The Innocent Carrying His Legacy by Jackie Ashenden

CHAPTER TWO

ANICYBOLTof shock flickered through Nazir. Then his logic took over.

She was lying, for what reason he couldn’t possibly imagine, but she was. When he indulged himself with a woman, he was always scrupulous with protection. Children would never be in his future. He didn’t want them. He’d been brought up to be a soldier and that was his life, and the domesticity of a wife and children had no place in that life.

Apart from anything else, he remembered every woman he slept with and he definitely had not slept with the one sitting on the camp bed in front of him, with her hands in her lap and absolutely no fear at all in her clear, copper-coloured eyes.

He would have laughed if he remembered how.

‘Leave us,’ he ordered calmly to the two guards, virtually quivering in their eagerness to be out of the guardhouse. There was no need for them to waste precious time listening to this woman’s nonsense.

They exited the building like racehorses leaping out of the starting gate.

The woman—Ivy Dean—didn’t move a muscle and she didn’t look away.

No, she wasn’t someone he’d ever take to bed. She was small, with a delicacy to her that would make the rough sex he particularly enjoyed unworkable. He preferred warrior women. Women he didn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting, who could hold their own in bed and out of it.

Yet, he couldn’t deny that there had been something almost...intriguing about her refusal to obey him. Or the way that little pointed chin of hers had lifted in stubborn protest at his orders.

Sadly, though, no matter how stubborn she was, he was in command here and even though she wasn’t a physical threat to him, she might be a threat in other ways. He had many enemies—including whole countries—and someone might be using her to get to him. It was a novel approach, but nothing could be dismissed and this—she—was deeply suspicious.

Which meant he had to find out the real reason she was here come hell or high water.

‘You’re lying,’ he said expressionlessly.

‘I’m not,’ she shot back.

‘Prove it.’ He didn’t consciously imitate her; he didn’t need to.

Her pretty mouth pursed in displeasure at having that thrown back at her. Then she sniffed. ‘Very well.’

She slipped off the camp bed and stood up, only to sway a little, suddenly unsteady on her feet. It seemed that regardless of whether she’d been faking that faint or not, the wait outside in the hot sun hadn’t been kind to her.

The boy he’d once been would have been concerned about that, but the man had no room in his heart for concern. So it came as somewhat of a surprise to him that he found himself reaching forward to take her elbow to steady her.

She gave a soft little intake of breath and froze like a gazelle under the paw of a lion. The sound of her gasp echoed in the small room and he felt it echo inside him, too. She felt very warm and, despite the sharp angles of her face, very soft.

It’s been years since you’ve had soft... A lifetime...

Disturbed by his reaction, Nazir let her go. Strange to find himself...affected in such a way. He had perfect control over himself and his impulses and he wasn’t accustomed to having a physical reaction he wasn’t in complete command over.

Perhaps it was simply weariness. He really did need some sleep.

Ivy moved away from him very quickly, as if she couldn’t wait to put some distance between them, heading for the battered leather bag that sat against the desk in the corner. She must have been carrying it with her when they’d brought her in.

She moved over to it, the dirty white robe pooling around her as she bent to pick it up, rummaging around for something inside it. A moment later, she pulled out a sheaf of papers that she turned and brandished at him.

‘Here,’ she said, her voice light and sweet with a distinct undercurrent of iron. ‘Your proof.’

Nazir took the papers and glanced down at them.

On the top was a printout from a fertility clinic in England and on it, in very clear black and white, were his physical and personal details, including his name. There was also a set of paternity test results, and what looked to be a personal note in shaky handwriting.

Ice gripped him.

It had been a long time ago, when he’d had those three years at Cambridge University. Away from his father’s iron grip, away from the palace and its rules and strictures. He hadn’t wanted to go initially, because he’d known he was being given a punishment, not freedom, yet his father had been insistent. He’d had no choice but to go. So he had, deciding that if it was a punishment, then it was a punishment he’d enjoy the hell out of. He’d been eighteen and full of passion, determined to take life by the throat and experience everything he could, and that was exactly what he’d done.

He’d always known he’d never be a father, that a family life wasn’t possible for him. As the bastard son of the Sultana—the secret bastard son—he couldn’t be allowed to further taint the royal line with offspring.

