by Liz Fielding
He was silent too and once she risked a glance, but the floor level lighting only threw his features into dark, unreadable shadows.
Then, as they turned a corner, the view opened up to reveal that while behind them, above the darker bulk of the mountains, the stars still blazed, on the far side of the creek a pale edge of mauve was seeping into the pre-dawn purple.
‘It’s nearly dawn,’ she said, surprised out of her momentary descent into self-pity. It still felt like the middle of the night, but she’d flown east, was four hours closer to the day than her mother, fast asleep in London.
She was on another continent at sunrise and, to witness it, all she had to do was stand here and wait.
Kal didn’t even ask what she wanted to do. He knew.
‘There’s a summer house over there,’ he said, urging her in the direction of another intricately decorated domed and colonnaded structure perfectly situated to enjoy the view. ‘You can watch in comfort.’
‘No…’
It was open at the front and there were huge cane chairs piled with cushions. Total luxury. A place to bring a book, be alone, forget everything. Maybe later. Not now.
‘I don’t want anything between me and the sky,’ she said, walking closer to the edge of the paved terrace where the drop was guarded by a stone balustrade. ‘I want to be outside where I can feel it.’
He let her go, didn’t follow her and she tried not to mind.
Minding was a waste of time. Worse. It was a stupid contradiction. Distance was what she had wanted and the old lady with the wand was, it seemed, still on the job, granting wishes as if they were going out of fashion.
She should be pleased.
It wasn’t as if she’d expected or needed to be diverted, amused. She had a pile of great books to amuse her, occupy her mind, and exploring the garden, wandering along the shore should be diversion enough for anyone. If the forbidden delights of Kal al-Zaki’s diversionary tactics hadn’t been such a potent reminder of everything she was missing. The life that she might have had if she hadn’t looked like Lady Rose.
But then, as the mauve band at the edge of the sky widened, became suffused with pink, she heard a step behind her and, as she half turned, Kal settled something soft around her.
For a moment his hands lingered on her shoulders, tense and knotted from sitting for too long, and without thinking she leaned into his touch, seeking ease from his long fingers. For a moment she thought he was going to respond, but then he stepped back, putting clear air between them.
‘You will get cold standing out here,’ he said with a brusqueness that suggested he had, after all, been affected by their closeness. That he, too, was aware that it would be inappropriate to take it further.
‘And you don’t want to explain to Lucy how I caught a chill on your watch?’ Light, cool, she told herself.
‘That wouldn’t bother me.’ He joined her at the balustrade, but kept his eyes on the horizon. ‘I’d simply explain that you stubbornly, wilfully insisted on standing outside in the chill of dawn, that short of carrying you inside there was nothing I could do about it. I have no doubt that she’d agree with me.’
‘She would?’ The idea of Rose being wilful or stubborn was so slanderous that she had to take a breath, remind herself that he was judging Rose on her behaviour, before she nodded and said, ‘She would.’ And vow to try a little harder-a lot harder-to be like the real thing.
‘His Highness, the Emir, on the other hand,’ Kal continued, ‘would be certain to think that I’d personally arranged for you to go down with pneumonia in order to cause him maximum embarrassment.’
He spoke lightly enough, inviting amusement, but she didn’t laugh, sensing the underlying darkness behind his words.
‘Why on earth would he think that?’ she asked, but more questions crowded into her head. Without waiting for him to answer, she added, ‘And why do you always refer to him as His Highness or the Emir?’ She made little quote marks with her fingers, something else she realised Rose would never do, and let her hands drop. ‘Sheikh Jamal is your uncle, isn’t he, Kal?’ she prompted when he didn’t answer.
‘Yes,’ he said shortly. Then, before she could say another word, ‘Someone will bring tea in a moment.’
‘This is your first visit here, too,’ she said, ignoring the abrupt change of subject. ‘Why is that?’
‘Watch the sunrise, for heaven’s sake,’ he practically growled at her.
