CAROL MARINELLI - The Sheikh's Hidden Heir - Secret Sheikh, Secret Baby / The Sheikh's Claim / The Return of the Sheikh

‘We don’t have to marry!’ Felicity was flustered. It was the twenty-first century, for heaven’s sake, they had been together for one night. He didn’t have to do this. ‘I just need help to get home. Maybe we can work out—’

‘If this is my son, then you are pregnant with a royal prince. Of course we must marry.’

‘No…’ Felicity shook her head, ruing her own stupidity. She had frowned at Liam for not doing his research, for not knowing Zaraq’s rules, and now she had in turn gone and done the same. She should have told Karim from England, Felicity realised, her panic growing. The palace was huge, but it seemed to shrink then, as she recognised the prison she had just walked into.

‘If this is my child then there is no question that we marry—and the sooner the better. We will just have to hope that the baby comes a little late.’ He flashed a very black smile. ‘My guess, however, is that this baby is going to come early. Still, we will know where we stand in a few weeks.’

‘A few weeks?’

‘You will have an amnio, of course, and a DNA match will be performed.’

‘No.’ She stood up. ‘Absolutely not.’ She said it again. ‘ No. ’

But Karim just shrugged. ‘Come—the papers have been drawn up. You will be prepared for marriage now. Hassan and his wife, Jamal, will be witnesses.’

‘Karim, no!’

‘Felicity!’ He snapped the word—an impatient snap that silenced her. Then the room fell silent and he spoke again. ‘You do not argue with me. I do not discuss things with you. But, given you are new to our ways, I will explain things to make you feel better. I will look after your family.’ Karim stared coolly at her. ‘There are merits to our ways, and looking after the extended family is one of them. Our marriage will bring peace to my father in his final days. In return, whatever the test results, I will secure your mother and sister’s finances—yours too.’

‘There won’t be a test.’ She wasn’t going to take a test simply to satisfy his curiosity. ‘This is your child, Karim.’

‘Then,’ he said patiently, ‘there is no question that you can leave.’

It was like talking to a stranger. The beautiful, rational, sensitive man who had held her, to whom she had entrusted her body, must surely be there beneath the surface. But all Felicity could see was a strange clone of him.

‘You come to this country, you live by our rules. We will marry today. When questions are asked, we will say this is a honeymoon baby. And if it is not mine…’ Karim did not continue. Now was not the best time, perhaps, to tell her of his intentions for her bastard infant!

‘Won’t your people expect a big wedding? How are you going to explain?’

‘My country is holding its breath for the King. It would be crass to hold a party now. For now we will be discreet, and in a few weeks we can arrange DNA testing.’

‘No.’ Her eyes shone with tears. On this she would not bend. ‘No—it could be dangerous to the baby.’

‘It is a routine procedure. We will then both know where we stand.’

‘No.’ She knew the more she resisted, the more Karim thought she was lying about him being the father—but there was no way Felicity would allow him to risk her child, their child, just so that he might believe her.

‘Felicity…’ He was bored with explaining now. ‘You say that you are having my child—you demand that I believe you—and then you resist my proposal of marriage.’ Karim truly didn’t understand. He accepted he had been less than enamoured with the news she had delivered, but now that he had proposed, now that he was offering a commoner marriage, he could not fathom her resistance.

He was right. Slowly it dawned on her—she was having his child, was pregnant by a prince. There wasn’t much she could dispute.

All her clothes and her belongings had been brought to a vast bedroom. Her life was contained in one suitcase and the handbag a maid had placed in a large wardrobe. A scented bath had been run, and in minutes she had been relieved of her clothing. The handmaidens now chatted excitedly as they prepared the bride for their Prince. They oiled her body, and her scalp too, and then tied her hair so it hung in a long coil over one shoulder. They rouged her lips and cheeks, and kholled her eyes, then dressed her in her wedding costume—a white beaded hand-embroidered gown that looked heavy but, when slipped over her head, Felicity found was actually light. Her head was wrapped in a veil, and her feet were placed in beaded slippers.

She was ready to meet her groom.

She stood and sat as instructed.

She knew that in this she had no say—but her mind was working overtime.

Karim was her baby’s father.

Despite his harsh words yesterday, despite his cool demeanour today, somewhere within was the man she had fallen in love with. Somehow she knew she must reach him, and this was her only way.

It felt surreal as she walked into a large study. Jamal was smiling, greeting her, and a man who must be Hassan nodded. Karim merely gave a nod of approval as she entered.

It did nothing to soothe her nerves.

‘Karim…’ Her eyes met his as she made a request she was quite sure he would refuse. ‘Can I ring my family first?’

‘Of course.’ Again she had read him wrong. He even helped her dial, and she stood dressed in her finery, in a study looking out over the desert, her groom by her side, and heard her mother’s anxious, excited voice at her daughter’s unexpected call. Felicity closed her eyes and knew she couldn’t tell her. Knew that until she had sorted things out with Karim she couldn’t burden her family with all this.

In minutes she was married. The celebrations would take place later. She put her thumb print on a document and apparently she was his. And now, unless she wanted to jump out mid-flight, she had no choice but to sit as a helicopter whirred them deep into the desert towards the red setting sun and Karim’s vast tented kingdom.

Her first true glimpse of the desert was at dusk. Stepping out of the helicopter, she felt the sting of sand around her cheeks, the whistle of wind in her ears and the heat of the day that had been absorbed by the land. Then she felt his hand on her elbow as he guided her across the sand to a huge tent. As they reached it, they stepped into a small entrance and Karim instructed her to remove her slippers.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Put these on.’ Her feet were slipped into another pair of jewelled slippers, which seemed rather pointless, but as he parted the drapes and she padded through she understood why. There was no sand inside—the desert floor was smothered in thick patterned rugs, the walls of the tent too. Lanterns cast light and shadows as Karim parted swathes of silk and led her deeper within his desert abode.

Somewhat shaken and stunned, she stood quietly as he introduced her to his staff: a woman called Bedra and her husband, Aarif. They seemed delighted by their arrival, and guided them further into the bowels of the tent, where a lavish feast awaited them.

They were seated on cushions, apart and opposite each other, and a heavy purple runner was laid between them as Bedra served food and drinks on a low tray.

Felicity was poured some tea, and Karim instructed her to drink the syrupy brew that tasted of mint and sugar. Each mouthful, Karim explained to her, was part of a necessary ritual.

The food was endless, all eaten with the hands: Bedouin bread with olives and camels’ milk cheese, pitta wrapped around richly spiced lamb. It was delicious, but she was too nervous to eat. Still she tried, because Karim was eating, and she was sure it would be rude to refuse. Yet the more she tried to eat the more Bedra served and the more Karim ate—until she was sure it would never end.