by Liz Fielding
He’d been running, his face, throat, arms slicked with sharp, fresh sweat. The air was thrumming with pheromones and while she was still trying to think of something to say he reached out, took a fig and bit into it. The juice gleamed on his lips and she thought she was going to melt into a puddle right there at his feet.
‘Did you manage to sleep?’ he asked.
‘Sleep?’ With the scent from the jacket he’d worn all evening and then placed around her shoulders filling her head? When every touch of his hand had left a warm tingle on her skin that nothing short of a cold shower would remove?
‘You were forced to confront a lot of unpleasant memories last night.’
Oh, that...
‘It can be hard to switch off,’ he said, regarding her with concern.
She called her brain to attention. ‘The camomile tea helped,’ she lied. The bed had been remade with fresh linen, but it would have taken a bucket of the stuff to float her past the image of Bram casually creating a damp patch as he’d added one last detail to her effort to fake the scene. ‘When do we leave?’ she asked in an attempt to get back into PA mode.
‘As soon as you’re ready.’
‘Twenty minutes?’ she offered.
‘Noor is supervising the removal of your wardrobe to the boat,’ he warned her.
‘I’ve managed to dress myself since I was four years old, Bram, but if I need help with a zip I know who to call,’ she added, not bothering to hide her irritation.
His grin as he picked up another fig and backed into his dressing room caught her sideways.
‘I could do it in fifteen,’ Ruby muttered crossly when she could breathe again. ‘Ten in an emergency.’ She poured herself a cup of coffee, sliced a fig over some yogurt and carried them through to her dressing room.
Aware that she was still on show at the palace, she had been going to wear a simple—that would be designer simple—black suit with an ankle-length skirt that had been amongst the clothes sent up from the mall the day before, and her mother’s pearls.
What Noor had laid out for her was a dramatic salwar kameez in a heavy dark blue silk, vividly decorated with the peacock tail appliqué and embroidery that was Princess Violet’s trademark, and a fine silk chiffon scarf that had been embroidered in the same design. There was dark blue lace underwear, a pair of turquoise-blue suede flats and a featherweight silk abbayah to throw over everything to keep off the dust.
Her new make-up had been laid out on the dressing table, together with her brush and two jewellery boxes, one containing the diamond wedding ring that Bram had placed on her finger, the other a necklace and earrings of turquoises that exactly matched the appliqué on the outfit, the shoes.
It seemed very exotic for so early in the morning, but presumably princesses had to dress to a higher standard than the average PA. Not that she had any choice. The clothes that she had brought from England and the brand-new wardrobe that had arrived from the mall were all gone. It was the salwar kameez or nothing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BRAM’S HEAVYWEIGHT EX-MILITARY patrol boat bypassed Umm al Basr’s new marina with its sleek white yachts, expensive high-rise apartments, five-star hotels and shopping mall and edged into the old harbour.
They had left Ras al Kawi with Khal at the helm and Mina’s sons on board as cook and crew.
The boat hadn’t been fitted out in the luxury demanded by the average multimillionaire but Noor, doing her best to hide her disapproval at this form of transport when there was a perfectly good aircraft sitting on the tarmac, was hard at work turning the main cabin into a suitable bedroom for a princess.
The décor was functional rather than Hollywood but no expense had been spared when it came to communications.
There hadn’t been so much as a wobble as Bram had video-conferenced with contacts in Hong Kong and Mumbai. This might be the day that Bram returned from exile, but his entire focus was on finalising deals, setting up meetings and she was still his temporary PA as well as his temporary bride.
The only distraction was the flash of the diamonds as she typed up notes. She had intended to remove her ring when she’d changed into a pair of lightweight trousers and a fine knitted top for the boat trip, but she’d felt self-conscious about removing it with Noor watching.
As the coastline of Umm al Basr appeared, Bram had gone up on deck. Certain that he would want to be on his own as he approached his home for the first time in five years, she made the excuse of calling Peter’s mother to remain below.
Now, distracted by the shouting and clanging as they tied up, she gazed out of the porthole at a part of the city that didn’t appear to have changed in a hundred years. There were dun-coloured walls, shops that were no more than rooms with wide double doors that opened onto the street, but where there would once have been camels and donkeys there were now luxury four-by-fours, huge American pickup trucks and sleek saloon cars with dark-tinted windows parked in every available bit of shade.
A port official waited while the gangway was lowered and then disappeared from view as he came aboard.
She reached for her bag, assuming that he would want to see her passport, but it was Bram who appeared in the doorway.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Walk with me.’
Ruby grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and stuffed them in her bag, threw on her abbayah and joined Bram on the quayside.
He’d changed into a grey robe, wrapped a red and white checked shemagh around his head, but if he thought it would make him less noticeable he was mistaken. He held himself in a way that commanded attention and he set off across the quay at a quiet, steady pace, ignoring the traffic that seemed to give way to him.
He seemed disinclined to talk and she took her cue from him as they passed through a dim, cool fish market that was being washed down now that the early morning catch had been sold.
