by Anne Mather
Abby felt a surge of indignation. 'You mean you have influence with people!' she asserted coldly. 'You use people, Rachid.' Her lips curled. 'You always did.'
Rachid's expression was hidden from her, but she sensed his heated reaction to the insult. Wives of Middle Eastern princes did not answer back, that much she had learned in her years in Abarein. At least, they hadn't, until she came on the scene. But she had been stupid enough to imagine she had been different, that she and Rachid had had a deeper relationship than those foolish acolytes who only hovered on the brink of their husband's notice.
'This conversation is getting us nowhere,' he said at last. 'I have been very patient, Abby, but now my patience is wearing thin. I want you back. I want you to return with me—to Xanthia.'
Abby choked. 'You're not serious!'
'But I am,' he assured her, in that calm, implacable tone. 'You are my wife, Abby, and as such you belong in my house. I do not intend that this situation should continue any longer. I need a wife—I need you. I expect you to adhere to my wishes.'
Abby felt a rising sense of incredulity that threatened to explode in hysterical laughter. He couldn't be serious, but he was! He actually expected her to give up the new life she had made for herself and return with him to Abarein, to the palace at Xanthia, which he shared with his father and the rest of his family.
Abby pushed forward on the seat and reached for the handle of the door. 'I think you're right,' she said, momentarily surprising him by what he thought was her submission. 'This conversation is getting us nowhere. If you'll ask your driver to stop here, I can take a bus‑'
Rachid's utterance was not polite, and she turned startled eyes in his direction. 'You are not getting out of this car until I have the answer I seek,' he told her grimly, 'and I suggest you give the matter careful consideration before creating circumstances you will find hard to redeem.'
Abby gasped. 'You said you were not abducting me!' she burst out tremulously. 'And now you say‑'
'For God's sake, you are my wife, Abby!' he overrode her harshly. 'How can I abduct my wife? You belong to me!'
'I belong to no one,' she retorted, her breathing quickening again. 'Rachid, you have no right‑'
'I have every right. By the laws of your country and mine--‑'
'Laws!' Abby cast an anxious look through the windows of the limousine. 'Rachid, marriage is not governed by laws! It's governed by needs—by emotions! And most of all, by trust.'
Rachid leant towards her. 'I trust you.'
'But I don't trust you!' she averred unsteadily. 'Rachid, can't you see you're wasting your time? Our—our marriage is over, as surely as if we had untied the knot ourselves.'
'I will not accept that.'
'You'll have to. I'm not coming back to you, Rachid. I—I don't love you.'
'I love you.'
'Do you?' Abby's mouth quivered. 'I'm afraid your ideas of love and mine are sadly different.'
Rachid's hand was suddenly hard upon her knee. 'Listen to me, Abby. I need you‑'
'You need a woman,' Abby corrected tautly. 'Only a woman. Any woman‑'
'No!'
'Yes.' She tried to dislodge those hard fingers which were digging into the bone. 'You only think you want me because I left you. When I was there ...'
'Yes? When you were there? Did I not treat you as the much-loved wife of my father's eldest son?'
Abby bent her head. 'You treated me—honorably, yes. But you know as well as I do, that—that isn't enough.' She shook her head. 'Rachid, you know you must have an heir. And we both know that you're not to blame for not producing one.'
'Abby!'
His tone was impassioned now, and she knew she had lit some flame of remembrance inside him. It was hard for him, she knew that, but where there was no fidelity there was no trust, and she would not—she could not— share him with his mistresses.
'Abby,' he went on now, 'I know my father spoke with you‑'
'You do?' She stiffened.
'Yes.' He uttered a harsh oath. 'Sweet mother of the Prophet, do you think I did not turn heaven and earth to find out why you had left without telling me?'
'You knew why I'd left,' she reminded him, as memories fanned the fires of her resentment. 'Your father's words were no news to me. You'd made the position quite clear enough.'
'Abby, listen to me ...'
'No, you listen to me.' She succeeded in thrusting his long fingers aside and moved as far away from him as she could. 'When I married you, I was an innocent, I realise that now. I believed—I really believed you loved me‑'
'I did. I do!'
