Sheikhs Fadi and Tamir had quickly left, after again pledging me their support, their mood and that of their men subdued and thoughtful. Those from Abdul-Muhsi’s tribe were rounded up, and escorted back to the military base in the southern desert, there to stay under guard until a new sheikh had been appointed to decide what to do with them. Surprisingly the tribe took little time making their choice, settling on a young man, one who had been educated in the West. It seemed they had learned their lesson.
Elections would go ahead in three months’ time in the cities of the north to elect representatives for the new government. As agreed, the desert sheikhs, already with the authority to represent their tribes, would naturally assume their positions as members. In the meantime, I had appointed an emergency cabinet and Nijad had taken responsibility for tightening up the border controls, it being even more imperative now to keep the jihadists out. Having seen at first hand the level of indoctrination that made young men give up their lives with only the promise of reward in the afterlife to come, my fellow sheikhs and I were even more determined to keep this kind of fanaticism from invading our borders. Amahad was, and is to remain, religion tolerant and multi-cultural. I had gained agreement on that, and my changes to the judicial system had been accepted. And on top of everything else, talks were progressing well with the Sultan of Ezirad, the way smoothed by the offer of a joint exploration of the oil field running beneath our countries. In all my political life was running more smoothly I could have hoped just a month ago.
A knock on my door pulls me out of my reverie. With my permission my new assistant enters—a member of Ghalib’s tribe—an intelligent young man who seems to have a promising future. But a man who will have to earn my trust as now I have very good reason to be wary.
We’re still trying to trace his predecessor. Richard had fled the country after making that fateful call to remove the palace guard. Cara had worked her magic using her impressive hacking skills to remove his ill-gotten gains from his bank account, but she hadn’t yet been able to help us locate him. But find him we will. I need to deal with the traitor, and my retribution will be harsh.
I nod at Ma’mun and indicate he should take a seat. I smiled when Ghalib introduced me, knowing his name meant ‘trustworthy’ having to wonder whether it had influenced the older sheikh’s choice. I hope that he will live up to his name.
“Your Excellency, the final list of attendees.”
He’s here to discuss that fucking ball where suitable candidates to warm my bed will be paraded in front of me. It doesn’t matter that the only woman I want is three thousand miles away; in two weeks’ time, I will need to make my choice of another. As he hands me the printout, I glance down the names. Almost all are daughters of the desert sheikhs or close relations; women brought up in the Amahadian ways. Three are suggestions from neighbouring countries, a wedding to consolidate relationships with our allies. I could tell him there is one name missing, but I keep silent, however much I believe Zee is the one perfect woman for me, her heritage bars her from being part of the selection. Apart from Aazeen, daughter of the King of Alair, I don’t recall meeting any of them before. And Aazeen is younger than my baby sister. Whatever alliances we need to groom, cradle snatching is something I will not consider.
I hand the list back to him; I can’t summon up any excitement at the prospect of meeting my potential bride. “Send out the invitations, Ma’mun. Thank you.”
“Do you want to look over the arrangements?”
I suppose I have to. “Talk me through them, though I’m confident that you have everything under control. I’m very pleased with your contribution so far.”
As he puffs up his chest in importance, I recall how delighted Ma’mun was when he was told of the opportunity to work in the Palace of Amahad, and so closely with his emir. His obvious pride in his role, and the intensive search into his background that I’ve had Grade A conduct gives me at least some feeling of confidence that he would be unlikely to betray me.
“The ballroom and state dining room are have been opened up and aired, and cleaners will start next week. The palace chef has some suggested menus for the state dinner…?” He’s trying to involve me in too much detail.
I shake my head, “I’ll leave the menu to you.”
He smiles. “I won’t let you down. Now, music. Have you any particular preference?”
I listen, answering his questions with various polite versions of ‘you deal with it’, and eventually, I’m left alone. I’ve no interest in this ball, or the proposed outcome, at all. I’ve given my promise that I’ll take a wife for political expediency, now that should be the end of it. Involving me in the detail is a bit like asking a condemned man to tie his own rope.
Rising to my feet I begin to pace the room, wondering for the umpteenth time if there could be any way out of this dreaded union. But again the truth is staring in my eyes, to back out now would be reneging on a promise I’d made my country. The only light on the horizon are the democratic changes I’m putting in place, so an heir of mine will not be subjected to the same debacle.
But Rome wasn’t made in a day, and putting in place an elected government will happen far too slowly for it to change my situation. To keep trust in the meantime I can’t be seen to abdicate any of my responsibilities, and that includes taking a stranger to my matrimonial bed.
Chapter 38
Zoe
Discharged from the hospital I go to the only place I can think of. To Ludlow, to Ida’s. This time, the journey is different. I no longer have to hide my face at train stations or buy numerous tickets to conceal my route. The bruises on my face have faded to almost nothing, and even the nasty cut to my forehead has healed to a barely-there scar, so I attract no particular notice during my travels. A nagging, lingering headache is my only companion, but the doctors assure me even that will go in time.
