by Morey, Trish
King Abdullah seemed like a Machiavellian puppeteer, pulling the strings of those around him. And Rashid’s father a victim of his own ambition. She couldn’t like that any more than she liked Elizabeth Lewis’s selfishness.
Other people mattered. They did. For the first time in six years she was suddenly hugely grateful she understood that. There was nothing more important than the people you loved. The years she’d spent at Shelton seemed years very well spent.
‘Except my grandfather is likely to outlive my father. He will need to name a new heir and Samira’s eldest son is still young.’
So all that upheaval and heartache might have been for nothing. Crown Prince Khalid was not going to live long enough to be King and his sons might not inherit either. One would have thought, having lived through that, he’d have been more receptive to his daughter’s situation.
‘What made Bahiyaa take the decision to finally leave her husband?’
The muscle in Rashid’s cheek worked painfully. ‘Omeir had never left a mark on Bahiyaa where it could be seen, but on that night he threw her against a wall and she broke her wrist putting her hands up to break her fall. When she came to me she had a black eye, bruising to her face and marks around her neck.’
Deep loathing washed over Polly in unstoppable waves. She’d only known Bahiyaa for such a short time but imagining her in that situation brought such revulsion. Thank God she’d had the courage to leave at last. Even in England, where divorce held no stigma, she knew women so often found it hard.
‘Three weeks later she lost the baby she’d been carrying.’
Oh, dear God, no! Polly reached out instinctively, her hand lightly touching his. ‘She was lucky to have somewhere to come.’
His fingers closed around hers, dark against the paleness of her skin. ‘She lives under my protection. She’s safe, but she has lost so much. The possibility of children. Companionship.’
Love, Polly added silently. If ever there was a woman capable of loving it was Bahiyaa. ‘Couldn’t…?’ She stared down at their joined hands. ‘Couldn’t your father do something to help her?’
‘He refuses even to see her.’
‘Even now?’ Polly couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. Crown Prince Khalid was dying. Surely now, when he realised how short a time he had left, he’d want to see his daughter. Make things safe for her.
‘He is adamant Bahiyaa should return to her husband.’
‘And be beaten?’
‘I have to believe he doesn’t think that will happen.’
Her hand moved against his. Of course, he had to believe his father was acting out of ignorance. How could you have any respect left for a man who would allow his daughter to live in fear, particularly when she’d had the courage to ask for help?
It must be doubly painful if that man was someone you’d spent your entire life revering.
‘How long is your father expected to live?’
Rashid shrugged. ‘Hours. Days. Weeks. His cancer is advanced but he is a strong man. It will take the time it takes.’
And he was going to die without telling his daughter how much he loved her.
She’d been so lucky. Her father had left nothing unsaid. She’d never been in doubt he’d gone away from them only because he’d had to. And that had carried her. Always.
‘She seems so calm.’
‘She is accepting. I think she’s reached the point where she is content not to live in fear. I find the separation from our father more difficult.’
Polly looked up. She hadn’t understood that by taking Bahiyaa in Rashid had broken contact with his father, too. That conversation back in Minty’s office about why Rashid wasn’t doing the ‘bedside vigil thing’ suddenly seemed glib.
He wasn’t there because he wasn’t allowed to be there.
Never had Rashid seemed quite so human. Or so desirable. He’d made a conscious decision to do the right thing at enormous personal cost. He was all that was standing between his sister and an unthinkable future.
A strong, sexy, wonderful man. A man you could trust. A man worth loving. Polly’s gaze drifted to Rashid’s mouth and the lips that had kissed her. She studied the curve of them, the fullness of his bottom lip as compared to the top one. The cleft in his chin.
‘Polly.’
From somewhere deep inside her a tear welled up and rolled slowly down her cheek. She wasn’t sure why exactly. Whether she was crying for the boy Rashid had been, the man he was now or for Bahiyaa, she couldn’t tell. She only knew she felt an overwhelming sense of sadness flow through her.
