Engaged to the Doctor Sheikh

by Meredith Webber

  Her mouth opened automatically, but by now she was trembling so violently Tariq had to steady her with his free hand, placing it against her cheek while he popped the little piece of food into her mouth.

  Chew and swallow, she told herself, and tried desperately to do just that. Choking on a meatball on her wedding day would be just too bizarre!

  And in front of First Mother!

  But by now the other women were also eating, chatting to each other as they helped themselves to food.

  Tariq poured a tiny cup of the thick rich coffee and passed it to Lila, leaning towards her as he did so, murmuring, ‘You look unbelievably beautiful.’

  She met his eyes and read the same admiration there, but she couldn’t let his compliment undo her. This marriage was a pretence...

  ‘You’ve brushed up pretty well yourself,’ she said lightly, and saw the glitter of excitement fade from his eyes as he accepted her words as a reminder that it was pretence.

  The talk became general, as they ate and sipped at coffee, First Mother enquiring about the process of stem cell collection, about Khalil’s health, even asking Lila about her family at home.

  And sitting on the crimson carpet, familiar gum trees all around her, Lila found it easy to talk of home, of her sisters and brothers, her foster parents, and the little seaside town of Wetherby that had become her home.

  Tariq listened, drinking in as much information about this woman who was disrupting his life as he possibly could; seeking knowledge that might help him work out what made her tick.

  And possibly what made her so undeniably attractive to him.

  There had been other women, many more beautiful—or so he’d thought until she’d appeared today in a silky gown that flowed across her body, the flowers of the dunes embroidered on it. While the scarf that covered her lustrous hair and framed her beautiful face completed the picture of a bride.

  No woman could be more beautiful!

  Or more desirable.

  His body twisted with a hunger he’d never known before, and he wondered how he would manage with her living in his apartments, so close and so untouchable.

  Was he mad to have embarked on this venture, this union?

  He was considering an affirmative answer to this question when he realised the alternative had been unthinkable.

  No way could he have let this beautiful, vibrant young woman disappear from his life.

  A car drew up and he knew it was time for he and Lila to go back to his apartments, First Mother and Barirah following in another car.

  ‘Sousa will have moved all your belongings to your new room,’ he told Lila when they were seated in the vehicle.

  Lila smiled at him.

  ‘She’ll have needed a very large truck with all the garments she and Barirah insisted I buy. If I live to be a hundred I doubt I’ll wear them all.’

  ‘Most women would be delighted with new clothes. Do they not interest you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s not that they don’t interest me, it’s—I suppose it’s to do with thrift. We weren’t poor, growing up, not dirt poor. But Hallie had to be careful with money to keep us all fed and clothed. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs,’

  ‘Hand-me-downs?’ The phrase puzzled him.

  ‘Things my older sisters had worn. Oh, we had special clothes that were just our own, but as long as we had something to wear for any occasion—a good dress for going out, a special dress for special events—the rest were just...’

  ‘Hand-me-downs,’ he finished for her, and was pleased when she chuckled.

  They rode in silence for a while, her thoughts, no doubt, back at home with her family—remembering her childhood—while his were on her. Her quiet beauty, the simplicity of the life she’d known—and, sneaking in, too powerful to stop even as thoughts—the desire he felt for her.

  Battling these carnal thoughts, he was startled when she spoke again.

  ‘Thank you for the trees,’ she said, the warmth in her voice underlining her sincerity. ‘That was a thoughtful and wonderful thing for you to do for me. They made me feel at home, relaxed, and able to carry on.’

  The little smile hovering around her lips told him just how much she’d loved the gesture and he was pleased.

  Pleased also by a sudden new thought.

  ‘Those saplings are now strong and tall enough to be planted in a garden. There is a spot at the back of my apartments where they could be placed, to make a small eucalypt forest for you. Would you like that?’

  And if I give you these trees from your homeland, would you stay? The thought flitted through his head—definitely through his head.

  ‘It would be lovely,’ she said, ‘and even if I didn’t stay, maybe I could visit.’

  ‘I’d rather you stayed,’ he said quietly, and she turned to him, a slight frown puckering her brow.

  ‘But you married me to save me from exile. At some point you will want a proper wife.’

  He paused, wondering if one more push would be too far...

  But had to say it anyway.

  ‘You could be a proper wife.’

  Lila sighed, then shook her head. Why was he making this so difficult? Saying things that made her think maybe he felt something for her—perhaps something of the attraction she felt for him...

  Could she explain?

  Would he understand?

  He’d been so good to her, and the trees had shown that he had an understanding of her that she hadn’t expected.

  ‘I’d like—’ she began, but they were turning into the palace grounds, through a gate she hadn’t seen before.

  Tariq touched a finger to her lips.

  ‘Wait, for we can talk in private when we are home,’ he said. ‘We will sit and have a cool drink and you can tell me what you’d like, and I will do everything in my power to make sure you get it.’