I have no idea where my life will go from here. But I’ve one less worry at least. I’ve got money in my bank account now; not only my earnings from my work in Amahad but I’d received an email from Cara telling me the blood money she’d removed from Richard’s bank account, the sum Ethan had paid him for betraying me, had mysteriously found its way into mine. Finding I was one and a quarter million pounds richer, I didn’t feel at all guilty accepting it, logic saying I was more entitled to it than that traitor ever was. And I certainly didn’t want the emir’s former assistant to benefit from his ill-gotten gains. He must have known what he did could have cost me my life. It almost seems poetic justice that it’s now him on the run, without the funds to ease his way.
Ida offers me a home, my old room, and a job to keep me busy once I’ve recovered enough to work. It’s obvious, though, that my body will heal far faster than the damage done to my heart. Try as hard as I can; I just can’t seem to get Kadar out of my mind. As the day draws closer for that bloody ball where he’ll choose his wife, I think about him more and more, remembering the night we had, the things we did constantly playing around my head.
In a moment of weakness I googled the Emir of Amahad, and immediately wish I hadn’t. The first page showed pictures of the likely contenders to be his wife, and I tortured myself by studying the bevy of beauties from which he’ll make his choice, running my hand over my growing breasts and ample hips, knowing I’d never have been able to compete. An interesting aside in one of the articles informed that the sixteen-year-old daughter of the King of Alair was not going to be in the running, after agreement by both the King Asad and Kadar. That she’d ever been considered was shocking in my opinion. But whoever he ends up with, the very idea of him touching any woman the way he touched my body haunts me.
But I’m carrying his baby. The fact I have something of him with me to keep and cherish helps me to stay grounded. This baby is going to be loved and treasured more than any other ever born. It’s part of him that I won’t ever allow to be taken from me.
I potter around the nursery, doing light jobs where I can, trying to manage with
out my sling. Oh shit! Fucking wrist! I curse, as again the old injury causes my wrist to fail me and yet another plant pot bites the dust, smashing into smithereens on the concrete path. Hating being so useless, I bend down to pick it up, trying to scoop the soil back in. It’s a permanent reminder of Ethan’s cruelty. But I’ve decided I no longer have to live with it as I’ve got the money now and can look into getting it fixed. I can go private, and won’t have to rely on the National Health. Although I’d prefer to avoid an operation, I don’t want to risk dropping a baby. The thought makes me smile, thinking that’s one good reason why I’ve got to look after myself now, as well as giving me the strength to get up and cope with each day. A miracle baby surviving my ill-treatment at Ethan’s hands.
As I kneel, scooping the compost back into the pot, my mind planning my future, a pair of expensive looking shiny shoes come into my line of sight. I stare at them, for a second panicking before I remember Ethan is dead and buried three thousand miles away in the desert, no one having volunteered to bring the body home. I raise my eyes and follow the line of trousers up, see the tailored jacket covering a large body, and then focus on the face. What. The. Fuck?
Sheikh Rais had visited me in the Desert City hospital, his mission to thank me for saving the emir. Which would have been all well and good had I the slightest recollection of doing so! Coming round from the coma the last person I’d expected was to see this wild looking man of the desert looming over me, but his comforting manner, so at odds with the roughness of his voice, had quickly put me at ease. And now he was the very last man I ever expected to see on English soil.
It took me a few seconds to place him, so far out of his environment and his traditional clothes. His hair is neatly groomed and tied back in a bun, his beard trimmed and he’s dressed in what looks like an Armani suit. He looks almost civilised.
He leans down, offering me his hand. I take it, using the brief time as he helps me to my feet to try to fathom out why on earth he’s come to visit me.
“Sheikh Rais,” he introduces himself, apparently having noticed my confusion.
I nod and smile, “It took me a moment to recognise you.” Once on my feet, I acknowledge him and quickly brush the worst of the dirt off my knees. “I’m surprised to see you. What on earth are you doing here? How did you find me?”
He stares intently, taking in my appearance. Embarrassed, I’m only too aware of my well-worn jeans and a baggy top, hardly the height of fashion. I’m also muddy; carrying plant pots around will do that to you. But then I wasn’t expecting a visit from a desert sheikh today. Suddenly his face breaks into a broad grin, an expression which transforms his rugged features. “You’re looking good, Zoe Baker. Are you well?”
Apart from suffering morning sickness at any time of the day—a fact I’m clearly not going to share with him—I’m feeling much better now. My shoulder and wrist ache when I overdo it, but I’m mostly mended, so I answer him honestly. “All healed up. I still get the odd headache which the doctors tell me is only to be expected, but I’m getting there.”
“Good,” he nods again.
“Sheikh Rais, I don’t know why you’re here?” I’m mystified why he’s turned up, “Surely it’s not just to check up on my health?”
He looks around the greenhouse and apparently noticing there’s an office area he waves towards it, “Can we talk in there?”
Not sure what I have to discuss with a formidable sheikh so far away from his home country, I nod and lead the way. Once we’re inside, I point him to a seat and decide I should be sociable. He’s made a very long journey to come to see me. I just can’t imagine why. “Can I offer you a drink? Tea, coffee?”
