Crowned For His Desert Twins by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER SIX
INDIACOULDN’TREMEMBER the last time she’d slept so well. It didn’t make sense, with all that loomed over her head, and yet the previous day’s exertions, the heat, the mental stress had all combined to mean that as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was in another world. She was not aware of stirring at all through the night, and in the morning, it wasn’t nausea that woke her, but the sound of a door clicking across the room. She blinked open her eyes, disorientated by the sight that greeted her. This wasn’t her bedroom. It took her a moment to remember exactly where she was, and a moment longer than that to push up to a sitting position and realise that Khalil was standing just inside the door to her enormous guest suite, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes trained on her with the sort of possessive heat that definitely skittled her ability to think straight.
He wore a suit today, dark trousers, a crisp white shirt and a jacket that reminded her of the night they’d met. Her mouth felt dry; she looked towards the bedside table, then reached for the glass of water there.
‘Good morning.’ His voice was like treacle against her nerves.
‘What time is it?’ she asked, still disorientated.
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Nine o’clock?’ she repeated, jackknifing out of bed in surprise before remembering that she’d slept in underpants and a singlet top in deference to the desert heat. His eyes skimmed her body and little flames leaped beneath her skin. Oh, how she wished she were less aware of him on a physical level! It would be so much easier to have this conversation if her body weren’t willing to betray her at every opportunity. She glared at him to compensate for the direction of her thoughts, then, as an afterthought, dragged the sheet off the bed, wrapping it around her shoulders like a superhero cape.
His smile made her feel like a ridiculous toddler; her expression grew defiant.
‘And?’ she prompted. ‘Is there a reason you’ve barged in on me?’
His face sobered but she had the sense he was concealing a smile, and that angered her more. ‘The doctor will be here soon. I thought you would appreciate a chance to eat something, and dress, before she arrives.’
‘What doctor?’
‘The gynaecologist,’ he said, as though this were something they’d discussed time and time again.
‘I don’t have a gynaecologist.’
‘You do now. Did you want to shower?’
She compressed her lips. ‘I don’t need to see a doctor.’
‘I beg to differ.’ He crossed the room, gesturing to the table. It was laden with trays of food and a pot of steaming hot coffee. Her stomach gave a little roll and a hint of nausea spread through her; she looked away again.
‘I just want toast or something simple,’ she said, then, aware it sounded ungrateful, she explained. ‘I’ve had pretty bad morning sickness. I find it hard to eat much.’
‘That explains why you have lost weight, rather than gained it.’
She dipped her head. ‘I know people talk about morning sickness being bad, but I had no idea. And it’s not just in the mornings, either, it’s all day.’
‘And that is common in the first trimester?’
‘Yes.’ Then, suspecting he was actually asking a different question, she expelled a sigh. ‘I really don’t know how I’m going to convince you that this is your baby.’
His eyes bored into hers, and she wished, more than anything, that he would simply believe her. But Khalil mistrusted her with every fibre of his being, that much was obvious, and this was a pretty important thing to have faith about. She moved to her backpack and lifted out the change of clothes she’d brought.
‘I’ll shower first,’ she said, moving towards the en suite bathroom. Hovering just inside the door, she turned to face him. ‘Are you still going to be here?’
‘Of course.’
She lifted a brow. ‘Great.’ If he detected the sarcasm, he didn’t react. She took her time showering—the steam felt impossibly good, and the products were the most luxurious, fragrant things she’d ever seen. A far cry from the simple bar soap she used at home for the sake of economy. The rest of the bathroom was just as well appointed, with moisturisers and a hairdryer, even a small selection of nail polishes and face masks. No convenience had been overlooked.
Not for her, obviously.
There had been no notice of her arrival, and certainly no expectation of her being accommodated. This was clearly how guest rooms at the royal palace were kitted out. If India were prone to bitterness, she might have experienced a wave of it to contemplate the disparities and inequities in life. She had become so good at making her toiletries stretch, cutting the bottom off the tube of toothpaste, to squeeze every last bit out, mixing moisturiser with kitchen oil to make it last longer—what must it be like to live in such obvious wealth? Without a care in the world, at least not a financial one. Her head swam when she thought of the bills she had back home—with no way to cover them. But pulling Jackson out of college wasn’t an option. She had to work out a way through this.