In other words, Lydia, mind your own business, she thought, unsure whether she was pleased or sorry that she’d managed to rattle him out of his good manners.
Here was a mystery. A secret.
That she wasn’t the only one hiding something made her feel less guilty about the secret she was keeping for Rose, although no better about lying to him, and without another word she did as she was told.
Neither of them spoke or moved again while the darkness rolled back and the sun, still below the horizon, lit up bubbles of cloud in a blaze of colour that was reflected in the creek, the sea beyond, turning them first carmine, then pink, then liquid gold. As it grew light, the dark shapes against the water resolved themselves into traditional dhows moored amongst modern craft and beyond, sprawling over the steep bank on the far side of the creek, she could see a small town with a harbour and market which were already coming to life.
‘Wow,’ she said at last. ‘Double wow.’
She caught a movement as Kal turned to look at her and she shrugged.
‘Well, what other word is there?’ she asked.
‘Bab el Sama.’ He said the words softly. ‘The Gate of Heaven.’
She swallowed at the poetry of the name and said, ‘You win.’
He shook his head and said, ‘Are you done?’
‘Yes. Thank you for being so patient.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it,’ he assured her as they turned and walked back towards the summer house-such an ordinary word for something that looked as if it had been conjured up by Aladdin’s djinn-where a manservant was laying out the contents of a large tray.
The man bowed and, eyes down, said, ‘Assalam alaykum, sitti. Marhaba.’
She turned to Kal for a translation. ‘He said, “Peace be upon you, Lady. Welcome.’”
‘What should I say in return?’
‘Shukran. Alaykum assalam,’ Kal said. ‘Thank you. And upon you peace.’
The man smiled, bowed again, when she repeated it, savouring the words on her tongue, locking them away in her memory, along with Bab el Sama. He left them to enjoy their breakfast in private.
As she chose a high-backed cane chair and sank into the vivid silk cushions, Kal unwrapped a napkin nestled in a basket to reveal warm pastries.
‘Hungry?’
‘I seem to have done nothing but eat since I left London,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to swim the creek once a day if I’m going to keep indulging myself this way.’
Maybe it was the thought of all that effort, but right now all she wanted to do was close her eyes and go to sleep. Tea would help, she told herself, just about managing to control a yawn.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ he asked, offering her the basket.
‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,’ she said, succumbing to the enticing buttery smell. ‘I suppose it is breakfast time?’
‘It’s whatever time you care to make it,’ he assured her as he poured tea into two unbelievably thin china cups. ‘Milk, lemon?’
‘Just a touch of milk,’ she said. Then, ‘Should you be doing this?’ He glanced at her. ‘Waiting on me?’
Kal frowned, unable, for a moment, to imagine what she meant.
‘Won’t it ruin your image?’
‘Image?’
He hadn’t been brought up like his grandfather, his father, to believe he was a prince, above the mundane realities of the world. Nor, despite his Mediterranean childhood, was he one of those men who expected to live at home, waited on by a doting mother until he transferred tha
t honour to a wife. Even if he had been so inclined, his mother had far more interesting things to do.
As had he.
His image was not about macho posturing. He had never needed to work, never would, but once he’d fallen in love with flying he had worked hard. He’d wanted to own aircraft but there was no fun in having them sit on the tarmac. He’d started Kalzak Air Services as a courier service. Now he flew freight worldwide. And he employed men and women-hundreds of them-on their qualifications and personal qualities first, last and everything in between.
‘Hanif nursed his first wife, nursed Lucy, too, when she was injured,’ he said.
‘He did?’
‘Lucy has not told you?’
‘Only that he loved her.’
‘He loved his first wife, too.’ The girl who had been chosen for him. A traditional arranged marriage. ‘He has been twice blessed.’
‘Maybe he is a man who knows how to love,’ she said.
Was that the answer?
It was not a concept he was comfortable with and, remembering what Lucy had said about Rose not being able to lift a finger without someone taking a photograph of her, he carried his own cup towards the edge of the promontory and leaned against the parapet. A man enjoying the view. It was what anyone would do in such a place.
