Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3)

by Manda Mellett

Once I think I’ve got my head on straight, I go to Cara’s office and prepare to eat humble pie.

  Cara is one of the loveliest people I know, both in looks and in personality, quick to forgive and forget. When I explain I’ve come to hear her out, she says nothing about the rudeness with which I dismissed her earlier, but gets straight down to explaining her request with a welcoming smile that no one would be able to resist.

  So I give her time. But soon I realise I’m listening to her words, but am unable to grasp her reasoning. “Wouldn’t it be easier to bring the woman here?”

  “You’re going to England, Kadar. It would only take a few moments of your time, and save her a long, possibly wasted trip to Amahad.” She pouts, and I realise any attempt to dissuade her would be futile. Her heart seems to be set on it.

  “She’s your only candidate?” I sit back and listen while my sister-in-law explains that there were very few applicants wanting to help her with her pet project of renovating the ancient harem. Easy to explain why; Amahad is rapidly gaining an unfortunate reputation for political unrest—another reason for my forthcoming trip to England to meet with the government there. I won’t be asking for military support, but to ensure we’re on the same wavelength with our strategic response.

  But now Cara is aiming to hijack part of my limited time in London to interview her candidate in person. On paper, I have to agree she looks ideal, but anyone who’s ever been in the position of taking on a new employee knows the person in the flesh might be very different. I steeple my fingers as I think about the practicalities. If she came to the embassy, it really wouldn’t take up much of my day. But I’m still annoyed I’m being pulled into this project against my express wishes. I thought I’d made my position clear that I wanted no hand in it.

  “Please, Kadar. I have a gut feeling about this woman.” She’s looking at me with doe eyes, her hands rubbing her stomach in an unconscious movement, drawing my attention to her unborn child, the first baby to be born into the royal family since the birth of my young sister, Aiza, twenty years ago. The first of a new generation. Returning my gaze to her face I know, much like her husband, I’m unable to deny her anything. Cara’s done so much for her adopted country, and her gut feelings are not to be ignored; indeed, Amahad owes its current financial stability to her intuition. With a deep sigh, I respond. “Alright, set the interview up. I’ll meet with this woman and let you know what I think of her qualifications and suitability.”

  The way her face lights up is sufficient thanks and reward for me. It will only, hopefully, be half an hour out of my life, but my agreement has given her so much pleasure. She’s almost too delighted, and I have to wonder why this is so important to her. She could easily have arranged the private jet to fly her candidate here. Something is up, but I can’t put my finger on it. And when Nijad walks in, the need to get to the bottom of Cara’s reasons for her request flies out of my head altogether.

  “We have that meeting, Kadar,” he reminds me as he enters, his robes billowing out behind him.

  I notice he doesn’t say which meeting, but the scowl on Cara’s face makes it clear that she knows and doesn’t approve. She meets my eye. “Go, Kadar,” she waves her hand in dismissal. “I’ve said all I have to say on that subject already.” Yes, we’ve had many discussions about my proposed marriage.

  It’s something else I admire about Cara; she doesn’t keep flogging a dead horse. And this is definitely a lost cause. I will do my duty, however unpleasant, just another obligation on the emir, though this particular one comes attached with manacles and chains. A life-long commitment.

  Having followed Nijad through the palace, we reach the more modern government wing. Entering my office, he holds the door open for me, and I precede him, pausing just a second to mention to my assistant, Richard, that he’s to come in once the event organiser arrives. Shutting the door behind me, I wave Nijad towards the table then move towards it myself, leaning over to take the fresh pot of coffee that’s just been delivered and pouring two cups. I offer him a pastry, but he declines. I sit, and I lean back in my chair. “You’re a lucky man, Nijad.”

  He nods slowly realising I’m referring to his wife, “I know.” He’s quiet for a moment, and I suspect he’s reflecting how it could have turned out so differently. “Are you still going ahead with the marriage arrangements, Kadar? Wouldn’t your plans for an elected government make the need for it redundant?”

  I shake my head, “That’s not going to be achieved in a day, it will take time. Since I’ve given my agreement, the sheikhs at least have something else to focus on other than my shortcomings.”

