by Morey, Trish
He felt himself weaken a little more. He wanted to believe her, but if he believed her that would lead to a whole new list of problems.
How possible was it to have an affair with a woman whose life you were destroying? When he took Shelton away from her stepbrother what would she do? Would she hate him?
‘Do you intend to do more television work after this?’
Polly shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I suppose if it came my way I wouldn’t turn it down, but I don’t have any great specialism to bring to anything.’
‘What do you plan on doing?’
‘I’ll return to Shelton.’
‘Straight away?’
‘Well, Easter is the start of the tourist season and there’ll be lots to do to get the house ready in time.’
Again that sparkling enthusiasm, but he fancied he saw something else. Something she wasn’t saying. Something that clouded her enjoyment of the castle and her role in it.
They stepped up into the summer house and Polly sat down on the intricate seat facing out towards the small ornamental lake. ‘How come everything’s so green here?’
Rashid sat facing her. ‘There is a complex irrigation system in place, all stemming from a natural spring.’
‘Created for Elizabeth?’
He nodded, watching the expressions pass over her beautiful face.
‘King Mahmoud must have loved her very much,’ she said wistfully. ‘It was a shame they had to hurt so many people to be together. It spoils the story for me.’
She kept surprising him. That was not a sentiment he’d have expected to hear expressed by an Englishwoman. In his experience they wanted money and power and would achieve that even if the money and power were found in another woman’s husband.
Rashid turned to watch the arrival of the servant bringing fruit juices. Two large jugs. One of lime juice and the other of pomegranate.
He looked back at Polly to see she’d taken off her lihaf and shaken her blond hair free. It was all too easy to imagine it spread out on a pillow next to him. Far too easy to want it there.
‘Do you have a preference between lime and pomegranate?’
‘Isn’t lime juice sharp?’
‘Try it.’ He spoke to the servant in clipped Arabic, who then poured two glass of the lime juice, his head respectfully bowed throughout. It did him enormous credit because the temptation to look at her must have been acute.
If Polly were his he’d want to shield her from every eye but his.
Rashid picked up one of the glasses and sipped. It was dangerous to even think that way. Even if Polly were not related by marriage to the Duke of Missenden she could never play a part in his life. She was as unsuitable a choice as his mother had been for his father.
Destined for disaster. Two cultures that couldn’t do anything but clash. It was time he decided on a wife, but he wouldn’t search for her in the West.
He watched, silently, as Polly took her first sip of lime juice. But all thoughts of finding himself a wife would have to wait. What mattered now was determining if this woman presented a problem to Hanif’s succession.
‘This is lovely. Really refreshing and clean.’ She looked up and smiled. ‘My favourite so far.’
It seemed to him her smile filled the garden. ‘I’m glad.’
And then there was silence. A faint breeze caught at her shimmering blond hair, a hennaed hand reaching out to brush one wayward strand off her pale cheek.
‘I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave somewhere so beautiful—especially if it had been created for me.’
There wasn’t a movement Polly made that didn’t feel erotic. Rashid felt as though his skin had suddenly become two sizes too small for his body.
‘Why did she leave here?’
He forced his eyes to scan the sweet-smelling flowers that scrambled through the trees. Anywhere but look at her and her wide-eyed sensual beauty. ‘She didn’t have the choice. Their love affair was a scandal here, too.’
‘Because King Mahmoud was married?’
‘He had only two wives when he met Elizabeth and could easily have afforded a third,’ Rashid said with a shake of his head. ‘The problem was that she was not free to make a commitment to him.’
‘But if she hadn’t been married that would have been fine?’
He nodded.
Polly pursed her lips. ‘There’s something wrong with that. Why would any woman agree to marry a man who already had two wives?’
He’d had this conversation many, many times during his years at Cambridge University. Beyond anything else it was the thing that touched a nerve in Western women and he’d come to enjoy the debate.
‘Perhaps a woman who trusts her father,’ he said, sitting back, watching her face.
It wasn’t what he wanted for himself. He wanted a woman who would entrance him all his days, an equal, one who would protect and care for his children with her life, a woman who would love him and only him.
‘In my culture a man’s wife is chosen by his family, taking into account his status, family background and intellectual capacity.’
‘How romantic!’
‘The husband and wife bring a shared sense of values and an understanding of duty. Romantic love often comes later.’
‘And if it doesn’t,’ Polly said, her eyes watching him from over the rim of her fruit juice, ‘he just gets himself another wife!’
She knew he was enjoying himself at her expense and the teasing glint in her eyes was irresistible. Rashid smiled. ‘It is not quite as simple as you make it sound. While a man is permitted up to four wives, I know none of my generation who would choose to do so. Each wife must be treated equally…in all things.
‘Had King Mahmoud married Elizabeth he would have needed to create two more gardens as beautiful as this one for his other wives. A man with more than one wife must share his time, his body and his possessions equally. Expensive and physically exhausting, I’m sure you’ll agree.’
Rashid sat back and watched the blush that spread across Polly’s cheekbones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman blush. No Amrahi woman was left alone with him long enough for that to be a possibility and he’d thought Englishwomen had forgotten how to.
