Liz Fielding - The Sheik’s Unsuitable Bride

Having got that off her chest, her face softened and she laid the hand she’d struck him with against his cheek. ‘Shula al-Attiyah is a modern woman, Zahir. She is well-educated, travelled, as are all the young women I’ve chosen for you to meet. I sought a true match for you, my son. Someone who understands your world. Who will be the kind of life partner you would choose for yourself.’ She let her hand fall, turned away. ‘But this is the twenty-first century and no Ramal Hamrah girl worth her salt is going to ally herself with a man who’s photographed dancing in a London street with his-’

‘Mother,’ he warned.

‘With a woman who, even now, is living in your house with her child. A boy the gossips in the souk are saying is your son!’

‘What did you say?’

Zahir heard his mother’s words clearly enough but they made no sense. He reran them over and over…

Boy…

Son…

‘Is it true?’ she demanded, while he was still trying to come to terms with what she’d said.

He shook his head. It couldn’t be true…

And yet, almost like a movie running in his brain, he saw again the carrier with the books she’d bought. Saw himself opening it. Children’s books, she’d said. Children’s books. Plural. The fairy tale book had been for Ameerah. But the other one, the book of knots, that was the kind of gift you’d buy for a small boy…

She’d lied to him. No…

His gesture, pushing the thought away, was emphatic.

She had not lied.

He, in an offhand remark, had provided her with the excuse and she’d grabbed at it, using it to keep him at a distance. And it would have worked but for the photograph in The Courier-

‘You do not seem certain, my son.’

He was dragged back to the present, to the reality of what was rather than the might-have-been, by a suggestion of anxiety in his mother’s voice, sensing that beneath her aristocratic posture was a genuine fear that, even in this most basic duty-to make a marriage that would bring honour to his family-he was about to fail her.

‘You may rest assured that I met Miss Metcalfe for the first time this week,’ he said, and his heart tore at the unmistakable sag in her aristocratic posture as the tension left her.

It was recovered in a moment and, with a gracious nod, she dismissed him. ‘Very well. Call on me tomorrow at five and I will introduce you to Shula al-Attiyah.’

ZAHIR’S first impulse on leaving his mother’s house was to drive straight to Nadira to demand answers. But not dressed like this. Not wearing the robes in which he’d just made a commitment to marriage, an alliance that would bring honour to his family.

This was not the man who’d kissed, danced in the streets as if his life were his own.

By the time he’d showered, changed and was racing out across the desert, however, common sense began to assert itself.

It would be the early hours of the morning before he reached Nadira and he’d already caused Diana enough grief with his foolishness.

He slowed, pulled off the road and, wrapping himself in a heavy camel-hair cloak, began to walk.

He’d sworn he’d stay away from Diana, for once do his duty. It was his cousin, Hanif-a man for whom duty was as life itself-who had warned him that marriage was a lifelong commitment. Not something to be entered into lightly, but wholeheartedly.

And he was right. There must be no looking back over his shoulder. No lingering sense of unfinished business.

With the memory of Diana doubled up in silent agony on the quay seared into his mind, he had no doubt that there was unfinished business here.

Why had she lied to him?

He stopped. No. That was wrong. She had not lied. But neither had she contradicted him when he’d offered his own insulting interpretation. But what was he to think when one moment she was lost to the world in his arms, the next minute on edge, untouchable, desperate to get back to London?

He’d seen her pain, but had written it off as her own guilty conscience troubling her. Had turned away, so blinded by hurt, by a sense of betrayal, that he’d been unable to accept what, deep down, he’d known. That the betrayal was his.

His future was written. He could offer her nothing, whereas Diana…

Yesterday she could have made a fortune selling her ‘story’ to the press. She wouldn’t even have had to sex things up. All she’d have had to do was tell it like it was and the entire world would have been enchanted.

As he was.

At first sight.

She hadn’t even considered it. Not for a minute. From the moment she’d been told what had happened she’d thought only of her son. Her family. Of him. Apologising to him as if this was in some way her fault.

She had a son!

How old was he? Did he look like her? Or his absent father? That he was absent he did not doubt. She’d told him that she lived with her parents. Knew that she worked hard to provide for him…

He knew so little.

And yet so much. He knew that she was a loving mother. He’s seen her face, tender as she’d spoken the boy’s name. It was a look that had torn his heart out.

It was a look he’d seen tonight on his own mother’s face as she’d lain her hand against his cheek.

Furious as she was, the unconditional love remained. All she cared about was his happiness, a fact she’d demonstrated in searching for a bride who would please him, rather than the daughter-in-law she must have hoped for-an educated, travelled career woman, rather than a stay-at-home girl whose only thought would be to provide her with grandchildren.

He walked until pre-dawn turned the sky grey, coming to terms with what he must do. His parting from Diana had been abrupt, painful. It had not been done well and, before he could move on, embrace the life that awaited him, he had to thank her for what she’d done. Show her that he honoured her.

Zahir let himself into the quiet house just as dawn was turning from pink to gold and, for a moment, he stood in the tranquil courtyard and let the peace of the place surround him.

He had an apartment in the city, but he’d made no secret of the fact that this house belonged to his heart. That it was his home. His future. The place where he would, eventually-when he had time-bring his bride, make a family.

It was hardly surprising the gossips were having a field day, he thought as he crossed to the steps that led down to the pavilion.

Someone had beaten him to it. Diana…?