  She was pondering his words, which had sounded very like a promise, when Sousa met her at the door and led her into a new suite of rooms, beautifully decorated, and, to Lila’s delight, she saw that the bed was draped in the cover from her previous room.

  ‘I knew you liked it,’ Sousa told her. ‘So I brought it with us.’

  Lila smiled her thanks, and sank down on the bed. She had to shower and change, ready to meet with Tariq in his arbour in an hour and a half, to have dinner with him, as his bride!

  But she felt that the moment she could have explained her abstinence from sex had passed and she wondered if she’d ever find the courage to tell him—to explain...

  Tariq sat in his bedroom, his head in his hands, thinking how beautiful his bride had looked, the longing to touch her and hold her in his arms so strong he wondered if it might tear him apart.

  He understood the caveat she had placed on their marriage, and his head even acknowledge there was some truth in it—a royal wife should be above reproach.

  But she was! he argued. It was her mother, not her, who had stolen from the treasury, and, if truth be told, that had never been proved.

  But for now Lila was his, only a short distance away, perhaps peeling off that glorious creation she’d been wearing—the sight of her had stolen his breath. Was she now in underwear, wondering what to wear to dinner, maybe not in underwear, maybe showering?

  His body ached with longing, to be with her, near her, touching her.

  Peeling off her clothes...

  Enough!

  She felt it too, he was almost sure of that.

  Almost!

  Hadn’t her lips trembled when he’d fed her, hadn’t her hand quivered in his as they’d taken their vows, hadn’t she leaned into his kiss—kissed him back?

  Of course she must feel it, only mutual attraction could be this strong, although she probably was
n’t picturing him in his underwear!

  So what did he do?

  Ensure his brother lived?

  Hadn’t that been his first priority since first Khalil had become ill?

  So now he had to try harder.

  Tomorrow was the last injection, then, providing all was well, the stem cells would be collected the following day.

  A sourness in his belly made him wonder if he’d done the right thing, allowing Lila to be used this way. What if she came to harm? Nothing in medicine was foolproof and although she hadn’t, as yet, reacted to the injections, draining her blood was a whole different matter.

  Cursing himself for his lack of direction—for his uncharacteristic, less than positive thoughts—he rose, showered, and dressed comfortably. It wouldn’t be formal, this first dinner they shared together.

  She appeared from the garden, dressed in a dusky blue tunic with matching pants, but both were trimmed with tiny patterns in silver, and the moonlight made them gleam as she moved. Her hair was down, also gleaming in the moonlight, looking so soft and lustrous he longed to run his hands through it.

  She was his wife—he could...

  No, he couldn’t.

  But surely he could greet her with a light touch on her shoulder, a small kiss of greeting on her cheek.

  He walked towards her, aware that his legs weren’t working properly but reaching her nonetheless.

  ‘You look beautiful, although, in case I didn’t tell you, this morning you looked truly magnificent. I am very proud to be your husband.’

  That last bit was definitely his head talking, settling his attraction, being firm with it, so the kiss he gave her was on her cheek, not those full pink lips that had been tempting him.

  ‘Tonight I have ordered some different delicacies. You ate so little after the ceremony I was sure you would be hungry. These little pastries are lamb with pine nuts and pomegranate syrup, you must try one.’

  He passed the plate, and watched her slim fingers lift the pastry and pop it into her mouth. Wanted her to feed him again, so he could take those fingers into his mouth, suckle on them—

  He offered food, she took it, ate himself, but with tension twisting tighter every moment they spent together.

  Surely sharing a meal shouldn’t make him want to throw her down on the carpet in the midst of all that food and take her as his wife?

  She was talking, but he barely listened, libidinous thoughts blocking out her words.

  He wasn’t entirely certain his heart was involved but his head surely wasn’t!

  Had he not listened to his father, not read and taken in those words around the palace every day of his life?

  So where was his head?

  Why wasn’t it helping?

  ‘I think that is all I can manage,’ she said, smiling, he thought shyly, at him. ‘Although that yoghurt with the honey and dates and pomegranate seeds was so delicious I could have eaten the whole bowl.’

  ‘Eat it then,’ he said, his voice gruff with the mix of emotions within him.

  Another smile, more confident now.

  ‘And make a pig of myself? I think not. Pop always told us that the best way to diet was to push yourself away from the table when you’ve had enough, not stay and finish it because it’s there.’

  ‘Then let us take our coffee on the comfortable settee in the loggia. And you can tell me about the man you call Pop.’

  She studied him for a moment, as if trying to work out if he was saying something else, but in the end stood, in a smooth, graceful movement that must have been born to her for it was never easily managed by Western women.

  So they sat together in the loggia, and talked a little of her upbringing, but she wanted to know more of his.

  ‘It’s why I came, after all, to learn about the people and the history of my mother’s home.’

  Where to start?

  He was pondering this, thinking of what he’d already explained about the trade routes through the desert, when she laid a hand on his arms and said, ‘Before that, could I ask you something?’