That had burned, even back then, even when he’d been too young for a family. So one night, drunk with some of his friends and making stupid bets over poker, he’d lost a bet that had involved sperm donation. They’d only been boys, unthinking and stupid, but even then a part of him had felt a certain savage pleasure. That somewhere there’d be a child of his despite all the rules his father had set.

Then he’d returned to Inaris and, in the aftermath of everything that had happened, he’d forgotten about it.

Until now.

There was no disputing the facts. The evidence was clear in the papers he held, and even if there had been a chance that they’d been forged, he knew they hadn’t been.

He knew the truth.

Carefully, Nazir folded up the papers and put them into the pocket of his combat trousers. The woman opened her mouth to protest, but then took one look at his face and shut it again.

A wise decision.

‘Sit,’ he ordered tersely.

She didn’t protest that either, moving to the chair at the watch station and sitting down.

‘Explain,’ Nazir commanded. ‘Leave out nothing.’

She took a breath, her small pink tongue coming out and touching her lower lip briefly. He found himself watching it for no good reason.

‘I need some water first,’ she said, apparently not understanding that his tone meant he was to be obeyed and immediately.

‘No,’ he said.

One straight brow arched. ‘Excuse me? I was forced to stand outside your gates in the desert heat, with no shade or water—’

‘I don’t care.’

‘And I’m pregnant.’ She ignored the interruption. ‘With your child.’

Nazir stared at her. She was challenging him, no doubt about it, matching his will with hers—or at least, attempting to. And part of him had to admit to a certain reluctant admiration at the sheer gall of her. No one challenged him, except for his enemies and those with a death wish. Which was she?

She’s right, though. She is carrying your child.

He glanced down at her stomach before he could stop himself, the slight curve veiled by the dusty white robes she wore. Something raw and hot and primitive stirred inside him in response.

He ignored it.

‘Water,’ he said.

‘Yes, please.’ She clasped long, delicate fingers together in her lap. ‘A small glass would do.’

Well, if it was water she wanted, then water she would receive.

Nazir strode over to the door, pulled it open, and spoke briefly to the guards outside, then shut it again and turned back to where she sat, small and precise and utterly self-contained.

She met his gaze squarely, though he thought he detected a slight hint of wariness. Which was good and proved she had some intelligence after all. Because she should be wary. It was clear she was used to having her own way, but she would not get it here.

This was his fortress and he ruled it with an iron fist.

He folded his arms and stood in front of her, holding her coppery gaze with his own.

And waited.

‘I’ll need water first before any explanations,’ she said.

‘Indeed.’

Another moment or two passed.

She shifted restively but didn’t look away. ‘If you’re trying to intimidate me, Mr Al Rasul, it won’t work.’

‘I’m not trying to intimidate you,’ he said. ‘I’m merely looking at you. You’ll know if I start trying to intimidate you.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘Not at all. Did you take it as one?’

‘It was hardly meant as anything else.’

‘Good.’

She opened her mouth and closed it again.

He kept staring.

She had the most beautiful skin, very fine-grained and soft-looking, though she’d definitely caught far too much sun. Her cheeks were quite rosy, as were her forehead and chin.

You should have given her the umbrella. Especially considering she’s pregnant.

The hot, primitive feeling inside him shifted again. Again, he ignored it.

No, he’d been right not to acquiesce to her demands. He had to protect this fortress and his men, which meant he couldn’t afford to acknowledge random passers-by who sat outside his gates demanding water and sun umbrellas. His fortress wasn’t a tourist stop.

Besides, it had been her choice to come out into the desert to find him. Clearly this was due to the pregnancy and the fact that he was the father, but there also had to be some explanation for why she’d felt the need to track him down. Whatever it was, again, that had been her decision and it had nothing to do with him.

Her eyes were pretty. In this light, the light brown coppery colour had gone almost gold, and her dark lashes looked as if they’d been brushed with the same gold. Was her hair that colour too? Was it dark? Did it have those same streaks of gold? Or was it lighter? Amber, maybe, or deep honey...

Why are you thinking about her hair?

A strange jolt went through him as he realised what he was doing. Tired, that was what he was. Too tired. There was no other reason for him to be standing there contemplating the colour of a woman’s hair, especially a delicate little English rose such as this one.

