“You say you were raised to meet your birthright, with knowledge of your bloodline,” she murmured, lifting some rice to her lips and chewing it while she considered that. “So how come you never felt an obligation to have children?”
Was she imagining the way his skin paled a little? Could it simply be a trick of light?
“You forget – that same bloodline runs through my step siblings. Whatever children they have will also have a right to the throne.”
“But they don’t want it,” Millie said quickly. “At least, Farrah doesn’t, and I gather, from what she’s said of Aziz, that he doesn’t either. You’re the only one.”
Zafar didn’t attempt to touch his meal. “You asked me once what it was like being raised as the heir to the throne, but I have always felt it is far more compelling to imagine what it was like to be Farrah and Aziz. They were born to the palace but always believed they were less consequential than I am.”
“Do you think that’s why their mother resented you?”
His eyes clashed with Millie’s, and the world seemed to slow down, as though he were weighing up something very important, something almost bigger than he could find words for. “Yes,” he agreed eventually. “I know it.”
Indignation fired inside Millie. “But that’s terrible! How dare she? Just because you were born first, and to another woman?”
She reached for the iced tea at her elbow, taking a long drink in an attempt to cool her outrage.
“Is is somewhat more complicated than that.”
“I beg your pardon, there is nothing complicated about it at all. You were born to your father’s first wife, but you were still the firstborn son of the Sheikh, and naturally the right to the throne was yours. How could she possibly resent you for that?”
“Because it was all a lie,” he said, finally, calmly, as though he were telling her their precise geographical location rather than throwing a tiger into a bird’s cage.
“What do you mean?” She responded quietly, leaning forward without intending to, her heart beating a little faster, her eyes incapable of shifting from his face.
“It is a long story, Amelia, and one that will undoubtedly change your feelings about many things. Perhaps we should save it for another time.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” she snapped. “Don’t you dare. Tell me immediately.”
He lifted a brow. “Now who’s giving commands?”
“Damned straight I am. Tell me.”
He took a drink of wine, his expression making it apparent he was feeling anything but happy about this. “As it turns out, the birthright to rule is mine only because of my uncle’s generosity.”
“You’re speaking in riddles.”
“My uncle, Sheikh Mohamed al Habib, adopted me from the moment of my birth, over the strenuous objections of his first wife. My presence was the reason their marriage deteriorated.”
Millie stared at him, too stunned to speak at first. A bird call sounded overhead, like a whip ringing through the valley formed by the cliff, but Millie barely registered it. “How come you never told me this?”
“I never told anyone,” he said simply. “So far as I’m aware, my father, stepmother and birth mother are the only people who know the truth.”
“So Farrah doesn’t even know?”
“No.”
Millie’s jaw dropped. “I don’t understand. Why did your uncle – who was your –?”
“My mother,” Zafar spoke over the top of her abortive attempts at questions. “Is the late Sheikh’s sister.”
Millie’s stomach tightened into knots. “Your aunt? Then why—when did you—?” She grimaced. “I’m sorry. I have so many questions, I don’t know where to begin.”
“Which is why I suggested we table the conversation for another time.”
“No, this is the perfect time. For one thing, we’re a million miles from the palace and your duties there, far from interruptions. And for another, we have all evening. Please, tell me, Zafar. I want to understand.”
She saw the battle being raged within him, and experienced a flash of sympathy. His natural inclination was to demur, to push her away with a simple platitude, but he had started this journey now, and she knew he’d see it through, because that was the kind of man Zafar was.