Samira. Her name exploded in his head, but he shoved thoughts of her aside. He'd known all along that their arrangement in all probability was temporary. He had been prepared for the end of it.
Deciding the best thing to do was to keep busy, he picked up a dust cloth and began to dust the living-room furniture. In the year since his mother's death, he'd only been back to the house a few times and had rarely taken the time to do any housecleaning.
It hadn't really sunk in yet, the fact that he'd lost his position and had been sent away from the palace in shame. If he looked out one of the back windows, he'd be able to see the very top of the palace in the distance.
Surely it was the loss of his job and the disgrace of being commanded off the palace grounds that filled him with such despondency. It had nothing to do with the fact that his marriage to Samira was probably at an end.
He placed his dust cloth on the coffee table and sank down on the sofa, his thoughts chaotic in his head. He'd known someplace deep inside that Sheik Kamal would be angry. He'd also known it was possible he would be the scapegoat for that anger.
However, his job had been to protect Samira and that's what he had done. Although he knew there would be a certain amount of gossip concerning their marriage and her pregnancy, it wouldn't be the same kind of gossip that would have filled the tabloids had she been unmarried and pregnant and the father of her baby was unknown.
A knock on his front door pulled him up off the sofa. Samira? His heart leapt with joy, a joy that was instantly dashed when he opened the door to see a tall, slender old man.
"Izzat!" He greeted the man with a warm hug. "How did you know I was here?" he asked as he gestured the old man across the threshold.
"I was driving by and saw your car, and thought I would stop in and say hello."
"I'm glad you did. It's been far too long. Come, let's go into the kitchen and have something cold to drink."
Izzat Naggar had been an old friend of Farid's father, Hashim. Farid had grown up thinking of Izzat as a favorite uncle. He had visited often when Hashim was alive, though less frequently in the years after Hashim's death.
"You're looking well, Izzat," Farid said as he poured them each a cold drink.
Izzat smiled. "I have the complaints of an old man. My bones ache and my digestion isn't what it once was, but I'm doing all right."
"Your family is well?"
"They are fine."
For a few minutes the two men visited, catching up on what had been happening with each of them. Farid, unsure what the official story might be from the palace, mentioned nothing about his marriage to Samira or the fact that he'd been banished from the palace grounds and fired from his job.
Instead, their talk turned to the old days, when Hashim was alive and Farid was young. Memory recalled memory and the two men laughed, sharing the good days of the past together.
For Farid, the talk was a balm to his wounded spirit, evoking in him a warmth for both his parents and cherished moments he'd thought long forgotten.
It wasn't until Farid sensed that Izzat was getting ready to leave that he decided to broach the subject of his parentage with him. "Izzat, did you know that Hashim wasn't my biological father?"
The old man leaned back in his chair and stroked his gray beard thoughtfully. "I did. Your father confided in me before you were born."
"I've been trying to figure out why my mother waited so long to tell me the truth," Farid said.
"I can answer that for you. She promised Hashim she wouldn't tell you," Izzat said without hesitation. He stroked his beard once again, his dark gaze warm as it lingered on Farid. "I've never seen a man as besotted with a child as Hashim was with you. The sun rose and set solely for your pleasure as far as he was concerned. He adored you and in his heart you were his and nobody else's."
"Why would he make my mother promise not to tell me the truth?" Farid asked, wanting to understand the forces that had been at work in his parents' lives.
"Hashim knew who your real father was, and I think it threatened him. Hashim loved you so much. He was afraid if you knew the truth, he would lose you. I'm not saying what he did was the right thing to do, but he was only human."
"I loved Hashim. He would have never lost my love." Even now, saying his name evoked a surge of love inside Farid for the man who had been his father for twelve years.
"Ah, Farid, but hindsight is always so much more sharp than foresight. Hashim didn't intend to die when you were young. I'm sure he assumed he would live to see you grown and married with children of your own."
Farid leaned back in his chair, frowning thoughtfully. "I wonder why Mother didn't tell me then – when he died – instead of waiting so many more years to finally confess the truth to me."
"Who knows? Perhaps she was still honoring her promise to Hashim, or she was frightened as well."
"Frightened of what?"
"She'd already lost her husband, maybe she was afraid that if you knew the truth she would lose you as well." Izzat stood. "Your biological father was a nobleman, a man with money and position. Your mother was a simple woman with simple values. Perhaps she was afraid your head would be turned by the man who fathered you and you would lose sight of all she and Hashim had taught you. And now, my dear Farid, I've got to get to the marketplace."
Farid walked him out and at the door the two men hugged. "Stay well, Farid," Izzat said. "Know that you were loved deeply by the two people who raised you."
Farid nodded and hugged the man one last time, then watched as he headed to his car. He stood in the doorway until the dust from Izzat's car had disappeared, then he closed the door slowly.
Although Farid had believed his discussion with Samira had resolved any resentment he might feel about his mother, had there been any left in his heart, Izzat's words had shoved it out completely.
