d wept when he’d left her? That there would always be an emptiness in her heart without him?

  For heaven’s sake, she’d only met him days ago.

  But then, how long did it take to fall in love? She had no yardstick against which to judge her feelings. And even if it was love, so what?

  He didn’t believe in it. He’d told her…

  ‘It was nothing,’ she said. Nothing that she had any right to say. Nothing that made any sense. ‘How was your Mansion House dinner?’

  ‘Do you want a blow-by-blow account of what I ate? Or a précis of the Prime Minister’s state of the nation speech?’ he asked. When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘No, I thought not.’

  She glanced at her watch, calculated the time difference. ‘Actually, shouldn’t you be on your way to Paris?’

  ‘Paris will have to wait. I’ve brought my schedule forward to take advantage of the unexpectedly high interest in my affairs. I’m announcing the new airline today.’

  ‘Oh, well, good luck.’

  ‘I think I can guarantee that every seat at the press conference will be taken.’ Then, before she could think of a response, ‘I have to go. Just ask Hamid for whatever you want, Diana. Do not be shy.’

  About to say, Shy? You’ve got me confused with some other Diana…But, before she could speak, she was listening to the dialling tone.

  ‘Mu-um!’

&nb
sp; Freddy came slowly down the steps, rubbing his eyes, trailing his teddy behind him so that he bumped on every one. A sure sign that he needed a hug.

  She replaced the receiver and swept him up in her arms and he clung to her, not too big, too grown-up for a cuddle today. She knew how he felt. She could do with one herself.

  He recovered first.

  But then her condition was terminal…

  ‘Is that the sea?’ he asked, perking up as he looked over her shoulder.

  ‘It certainly is,’ she said, gathering herself, making an effort at brightness.

  ‘Is there a beach?’ Now he wriggled, eager to get down and explore. ‘Can we make a sandcastle? Does Grandpa know?’ He hit the ground running, teddy abandoned at her feet. ‘Grandpa! Grandpa!’

  She picked it up, followed him, was just in time to see him skid to a halt at the sight of Hamid, the white-robed steward who’d shown them to their rooms when they’d arrived.

  ‘Good morning, sitti,’ he said with a low bow. ‘I hope you are comfortable?’

  ‘We’re very comfortable thank you, Hamid.’

  ‘Sheikh Zahir wished me to assure you that his house is at your disposal. You are to make yourself completely at home. It is his wish that you enjoy your stay as his guest.’

  His house? This was where Zahir lived? As in his actual home?

  No wonder he’d sounded amused at her assumption that this was part of the holiday resort.

  And he’d already spoken to Hamid. Had his servant put him through to the summer house? Well, of course he had. Why else would the phone have rung there?

  Her hand went to her chest to calm the sudden wild beating.

  It meant nothing. Nothing…

  Hamid folded himself up so that he was on the same level as Freddy. ‘What would the young sheikh like for his breakfast?’

  Freddy shrank behind her skirt.

  ‘His name is Freddy and the shyness won’t last,’ she assured the man. ‘He usually has cereals. Maybe some juice?’ She made it a question, unsure what was on offer.

  He smiled at the boy. ‘Maybe you would like to try a fig? Some yoghurt with honey? Or what about pancakes?’

  ‘Pancakes?’

  ‘I was with Sheikh Zahir in America. They eat pancakes for breakfast there, did you know?’

  Freddy, eyes wide, shook his head.

  He certainly knew how to win the heart of a small boy.

  ‘And the sitti?’ he said, rising. ‘Pomegranate juice? New bread. Goats’ cheese.’

  Sitti? That was her?

  ‘Why don’t you surprise us, Hamid?’ she said. ‘Maybe tea?’

  ‘Darjeeling? Earl Grey?’

  ‘Darjeeling. Thank you,’ she said, letting out a silent ‘whew’ as Hamid bowed and left them. Goats’ cheese for breakfast? How the other half lived.

  Then, laughing-something that after yesterday afternoon she’d thought she’d never do again-she said, ‘Okay, young sheikh, I think we need to get you washed and dressed before breakfast.’

  Zahir tossed the cellphone on the desk and dragged a hand over his unshaven face. It was six in the morning at Nadira, the best time of day, when the sun would be low, turning the rocks and sand pink. The creek deserted but for a few night fishermen returning with their catch.

  And today Diana was walking in his garden, stepping where he’d walked, touching things that were precious to him. Lying where he had lain against the silk cushions in his summer house, surrounded by the scent of jasmine. But not with him. He could not go there while she was there. Could never see her again. Must never call her again.

  He picked up the little book that lay on the desk in front of him. The book that Diana had thrust into his hand just before he’d fled the airfield, asking him to give it to Ameerah, and for a moment he held it against his lips, as if to transfer her touch to him.

  He’d hated leaving her on her own, even though it would only have been for a little while. He’d wished to meet her parents, apologise as a man should, for having put them through such an ordeal. But to do that would have meant witnessing her face lighting up as this Freddy walked through the door. To offer his hand to a man who possessed what he most desired. And keep that desire from his own eyes.

  He’d been a fool to ask Hamid to put him through to the summer house, would not have done so if he hadn’t been assured that she was on her own.

