The Sheikh's Royal Announcement

by Sharon Kendrick

  She shrugged. ‘I will stay, because I have no choice other than to stay. I cannot deprive Cameron of a mother, any more than I can deprive him of a father. I will become the best Queen I can possibly be. I will accept and enjoy what is, and not yearn for things which are not mine to have. I will not ask you for love, Kadir, because one-sided love never really works—I saw that with my mother. And in time my feelings for you will fade—that’s inevitable...a bit like the flowers in a hot summer garden wilting if they don’t get enough water. All I ask is that you treat me with respect and set our son a good example of what an amicable relationship can be, so it doesn’t put him off love and marriage when he is of an age to want those things for himself.’ She forced a smile, which felt as if it were slicing her face in two. ‘Let’s do our best not to warp his perception about human relationships, shall we?’

  Kadir closed his eyes, realising that she had condemned him with her words. That her generosity of spirit and good heart were making him feel like the most contemptible of men—and with good reason. He was not worthy of her. Perhaps he would never be worthy of her. But he had to show that he could try to be, if only she would give him one last chance. She had to. Because this was one battle he could not afford to lose. Unless it was already too late.

  He opened his eyes and knew that he was responsible for the desperately sad expression she was doing her best to hide and a feeling of self-contempt made his blood run cold. What kind of brute was he? What kind?

  He clenched his fists. ‘Caitlin, I need to tell you something—’

  ‘You don’t—’

  ‘Please. Hear me out, as I did you.’ He sucked in a ragged breath. ‘What I felt for you, all those years ago, was like a bolt of lightning to my heart. But my guilt about Adiya allowed me to convince myself it was nothing but the pent-up lust of a man who’d never had sex before, which had finally spilled over. Even when I returned to Scotland to find you again, I was certain that what I felt was nothing but carnal desire, and the anger I experienced when I found out about Cameron gave me permission to dislike you. But I couldn’t dislike you. The more time I spent with you, the more I saw your humour and softness, which had so attracted me in the first place. I discovered what a good person you were—as well as being a remarkable mother to our son. And that frightened me.’

  For the first time, her face lost some of its tight, pinched expression. ‘Frightened you? You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would be frightened of anything.’

  ‘Everyone feels fear, Caitlin,’ he said, and as he spoke he realised he was being truly honest with himself. ‘It’s just that some of us are better at hiding it than others. I never opened up to the pain I’d felt when I was a child. I’d never shown anyone how much my mother’s treatment of me wounded me. I think I was trying to protect my father from any more suffering. He already had her betrayal to contend with—I think if he’d known of my heartbreak, it would have finished him.’ He sucked in a shuddered sigh. ‘Just like I never showed the pain I felt when Rasim died, for it felt like a kind of weakness to do so. I still had a country to repair after the ravages of war, and a people who were looking to me for guidance.’

  ‘So you buried all those feelings deep inside you,’ she said slowly. ‘Which only made it worse. Because things which are buried just get more and more rotten.’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘But why are you telling me all this, Kadir?’ she said, her voice sounding very precise, as if she was picking out each word with care. ‘And why now?’

  Had he wanted her to guess at his reasons without having to articulate them? Of course he had. Because that would have been easier. Easier for him, certainly. But not for her. And he owed her this. He owed her so much, but this more than anything. ‘Because the pain of not having you in my life is far greater than any other pain I could ever contemplate,’ he husked. ‘It eclipses everything—even the fear of rejection and of becoming too reliant on another human being and opening myself up to hurt again. I’ve discovered that holding back from you and pushing you away doesn’t make me happy. Having you beside me does—but I’ve been fighting those feelings for so long.

  ‘I fought them at the beginning and I did the same when I brought you here. I fought them on our honeymoon—the single most blissful week of my life. And now I fear it may be too late. That you may have given up on me. But I love you, Caitlin. I love you so much.’ He slapped his hand over his heart and let it lie there. ‘Believe me when I tell you that.’

  Had he been hoping for instant capitulation? For her to fling herself into his arms and forgive him? Yes, he probably had. But she didn’t move. She just stood there surveying him, with that same wary look in her eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to say all this stuff to seal the deal, you know, Kadir,’ she said stiffly. ‘Cameron is coming to live here, no matter what.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not trying to seal the deal,’ he said simply. ‘I’m trying to heal the deal.’

  Maybe it was the break in his voice which swung it—that or the transparent brightness of his gaze. Because suddenly she was hurling herself across the office as she had done once before on a plane high above the Alps. But this time she was not brandishing a jewelled paper knife above her head and threatening to do him harm. This time she was in his arms and covering his face with kiss after fervent kiss and telling him she loved him, that she had loved him from the first time she’d ever seen him and that she would never stop loving him.

  And for the first time in Kadir’s life he knew peace. Real peace. Solid and rich and beautiful. Because he didn’t just love Caitlin—he believed her and he trusted her. And right now, that felt like the most profound gift he had ever received.

