At the Sheikh's Bidding

by Chantelle Shaw

  Erin shook her head. ‘If Zahir had really wanted to marry you, surely he would have done so during the last six years?’ she said slowly.

  ‘He was about to,’ Jahmela said angrily, her face suddenly contorting into a spiteful mask. ‘But then he learned that Faisal had died and that Maryam had lost her life shortly after giving birth to their child. From the moment Zahir discovered Kazim’s existence he was utterly determined to claim him—because Kazim is the only link with the woman he adored. Every time he looks at the boy he sees Maryam. He would have done anything to gain custody of her son—including marrying a nonentity like you,’ she added scathingly, her eyes settling on Erin’s white face.

  She laughed unpleasantly, her sharp glance seeming to see inside Erin’s head. ‘You’re in love with him, aren’t you? Oh, my dear, I almost feel sorry for you. Even if Zahir was not still in love with a ghost, he would never love you. How could he?’ she asked, her brows arching in astonishment at the idea. ‘He is a prince, and you are…Well…’ Her mouth curved into a cruel smile. ‘Let’s just say that I was curious to find out more about you, and now I know exactly what you are. If the King knew of your family background, I fear he would not approve of you as Royal Consort.’

  Erin shoved her trembling hands in her lap as Jahmela’s words fell on her like hammer-blows. She felt strangely light-headed, and was scared she was about to faint, but some last vestige of pride brought her head up. ‘Even if everything you say is true, and Zahir is planning to divorce me,’ she whispered through numb lips, ‘why would you want to marry him, knowing that he is still in love with Maryam?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less who he’s in love with,’ Jahmela said coolly. ‘Six years ago I was about to marry a prince and become a member of the royal family. I do not fill my head with stupid dreams of love,’ she added contemptuously. ‘I want a position within the royal court, and the social standing that comes with being a princess. I am already Zahir’s most trusted advisor, and very soon I will be his wife.’

  The supreme confidence in Jahmela’s voice was the final straw, and Erin staggered to her feet and looked wildly around her. She was going to be sick. There was nothing she could do to prevent it. With a gasp she ran to a nearby bush and retched. It was over in moments, leaving her feeling as though her stomach had been ripped out, and she was shaking, her brow beaded with sweat, when she stumbled back onto the path.

  Jahmela was frowning in distaste. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’

  Erin shook her head. No way was she going to give Jahmela the satisfaction of knowing how shattering her revelations had been. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve been feeling nauseous for the last few days.’

  ‘Really?’ Jahmela gave her a speculative look. ‘And you’ve developed a sudden dislike of coffee. You practically turned green when it was served at dinner last night.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I do hope you’re not pregnant. That could prove most awkward.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Erin denied instantly, but as she made a quick mental calculation her heart missed a beat. ‘But I can see why you wouldn’t like it if I was.’ Erin was down, but Jahmela hadn’t won the fight yet. ‘Zahir would never divorce me if I was carrying his child.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Jahmela agreed. She waited a heartbeat before dropping her bombshell. ‘He would wait until after the child was born before he dismissed you from his life. And, as I have already explained, custody of any child you might have would be automatically awarded to him.’

  In less than an hour she was expected to attend the lavish dinner organised in honour of King Kahlid’s recovery and his return as supreme ruler of Qubbah. And somehow she was going to have to do so without revealing that she was breaking up inside, Erin acknowledged despairingly as she stared in the mirror at her paper-white face and red-rimmed eyes.

  When she had first returned to the palace after her explosive confrontation with Jahmela she’d locked herself in her dressing room and recalled in stunned disbelief everything the young Arab woman had told her. Could it be true? Had Zahir always intended to divorce her once he’d gained custody of Kazim and marry his beautiful advisor?

