by Liz Fielding
‘But what about…?’
He silenced her protest with a kiss.
‘The groom will take him back,’ he said and she realised that this had not been a spur of the moment escapade but was a carefully arranged assault on her defences by a man who when he offered a treat refused to take no for an answer. No doubt there would be a picnic waiting for her at the side of the river, or some archaeological treasure.
But when he stopped there was nothing but a distant view.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Do you see it?’
She could see something shimmering through the dust haze like a mirage. A tower, a shimmer of green above high walls, and she knew without doubt that she was looking at Umm al Sama.
‘I see it,’ she said. Then, turning to him, ‘I see you, Kalil bin Zaki.’
‘Will you go there with me?’
He had brought her to the place where his grandfather had been born. The place he called home. Not home as in the place where he lived, like the apartments in Rumaillah, London, New York, but the home of his heart. The place that an exile, generations on, still carried deep in the memory, in his soul.
That he would keep for a woman who meant more than a brief affair. This was the home he had been preparing not just for the return of his grandfather, but for the bride he would one day bring here and, even though he knew who she was, Lydia Young, he was offering it to her.
Words for a moment failed her, then a phrase came into her head, something from long ago Sunday School…
‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge…’
Kal knew this was a perfect moment. He had offered the woman he loved all that he was and she had replied with words that touched his soul and as he reached for her, embraced her, sealed their future with a kiss, he knew he owned the world.
Kal led her through Umm al Sama by the hand, through gardens that had run wild, but were being tamed. Beside pools that had been cleaned and reflected the blue of a sky that had magically cleared above them. Through arched colonnades decorated with cool blue and green tiles.
Showed her a wind tower that funnelled the air down to a deep cooling pool below ground. Buildings that had been beautiful once and would be beautiful again when he had finished restoring them.
One building, smaller than the rest, was finished. Kal watched her from the doorway as she walked around an exquisite sitting room touching fine tables, running a finger over the smooth curves of fine porcelain.
‘This is so beautiful, Kal. So special.’ She looked at him. ‘What was this?’
Kal had not touched Lydia since they’d arrived at Umm al Sama. Outside, in the garden, where they might be seen, he’d kept a discreet distance between them. Showing her respect. He had not brought her here to make love to her, but to give her his heart. To give her this.
‘My great-grandfather’s wife lived here before they moved to the new palace at Rumaillah.’
‘Leaving it to the heir apparent?’
‘No one has lived here since my grandfather was banished. If you go upstairs, there should be something to eat on the balcony.’
‘All this and food too?’
‘I invited you on a picnic,’ he reminded her, leading the way to a wide covered balcony with carved shade screens that ran the length of the building.
She stared for a moment at the distant view of the mountains, then pushed open a door to reveal the private apartment of a princess.
The polished floor was covered with rare carpets, the walls hung with vivid gauzy silk, as was the great bed at its heart.
Lydia looked back at him. ‘Are you expecting Scheherazade?’
‘Only you. Come, ya habibati,’ he said, extending his hand to her. ‘You must be hungry.’
‘I’m starving, Kal.’ As she raised her hand to meet his, she came into his arms, lifted her lips to his. ‘Feed me.’
As she breathed the words into his mouth he shattered. The man who had been Kalil al-Zaki no longer existed. As he shed his clothes, fed Lydia Young, the wife of his heart, with his touch, his mouth, his body, she rebuilt him with her surprise, her delight, tiny cries of pleasure at each new intimacy and finally with her tears as they learned from each other and finally became one.
‘I have to go back to Bab el Sama, Kal,’ she protested the following morning as she lay in bed while he fed her pomegranate seeds and dates for breakfast. ‘I have no clothes here.’
He kissed her shoulder. ‘Why do you need clothes?’
‘Because otherwise I can’t leave this room.’
He nudged the edge of the sheet, taking the kiss lower. ‘I repeat, why do you need clothes, ya rohi, ya hahati?’
He’d showered her with words she did not understand as he’d made love to her, but she refused to be distracted.
‘Dena will be concerned.’
‘Dena knows that you are with your bodyguard. Am I not guarding your body?’ And his smile, his touch, made everything else go away.
Thoroughly and completely distracted, it was gone noon when she stirred again. She was alone in the great bed they’d shared and, wrapping the sheet around her, she went to the balcony, expecting to find him there waiting for her to wake.
The balcony was deserted but her clothes, freshly laundered, were waiting for her on a dresser with a note from Kal.
Ask for whatever you want. Umm al Sama is yours. I will back soon.
She held it to her breast, smiling. Obviously he’d gone to fetch her clothes, explain their absence, and she bathed, washed her hair, dressed. The note from the princess’s secretary, forgotten in the wild excitement of her abduction, of Umm al Sama, of Kal, was at the bottom of the pile. That had been ironed, too.
She should have told him about that. As she put on Rose’s watch she wondered what time he’d left. How long it would be before he returned.
Maybe he’d rung. She checked her messages but there was nothing. Tried his number but it went straight to voicemail but this wasn’t news she could dump on him that way. And leaving a When will you be back? message seemed so needy…
A servant brought her food. She picked at it. Took a walk in the garden.