  “So this is still your plan?”

  It’s my turn to nod, but I can’t hide my grimace. ‘This’ is a farce of a ball where prospective brides will parade before me. “It seems I need a wife.”

  “Arranged marriages aren’t that bad.” He grins at me to give me encouragement, but he was lucky, he got Cara. It’s why I wanted him here today, to provide both moral support and proof positive that the course of action I’m taking need not necessarily turn out to be as bad as I fear.

  Too keyed up to sit for long, I stand and walk over to the window, but right now can’t appreciate the sights of the beautiful garden outside. Instead, I think of my duty as monarch to marry and produce an heir. The bride will be carefully chosen, and to that end, my advisors are already working on a possible selection for me. Plans are underway to hold a ball in just three months’ time so I can meet suitable women and thus have some semblance of choice, but as my coupling is expected to form a beneficial political alliance for the country, my options will be limited. But, enough, I’ll do my duty when the time comes. I have to; a marriage of state, another expectation on the emir. My advisors tell me the right match will help stabilise the country, and that’s all that matters.

  Turning back to my brother, I change the subject to keep my mind off my life sentence with an arranged bride. “How do you read the situation in the southern desert, Ni?”

  “As we were discussing earlier, it’s all comes back to Abdul-Muhsi. He worries me.”

  “How are you dealing with that?” Nijad is Sheikh of the Southern Desert, his role to guard the borders and keep Amahad secure. But nowadays his job is extends beyond that, preventing dissidents among our populace.

  “Sheikh Rais is acting as a liaison, but the time for talking might be done. We’re increasing the garrison in Z̧almā.”

  My brow furrows as he mentions the military base in the desert city, and I remember his suggestion to dispose of Abdul-Muhsi. But do his people share his views? I don’t want to set tribe against tribe, use our soldiers to fight our own citizens. “We must completely exhaust the negotiation route before taking up arms, Nijad. Amahadian against Amahadian is more than I can stomach.”

  I don’t wait for his answer before I turn back to the view outside again. It’s only during the last few decades that all the desert tribes were united to come under the one umbrella of the state. Amahad is a progressive country, but some of the smaller tribes such as the Qaiquw and Khabi are still strict Muslim, still veil their women and see any modernisation as an act of the devil. Easy pickings, for the jihadists trying to start a religious war. Do I fight to keep us all united? Or let the rebellious tribes combine with our neighbouring country, Ezirad? And what would be the implications for either, bearing in mind the recent discovery of a new oil field running beneath both our countries? It’s a fucking minefield and one that I must carefully weave my way across. Our very last option is to declare war. I’ll do anything to prevent that, even bind my life to the desert sheikhs’ choice of the woman they wish me to marry.

  Chapter 9

  Zoe

  My initial joy at having escaped evaporated fast after I’d seen that news report. I’d hardly slept a wink, so woke lookine worse than ever with bloodshot and bleary eyes. But I can’t give up now. Understanding that lying on this shabby bed in the B&B, afraid to show my face in case I’m recognised, wo
rrying even at this point the police or Ethan’s men might be coming for me will get me nowhere. I’m better off to keep moving.

  As I count my remaining funds, I realise what a fix I’m in with just over four hundred pounds to my name. That isn’t going to last me long. Part of me resents how much I’d spent on tickets I didn’t use the day before, but if it has Ethan running around in circles it has to be worth it. But that leaves me the question of how I’m going to be able to support myself and there’s only one answer, I have to find work. But who would want to employ a woman with no history, a broken wrist, and a bruised and battered face? A woman on the run?

  For a moment all I want to do is curl up and cry when it hits me how much I’ve lost. I was a graduate with a promising career, now I’m without friends, all alone in an unfamiliar place. But just when it seems like my melancholy is going to pull me under, the saner part of my brain reminds me no matter how bad my prospects seem right now; they look one hell of a lot brighter than if I’d stayed with my abuser.