  She did not know how long she’d sat there, but eventually her maid had knocked on the door and reminded her that it was time to prepare for the banquet. She should have made the excuse that she was ill—no one who saw her pallor would fail to believe her. But the steely backbone of pride that had seen her through so many traumas in her life refused to bow to Jahmela’s spite, and in fighting spirits she had selected a stunning black velvet floor-length gown which clung to her curves like a second skin. She’d left her hair loose, to tumble down her back in a mass of vibrant curls, but it was going to take a miracle and a lot of make-up to disguise the ravages of her utter misery, she conceded bleakly.

  She needed to talk to Zahir, to ask him outright if he was planning to exchange his wife for a more sophisticated model, but she dared not contemplate his reply. Jahmela’s taunts echoed in her head while she applied taupe eyeshadow to her lids and highlighted her cheekbones with blusher in a desperate attempt to give her face some colour.

  She looked different, somehow, she thought as she stared at her reflection. And she felt different—not to mention permanently nauseous. She couldn’t be pregnant. Her period was only a couple of days late. It was only when Jahmela had suggested that she might be carrying Zahir’s child that she’d given any thought to contraception—or the fact that they hadn’t used any.

  The idea that she might have conceived Zahir’s baby filled her with a mixture of joy and fear. She would love to have a child, a little brother or sister for Kazim, but the blissful daydream lasted mere seconds. She dared not tell Zahir.

  On their honeymoon he had revealed a softer side to him, but she’d rarely seen it since. He had ruthlessly tricked her into bringing Kazim to Qubbah, and she knew with dreadful certainty that if he divorced her he would never allow her to keep any child she might have borne him.

  She had no opportunity to confront him before the banquet. He arrived with Jahmela a few minutes late, and remained in deep conversation with her while they waited for the servants to seat them at the table.

  To Erin’s frustration she was ushered to a chair between two Arab dignitaries, while Zahir took his place between Jahmela and the King. Out of respect for King Kahlid she pinned a smile on her face and tried to join in the conversation, but she was out of her depth with politics and eventually lapsed into silence. Jahmela’s confident exchange of views and Zahir’s obvious respect for his advisor reinforced Erin’s belief that he’d realised he had made a mistake in marrying her, and she picked at the food on her plate, unaware of his concerned glances.

  Towards the end of the meal the conversation turned to Kazim—always King Kahlid’s favourite subject.

  ‘You must be relieved that your grandson has settled so well at the palace, Your Highness,’ Jahmela commented. ‘His life here must be very different from the life he led in England.’ She paused and looked directly at Erin, a look of undisguised triumph in her eyes. ‘And of course your circumstances have changed enormously too Erin,’ she murmured silkily.

  Something in her voice caught the attention of everyone sitting at the table, and Erin’s heart jerked painfully in her chest. Suddenly she understood. Jahmela was panicking at the possibility she could be pregnant. She feared that if Zahir learned Erin was expecting his child he would change his mind about divorcing her—or at least postpone his plans to replace her until after the child was born. Jahmela had made it clear earlier that she was utterly intent on becoming Zahir’s royal bride, and nothing was going to stop her.

  ‘You must have found the contrast between the deprived housing estate where you grew up and a royal palace quite startling. And presumably now that you have married into money you are no longer tempted to steal—or to follow your mother’s…’ Jahmela paused delicately ‘…profession.’ She glanced coolly at Zahir, seemingly unfazed by the frown forming on his brow. ‘Who
would have thought that a prince from the Royal Family of Qubbah would marry a common thief and the daughter of a whore?’

  The King and Jahmela’s father, Sheikh Fahad, both spoke sharply in Arabic, but Erin did not hear them, nor the murmurs from the other guests who had overheard Jahmela’s spiteful attack. Her eyes were drawn to Zahir, to his expression that had begun as a puzzled frown and run the gamut of emotions from confusion and shock to anger.

  She was conscious of a strange buzzing in her ears as she scraped back her chair and jumped to her feet. Across the sea of curious faces she spied the doors, but as she was about to flee the King’s voice stopped her.

  ‘This cannot be true—can it, Zahir?’

