“It was my father’s,” he said simply. “I inherited it after his death. He loved it out here. When I’m on board, I feel close to him.”
Deep feelings swirled through Cora. Sympathy, sorrow, a desire to comfort. “When did he die?”
“Years ago now,” Samir’s expression showed that while that might be the case, the grief was still very much a part of him. “It was cancer,” he said. “He was diagnosed only three months before he died. In some ways, that was best. He hated long goodbyes, and he hated knowing he was dying. It gave him time to prepare Adan, to ensure the government was ready to function without him, but as soon as that was done, he passed. It was peaceful, in his sleep, with my mother at his side.”
Cora sighed. “How old was he?”
“Fifty seven.”
“So young.”
“Yes. He was a good man,” he said, his face directly ahead, so she observed his profile. “And a much-loved King. Before he died, he asked me to support Adan.” Samir hesitated a moment.
“Go on,” she encouraged, sure he was on the precipice of saying more but holding himself back.
Samir turned to face her, his features a little tense. “He told me that while Adan was first born, and would therefore inherit the throne, and rule the country, it was my strength that would guide him, my support that would be necessary.”
Cora nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never met your brother, but having known you, it’s clear you’re born to lead.”
“Adan is both confident and careful. It’s a good combination. He is a man of few words and he speaks them quietly, which means people stop to listen.”
“But you support him,” she urged quietly.
“However he needs,” Samir agreed. “Even without the promise to my father, loyalty to Adan would demand it of me.”
“And to your country.”
“Yes, and to Al Medina.”
Cora thought then of his determination that their relationship remain private. Of how guarded he was with any relationship. That was borne of a loyalty to his country and people, of a respect to his family and the institution of the royal family.
Her lips pulled to the side as for a moment, before she could stop herself, she imagined what it would be like if he were just an ordinary man, a mere mortal rather than a prince.
“The Sheikh and you are close?” She prompted, though it wasn’t really necessary. The regard Samir had for his brother was obvious.
He reached out and took her hand, distractedly drawing circles in her palm. She watched the action, fascinated by their differences, he was darker, bigger, everything about him showcasing a finely honed strength, right down to the controlled way he moved his fingers now.
“Yes. As you are with your brothers.”
A smile tilted her lips. “So Adan drives you crazy too, huh?”
He grinned. “Is that how you feel about Nicholas and Max?”
“Oh, at least half the time,” she agreed. “And don’t even get me started on my cousins.”
“They are good men.”
“Yes,” she said simply. Silence fell, a comfortable, contented silence, but Cora’s mind was drifting, thinking of brothers and how their places in her life had shaped her, so she spoke without realising that she was doing something she’d sworn she wouldn’t: opening up. “My brothers are good men,” she murmured slowly. “But if they have a fault, and everyone has faults, it’s how they are with me.”
He continued to swirl his finger without missing a beat, almost as if he were afraid to ruin the mood of sharing.
“I’m the only girl,” she said with a shrug. “And I’m not a girl, I’m a woman now, and more than capable of looking after myself. All my life, I’ve had this army of them—Nicholas, Max, Anastasios, Leo, Thanassi, Dimitrios, all of them, treating me like spun glass. It was bad enough before, but after Alf…I hate it.”
“I imagine their over-protectiveness is a sign of love.”
“Oh, absolutely. But sometimes you have to show your love by letting people fall, even though it’s hard to watch.”
“They never let you fall?”