Rashid moved. He sat beside her and his left hand moved to brush her hair off her face, his thumb coming back to wipe away the moisture on her cheek. His face so close to hers. She could feel his fingers skim her neck. But it was his eyes that caused heat to lick along her limbs.
She wanted him with a passion she really didn’t understand. It was a compulsion. A need. Something that transcended morality and sense. It wasn’t even really about sex. It was about belonging. About recognising that this was the man she’d been waiting for.
‘You’re so beautiful.’
Incredibly, with the truth of that burning in his blue eyes, she felt beautiful. His hand brushed her cheek, setting the long gold earrings Bahiyaa had given her swinging. She felt them touch her neck.
It seemed such a long time before he lowered his mouth to hers. Every millisecond she was urging him on, willing him to kiss her with all the passion she knew he was capable of.
Rashid’s hands cradled her face and his mouth was hard against hers. His kiss was everything it had been yesterday and more. There was desperation in it, a certain knowledge that this passion was beyond wisdom. They lived lives so very far apart. There could be no future. Nothing more than this moment.
But this moment was all she wanted. Heat coursed through her veins and settled in the pit of her stomach. She was beyond excitement.
I want him. The words pounded in her head with each beat of her heart. I want him to love me.
His tongue moved against her mouth. The lightest touch on her lips and she heard her own gasp for breath. She wanted to taste him. Feel him invade her body. Her lips parted and her heart thudded against her breasts.
Rashid’s hand moved round to the small of her back urging her closer, his left hand tilting her face to allow him maximum access.
There was nothing she wouldn’t do for him. Nothing. Here, now, in Elizabeth’s garden, she’d be his lover if that was what he wanted. She only wanted his lips to go on kissing her. Kissing her until she was certain there was no life outside this moment.
Her whole body was humming with a pleasure, a hot ache low in her abdomen. She needed more. Wanted more.
The sound of smashing glass barely pierced her consciousness, but Rashid pulled back, his breathing uneven.
She moaned.
‘Your glass,’ he said roughly.
No. Inside she was screaming, but her pride kicked in. She ignored the lime juice spread out over the summer-house floor and bent down to collect slivers of glass in the palm of her hand.
Rashid touched her hair. ‘Leave it.’
She placed what she’d gathered already in one neat pile and looked up, knowing that he’d remembered all the reasons why kissing her wasn’t a good idea.
‘You are too beautiful to resist.’
No one had ever said that to her. It warmed her even as she knew what he was really saying. ‘Too beautiful’ meant that kiss shouldn’t have happened.
The girl she’d been back in England would have agreed. It was foolish. She was no more suitable a bride for Rashid Al Baha than his mother had been for his father. She could only be a temporary distraction and if she continued down this path she’d be hurt.
Desperately hurt. For whatever reason Rashid had let her glimpse behind the mask. She knew what motivated him, what had shaped him. She saw more than perhaps even he’d intended.
And she ached to have his arms aroun
d her once more. The future didn’t seem so very important any more. It would take care of itself and if all she could have were memories she’d settle for those.
Rashid brushed his thumb against her swollen lips and then, with his eyes holding hers, he placed her lihaf over her head. ‘The heat of the sun is fierce now. I ought to take you back inside.’
Away from him. Away from temptation.
‘Thank you for telling me about your father. And about Bahiyaa.’ Polly tugged at the side of her bottom lip with her teeth in an effort not to cry. ‘She is fortunate to have a brother like you.’
It took immense courage to turn away, but she did it. Head high, she stepped down out of the summer house and into the midday sun. Heat seemed to rise up from the marble paving in waves, her legs brushing against the sweet-smelling herbs that spilled out across the warm stone.
‘Polly.’
She forced her feet to slow. If her smile was a little too bright it was unlikely Rashid would notice. She turned and waited for him to catch up. ‘Which way now? Will the guys still be in the Majlis?’
