The Innocent Carrying His Legacy by Jackie Ashenden

CHAPTER FIVE

NAZIRFELTODDLYenergised and he wasn’t sure why. By rights he shouldn’t. The operation he’d just concluded and the broken sleep he’d had before Ivy Dean had turned up on his doorstep should have meant at least a certain level of tiredness.

Yet it wasn’t tired he felt as he sat in his office that afternoon, making yet more arrangements in regard to Ivy. He’d directed one of his aides to find out as much as he could about her and then spent a good hour scrolling through the information the aide had sent him on his laptop.

She was an unremarkable woman at first glance, working as the manager of a children’s home in London. She had no family, it seemed, had grown up in the home she now managed, and was doing a very good job of it if all the financials were correct.

She spent all her time there, from the looks of things, didn’t travel, didn’t go out, nor did she seem to have many friends. It was on the surface a small, undistinguished life.

And it didn’t match at all the sharp, spiky, fiery woman who’d turned up in his guardhouse.

She was a capable, brave woman certainly, yet one who hadn’t thought twice about confronting him or arguing with him. Who’d been afraid and yet had challenged him. Who’d told him she didn’t consider the baby hers and yet who’d put her hand over her stomach protectively and seemed convinced it was a boy.

A woman who was very no-nonsense on the surface but who hid a certain...fire.

There were intriguing contrasts to her, he had to admit. She was so sharp and annoyed with him, and yet as her strength had left her earlier and he’d had to catch her before she fell, she hadn’t protested. She’d relaxed against him, all warm and soft and delicately feminine. That had surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’d been expecting her to be as sharp and spiky as her manner, or as flat as her no-nonsense stare. But no. There had been delicious curves and intriguing softness, the gently rounded bump of her stomach pressing against him. And her scent had been a light musk and a subtle, but heady sweetness that reminded him of the jasmine that grew outside the Sultana’s rooms at the palace.

He hadn’t been sure what had possessed him to pick her up and take her into the part of the fortress that had once, a century ago or more, housed the harem. His father had had it remodelled into rooms for Nazir’s mother for their forbidden trysts, and though it was tempting for Nazir himself to bring his lovers there, since that wing was a much more pleasant place to be than the fortress proper, he’d never done so. It hadn’t been worth the risk of disclosing the location of the fortress simply for the sake of a night or two’s pleasure.

Yet he hadn’t thought twice about picking Ivy up and taking her into the bright, pretty little salon that his mother had once delighted in. It had just seemed...right. Besides, there hadn’t been anywhere else to take her. There was a set of rooms put aside for medical purposes, but he hadn’t wanted to take her there. Everything was austere and utilitarian and not at all comfortable for her.

Her comfort shouldn’t have been relevant, just as her feelings shouldn’t have been relevant, and yet he’d found himself concerned with both. It was disturbing. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by one person, not when he had a whole army to look after and foreign governments to liaise with, not to mention those private interests. And that wasn’t even thinking about the Sultan’s growing displeasure with him and the private army he commanded. An army that was rapidly growing more powerful than that of Inaris.

His father’s life had been ruined by his obsession with the Sultana, his eventual banishment leaving him a broken and embittered man. Nazir would not be the same. Physical passion was one thing, but he’d ensured there was only emptiness where his heart should be.

Once, it had been different. When he’d been a boy, his arid upbringing in his father’s house had been transformed by the infrequent meetings he’d had with his mother. He’d lived for those meetings, brief moments of time where he’d had warmth and softness and understanding. Moments when he’d been loved. But they’d never lasted and they’d been never enough.

That had always been his problem. He’d always wanted more. It was a lesson he’d learned eventually, to be content with what he had, but by then it had been too late for his parents. It was his fault, and he knew it. So these days he didn’t want anything at all.

So where does that leave you and this marriage? Ready to commit to a life of celibacy, are you?

Nazir leaned back in his chair, frowning at the laptop screen.

His father had been weak when it came to his appetites and Nazir had been contemptuous of his desire for another man’s wife, no matter that the only reason Nazir even existed was because of that weakness. Nazir himself would never do the same. He was controlled in everything he did, as was befitting a good leader, and he also put high stock in loyalty.