Her hand moved over her stomach in a habit she’d developed. Though she was only eight weeks along, she felt a fierce connection to her baby already, and she knew she would do anything to give them everything she could in life. How was she ever going to be able to care for her brother and her baby?
The dress she’d brought was a simple blue linen sundress, cut on the bias so it was floaty around her slender body, with sleeves that covered just the tops of her arms. She wore minimal make-up when she wasn’t working; India applied a hint of lip gloss and mascara now, then, in concession to a face that was pale from the ravages of her hormones—she had no idea when the ‘glowing’ stage of pregnancy began but she was far from it!—a light dusting of blush on her cheekbones. Her blonde hair she left down, pulled over one shoulder to keep her neck cool—even now, the sun was high and the day’s warmth could be felt penetrating the ancient glass of the palace’s windows.
Khalil was sitting at the table when she emerged, his legs spread wide, a large phone in front of him. His face bore a scowl, so she paused, wondering if he would prefer to be left to read whatever was giving him such displeasure alone? Except he’d come to her room, and they had only the morning to deal with their situation—she was already counting the minutes to her flight. Escape was imperative. Only once she lifted off the tarmac would she be able to breathe easily again.
As she drew near to the table he looked up, his dark brown eyes lancing her, so she almost lost her footing and tore her gaze away, her breath uneven. What kind of joke was God playing to make this man the only person she’d ever been attracted to?
‘Is everything okay?’ She nodded towards the phone, taking the seat furthest from him—across the table.
A slightly mocking look in his eyes convinced her that he understood and was amused by her efforts. Heat flushed her face.
‘Fine. Just checking over a contract.’
‘Is that part of your...job?’
She reached for what looked to be a muffin, sniffing it first and finding that she could tolerate the sweet fragrance—a good sign! It had pieces of fruit and something like cinnamon stirred through it, and it was still warm from the oven. Cutting into it, India added a generous whip of butter, watching as it melted through the middle.
‘My job involves many things,’ he said with a lift of his shoulders.
‘Such as?’
‘In less than a year, I will become the head of this state. Already I undertake a great many political tasks on my father’s behalf; that will increase once I am crowned.’
Again, India wondered about his father’s health, and somehow, she understood what he wasn’t saying. She had experience with that particular type of stress, and the euphemisms one used, the words employed to skate about the subject and avoid deeper questioning. The truth was, it was very difficult to discuss a parent’s mortality. She didn’t push him on the subject.
‘I suppose there have been many expectations on you since birth,’ she said, wondering what that must have been like. He was born to a unique position, and must have been raised with an awareness of that.
‘I have never known any different,’ he said, his eyes regarding her with an intensity that took her breath away. ‘And what of you, India? What is it in your life that made you decide to enter into your...vocation?’
Heat stung her cheeks, and she understood the meaning beneath his quietly voiced question. ‘I needed a job that was flexible, that paid well. It ticked the boxes.’
She felt his disapproval coming off him in waves but at least he didn’t disparage her any further. How could a man with all this understand the position she’d been in?
‘I was lucky to find Warm Engagements,’ she said, biting into the muffin and swooning a little as the flavours spread through her. It was the first food she’d genuinely enjoyed in weeks, and she took a moment to have a little silent celebration. She washed it down with a whole glass of water, thirsty from the heat of the night, then poured another. ‘I had done a little work for them in the past—my best friend’s been there for years. I knew it was an agency of quality, the kind of place that didn’t stand for what you accused me of,’ she insisted. ‘And that was important to me. Plus, the pay is really great.’
His expression showed he didn’t believe her. She sighed, but what did it matter in the scheme of things? She didn’t have to win Khalil over. They weren’t going to be friends, or anything to one another whatsoever—they were simply two people who would have a child in common. And surely he’d lose interest in their baby once he’d married and procured legitimate royal heirs right here in Khatrain?
‘Anyway, I really just came here to tell you about the baby. I’m happy to see your doctor, if that’s important to you, but then I’d like to leave.’
‘Your flight is not until the afternoon,’ he reminded her softly.