  The thought gives me the impetus and courage to leave my room, I check out of the B&B, relieved when the receptionist doesn’t give me a second look. My hat once again pulled well down over my face, I start walking, using my feet to save money, with no particular destination in mind. Each car that passes, each person that I see causes shivers of fear to run down my spine. With every step I take, I’m scared that someone will recognise me, and decide the chance to become two hundred and fifty grand richer is too good to miss. Hurting and tired I plod on, convincing myself even if I end up penniless, dying of exposure and hunger, it would be on my terms, not his.

  I barely have to walk a mile out of town when my guardian angel gives me a prod with her guiding hand, and I came across a plant nursery with a small shop out front and a vacancy sign for an assistant in the window.

  I stand, looking at that sign for a very long time. If I’d been seeking work in any other circumstances, it would have been a heaven-sent opportunity. With my qualifications, I could do the job standing on my head, or could have if I didn’t have one hand in a sling. But even injured I could give it my best shot. I need money, and walking on further provides no guarantee I would find a better option.

  Another minute passes while I wait undecided. What if the person inside recognises me? What if walking in and asking about the vacancy means the end of my liberty? Then, knowing I don’t have little choice; I decide to take the gamble.

  Slipping my hand out of the sling and taking it off, I shove my ruined wrist into my pocket for support and so my injury isn’t immediately visible. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I enter the shop and instantly came face to face with a woman who has to be close to seventy. But it’s her kindly countenance I notice first, a vibrant, welcoming smile that spreads from her mouth to her eyes and which, after only a few seconds, turns into an expression of concern as she takes in my battered appearance which I apparently hadn’t done enough to disguise. It was to be my first lesson that it isn’t possible to hide anything from the sharp-eyed Ida.

  I’d already made sure the shop was otherwise empty, but I keep casting furtive glances towards the door on the lookout for customers as I introduce myself, “My name’s Claire Ranger, and I’m enquiring about the job you’re advertising out front…”

  Her intense stare makes me falter; then I feel defeat flood through me as she takes my arm and with an unexpected strength for her advanced years, pulls me into a small office behind the shop. All at once certain she’s seen me on the news and is about to make the dreaded call, tears fill my eyes, and I debate running, but truthfully I’m on the verge of giving up. If the first person I meet sees right through me, I’m never going to be safe.

  But the older woman surprises me. Keeping her hand on my arm, but relaxing it into a gesture of comfort and support, she starts to speak, her words crisp and clear in a tone of voice that suggests she would take no nonsense, “I’m Ida. I don’t get many customers this early in the day, but someone might have walked in. It’s best you don’t work in the shop, deary, but in the greenhouse out back, you’ll be well out of sight.”

  I stare at her, my mind unable to fully comprehend her words.

  Then her smile returns, the expression totally transforming her face, and holding out her hand out to me she repeats her introduction, “I’m Ida. Ida Wilkinson. I’m offering you a job, love. One where you can keep out of sight, and out of the way. No one will find you here.”

  ****

  “Shit!” Stupid fucking wrist! I stare at the mess on the ground from yet another dropped plant pot, still having no strength in my left hand. At least, after two months it no longer hurts, except for a slight ache when I overuse it. It’s just weak and looks horrible. Usually, I try to avoid looking at the ugly twisted mess that used to be a delicate set of bones and tendons joining my hand to my arm; you don’t need to be a doctor to see it hasn’t healed right. But having evaded Ethan for sixty days now my wrist is a permanently reminder, a warning to always to be on my guard.

  Bending down, I sigh, then start sweeping up the peat and putting it back in the pot. Luckily the plant wasn’t damaged. My task completed, I get back to my feet, glancing around the nursery, letting the tranquillity of the greenery and flowers surround me, continually thanking whichever deity was looking out for me the day I met Ida. It’s still hard to believe how lucky I was.

  For two months now, she’s kept me safe and out of sight, here, just outside of Ludlow, in a small garden nursery where I’ve found my personal sanctuary. A place to mend, heal and regroup, beginning that first day when she nursed me as I suffered the nausea and weakness brought on by the morning after pill I’d eventually taken.