She shook her head. 'I know that it was partly my fault. I know you were disappointed when we didn't have a child‑'
'Abby!'
'—but these things happen, even in the best of families. There was nothing I could do.'
'I know that.'
'You should have divorced me then,' she went on in a low monotone. 'You should have set us both free. At least I would have been spared the humiliation of—of—and you could have married the—the wife your father chose for you.'
'Abby, I did not want the wife my father chose for me. I wanted you!'
'Not enough,' she said painfully. 'Oh, this is hopeless, Rachid. We're just going over all the old ground. Why couldn't you just have accepted that our marriage was over and freed yourself? I wouldn't have stood in your way‑'
'Abby, stop this!'
'I won't. I can't. I did love you Rachid, once. But I don't love you now. And I won't come back to you.'
'Abby, you're my wife‑'
'You'd have been better making me your mistress,' she retorted recklessly. 'Mistresses aren't expected to produce heirs. As it happens, I would have had to refuse that offer, but it would have saved us both a lot of heartache.'
Rachid took a deep breath. 'Abby, I don't care about an heir. For the love of God, listen to me! My father now knows how I feel. There will be no more of his philosophising‑'
'No, there won't,' Abby interrupted him shortly. 'Because I'm not coming back, Rachid. You'll have to drug me or knock me unconscious to get me to go with you, and somehow I don't think the Crown Prince would like it to be known that his wife is so unwilling.'
Rachid's eyes glittered in the dim light. 'You will fight me?'
'Every inch of the way.'
He hesitated a moment, and then picked up the intercom that connected to his bodyguard in front. '26, Dacre Mews,' he directed shortly, giving the address of Abby's father's house, and then sank back against the soft leather at his side of the car, resting his head wearily against the window frame.
Abby's silently expelled sigh of relief was tinged with unexpected compassion. So, she thought weakly, he had accepted her arguments. He was taking her home; and while she was grateful for the victory, she wondered if she had really wen. She had never known Rachid give up without a battle, and reluctant emotion stirred in the embers of discontentment. Once she would not have hesitated in giving in to him. Once he had controlled her every waking breath. But no longer. And although she was glad of the freedom, she remembered the sweetness of the past with unbearable bitterness.
Rachid let her out of the car in Dacre Mews, and waited, a tall, dark figure standing beside the limousine, as she fumbled for her key. It was only as she stumbled into the house that he climbed back into the vehicle, and she heard the whisper of its tyres as it moved away.
CHAPTER TWO
Her father was in his study. He looked up rather myopically as she put her head round the door, removing the thick-lensed spectacles to blink at her in surprise.
'You're early aren't you?' he asked, trying to focus on the dial of his pocket watch. 'I thought you were going to Liz's party.'
Abby tried to keep her tone light. 'I was. I did. I just came home sooner than I expected, that's all.'
'Why?' Professor Gillespie scratched his scalp through the thinning strands of grey hair. 'Wasn't it any good? I thought you usually enjoyed Li
z's company.'
'I do, usually,' agreed Abby, withdrawing her head again, in two minds whether to mention Rachid to her father or not. 'I'm going to make some coffee,' she called. 'Do you want some?'
'I'd rather have cocoa at this time of the night,' replied her father absently. 'It's ten o'clock. I think I'll have a sandwich.'
'I'll make it,' Abby assured him, her voice drifting back to him as she walked into the kitchen. The Gillespie house was one of a terrace, matching its fellows on either side. Tall and narrow, it stretched up three floors, with the kitchen, the dining room, and her father's study on the ground floor, and living rooms and bedrooms above. It was easier for Professor Gillespie to work at ground level, even though it would have been quieter on the upper floors, but since his retirement from the University, her father had taken private students, and it was less arduous for him not to have stairs to negotiate every time he had to answer the door.
He came into the kitchen as Abby was spreading the bread with butter, filching a piece of cheese from the slices she had prepared. Although he was only in his early sixties, he looked older, and Abby knew he had aged considerably since her mother's death a year ago. Nevertheless, he enjoyed his work, and it had become both a pleasure and a distraction, filling the empty spaces he would otherwise have found unbearable.
