Sheikh, Children's Doctor...Husband

by Meredith Webber

  ‘I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t be here,’ she said, and her voice sounded muted—tear filled?

  ‘There is no reason why you shouldn’t be here,’ he told her, and although he’d been certain he didn’t want to talk to anyone when he’d sought the solitude of the courtyard, he found himself drawn towards her.

  ‘You like the roses?’ he asked as he came closer.

  ‘They are unbelievable,’ she said, voice firmer now. ‘The perfume overwhelms me. At home it’s hard to find a rose with perfume. The new ones seem to have had it bred out of them. Not that we can grow roses where I live—not good ones—the humidity gives them black spot.’

  Azzam found himself smiling. How disconcerting was that? Was it simply relief that all the details of the funeral were completed that he found a conversation about perfume and black spot on roses a reason to smile?

  ‘The same humidity that triggered my mother’s asthma?’ he said, coming closer, smelling the perfume of the roses for himself, breathing in the scented air, releasing it slowly, relaxing, but only slightly, made wary by this unexpected shift in his mood…

  She returned his smile as she said, ‘That’s it,’ and made to move away.

  He was about to put out his hand to stop her—though why he couldn’t say—when she paused, turned back towards him.

  ‘I had dinner with your mother and her women friends a little earlier,’ she said quietly. ‘I found it very moving that they all offered her their memories of Bahir, as if giving her gifts to help her grief. He must have been a very special person.’

  Azzam knew the women gathered at this time, but offering gifts of memories? He hadn’t thought of their behaviour in quite that way. He studied the woman in front of him, surprised by her perception, and caught, again, in his own memories of his twin.

  ‘Bahir, the dazzling, the brilliant.’

  The words slipped almost silently from his lips, while pain gripped his heart.

  ‘The dazzling, the brilliant?’

  The woman echoed the words and Azzam hauled his mind back into gear. He should have walked away, but perhaps talking to a stranger might ease his pain, whereas talking to his family forced him to carry theirs as well.

  ‘It is what his name means in our language,’ he told her, and saw her shake her head as if in wonder, then she looked up at him, her eyes a shining silver in the moonlight.

  ‘And your name?’ she asked. ‘Azzam?’

  ‘My name is less lofty, Azzam means determined, resolute.’

  Her lips curled into a smile, and it was his imagination that the ground seemed to move beneath his feet.

  ‘I am sure you are that,’ she said. ‘When your mother spoke of you, she made it sound as if you were the one who got things done—as if your brother might have had the vision, but you were the practical one who could make things happen. She spoke of a hospital you were building—a hospital for children.’

  She was beguiling him—though it couldn’t be deliberate, for how could she have known he’d seek refuge in the rose garden?

  He set his suspicions aside as his disappointment about the hospital flooded his being and forced words from his lips.

  ‘It was to be a special hospital for children, built to accommodate the families so they do not have to be separated from their sick child. It must be a frightening place, for a child, a large, impersonal hospital, although I know these days all hospitals try to make the children’s wards bright and special. In my mind it needed to be more—low set for a start, maybe two or three levels, not a towering, impersonal, corridor-littered monolith.’

  ‘It sounds a wonderful idea,’ the woman said. ‘But surely you can still achieve it.’

  He hesitated, uncertain why he should be discussing his dream with a stranger.

  Or was it because she was a stranger that he found it easy to talk to her?

  ‘I had hoped to make things happen quickly with the hospital—to make my vision come true—but having to take my brother’s place as ruler will put a stop to that.’

  She touched his robe above his arm and he felt the heat of her fingers sear through the fine cotton material.

  ‘You will do it,’ she said quietly. ‘Determined and resolute—remember that—and although I’m sure you’ll have a lot of pressing duties for a while, surely once you’re used to the job, you’ll find time for your own interests.’

  ‘Used to the job!’ He repeated the words then laughed out loud, probably for the first time since Bahir’s death. ‘You make it sound so prosaic and just so should I be thinking. I have let all that has happened overwhelm me.’