  EPILOGUE

  ‘MAGNIFICENT.’

  ‘Superbly captured.’

  ‘What talent! Honestly, I had no idea.’

  Caitlin smiled. Some of the praise was in English and some in Xulhabian, but she couldn’t fail to be aware that the reaction to her photographic exhibition remained heart-warmingly positive. It had been open for a month now but its sell-out status showed no sign of abating.

  ‘If it was anyone else reaping this kind of praise, I’d be worried that their ego might start over-inflating,’ Kadir murmured and she looked up to see a smile playing around the edges of his lips. ‘But since it’s you, my darling Caitlin, I don’t think there’s any danger of that.’

  She gave a sigh of pleasure as she acknowledged his approval, and looked around the vast gallery space in Azraq which Kadir had commissioned to mount her debut photographic exhibition. At first she’d been worried that such a move might be seen as nepotism, but then a prestigious visiting dealer had seen it and asked if she would consider transferring it to London’s Mayfair. There was even talk of turning it into a touring exhibition, for the Xulhabian Tourist Board were eager to show the world a different side of the country which had been so faithfully recorded by their young Queen.

  Blown up and magnified were images from their honeymoon—almost two years ago now. Dramatic sunrises, star-spangled skies and a desert tortoise basking in the sand, beneath the shade of a baswa tree. There were arty shots taken around the palace, showing areas which the public never usually got to see. Much interest had been generated by her early portrait of Kadir, walking through the wide marble corridors with his robes flowing around him and, seemingly, the weight of his destiny hanging heavy on his shoulders. Yet the most recent photo was of him and Cameron on their horses, looking into each other’s eyes and laughing. It showed a different side of the desert Sheikh—the more human side, as the international press were fond of putting it.

  But pride of place went to a candid study of their son, holding the hamster previously known as Hamish. To Cameron’s delight, the much-loved pet had been flown from Cronarty to Xulhabi, and then surprised them all by producing a litter of seven pups. And so H
amish had been renamed Hasina and her offspring had all been found caring homes.

  Even Morag had found her own happy ending, for she had quietly married Ghassan, the head groom, in a simple and loving ceremony which would have melted the most indifferent heart. The middle-aged couple had been given their own small section of the royal palace and the Scottish nanny was able to continue to help care for Cameron—the little boy and future king who was thriving with each day that passed.

  Caitlin sighed as she looked up at her husband. Her beloved husband who was now her greatest friend and advocate. ‘I have you to thank for letting me show my work here, my darling,’ she said softly.

  ‘And I have you to thank for bringing so much light and love into my world and transforming it completely. And although I can never thank you enough, my flame-haired temptress, I can but try.’ His black eyes glinted as his voice dipped into a provocative whisper. ‘Maybe we should go home right now so that I can demonstrate exactly what I mean.’

  Caitlin expelled a slow breath of excitement. Whoever would have thought that an illegitimate girl from Cronarty would have ended up thinking of a palace as her home? But she did. Yet she knew that if the world changed tomorrow and she had to go and live with Kadir and Cameron in that small croft on Cronarty—which they sometimes visited, unannounced—they would be just as happy. Because life wasn’t about jewels and palaces, or ruling a huge country. It was about the relationships you had with the people around you—and hers were just the best.

  When they got back to the palace, they would retire to their beautiful sandalwood-scented suite and undress each other at leisure. Her fingers would explore the honed muscle beneath Kadir’s satin skin and he would make her gasp as he put his sensual lips to good use. She would enjoy his body—and he hers—as they’d done every time they’d made love. Which had been a dizzying and spectacular amount of times.

  And later, when she was lying satisfied and replete in the warm circle of his arms, she would announce her news. Actually, she would make sure that most of the lamps were still lit, because she wanted to see his face when she told him he was going to be a father again. She wanted to capture his joy and keep it in her mind for ever, fixed there as permanently as any photograph. This time he would see her carry their unborn child and this time he would watch her giving birth.

  A ripple of gratitude flickered over her skin as she nodded her head in reply to his question.

  ‘Yes, my darling Kadir,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s go home.’

  * * *

  Lost in the magic of The Sheikh’s Royal Announcement? Why not explore these other Sharon Kendrick stories?

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  The Maid’s Best Kept Secret

  by Abby Green

  CHAPTER ONE

  MAGGIE TAGGART FELT RESTLESS. She’d finished washing up the dishes in the sink and looked around the vast and gleaming kitchen which was situated in the basement of an even vaster house. A stunningly beautiful period country house, to be exact. Set in some ten acres of lush green land about an hour’s drive outside Dublin.

  There were manicured gardens to the rear and a sizeable walled kitchen garden to the side. There was even a small lake and a forest. And stables. But the stables were empty. The owner—a billionaire tycoon—had apparently bought the house sight unseen on a whim when he’d had a passing interest in investing in horse racing, for which this part of Ireland was renowned.

