Like Squeak, she found herself yawning and nodding off to sleep with very little warning.
Shahir cancelled his business trips abroad, and tried not to travel too far out of reach, and as her due date drew closer she felt more secure when he was around. The consultant had already warned her that the baby was too large for her narrow pelvis and would have to be delivered by Caesarean section.
In the end, she went into labour a fortnight early. It was mid-morning, and Shahir was on the other side of London. She had already been admitted to the clinic when he arrived there.
‘You will be absolutely fine…you will feel no pain,’ he whispered urgently, holding her hand a little too tightly for comfort. ‘I have discussed it fully with the surgical team. There is to be no pain…not even a twinge. I could not bear to see you suffer.’
Below his bronzed skin he was pale as death and tense as a steel girder. He seemed much more afraid for her than she was for herself. She was already suffering slight contractions, and she did not think it was possible to give birth without enduring some level of discomfort, but evidently nobody had dared to tell him that. Worried that even a moan from her might utterly unnerve him, she embraced a stoic silence until the medication kicked in.
Shahir was struggling not to betray his fear for her, and he was praying. He knew his own family history too well to assume that nothing would go wrong. Even the best medical attention could not guarantee a happy conclusion to every birth. His own mother had been young and healthy, but she had died soon after his birth from a seizure. His father had never really recovered from the loss of the wife he had adored.
Within half an hour their little boy was delivered, with an amazing lack of fuss.
Shahir touched a reverent finger tip to their son’s tiny starfish hand and swallowed convulsively, the fierce tension he had endured slowly dissipating.
‘He is…he is truly precious,’ he breathed thickly, his dark golden gaze shimmering with emotion. ‘We are blessed indeed. In a few weeks, when you are well enough to travel, we will take him home to Dhemen and show him to my people.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN the jet landed in Dhemen, Kirsten lifted her son Tazeem out of his travelling bassinet the instant she was free to undo her seat belt. Cradling his warm little body with tender care, she dropped a kiss on his satin-smooth cheek.
‘Who is the most beautiful little boy in the world?’ she whispered.
Tazeem opened big dark brown eyes that promised to be a mirror match of his handsome father’s and studied her with the unflinching regard that was equally reminiscent of his genes. He was a good-natured baby, but he had a strong will as well and could complain bitterly if given cause. She smiled down at him, noting the warm colour in his cheeks and the clearness of his eyes with satisfaction.
For the first few weeks after his premature birth, Tazeem had demonstrated a dismaying tendency to pick up every stray infection going. Shahir and Kirsten had begun to worry that their
child’s early arrival in the world had undermined his health. When the little boy overcame those initial setbacks and went from strength to strength his parents had been hugely relieved. Even so, their natural disquiet had disrupted their plans to travel.
Kirsten had ended up staying with Tazeem in London while Shahir flew round the world dealing with all the business concerns that had had to take a back seat while Kirsten was unwell. Tazeem was now seven weeks old, and it was three weeks since Kirsten had seen his father.
As a result of what felt like very serious deprivation, Kirsten’s eyes were sparkling with anticipation. She could hardly wait to see Shahir again. He had been wonderfully kind and supportive after Tazeem’s birth, especially as it had taken time for her to recover from surgery. And having said that he would honour her by not consummating their marriage until after their second wedding had taken place, he had adhered so rigidly to that decision that he had not even kissed her.
In truth it had been hard for Kirsten not to feel rejected, and even harder for her to overcome the suspicion that Shahir was not unduly taxed by his restraint because he no longer found her much of a temptation. Indeed, it seemed to her that she was continually faced with the humiliating reality that a shotgun wedding such as theirs carried no promise of love or even desire—only the far more prosaic assurance that their child’s needs had taken precedence over their own.
Passing her infant son over to the caring attentions of his nurse, Kirsten rose with a rueful sigh from her comfortable seat and prepared to leave the jet. Long before landing she had taken the chance to freshen up, and had changed into the blue suit she had picked with care for her arrival in the kingdom of Dhemen. She had read every book about her husband’s country that she could lay her hands on. Certain colours were considered auspicious, and blue was one of them.
Hearing Shahir’s rich dark drawl, she realised that the cabin door was already open and that her husband must have come to collect her off the jet. Delighted by what she assumed to be his impatience to see her, she hurried down the aisle to greet him. ‘Shahir…’
Brilliant dark as ebony eyes assailed hers and he smiled, his sculpted mouth curving with megawatt charm. Her heart went on a rollercoaster ride. ‘You have been missed,’ he murmured, clasping her hand in greeting and then stepping back from her again with a formality that took her by surprise.
‘Tazeem…’ Shahir paused to look down at his son and laughed softly, ‘He looks happy—and so he should be now that he is finally coming home.’
Feeling rather hurt by his cool, calm welcome, Kirsten bent to glance out of the nearest window. She was aghast when she saw the serried ranks of people standing out in the baking sun. ‘Oh, my goodness, what’s going on? Who are they waiting for?’
‘You and Tazeem. Are you ready? It would be most discourteous to keep our well-wishers hanging around in this heat.’
‘Waiting for me and Tazeem?’ Dismay made her voice strike a shrill note. ‘My goodness…’
‘All you have to do is smile. You’re a bride, and already the mother of the second inline to the throne. You are also incredibly beautiful. All of those facts will ensure that you are very popular,’ Shahir pointed out bracingly, while he edged her with gentle determination towards the exit.
The sunlight almost blinded her and the heat closed round her like a velvet cocoon. A band struck up a rousing musical arrangement. Before she could carry on down the steps, Shahir closed a staying hand round hers.
‘Don’t move. Keep your head up,’ he instructed, half under his breath. ‘That’s our national anthem.’
Embarrassed pink suffused her fine skin.
At the foot of the steps a few minutes later, Shahir exchanged salutes with a man in a military uniform. The crowds behind the barriers bowed and cheered and applauded, but did so in a very restrained and respectful way. Shahir guided her straight into the welcome shade of an elaborate marquee, where she was ushered towards the seats raised on a dais.