The sun was in the wrong direction to reflect off a lens that would betray a paparazzo lying in wait to snatch a photograph. Not that he imagined they would ever be that careless. The only obvious activity was on the dhows as their crews prepared to head out to sea for a day’s fishing.
As he scanned the wider panorama, the distant shore, he saw only a peaceful, contented community waking to a new day, going about its business. He let the scene sink into his bones the way parched earth sucked up rain.
As a boy, his grandfather would have stood in this same spot, looking at the creek, the town, the desert beyond it, certain in the knowledge that every drop of water, every grain of sand would, insh’Allah, one day be his.
Except that Allah had not willed it. His grandfather had followed his heart instead of his head and, as a result, had been judged unworthy. A lesson he had learned well.
He drained his cup, took one last look, then returned to the summer house.
Sparrows, pecking at a piece of pastry, flew up at his approach and a single look was enough to tell him that Rose had fallen asleep, tea untouched, croissant untasted.
And, now that the sun had risen high enough to banish the shadows from the summer house and illuminate her clear, fair skin, he could see the faint violet smudges beneath her eyes.
Clearly sleep had eluded her aboard the plane and a long day, a long flight, had finally caught up with her. This was no light doze and he did not attempt to wake her, but as he bent and caught her beneath the knees she sighed.
‘Shh,’ he said, easing her arm over his shoulder, around his neck. ‘Hold on.’
On some level of consciousness she must have heard him because, as he lifted her out of the chair, she curled her hand around his neck and tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder.
She wasn’t anywhere near as light, as ethereal as she looked, he discovered as he carried her along the path to Lucy and Han’s seaside retreat. Not an angel, but a real, solid woman and he was glad that the huge doors stood wide to welcome her.
He walked straight in, picking up a little group of women who, clucking anxiously, rushed ahead to open doors, circled round them tutting with disapproval and finally stood in his way when he reached her bedroom.
‘Move,’ he said, ‘or I’ll drop her.’
They scattered with little squeals of outrage, then, as he laid her on the bed, clicked his fingers for a cover in a manner that would have made his grandfather proud-and he would have protested was utterly alien to him-they rushed to do his bidding.
He removed her shoes but, about to reach for the button at her waist to make her more comfortable, he became aware of a silence, a collectively held breath.
He turned to look at the women clustered behind him, their shocked faces. And, remembering himself, took a step back.
That he could have undressed her in a completely detached manner had the occasion demanded it was not in question. But this was not London, or New York, or Paris. This was a world where a man did not undress a woman unless he was married to her. He should not even be in her room.
‘Make her comfortable,’ he said with a gesture that would have done his grandfather proud. Maybe it was the place calling to his genes, he thought as he closed the door behind him, leaving the women to their task.
Then, to an old woman who’d settled herself, cross-legged, in front of the door like a palace guard, ‘When she wakes she should have a massage.’
‘It will be done, sidi.’
Lord…
‘Don’t call me that,’ he said, straightening, easing his own aching limbs.
‘You don’t want to be given your title, Sheikh?’ she asked, clearly not in the slightest bit in awe of him. ‘Your grandfather wanted to be the Emir.’
About to walk away, he stopped, turned slowly back to face her.
‘You knew him?’
‘When he was a boy. A young man. Before he was foolish.’
She was the first person he’d met in Ramal Hamrah who was prepared to admit that. He sat before her, crossing his legs so that the soles of his feet were tucked out of sight.
‘Here? You knew him here?’
‘Here. In Rumaillah. At Umm al Sama. He was the wild one. Headstrong.’ She shook her head. ‘And he was stubborn, like his father. Once he’d said a thing, that was it.’ She brushed her palms together in a gesture he’d seen many times. It signalled an end to discussion. That the subject was closed. ‘They were two rocks.’ She tilted her head in a birdlike gesture, examining him closely. ‘You look like him,’ she said after a while. ‘Apart from the beard. A man should have a beard.’