They went on through the vegetable market and then out into narrow, dusty streets where dice rattled and counters clicked as old men sat outside street cafés, drinking tea and playing a board game at lightning speed.
There were traders selling spices from huge bins, pots and pans of all shapes and sizes, stalls with piles of jeans and bolts of cloth in every imaginable colour.
She lingered for a moment to admire a heavy dark red brocade that would make a gorgeous jacket. Bram did not stop and she shrugged apologetically at the man and hurried to catch up as he turned into an area where tradesmen were working.
There was the smell of freshly sawn wood, hot metal as a handle was welded to a pan and, in the dark recesses of his workshop, a blacksmith was sending showers of sparks into the hot gloom as he hammered on glowing iron.
Bram stopped at the entrance and the smith plunged the metal into cold water before looking up and calling out something in Arabic; she didn’t understand the words but the mocking familiarity was unmistakable.
‘He knows you,’ she said.
‘I used to escape from the palace and come here. No boring lessons, no one to shout if I got dirty, just the fun of pumping the forge bellows with Abdullah and, if his father was in a good mood, a chance to beat hot iron with a hammer we could hardly lift.’
‘Boy heaven.’ He turned and looked at her for the first time since they’d left the boat. ‘What did he say to you?’ she asked but, before he could answer, Abdullah, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, called out again.
‘He said he heard that I was out of a job and he’s looking for an apprentice. And he’s offering tea.’
‘Tea and a job offer. Go for it. I’ll make myself scarce while you catch up on old times,’ she said, thinking that she could go back and get some of that cloth. There were tailors working in little hole-in-the-wall shops that could run up a copy of a favourite jacket in hours and she wasn’t going to be a princess for ever. Well, maybe f
or ever, but in a few months she’d be back in London, back on the temp roundabout where clothes had to be practical rather than exotic.
‘Stay,’ he said, catching her hand as she took a step back. ‘We will stop to buy your cloth on the way back.’
‘I wasn’t...’ She hadn’t realised that he’d noticed. ‘I don’t want to embarrass your friend.’
‘He will show his respect by acting as if you are not here.’
A boy fetched a chair, placed it in a quiet corner shielded from the street and wiped off the dust. She thanked him, sat down, sipped the sweet tea he brought her, asked his name, gave him the little box of mints she carried in her bag, let him take a selfie with her phone, took one of them both.
They were giggling at the result when Abdullah called him sharply and when she looked up she realised that Bram had been watching her. He turned back to his friend and they parted with a warm handshake.
True to his word, he retraced their steps, bargained with the stallholder for the brocade she had admired, then moved on without waiting for it to be cut, or paying for it.
‘He will deliver it to the boat. Khal will deal with it,’ he said without looking back. ‘How is Peter?’ he asked when she had caught up with him.
‘He’s flying home tomorrow. I’ve organised a care package. Books, his favourite sweets, home visits from a sports masseur. If there’s anything else...?’
‘You have it covered,’ he said as they walked on through the old part of the town, past ornate mosques with exquisitely tiled domes, ancient arches, huge carved doors that occasionally opened to offer a glimpse into a shaded courtyard.
No longer silent, he shared memories of truant days spent with the blacksmith, boat-builders and fishermen while his diligent brother stayed in the classroom and worked at his lessons.
‘You were born to be a younger brother, Bram.’
‘Feckless, irresponsible?’ he suggested.
‘Free.’
Free.
Bram stopped and looked down at this woman who knew when to be quiet but when she spoke went straight to the heart of what he was feeling.
She had swept down, unannounced, into his life, an angel on a rescue mission. Was capable of enchanting both princes and the small son of a blacksmith. Of enchanting him...
‘How do you do that?’ he asked.
Her forehead buckled in a frown. ‘Do what?’
He shook his head and carried on walking, reverting to silence as he reconnected with his home.
Nothing had changed in this part of the city. There were children playing, stray dogs and skinny cats sloping in the shadows looking for scraps, a goat chewing on the remains of a cement bag and then, as they turned a corner, they were in a different world.
Before them lay the new city with its high-rise towers gleaming in the sun, the brilliant green of well-watered verges, trees and a square where a fountain cooled the air.
For a moment he paused, disorientated, then he headed for a bench in the centre of the square. ‘I’ve walked you off your feet.’
‘My feet are used to walking. I loved the chance to get a glimpse into your childhood, see the markets and the old part of the city.’
‘Not this?’ he asked, with a gesture that took in the concrete and glass surrounding them.
She glanced around, shrugged. ‘It’s very impressive, but it could be anywhere.’ She opened her bag and handed him a bottle of water.
He took it, drained half of it in a swallow. ‘Shukran.’
‘Afwan,’ she returned and he realised he’d spoken to her in Arabic without thinking. And that she’d replied.
‘Not just for the water. For understanding that I did not wish to talk. For your kindness to Abdullah’s son.’
‘Again, welcome.’ She took a sip of water from her own bottle. ‘Has it changed much?’