Still, he wasn’t a man who ignored his own bodily needs either. They could play havoc with his ability to do his job and so they needed to be dealt with. His body was a machine and taking care of it allowed it to operate at its optimal level so there was no point in denying it what it needed in order to function.

Which made the question of sex a pertinent one.

If he married Ivy, he was going to have to find a sexual outlet somewhere, and he didn’t like the thought of finding it with another woman. He could be discreet; that wasn’t a problem. He could make sure that to everyone else it looked as if he were faithful to his wife, but the issue was that he would know that he wasn’t. And whether Ivy herself cared about that or not—and she probably wouldn’t—he did.

He was the product of an extra-marital affair, one that had ended badly for all concerned. An affair that had denied him the mother he could only see in brief snatches of time, where they could never openly display affection, while she lavished all her love on her one and only legitimate son. She hadn’t been able to acknowledge Nazir in any way, not without risking the Sultan’s wrath, and that had been something that had caused them both immense pain. He wouldn’t wish that on any child of his and so any marriage he undertook would have to remain sacrosanct.

You know what that means then, don’t you?

Uncharacteristically restless, Nazir shoved back his chair and got up from his desk, pacing over to the window that looked out onto one of the pretty interior courtyards of the fortress that he’d had designed as a rest for the eyes from the desert sands. He found that the greenery and a fountain helped his mind relax, enabling him to think clearly.

Yet for some reason, right now, looking at the green shrubs and trees didn’t help. There was a restlessness inside him, a disturbance that seemed to be solely centred on the woman that he’d only known a matter of hours.

Marriage was the only option. He could never not acknowledge his own child, regardless of the danger, not after the way he’d had to be kept a secret himself, and though that acknowledgement was risky to both Ivy and the baby, it would also protect them. He’d thought it would be a marriage of convenience initially, but it would certainly not be convenient for him to remain celibate. And since he couldn’t countenance finding lovers outside the marriage, that left him with only one option.

And what about her? What about her feelings on the matter?

Her feelings, as he’d already told her, were irrelevant. However, he’d never forced himself on a woman before and he never would. Yes, his appetites tended towards rough and earthy, and Ivy seemed fragile, but perhaps if she could be persuaded to share his bed, then he could rein himself in. It wouldn’t be the best situation, but it would do.

What if she doesn’t want you?

Yes, that would be a difficulty. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure that was the case. There had been a certain...electricity between them out there in the guardhouse. She hadn’t been able to drag her gaze from his and the few times she had, he’d noticed her staring at the portion of his bare chest where his robe had slipped. And then, only a couple of hours ago, when he’d laid her on the couches of the salon, her fingers had tightened on the fabric of his robe as if she hadn’t wanted to let him go...

No, there was definite interest there, he was sure of it.

Heat shifted inside him, the echo of the raw, possessive feeling that had crept up on him in the guardhouse after she’d told him about the child. He forced it aside. If this had nothing to do with her feelings, then it had even less to do with his.

This was about the child and what was best for it, nothing more.

A knock came at his door.

Nazir turned from the window. ‘Enter.’

One of his guards came in and informed him that Ivy’s things had arrived from Mahassa, and also that she was awake and had been shown to new quarters.

‘Arrange for a meal in the salon in two hours,’ he ordered. ‘Make sure it’s food that she likes and is suitable for a pregnant woman. I will be joining her.’

Exactly two hours later, Nazir strode into the salon.

He’d showered and changed into his usual off-duty wear of a black T-shirt, black combat trousers and soft black desert boots. It was perhaps not quite the right clothing for discussions about marriage or a proposal, but he saw no reason to pretend to be something other than what he was: a soldier, a leader of men. He had a uniform, but he preferred the more comfortable off-duty blacks. It meant he didn’t have to change if anything urgent cropped up and they were also much more suited to fighting in.