Farid was left only with love for the parents he missed and a new emotion that pierced deeply into his heart – the pain of a crazy loneliness he didn't know how to deal with.
He hadn't realized until now how completely Samira had filled up his life, bringing light into the dark corners, pulling laughter from his lips and stoking inside him a passion for life … and for her.
For two weeks they had lived as husband and wife, and he missed her presence here … now.
He hadn't really expected her to defy her father, pack up her bags and move to this small farmhouse. She was a princess, and he was a disgraced bodyguard. He didn't want her here. She deserved better.
As he washed the glasses he and Izzat had used, once again he shoved thoughts of Samira out of his head. Time would tell what became of their so-called marriage.
He'd never believed it was a forever kind of deal. She'd been panicked and heartbroken, and marriage to him had seemed like the answer to her problems, but he'd known deep in his heart all along that she'd simply been afraid of her parents' reaction and had wanted somebody at her side.
He'd done his job and now it was, for all intents and purposes, finished. Now he had to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
Working for the palace, working in some form of royal security, was all Farid had ever wanted to do. Every choice he'd made in his life, everything he had done had been to achieve that goal. Now it was all gone, and what amazed him was that he'd gladly lose it all again to help Samira.
He had just cleaned up the kitchen when he heard the sound of cars pulling up outside. He hurried to the front door, opened it and stared in astonishment as he saw two palace cars. What now? he thought.
His astonishment increased when the driver of the first car got out and hurried to open the back door and Samira stepped out. At the same time several guards got out of the other car. Sandra approached him, a fierce determination on her pretty face.
"Samira, what are you doing here?" he asked. She was still dressed in the silver jalabiya she'd had on when they'd confronted her parents. The silver material complemented her skin tones and the darkness of h
er hair.
She swept past him and into the house, then turned back to him. "Where else would I be but with my husband in his home?" Her gaze went around the room. "And it appears to be a very nice home."
"What about your parents? Do they know you're here?" At that moment the driver appeared in the doorway with two suitcases.
Samira motioned him inside. "Let's just place those in the bedroom. Farid, which room is ours?"
"Second doorway on the right." He gestured down the hallway, shock still rippling through him.
"What a lovely room," she said a moment later as she and the driver returned from the bedroom. "I notice it will get the sun in the mornings. That will be nice."
The driver left, and as Farid closed the front door after him, he noticed that two guards were now stationed at the entrance of his driveway. He suspected that two more were probably at the back of his house.
He turned back to Samira, who had sat on the sofa and gazed at him expectantly. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"
"There's nothing going on. I'm where I belong – with my husband." She raised her chin and held his gaze intently.
Farid sat next to her, noting the lines of tension around her eyes … eyes that showed the telltale signs of recent tears. "And your father has given his blessing to you being here?"
She quickly looked down at her hands in her lap. "Not exactly. Right after you left, my mother insisted I see the physician and get a complete check-up."
"And everything is all right?" he asked urgently.
"Oh, yes." She raised her gaze to meet his and smiled reassuringly. "He informs me that I'm in perfect health and everything is fine with the pregnancy."
A wave of relief swept through Farid.
"After I had my check-up, I had a discussion with my mother."
"You did not tell her the truth, I hope."
Samira shook her head, her dark hair swirling around her shoulders. "No, I kept my promise to you and didn't tell her the truth. But after talking to her, I realized I needed to speak with my father once again, so I went back to his office to talk to him."
She laced, then unlaced her hands in her lap, looking down once again. "He was still very angry … more angry than I've ever seen him in my life. I demanded that he give you back your job and allow you back into the palace."
Again astonishment swept through him. "You demanded?"
A small smile curved one corner of her mouth. "Yes. I'm not sure who was more surprised, my father or me. Needless to say, he only got angrier. I told him that if he didn't allow you at the palace, then I would have to leave, and he forbade me to leave."
"Then you shouldn't be here." Farid stood. "You need to go back." The last thing Farid wanted was to be the cause of a permanent break between daughter and father.
"I will not go back. My place is here with you." Once again she raised her chin and eyed him with a steely resolve he'd never seen before.
"You are Princess Samira Kamal and you belong at the palace," he exclaimed.
"I am Samira Nasir and I belong wherever you are," she countered.
He stood, needing some distance from her. He needed to stand where he couldn't smell her lovely, fragrant scent, walk far enough away that he couldn't feel the sweet heat radiating from her body.
"I am an outcast, Samira. I have been banished from the palace grounds. I have lost my job."
"Then you will find a new job," she said briskly. She stood. "And now, why don't you show me our home."
This wasn't right, he thought as he led her into the large, airy kitchen with the modern conveniences he had installed over the years.
"How nice," she exclaimed. "And decorated in yellow." She smiled at him. "Did you know that yellow is my favorite color?"
"No, I didn't know that," he said absently. He was still shocked by her appearance here and the news that she'd fought with her father on his behalf.
"And what's your favorite color, Farid?" she asked.