He sounded like himself, but there was an undercurrent to his words that set the hairs at the back of her neck on end. It all seemed...too easy. She’d come to Khatrain to tell him the truth, because she knew the importance of that, but she’d expected him to respond differently. Without fully acknowledging the fear to herself, she realised now that she’d had a niggling worry he might insist on holding her in the country for longer, perhaps until the baby was born, so he could be assured of his parentage. His calm acceptance of her departure didn’t ring true. Which meant... She gulped past a lump in her throat, knowing she needed to play it cool, and act totally calm.
‘I don’t mind hanging around in the airport.’
‘Tell me this, then.’ His gravelled voice drew her attention back to his face; her stomach swooped. ‘What did you expect me to say, when you dropped this bombshell in my lap?’
She took another bite of the muffin to buy time. ‘I wasn’t sure. I just knew that it was the right thing to do.’
His eyes widened and yet she couldn’t understand even a hint of what he was feeling. He was a completely closed book to her.
‘And if I say I want nothing to do with you or the baby?’
India dropped her eyes to the table, her father’s rejection spearing her sharply, so for a moment she couldn’t speak. The idea of their baby, still just a little cluster of cells but growing bigger and stronger every day, having to be born into a world where that kind of rejection was their reality?
‘I would accept that, and do everything in my power to shield my child from the pain of your decision.’
She wasn’t looking at him, so didn’t see the way his jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with surprise.
‘What pain might that be?’
Her laugh was hollow, a weak, tremulous sound. ‘The pain of knowing their father didn’t want to be a part of their life.’ She shook her head, reaching for the juice.
Silence prickled around the room, so that when she put her glass on the table and it knocked the edge of her plate, the noise was almost deafening.
‘And financially?’ he prompted.
Pride kept her silent on that score—he didn’t need to know how dreadful her situation was. ‘I’ll cope,’ she promised through gritted teeth. And even though the idea of child support was something she knew to be fair—and certainly given their relative positions—the thought of taking anything from this man, who thought so little of her and might not even want to know her child, was painful to think about.
‘You have support?’
Her heart felt heavy. She had no support, but again, she kept that to herself, not wanting to reveal anything more to Khalil than was necessary. He wasn’t on her side. Whatever she thought she’d felt in him that first night they’d met, he’d shown his true colours since then, and she would give him only the bare minimum details—details that would show him she had no intention of being pushed around nor dictated to by him. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she reiterated firmly. ‘There is a hospital near me; I’ve chosen to have the baby there. Obviously, I will keep you updated as the pregnancy develops and if you want to come and see the baby once he or she is born, then I’ll understand.’
‘How good of you.’ He lifted a coffee cup to his lips and took a drink, his features like stone. The cup was too small and fine for his enormous hands—it looked ridiculous.
‘So having a baby without being married means nothing to you?’
A warning siren blared in the back of her mind. Marriage was a topic she saw no sense in discussing. ‘Life has a habit of dispensing curve balls.’ She pressed a finger into a crumb on the edge of her plate, lifting it to her lips with no idea of the way the small, thoughtless gesture affected the Sheikh. ‘I know that I’m not afraid, and that I am resourceful and determined. Our child will never lack for anything it needs. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ he muttered, refilling his coffee.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I have already seen the lengths you are prepared to go to in order to make a living. What will you do once there is a baby to support? What kind of environment will this child be raised in?’
‘A loving one,’ she responded, fear snagging in her throat. She had to get out of here. She stood, gripping the back of the chair in both hands, needing the support. ‘I will not sit here and be judged by you for having made decisions you cannot possibly fathom. I came here as a courtesy but let me be clear: this is my child. I have done my duty and informed you of the fact they exist, but that’s where I’m drawing a line. You don’t need to be a part of their life and you sure as heck don’t get to sit there and lecture me and act as though you’re so damn morally superior to me. I will love this baby with all my heart, and that is enough.’
‘Except it isn’t enough,’ he interjected quietly, something sharp in his gaze that stood as a warning to India. The warning siren was blaring louder now. She dug her fingers into the chair back, seeking strength.
‘Babies are expensive, and they require care. Who will look after this child if you are working nights? Or is your plan to find some other man and stooge him into marrying you, to help you care for our baby? Because if you think I am having my son or daughter raised by another then you are frankly delusional.’
