The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride Page 2

  Saskia stood tall, wishing she weren’t in a tight swimsuit and stuck in a swimming pool looking up at him like a suppliant, as recognition dawned and Idris’s gaze kindled, his eyebrows snapping together.

  ‘Saskia? What on earth are you doing here?’ She’d forgotten the impact his voice had always had on her, low, almost gravelly, his French accent more of a hint than a full-on reminder of his heritage.

  ‘Taking a swim.’ Thank goodness her voice didn’t waver. ‘The question is, Idris, what you are doing here. This is private property and I don’t recall inviting you in.’ Petty but the words felt good. A small revenge for the way he had treated her all those years ago.

  ‘I’m here to see the surr...’ He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to her stomach, and incredulity stole over his face. ‘You? You’re the surrogate?’

  Saskia raised her chin. ‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business. I’m not supposed to be experiencing any stress so please leave and let me get on with my swim.’

  He glared. ‘Gladly. Only I need to speak to you. It’s important.’

  ‘Okay. Make it brief.’

  ‘No, not out here. You need to be sat down. Dressed.’ His gaze swept down her, impersonal, as if he had never seen her body before. Never touched her. Saskia’s cheeks burned but she remained upright, head held high.

  ‘You don’t give the orders round here, Idris. You ask. Nicely.’

  His gaze smouldered but he bit back whatever cutting retort sprang to his lips. ‘Please,’ he ground out. ‘Saskia, this is important. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.’

  She held his gaze, searching for answers within its darkness, fear uncoiling down her spine. Something was very, very wrong here. Why wasn’t Idris in France? Where was Maya? Saskia nodded, slowly. ‘Give me fifteen minutes. Everything takes a little longer right now.’

  * * *

  For the last couple of months Saskia had lived either in yoga pants or sheer voluminous kaftans, which made her look as if she were about to act as a sail in an am-dram version of The Tempest but, crucially, were cool and comfortable. Neither seemed right just now, instinct warning her that she needed more armour than casual, comfortable clothes would provide.

  Luckily Maya had provided her with a designer pregnancy wardrobe fit for a princess. Saskia had pointed out that, confined to the villa as she was, she wouldn’t have the opportunity to wear a tenth of the clothes but Maya had waved off her objections. ‘You can keep them all and use them when you have your own baby, Sas,’ she’d said. Saskia hadn’t had the heart to tell her that having a baby of her own didn’t figure anywhere in her plans, sensing Maya was buying her the wardrobe she herself wished she could have owned. So Saskia had accepted each gift with a smile and tried not to think about where on earth she would store several wardrobes full of unworn maternity clothes when she finally returned home.

  She selected a pair of white cropped linen trousers and teamed them with a nude pink vest top, which gathered in a knot just below her breasts, the material flowing nicely over her bump. Many redheads eschewed pink, even as pale a shade as this, but Saskia loved the colour. She pulled her still-wet hair back into a loose plait and slipped her feet into a pair of flat sandals. She was ready.

  Idris was here.

  The enormity of what was happening hit her anew and Saskia reached out to the ornately carved bedpost for support. What on earth had brought him back to her after seven years? It was clear that he hadn’t expected to see her; he’d looked just as thrown by the recognition as she had been.

  Her lips tightened. She was a different person now. Strong, independent. A survivor. Just because Idris’s kisses used to make her forget who she was didn’t mean he had any power over her now. She had this situation in hand. She had to.

  Summoning a confidence that wasn’t quite real, yet not entirely fake, Saskia left her suite and slowly descended the villa’s majestic staircase. The stairway led to the large central hallway from which all the other ground-floor rooms were situated. All marble and dark polished wood, it was lined with two impossibly long, armless couches. Idris lounged on the right-hand couch, seemingly completely at ease as he scrolled impatiently through his tablet. He didn’t even raise his gaze to watch her as she walked carefully down the marble stairs.

