The Sheikh's Jewel (4 page)

Of course it was for Alim; why should he expect anything else? In all these years, she’d only shown emotion once: when she’d asked—no, demanded—that he end her public shame, and give her a child. When he’d said no, she’d sworn at him for the first time.

But she’d just sworn at him again.

‘You still care for him so much?’ he asked, his voice low and throbbing with the white-hot betrayal he barely managed to hide.

She sighed. ‘I’m not nineteen any more. I’m your wife. Please, just give me a chance. It’s all I’m asking.’

A chance for what?
he wanted to ask, but remained silent.

Something to the left of him caught his attention. Her bags were being stowed in the hold. With a sense of fatalism, he swept a hand before him. ‘By all means, come and see him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your care.’

No part of her touched him as she pushed past him and into the jet. Her chin was high, her eyes as cold as they’d always been for him…except on that fateful night last year—and a moment ago, because she wanted to see Alim.

Damn her. Damn them both.

Yet something like regret trailed in the wake of the warm Gulf wind behind her. Harun breathed it in, refusing to yet again indulge in the wish that things could be different for them. It was far too late.

She was sitting upright and straight in the plush, wide seat, her belt already buckled. He sat beside her, and saw her hands gripping the armrests. He’d seen this on the times they’d had to go to another country for a state visit. She really hated flying.

His hand moved to hers, then stopped. It wasn’t his comfort she wanted.

During the final safety check of the jet the silence stretched out. The awkwardness between them was never more evident than when they sat side by side and could find nothing to talk about: he because all he could think of was touching her and hating himself for it, and she presumably because all she wanted was to get away from him, as fast and as far as possible.

How she must hate this life, trapped in this submissive woman’s role, tied to a man she despised.

‘You are
not
Brother Number Three.’

Startled, he turned to face her, prompted by a tone of voice he’d never known from his cold, proud wife. The fierce words seemed to burst from her; the passion he’d always felt slumbering in her came to blazing life in a few restrained words. ‘I’m sorry I ever said it, and sorrier still that you heard stupid words said in my own shock and grief, and took them so literally. I humiliated you before my father, and I’m sorry, Harun.’

Surprise and regret, remembered humiliation, yearning and a dozen other emotions flew around in him, their edges hitting him like the wings of a wild bird caged. He could only think of one thing to say, and he couldn’t possibly say it to his stranger wife.
What am I to you now?
As ever, he resorted to his fall-back, the cool diplomacy that told her nothing about what he was thinking or feeling. ‘It’s all right.’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s not all right between us. It never has been, and I never knew why. But we’ve been married for three years. In all this time, why didn’t you try, even once, to talk to me?’ Touching his cheek, she turned him to face her before he could school his stunned surprise that her hands were on his skin. ‘I always wanted to know why you hated me. You were outside the door that day.’

Taken aback, he could only answer with truth. ‘I don’t hate you.’

An encyclopaedia could be written on the doubt in her eyes. ‘Really? You don’t?’

Reluctant understanding touched a heart shrouded in ice too long. ‘No,’ was all he said.

She sighed. ‘But you don’t trust me. You won’t treat me even as a friend, let alone your wife.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought you were a servant when I heard your footsteps behind the door. I would never have done that to you—don’t you know that?’

Her face was vivid with the force of her anger and her regret. She thought she wanted to know about his emotions—but she didn’t have a clue. If he let out one iota of his feelings, it might break a dam of everything he’d repressed since he was eight years old.

I need you to be strong for me again, little akh,
Fadi had said at his mother’s funeral, only three months after their father died, and Alim had stormed off within minutes of the service beginning.
We have to stand together, and show the world what we’re made of.

I need you to stay home and help me, little akh,
he’d said when Alim was seventeen, and his first race on the circuit gave him the nickname the Racing Sheikh.
What Alim’s doing could change the nation for us, economically and socially. You can study by correspondence, right? It won’t make a difference to you.