‘That hadn’t even entered my mind,’ she denied hotly. ‘But, as a point of fact, I was raised by my stepfather from the age of four and he is so much more of a father to me than my biological dad ever was. So if I should choose to marry, at some point, that has nothing to do with you.’
‘I disagree.’
‘You disagree as a matter of habit,’ she snapped.
‘A habit we share.’
‘There is a difference between disagreeing and defending—I am forced to do the latter with you at every turn.’
‘If you are defensive of your lifestyle then that is a question for your conscience.’
She ground her teeth together. ‘I’m not defending my lifestyle, damn it! I am defending what you believe my lifestyle to be; there’s a difference.’
He held up a hand, in a clearly authoritative manner. ‘Let us not discuss your—profession. It is clearly upsetting to you and, given your condition, that should be avoided. Besides, it doesn’t matter now. You are pregnant, and whatever happened before is irrelevant to the future of this baby. Okay?’
No! It’s not okay!She wanted to scream the denial at him, to tell him she didn’t want to live in a world where he thought her capable of what he’d accused her. Where he could reduce what they’d shared down to a financial transaction. Her pride hurt with the knowledge that she hadn’t been able to simply tear up the cheque he’d written her, but without that money, she could never have afforded to come to Khatrain and tell him the truth.
A knock sounded at the door, making any response impossible, as Khalil stood and moved with his long, confident gait towards it. He drew it inwards and a woman entered, followed by a male with a large trolley.
‘Your Highness.’ She bowed towards the Sheikh, and the man behind the doctor did the same.
‘This way.’ His voice was grim as he gestured towards India. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl, being dragged before the headmaster. At the same time, even this brought her a hint of pleasure, because seeing a doctor in America was a luxury beyond her means. She’d done an at-home pharmacy test to confirm her pregnancy, then another to confirm the confirmation, but she had been waiting until closer to twenty weeks to book a hospital appointment for a scan.
‘Dr Abasha.’ Khalil gestured to India. ‘India McCarthy.’
‘How do you do?’ Dr Abasha’s smile was kind, and India warmed to her immediately.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ India murmured.
‘Of course, it is my honour.’ She turned to Khalil. ‘Is there somewhere private I can speak to the patient?’
India had to hide a smile; it was clear Khalil didn’t like being excluded, but after a moment’s hesitation, he exited the room.
‘I take it you’ve done a home pregnancy test?’ the doctor asked, reaching into her briefcase and withdrawing another such test.
‘Yes. Two of them.’
‘Well, they are almost always accurate, but this one is a little different—it will tell me the amount of hCG—the pregnancy hormone—in your system at the moment. It’s useful for many things, including dating the pregnancy.’
India’s heart dropped to her toes. This woman knew what her job was: to confirm—or maybe even to deny?—that the baby was the Sheikh’s. The idea of a protracted fight over paternity made her stomach ache—she would never do it. There would be too much risk of publicity, and she couldn’t have her baby ever discovering that India had needed to fight for the father to acknowledge their life.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘No problems.’
When she was finished with the pregnancy test, she carried it out to the doctor, who regarded it with a smile at first, and then a small frown. ‘You say you are eight weeks along?’
India nodded. She knew the exact date of conception, of course. But the doctor’s countenance gave her some cause for concern. ‘Yes. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Could there be some confusion with dates?’
‘Definitely not.’
Dr Abasha took the pregnancy test and placed it on the trolley, then switched the light on so a monitor on the top tray came to life. ‘Come and have a lie-down. Let’s do a scan to see what’s going on.’
India’s eyes grew wide. ‘Isn’t it too early?’
‘We’ll see. At eight weeks, a dating scan should be possible.’
Under different circumstances, she might have felt excited, but there was a look of concern on the doctor’s face that made India hold her breath.
Her dress had buttons down the front so she undid several in the middle and lay on the bed as Dr Abasha moved the trolley closer. ‘Would you like me to get His Highness?’
‘No,’ India denied quickly. ‘Let me see first, please.’
Dr Abasha hesitated a moment before nodding, applying a cold, wet goo to India’s belly. ‘Lie still,’ she said. ‘This will be a little uncomfortable.’
She moved the wand around, her eyes on the screen as she shifted positions, her fingertips clicking buttons before she peered closer at the image.
‘Is there a problem?’ India asked, after what felt like for ever.