  One of the many occasional tables that were scattered around the villa had been brought to his side and a jug of coffee sat there along with a half-full cup. The aroma floated tantalisingly towards Saskia. Coffee was one of the many prohibited food and drinks she had agreed not to touch until three months after the baby was born and her duties had ended. Many she barely touched anyway—she didn’t have the budget for shellfish, brie or wine—but coffee was her lifeline and she missed it every day; mint tea just didn’t have the same effect.

  As the thought flitted across her mind Hamid, the houseboy, pulled up a second table and placed a cup of the herbal beverage upon it. Suppressing a longing sigh, Saskia smiled her thanks. She made no move to sit, nor did she have any intention of standing in front of Idris and waiting for him to notice her. Instead she picked up the cup and walked away into her favourite sitting area, the smallest of the living rooms with stunning views of the pool and the sea beyond. She curled up on the couch, picked up a book and waited for Idris to come to her.

  She didn’t have to wait long. A smothered exclamation was followed by short sharp footsteps. ‘Tiens, there you are. Why didn’t you let me know you were ready?’

  Saskia hadn’t taken in a word on the page but she still made a show of finishing her sentence before half closing the book and looking up with a mild smile. ‘You looked busy. Take a seat, Idris, and let me know how I can help you.’ There, she had established that this was her home and she was the one in charge.

  To her surprise Idris didn’t react with impatience or irritation. He sat down on the chair at right angles to her and leaned forwards before jumping up and striding across the room, his face set and eyes clouded. The premonition Saskia had felt in the pool returned, fear icy on her skin.

  ‘What is it, Idris? Why are you here?’

  He turned and the grief on his face clawed at her heart. ‘There was an accident. Fayaz...’ He stopped and swallowed.

  ‘What kind of accident?’

  ‘A car accident.’

  ‘He will always drive too fast. Such a boy racer.’ If she could keep chatting, keep the conversation light and inconsequential then she wouldn’t have to hear the rest. Because of course there was more. Idris wouldn’t have flown over from France for a minor injury. Nor would he have come here to tell her—to tell the unknown surrogate—in person.

  ‘Saskia.’ She could only sit paralysed while he walked back towards her, each deliberate, slow step echoing around her brain. He sat next to her, so familiar and yet a stranger and, to her increasing dread, took her hand in his. Once the simple touch of his hand would leave her incoherent and unable to think about anything but him, but right now she couldn’t feel anything. All she could do was wait for the words she knew were coming.

  ‘Saskia, the accident, it was a bad one. Fayaz didn’t make it. Nobody did.’

  Nobody? Her free hand crept down to her belly, whether to reassure the baby or herself she didn’t know. ‘Maya?’ Her throat was so swollen she could barely croak the word out, but she knew that he heard her when his grip on her hand intensified.

  ‘I’m sorry, Saskia. She was with him.’

  She didn’t move, didn’t react, couldn’t react, couldn’t process anything he was saying. Fayaz and Maya. Such a golden couple; beautiful, wealthy, powerful sure but also caring and loving, and they had known their share of tragedy. Years of IVF and three miscarriages had left Maya utterly bereft—which was why she had come to Saskia.

  Saskia’s hand stilled on her belly. She pulled her other hand out of Idris’s clasp and
turned to him. ‘The baby? What happens to their baby?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  IDRIS STARED UNSEEINGLY out at the sea. He needed to get back to Jayah. The funerals would be taking place in just a few hours’ time and there were a hundred and one things demanding Idris’s attention, but his business at the villa wasn’t done. Not nearly. Saskia’s question echoed round and round his mind. What happened to the baby? Orphaned before birth. His cousin’s baby and, morally, the rightful heir.

  But the burning question remained unanswered: was it the legal heir? Idris had no idea; which was why he was still kicking his heels at the villa, awaiting both the lawyer who had drawn up the surrogacy agreement and his great-uncle so that he could get their advice. Advice he was praying tied in with his own plans, because if the baby could inherit and if his great-uncle was prepared to take on the Regency until it was of age then Idris could return to France as soon as the mourning period was over.