  Except he’d never bought any horses and he’d never actually visited the house. So here it sat, empty and untouched. Luxuriously decorated to his specifications. He hadn’t even hired the housekeeper himself—one of his assistants had done it remotely.

  That housekeeper had been Maggie’s mother, and when she’d fallen ill she had been terrified of losing her job. So Maggie had quit her own job as a commis chef in a Dublin restaurant and come to help her and take care of her. Leaving her restaurant job hadn’t been too much of a sacrifice, thanks to the head chef, who had been a serial groper of his female staff.

  Then Maggie’s mother had died suddenly, and when she’d informed the owner’s offices an impersonal assistant had asked if she wouldn’t mind taking over in the interim, while they found a permanent replacement.

  Maggie had been in shock...grieving...so she’d found herself saying yes, relishing the thought of a quiet space where she could lick her wounds and deal with her grief, not yet ready to face back into the world.

  That had been three months ago. Three months that had passed in a grief-stricken blur. And she was only just emerging from that very intial painful stage.

  Hence this sense of restlessness. Up to now the house had served as a kind of cocoon, shielding her from the outside world. But she could feel herself itching to do more than just tend to it. In spite of its lack of occupants, it was surprisingly challenging to maintain at the high standard demanded by the boss—should he ever decide to drop by. On another whim.

  Maggie’s soft mouth firmed. The impression she had of the owner—a man she wasn’t interested enough in to look up on the internet—was one of gross entitlement. Who bought a lavish country house and then never even came to see it?

  ‘Rich, powerful men who have more money than sense.’

  Those had been her mother’s words. And she had known all about rich, powerful men—because Maggie’s father had been one. A wealthy property tycoon from Scotland, he’d had an affair with Maggie’s mother and when she’d told him she was pregnant he’d denied all knowledge, terrified that Maggie’s mother and his illegitimate daughter might get their hands on his vast fortune.

  He hadn’t offered any support or commitment. He’d offered only threats and intimidation. Maggie’s mother had been too proud and heartbroken to pursue him for maintenance and they’d left Scotland and moved to Ireland, where Maggie’s mother’s job as a housekeeper had kept them moving around the country, never really settling in any one place for long.

  To say that Maggie had a jaded view of rich men and their ways was an understatement. She sighed. However, she was being paid very generously to take care of an empty house by a rich man, so she couldn’t really complain.

  At that moment the peace that she’d so relished was shattered by a sound from upstairs—the ground floor. A banging noise. The front door? It was such an unusual sound to hear in this silent house that she almost didn’t recognise it.

  Maggie rushed upstairs and walked into the hall just as the knocker was slammed down onto the door again. She muttered, ‘Keep your hair on...’ as she switched on the outside light and swung the door open.

  And promptly ceased breathing at the sight in front of her. A tall, dark man dominated the doorway, hand lifted as if to slam the knocker down again. His other arm was raised, and rested on the door frame. The late-summer sky was a dusky lavender behind him, making him seem even darker.

  Maggie couldn’t find her breath. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he was the most stupendously gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Thick curly hair and dark brows framed a strong-boned face...cheekbones to die for. His deep-set eyes were dark, but not brown. Golden. His skin was dark too. There was stubble on his jaw. The sheer height, width and breadth of him was heat-inducingly powerful.

  She registered all this in a split-second—a very basic biological reaction to
a virile male.

  His black bowtie hung rakishly undone under the open top button of his shirt. Those dark eyes flicked down from her face over her body. A bold appraisal. Arrogant, even.

  Maggie became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair up in an untidy bun. Her habitual uniform for when she was cleaning.

  ‘This is Kildare House?’ the masculine vision asked, with a slight accent.

  His voice was deep and rough and the pulse between her legs throbbed. Most disturbing.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  The man stood up straight. He had an air of slightly louche inebriation but his eyes were too focused and direct for him to be intoxicated. Actually, it was an air of intense ennui.

  He turned away from her, and it was only then that Maggie noticed a taxi at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, engine idling.

  The man addressed the driver, who was waiting by the car. ‘This is the right place. Thank you.’

  Maggie watched with growing shock as the taxi driver waved jauntily, got into his car and drove off.

  She gripped the door. ‘Excuse me but who are you?’

  The man turned back to face her. ‘I’m the owner of this house. Nikos Marchetti. I think the more pertinent question here is who are you? Because I’ve seen a picture of the housekeeper and you are most definitely not her.’

  Nikos Marchetti. The owner she’d envisaged as middle-aged, paunchy, entitled. But this man was more like a Spartan warrior, sheathed in the modern-day trappings of a suit.

  His eyes were dropping down her body again, with that insolent appraisal that should have disgusted Maggie but which was having an altogether far less acceptable effect on her body.