Now he studied his daughter's bent head with thoughtful eyes, before saying perceptively: 'What's happened? Have you and Liz had a row or something? You're looking very flushed.'
Abby sighed, turning to the kettle that was starting to boil and lifting out earthenware beakers from the cupboard above. 'Oh, you know Liz,' she said, trying to sound inconsequent. 'She's not the type to row over anything. She's far too together for that.'
Professor Gillespie grimaced. 'Together!' he repeated distastefully. 'Where do young people find these words? Together means in company with someone else.'
'Well, she's usually that, too,' remarked Abby, hoping to change the subject, but he was not to be diverted.
'Did something go wrong at the party?' he persisted, helping himself to a second wedge of cheese, and Abby was forced to accept that she was going to have to tell him the truth.
'Did—er—did you see Rachid while I was working in New York?' she asked carefully, and Professor Gillespie made a sound of resignation.
'You know, I half guessed that's what it might be,' he exclaimed, shaking his head. 'Come on, you might as well get it off your chest. Was Rachid at the party?'
Abby nodded. 'Liz's boss—Damon Hunter—he arranged it. I didn't know anything about it until I saw him coming in.' She moved her shoulders awkwardly. 'I got out of there as soon as I possibly could.'
'But not soon enough, obviously,' observed her father dryly. 'I gather you and Rachid had some conversation.'
'You could say that.' The kettle began to sing and she moved to make the cocoa. 'But not at the party. Rachid brought me home.'
'Did he?' Her father looked surprised, and Abby hastened to explain.
'He was waiting for me outside. He had two of his muscle men with him, so I couldn't exactly argue.'
Professor Gillespie sighed. 'I suppose he told you, he came to see me just after your mother died?'
Abby nodded. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
Her father grimaced. 'I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to worry you. I mean, living in New York, away from all your friends and family—I thought it was unnecessary to alarm you.'
'I did make friends in New York, you know,' she pointed out quiedy. 'But I know what you mean. If I'd known Rachid was looking for me, I'd probably have anticipated the worst.'
Professor Gillespie looked troubled. 'I thought about this for a long time before I asked you to come home,' he said thoughtfully. 'I knew if you came back to England, Rachid was bound to find out sooner or later, but I felt, rightly or wrongly, that with my backing he might hesitate before upsetting you. But he has upset you, hasn't he? I can see that. What does he want? A divorce?'
Abby's lips trembled, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that her father* should not see that betraying sign. 'He wants me to go back to him,' she said flatly, avoiding his startled gaze. 'He said that was why he asked you for my address.'
Professor Gillespie sought one of the tall stools that flanked the narrow breakfast bar, and stared at her aghast. 'He wants to take you back to Abarein?'
'Yes.'
The Professor shook his head. 'But what about his father?'
'Rachid says that his father will accept me.'
'And are you going?'
Abby gave him the benefit of her violet gaze, her pupils wide and distended. 'Do you have to ask?'
Professor Gillespie looked more disturbed than ever. 'But Abby‑'
'I didn't leave Rachid because of what his father said,' she retorted. 'At least, only in part. You know why I left, and that situation has not changed. Nor is it likely to do so.'
Her father cradled his chin on an anxious hand. 'I know, my dear, but have you really considered what you are refusing?'
Abby gasped. 'Do you want me to go back to him?'
'I want you to be happy,' her father insisted gently. 'You know that. And I also know that you love Rachid despite‑'
'Loved, Dad, loved she contradicted him tightly. 'I did love him, you're right. I—I loved him very much. And I thought he loved me. But the Muslim way of loving is obviously different.'
'Abby, Rachid's a Christian, you know that. And besides, even if he were not, even if he embraced the faith of his ancestors, nowadays even kings and princes have only one wife at a time.'
Abby closed her eyes against the pain his words evoked.
Even now, the remembrance of Rachid's treachery hurt, but that would pass. In time, everything passed; even hatred, which was all she felt for Rachid.