A knock came on the door.

‘Enter,’ Nazir growled.

It opened and one of his kitchen staff came in carrying a tray. He went over to the watch station, deposited the tray on the desk, turned and then went out again.

On the tray was a very tall, elegant crystal tumbler and an elegant matching pitcher. The glass was full of ice and a clear fizzing liquid with a delicate sprig of mint as a garnish. The pitcher was full of the same liquid and ice, condensation beading the sides.

Nazir watched with interest as Ivy’s pretty eyes widened, taking in the pitcher and the glass with obvious surprise.

Satisfaction flickered through him, though he ignored that too.

‘That’s not water,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the glass.

‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed. ‘It’s lemonade. It should be slightly flat since you’re likely dehydrated and need some electrolytes, but choices are limited out here in the desert.’

It was obvious she didn’t want to drink it; he could see it in the stubborn firming of her chin. But her lips were cracked and she was sunburned, and she had a baby to think about. And clearly her thirst was greater than her need to best him, because, after a moment, she reached for the glass and took a sip.

Her whole body shuddered and a small, helpless moan escaped her.

And just as her soft gasp had echoed through him when he’d taken her elbow before, her moan sent another echo bouncing off the walls of the emptiness inside him, the emptiness that had been there ever since he’d returned from England all those years ago, so full of righteousness and passion. So sure of himself and his position. Thinking that he was an adult now and could make his own decisions, that he wouldn’t be bound by the rules of the country of his birth, and that he wanted everything that had been denied him.

And how that had led to the disappearance of his mother, the banishment of his father, and his almost execution.

No. There was a reason he was empty inside and it had to stay that way. Nothing could be permitted to fill that void except purpose and that purpose had nothing to do with a small Englishwoman and the child she carried.

Even if that child was his.

Ivy forgot about the Sheikh standing in front of her. She forgot about her fear. She forgot that she was in a desert fortress and that her elbow still felt scalded from where he’d touched it. She forgot that she was supposed to be challenging that titanic will of his, otherwise she’d certainly be crushed beneath it, and the baby along with her.

She even forgot that she’d wanted water and that that wasn’t what was in the glass.

The liquid was cold and sweet, with a faintly tart edge, and it was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted in her entire life. She took another swallow and then another, the lemonade cooling her parched throat and satisfying her thirst, yet at the same time making her realise how much thirstier she really was.

One glass wasn’t going to be enough. She needed the whole pitcher.

Then powerful fingers gently but firmly disentangled hers from the glass and he took it away from her.

‘No,’ she protested, trying to hold onto the glass. ‘I need more.’

But his strength was irresistible and she lost her hold on it, appalled to find that there were tears in her eyes as he put the glass back down on the tray next to the pitcher.

She blinked furiously, the urge to weep rushing through her like a wave. Her emotions had been all over the place with this pregnancy. She didn’t normally let them run riot like this and to lose control of them in front of him, this...giant predator, Lord, how she hated it.

If he’d noticed the lapse in her control, he gave no sign.

‘When you’re dehydrated it’s best to take small sips and often,’ he said in his deep, harsh voice. ‘Drinking too much and too fast will overload your kidneys.’

Ivy looked down at her hands. The flat, uninflected way he said the words was strangely calming, making the intense rush of emotion recede.

Well, it would be stupid to argue with him about the lemonade. He probably did know more about dehydration than her.

‘I’m waiting,’ he said.

Once more in possession of herself, Ivy glanced back up at him.

He stood in front of her, muscled arms folded across his wide chest. The black robe he wore belted around his waist had loosened, revealing the bronze skin of his throat and upper chest, and she found herself staring at it for some inexplicable reason.

It looked smooth, velvety almost, with a scattering of crisp black hair, and she found herself wondering what it would feel like to touch it.

Why are you thinking about touching his skin?

She had no idea. It wasn’t something she’d ever thought about a man before and it disturbed her.

Forcing her gaze from his chest, she glanced up at his face, ignoring the little thrill of heat that darted through her.

Not that staring at his face was any better, not with those icy eyes staring back at her, so sharp and cutting she could almost feel the edges of them scoring her.

Her mouth felt dry, more arid than the desert outside the walls of the tiny guardhouse, but she resisted the urge to grab back the glass. She’d give him the explanation he wanted, determine what he wanted re the baby, then she’d go from there.

