Liz Fielding - The Sheik's Unsuitable Bride

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!’

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.’