  He took her hand and bowed to kiss it.

  ‘Thank you, Alexandra Conroy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps now I shall sleep.’

  Definitely weird, Alex thought as she watched him move away, the swaying robes making it seem as if he glided just a little above the earth.

  Not the burning on her hand where he’d dropped the casual kiss, although that was weird, but the way the man had treated her, like a friend almost, when earlier his voice had held a distinct note of suspicion, and later, when she’d asked about the wages, there’d been a faint note of contempt.

  Yet out here in the moonlight it was as if the afternoon’s conversation had been forgotten.

  Poor man, he’d be devastated by his brother’s death, and now to have to shoulder the responsibilities of the ruler—no wonder he was confused.

  ‘And confusing,’ she added out loud as she lifted her hand to her lips and touched them with the skin he’d kissed, the warmth his touch had generated still lingering in her body.

  She smiled to herself, delighting, for a moment, in the fantasy in which she’d found herself, alone in a rose garden in a foreign country with a rivetingly handsome sheikh talking to her of his dreams…

  What was she supposed to do? Alex had eaten breakfast in her room, checked on Samarah, who’d been pale but stalwart, then returned to what was coming to feel like a luxurious prison cell. Not wanting to get inadvertently caught up in the funeral proceedings, she’d stayed in her room until Hafa had explained that the ceremonies were taking place back in the city, nowhere near the palace.

  Now she escaped, drawn by the compulsion of their beauty and perfume, to the rose garden. But wandering there, smelling the roses, reminded her of the strange encounter of the previous evening.

  When he’d spoken of his brother, she’d felt Azzam’s pain—felt it and seen it—recognising it because she’d carried a fair load of pain herself over the past few years.

  Had that recognition drawn her to the man that he’d stayed in her mind, his almost stern features haunting her dreams? Or was it nothing more than the strange situation in which she found herself, making her wonder about the man and the country he was now ruling?

  She wandered the courtyard, drinking in the lush beauty of it, freeing her mind of memories and questions she couldn’t answer. One of the fountains spurted its water higher than the others, and she left the rose gardens to go towards it, ignoring the heat burning down from the midday sun, wanting to hear the splashing of the water and see the rainbows in its cascading descent.

  As she approached it seemed to shimmer for a moment, or maybe she was still tired, for her feet faltered on the ground. Soon cries echoing from the buildings surrounding the courtyard and figures emerging out of the gloom suggested that whatever had happened wasn’t tiredness or imagination.

  ‘An earth tremor,’ Hafa told Alex when she found the woman among the chattering crowd of servants who had remained at the palace. ‘Sometimes we have them, though not bad earthquakes like other countries. Ours are usually gentle shivers, a reminder to people, I think, that there are powers far greater than humans can imagine. For this to happen today…well, there are people who will tell you it is the earth’s response to Bahir’s death—the death of a loved ruler.’

  Alex considered this, wondering if it was simply accepted form that every ruler would be a loved one, or if Azzam’s brother h
ad been as dazzling and brilliant as his name.

  Certain any hint of danger had passed, the women all returned to the buildings, Alex following Hafa.

  ‘Samarah has returned,’ the young woman told Alex. ‘The women’s part of the proceedings is done.’

  ‘I should check on her. I still get lost—can you show me to her rooms?’

  Following Hafa along the corridors, Alex felt a surge of regret that she’d probably never get to know her way around this fabulous place. Soon she’d be gone, and Al Janeen would be nothing more than a memory of a story-book bedroom and a white-robed man in a scented rose garden.

  Samarah welcomed her, and although the older woman looked exhausted, her lung capacity was surprisingly good.