  Erin answered before Zahir could reply. ‘I’m afraid it is true, Your Highness. I’m sure I am not the sort of person you would wish to be your daughter-in-law.’

  Her insecurity and self-doubt were deeply ingrained. Jahmela was right. How could she, with her background and poor education, possibly be a good mother to a future King?

  ‘But you know, don’t you, that my position as Zahir’s wife was only ever temporary? He married me so that he could be a father to the son of the woman he loved six years ago, and now that he has ensured he has custody of Kazim he will marry Jahmela, as was always planned.’

  She ignored the King’s low murmur and stared at Zahir, who had risen to his feet, his handsome face drawn into a slashing frown. ‘I want you to know that I won’t fight the divorce, or…’ she faltered, her throat clogged with tears ‘…or seek custody of Kazim. You were right—he’s better off living here, with his family, than with someone from the gutter like me.’

  The blue sky was dotted with cotton wool clouds, and the warm breeze carried a scent of lavender and old-fashioned roses. There was no place on earth more beautiful than Ingledean on a spring day, Erin mused—except an oasis in the middle of the desert, where palm trees provided shade from the scorching sun and an azure pool glinted beneath a cloudless sky.

  She had been home a month—although Ingledean no longer felt like home without Kazim. The image of his huge brown eyes and impish smile caused the familiar agonising pain in her chest, and she bit down hard on her lip, tasted blood, and cursed the tears that slid unchecked down her face. She couldn’t cry for ever. Somehow she was going to have to find the strength to move on, pick up the threads of her life, or maybe make a new one, far away from Ingledean and all its memories. But since she had left Qubbah a terrible lassitude had settled on her, and she could not plan anything when the only two people she loved were far away on the other side of the world.

  Was Kazim missing her? she wondered as she scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and stared down at the stream that gurgled at the bottom of the garden. She couldn’t bear to think of him crying for her. But he was surrounded by people who loved him: Zahir and the King, his nanny Bisma, and all the other members of the royal family. And he was young. He would soon forget her. Leaving him had hurt as much as if she had cut her heart out, but she had only ever wanted what was best for him, and while he undoubtedly belonged in Qubbah she did not.

  She’d heard Zahir shouting her name as she had raced out of the banqueting hall after Jahmela’s denouncement of her, but the anger in his voice had confirmed her belief that their marriage was over and she hadn’t looked back. He was fiercely proud, and would have felt humiliated at learning the truth about her in front of the assembled dignitaries at the banquet.

  His personal assistant, Omran, had been hovering in the corridor, and had not bothered to disguise his pleasure when she’d told him she wanted to leave the palace immediately.

  ‘I will instruct Prince Zahir’s helicopter pilot to fly you to the international airport. You are already booked onto a flight back to the UK,’ he had murmured as she’d emerged red-eyed from the nursery, where she had stood over Kazim’s sleeping form and whispered brokenly that she would always love him.

  ‘Already booked?’ she had queried, taken aback by the open dislike in Omran’s eyes. ‘Did you know what Jahmela was going to say tonight?’

  ‘She is my cousin,’ Omran had explained coldly. ‘Jahmela has been humiliated not once but twice by the King’s sons. It is only right that Prince Zahir should divorce you and marry her.’

  Presumably Zahir had already set divorce proceedings in motion, Erin brooded miserably as she wandered aimlessly around the garden.

  It was almost two weeks since she had returned his cheque. The sight of his handwriting on the envelope had filled her with a wild and totally unrealistic hope that he had written to ask her to come back to Qubbah. But inside had been a cheque made out for the same ridiculous sum that he had offered her when he had first arrived at Ingledean and tried to buy Kazim. In a furious temper that had preceded a night of tears she had ripped up the cheque and stuffed the pieces back in the envelope with a terse note explaining that she had left Kazim at the palace because she believed it was the best place for him to be. She’d finished by telling Zahir that she hated him, that he Jahmela were welcome to each other, and that she hoped she would never set eyes on him again.

