The Innocent Carrying His Legacy by Jackie Ashenden
CHAPTER THREE
IVYHADGONERIGID, outrage flickering in her coppery eyes, giving them a fascinating, smoky gold tinge. Like the very good Scotch whisky he sometimes allowed himself to indulge in after a particularly difficult operation.
Of course, she wasn’t pleased at this development. He didn’t expect her to be. But then her feelings in the matter were irrelevant.
She’d chosen to come and find him—a difficult endeavour for many far more experienced than she was, let alone one young and pregnant Englishwoman—and if she thought he wasn’t going to be interested then she was wrong.
As he’d stood there listening to her explanation for how she’d ended up as a surrogate for her friend, and he’d watched her hand creep over the little bump of her stomach, he’d been conscious of a strange, almost territorial possessiveness winding through him.
His father had been clear: Nazir was not permitted children. And yes, when he’d been younger he’d resented that, especially since there were already so many rules regarding his behaviour. It was only later, after he’d ruined everything, that he’d understood his father hadn’t been just imposing arbitrary rules. It wasn’t only a cultural tradition that a royal bastard couldn’t sire children, it also made for a better soldier. Emotional ties were weaknesses a commander couldn’t afford and it was better to limit them.
So Nazir, having just learned that lesson and painfully, had accepted his fate. Accepted that though there were no strictures on a marriage, he could never have a son or daughter of his own.
He’d decided in the end that marriage wouldn’t be for him, either. His father, who’d once been Commander of the Sultan’s army, had shown him his path and so he’d followed it, pouring his energy into life as a soldier instead. His father’s banishment and his own existence had meant he’d never have a position in Inaris’s army. So, after his father’s death, Nazir had created his own, building a small but powerful military force that many governments and numerous private interests engaged for ‘strategic purposes’.
He had rules, naturally. He wouldn’t hire out his force or his own impressive military leadership for coups or for the destabilisation of peaceful countries. He refused to be bought by dictators or those wanting to use his army to hurt innocent civilians, or by criminals wanting to protect their own interests.
He had a strict moral code and expected all his soldiers to follow it.
An ‘ethical mercenary’, some of the media called him. He didn’t care. He funnelled cash back into his army and the rest into Inaris, and even though he had nothing to do with his half-brother the Sultan, or the palace in general, in certain circles he was known as the power behind the throne, much to his half-brother’s annoyance.
But Fahad didn’t dare touch him. Nazir was too powerful.
However, a child changed things. His child, to be exact. His forbidden child...
The unfamiliar thread of possessiveness had tightened as one thing began to become progressively clearer to him. He’d never expected to have children. He’d thought that throw of the dice back in Cambridge had been his one and only contribution to the gene pool. But fate clearly had other plans for him, and since he’d never been a man to overlook an opportunity when one fell straight into his lap, he wouldn’t now.
He’d have to think through the implications, obviously, but one thing was clear: she was going to have to stay here.
‘What do you mean you’re not going to let me leave?’ she demanded, fascinating golden sparks glittering in her eyes.
‘Surely my meaning is evident.’
‘But I—’
‘But you what?’ He held her gaze. ‘You’re moderately dehydrated and very sunburned. Your guide has gone. How do you suppose you’re going to get back to Mahassa on your own?’
‘Well, if you would—’
‘Difficult enough for a woman who wasn’t pregnant, let alone one who is. And no, I’m not going to give you one of my men to take you back.’
‘You could—’
‘You’re also expecting my child and, since you came here with the express purpose of gauging my interest in fatherhood, I’ve decided that, yes, I would be interested. But I’m also going to need some time to think about what form that interest might take since it wasn’t something I was anticipating.’
‘I can’t—’
‘In the meantime, you’ll stay here until I’ve decided what to do—’
‘Let me speak!’ The words exploded out of her, the golden sparks in her eyes glittering like a bonfire. Her fine-grained skin was very red from the sunburn and now it turned even redder. She looked furious.
Nazir found the tightening possessiveness turning into something else, something disturbingly raw. He was a soldier. He liked a fight. He liked being challenged, and he liked overcoming said challenge. It was a trait that extended into the bedroom too, which was why he liked strong women, both physically and temperamentally. Especially ones that stood up to him.
He’d had a sense that while Miss Ivy Dean might look delicate, she had a spine of pure steel and he could see that in her now, a force of will that had probably decimated lesser men. A will that no doubt was very used to getting its own way.
You would enjoy matching hers with yours.