Dr Abasha’s eyes met India’s. ‘Stay here, madam.’
India’s heart was racing, worry clutching at her, as Dr Abasha left the room and returned, a moment later, with Khalil. His eyes met India’s and she felt her own worries reflected in his.
‘Please, just tell me what’s going on,’ India begged, pushing up onto her elbows, uncaring that her belly was still exposed and covered in translucent blue syrup.
‘The dating scan confirms that you are eight weeks pregnant, madam, congratulations.’
Khalil’s eyes bored into hers, and India’s heart tripped over itself, the triumph of that moment dwarfed by something else entirely. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, turning back to the doctor. ‘And the baby’s okay?’
‘I was interested by your high levels of hCG—much higher than one would expect at this stage of a pregnancy, hence the dating scan.’
‘Do high levels of hCG indicate a problem?’ India asked, panic overtaking her now.
‘Not in this case,’ Dr Abasha said with a smile. ‘Tell me, do twins run in your family?’
India’s jaw dropped and she shook her head, trying to make sense first of the doctor’s implication and then of her question.
‘My mother is a twin,’ Khalil said. ‘And her mother.’
‘And your children,’ the doctor said with a grin, as though this were purely good news.
‘Oh, my God.’ India sat up straight now, staring at the wall opposite. ‘Twins?’ She squeezed her eyes shut, her first reaction of sheer delight quickly being overtaken by stress. One child had been scary enough, but two? On her own? And all her bravado seemed to crumple at once, so she had no faith in herself and her resourcefulness, she saw only an enormous, insurmountable wall.
‘Thank you, Doctor. What do we do now?’
‘You’ve really already done the important thing,’ the doctor said with a wink, then apparently sensed the tone of the room and sobered. ‘I will bring some pregnancy vitamins to you later today, as well as information on diet and lifestyle habits to support a healthy pregnancy. Twin pregnancies are generally considered higher risk than single, though in someone of your age and obvious good health, I am not concerned. I’ll schedule another scan for you at twelve weeks.’
‘Higher risk as in...something might go wrong?’ India asked, latching onto the question, feeling Khalil’s eyes on her.
‘There is a slightly higher risk, yes,’ the doctor said gently. ‘The first trimester is when a miscarriage is most likely—but you are already eight weeks. It is also likely the twins will be born early—anywhere from thirty-six weeks, sometimes even sooner.’
Perspiration dampened India’s brow and she pressed a hand to her stomach, a fierce need to do whatever she could to protect her babies rushing through her.
‘What can I do?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’ Dr Abasha smiled kindly. ‘Eat well, get plenty of rest, avoid stress, relax. And wait.’
India closed her eyes, because such simple instructions were almost impossible for her to follow. Her life back home was not relaxing, stress was a constant companion, she wasn’t sleeping and as for eating well—it depended on what she could afford.
‘Okay, sure,’ she said, fighting back tears. ‘I can do that.’ For her babies, she’d find a way. And she knew what that would mean. Selling the family home. She’d been determined to hold onto it for Jackson, and when she’d found out that she was pregnant, the idea of raising her babies in the home she’d lived in with her parents had made her feel that they would be a part of the baby’s life, but it was more important to take care of her pregnancy in the here and now.
By selling the home, she could free up enough cash to buy a small apartment that she’d own outright. That would alleviate some worries. But what about the medical bills and Jackson’s college fees? It would quickly chew through the capital, so whatever she had to spend on an apartment would quickly diminish.
She was conscious of Khalil walking the doctor out, thanking her for her time before closing the door, pressing his back to it. Once they were alone, she realised, belatedly, that she hadn’t corrected the doctor on something.
‘I won’t be here this afternoon,’ India said quietly, standing on legs that were so full of adrenaline and surprise they wobbled a little. She had to get out of Khatrain, and fast. Something about the discovery she was carrying twins made everything seem more urgent—and dangerous.
Khalil’s brow lifted in a silent encouragement for her to continue.
‘The doctor said she’d bring some vitamins and information to me, but I won’t be here. Do you think she could come back sooner?’
‘I think,’ Khalil said, his voice quiet yet determined, ‘that your place is now in Khatrain. Not only will you be here this afternoon, India, you will be here from now on.’