Opening her eyes again, she applied herself to the sandwiches. Then, sensing her father was waiting for a reply, she said: 'I have no intention of returning to Abarein, or to Rachid, for that matter. I made one mistake, but I don't intend to make another. Believe it or not, I like my work, I like being independent, and while I appreciate your concern, Dad, I think I know what I want from life better than you do.'
'And what about later on? When you get older? When I'm dead and buried? What then?'
Abby sighed. 'There's always the possibility that I might get married again,' she said, handing him the plate of sandwiches. 'But whatever happens, it's my decision.'
Professor Gillespie took the plate, but he was still uneasy. 'Abby, men are not like women,' he insisted, as they walked back to the warm security of his study. 'Don't you think you're being a little unrealistic?'
Abby took a deep breath. 'I thought you were supposed to be on my side.'
'I am, I am.' Her father sought the comfort of his armchair with a troubled expression engraving deeper lines beside his mouth. 'But I must admit, I expected something different from Rachid, and his attitude definitely restores a little of my faith in him. Abby, in his country, it must be extremely difficult to sustain continuity without a direct descendant. He's the eldest son, perhaps unfortunately, and it's his role to beget an heir.'
'Beget! Beget!' Abby gave a groan of exasperation. 'Honestly, Dad, you're beginning to sound like the first book of Genesis! Rachid's brother has two sons already. Isn't that direct enough for you?'
Her father hesitated. 'If Rachid divorced you, there's, every possibility that he could find a wife who would produce him a son,' he commented mildly, and Abby realised she had spoken as if she was still in the picture.
'As you say,' she agreed shortly, picking up .a sandwich. 'And as far as I'm concerned, I wish he would do just that.'
Later that night, undressing in the quiet isolation of her room, Abby wondered what she would do if Rachid divorced her. It was all very well, talking blandly of getting married again, but somehow she knew that was most unlikely. Her experiences with Rachid had left her badly scarred, and where once there had been warmth and t
enderness, now there was just a cold hard core of bitterness and resentment. She doubted any man could breach the defences she had built around herself, and she didn't really want anyone to try. It was better to be free, and independent, as she had told her father. Better not to love at all than to go though the pain and turmoil of those last months with Rachid. She was safe now, immune from the arrows of distrust and jealousy, secure within the shell of her own indifference. She had no desire to expose herself again, to lay open the paths to vulnerability and suffering. If she ever did allow another man into her life, she would make sure her involvement was not emotional. Emotions caused too many tortured days and sleepless nights.
Nevertheless, for the first time in months she found herself viewing her own body with something other than dissatisfaction. For so long she had regarded herself with discontented eyes, finding the lissom curves of her figure less than gratifying. She had seen no beauty in the swelling symmetry of her breasts, in the narrow waist and gently rounded thighs, that hinted of the sensual depths Rachid had once plumbed. All she had seen was a hollow vessel, lacking the essential constituents which would have made her a whole being. She was that most pathetic of all creatures, a barren woman, and all the allure and enticement of her body went for nothing beside such an elemental deficiency.
She twisted restlessly, turning sideways, looking at the pale oval of her face over her shoulder. On impulse, she reached up and released the coil of hair at her nape, and shards of silk fell almost to her waist. Her hair was one thing she would not change, straight and silky, and moonbeam-fair. Rachid had loved its soft fragrance, had liked nothing better than to bury his face in its lustrous curtain, and it was pure indulgence that she had not had it cut when she left Abarein. It was really too much for a working girl to handle, but it was her one extravagance, and she was loath to destroy it.
Now, spreading smoothly across her shoulders, concealing the thrusting peaks of womanhood, it accentuated her femininity, and she reflected sadly on the fates that had given her so much, yet denied her so much more.
Between the cotton sheets, she tried to dispel the unbidden fruits of memory. She didn't want to think about her life with Rachid. She had thought about that too much already. Too many nights, in those early days after their separation, she had cried herself to sleep for the cruel tragedy of it all, and now she preferred to forget that it had not all been bad. On the contrary, in the beginning she had almost too much happiness, and each morning she had awakened eager to start the day. She could not get too much of Rachid, nor he of her, and she had resented those occasions when business, or the affairs of state, had taken him from her.