Oh, yes, he would. But this was neither the time nor the place, and she was very definitely the wrong woman. Perhaps he’d take care of his urges later, with someone else. He had a few women he could call on for such purposes and they were always very pleased to see him.
He stared at the small fury in front of him, debating whether or not to let the interruption pass, because he certainly wouldn’t if she’d been one of his men. Then again, she wasn’t one of his men.
No, she’s the mother of your child.
The possessiveness wound even tighter, a shifting, raw feeling that he didn’t much care for, so he crushed it.
He had no time for such emotions, not when they were the enemy of clear-headed thinking. His own father’s choices had been poor ones, but he’d been correct when he’d taught Nazir that a soldier had to divorce himself from his emotions. Following orders required neither thinking nor feeling, only doing. And leading men required only cold intellect. A good leader led with his brain, not his heart, and certainly Nazir had learned the truth of that.
‘You can’t keep me here,’ Ivy said furiously. ‘I’m a British citizen. I’ve registered with the consulate. They know where I am. If anything happens to me they’ll come and turn this place inside out!’
Nazir gazed at her dispassionately as she went on at some length, not interrupting her this time because, in the end, she’d run out of words, not to mention breath. And then she’d learn that it didn’t matter what she said or what she did, he’d made his decision. He’d given her his order and he would be obeyed.
Eventually she stopped, her pretty mouth finally closing and settling into a hard line.
‘I don’t believe I threatened you with death, Miss Dean,’ Nazir said calmly. ‘Or offered you violence. I merely said you were to stay here.’
Her chin lifted. ‘Your reputation would say otherwise.’
‘But, as you’ve already ascertained, that reputation is merely a rumour I put around to discourage visitors.’
She looked mulish, making something almost like amusement flicker through him. How strange. He wasn’t often amused these days—life as a professional commander of armies wasn’t exactly fun-filled—and the expression on Ivy Dean’s face was a nice distraction.
She had no apparent fear of him and seemed determined to get her own way, despite being an Englishwoman on her own in a fortress full of elite soldiers, any one of whom could kill her easily should he give the word.
Not that he would. He’d never harmed a woman yet and he wasn’t about to start. Still, she didn’t appear to understand that if she was going to be afraid of anyone, it should be him. It was almost as if she found him...unimpressive.
Well. That would change.
‘I can’t stay any longer than a couple of hours,’ she warned. ‘I’d like to get back to Mahassa before dark.’
She would not be back in Mahassa before dark. He could fly her there in one of his helicopters, of course, but he wasn’t going to. Not yet at least. He needed to think through the implications of a few things before he made any definitive decision, and until that happened she would stay here, where he could keep an eye on her and the baby.
‘You will stay for exactly as long as I need you to stay.’ Automatically, he flicked an impersonal glance over her, the way he would do with any of his men—their well-being was always his top priority since an army was only as strong as its weakest soldier. Her shoulders were set in lines of obvious tension, one hand clenched in a fist at her side while the other rested on her stomach. He’d noticed her do that a couple of times already. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as ambivalent about the child as she seemed.
The snaking sense of possession coiled and shifted in response, as if something in him liked that she was protective of the child. Their child.
But no, he couldn’t afford to start thinking like that. Regardless of what he decided to do about it, the baby was simply an opportunity and he needed to treat it as such.
She looked tired, though, and no wonder; she’d trekked all the way through the desert in the heat of the day to confront him, getting sunburned and dehydrated. It must have taken some courage to do that and then to face him as well. All to fulfil some promise she’d made to a friend.
‘You know I won’t hurt you,’ he said suddenly, prompted by what urge he wasn’t sure. ‘You’re safe here.’
She blinked and then that stubborn chin came up. ‘What? You think I’m afraid? Of you?’ Her gaze travelled over him, taking him in, and he was conscious of a certain tightening and a brief flicker of heat right down low inside him. As if some part of him liked the way she looked him over.
Then she sniffed. ‘I don’t think so.’
Again, amusement caught at him. She was very determined to remain unimpressed by him, wasn’t she? Now why was that? In his experience, women had a variety of responses to him, but being unimpressed was not one of them. Not that being impressed by him was something he demanded, but it would have been more convincing if he hadn’t noted the flush of colour that had stained her cheeks as she’d stared at him, visible even through her sunburn. Or how her gaze had lingered on his chest where his robe parted.
Interesting. Nazir filed that particular observation away for future reference, since he was not a man to ignore a detail, no matter how insignificant, and it could prove useful at a later date.
