The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride Page 14

  The laughter intensified and he looked back over at the lively group, freezing as he saw the sea-green silk, the red hair, the flashing of precious jewels identifying his wife. She stood in the middle of the group, a half-empty glass of champagne in her hand, smiling up at a tall, fair man. Recognition flared as the man turned—hadn’t he been one of Saskia’s acolytes in Oxford? Richard? No, Rob. Robert McBride. They used to sing together, he remembered, perform elaborate karaoke duets, which always brought the bar to a standstill, arms wrapped around each other, exchanging kisses as if they were compliments. Jealousy shot through him, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. His eyes narrowed. How much had she had to drink? Did she know everyone was watching her, judging her? Or did she simply not care? She had always loved being the centre of attention...

  As he watched Rob put a hand on her arm—on his wife’s arm, jealousy whispered—and leant in to whisper something in her ear. Idris watched her eyes widen before she blushed and laughed. Another sip of champagne.

  People were watching her—of course they were. Even without the title, the jewels, the traditional dress, she lit up the room. But the soon-to-be Queen of Dalmaya shouldn’t be the centre of attention in this way, shouldn’t shine so brightly or so freely. It wasn’t decorous.

  She put her hand back on Robert McBride’s arm, laughing, and Idris’s chest tightened. A soon-to-be Queen certainly shouldn’t be flirting, especially not in public. Had she lost her mind? His gaze dropped to her glass of champagne. How many had she had? Was she tipsy? Her eyes glittered too brightly, her smile was too wide.

  A remark was addressed to him and Idris nodded and smiled, adding automatic replies when it seemed appropriate, but he couldn’t drag his focus from the group. He tried to catch her eye but she didn’t look in his direction once. And then Rob handed her his glass, Idris wasn’t sure why, but he was rolling up his sleeves and the group was widening around him, giving him space. Saskia stepped back too, both glasses high as she backed up and then time seemed to slow down to a trickle as she seemed to trip, turning that weak ankle, and she fell backwards, still laughing, still holding those damn champagne glasses, as the liquid cascaded down her front, turning the delicate silk translucent, the dampness moulding the material to her breasts as she fell into one of the giant urns serving as plant pots. The room came to a standstill everyone turning to look, phones pulled out in a flash as one of the bracelets fell from Saskia’s wrist and fell to the floor scattering precious stones like confetti.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘PLEASE COME WITH US, just for a little while.’ Jack’s eyes pleaded for her to say yes and Saskia’s heart ached as she shook her head with as big a smile as she could muster.

  ‘Best not. You’ll enjoy the park more if there are no cameras around, you know that. Be a good boy, listen to Faye and look after Sami.’ She kissed him on his unresponsive cheek, hating the disappointment on his face, then kissed the baby, deliciously wrapped up in a padded all-in-one. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with them both, Faye?’ Lucy, the day nanny, had the day off but the nursery nurse, Faye, had been trained at one of the UK’s most exclusive childcare colleges and Saskia knew the two boys would be in safe hands. Besides, two bodyguards would be trailing them at a discreet distance the whole time. ‘Say hi to Peter Pan for me, Jack, okay?’

  He nodded, the sullen look receding from his face. The two of them had made many trips to see the famous statue over the years and he was thrilled that they were staying within walking distance of Kensington Park.

  Saskia turned to the window, uneasy until she saw them turn into the park free of any press interest. London was a cold contrast to Dalmaya, the autumn the grey, windy, drizzly variant. Grey like her mood. It was her fault she couldn’t take the boys out herself, her fault they had to exit the embassy by a side door, on a constant lookout for the press. She had messed up.

  It didn’t matter that the fall had been an accident, that despite appearances to the contrary she hadn’t been drunk. No matter that the clasp had been weak on her bracelet. What mattered was the photo. The photo that was on every gossip website and in most papers. A drunk-looking princess, laughing as she sat in a giant, priceless plant pot, a glass of champagne held aloft in both hands, their contents dripping down her so her outfit was see-through, her breasts, her underwear clearly visible, diamonds and emeralds showering from her wrists. She looked as if she were participating in some kind of drunken orgy, not tripping over her own shoes. And to Idris, appearances seemed to be everything.

  Not that she had realised that at first. He had appeared at her side like a superhero, helping her get up, shrugging his jacket off so that she could slip it on, joking that it was a good idea he had worn Western clothes, taking the glasses out of her hands and putting them on a tray and then escorting her from the room, all before she had really grasped what had happened. But when she had turned to thank him in the car he had frozen her out. ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he had said, as if she were an errant teen, not his wife. But there had been no later. He hadn’t come to her and she hadn’t been invited to any Council meetings. Instead she had been left alone in her rooms—to think about what she had done?—until it was time to travel to London. She had assumed Idris would be accompanying them but he wasn’t in the car nor on the private jet and there was no sight of him here in the embassy nor any indication that he was planning to join her there.

  He had warned her, it was true. She had to be dignified, make sure there were no errors, and she had ignored his advice, giddy at seeing a friendly face. But the punishment outweighed the crime. Was this how it would be? Would she spend her entire marriage fitting in, treading carefully, alone? Idris had walked away before—and by his own admission he hadn’t looked back even once.

