The Sheikh's Pregnant Bride
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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.’