  He pushed away the guilt clenching his chest. Fayaz would have understood why he couldn’t stay; he knew how alone Idris always felt in Dalmaya. How out of place. Set apart by his accent, his French upbringing. Tainted by the dishonour his mother had brought on her family, not just by her elopement but by her subsequent lifestyle. Fayaz knew how duty already ruled his life, knew how hard Idris had worked to restore the chateau, the vineyards, to make the Delacour name mean something again. He wouldn’t expect Idris to put all that aside for a country that had never quite acknowledged him. Would he?

  The all too familiar burden of heavy expectations descended onto his shoulders. Fayaz might not have expected Idris to put everything aside, but he would have known that it was almost impossible for Idris to turn away.

  Almost...

  At the back of his mind another question burned white hot. What was Saskia Harper doing here? Why on earth was she acting as Maya’s surrogate? The guilt pulsed harder. He’d spent the last seven years doing his best not to think about Saskia, but occasionally he would see a flash of auburn hair, hear an imperious English accent and his heart would stutter to a stop, a tiny part of him hoping it might be her.

  He hadn’t expected to be so numb with grief when he did finally see her again that he had barely registered the shock of her presence.

  The doctor’s footsteps echoed through the hallway and Idris turned to the doorway, impatient for some answers. The midwife who worked full time at the villa had taken one look at Saskia and hustled her straight to bed, insisting that she be seen immediately by a doctor. The guilt pulsed again. Fayaz would expect him to do his best for his child and for its mother. ‘How is she?’

  The doctor took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘As well as can be expected, Your Highness. A severe shock at any stage of pregnancy should be avoided if possible, but she’s strong, healthy and has had the best possible care throughout. However, as a precaution, I’ve suggested bed rest for the rest of today and that she take it as easy as possible for the next few days. It’s out of the question for her to attend the funerals, of course. She shouldn’t be travelling.’

  The funerals. Idris clenched his jaw and refused to acknowledge the grief beating down on him. There was no time, not now. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m leaving Nurse Wilson in charge. She has my personal number if there are any concerns. I’ll come out straight away but I don’t foresee any problems. Try and keep Sayeda Saskia calm, and make sure she eats something.’ The doctor paused. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Your Highness. Your cousin was a good man and Queen Maya deserved the happiness this baby would have brought her. I’ll be back in the morning.’

  Idris spent the next couple of hours sending emergency emails. Just because it felt as if he were standing in the eye of a storm, unable to move while events whirled around him, didn’t mean he could neglect his own concerns. He closed his eyes briefly, picturing the weathered grey stone, the chateau turrets, the acres of slowly ripening vines. He’d made his home, made his mark at Chateau Delacour, knew every inch of soil, every man, woman and child in its environs. Last night he’d gone to bed expecting to wake up to another spring day, making sure he put some time aside to join the workers in the field as they carefully hoed and weeded the precious vines. What was the point of living in the glorious French countryside if he spent all his life in an office? Instead he’d awoken to a panicked call and his life had come to an abrupt halt. The vineyard felt like a lifetime, not a continent away.

  He knew his managers could take charge of the vineyard and his export business until he returned and he made sure they had all the relevant authorisation to do so, warning them that he would likely be difficult to get hold of and so they should contact him only in an emergency. He stopped as he typed a reassuring message promising them he would be back as soon as possible—he just hoped he was telling them the truth. Meanwhile a flood of panicked emails flooded in from the various ministries all needing guidance. He told each one to carry on as usual, promising an announcement on the succession imminently. He hoped he was telling them the truth as well. It was a long, testing couple of hours and he was relieved to hear the car pull up heralding the advisors he needed.

  ‘Assalamu alaikum, this way, please.’ Idris gestured to the stairs. On the midwife’s advice he had decided to hold the meeting in Saskia’s rooms—the doctor had said she was to be kept quiet but she clearly had a stake in the subject under discussion and Idris sensed it would be far more stressful for her if she was left out.