‘And all rather silly if he can have a mistress anyway.’
‘Ah, but that is human frailty at work, not a guiding principle.’
Polly laughed, seemingly because she couldn’t help it. Warmth spiralled out in a coil from the pit of his stomach.
‘So, will you marry the woman your family chooses?’
There was the difficult question, the one he’d prefer not to answer. He saw the advantages played out all around him, but the honest answer was ‘no’. How could he? To marry a woman of your family’s choosing required confidence in their ability to choose wisely and with your happiness in mind.
His father and grandfather were remarkable men, men who had achieved great things in the time allotted to them on earth, but he did not trust their judgement.
‘When the time comes,’ Rashid said firmly, ‘I will choose my own wife.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘AND Bahiyaa?’ Polly asked. ‘Will she get to choose her own husband?’
‘Bahiyaa is already married. But, the answer to your question is that my sister’s marriage was arranged by our father and approved of by my grandfather.’
Polly frowned. There’d not been a whisper of that. Not in all the conversations she’d had with his sister. And Rashid’s manner had changed, his jaw was set and his cheekbones flushed.
‘Have I met him?’
Rashid shook his head. ‘Bahiyaa’s marriage was particularly unsuccessful. Eventually she made the decision to leave her husband and seek sanctuary with her own family.’
‘But she’s not divorced?’
‘Her husband doesn’t wish it,’ he stated bluntly. And then, as though he realised she would need more explanation that that, ‘In Amrah a divorce is not an automatic r
ight. Bahiyaa must convince a court she has sufficient grounds. Omeir is an intelligent and articulate man who has been very convincing. And our mistake was not realising soon enough her husband would refuse to let her go. She has no way now of substantiating her version of events.’
Shock held Polly silent, for a moment. ‘And that’s it? There’s nothing she can do?’
‘For the time being.’
It was unfair to push him any further, but she really wanted to know. Not merely from idle curiosity, although she had to admit there was something of that, too, but because she cared about Bahiyaa. Sometimes, when his sister hadn’t known she was being watched she’d looked so sad.
The kind of sad that went beyond emotion. Much as her mother had been in the first few months after her father had died. And, being a natural ‘fixer’, she’d wondered what she could do to help. She’d not imagined anything like this, though.
‘Even with a family as influential as yours? Surely if your grandfather intervened on her—’
‘Even so.’
Polly let her finger slowly trace the rim of her glass. ‘How long has Bahiyaa lived apart from her husband?’
‘Four years.’
‘Four?’
Rashid held up his hand as though to silence her. ‘I know. There is huge injustice in what is happening to Bahiyaa. I feel it deeply.’ He took another sip of his fruit juice and appeared to be lost in thought.
He sighed. ‘When a man takes a wife,’ Rashid said quietly, ‘our religion teaches us it is a uniting of souls for all of eternity. It is the husband’s duty to love and care for his wife throughout her life.’
Put like that it was beautiful. The Christian marriage ceremony was the same. ‘To love and to cherish in sickness and health.’ So often people didn’t manage to live up to those vows, but it was a great starting point.
‘And it wasn’t like that for Bahiyaa?’
‘No.’ Rashid’s voice took on the steely quality she’d often heard in it. ‘Omeir is an influential man from a good family. He’s gifted in many areas, but he is also cruel and violent.’
‘Violent?’
‘To give my father his due I sincerely believe he had no idea when he brokered that marriage.’
Polly sat in stunned silence. Bahiyaa was so lovely. Intelligent, warm and stunningly beautiful. What more could a man want in a wife?
‘Of course, Bahiyaa did her best. She is a strong woman and she wanted her marriage to be a success. Its failure has caused her to experience a shame I do not believe she should feel. She was also, rightly as it turned out, not sure of our father’s support.’
‘Why ever not?’ The question shot from Polly’s mouth without any thought.
‘It is a question of honour. Our family’s honour.’
‘That doesn’t make any sense. He was divorced.’
‘It is different for a man.’
‘It shouldn’t be!’
‘And my mother is English.’ Rashid allowed himself a tight smile, the skin across his cheekbones pulled tight. ‘She did not consider herself bound by the precepts of a religion not her own. And I will own she had the full support of her own family.’
But she’d left her son behind. Polly couldn’t imagine the pain of that. Whatever had compelled Rashid’s mother to do that? He’d spoken of having chosen to be Arab. Perhaps he’d been put in the impossible position of having to choose between parents?
It was a little like treading on eggshells, but she had to ask. ‘Did she have to leave Amrah without you?’
‘Certainly. She didn’t have the legal right to take me without my father’s permission and he would never have given it. Perhaps if I’d been a daughter… But even then, I don’t think so. By the time she left it would have been as much about punishment as legal right.’
A lump filled her throat. More than a century before Elizabeth Lewis had chosen to leave her child, too, and there’d been such heartache in the wake of that decision. Rashid might give the impression of being invincible, but it was the ultimate rejection.
Polly moistened her lips. ‘What made her leave?’
‘It is no secret.’ Rashid refilled his glass with lime juice and silently offered to refill hers.
She nodded. ‘Please.’