‘Okay,’ she said calmly. ‘So, I have...had a very dear friend of mine who desperately wanted children. She didn’t have a husband or partner and so was planning to conceive via a donor. However, she was also in the middle of treatment for cancer and was unable to carry a child herself. I didn’t want her to stop her treatment—she had an excellent prognosis initially—so I offered to be her surrogate. I’m not planning on having children myself and it seemed the least I could do for her.’

The warlord said nothing, no expression at all on his face.

‘She agreed,’ Ivy went on. ‘So she picked out a donor and though she had some eggs frozen, they ended up not being viable, so we decided that she would use some of mine. It all went very well and then...’ Grief caught at her throat and she had to take a second before continuing. ‘The cancer became aggressive. Her treatments failed. I found out I was pregnant while she was losing her battle. I hadn’t planned on having children—I have a job that makes it impossible and I don’t have enough support financially—and Connie knew it. Before her death, we discussed what options there were, but we both agreed that continuing the pregnancy was important. She told me to contact the donor, to at least let him know he was a father, in case he wanted to be in the child’s life. Neither of us wanted the child to have to go into foster care, but...’ She stopped again, the worry and grief catching her once more despite all her efforts to contain it.

Poor Connie. She’d so desperately wanted a child and Ivy had been desperate to help her. It had been risky given Connie’s illness, but both of them had tried to be optimistic. It wasn’t to be, however.

Now Ivy was pregnant with a child she’d never intended to bring up herself, a child that she’d very consciously refused to think of as hers, because it wasn’t. The child was Connie’s, even though the genetics would prove otherwise.

Fulfilling Connie’s dying wish to find the child’s father had consumed her, because foster care... Well, it was an option, but not one Ivy wanted to contemplate. Not for Connie’s child. She knew the effects the foster system had on kids, and though she tried to mitigate it as much as possible at the home she managed, sometimes there was no fighting a rigid system.

The man standing in front of her didn’t move and there was no break at all in his expression, no lessening in the absolute focus of his gaze.

She felt like a mouse under the sharp eye of a hawk.

The urge to keep going, to keep talking to fill up the terrible silence, gripped her, but she ignored it. Instead she reached for the glass again and he made no move to stop her this time. She took a delicate sip, letting the cool liquid sit on her tongue, fighting the urge to swallow the whole lot again.

‘So you came to Inaris, all the way from England. Somehow tracking down a guide who knew how to find me and then paying him no doubt an exorbitant amount of money to bring you here. Then you stand out in the hot sun for hours, enduring dehydration and putting yourself and your baby at risk so you can tell me that I have a child.’ His voice was cold. ‘And all for some promise to a friend?’

Ivy lifted her chin. ‘She was a very close friend. And I keep my promises.’

‘I am a notorious warlord, both violent and vicious. That didn’t put you off? Didn’t make you reflect on whether in fact I’d be someone who’d you’d want to chase up for paternal rights?’ He said the words flatly, as if he had no thoughts or feelings or anything else about the fact that he was going to be a father.

Ivy took another delicate sip of lemonade then made herself put it down. True, tracking this man down hadn’t been easy, but it hadn’t been until she’d arrived in Inaris that she’d realised the full extent of the trouble she’d be getting herself into with him.

The rumours about him had, indeed, been terrible. And she might have given up and turned back for England then and there, because even the promise she’d made to Connie wasn’t enough if the child’s father was nothing but the murderer he was reputed to be.

But Connie had already pieced together some information on him when she’d found out she was terminal and had given Ivy a contact in Mahassa, the capital of Inaris. According to the contact, the rumours about the Sheikh were largely exaggerated and, though he was ruthless, he’d also been known to sometimes help those who came to him.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Ivy to make it worth the risk. Because she wasn’t only doing this for Connie, though that was a decent part of it. She was also doing it for the child. She’d grown up without a parent or a family, and it was a terrible thing; she’d seen the effects first hand in the faces of the children in the care home she managed.

‘My friend had a contact who knew your approximate location and that you weren’t quite as bad as the rumours would indicate.’ She narrowed her gaze at him. ‘Are you?’

He ignored that. ‘A phone call would have been easier.’

