The Sheikh's Convenient Princess

by Liz Fielding

  ‘What about your family, Bram? When did you see them?’

  ‘After Oxford I bought a house in London and my mother, sisters, came to shop and see the latest shows so often that I saw more of them than I would have here in Umm al Basr.’

  ‘And now?’ she asked.

  ‘I moved out of the house so that they could continue to use it but they always seem to find some reason to call me if I’m in London. A dripping tap. A door that sticks. Oddly, the problem has always resolved itself by the time I arrive.’

  ‘That would be just in time for lunch or dinner?’ she said, trying so hard not to laugh that he wanted to hug her, hold her, try a rerun of that kiss...

  ‘What about your brother?’ she asked.

  ‘He did a business course at Harvard, but he hated every minute he was away from home. Even when he came to London it was for business—meetings with architects, engineers, bankers—and he never stayed a moment longer than he had to.’ He made a broad gesture that took in the high-rise buildings around them. ‘While I was playing,’ he said, ‘my brother was building the future. This is all his work.’

  ‘So how does he feel about you coming back, Bram?’

  ‘You still think he’s trying to keep me away?’

  She stopped. ‘I think there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ he said as the doors of the burger bar swished open, engulfing them in a rush of cold air.

  ‘Life is complicated,’ she said, letting it go. ‘Carbs help.’

  She helped, he thought. Straightforward, undemanding and, when she wasn’t concentrating on keeping in place the mask she’d been wearing since her own world shattered, that hundred-watt smile slipped through and lit up his day.

  * * *

  Back on board, they settled in the big leather armchairs of the saloon, Bram’s long legs stretched out in front of him, Ruby curled up with her feet tucked beneath her. Neither of them spoke until the burgers had been demolished and there were only a few fries left.

  Ruby sucked the salty deliciousness from her right thumb, wiped her hands on a paper napkin and sighed. ‘Eating healthy food is a very good thing,’ she said, ‘but there are days when only fat and salt will do.’

  ‘I hope you brought your pretty tap shoes with you.’

  He remembered? A ripple of pleasure warmed her. Not good... This might be a long run for a temp but it was a very short-term assignment for a wife. Forget the kiss...

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, picking up the milkshake. ‘I didn’t think I’d be here for more than a few days.’

  ‘You’ll just have to come running with me.’

  About to say running was very bad for the knees, she was assailed by the image of him that morning, his skin slicked with sweat...

  ‘I...I...haven’t got any shoes.’

  ‘Not a problem. We can run barefoot on the beach. At the water’s edge.’

  ‘R-right.’ She sucked hard on the straw and winced as the cold hit the middle of her forehead but it dealt with the assault of sensory images—his long feet, the muscles of his calves, thighs—that were scrambling all sensible thought. ‘When are you going to the majlis, Bram?’

  ‘We. You are coming with me.’

  ‘Me?’ Ruby stopped massaging the centre of her forehead. ‘I thought those were men-only events.’

  ‘As a rule they are, but there must be no doubt. I will have the falcon I’ve brought my father as a gift on my right arm and you on my left.’

  Both of them scared spitless...

  ‘You want your return to be as scandalous as your departure so that your father can never reinstate you as his heir?’

  ‘Never say never, but Hamad has worked for this. Done all the right things. While I...’ He shrugged.

  ‘You are taking a risk, Bram.’

  He shrugged. ‘Taking risks is what I do. On horseback, on skis, in the market. Today I’m taking a risk that you are right and my father wants me home more than he wants me to succeed him.’

  ‘No pressure, then.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re not just a Garland Girl now, Ruby, you’re a Garland Princess and you’re going to have to live up to your billing.’

  Her nerves hitched up a level. He was relying on her...

  ‘Have you got a red dress?’ he asked.

  ‘Cut to the navel, slit up the side? Five-inch heels?’ she asked. ‘Do you really think that I’ll need a scarlet woman dress to draw attention to myself?’

  ‘No.’ He looked at her for the longest moment before shaking his head. ‘You’d cause a sensation if you were wearing a sack but I don’t want you to look as if you’re apologising for being there. Today is a triple celebration. My father’s birthday, my return and my marriage. Wear something spectacular.’

  * * *

  The sun was setting as their limousine stopped at the entrance to the palace, where Noor and Khal were waiting. One or two people standing near the entrance to the palace glanced across as he got out but had already moved inside by the time he offered her his hand to help her from the car.

  Noor immediately began fussing around her, rearranging the folds of her coat. It was heavy ruby-red silk, thickly embroidered and appliquéd in gold and worn over a floor-length full-skirted dress made from black silk chiffon that had a band of matching embroidery around the hem.

  She straightened the ornate gold choker chosen from a chest containing tray after tray of jewels—Ruby didn’t ask where they had come from, she didn’t want to know. Finally, Noor draped a filmy red and gold scarf so that it covered her hair, carefully arranging the long tails that fell to the floor at her back.

  ‘Eyes low, sitti,’ she instructed, clearly not at all happy that her lady was being subjected to this shameful disregard for tradition. ‘No smile.’