‘Put simply, my father wished to take a second wife.’ He allowed himself a very small smile. ‘You will not be surprised to learn my mother objected.’
‘Polygamy is not an English concept. He must have known that.’
Rashid placed the jug back down on the tray. ‘Indeed. But my father’s desire to have a junior wife was predominantly motivated by political necessity and, no doubt, emotional blackmail. My grandfather wished it.’
She sat in silence but, honestly, she couldn’t comprehend of any situation that would justify what Rashid’s father had done to a woman he’d presumably married for love. And to his son.
He’d robbed his young son of his mother. She didn’t know what to say. Probably because there was nothing that could be said. The hurts were there, scar tissue covering wounds that had imperfectly healed.
‘It was political. In the early years of my grandfather’s reign he favoured his much younger brother, Prince Faisal, as his successor. That was a sensible choice.
‘But time passed, and by the grace of God my grandfather lived a long and fruitful life. Eventually it became logical to choose an heir from among his own nine sons.’ Rashid picked up his glass, swirling the fruit juice around as though it were whisky.
Polly waited while he sipped. The whole concept of senior and junior wives was alien to her. Having nine sons was unusual. Needing to name one as a successor more unusual still.
But it was his pain that held her silent. He related facts as though they were no more than that, but his features were set like granite.
‘My father is the eldest. At the time he was in his mid thirties, a highly educated man, disciplined, popular with the Amrahi people, and already the father of two sons. You would think an obvious choice, but my grandfather was, is,’ Rashid amended, ‘adamant that Amrah’s sovereign be entirely of Arab blood.’
It was like being given a key to his soul. So much about Rashid was falling into place. Polly felt such anger. She didn’t think she’d ever experienced anything quite as intense. At eight years old this strong, beautiful man had been made to feel he would never be good enough by the people whose business it was to love and care for him.
Rashid stared out across the lake for a few moments. ‘Princess Yasmeen, my father’s first wife, and the woman my grandfather had selected as a suitable bride, had died young. I assume my father was sincerely attached to her because he refused to contemplate a second marriage.’
‘Until he met your mother.’ Polly knew what was coming next. She understood. Hanif was a suitable heir. He, Rashid, was not.
‘I can’t imagine my grandfather was happy about it but my father married her anyway. If he’d thought my grandfather would soften his views, he was wrong.’
Polly blinked hard against the tears prickling behind her eyes.
‘Remember Amrah was a young country, newly emerging from a century of isolation. My grandfather was spearheading rapid modernisation and surrounded by voices counselling caution in his choice of successor.’
Rashid’s voice grew more distant. ‘If anything happened to Hanif they feared my father might be tempted to name me as the future king and gave him an ultimatum. He needed to take a second bride.’
‘Could he have refused?’
‘He could.’ Rashid brought his eyes back to hers. ‘He was a grown man. But my grandfather knew he wouldn’t. One of my father’s strengths is his love and commitment to Amrah. Although my grandfather rightly receives much of the credit for the skilful blend of tradition and modernity here, I think history will recognise my father’s contribution.’
For the first time Rashid’s voice held a trace of an emotion other than hurt. Pride. Crown Prince Khalid might be many things, but he was
clearly a father Rashid had looked up to. Loved. Still loved?
She studied him. It was inconceivable that any father wouldn’t have delighted in a son like Rashid.
Or grandfather.
King Abdullah had wilfully ripped a young family apart. And Rashid’s father had let him.
‘There is a history of rebellion in the Muzna region and it was suggested that ties could be strengthened if my father married Sheikh Sulaiman’s eldest daughter, Samira.’
There was a hideous logic, but what of Samira? It was hateful for her. ‘Did she agree?’
‘She was seventeen at the time, offered the chance to become a princess…’
And she’d thought life at Shelton was complicated.
‘Within weeks of that marriage my mother returned to England.’
Leaving Rashid behind to be brought up by the woman who’d replaced her. ‘That’s incredibly sad.’
‘As you say,’ he conceded.
It was more than sad. It was heartbreaking. For them both. ‘Did you see her? Growing up?’
‘No.’
Her heart felt so unbearably heavy.
‘As a child I only knew she’d chosen to leave. I never questioned my father’s judgement.’
‘And do you see her now?’ she asked, her voice husky.
‘Occasionally. She is my mother. I respect her as my mother but I have chosen to embrace the life she rejected.’ His voice was, once again, devoid of all emotion. ‘There is no fairy-tale ending. She is a woman I barely know.’
Polly stared out across the ornamental lake towards the orange trees, looking but not seeing. ‘Did she marry again?’
‘Yes.’
‘And had more children?’ Polly pushed.
‘I have two half-sisters. Miranda and Portia.’
Two English sisters. Half-sisters he scarcely knew.
‘And Princess Samira and your father have had children together, haven’t they?’
‘Three sons and five daughters. More recently my father decided to take a junior wife and Princess Raiyah gave birth to twin sons a little over two years ago.’
‘So, what’s that?’ Polly frowned, mentally counting through Rashid’s family. ‘Seven sons. Your grandfather must be delighted his plan worked so well,’ she said acerbically.