I need you to come home, little akh. I feel like I’m drowning under the weight of all this,
Fadi had said when Harun was nineteen, and had to go on a dig to pass his archaeology course.
I’ll fix it with the university, don’t worry. You’ll pass, which is all you want, right?

‘I suppose I should have known,’ he answered Amber now. From the vague memories he had of his mother, he knew that it was dangerous not to answer an angry woman, but it was worse to answer with a truth she didn’t want to hear.

‘And—and you heard what my father said about—’ her cheeks blazed, but her chin lifted again, and she said it ‘—about the—the feelings I had for Alim back then.’

As a passion-killer, hearing his wife say she had
feelings
for the brother who’d abandoned him to this half-life had to rank up there as number one. ‘Yes,’ he said, quiet. Dead inside.

‘Harun, don’t.’ She gripped his chin in her hand, her eyes fairly blazing with emotion. ‘Do you hate me for it?’

He closed his eyes against the passion always beneath the surface with her, but never for him. ‘No.’ So many times, he’d wished he could hate her, or just take her for the higher duty of making an heir, but he could do neither. Yes, he still desired her; he could live with that. But he’d shut off his heart years ago. There was no way he’d open it up, only to have her walk all over it again with her careless rejections and stinging rebukes.

‘Stop it, Harun,’ she burst out, startling him into opening his eyes again. ‘Hate me if you want, but stop showing me this uncaring wall of ice! I don’t know how to talk to you or what to do when you’re so cold with me, always pushing me away!’

Cold?
He felt as if he were bleeding agony whenever he looked at her, and she thought his feelings for her were cold? Harun stared at her, the wife he barely knew, and wondered if she was blind, or if it was because he really had covered his need too well. But wasn’t that what he’d always done? How could he stop doing what had always been expected of him?

So he frowned again. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

‘Talk to me for once. Tell me how it hurt you.’ Though she spoke softly, almost beneath her breath, it felt like a dam bursting, the release of a long-held pressure valve. ‘I was
nineteen,
Harun, one of a legion of girls that dreamed of capturing the heart of the world-famous Racing Sheikh. I didn’t know him any more than I could touch or talk to a literal star.’

She hadn’t said so many words to him at one time since he’d rejected her one attempt at connection last year—and the bitter self-mockery in her voice and her eyes lashed even harder at him than herself.

So she thought of Alim as a star. Well, why not? Even now, years later, it was how the world saw him. The headlines were filled with adoring references to the missing sheikh, reinforcing his own aching emptiness.
He’s my brother. Not one of you misses him like I do.

When he didn’t answer, she snapped, ‘Do you feel nothing about it, Harun? Do you not care that I married you believing I was in love with your brother?’

The pain of it gripped him everywhere, like a vice inside him, squeezing the blood from his heart. Not care that she—

Believing
she was in love with Alim? What did she mean?

Did he want to know? Could he stand to ask what she felt for his brother now?

This was too much. She’d changed so suddenly from the cold, imperious woman she’d always been with him; it left him wondering what the hell to say to her that wouldn’t make her explode. After three years of icy disdain and silence, without warning she was demanding thoughts and feelings from him that threatened to take the only thing he had left; his pride.

‘Of course I cared,’ he said coolly. ‘Quite humiliating, isn’t it, to be the last brother in line in the eyes of your prospective bride—good old Brother Number Three. I didn’t enjoy knowing that my wedding only took place because one brother died and the other brother ran away. Worse still to know she’d have done anything to have my runaway brother there instead of me.’ He was quite proud of himself. Total truth in a few raw sentences, years of grief, loss and anguish—but told as if it were someone else’s life, as if it didn’t twist in his guts like a knife he couldn’t pull out of him.

The fire in her eyes dimmed. ‘I suppose it is,’ she said dully. ‘Thank you for your honesty, at least.’

And, too late, Harun knew he’d blown this last chance she’d given him to connect with her. She might have said and done it all wrong, but at least she was trying.

I never know what he’s thinking or feeling.