  She had been lying, of course, she acknowledged despairingly as she watched a butterfly settle on the lilac bush. Its brown and orange wings were so beautiful. Kazim would love to see it. She actually turned to call him, and then gave a choked sob. He wasn’t here. Zahir wasn’t here. The pain inside her was so raw that she dropped onto the garden bench, buried her head in her arms and wept.

  ‘I suppose it isn’t so bad here. And the purple heather covering the moors is quite beautiful. But if this is where we’re going to live I insist that we have a new central heating system installed before the winter.’

  Slowly Erin lowered her hands and pushed her tangled curls out of her eyes. Now she had proof that she was losing her mind. She couldn’t have heard Zahir’s voice, and he couldn’t really be standing beneath the apple tree, looking heart-stoppingly gorgeous in jeans and a cream shirt, with a butter-soft tan leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Her eyes flew to his face and she blinked, but he was still there, a faint smile on his lips, but a curious, haunted expression in his dark eyes and deep grooves on either side of his mouth.

  ‘What…are you doing here?’ Her voice didn’t seem to be working properly, and emerged as a croaky whisper.

  He shrugged laconically and strolled over to the bench, dropped down next to her and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Erin tensed and her heart jerked painfully in her chest. The tantalising musk of his cologne mingled with the warm male heat of his body made her feel dizzy with longing after a month when she had been starved of him, and when she dared to glance at him she was startled by the answering flare of hunger in his eyes. The sexual chemistry between them had always been overpowering, and she was shocked to realise that despite everything it hadn’t faded.

  ‘If you’re here to offer me another disgusting cheque, you’re risking serious injury with a garden spade,’ she told him fiercely, glancing towards the heavy metal tool propped up against the bench.

  ‘No, kalila,’ he assured her, his voice so grave that her eyes flew to his face. ‘I am here because you are here—’ He broke off, as if he was struggling to find the right words, and Erin suddenly realised that beneath his relaxed air he was tense, and—incredibly for a man whose arrogance was legendary—unsure of himself. ‘You are my wife,’ he said in a low tone, ‘and I have discovered that wherever you are is the only place I want to be.’

  The still silence in the garden that followed his astounding statement was broken by the piercingly sweet song of a blackbird. Erin licked her suddenly dry lips, her heart beating so fast she was sure it would explode. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s quite simple.’ He sounded impatient and stared at her haughtily. But to her amazement streaks of dull colour highlighted his cheekbones, and his eyes veered from hers as if he was afraid to meet her gaze. ‘I love you, Erin.’

  Her rebuttal was fierce and i
mmediate. ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘I should have known you would want to argue about it, kalila.’ A little of his tension left him and his smile stole her breath.

  ‘You don’t love me,’ she said again. It was probably some cruel trick, and she had more sense than to be fooled. ‘You married me for Kazim. You love Maryam. Jahmela said so.’

  ‘Jahmela said a lot of things, most of them untrue.’ Zahir’s voice was suddenly harsh.

  ‘But not the things she said about me,’ Erin said thickly. ‘My mother was a prostitute and I assume that my father was one of her clients. I wasn’t conceived from an act of love, but in some dark alley with a stranger who paid for sex. My mother sold her body and spent the money she earned on her drug habit.’ She stared down at her hands, not wanting to see the disgust in his eyes. ‘We come from vastly different worlds, Zahir, and mine wasn’t a nice one. When I was fourteen I joined a street gang and was drawn into a life of crime. I was successfully prosecuted for shoplifting, and it was only because it was my first known offence that I wasn’t sent to a juvenile detention centre.’

  Zahir’s reaction was not what she had expected, and his calm, ‘Yes, I heard about that,’ brought her head up, her eyes widening at the gentle understanding in his. ‘You would have been exonerated if you had explained to the court that you stole those things to protect a younger girl who had been threatened with dire retribution from the gang if she refused to join them.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Erin mumbled, stunned that he seemed to know so much about her.