And it wasn’t only because he had to get back for the state banquet being held in Kareef’s honour.
He gave up pretending to study the map and looked over to the pool, where the real source of his irritation sat at the edge, gazing fixedly at…
He tried to follow her line of sight, but there was nothing but sand beyond the fringe of trees and nothing to see.
He’d thought this trip would be so easy, that he would be the one irritating her, but her presence was akin to the rub of sandpaper against flesh, the continual abrasion stinging and ferocious on flesh raw and weeping, and he wondered about the sanity of making this journey at all. Would not his business survive without his hunting down a fabric made by some village high up in the mountains? And it could still be a wild goose chase. He didn’t even know at this stage if he was all that interested.
It was bad enough that he would be forced to spend the next twenty-four hours with her. The last thing he needed was to spend more because of the parlous state of the roads. He would speak to Kareef about those. For all Qusay’s wealth from its emerald mines, and the wide highways leading out of the city, there remained plenty of places where money could be used. The roads in this part of the desert were definitely one of them.
He growled his irritation and looked back at the map. Just as quickly he looked back again, frowning this time. For she looked sad again, her expression hauntingly beautiful, but sad all the same.
He’d seen her smile when she’d been holding the child, and he’d even heard her laughing—or had he just imagined that? But she’d definitely smiled. He had seen her face light up, filled with love as she had rocked the sleeping baby in her arms.
It had been hard to look away then, because for a moment, just a moment, he had seen the face of the girl he had fallen in love with.
‘She is not the girl you once knew.’
Like a blow to the body, his mother’s words came back to him in a rush.
No, she was not the girl he’d known before. She was a widow now.
Hussein’s widow.
Impatiently he tossed the map aside. Regardless of the advice from their visitor, they would have to get going. He was determined to make Marrash this evening.
She started as he drew close, her eyes widening in surprise as he approached, before her head dipped, her gaze once again going to the ground. ‘Is it time?’
Her voice was serenity itself, and he knew the shutters were back, slammed ever so meekly and serenely, but nevertheless slammed effectively in his face. What would it take to shake her up? What would it take to shake her out of that comfort zone she retreated to every time he so much as looked at her?
‘I always thought you wanted a big family—six children at least.’
There was a rapid intake of breath, a pause, and he wondered if she was remembering that very same day, when they’d raced their horses along the beach, hot rushing air accompanied by the splash of foam and the flick of sand, their mounts neck and neck along the long sweep of coast. And finally, with both horses and riders panting, they’d collapsed from their mounts’ backs onto the warm sand and shared their dreams for their future together. ‘A big family,’ she’d said, laughing, her black hair rippling against the arm her head had nestled against. ‘Two boys and two girls, and then maybe one or two more, because four will surely not be enough to love.’
And he’d pretended to be horrified. ‘So many children to provide for! So many children to love. Who will have time to love me?’
And she’d leaned over him and brushed a lock of hair from his brow, her hand resting on his cheek. ‘I will always love you.’
He still remembered the kiss that had followed, the feel of his heart swelling in his chest with so much joy that there had been no room left in his lungs for air. But he hadn’t needed air then—not with her love to sustain him.
More fool him.
‘Maybe,’ the woman before him finally admitted, dragging him back to the present. ‘Maybe once.’
‘And yet you never had children of your own.’
Her hands wrung together, her bowed head moving from side to side, agitated, as if his line of questioning was too uncomfortable, as if looking for a means of escape. He wasn’t about to provide it, not when he needed so many answers himself.
‘Why not?’
Now the movement of her head turned into a shake. One hand lifted to her forehead to quell it, and her voice, when it came, was nowhere near as steady as she would no doubt wish. ‘It… It didn’t happen.’
‘Didn’t Hussein want children?’
Her agitation increased; her eyes were raised now, and appealing for him to desist. ‘Why does it matter to you? Why can’t you accept it? It just didn’t happen!’