‘This—’ he made a broad gesture taking into the square ‘—is unrecognisable.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe I wasn’t looking. It was Hamad who saw the potential for tourism, trade, offshore banking. If he’d ever left his books to come to the smithy he would have been figuring out how it could be run more efficiently.’
‘Is that what Abdullah told you?’
He turned and looked at her. ‘He told me that there are new hospitals. That his daughters go to school.’
‘Not his son?’ she asked.
‘Boys always had that privilege but it’s a holiday today.’
‘Because you are coming home?’ she teased, her smile warming him in ways that the sun never could.
‘The holiday is to celebrate my father’s birthday.’
‘Of course.’ Her smile faded. ‘I didn’t mean to be flippant.’
‘No.’ Unable to retract the words, bring back the smile, he said, ‘Abdullah told me that he has a new house built with the money flowing into the country. He said that people admire and respect Hamad for the changes he has pushed through.’
Ruby said nothing; she just put her hand over his, a silent gesture of understanding, compassion.
He’d told her that this was what he wanted and it was, but the reality had raised a confusion of emotions and, turning his hand around, he wrapped it around hers, glad that she was there.
For a moment neither of them moved, spoke, but simply sat there in the sun, their hands locked together. The temptation was to stay there all day, but it had been a long time since breakfast.
‘Are you hungry, Ruby?’
She placed her free hand against her waist. ‘You heard my stomach rumbling?’ she asked, all mock shock horror. ‘I hoped you’d think that was thunder.’
Bram, appreciating her attempt to lift his mood, played along. He glanced up at the clear blue sky, raised an eyebrow. ‘You think it looks like rain?’
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I spotted a burger place over there.’ And he discovered, as he looked back into silver-grey eyes that sparkled in the sunlight that it wasn’t so hard to smile after all.
‘One day married and you’re fobbing me off with fast food?’
‘When we get home I’ll bake you a cake,’ she promised.
Home? She was talking of the fort as home?
‘What kind of cake?’ he asked, as a world of possibilities opened up before him. The loss of one life but the possibility of another.
‘Lemon drizzle, Victoria sandwich. Ginger? You choose.’
‘All of the above,’ he said, as the image of them alone in the kitchen as she made him some classic English cake gave him a warm rush of pleasure. ‘And you beside me on Rigel riding along the beach.’
She hesitated and he knew why. Riding had been her passion and it had been taken from her. He was determined that, whatever happened, she would not lose it again.
‘Ride with me and I won’t make you slaughter a goat.’
She laughed. ‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse but maybe we should stick to something a little less messy for lunch? I don’t know about you but I could do with some comfort food right now. I’ll have mine with everything except the pickle, extra fries and a milkshake so cold that it will give me a headache.’
He shook his head, laughing despite the uncertainty of what lay ahead. ‘Extra fries it is,’ he said as he stood up and, her hand still fast in his, helped her to her feet.
For a moment it lay small and white against his calloused palm, the ring he’d placed on her finger flashing in the sunlight. Then the abbayah slipped from her hair and she lifted it away to tug it back into place.
She was so easy to be with. He’d lost count of the times he’d imagined his return to Umm al Basr, walking through the souk the way he had as a boy, reacquainting himself with the places he had loved, aware that much of it would be gone.
He had imagined himself alone but when the moment had
come he had wanted Ruby at his side, walking with him. She had lost everything and he knew she would understand what he was feeling.
‘What was here when you were a boy?’ she asked as they walked towards the burger bar.
Bram looked up at the tall glass-fronted buildings skirting a square that had been laid out like an Italian piazza.
‘The odd wandering goat,’ he said. ‘Scavenging cats. Sheep just off-loaded in the harbour and being driven along to the market. A camel or two. Donkeys.’
Umm al Basr had grown outwards and upwards, become greener, richer, glossier in his absence; it was a place where growing numbers of tourists came to shop in the designer boutiques in the mall, to camp in the desert and to soak up the winter sun on the unspoilt beaches.
He’d been aware it was happening—he’d followed the development of the city under his brother’s guidance from a distance—but it had all happened without him and he felt like a stranger.
He pointed towards the mall. ‘Over there were old go-downs used by the traders to store their goods. One had a pile of old track bought for a railway that was never constructed. Now Hamad is planning a tramline. Eco transport to cut down on pollution.’ He looked around. ‘The new marina was built on the site of a boatyard where for centuries craftsmen built dhows that crossed the Indian Ocean and sailed down the coast of Africa. That disappeared while I was away at school.’
‘You were sent away?’
‘My father understood that the future was global and he was keen that I had an international education. I went to schools in France, America, England, studied politics at Oxford.’
‘Weren’t you homesick?’
‘I missed my family...’ He looked at her. ‘I missed my family but I made friends, was invited to their homes, skied with them, stayed at their cottages in France, their houses in the Hamptons, went shooting in Norfolk and Scotland...’ There had come a time when he’d only come home for major holidays and even then it was under pressure from his mother to show his face. ‘I loved Europe, America. The social life, the global culture. My friends were there. For a while I forgot who I was. My responsibilities.’