He rubbed his hand self-consciously over his bare chin. He had grown a beard, aware that to be clean-shaven was the western way; it would be something else the Emir could hold against him.
‘My grandfather doesn’t have a beard these days,’ he told her. The chemo baldness hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as the loss of this symbol of his manhood and Kal had taken a razor to his own beard in an act of solidarity. It had felt odd for a while, but he’d got used to it.
‘They say that he is dying,’ she said. He did not ask who had said. Gossip flowed through the harem like water down the Nile.
‘But still stubborn,’ he replied. ‘He refuses to die anywhere but in the place he still calls home.’
She nodded, ‘You are stubborn, too,’ she said, reaching up to pat his hand. ‘You will bring him home, insh’Allah. It is your destiny.’
‘Who are you?’ he asked, with a sudden sinking feeling, the certainty that he had just made a complete fool of himself.
‘I am Dena. I was found, out there,’ she said with the wave of an elegant hand, the rattle of gold on her skinny wrists. ‘Your great-grandmother took me into her house. Made me her daughter.’
Oh, terrific. This woman was the adopted child of the Khatib and he’d spoken to her as if she were a servant. But from the way she’d settled herself in front of Rose’s bedroom door…
He’d been brought up on his grandfather’s stories, had studied his family, this country, clung to a language that his father had all but forgotten, but he still had so much to learn.
He uncurled himself, got to his feet. ‘My apologies, sitti,’ he said with a formal bow.
‘You have his charm, too,’ she said. ‘When you speak to him tell him that his sister Dena remembers him with fondness.’ Then, ‘Go.’ She waved him away. ‘Go. I will watch over your lady while you sleep.’
His lady…
Dena’s words echoed in his mind as he stood beneath the shower, igniting again the memory of Rose’s lips, warm, vital as they’d softened beneath him, parted for him. His mouth burned but as he suck
ed his lower lip into his mouth, ran a tongue over it, he tasted Rose and, instead of cooling it down, the heat surged like a contagion through his body.
Do you want me to protect her or make love to her…?
Lucy had not answered his question, but it would have made no difference either way. He was not free. He flipped the shower to cold and, lifting his face to the water, stood beneath it until he was chilled to the bone.
And still he burned.
CHAPTER SIX
LYDIA woke in slow gentle ripples of consciousness. Blissful comfort was the first stage. The pleasure of smooth, sweet-smelling sheets, the perfect pillow and, unwilling to surrender the pleasure, she turned over and fell back into its embrace.
The jewelled light filtering through ornate wooden shutters, colours dancing on white walls, seeping through her eyelids, came next.
She opened her eyes and saw an ornate band of tiny blue and green tiles shimmering like the early morning creek. She turned onto her back, looked up at a high raftered cedar wood ceiling.
It was true then. Not a dream.
‘Bab el Sama.’ She said the name out loud, savouring the feel of it in her mouth. The Gate of Heaven. ‘Marhaba…’ Welcome. ‘Kalil al-Zaki…’ Trouble.
‘You are awake, sitti?’
What?
She sat up abruptly. There was a woman, her head, body swathed in an enfolding black garment, sitting cross-legged in front of a pair of tall carved doors, as if guarding the entrance.
She rose with extraordinary grace and bowed her head. ‘I am Dena, sitti. Princess Lucy called me, asked me to take care of you.’
‘She seems to have called everyone,’ Lydia said.
So much for being alone!
She threw off the covers, then immediately grabbed them back, clutching them to her chest, as she realised that she was naked.
Realised that she had no memory of getting that way. Only of the sunrise with Kal, soft cushions, the scent of buttery pastry. Of closing her eyes.
‘Bin Zaki carried you here, sitti. We made you comfortable’
Lydia swallowed, not quite sure how she felt about that. Whether it was worse that an unknown ‘we’ had undressed her sleeping body or Kal.