  She wouldn’t, couldn’t live like that. Couldn’t set that kind of example to her boys. Couldn’t undo those painful seven years of self-discovery and growth.

  But Idris and she were married and tomorrow she would be talking to a social worker, proving that she was the right person to look after Jack, that Idris was the right person to father him. And he wasn’t here. Even if he turned up would they be able to put on a united front? Could she spend the rest of her life pretending?

  Even worse the paparazzi were everywhere. The social worker would have to be escorted through them, which was going to be an excellent start to the interview. The photo had stirred the already feverish press into a feeding frenzy and her father’s suicide, Idris’s mother’s elopement, their own affair at Oxford were dissected, written about and discussed as if they held the answer to world peace, climate change and space travel in their sordid details. She hadn’t been able to take Jack to the theatre or the museums or anything she had promised him; instead she had been stuck inside the Georgian town house that housed the embassy, just as she had been stuck inside the palace, inside the villa.

  Saskia curled her hands into fists, blinking fiercely. No more tears. She was done with them. She was an adult now, not a teen forced to grow up too soon. She had two boys to care for and she needed to decide how she wanted to live the rest of her life. Was she any happier now for all her designer clothes and the diamond watch on her wrist?

  If she wasn’t prepared to live like this, then what were her options? She swallowed. Divorce, she supposed. Divorce wouldn’t affect Sami’s chance to inherit the throne. He was legitimate now, after all. And if the adoption was finalised first then Jack would be safe. And for all Idris’s threats nearly six months ago she knew now he wouldn’t leave the children penniless. Nor did she think he would try and take them from her.

  She looked around her at the warm colours and comfortable, elegant furniture. Once she had walked the streets of Kensington, playing the Where would I like to live? game. She had always chosen either a mews house or a town house, complete with basement and attic like the houses in the old-fashioned children’s stories she loved so
much. Nothing ostentatious. No basement cinemas. Instead she had yearned for a large kitchen diner, for cosy furniture you could sit on, warm furnishings, not acres of marble covered in spindly chairs. No gilt.

  Here she was in exactly that house, in a large Georgian terrace with black iron railings in the front and a garden out back. The royal apartments were situated on the first and second floors and the décor was testament to Maya’s good taste, showcasing the best of Dalmayan décor while still accommodating itself to the vagaries of British weather with stoves, throws and huge rugs giving the large rooms a much-needed cosy feel. Saskia had made it, was living in her dream home. And yet her victory was completely hollow.

  Despite the warmth Saskia shivered. It was time to take control of her life, not allow circumstances to buffet her from disaster to makeshift solution. Taking care of Jack, getting pregnant, marrying Idris, these had all been thrust upon her and just because two out of the three were the best things that could have happened didn’t make her lack of agency any less real.

  As for that third...marrying Idris had brought her security, true, financially and personally. The clothes she wore cost more than her previous entire wardrobe had, the watch on her wrist would have paid for a year’s rent. Sami was hers in every way and soon Jack would be. Hopefully. But she couldn’t spend her life with someone who didn’t like her. The knowledge she was in love with him just made her isolation worse.

  Accidents happened and there was every chance Saskia would mess up again unless she spent her life hidden in the confines of the palace walls. If Idris couldn’t understand that then what chance did she have? Maya had often spoken about the future pressures awaiting her as Fayaz’s wife and Queen. Society held women to a higher, more unachievable standard, she had said one night, and it was doubly, triply true in Middle Eastern countries, even ones as theoretically progressive as Dalmaya. She loved Fayaz, but she knew marrying him meant surrendering many of the freedoms she took for granted. That she would be watched, judged every moment. But, she said, with Fayaz by her side, supporting her, needing her, it would be worth it.

  A dull ache pulsed in Saskia’s chest, in her heart. That, right there, was the crux of the matter. Maya didn’t just love Fayaz, she had known that she could depend on him too, no matter what. Could Saskia say the same of Idris? If he truly supported her, needed her, then they could laugh off any subsequent embarrassments. But if he was just going to freeze her out...

  She deserved better. She was no longer a spoiled teenager. She was a hard-working mother of two with so much love to give and if that wasn’t enough for Idris...

  Staring blindly out of the window at the Georgian square, at the private garden in the middle of the square, at the photographers still loitering with intent, Saskia acknowledged the truth: she couldn’t live this way, loving Idris, destined to disappoint him. She couldn’t raise the boys with that kind of marriage as a role model. She turned and picked up her phone, finding Idris’s details, and fired off a quick text.

  We need to talk. In person.

  * * *

  Idris’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen to see Saskia’s name flash up followed by a short text. Just four words but they shot straight to his heart. The words We need to talk never boded well but, he conceded, he didn’t deserve anything more. He had left Saskia to travel to England alone, left her to face the fallout from the photo alone. If he had stayed next to her, laughed the picture off, then the story would have died by now but his absence was raising speculative headlines.