Checked her phone again. With nothing to read, no one to talk to, she switched to the Net and caught the urgent flash of a breaking news story and her blood ran cold.
Lady Rose kidnapped…
Rose…
But it wasn’t Rose.
Of course it wasn’t. It was her in the picture.
Make that a whole series of pictures.
Alone on the beach. Kal riding her down. Lifting her to his saddle. Disappearing into the distance.
The photographer hadn’t gone anywhere, she realised. Or had he been tipped off because he’d had all the time in the world to get the whole story in pictures…?
No question by whom.
There was only one person at Bab al Sama who wanted to be visible.
Well, two. She had wanted to be visible and maybe she’d given Kal the idea. Because when he’d realised that the princess wasn’t coming-Dena had no doubt had her own note from the palace and would certainly have told him-he must have been desperate.
Not for himself. Whatever happened, he’d thrown away his own hopes and dreams the minute he’d picked her up from the beach. The family name, the title, the bride. Five years of quiet diplomacy, of being invisible.
He’d done this solely out of love for his grandfather.
For love, she reminded herself as she stared at the pictures for one last moment.
One thing was certain-with the world’s press on the case, he was no longer invisible. The Emir could no longer pretend he did not exist. On the contrary, he had probably sent his guard to arrest him, lock him up. That would explain his lengthy absence. Why his phone was switched off.
And only she could save him.
She resisted the temptation to leave him to cool his heels for a night in the cells and went to find someone to take her to Rumaillah.
&n
bsp; All he’d planned was a photo opportunity followed by a picnic. She was the one who’d got completely the wrong end of the stick, responding to his polite invitation to visit his family home with a declaration of eternity. Led all the way with her desperate ‘I’m starving…feed me’. What on earth was a man to do faced with that? Say no, thanks-again?
Once she was on her way-and had stopped blushing long enough to think straight-she called Rose. She couldn’t have picked up the story yet, or she’d have been on the phone herself. She growled with frustration as her call went straight to voicemail and she left a reassuring message.
Then she called her mother, not because she’d be worried, but because she really, really needed to hear her voice.
Kal left his beautiful Lydia sleeping. He could have asked for her things to be sent to Umm al Sama, but he wanted to visit the souk.
While she had clearly understood the significance of his taking her to Umm al Sama, that no one but his bride would ever sleep in that bed, he wanted to buy her at least one of the diamonds that he would shower on her.
He left Yatimah to pack their bags while he crossed the creek in search of a perfect solitaire. A stone that would say the things that words could never say. A pledge. A promise of forever.
Then he called his grandfather to tell him that he must not be in such a hurry to die. That, if he was patient, he would see not only a wedding at Umm al Sama but a great-grandson born there, too.
It was after lunch before he arrived home to be told that the sitti had insisted on being taken to Rumaillah. To the palace.
Rumaillah…
Had there been a call? A summons from the Princess? No. She would not have made a formal visit wearing a pair of cotton trousers and a shirt. This was something else. He took the stairs two at a time as he raced to the room where they had spent the night in blissful discovery of each other, certain that she must have left a message.
There was nothing.
Only the message he had left for her.
And a note from the palace with Princess Sabirah’s regrets…
Dena had told him that she’d been unwell; it was why she hadn’t come earlier. This must have been in Lydia’s pocket when he’d taken her from the beach. It couldn’t have anything to do with her racing off to Rumaillah.
Unless…
He flipped to the Net, saw the breaking news story. And swore long and inventively in several languages. He’d had the photographer warned off but he’d either come back or this was another one. It made no difference.
He knew exactly what Lydia must be thinking.
She’d assume that he’d known that the Princess was not coming and that he had used her to force the Emir to notice him.
That she’d trusted him with all that she was, given him her most precious gift, and he had betrayed her.
Lydia stood at the door to the majlis. She’d borrowed an abbayeh from one of the women at Umm al Sama but she was the only woman in the group of people who had arrived to petition the Emir. She was aware of a rumbling of disapproval, a certain amount of jostling, but she stood tall, refused to turn tail and run, and waited her turn.
The room was vast. At one end the Emir sat with his advisors. Along each wall men, drinking coffee from tiny cups, sat on rows of sofas.
As she kicked off her sandals, stepped forward, the abbayeh caught-or maybe someone was standing on it-and slipped from her hair and every sound died away.
The Emir rose, extended a hand in welcome and said, ‘Lady Rose. We were concerned for your safety. Please…’
He gestured her forward.
She walked the length of the room. Bowed. Said, ‘Thank you, Excellency, but as you see I am safe and well. If you have seized Kalil al-Zaki, have him locked in your cells, I must ask you to release him.’
There was a buzz, silenced by a look from the Emir.
‘Who is Kalil al-Zaki?’ he asked.
She gasped, snapped, ‘Who is he? I don’t believe you people! It’s been fifty years since his grandfather was exiled. Was stripped of everything he cared about. Your nephew has an apartment in this city, yet you treat him as if he did not exist.’
Now there was silence. Pin drop silence, but she was too angry to care that she was flouting royal protocol. Even an Emir needed to hear the truth once in a while.