‘Quite possibly. Is that where you wish to go?’
No, it wasn’t. The thought of having to make small talk with people she scarcely knew didn’t appeal in the slightest. What she wanted was solitude and the chance to mull over what Rashid had told her. A chance, too, to understand what was happening to her. ‘I think I might like to read for a while.’
Rashid nodded. ‘Then I shall take you to find Bahiyaa. She will show you the way to your room.’
It had always been a matter of ‘when’ not ‘if’ Bahiyaa would track him down. Not because he imagined Polly would have referred to his sister’s unhappy marriage or that Bahiyaa would mind if she had, but because she had become their guest’s champion.
Perhaps it was because she was wrongly judged herself she felt a need to protect Polly from what she saw as an unjust accusation? Perhaps it was nothing more than friendship? While Omeir and their father remained intransigent, her life was necessarily secluded and she must often be lonely.
‘Polly…’
Rashid saved the work on his computer and gave his sister his full attention.
‘Have you reached any conclusions?’
He supposed he must have.
Inadvertently. Nothing about this morning had gone to plan. The questions he had about her stepbrother and her life at Shelton had remained unasked, but it seemed he’d reached a decision all the same.
Rashid rubbed a hand around the back of his neck. He hadn’t intended to kiss Polly for a second time any more than he’d intended to bare his soul. But her beautiful moist eyes, her hand in his, and he’d been unable to resist her.
The sweetness of her kiss seemed to reach deep inside him and grab hold of his heart. He’d felt her vulnerability to him and it had enflamed him. What troubled him was the sense of intimacy he felt.
That was new.
He didn’t do intimacy. Rashid picked up his fountain pen and twisted it between thumb and forefinger. He liked to play fair. His relationships had always been about sex, need, passion, wanting…
They were not based on conversation. No woman he’d ever slept with had imagined she would occupy a permanent place in his life. If he felt they were getting too close he stepped back.
But Polly had crossed some kind of line. And he didn’t want that. His family’s privacy was sacrosanct and yet, for some reason, he’d felt able to talk to her. And, having done so, he trusted her not to use that information to hurt the people he loved.
That had to be his decision. He trusted her. When he looked into her blue eyes he saw honesty—which meant she was going to be hurt.
Because of him.
Rashid glanced across at his sister, who was looking at him with a slight knowing smile.
‘She knows nothing, Rashid.’
He pushed his chair back from his desk. ‘Perhaps.’
‘I have had so many conversations about her life at Shelton Castle. I do not think she cares for her stepbrother at all.’
‘He is a thoroughly unpleasant man.’
‘She says “weak”.’
‘That would be right.’ Weak, greedy and dishonest. But he was her family, if only by marriage. ‘If she dislikes him so much, has she told you why she stays?’
‘Because of her mother’s accident.’
Bahiyaa twisted the gold bangles on her wrist. ‘And have you thought to ask her what her stepbrothers felt about their father’s remarriage? What they said?’ She moved closer. ‘Have you asked her what she fears will be Shelton’s future?’
Rashid moved his pen from one hand to the other and back again, twisting it all the time between long, lean fingers.
She smiled. ‘I am wondering, Rashid, what you have been talking about for so long. You seem to have discovered very little.’
Her dark, kohl-lined eyes smiled understandingly across the distance between them.
‘Surely it would be simplest to ask her about Golden Mile?’
‘It need not concern her.’
‘Of course it will concern her! Shelton Castle is her home and a place she loves. She has poured her life into it and what you propose to do will rip it from her. You cannot destroy the Duke of Missenden without hurting Polly. And,’ Bahiyaa continued with unaccustomed force, ‘you are working towards that end while offering her friendship. I do not think she will be able to forgive you that, Rashid. And I’m not sure you will forgive yourself.’
‘My honour demands justice.’