  The houseboy led them up the staircase and indicated the door leading to Saskia’s apartments. Idris paused, the reality of the situation hitting him anew. Fayaz was gone—and Saskia was here. Here in Dalmaya. Not quite his territory but close enough to discombobulate him with her unexpected presence.

  Her bedroom was huge, the outside wall made entirely of glass, doors leading out to a large terrace filled with plants and shaded seats overlooking the sea. The room was decorated in soothing shades of blue and cream; a gigantic bed with ornately carved wooden bedposts sat on a platform at one end of the room, a seating area grouped at the other. Two doors were slightly ajar, and Idris could see they led into a dressing area and a bathroom. Refreshments had been placed onto the coffee table and Saskia was already lying on one of the three couches arranged around it. She smiled wanly at the lawyer as he greeted her and extended her hand to Idris’s great-uncle.

  ‘Please excuse me for not getting up but I have been ordered not to move.’

  ‘No apologies needed.’ The elderly man bowed over her hand. ‘Sheikh Malik Al Osman. It’s an honour to meet you, Sheikha Saskia.’

  Idris started at the honorary title, nodding curtly at Saskia and taking the seat farthest away from her. A quick glance showed him how pale she was under her tan, the pain in her eyes reflecting the pain he saw in the mirror. He ruthlessly pressed on; there was far more at stake here than personal feelings. ‘I don’t have much time,’ he said, opening proceedings briskly. ‘So let’s get going. Can somebody explain just what is going on here and why nobody knows anything about this baby?’

  The lawyer nodded, setting his briefcase on the table and taking out a sheaf of papers. ‘I acted for Their Majesties in this matter so maybe I should start. You have to understand, Sheikh Idris, that legally surrogacy and adoption are still grey areas here in Dalmaya. Historically if a woman couldn’t conceive she would simply raise a family member’s child as her own—either a sister’s or cousin’s or a fellow wife’s child, and that child would be considered hers. Plus any child she bears during marriage is legally her husband’s regardless of actual biological fatherhood; that goes for any child she raises for someone else too.’

  Idris frowned. ‘So all Maya had to do was call herself the baby’s mother and the baby became hers and Fayaz’s without any need to adopt it legally?’

  ‘Traditionally that’s all that they had to do. Of course, by using a surrogate they had ensu
red the baby was Fayaz’s biological child anyway, but because Sayeda Saskia is a British citizen, and to make sure there was no confusion in the future, they were planning to adopt the baby in the British courts as well.’

  ‘So why the secrecy? You said it yourself, raising someone else’s child is culturally acceptable and the baby is Fayaz’s biologically, so there should be no quibbling over inheritance.’

  ‘Your grandfather’s reforms and his subsequent decision to take just one wife, a stance followed by his son and grandson, hasn’t been popular amongst traditionalists, partly because it has greatly reduced the number of potential heirs in the Al Osman senior branch. Your grandfather had just two children and his only son died while Fayaz was still a child. If it was known that the Queen couldn’t conceive there would have been great pressure on Fayaz to take a second wife.’

  ‘Maya felt like such a failure,’ Saskia said, staring down at her hands. ‘She put herself through hell. IVF after IVF, three terrible miscarriages. She knew how important it was that Fayaz had an heir...she knew that you didn’t want...’ She came to a halt, flashing one quick glance over at him. He’d forgotten just how disconcerting her green eyes were, no hint of hazel or blue diluting them.

  ‘How many people know about this?’

  ‘I have known from the start. Fayaz discussed it with me before they went down the surrogacy route,’ Sheikh Malik said. ‘As head of the junior branch of the family he wanted to make sure I had no objections, that there would be no repercussions later on. The staff here know, any lawyers involved in the adoption and surrogacy agreement and certain medical staff here and in the UK. They all signed binding non-disclosure agreements, of course. The heads of the Privy Council are now aware after this morning’s meeting, but they can all be relied on to keep quiet, if it’s for the good of the country. But do we want to keep it quiet? If Fayaz has a son and heir then surely we need to let people know.’