Whatever color you're wearing, he thought, but he didn't speak the words aloud. "We have more important things to discuss than favorite colors."
"You're right," she agreed. "Like how many bedrooms there are."
He sighed in frustration and followed behind her as she swept out of the kitchen and down the hallway, stopping at the first bedroom on the left and stepping inside.
Her gaze swept around the small room, lingering on the small bed with its navy spread, the collection of children's books on the shelf and the drawings that decorated the walls.
"This was your room?" she asked, standing before the drawings, a smile curving her lips. He nodded. "And this is your artwork?" The pictures were of different angles of the palace.
"Yeah. The year before Hashim died, he bought me a set of drawing pencils." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door jamb. "I tried drawing people, but had no talent for that. It was Hashim's idea that I try to draw buildings."
"They're very good," she said.
He grinned. "Yeah, they aren't bad for an eleven-year-old." His smile faded and he pulled his hands from his pockets. "Samira—"
"There's a third bedroom, isn't there?" She swept past him back into the hallway. She disappeared into the smaller third bedroom and again Farid watched her from the doorway as she looked around the room that had been his mother's sewing room.
"This will make a perfect nursery," she exclaimed. "We won't even have to repaint, this peach color is lovely."
For just a moment Farid's head was filled with a vision … a crib by the window, a rocking chair nearby. The room would smell of baby powder and Samira's sweet scent. He could see her sitting in the rocking chair, singing softly as she soothed their baby to sleep.
He shook his head to dispel the image, knowing it was one that would never come true. He couldn't give her what she wanted, what she needed for a happily ever after, and he knew she wasn't here because she loved him desperately.
She was here because she felt grateful to him, because she didn't know what else to do. He needed to send her home before the chasm between her and her parents got too wide to breach.
"Samira, come back to the living room. We need to talk."
Her gaze held his for a long moment. "I don't think I want to," she replied.
What Farid wanted to do was to wrap her in his arms, pull her close against his chest where he could feel her heart beating against his own.
What he wanted to do was to kiss her trembling mouth until she gasped with pleasure, but doing those things would solve nothing.
Instead he held out a hand to her and together they walked from the small spare room back into the living room. As they passed the front window a shaft of sunlight caught the gold of the ring on her finger and it seemed to wink at him, mocking him.
A princess deserved better than a plain gold band. This princess deserved better than a man who'd been dishonored and banished and had no idea what his own personal future might hold.
It was time to send her back home where she belonged.
He led her to the sofa and they sat side by side. "Don't send me away, Farid," she said, as if she'd read his thoughts and was attempting to preempt him. Her eyes sparkled with the reflection of her silver dress. "I won't leave. I belong here … with you."
"Samira, you belong in the palace, with your family who loves you," he replied, trying not to notice the hurt that resided in her almond eyes.
Still, he continued, wanting her to understand all that she was giving up to be here with him now. "Samira, you will want your parents and your siblings surrounding you, especially as your pregnancy progresses."
"I will want my husband with me," she countered. Before he could reply there was a brisk knock on the front door.
Frowning, Farid got up from the sofa and went to the front door. He was surprised to see two armed palace guards. Farid recognized them both, although he knew neither very well.
"Yes?" He looked at them expectantly.
"
Farid Nasir, we are to escort you back to the palace," the eldest guard said.
Samira joined Farid at the door and grabbed his arm, a beatific smile lighting her face. "Farid, perhaps Father has changed his mind!"
Moments later Samira sat next to him in the back of the official car and squeezed his hand tightly. "I knew Father's anger couldn't last forever," she said. "I'm sure he has called you back to make things right."
"Samira, I wouldn't be too quick to get my hopes up if I were you," he warned.
A bad feeling filled him as he stared out the window at the approaching palace gates. His instincts were screaming that something was wrong – something was terribly wrong.
If Sheik Ahmed had changed his mind about Farid's banishment, he wouldn't have sent armed guards to escort him back to the palace.
* * *
Chapter 13
«^»
Samira sat next to Farid in the back of the car, her heart filled with a new joy. Her father was going to relent. She was sure of it. He would relent and apologize to Farid and everything would be wonderful.
She still couldn't believe that she'd stood up to her father. For the first time in her life she'd met him shout for shout, demanding he remove his banishment of Farid. The sheik had not relented, and for the first time in her life, neither had Samira.
"You must decide what frightens you more … your father's anger, or being without the man you love." Alima's words had played and replayed in Samira's head and after surprisingly little thought, she'd known which frightened her more.
Breaking ties with her father would be painful, but living without Farid was impossible to fathom. She drew a deep breath, certain that her father had had a change of heart and now intended to welcome Farid into the family.
She gazed at Farid now, fighting the impulse to reach out and take his hand. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him. Her love for him ached inside her with the need to be verbalized, but now was not the place or the time.
She wasn't sure there would ever be a time or a place for her to speak to him of how deeply, how profoundly she'd come to love him.
SECRETS OF A PREGNANT PRINCESS Page 15