‘Kalil al-Zaki is a man of honour, a man who cares for his family, who has built up an international business that would grace any nation. He wants nothing from you but to bring his grandfather home to die. You would grant that to a dog!’ Then, in the ringing silence that followed this outburst, ‘And, by the way, my name is Lydia Young. Lady Rose has taken a holiday in a place where she won’t be photographed twenty-four hours a day!’
Then, because there was nothing left for her, she sank to her knees before him.
‘The son of your great-grandfather is dying, Excellency. Will you not let him come home?’
Kal was too late to stop her. He was blocked at the doorway by the Emiri guard, forced to watch as she berated the Emir.
But, in the deathly silence that followed her appeal for mercy, even they were too stunned to stop him and he pushed the man aside, lifted her to her feet, then touched his head, his heart and bowed to her.
‘Ya malekat galbi, y a rohi, y a hahati. You are beautiful, my soul, my life. Ahebbak, ya tao’am rohi. The owner of my heart. Amoot feeki. There is no life without you.’ Then, ‘I did not know, Lydia. Please believe me, I did not use you. I did not know.’
She would have spoken, but the Emir stepped forward. ‘I have listened to your appeal, Lydia Young.’
That she was dismissed, neither of them were in any doubt, but as he turned to leave with her, caring only that she should believe him, the Emir said, ‘I have not heard from you, Kalil al-Zaki.’
She touched his hand, said, ‘Stay.’
‘No…’
‘For heaven’s sake, Kal. This is what you wanted. Your chance. Don’t blow it now.’
Then she turned and walked away.
Lydia had been taken to the Princess’s quarters. She’d been fed and given a change of clothes and then, having asked to be allowed to go straight home, the British Consul had been summoned to provide her with temporary papers since her passport was with her belongings and only Kal knew were they were.
She arrived home to a dozen messages from newspapers wanting her story and one from a famous publicist who warned her to sign nothing until she’d talked to him. And reporters knee-deep on the footpath outside her mother’s flat.
Her mother didn’t say a word. Just hugged her.
Numb until then, she finally broke down and cried.
Rose called to make sure she was really all right. To apologise for the publicity. To thank her.
‘You’ve changed my life, Lydia. Words cannot express my gratitude. You should sell your story, make a mint.’
‘There is no story, Rose.’ Then, ‘Is there any chance of getting my car back soon? I’m due back at work the day after tomorrow.’
‘That’s a bit of a bad news, good news story, I’m afraid. The bad news is that I had a little bit of an accident,’ she confessed.
‘Oh.’ The car had been her pride and joy. It had taken her forever to save up for it…‘Is it in the garage?’
‘Er…a little bit more of an accident than that,’ she admitted. ‘It’s nothing but a cube of metal in a scrapyard, but the good news is that George has arranged a replacement for you. A rather jolly red Beetle. I’ll make sure it’s delivered tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. And Rose. Congratulations. I hope you will be really happy.’
‘I’ll send you and your mother an invitation to the wedding.’
There was nothing from Kal and, since she didn’t want to hear from the reporters, the newspapers or the publicist, she unplugged the phone and turned off her mobile.
She sent an email to the lookalike agency, informing them that she would no longer be available and asking them to take her off thei
r books.
Deleted dozens from newsmen offering interviews, and weirdos who just wanted to be weird.
She didn’t open the door to the manager of the local garage who came to deliver a brand-new red VW Beetle, which she knew cost about three times what she’d paid for her car, until he put a note through the door explaining who he was.
There was no missing the black and gold livery of the Kalzak Air Services courier who pulled up outside and delivered her luggage. All those lovely clothes, the cosmetics, the scent, the four bolts of silk.
She gave her mother and Jennie their gifts.
And then, in the privacy of her room, she cried again all over the cream silk.
The Emir had given Kal a hard time. Made him wait while he consulted his brothers, his sons, his nephews. Hanif had supported him and so, unexpectedly, had Zahir and all the time he had been berating himself for letting Lydia walk away. Fly away.
She had thought he was in trouble and had come to help. Had begged for him.
Only her ‘stay’ had kept him here while members of a family he did not know video-conferenced from all over the world, deciding the fate of his grandfather, eventually deciding that compassion required that he should be allowed to return to Umm al Sama. And that, after his death, his family could use the name Khatib.
Kal told the Emir that he would bring his grandfather home but under those terms they could keep their name. He didn’t want it. Lydia deserved better from him than acceptance of such a mealy-mouthed offer.
And the Emir smiled. ‘I remember him. You are just like him.’
‘You honour me, Excellency.’
At which point His Excellency had thrown up his hands and said, ‘Let the old man have his name and his title.’
‘Will you permit Dena to return to London with me to fetch him, travel back with him and his nurses?’
‘If she is agreeable.’ Then, with heavy irony, ‘Is there anything else you want, Kalil bin Zaki al-Khatib? One of my granddaughters as a bride, perhaps, now that you are a sheikh?’
‘I am very conscious of the honour you bestow, Excellency,’ he replied, ‘but, like my grandfather, I have chosen my own bride. You have had the honour of meeting her.’