  He got stiffly to his feet and headed over to the window, looking out over the old courtyard, at the stone barns and the grey walls. He should have followed Saskia to London; instead he had come home, to Chateau Delacour. Oh, he still needed to sign some papers, to delegate some more of the responsibilities, but he knew he could have done that from the palace or the London Embassy. The vineyard was running smoothly in his absence thanks to his more than capable manager but the chateau was his home in a way the palace could never be. Generations of Delacours had lived here and tended the fields just as generations of Al Osmans had lived in the palace and tended Dalmaya.

  Maybe he could step down when Sami was old enough and return here, to vineyards and fields. To the old grey chateau, weathered and crumbling in parts. To the deep green of the French countryside and the peace and tranquillity. To a life where a mistake meant ruining a year’s vintage, not ruining a country, a life, a marriage. To a place that used to feel like home.

  He should have gone to London. He just didn’t know how to speak to Saskia, what to say. Where to begin. He’d spent his life avoiding drama in every permutation. He didn’t have the weapons to deal with it now. Or the armour.

  He needed a walk, wanted to examine the bare vines. The grapes had all been picked in his absence, a few trodden in the traditional way at the harvest festival, the rest pressed. He’d missed both. Hadn’t tasted the grapes, hadn’t stood in the traditional wooden tub, barefooted, the grapes squelching under his cleansed feet. Despite a childhood being dragged around France, around Europe, despite the darker skin and name that marked him out as foreign in a countryside that still regarded outsiders with suspicion, he had always felt at home here. Here and in the stables at the palace. These were the places his two grandfathers, proud men who had never met, had passed down their wisdom and their traditions and their family pride. He didn’t think either would be proud of him just now.

  Nor should they be.

  He reached the front door as a car drew up, a sleek silver convertible he didn’t recognise. His chest tightened as a chic, petite figure sprang from the driver’s side, her dark hair barely touched with grey swept up in a loose bun, huge sunglasses obscuring half her famously beautiful face.

  ‘Yaa bunaaya,’ she said, hands outstretched towards him.

  ‘Maman.’ It took a second for him to recover from the shock of her arrival and step forward to take her hands and kiss her on both cheeks. ‘This is a surprise.’

  ‘But a welcome one, I hope?’ She reverted to the English they usually spoke at home. His father had no Arabic and, despite living most of her adult life in France, Princess Zara still spoke barely passable tourist French.

  ‘Of course. Come on in. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘But you were just leaving.’

  ‘Only for a walk.’

  ‘Then I shall accompany you and we shall dine together later. You are sure I am not interrupting you, Idris? You aren’t on your way to London perhaps?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ He couldn’t miss the social worker’s visit and Saskia was right. They did need to talk. ‘You seem very well informed about my whereabouts.’

  ‘A mother has her ways, even a mother who missed her son’s wedding and has yet to meet her grandson?’ She raised an eyebrow and shame shot through him. Shame mingled with uncertainty. Lying about Sami’s heritage seemed like the right thing to do in the abstract but lying to his own parents was another thing completely. And would they tell Sami the truth one day? After all, Jack knew some version of it. The marriage, the deception had all made such sense in those first grief-laden days but now nothing seemed to make any sense at all.

  He took her arm and, after shooting an incredulous glance at her delicately heeled suede boots, which seemed totally unsuited for walking through the vineyards, set off away from the house. He let her chatter on for some minutes; about his father’s latest project, their plan to move to the Alps for the winter, some gossip about mutual friends before he said jerkily: ‘Sami is your great-nephew, not your grandson, although I consider him my son and I hope you will think of him as a grandchild.’

  ‘I see.’ She didn’t, he noted, sound surprised.

  ‘Maya had trouble conceiving and so she asked Saskia, my wife...’ if his mother noticed him stumble over the words she made no sign ‘...to have a child for her. As a surrogate. Fayaz was the
biological father and Saskia the mother. But they died before the baby was born and before they could acknowledge him as theirs. So I...’

  ‘So you married the mother, told the world the baby is yours so he can inherit. Of course you did. It is exactly what I would expect you to do.’ Her voice was oddly neutral, neither approving or disapproving.

  ‘What else could I do?’

  His mother patted his hand. ‘You could have walked away, Idris. No one would have blamed you. But you were always one to shoulder all the responsibility whether it was yours to shoulder or not. So, I have a daughter-in-law and a grandson. When will I meet them and why are you not with them?’

  Her words reverberated around his head. She made it sound as if he had choices. As if he could just walk away from his duties and responsibilities—as she and his father had. Didn’t she realise that someone had to pick up behind them? ‘You’ve seen the photo, I expect. The headlines. The speculation. Is that why you’re here?’

  Her hand tightened on his arm. ‘I need a reason to see my son? It’s not easy when you have made it clear you don’t want me in Dalmaya, never mind that it was my home once. But yes, I saw the photo. Not that it matters. Photos are never the whole story, not even half the story. The press are never kind to the young and the privileged once they transgress and she, I think, is being punished more for her father’s sins, for my supposed sins, than for one moment’s lapse in concentration. Is she managing?’

  ‘As far as I am aware.’