‘You have the power to temper your justice with mercy if you so choose. Rashid, I know you.’ Her hennaed hand reached out and touched his arm. ‘You will never be content with a girl who has lived her entire life in Amrah. You say that is what you—’
Rashid moved abruptly and set his pen down on the desk. Bahiyaa was hitting too close to home, touching a nerve that was newly exposed. ‘When I marry I will choose a girl from my own culture. I will look for the mother of my children.’
‘You should choose the woman you love,’ Bahiyaa corrected softly. ‘And if you love wisely she will be a woman who can help you accept that two cultures have shaped you, Rashid. And your children will be blessed because they have parents who will nurture them in a loving relationship.’
He saw her blink hard. ‘You, Hanif and I did not have that. What we experienced was not good.’
What she had experienced in her own marriage had been infinitely worse, Rashid added silently.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RASHID was ready to leave for Al-Jalini long before the appointed early start. Long before the plaintive wail of the muezzin drifted out across Samaah, calling the faithful to prayer.
He’d slept fitfully. Bahiyaa’s words had burned deep inside him—as she had intended they should. It was as though she’d held up a mirror to his life and forced him to take a good hard look at it. And having taken a look he wasn’t so sure he liked what he saw.
He was still that boy trying to fit in, trying to find acceptance, trying to be better, stronger, make things right. Rashid swore softly.
Because he’d known his father was watching for signs of his mother, he’d subjugated everything he could about himself that would remind him of her. And he’d tried to make his father proud of him. He’d rode faster than Hanif, on horses that his brother wouldn’t have ventured near. He’d learnt swathes of Amrahi history. Even his love of the desert had been born out of his burning need for acceptance.
But whatever he’d done had never been enough. It was time to accept that and understand why. He had his mother’s eyes and, when his father looked at him, he saw her. The woman who had publicly shamed him. There’d been no way back from that.
And in the way of a child he’d come to loathe what he had been told was loathsome. Bahiyaa was right. He needed to come to terms with the fact two cultures had shaped the man he’d become and find a way of balancing them within himself.
Bahiyaa had spoken, too, of his taking a
wife. It was time. He yearned for family. To create what he had never really had.
Over the years he and Hanif had spent many hours teasing each other over their father’s choice of prospective brides. A second cousin. The daughter of an influential sheikh on whose land there was oil. They’d resisted. Always.
But, when the time came, Hanif would do his duty. His brother knew, and had always known, there was no reason to suppose their grandfather would not place the same stipulations on him as he had on his own son. It was his destiny to marry dynastically and Hanif had accepted it.
His brother would respect the woman his family chose and he would probably be happy. He would derive solace from his children and would pour his energies into the environmental issues that so concerned him. And should his grandfather decide to make him his successor, he would devote the last breath of his body to Amrah and its people.
Rashid’s own future path was less well delineated. His choices wider. But he feared Bahiyaa was right. He would not be satisfied by a relationship based on duty and friendship.
He had told Polly he would choose his own bride and he stood by that. He, and only he, would determine what would best suit him in a wife. And what would suit him was a woman who understood he was an Arab at heart.
However he’d come to it, Amrah was the place his soul felt at peace. It was foolishness to suppose a woman brought up with the freedoms of the West would live happily here and that must guide his choice.
It could not, would not, be a woman like Polly.
He turned his head at Karim’s tap on the door. His aide held the papers he’d been waiting for.
‘Everything you asked for is here, Prince Rashid.’
Rashid nodded. ‘Leave the file on my desk.’ He turned back to fill his lungs with the early morning air, looking out across the courtyard garden.
His feelings about Polly were complicated. Bahiyaa, despite it all, was a romantic, but even she had counselled he ‘love wisely’.
‘Wisely’ could not mean loving a woman who was related by marriage to a man he would ruin. And he would have justice. Bahiyaa didn’t understand that not to would lay him open to ridicule throughout the racing world. His actions would be moderate but decisive. Not revenge. Justice.