  ‘See, I am better in my own land,’ Samarah told her, then, to Alex’s surprise, she turned and introduced a young woman who’d been hovering behind her. ‘And now here is my niece, Maya. She arranged her return as soon as she heard of Bahir’s death so she could care for me. But although she is now here, I would like you to stay for a while as my guest. I would like you to see something of this country that I love, and to learn a little about the people.’

  Alex acknowledged the introduction, thinking she’d talk to Maya later about Samarah’s condition, but right now she had to deal with her own weakness—the longing deep inside her to do exactly as Samarah had suggested, to stay and see something of this country. It was so strong, this longing, it sat like a weight on her shoulders but she couldn’t stay if she wasn’t needed—well, not stay and take wages, that wouldn’t be right.

  And she had to keep earning money!

  Her mind was still tumbling through the ramifications of hope and obligation when she realised Maya was speaking to her.

  ‘Adult-onset asthma?’ Maya asked, holding up the folder with the information and treatment plan Alex had prepared.

  ‘It could have been the humidity in Queensland. We’ve had a very hot summer and the humidity has been high,’ Alex explained.

  ‘That, and the fact that she’s been debilitated since her husband’s death a little over twelve months ago. I ran tests before I went away but found nothing, just a general weakening,’ Maya replied. ‘It was I who suggested a holiday somewhere new—somewhere she hadn’t been with her husband. She was excited about it, and though I suggested a doctor should accompany her, she believed having a doctor in the group would worry her sons and, of course, they must be spared all worry.’

  The edge of sarcasm in Maya’s voice made Alex smile. Someone else wondered at Samarah’s attitude towards her sons—the unstinting love that probably hid any imperfections they might have had.

  An image of Azzam’s striking features rose unbidden in Alex’s mind.

  ‘And now?’ she asked, determinedly ignoring the image. ‘Do you think she’s strong enough to get through whatever will be expected of her in the weeks ahead? Is there much for her to do? Will she have duties she has to carry out?’

  ‘More than she should have,’ Maya replied, moving Alex away from the lounge on which Samarah rested. ‘It is traditional that the wives of the dignitaries who have come for the funeral call on the widow, but this particular widow will make some excuse to avoid anything that might seem like work to her and Samarah will feel duty bound to take her place.’

  ‘Perhaps the widow is just grieving too much,’ Alex offered, surprised by a hint of venom in Maya’s soft voice.

  ‘Perhaps!’ Maya retorted, more than a hint this time. ‘But Samarah will find the strength to do what must be done. She is a very determined woman.’

  They talked a little longer about the various preventative treatments available, until Alex sensed it was time to leave. She said good-bye to Samarah, promising to see her in the morning, knowing it would be a final good-bye because staying on would be impossible.

  The only bright side was that she could send a note to Azzam telling him to forget about the wages, although she’d already been gone three days and if it took a day to arrange a flight and another day to fly home, that made six by the time she got back to work. One week’s wages lost, that was all.

  She sighed, thinking how little importance she’d once have placed on one week’s pay. These days she knew to the last cent how much was in her account, her mind doing the calculations of credit and debit automatically. Knowing what went in each week and what went out made it easy, but losing a week’s pay from the two jobs would eat into the small reserve she’d been carefully hoarding.

  If the clinic did take her back, all would be well.

  And if it didn’t? If they’d replaced her?

  She sighed and knew she wouldn’t send a note to the prince. If the job was gone, she’d need a little extra to tide her over until she found something else…

  Damn it all! Why was money such a difficulty?

  Gloomily Alex followed Hafa back to her room. It wasn’t only for the money she had to return home. Simply put, there was no reason for her to stay. But the thought of leaving the place Samarah had spoken of with such vivid words and so obvious a love without ever seeing more of it than a highway and the high-walled building in which she was staying caused disappointment so strong in Alex that it shocked her.

  Not that she could go home! Not right now anyway. The prince—Azzam—had said it would be arranged, but he’d hardly be organising her flight home while attending the all-day ceremonial duties of his brother’s funeral, and the state visits that Maya suggested would come after it.