‘You might come to revise that opinion,’ he said casually. ‘Besides, regardless of what you think of me, you’re tired and need more liquids, and probably some food too.’
‘I’m fine. Don’t feel you have to put yourself out on my account.’
Nazir ignored her, turning and striding to the door. He pulled it open and issued some orders to the guards standing outside. One headed straight off across the courtyard to the fortress, while the other came obediently into the guardhouse.
‘You will go with my guard.’ Nazir met her gaze. ‘He’ll escort you to the library.’
‘I’m quite happy here, thank you,’ she insisted.
‘You’ll go where you’re told. Stubbornness for the sake of being contrary is not an attractive trait, Miss Dean. I suggest you rethink it.’
More fascinating little sparks of temper glittered in her eyes, but all she said was, ‘Very well.’
That lurking heat flickered through him, rousing at the slight hint of challenge in her voice. He ignored it. Whatever he decided to do about Miss Ivy Dean and the child she was carrying—his child—he would make the decision the way he made all his decisions: coldly and cleanly and definitely without any input from other body parts.
You would enjoy taking her, though.
Nazir forced the thought from that particular body part away. His own enjoyment was the least of his concerns and he never factored it into any of the decisions he made.
‘You’re not to venture out into the rest of the fortress,’ he added, in case she thought otherwise. ‘You’ll remain where you’re put. Understand?’
She didn’t like that; he could see the irritation in her gaze. ‘Wasn’t I supposed to be safe here?’
‘Oh, you are. But I don’t trust strangers wandering around like tourists.’
Ivy opened her mouth.
‘That’s my final word,’ Nazir said flatly, before she could speak. ‘You would do well to obey me, Miss Dean. You won’t like the consequences otherwise.’
Ivy didn’t particularly want to follow the guard into the Sheikh’s imposing fortress, but she’d been left with little choice. She either went with the guard or...
You won’t like the consequences otherwise...
The echo of the Sheikh’s deep voice rubbed up against her nerve-endings like sandpaper.
She’d dearly wanted to make a fuss but that comment about being stubborn for the sake of being contrary had hit home, making her realise that he’d been right about that, plus a couple of other things she hadn’t wanted him to be right about. Such as the fact that she was still very thirsty and, yes, hungry too. She’d even go so far as to admit that she was also tired.
It was annoying that he’d somehow managed to pick up on those things, especially when she’d been trying very hard not to let even a hint of vulnerability or weakness show. But then he’d told her that she was to stay here, that he couldn’t permit her to leave and...well, that had alarmed her. She’d expected he’d need some time to process the news and had thought that she’d go back to Mahassa and wait a few days for him to decide what he wanted to do. Depending on his answer, she’d then catch a flight back to England after that. She didn’t want to be away too long because the kids in the home needed her and though the person she’d left in charge in her absence was competent, she didn’t care about the details, not like Ivy.
Ignoring the kick of worry, since there was nothing to do be done about it, Ivy followed the guard through the huge double doors of the fortress. Inside it was unexpectedly cool as a result of the insulating effects of thick stone walls and heavy stone floors. The high ceilings too helped. The air was dry, smelling of dust and a strange spice that was oddly pleasant.
The guard’s boots echoed on the flagstone floors as he led her down a series of narrow corridors and into a big, featureless room. A few bookcases stood up against the walls and there were a couple of desks and chairs in the middle. It was spartan, utilitarian, and office-like. It was also spotless.
The guard indicated to one of the chairs in invitation, clicked his heels together, then turned and left without so much as a word, shutting the door after him.
Ivy stood a moment, staring around at the austere space. There was nothing soft about it, nothing comforting. There was nowhere to curl up in with a book or even lounge a little. The chairs were bare wood and clearly designed to be used in conjunction with a desk rather than as a place to rest. The one break in all the hard surfaces and uncomfortable angles was a window set into the thick stone walls that looked out onto some unexpected greenery.
Ivy moved over to it and peered out, surprised to catch a glimpse of a lush garden courtyard, providing a cool visual relief from the dust and hot desert sand. She could even see a fountain playing, the faint sound of it musical despite the thick stone walls.
How strange to find something so beautiful in the middle of a fortress commanded by a notorious desert warlord.
She found her thoughts drifting to the Commander again, to the uncompromising, harsh lines of his face and his astonishing eyes, so clear and so cold. He didn’t seem like a man who would enjoy a garden. He didn’t seem like a man who enjoyed much of anything at all.
What kind of father would he be? A hard one, that was clear. Stern and very strict. He probably didn’t like children—certainly he hadn’t been pleased about her news, though that could have been shock. Did she really want a man like him being involved in the upbringing of Connie’s child? Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here.