As he’d ordered, one of the low tables had been set with dinner—freshly made flatbread, olives, hummus, and chicken. A specially prepared salad. Ice-cold water in a large pitcher as well as more of the fresh lemonade. As an added touch, one of his staff had lit candles in small, jewel-coloured glass holders, which scattered flickering light everywhere.

Nazir made a mental note to give his kitchen staff a bonus, then glanced around the room, since it didn’t appear to contain the woman all of this had been set out for.

Then, suddenly, a small shape unfolded itself from where it had been crouching near one of the bookcases—a woman in a pair of black stretchy yoga pants and a loose blue T-shirt, a wild skein of long, glossy brown hair caught at the nape of her neck in a loose ponytail. In one hand she held what looked to be a dustpan and in the other a brush.

‘Miss Dean,’ Nazir growled. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

She turned sharply, those amazingly clear copper-coloured eyes meeting his. Now she was out of her dusty white robes and into clothing that was more form-fitting, he could quite clearly see the feminine shape of her. She was beautifully in proportion, with what would probably be an hourglass figure when she wasn’t pregnant. Now, though, that figure involved full breasts and a gently rounded little bump that the fabric of her T-shirt clung to.

Nazir found himself staring, transfixed for some inexplicable reason. That little bump was his child. His...

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, frowning slightly. Candlelight flickered over her hair, which was thick with a slight curl and was the deep, rich brown of chestnuts. ‘As to what I’m doing, I’m dusting the skirting. It often gets missed and the dust situation near these shelves was atrocious.’

‘Dusting the skirting?’ he repeated blankly, the words not making any sense to him, not when that raw, possessive feeling was surging back inside him, threatening the cold emptiness that had become part of him.

‘This is a lovely room.’ Ivy looked around approvingly. ‘But there are a few things that could do with a polish. The tiles nearer the floor need to be cleaned and a few of the rugs could do with a beating.’

Nazir blinked, trying to find his usual authority, but it seemed to have vanished. He found himself wanting very much to go over to where she stood, take away her ridiculous dustpan and brush, and run his hands possessively over her rounded stomach and other parts of her, tracing her lovely shape, testing to see whether that delicate pale skin was as silky and soft as it looked. Then perhaps he would taste it, because he was sure it would taste sweet and even though he didn’t much like sweet things, he was sure he’d like the taste of her.

And suddenly he was moving, his body responding to the order even as his mind tried to stop him, striding over to where she stood staring at him wide-eyed. And he’d taken first the brush then the dustpan from her hands before she’d had a chance to avoid him.

‘What are you doing?’ Her voice sounded shocked.

‘This,’ he said and, dropping the cleaning implements with a clatter, he reached for her.

The Sheikh’s large, warm hands settled on Ivy’s hips and before she could move she found herself being drawn relentlessly to him. Shock echoed throughout her entire body.

Now he was out of that black robe, in a close-fitting black T-shirt and black combat trousers, the true power of him was fully revealed and he’d stolen her breath the second she’d turned from her dusting to find him standing behind her.

He was so tall and built like a warrior, all rock-hard muscle and masculine power. The black cotton of his T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and chest, making it clear just how physically strong he was, and providing a perfect contrast to the deep bronze of his skin.

He was an intensely dangerous man and she knew it. Felt it deep in her bones. Yet it wasn’t a physical danger, she knew that too. No, this man wouldn’t hurt her. The danger came from something else. Something she didn’t recognise.

Her heartbeat was loud in her head, her mouth dry. His hands on her hips were very warm and he held her quite firmly, the icy blue-green of his eyes glittering as he drew her towards him. There was something...raw in the way he looked at her, something possessive that made her heart beat even faster. And not with fear. She’d never had anyone look at her the way he was looking at her right now. No one ever. As if she belonged to him. As if she were his.

‘Mr Al Rasul,’ she said thickly, but whether it was a protest or an encouragement she wasn’t sure.

He took no notice, his gaze dropping to her stomach. Keeping one hand on her hip to hold her in place, he placed the other palm down on her bump and stroked over the curve of it in an outrageously possessive movement.

