Liz Fielding - The Sheik’s Unsuitable Bride

Even to her own ears, her cry had sounded desperate and he took her hand from her waist, lifting it to lay it over his heart, with the words, ‘Ya rohi, ya hahati. My soul, my life…I believe you.’ And, as if to prove her a liar, her knees buckled and she fell into his waiting arms.

‘Please,’ she begged, her face pressed against his chest so that she could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart. But what she was begging for, release or thrall, she no longer knew or cared.

He gathered her in and held her for a moment, his arms around her, his cheek resting against her head. And for a moment she felt as if she was in the safest place in the world and she cared. Cared more than anything. That gave her the strength to pull away.

For a moment he resisted, then he kissed the top of her head, eased her into the battered armchair which, since his stroke, her father used when her mother was busy in the kitchen-so that they could be together, talk, as she did the ironing, baked. It seemed to symbolise everything that was good and true and pure about their long marriage.

Everything that she was not…

As she made to move, get up, Zahir stopped her, knelt at her feet. ‘Maybe just one diamond,’ he said. And, opening his palm, he revealed an antique ring, a large emerald cut diamond supported by emeralds. ‘A pledge, my promise, while your mother and mine enjoy themselves squabbling over where your house will be-in Mayfair or Belgravia-whether you should have diamonds or pearls, or both. Arranging our marriage.’ He slipped the ring on to her finger. Kissed the backs of her fingers, kissed her palm. ‘The beauty of a system like yours, twin of my soul, is that I do not have to wait until the contract is signed before I may see you. Talk with you. Be alone with you. Kiss you…’

His kiss was long, lingering, sweet…

The doorbell rang again. Someone hammered on the back door. Then the telephone started ringing.

Zahir drew back.

‘That would be alone with a media circus…’

‘Well, what on earth were you thinking? If you’d worn jeans, you might have got away with it.’

‘When a man asks a woman to be his wife, jeans will not do.’ Then, ‘Shall we make their day and go outside, pose for photographs? You can show them your ring, have your own Princess Diana moment.’

‘I don’t think so! Not until I’ve done my hair. Changed into something to match my prince.’ She drew back, shook her head. ‘How can I do this? I’m no princess.’

‘Believe me, you’re a natural, but if you are concerned about how we will live, your life, talk to Lucy. When she tells you her story, you’ll understand that anything is possible.’

‘Really?’

‘Remember the stars.’

‘And Freddy?’

‘Freddy is your son and when we are married he will be mine, Diana. Ours,’ he said, thumbing a tear from her cheek. ‘Frederick Trueman Metcalfe bin Zahir al-Khatib. The first of our children.’

‘I need to learn Arabic, Zahir. Will you teach me?’

They had stopped on their way from the airport to walk in the desert. A last moment alone before they were plunged into wedding celebrations. To look again at the stars.

He turned to her and she leaned into him for his warmth, for him to hold her. Wrapping his arms around her, he said, ‘Where do you want to start?’

‘Sitti,’ she said. ‘Hamid calls me sitti. What does it mean?’

‘Lady.’

‘Lady? Goodness.’ Then, ‘And Lord?’

‘Sidi.’

‘Tell me more, sidi,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘What is ya habibati?’

‘You have a good ear for the sound, my beloved. But a woman, if she called her husband “my beloved” would say ya habibi.’

‘Tell me more, sidi, ya habibi.’

‘To a child, to Freddy, I would say ya rohi, ya hahati. My soul, my life.’

She repeated the words. ‘That’s beautiful, but you might be better not telling him what it means.’

‘He is beautiful. You are beautiful, ya malekat galbi. The owner of my heart. Ahebbak, ya tao’am rohi.’ Then, after a slow, searing kiss that heated her body, melted her heart with his love, ‘I love you, the twin of my soul.’

‘Ahebbak, Zahir. I love you.’ Then, as they walked on, ‘I think I’m going to enjoy learning Arabic.’

He stopped. ‘There is one more phrase I must teach you, ya rohi. Amoot feeki. There is no life without you, Diana.’

She took his hands, raised them to her lips. ‘Amoot feeki, Zahir. Is that right?’

He smiled. ‘As good as it gets.’ Then, ‘It’s nearly dawn. ‘Come. I have something for you.’

‘What? What more could I possibly want, dream of? A house in Belgravia, a BMW, more pearls than the ocean. Diamonds like the stars…’

‘This is not something to be written down. This is a gift of the heart. My promise that I will always, before anything, do all I can to make your dreams come true.’

‘Zahir…Every dream, every possible dream…’

‘Shh…Wait…’

Dawn was turning the sky pink and blue as they reached Nadira and, as they drove in through the gates, the sun burst above the horizon to light up a pink, sparkly Metro taxi.