  Bram, the falcon that was his gift to his father settled on his gloved hand, heard her and said something to her in Arabic. She shook her head but, after one last tweak of the scarf, she turned and walked away.

  ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘To wait for you at the rear of the majlis. If things go well she will take you to my mother.’

  ‘Right.’ And that would be the good outcome. She didn’t ask what would happen if things did not go well.

  ‘And forget what Noor said to you. Keep your head up, eyes front and ignore everyone but my father.’

  Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. This was breaking all the rules, a gamble. She had nothing to lose but for Bram it was everything and she had to get it right.

  ‘Head up, eyes front. Smile or no smile?’

  Bram had waited, delaying his arrival until everyone was there. The vast entrance lobby, fifty metres long and nearly as wide, was now busy with men who’d paid their respects, drunk coffee with the ruler and overflowed from the majlis, where they were talking with friends, discussing business, catching up with the gossip.

  ‘Be yourself, Ruby,’ he said as she rested her hand on his so that the diamond ring on her finger flashed in the light from the chandeliers. She was trembling, he realised, and he turned his hand so that his fingers curled around hers. ‘Just be yourself.’

  She swallowed but lifted her head and looked straight ahead.

  Despite its vast size, there was no room to simply walk through and he paused in the doorway until someone, noticing them out of the corner of his eye, took a step back to let them pass, then did a double take at the sight of a woman and another as he realised who was standing beside her and nudged his companion.

  There was a ripple effect as men turned and the loud burble of conversation gradually died away, leaving the room silent except for the rustle of shocked men stepping back, the pounding thud of his heartbeat...

  ‘Bram?’ Ruby murmured when, frozen
to the spot, he could not move.

  ‘This is like leaping out of the starting gate of the Lauberhorn,’ he said softly. Two and a half heart-pounding minutes at over one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour on one of the most terrifying downhill ski runs in the world.

  Ruby, who moments before had been shaking with nerves, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and when he looked down at her she was smiling. ‘Head up, eyes front,’ she murmured. ‘There is only one man here who matters.’

  In that moment he knew that wasn’t true; there was only one woman. Strong, brave, true...

  Without a thought for where they were, the seriousness of the occasion, everything he was risking, he lifted her hand to his lips and the light from a dozen chandeliers caught the diamonds he’d placed on her finger and flashed a rainbow that lit up the room with colour. Or maybe it was just his life, he thought as he returned her smile, then looked to the front and took a step forward.

  As they walked towards the majlis, the crowd closed in behind them, no one wanting to miss this. By the time they reached the great doors everyone was aware that something out of the ordinary was happening in the reception hall and the room was silent with expectation, all eyes turned towards them.

  Another hundred metres, long seconds which gave his father, his open-mouthed brother and Ahmed Khadri all the time in the world to see the ring glittering on Ruby’s finger, absorb the message he was sending, time to decide on their reaction.

  At the foot of the dais he handed the falcon to a guard who, at a nod from his father, stepped forward to take it. Then, his hand free, he placed it on his heart, making a low bow as he wished his father a long life, good health, many grandsons. Before the Emir could respond, he added, ‘I have another gift for you on your birthday, my lord. May I present to you Rabi al-Dance? A daughter for your house, the mother of my sons.’

  He was glad that he was speaking in Arabic so that Ruby did not know what he was saying.

  His father, having been given plenty of time to consider his reaction, said, ‘There is a contract between you?’

  ‘Written and sealed by Sheikh Fayad al Kuwani, Emir of Ras al Kawi. Rabi has no living family but Fayad stood for her in the matter of a dowry.’

  ‘He was demanding?’ he asked.

  ‘He protected her interests as diligently as any father, my lord, but there will be no call on you.’

  Ahmed Khadri remained stony-faced, his brother’s eyebrows were through the roof, but his father came very close to smiling.

  ‘Where will she live?’ he asked. ‘Your mother and sisters enjoy your London house.’

  His father was negotiating with him?

  He smothered any notion of smiling. ‘It is my gift to them. I have my own apartment and my wife, as is her right, will have a house of her own.’

  His father nodded, rose to his feet and stepped down to embrace him. He was shockingly older, thinner than on the day he had disinherited him, but his grip was still strong. ‘It is good to see you here, my son. It has been too long.’ He looked at him for a long moment then nodded before turning to Ruby. ‘You are welcome, Umm Tariq,’ he said in English—mother of Tariq—a message to those present that he had accepted the wife his son had chosen and that her first son would bear his own name.

  Ruby, head bowed, made a deep curtsey. ‘Shukran, Your Highness. I am honoured to be here.’

  His father took her hand and, with a smile, urged her to her feet before turning to him. ‘Take your bride to your mother, Ibrahim, and then come and sit with us.’

  As he returned to his throne Hamad made a move to surrender his seat to his older brother but their father laid a hand on his arm, keeping him at his side, and Bram felt the tension slip from his shoulders. With that one gesture, his father had shown his people that while his oldest son had been welcomed back into the fold, Hamad remained his chosen successor—that the accord with the Khadri family would hold—and there was a shift in the air as a hundred men released the breath they had been holding.