He’s still a father, which is more than what you had.
Ivy turned from the window and paced back into the room, disturbed by the track of her own thoughts. Her own situation had nothing to do with this or with him for that matter. What was best for the baby was what counted and if what was best for the baby was to have this hard, stern man in its life then she would have to deal with it.
What if he doesn’t want to be in the child’s life?
Ice collected in her gut. She’d done her best not to think about that, because she didn’t have any answers to that question. Connie had gone downhill very quickly and there had been no time to put in place any back-up plans, not that she had a lot of options. She either put the baby up for adoption or she cared for it herself, and since the thought of putting Connie’s baby up for adoption made her feel cold inside, that left only caring for the baby herself.
You? A mother? Are you kidding?
The thought wrapped around her, cold and sharp. It was true that she knew nothing about motherhood or even about being in a family, since she’d had none of her own. The child of a single mother, she’d gone into the foster system at three after her mother had died and had, effectively, never come out of it.
She’d grown up in the children’s home she now managed, the only kid who’d never been adopted. That had been tough, but it had worked out well in the end since the home manager had valued her organisational skills and had eventually employed her.
But organisational skills on their own didn’t make a good parent. You had to have love for that to happen and her experience of love was non-existent. The children’s home had been fine and she’d been well cared for. But she hadn’t had anyone care about her. She hadn’t had anyone love her. So how could she give a child what she herself had never had? She could try, it was true, but what if she got it wrong? What kind of legacy would that be for Connie?
A sharp rap on the door came, then it opened, admitting a woman dressed in a plain black uniform and carrying several trays. The woman nodded to Ivy, carried the trays to one of the desks, deposited them there and then left without a word.
Ivy stared at what the woman had delivered in amazement.
She’d told the Sheikh that she only required a sandwich and more of that lemonade, but she hadn’t expected...this.
There were sandwiches, yes, but not the kind of sandwich she would have expected a soldier to make, or even ones she’d make herself. They were club sandwiches, all of them with different fillings, cut with care and exquisitely arranged on a silver tray, along with a few other delicious-looking savouries. On another tray were arranged some delicate cupcakes, each one a different flavour and all beautifully frosted. A pitcher of lemonade stood next to the cupcakes along with another glass full of ice and a sprig of fresh mint.
Ivy approached the desk where the food sat and frowned suspiciously at it. It looked like something that should be served at a five-star hotel’s high tea, not a meal prepared in the desert fortress of a notorious warlord.
Had the Sheikh ordered it? And if he had, who had made it? Because this was clearly the work of a chef who knew what they were doing, not some cook providing basic food for an army, surely?
Ivy wanted to find fault with it so she didn’t have to eat it, but she knew that was only because the Sheikh unsettled her and she found his autocratic manner overbearing. Which wasn’t a good reason not to drink or to eat, especially when she needed it. And if not for herself then at least for the baby.
So she swallowed her irritation and her pride, reaching out to pick up one of the sandwiches and sniffing experimentally, since there were a number of things she couldn’t eat while pregnant. This particular sandwich, though, was cucumber, the fresh scent making her stomach rumble and her mouth water unreasonably, and she’d taken a bite out of it before she was even conscious of doing so. It was delicious and, rather to her own surprise, five minutes later she found she’d eaten not only all the cucumber sandwiches but all the other sandwiches left on the tray as well, not to mention a couple of the cupcakes, which turned out to be light and airy and as utterly delicious as the sandwiches.
She helped herself to the lemonade too, more than a little irritated to find the Sheikh’s deep voice running through her head, cautioning her to take small sips. It made her want to down the lot in one go, which of course would be a mistake. Giving in to her temper was always a mistake.
Ignoring it, she made herself sip at the lemonade as she wandered over to the bookshelves, looking at the titles. Most weren’t in English and the ones that were were old classics that looked as if they hadn’t been read in years. It really was a most unimpressive library.
Finding nothing else of interest, Ivy paced around distractedly. She didn’t like to sit still at the best of times, preferring to occupy herself with necessary tasks rather than lounging around, but there wasn’t anything to do.
She should probably sit down since she was feeling tired, but, with nothing to do but sit in silence, she didn’t like the thought of that. Her phone was in her bag, but since there was no Internet access out here there seemed little point in checking emails or texts.