He declines but sits down. I’m relieved when he’s no longer towering over me. I’m having difficulty trying not to stare at the way he’s attired. He looks entirely different, yet somehow not completely out of place in his western suit. Again he regards me with intense scrutiny, and then, as though I’ve passed some test, he nods slowly. I feel uneasy as I take a seat on the other side of the desk, and try to curb my impatience as I await the explanation for his visit.
“You and the emir were close. Very close.”
I lift my chin; there’s no point denying it. And it wasn’t a question, so I don’t offer any answer.
“There is a ball, next weekend. Prospective brides are going to be presented to Emir Kadar.”
I stand abruptly. What does he think of me? “I’m well aware of that!” I snap at him, unable to help myself. From his previous words he must know I have feelings for Kadar, so why torture me like this? Why does he bring up the one thing that’s never far enough away from my mind? I just wish the bloody thing was over so perhaps I could forget it and move on with my life. “Is that why you’re here? To warn me off? Do you think I’m going to make trouble for Kadar?”
“No, no,” he reassures me, his hands fluttering up as if to emphasise his denial. “I don’t believe you’d ever want anything but what’s best for our emir. But don’t you wish something could have come of your relationship with him?”
Although it would be rude, I feel like walking out, leaving him and going back to my work. Why is he here to torment me? Why is he asking questions about the impossible? I have to force myself to be polite and be calm, though I’m close to losing my temper, “Sheikh, the emir was upfront and honest with me. There was never going to be a future for us.”
“But nevertheless, Kadar started a relationship with you.”
One night, we had just one night. Without thinking my hand goes to my stomach as I remember the result of our coupling. I take my hand away quickly as Rais narrows his eyes.
“You’re in England for business?” I attempt to change the subject.
“You could say that,” he leans forwards, “Paramount state business.” He chuckles quietly and leans back again. “You see, one of the prospective brides for the emir happens to live in England. I’m here to take her back to Amahad.”
I close my eyes as my head starts to throb. Why does he keep reminding me? Why is he torturing me? It makes sense now, of course, he’s stopped off to make sure I won’t cause any problems for Kadar; Rais is obviously deeply involved in the arrangements.
“Kadar has decided on a short engagement,” his tone is conversational, and I don’t know why he thinks I would be interested, “He seems confident that he’ll settle on a bride on the night, so preparations are already underway for a state marriage.”
“Won’t his fiancée want something to say about that?”
“Kadar’s not expecting a love match. It will be an arranged marriage for political reasons only. His bride will be expected to go along with his plans.”
Another thought hits me. Is he going to suggest I could be the woman on the side? Someone to comfort the emir in his loveless marriage? My anger rises, and I’m not going to suppress it. I’d never put myself in that position.
As I open my mouth to blast him with my rage, Rais continues, giving me no time to vent, “Kadar needs a wife to support him, a wife who’s prepared to put her life on the line for the country and the emir. A wife who’ll give him the family he needs, not only to provide an heir but to also make him a better man. The woman who marries the emir will need to be an extraordinary person.”
For fuck’s sake! I’m going to explode if he says one more word. Doesn’t he think I know that? Isn’t that why I left? To clear the way for Kadar so he can find the type of marriage he needs for himself and his beloved country?
I risk a glance at him; Rais looks both grave and oblivious to my distress. In a deeply serious tone he carries on, “There are ten desert sheikhs, Zoe. Nine of us have led our tribes for many years now; one is new to the position. But each and every one of us is unanimous in our preference of bride for the emir. Instead of each presenting our favoured women as would normally be our custom, we will present just the one we have chosen to represent us all. With such a wealth of support behind her, we expect Kadar will have no option
but to agree our choice. Peace within Amahad will depend on it.”
Chapter 39
Kadar
Why I needed new robes for tonight I’ve no fucking idea. It is going to be a cattle market, and it’s the women who should be preening themselves, trying to make the most of their assets to attract me. I’m the emir of a developing country, with a personal fortune making me one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. But my advisors seem to think I, too, need to polish up and present an image to entice them―as if my money and prestige weren’t enough on their own. I’m not a vain man, but I know I’m not uneasy on the eyes, so why go to this extra trouble for this fucking debacle?
When the issue of my marriage was first raised, I wasn’t particularly concerned about it. In the beginning, I’d no real qualms about who would warm my bed; I could never have imagined anyone would capture my heart. But at that point a particular woman hadn’t yet entered my life or taught me how to feel like a man.
And there I go again; she’s all I seem to think about. It almost seems like another lifetime, so long since I last saw Zee. If I catch the scent of roses it reminds me of her, and it’s as if it all happened just yesterday. Shit! No more! I have to put her out of my fucking head!
Looking down at myself I see my cock lying limply, dressed to the left as normal in my new trousers. It would be laughable if the emir couldn’t provide an heir because he couldn’t get it up for his new wife. Perhaps that should be the test? Whichever of the women causes my fucking dick to twitch should be my selection. The trouble is, the way I feel at the moment I have doubts any of them will have much chance of success. The only time my cock rises to the occasion is when I allow myself to think of Zee, and of our one night together. Perhaps the only way I’ll be able to procreate is to imagine it’s her lying beneath me instead of my actual bride. And what a fucked up travesty of a marriage that would be.
Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3) Page 38