For years the words had haunted him, leaving him locked deep inside what had always been his greatest strength—but with Amber, it felt like his deepest inadequacy. He’d grown up always aware that, hereditary sheikh though he was, he was the last in line, the spare tyre, the reliable son or brother. His parents had been busy running a nation, too busy to spend time with their children. The only memories he had of his mother was that she’d resented that the last child she could have wasn’t the girl she’d longed for. His father, who wanted sons, contemptuously called him a sissy for his love of history and hiding in his room reading books instead of playing sports and inventing marvellous things as Alim could, or charming the people, as Fadi did.
He’ll grow up to be a real man whether he likes it or not,
their father said with utter disdain when Harun was six. From that day, he’d been enrolled in all the action-man activities and ancient and modern knowledge of war-craft that made the family so popular with the people.

He’d learned to fight, all right…he’d had no choice, since his father had arranged constant martial-arts battles for him. But he’d also read books late at night, beneath the blanket with a tiny hand-torch, so the servants wouldn’t see it and report to his father.

After their parents’ deaths, Fadi had become the father he’d never known, raising both his brothers with greater love and acceptance than Harun had ever known from his parents, and yet he’d had to learn how to run the small, independent emirate. Harun adored Fadi, and Fadi had always loved him dearly, giving him the affection he’d craved for so long; but Fadi always comforted himself in the knowledge that, while Alim would travel the world, and put Abbas al-Din on the world and economic map, Harun would stay home and help.

Alim had always counted on it, too.
You’ve got Harun,
Alim would always say when Fadi asked him to come home for this duty or that.
He’ll do it better than I can.

So Harun supported Fadi’s heavy load as Sheikh, kept learning war-craft and how to lead all the armed forces, continuing the studies that were his secret passion by reading books late at night. Since he’d been recalled home at nineteen from his one trip outside the palace, he’d never dreamed of asking to leave Sar Abbas, except on matters of military or state. His interests were unimportant beside the demands of nation, honour, family, and their people. Good old Harun, doing the right, the decent and honourable thing, always his brothers’ support and mainstay.

The thing was, nobody ever asked him how he felt about it, or believed he had feelings at all. And so, as long as he could remember, he’d kept his thoughts to himself.

So how did he suddenly begin talking now, after all these years?

Amber sighed aloud, reiterating his failure with her. ‘Say something,
anything,
Harun!’

What was he supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry, Amber.’ At this moment, he wished he’d realised how very young she’d been when they wed—as she’d said, only nineteen. He sat beside this wife who despised him, feeling the old chains of silence holding him in place, with a rusted padlock he could never seem to open.

‘If it ruined everything we could have had, I wish I’d never thought of Alim,’ she burst out, yet said it very quietly. She dropped his hand, and turned away. ‘I never even knew him, but I was all alone here. Fadi loved Rafa, and you never looked at me or talked to me. And—and he smiled and was nice to me when he came. It was just a lonely girl’s stupid crush on a superstar,’ she mumbled, her cheeks aflame.

The finality in her words dropped him into a well of unexpected darkness.
Don’t you understand, Amber?
If he’d been anyone else, I could have ignored it.
‘What could we have had, Amber?’ he asked, as quietly as she’d spoken.

Her left shoulder lifted in a delicate shrug. ‘We married because you were a sheikh and I was a sheikh’s daughter, for the sake of our nations. Harun, you’ve been so amazing the past three years. You’ve been a strong and loving leader for your people in their need, giving them everything they asked of you. But the only good part of our marriage was for the cameras and in front of the people. Now, if Alim comes back—well, what’s left for us?’

Us.
She’d said
us.
As if there were an
us
—or could have been. She’d admired him for the things he’d done? He couldn’t get his head around it.

‘I don’t want a sham for the cameras any more. I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone, tied to a man who never touches me, who doesn’t want me.’

Harun had never cursed his habit of silence more than now. Strong, brave, lovely Amber had burst out with everything they’d kept locked in silence all these years, and his mind was totally blank. He’d been too busy keeping his nation intact and his heart from bearing any more scars to say a word to her about his wants and needs, and he’d presumed she didn’t care what he wanted anyway, because she still loved Alim.