Moving over to the door, she pulled it open, a part of her mildly surprised to find that she wasn’t locked in. The hallway stretched out on either side, long and narrow and dark. Dimly she could hear the sounds of footsteps and voices and the low hum of machinery. The Sheikh had told her to stay put, but how could he expect her to do that when there was nothing to do? Perhaps she could go and find someone and ask them how long the Sheikh was going to be. That wouldn’t constitute ‘wandering around the fortress like a tourist’. That was going somewhere with purpose. And besides, how could she ‘rest’ when there wasn’t anywhere to rest except for the hard wooden chair?
It’s not the chair that’s the issue.
Ivy ignored the thought. She didn’t want to think about the apprehension that sat inside her, an apprehension that wasn’t really about the chair. Or about being on her own in a fortress full of men. Or even about their forbidding, aggravatingly autocratic Commander.
It had far more to do with a presence smaller than any of those and yet far more powerfully affecting. A presence she’d been trying very hard to resist as it wove small tendrils around her heart. She might tell herself all she liked that this was Connie’s child and nothing to do with her, but Connie was gone and now this baby had no one but her to look after it. And she was afraid. Afraid she would let it down somehow. Afraid that she wouldn’t be the kind of mother the child deserved. Not that she wanted to be its mother. Connie should have been its mother.
Connie is dead. There is only you.
Ivy took a breath, her hand creeping unconsciously down over her stomach. This wasn’t about being contrary, no matter what the Sheikh had said. This was for Connie and for the baby. She had to find out what was happening and she wasn’t going to be able to sit down and rest until she did.
Stepping out into the narrow, dark corridor, Ivy paused to listen a moment. Then she set off down it in the direction of the voices, her heartbeat thudding fast.
‘The library is not in that direction, Miss Dean,’ someone said from behind her.
Ivy froze, her breath catching as the sound of the Sheikh’s deep, harsh voice tumbled over her like an avalanche of rock.
Oh, Lord, where had he come from? She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard him. He’d crept up on her like a ghost.
Ignoring how her heart seemed to thud even harder, Ivy turned to find the narrow hallway behind her almost completely blocked by the Sheikh’s large, powerful figure. He was still in that black robe belted loosely around his lean hips, the bronze expanse of his bare chest visible between the edges of the fabric, and apparently her response to it in the guardhouse hadn’t been an aberration because she felt the same flood of heat wash through her cheeks as she had back then.
How ridiculous. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d seen a few bare chests in her time, if not in real life then certainly on TV, and none of those had made her blush like this.
She drew herself up as tall as she could, which wasn’t very tall and especially not compared to him. The sheer height and breadth of him made the corridor seem even narrower and darker than it already was, and just as impenetrable.
An odd kind of claustrophobia gripped her, her breath stuttering in her throat. His eyes really were the most astonishing colour, caught on the cusp between blue and green, and framed by long, thick, silky-looking black lashes. They were so sharp and so cold, a searchlight sweeping the most private corners of her soul, exposing all her secrets...
‘I wasn’t going in the direction of the library,’ she said, her voice sounding a bit shaky despite her attempts to control it. ‘If you could even call that a library. I was trying to find you.’
His expression was like granite. ‘You were ordered not to leave.’
Ivy drew her own dusty robes more tightly around her, the sound of her heartbeat loud in her ears. ‘You said you didn’t want me wandering around like a tourist. Well, I’m not a tourist and I’m not wandering. I wanted to know what was happening.’
‘You disobeyed a direct order.’
Temper gathered inside her, burning sullenly, fuelled by weariness and uncertainty and a fear that had been dogging her since Connie had died. Unable to stop herself, she snapped, ‘I’m not one of your soldiers, Mr Al Rasul, which means I don’t have to obey you.’
If he was angry at her response he gave no sign, his expression remaining stony, and Ivy was seized with the sudden and extremely inappropriate urge to do something really awful, something that would make him angry, something that would make those turquoise eyes glitter with temper and disturb his expressionless mask somehow.
And you used to wonder why no one ever adopted you...
Oh, she knew why. That had become obvious as she’d grown older. She had a temper, a strong will, and hated being told what to do, all of which had been undesirable traits in a child. However, they were more useful as an adult and she’d learned how to harness them to her advantage, especially when it came to protecting the home and the kids she was responsible for.
But unhelpful social workers and government employees were a whole different kettle of fish from granite-faced sheikhs, and if she hadn’t understood that fully in the guardhouse she understood it now as he lifted his gaze from hers, flicking a glance behind her.
‘Escort Miss Dean back to the library.’ His voice was as unyielding as iron. ‘Then lock the door.’