  What could he possibly say to her when all the words that burned in his heart were forbidden to him? When all they could talk about was a formal dinner he’d attended? His press conference…

  ‘You’ve got forty minutes, Zahir.’ James looked at his untouched breakfast, the newspapers that lay unopened by his tray, and made no comment. He’d been pointedly not making any comment since he’d arrived back in London yesterday evening. ‘I’ll get you some fresh coffee.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Just see that this is gift-wrapped and delivered to Ameerah,’ he said, handing James the book. ‘It’s from Diana,’ he said, finding some consolation in being able to say her name. ‘To go with the snow globe.’

  ‘The Princess and the Frog?’ James said, looking at the book, then at him. ‘What on earth has that got to do with the Snow Queen?’

  ‘The Snow Queen?’

  Glacial, icily beautiful. He could see how the subject might appeal to a glass-blower but he was, he decided, glad that it had been broken. Its replacement might not have had any intrinsic value but it had warmth…

  Or was that an illusion? Was it Diana, weaving her tale for him, who’d given the toy a touch of magic?

  James was still awaiting an explanation and, with a shrug, he said, ‘I’m afraid there was a slight accident at the airport. A small boy in a hurry. A concrete pavement. I had to find an instant replacement.’ Then, ‘Nothing nearly so precious.’

  ‘You should have mentioned it. I’ll get someone to sort out an insurance claim.’

  ‘Let it go, James. Let it go. In fact, forget this too,’ he said, dropping the book in the waste basket. ‘We’ve more important things to do.’

  It was late when he arrived in Ramal Hamrah, but Zahir had warned his mother to expect him. He wanted this over with and he’d changed on the plane, abandoning his suit and tie for traditional robes.

  For a formal visit to his mother, this formal visit, only traditional robes would do. The gossamer-fine black and gold camel hair cloak. A keffiyeh held in place by a simple camel halter.

  His mother was alone, standing in the centre of her drawing room-a princess granting an audience. He touched his forehead, his heart, bowed low.

  ‘Sitti,’ he said. My lady. Only then did he approach to kiss her.

  She was slight and, as he straightened, he stood nearly a foot taller, but her slap as she struck his cheek with the flat of her hand had force enough to drive him back a step, ring his ears.

  Futile, then, to hope that she hadn’t seen the newspaper.

  He bowed a second time, an acknowledgement that her anger was justified, her rebuke accepted without argument.

  ‘I am here to inform you, sitti, that I am at your command, ready to meet with, take a bride from the young women you have chosen,’ he said.

  ‘You think it is that simple?’ she enquired, her voice dripping ice. ‘Yesterday I met with the Attiyah family. They have no male heir and mothers are lining up to make an alliance for their sons with Shula, their oldest daughter. You, my son, for reasons that I cannot begin to fathom, seem to be favoured above all, but this morning I received a note from the girl’s mother, asking me to deny a rumour that you have installed your mistress at your house at Nadira.’

  Well, that explained the slap. Embarrassing his mother was the sin.

  ‘I will assure Kasim al-Attiyah, as I assure you,’ he replied, ‘that Miss Metcalfe is not my mistress. I have simply given her and her family temporary refuge…’

  ‘Her father is not the one you have to convince. He is a man and he knows that all men carry their brains between their legs.�
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  Having got that off her chest, her face softened and she laid the hand she’d struck him with against his cheek. ‘Shula al-Attiyah is a modern woman, Zahir. She is well-educated, travelled, as are all the young women I’ve chosen for you to meet. I sought a true match for you, my son. Someone who understands your world. Who will be the kind of life partner you would choose for yourself.’ She let her hand fall, turned away. ‘But this is the twenty-first century and no Ramal Hamrah girl worth her salt is going to ally herself with a man who’s photographed dancing in a London street with his-’

  ‘Mother,’ he warned.

  ‘With a woman who, even now, is living in your house with her child. A boy the gossips in the souk are saying is your son!’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Zahir heard his mother’s words clearly enough but they made no sense. He reran them over and over…

  Boy…

  Son…

  ‘Is it true?’ she demanded, while he was still trying to come to terms with what she’d said.

  He shook his head. It couldn’t be true…

  And yet, almost like a movie running in his brain, he saw again the carrier with the books she’d bought. Saw himself opening it. Children’s books, she’d said. Children’s books. Plural. The fairy tale book had been for Ameerah. But the other one, the book of knots, that was the kind of gift you’d buy for a small boy…

  She’d lied to him. No…

  His gesture, pushing the thought away, was emphatic.

  She had not lied.

  He, in an offhand remark, had provided her with the excuse and she’d grabbed at it, using it to keep him at a distance. And it would have worked but for the photograph in The Courier-

  ‘You do not seem certain, my son.’

  He was dragged back to the present, to the reality of what was rather than the might-have-been, by a suggestion of anxiety in his mother’s voice, sensing that beneath her aristocratic posture was a genuine fear that, even in this most basic duty-to make a marriage that would bring honour to his family-he was about to fail her.

  ‘You may rest assured that I met Miss Metcalfe for the first time this week,’ he said, and his heart tore at the unmistakable sag in her aristocratic posture as the tension left her.