‘Yes, it would,’ she said tartly, ‘but when I looked up “vicious warlord” on the Internet, there was sadly no contact information.’

He didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink, merely continued to stare at her in that direct way, the power of his gaze almost a physical force pushing at her.

Her jaw clenched tight. ‘Mr Al Rasul—’

‘You may call me “sir”.’

A streak of annoyance rippled through her. ‘I will do no such thing.’

‘You will. I am the Commander of this fortress and my word here is law.’

‘But I’m not—’

‘Tell me, Miss Dean, what exactly did you expect by coming here?’

Ivy bit down on her irritation. It probably wasn’t wise to challenge him, no matter how much she wanted to.

‘I’m simply here to inform you that you will have a child in approximately six months, and to discuss options for its care.’ She hoped she sounded calm. ‘As I told you, I don’t have the means to care for a child, not financially. I offered to be Connie’s surrogate on the understanding that she would then take the child after he or she was born. I didn’t envisage...’ She stopped, a strange feeling constricting inside her, part grief and part an aching fear that she didn’t quite understand. ‘What I mean to say is that the child isn’t mine. Or at least, I don’t view it as such. It’s always been Connie’s.’

‘Not genetically,’ he pointed out.

‘No, I know that. But still.’ She swallowed and met his gaze squarely. ‘A child should always be wanted.’

‘And you do not want the child?’ The question was utterly neutral.

The strange feeling inside her clutched harder. She ignored it. ‘As I said, this child isn’t mine. He’s Connie’s.’

The Sheikh’s knife-bright gaze intensified all of a sudden. ‘He?’

A little pulse of shock went through Ivy. That had been a slip. She’d deliberately not thought about the child she was carrying other than in the most basic way. She hadn’t thought of names or what they would look like, or whether they’d be a boy or a girl.

It was Connie’s place to do that, not hers.

But Connie is gone. And the child has no one else.

Ivy realised her hand had crept to her stomach again, resting there as if protecting the child from her own thoughts.

‘He, she, I’m not sure which yet,’ she said, trying to cover her lapse.

But the Sheikh didn’t let her escape that easily. ‘You think it’s a boy, though.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think.’ Ivy tried to sound dismissive. ‘What matters is what you would like to do as the child’s father.’

The Sheikh’s gaze ran over her, suddenly very intense, making her breath catch and foreboding twist hard in her gut.

‘You said you didn’t want a family,’ he said almost thoughtfully. ‘Why is that?’

Ivy blinked at the change of subject. ‘That’s really none of your business.’

He lifted one black brow. ‘Is it not? You’re pregnant with my child, which makes this very much my business.’

The words ‘pregnant with my child’ made her feel warm, her cheeks heating. How ridiculous to blush about something like that, especially when it wasn’t what it sounded like and they both knew it.

Anyway, it seemed clear that this man probably wasn’t going to be interested in caring for the child. Her quest had been a futile one.

What did you expect? That he’d offer to bring up the child? So you could offload the baby like an unwanted parcel?

The strange feeling intensified inside her, becoming an ache.

She hadn’t thought about what would happen after the birth. Deliberately not thought about it, because the reality of bringing up a child she’d never expected to have was too frightening. Too confronting. She had no financial means. No family support. Yes, she managed the kids at the home, but she viewed herself as their teacher and carer, not their mother. She didn’t know how to be a mother, not when she’d never had one of her own.

No, she would be totally alone.

Besides, how could she when managing the home took up so much of her time? How could she give a child the attention it needed and deserved when she had so many other deserving children to watch over?

Don’t think about it. One step at a time.

Ivy forced away the steadily rising panic, slipping off the camp bed and getting to her feet. ‘It’s clearly not business you’re interested in, however,’ she said with icy calm. ‘A fortress full of men commanded by a warlord is hardly the place for a child anyway. Thank you for taking the time to see me. If you could spare me someone to take me back to Mahassa that would be appreciated.’

The Sheikh didn’t move. He stood in front of her, immovable as a granite cliff. His gaze was like a searchlight, the impossible turquoise depths as icy as a glacial lake. ‘Did I say you could leave?’

Ivy stiffened. ‘No, but—’

‘Because if you think I am going to let you walk away with my child, you are very much mistaken, Miss Dean.’