  Ahmed Khadri, meantime, had no choice but to surrender his own seat to make room for him but he took his time about it and, rather than move down the order of precedence, he sketched the merest nod at the throne, pausing beside him long enough to murmur, ‘Take care not to turn the other cheek, Ibrahim al-Ansari. My knife will cut deeper.’

  ‘It went well?’ Ruby asked anxiously as he ushered her to a door at the rear of the majlis where Noor was waiting to escort her to his mother.

  ‘It went well, thanks to you. My father not only signalled his acceptance of you but kept Hamad at his side, a clear indication to everyone present that he remains as heir.’

  ‘And the man who left? That was Bibi’s father?’

  ‘Ahmed Khadri is no doubt on his way to inform her that I have disappointed another Khadri bride.’

  She laid cool fingers against his cheek. ‘That man hates you, Bram. Take care.’

  He covered her hand with his, holding it against his face, resisting the urge to kiss her palm. ‘It’s in the past, Ruby.’ Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and took a small battered wooden box from his pocket. ‘Give this to my mother. And if you see Safia, tell her that her prayers have been answered.’

  ‘Prayers?’

  ‘She will understand.’

  * * *

  Noor led the way towards the back of the palace, quickly running through the formalities of meeting the woman who was not only her mother-in-law but an Emira. Then, as a pair of wide double doors opened before them, she curtsied low and stepped aside, leaving Ruby on her own.

  The news had clearly preceded her. The Emira was standing in the centre of a large room with her daughters, daughter-in-law and countless other female relatives gathered protectively around her, while children crawled and raced around them, oblivious to the drama.

  This was not like the majlis where, at Bram’s prompting, she had kept her head up, eyes forward, facing down the men who would be shocked by her presence. This was a moment for submission. As the door closed behind her, head bowed, she curtsied low, murmured, ‘Emira...’ as she offered her the box that Bram had given her on outstretched hands.

  There was a moment of breath-holding silence and then the Emira put her hand beneath hers and, with the slightest pressure, invited her to stand before she took the box and held it, gently rubbing her hand over its battered surface as if it was something much cherished.

  ‘This,’ she said in clear, barely accented English, ‘was the first gift that my son gave me when he was four years old.’ She lifted the lid of the box and inside, on purple velvet, nestled a piece of turquoise-blue sea glass that she lifted out and held against her lips for a long moment before looking up. ‘We were walking on the beach and he saw it being turned at the edge of the water. He thought it was a jewel and he gave it to me in this little box. I sent it to him when he was banished, a piece of home to keep with him,’ she said. ‘My promise that one day he would return.’

  She replaced the glass in the box, looked up and, with a smile, extended a hand. ‘Welcome, Rabi. Come and meet your sisters.’

  His four older sisters each kissed her on both cheeks, and then there was Safia with her new baby. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with blue-green eyes that shone from her lovely face as she stepped forward to kiss her cheeks, and when Ruby, very quietly, gave her Bram’s message those eyes filled with tears.

  Before she could speak, Ruby found herself swept away into a comfortable inner sitting room strewn with toys for the little ones who were being entertained by the older children. Mint tea and small sticky cakes were pressed upon her, along with a dozen questions. All the women spoke good English but, to her relief, the Emira was not interested in how she had met Bram.

  Inventing a world class romance for Violet was one thing, but Bram’s mother had the kind of eyes that missed nothing.
As she brushed aside her daughters’ eager questions and asked about her family and their history, Ruby had the feeling that she knew exactly what Bram had done.

  Fortunately, her family had plenty of history and she kept them entertained with stories—tales that had no doubt grown taller in the telling—of ancestors who had served kings and queens throughout the centuries until, at last, a stir beyond the doors announced the arrival of their husbands.

  Bram, his hand upon his heart, bowed low to his mother then enfolded her in a heartfelt hug before turning to his sisters and embracing them each in turn. Finally he turned to Safia, acknowledging her with a formal bow.

  ‘Your sister is not with you, sitti?’ he asked, speaking in English, in deference to her presence. ‘I had hoped to congratulate her on achieving her heart’s desire.’

  ‘We are very proud of her,’ she replied. ‘Sadly, she has been confined to her room with a chill.’

  ‘I hope she will soon recover. Please give her my wife’s very best wishes for the future.’

  ‘Thank you, sidi. She will be desolate to have missed such a glad occasion.’

  There had been nothing to suggest it had been anything but the most formal exchange and yet Ruby had been aware of an undercurrent, a deeper layer of meaning.

  She glanced at Hamad, but he, like the other men, had been surrounded by the little ones as soon as he’d arrived and, bending to pick up the little girl clutching at his knees, had not witnessed the exchange. Or had he turned away rather than see his brother greet the woman who should have been his bride?

  * * *

  A birthday supper was served with three generations of the family together, a chaotic, happy, noisy mix of children and adults. Everyone wanted to talk to Bram, hug him, welcome him. And if Safia slipped away early looking pale, everyone understood that she had been unwell, needed rest.

  Ruby, watching her leave, certain that there was more to her pallor than a difficult childbirth, jumped as Bram put his hand on her shoulder. He gave her a wry smile as she turned to him and bent to whisper in her ear, ‘You’re supposed to melt when I touch you, not jump.’