He paused at the foot of the veranda steps, listening to the soft sigh of her breath. Had she slept amongst the cushions, as he did on warm nights?

One step would bring him to her side. Her hair, tumbled over the silk, would be his to touch. Her cheek, her lips…

The thought made the heat sing in his blood.

‘No…’ The word was wrenched from him but, as he turned away, a tousled head appeared from amongst the cushions. Eyes the colour of a spring hedgerow met his.

Blinked.

Like Diana’s. The same colour. The same shape, but not Diana’s eyes. This was her child? Her son…

How could he doubt it?

The boy’s hair was darker, but the curl matched hers. And his dimpled smile, like hers, went straight to his heart, capturing it in an instant as he sat up, yawned and said, ‘Hello.’ Then, ‘Who are you?’

Zahir touched his hand to his heart, bowed formally. ‘My name is Zahir bin Ali bin Khatib al-Khatib.’ Then, when the boy giggled, he lowered himself to the veranda steps so that he was the same level as the child and said, ‘And you, ya habibi? What is your name?’

‘I’m Freddy.’ Then, as if realising that this came up short, he said, ‘I’m Frederick Trueman Metcalfe. I was named after Fiery Fred, the finest bowler who ever played cricket for Yorkshire and England.’ The words came out all in a rush, as if it was something he’d heard many times but did not quite understand. He suddenly looked less certain. ‘At least that’s what my grandpa says.’

‘It’s a fine name. And are you going to follow in Mr Trueman’s footsteps and play cricket for England?’

‘No. I’m going to be a footballer.’

Zahir managed to hide a smile. ‘We must all follow our own star, Freddy. Dream our own dreams.’

Live our own lives?

No! No…

Then, concerned, ‘Are you alone?’

‘I was looking for Mummy. She wasn’t in her room when I woke up so I came here. She was here yesterday.’

They had both come here looking for her…

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then maybe we should go and do something about that.’

‘I had pancakes yesterday. Mummy had a fig.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to try one?’ He indicated the tree above them. ‘You could pick your own if you like.’

The boy needed no second bidding, but leapt to his feet. Then, ‘I can’t, it’s too high!’

‘No problem,’ Zahir said, picking him up, but, as he hoisted him to his shoulder, they both turned as they heard Diana making her way up the steps from the beach. She was singing slightly breathless snatches of lyrics from a familiar song, filling in the missing words with the odd ‘la-la’ as she had when they’d danced.

‘La-la, la-la…La-la, la-la…’

She appeared on the path below them, for a moment totally unaware that she had an audience. Then, as Freddy giggled, she looked up, saw them together and stopped in mid ‘la’…

And his mouth dried.

She had been for an early morning dip and was wearing nothing but a simple one-piece bathing costume. Her creamy skin had dried on the walk up from the beach, but her hair was a mass of wet ringlets that dripped tiny rivulets of water on to her shoulders. Venus herself could not have been more beautiful, more enticing.

‘Zahir…’ She seemed as lost for words as he was. Then, recovering first, she said, ‘I see you’ve met Freddy.’

‘He’s rather younger than I imagined…’

‘I’m not young, I’m five!’ the boy declared.

‘But very big for five,’ Zahir added quickly.

And Diana smiled.

Stood there in his garden, bare legs, bare shoulders, every curve of her body brought into the sharpest focus by the clinging fabric of her wet bathing suit, smiling that sweet, tender smile that would have tempted a saint. And he was no saint.

But then neither, it appeared, was she.

‘I imagine he gets that from his father?’ he prompted and her smile, along with the flush of exertion from the walk up from the beach, disappeared like water poured on sand.

‘Freddy, I think we’d better go and find Grandma.’ She extended her hand. ‘Come on, she’ll be wondering where we are.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. Five years old and already resisting the tug of the apron strings.

‘Freddy!’

‘I looked. She’s asleep.’ The boy looked at him, a mute appeal for backup.

‘Freddy and I were about to pick some figs. I’d invite you to join us but, much as I regret the fact, I’m afraid that with your colouring, you need to cover up before the sun gets any higher.’

Cover up…

Diana felt the heat flood into her cheeks as she realised just how little she was wearing. Just an old bathing suit that had been purchased for respectability rather than glamour. Something to wear when she took Freddy to mother and child swimming classes.

She hadn’t even thought to take a towel with her, too locked into the idea of plunging into cold water to cool her overheated body.

Zahir was the last person she’d imagined meeting. Zahir looking at her as if she were Eve and it was the first morning…

‘Um…Good plan…’ she said, backing away in the direction of the house. ‘You two g-go and make a start, while I…’ she made a vague gesture to indicate her lack of covering, instantly regretting drawing further attention to the fact ‘…cover up.’

Then she turned and ran.

By the time she’d showered and gone through her entire wardrobe looking for something that would counteract the swimsuit look without looking as if she were hiding-cropped trousers, a long shirt with the sleeves rolled up-breakfast was well under way.

Zahir looked up, smiled, then continued talking to her father. Her mother passed her a cup of coffee without saying a word. Freddy looked up and said, ‘Z’hir’s taking Grandpa and me out on a boat. Do you want to come?’

She looked up, met Zahir’s eyes and they were both remembering another day, another boat…

‘My father keeps a small dhow here. For fishing. It’s pretty basic.’

‘Then I’ll pass, thanks.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Diana and her mother were sitting on a rock above the beach, looking out over the water, watching the dhow set off down the creek.