Ivy froze. His touch was incredibly gentle and yet the stroke of his hand sent shock waves through her, the heat of his skin burning through the thin material of her T-shirt and into her. She couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe.

The last time she had been touched like this had been the light, insubstantial hug that Connie had given her before she’d died. In fact, Connie was the only person who had ever touched her with affection. No one else ever had. No one at the home, no one at school. No one now she was an adult.

The sensation was shocking, setting off a disturbing ache inside her. A hunger that had nothing to do with food.

Her mouth had gone utterly dry. What was she doing just standing there? Letting him touch her as if he had every right to? Because he didn’t. He had no right at all. She was a stranger to him and...and...

‘Stop,’ she said huskily, disturbed to find she was trembling all over.

His gaze caught hers and held it, and in the clear, icy depths of it something hot began to burn. He spread his fingers out possessively on her stomach. ‘This is mine.’ The deep, harsh timbre of his voice had somehow become even deeper, a raw thread running through it. ‘And so are you.’

She stiffened, even as something inside her jolted, a short, sharp electric shock. ‘What are you talking about? I’m not yours.’

‘Yes, you are.’ The light in his eyes glowed hotter, like a glimpse of lava beneath a cold crust of rock. ‘You came to me with my child. And that makes you mine.’

Another electric shock zigzagged though her like lightning, a bolt of white heat that felt as if it were shattering her into pieces. It didn’t make any sense. She barely knew this man and he certainly didn’t know her. Not enough to put a hand on her stomach and tell her that she was his. No one else had ever wanted her, not one single person. She’d been the only child in the home who’d remained unadopted. She’d never had a family. Never had parents who’d loved her and cared for her. Never had siblings to argue with and share with. She’d grown up unwanted, yet she’d made what family she could at the home. Connie, who like her had grown up in the home, though she’d eventually been adopted, had been like a sister to her. Ivy hadn’t missed out entirely.

So there was no reason for her to ache like this. To feel so hungry. To want more than just his hand resting there...

Dangerous to want that.

Ivy jerked herself from his grip and took a couple of steps back, putting some space between them. He let her go, making no move towards her, but that possessive light in his eyes didn’t fade.

‘It seems we have much to discuss.’ There was an edge of a growl in his voice. ‘Come and eat.’

She didn’t want to. That ache, that hunger, was making her wary. It was putting her into a danger that she couldn’t see and that wasn’t obvious, but that she could feel very strongly. A danger she couldn’t put into words. It was similar to the feeling she’d always got as a child whenever she’d had a meeting with potential adoptive parents. When she’d sit there with them, hoping and hoping, desperation radiating from every pore. It was that desperation that put them off, she knew. It repelled people. No one liked a desperate, needy kid. It had been a hard and bitter lesson, but she’d learned it. She’d forced that neediness down, chased it away, and these days she made sure that the last thing she ever did was to need something or someone. She’d found her purpose in helping foster kids instead, in giving them the home she’d never had herself.

But you never quite got rid of the desperation, did you?

Ivy shoved that thought away. She wasn’t needy or desperate right now, and she never would be again. And the annoying Sheikh was right about one thing: her feelings weren’t what she should be thinking about. She had to think of the child and what was best for them, and, if the danger was truly real, then the best place for this baby was with its father. Which meant she was going to have to ignore her own fears and sit down and talk with him.

It would be fine. She was feeling much better now after the nap she’d had earlier. After she’d woken up, a staff member had shown her to a set of interconnected rooms not far from the salon. They consisted of a bedroom, a bathroom and a little sitting room, all looking out onto the same delightful courtyard that the salon did, and with their own set of French doors that opened out onto the colonnaded walk around the courtyard.

The walls were the same white tile as the salon, the curtains gauzy blue and white linen, and the rooms had the same cool, soothing feel. The bathroom had a vast sunken tiled bath and a huge tiled shower, and there was a shelf with various ornate glass bottles and jars full of oils and salts and soaps.

The rooms were beautiful, luxurious—much more luxurious than Ivy had ever experienced in her entire life and it had vaguely shocked her, especially in comparison to the stark utilitarianism of the rest of the fortress. They almost seemed as if they were part of a different building, a fantasy vision of a Middle Eastern sultan’s palace.