  Needing to escape to consider these contrary reactions—wanting to stay yet knowing she couldn’t—Alex retired to her room. But once there, she was uncertain what to do. She didn’t want to sleep again. All the rules of air travel suggested fitting into the local time patterns as quickly as possible, so she’d go to bed at the regular time—Al Janeen time—tonight.

  Now the women and maybe the men as well were back at the palace. If she went outside again—to walk around the beautiful courtyard—she might unwittingly offend. So exploration within the walls of her suite was all that remained to her. She opened cupboard doors, discovering a small writing desk, and behind another door a television set. Wondering if the funeral procedures might be televised, she turned it on, not understanding any of the words but guessing from the serious expression of the news-reader that he could be talking of the ceremony.

  Huge photos of a man so like Azzam he had to be Bahir appeared to have been erected all along the street, and shots of them were flashing across the screen, interspersed with images of a crowd, no doubt lingering from the funeral. White-garbed men and women, a sea of white, filled the screen, and their cries of grief echoed from the television set, filling the room with their pain.

  With the voice droning on in the background, Alex sat at the desk, taking up a pen and finding paper, determined to jot down her meagre impressions of this country she had yet to see.

  And probably never would!

  She’d barely begun to write when a change in the tone of the talking head’s voice had her turning back towards the screen. Once again she couldn’t understand the words, but now a map was showing on the screen, apparently a map of Al Janeen. The capital—given the airport and the lights, Alex assumed they were somewhere near it—was shown in the bottom right of the picture, and arrows pointed to an area to the north.

  ‘Great! They’re probably being invaded!’ she muttered to herself. ‘Don’t coups usually happen when the monarchy is unstable—when there’s a change of ruler? Just my luck to be caught in a war in a foreign country! What else can happen?’

  Wanting to know more—the timbre of the man’s voice suggested shock and panic—but still worried that if she wandered beyond the building she might end up where she shouldn’t be, Alex left her room, wondering where Hafa disappeared to when she didn’t need her.

  Hafa was sitting outside the door, legs crossed, head bent over some intricate embroidery.

  She smiled as she stood up and tucked the piece of material into her pocket
.

  ‘I wonder if you could explain something else to me,’ Alex asked. ‘I turned on the television in my room and the announcer sounded very excited about something happening in the north of your country. Is it a war?’

  ‘A war?’ the young woman repeated, looking more puzzled than anxious by the question. ‘I do not think war. We are a peaceful country and we like and respect our neighbours.’

  ‘Come and see,’ Alex invited and led her back to her room where the television still showed a map of what Alex assumed was Al Janeen, with arrows pointing to a place in the north.

  Hafa listened for a while, a frown gathering, marring her fine, clear skin.

  ‘It is not war but an earthquake,’ she said, still frowning. ‘This is not good. The town is a not big one, more a village really, but it is a very old place of history in the north, between the mountains, and the reports are saying the quake was very severe.’

  ‘That must have been the tremor we felt here,’ Alex remembered. ‘I was in the garden.’

  The young woman nodded but she was obviously too engrossed in what she was hearing from the television to be taking much notice of Alex.

  ‘Many people have been injured,’ Hafa explained. ‘There is a school that has collapsed with children inside. The town is in the mountains and landslides have closed the roads in and out, so it will be hard to get help and supplies to it.’

  She paused as a new figure appeared on the screen, a familiar figure.

  ‘It is His Highness, His new Highness,’ she pointed out, her relief so evident Alex had to wonder at the man’s power. ‘He has left his brother’s funeral. He says he will go there now. If the helicopter cannot land, he has been lowered from one before. He will assess the situation and arrange to bring in whatever is needed. He can also give immediate medical help.’

  ‘Where will he go from?’ Alex asked, as new excitement stirred inside her. This was what she’d been trained for, but it was some time since she’d done this kind of work, the need to earn as much as possible to repay Rob’s debts taking precedence over all else.