  ‘Anything,’ he replied, only just biting back the words ‘my love’ that had wanted to come out of his mouth.

  ‘Back in my rooms, I rested for a while, half asleep, half dreaming, so I really do not know if it was a dream of a scrap of memory from before the accident... But I thought we were at the beach, my mother, father and myself, and my father was splashing in the shallow water, leaping over the waves as they came in and calling to my mother. Calling her to come in, using her name.’

  She paused and looked at his face, as if wondering whether he was following her story.

  Then very earnestly she said, ‘I know that part is not a dream—I do remember that, and it fits that the beach would have been at Wetherby because we were driving away from the town up winding roads into the hills when the accident occurred.’

  Another pause, this one longer, then a smile and a shrug of her slim shoulders, as if deciding she’d go on even if it didn’t make much sense.

  ‘Then, in the dream or memory I heard him call, “Come, Nalini, follow your leopard,” and it’s weird because that made me remember, or think I remembered, that sometimes my mother called my father leopard.’

  Lila looked at Tariq, eyes wide, hoping that he might be able to make sense of this confession, and when he didn’t speak she added, ‘Does it make any sense to you? Could it be possible my mother called my father leopard—I’d felt a tug of memory that night on the path when we nearly encountered one, but couldn’t follow the thread—although perhaps it’s just nonsense, dreams...’

  No response.

  Nothing!

  And his face had become a graven mask yet again, although earlier it had been warm, and smiling—admiring, even...

  Then a long sigh.

  Could a sigh sound heartfelt?

  Her chest was tight, her breathing erratic, his reaction told her it had to mean something to him!

  ‘So it was Fahad she went off with,’ he said, so quietly he might have been speaking to himself.

  Another sigh, and then he added, more strongly now, ‘His family, of course, denied it, claiming he had gone to America to study and had met with an accident there, and he did go to America, months before Nalini disappeared. My father’s investigators established that much.’

  Lila heard the words, so unexpectedly out there she grasped the Ta’wiz, pressing it against her chest.

  Had she found her father?

  Found a name for him?

  Fahad and Nalini—both parents...

  Her fingers trembled on her mother’s last gift, while her heart beat so rapidly she could barely breathe.

  ‘Are you saying,’ she began hesitantly, ‘that this Fahad might be my father?’

  Had he heard the stress in her voice that he turned and put his hand over hers, easing the pressure of her fingers on the locket, grasping them in a warm engulfing squeeze?

  ‘I’m sorry, this is all too much for you, you’ve been thrust every which way ever since your arrival. Perhaps you need to rest. The story has waited long enough to be told—it can wait a little longer.’

  Lila shook her head.

  ‘No, I need to know. I came to find out. I thought it would take for ever, maybe it might never happen at all, but more than anything I need to know. Who was Fahad?’

  ‘He was the son of a cousin of my father, an extremely clever boy who grew into a brilliant young man. My father had selected him for great things in government, to be the Minister of Finance, and oversee the setting up of a national banking system. His name, as you may have guessed, means leopard.’

  Tariq stopped, wondering just how much more the young woman by his side could take.

  Yes, she wanted to know about her family, t
hat was only natural, but details, gossip, hearsay and possibly downright lies—there’d been so many stories told...

  ‘You’ll hear the stories, many of them more fairy tales than truth. But one thing is for certain, my father adored him, and had I not been born, he would have been Crown Prince and taken over from my father.’

  He paused again. He’d been a child, so what were memories and what were tales, he no longer knew.

  ‘My mother had four daughters before I was born, and then three more. My father refused to believe what he considered was medical mumbo-jumbo, refused to believe that he could possibly be responsible for the sex of his children, so he married Second Mother—your aunt—and continued to produce daughters until Khalil came along. So now he had two sons—an heir and a spare as they say—so Fahad was of less importance to him, but was still adored.’

  ‘Then he disappeared?’ Lila asked, her voice husky with emotion.

  ‘Only to America—and by arrangement. Many of our young men go there to study, there or to Europe. We had to catch up on modern ways, learn so much in a short time, it was necessary that the best and brightest went away.’

  ‘And did many disappear?’

  Tariq sighed for about the fourth time in what had been a relatively short story, but it was getting late and maybe the rest of the story could wait.

  Although maybe not for Lila...

  ‘Did no one keep in touch? Search for them?’ she asked.

  He turned to see her eyes fixed on his face, awaiting an answer—an answer as to why no one had ever found her parents.

  Found her...

  The thought of the orphaned child she’d been, unable to talk, to explain who she was, hurt his chest in a way he’d never felt before, and he wanted to put his arm around her shoulders and draw her close, as much for his comfort as for hers.

  But his head stayed headfast!

  ‘I imagine the family provided any number of private investigators with a very good living over many years. And, yes, some of our young men didn’t so much disappear as decided to stay where they’d been studying. Some met and married local girls, went into businesses not connected with the family, but they kept in touch, if only sporadically so they hadn’t actually disappeared.’