  Ida has put up with my clumsiness while I learn to cope with having just one good hand, and gradually, as I’ve healed, I’ve been able to contribute fully in my role as her assistant. Sometimes, to my chagrin, my physical weakness reappears and this is not, unfortunately, the first pot I’ve dropped. Oh well, another one bites the dust, as Ida would say, nothing to do but pick myself up and carry on. I’m alive, and free. What else matters?

  Today continues along the same lines much as any other as Ida and I follow the routine we’ve settled into. When the shop closes I help her prepare dinner. We eat then sit down in front of the telly for the evening. Tonight, as usual, we get into a debate about the flimsy plots and whether the villain will eventually get his just desserts in the soap we’re watching and that I’ve become addicted to since I’ve been here. I’m not sure the program is entertainment as much as giving us an opportunity to shout advice at the TV. But a change comes this evening as Ida switches our entertainment off when EastEnders ends. I cast a surprised glance across to her, knowing one of her favourite dramas is coming up next, and it’s odd she doesn’t want to watch it.

  I’m used to Ida’s probing looks, but tonight she seems to have something particular on her mind, and I shift uncomfortably under her assessing gaze. She doesn’t leave me in suspense for long. “I worry about you, Claire.” Poking at the dying embers of the fire she tries to get it to burst into life again; shovelling in some coal, but she’s left too late. It was only when the small, but cosy sitting room in Ida’s cottage had started to grow cold that it occurred to either of us to do something about it. “Damn, not sure it’s going to catch now!”

  “I’m going up soon, anyway. Don’t worry about it on my account.” Not feeling in the mood for an in-depth discussion tonight, her opening words make me suspect if I don’t make the escape to my bedroom I’ll be in for some of Ida’s home truths.

  With regards to the fire, the old woman is on a mission. Grabbing a sheet of newspaper, Ida holds it over the fireplace, gripping it tightly on each side to prevent it being sucked in as air is quickly drawn under the grate. In only a few seconds, the time honoured method has the desired effect as a flame appears with a roar behind the paper. Expertly, Ida whips the paper away with a triumphant exclamation, and I grin behind my hand. This old lady refuses t
o be beaten by anything. I have to admire her. I’ve seen that trick before, but wouldn’t have the confidence to do it myself; I’d probably end up burning the house down. “That should do it! Now where were we?” She sits back on her heels, thinking for a moment, “Oh yes, this just won’t do, Claire. You can’t keep on like this.”

  I sigh, hoping she’d forgotten the topic of conversation she’d just started. Having been engrossed in watching her get the coal blazing I’d missed my chance of evading it. “But I’m safe here, Ida. I’ve been here two months without any problem, so surely we can assume Ethan has no idea where I am.”

  She gives me her sharp look, the one that shows her natural intelligence honed by extensive life experiences she’s so far only hinted at. “Physically you’re safe, yes. Hopefully. But it’s your mental state I’m worried about.” Holding her hands out to take in some of the warmth of the now rejuvenated fire, she continues, “You’re just a young woman. Now you’re healed you shouldn’t be hiding out here; you should be out living life, seeing friends your age. Not stuck working and living with an old biddy like me.”

  Letting out another sigh, I explain it to her again. “Ida, even if I wanted to I couldn’t. You know that. I’m at risk the minute I step out of this place. I can’t even take a chance of going into Ludlow.” We watch the news avidly each evening, and though admittedly, my disappearance is no longer headlines, every now and again, reference will be made that Zoe Baker remains a missing person, and of course, there’s always mention of the extravagant reward offered for information as to my whereabouts.

  But worse, I’d found my story splashed all over social media too; I’d used Ida’s account rather than my own to keep an eye on it, I’m not stupid after all. But I did grow cold when I found trying to trace me had become almost a craze amongst Facebookers and Tweeters, with madcap theories circulating of where I’d gone. Search parties had been organised to follow up the many reported sightings. The only comfort I took was that Ethan had to be wasting his time rushing up and down the country following up on the rumours; even over the world if the gossip there had been a sighting of me in Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, had been taken as at all credible.