Her battered, nondescript black suitcase, sitting on the huge, low bed near the deep windows of the bedroom, had seemed even more nondescript set against all that luxury. A small, mean little suitcase, with its meagre store of clothes.

The staff member who’d showed Ivy around had pulled open a large and ornately carved cedar armoire full of silk robes in a rainbow of colours, indicating that Ivy was to help herself to whatever she wanted to wear. After she’d gone, Ivy had touched the lustrous fabric longingly for a couple of moments, then had firmly closed the doors of the armoire.

She didn’t need silk robes or luxury bedding or a huge bath. She’d enjoy the shower then she’d dress in her own clothes, and hopefully then she’d feel more in charge of herself and this whole ridiculous situation.

So she had. She’d gone to the salon to wait for the Sheikh, deciding to grill him about the danger he’d mentioned and how it would affect her and the baby, and how exactly marriage to him was going to work.

She’d been early and, since she didn’t like waiting, had informed the staff member who’d come in to deliver the delicious-looking meal that she’d like a dustpan and brush to give some attention to the wall near the bookcases that looked a little dusty. This had been brought to her without comment and so she’d at least had something to do while she waited. And then he’d come...

Ivy found her hand drifting to her stomach again, her fingers brushing against the heat left by his palm, and she had the oddest thought that she wouldn’t ever be able to get rid of that heat. It had settled beneath her skin, become part of her.

He caught the movement and his eyes gleamed, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks, as if she’d revealed a secret somehow.

Irritated, Ivy forced her hand away then moved over to the low table where the dinner had been laid out. Floor cushions had been set around it and so she sat, her stomach giving the oddest flutter as the Sheikh did the same with a predator’s fluid grace.

Instantly he began putting things on a plate, but when she reached for her own he said in a peremptory tone, ‘I will serve you.’

‘I can serve myself, thank you very much.’

He ignored her, continuing to put little morsels on the plate. ‘Nevertheless, you will allow me.’

Ivy sat up very straight and glared at him. ‘I will not.’

‘You’re a very argumentative woman.’ He leaned forward and put the plate down in front of her, then reached for the pitcher of ice water and poured her a glass.

‘And you’re a very irritating man.’ She glanced down at the plate, annoyed to find that she was very hungry. The flatbread smelled delicious, the black olives glossy and fat, the pieces of chicken cooked to perfection.

How aggravating.

Is there any point being aggravated? You’ll only end up alienating him and that might not be very good for the baby.

She let out a silent breath. It was true, continuing to argue with him perhaps wasn’t the best of ideas. Especially considering she wasn’t exactly the powerful one here. She wasn’t used to not being in charge or not being in control, but she had no choice about it now, which meant she was just going to have to deal with it and accept that the only thing she had power over was herself.

‘Thank you,’ she forced herself to say stiffly. ‘For the food and for the...rooms you provided. I would have been quite happy with something a little smaller and less luxurious, however. You don’t have to put yourself out for me.’

He pushed the glass of water across the table to her. ‘I’m not putting myself out. These rooms haven’t been used in years, though my staff keep them in good order. Apart from the dust on the skirting, obviously,’ he added, dry as the desert beyond the walls of the fortress.

Ivy felt herself blushing yet again. ‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting to keep things tidy.’

His hard mouth relaxed. ‘Indeed not.’

He was amused, which should have annoyed her even further and yet she found that she wasn’t annoyed. Instead it felt like a victory, which she didn’t understand. She hardly ever made people smile and that had never particularly bothered her before. Yet she was rather pleased with herself that she’d managed to amuse him now.

She looked down at her plate, busying herself with the food so he wouldn’t notice, piling up some flatbread with hummus. ‘There must be somewhere else you could put me. The bedroom especially looks like it should be used for royalty.’

‘You’re not mistaken. This fortress was historically one of the Sultan’s desert palaces and those rooms used to house the harem.’

A little shiver went down Ivy’s spine and it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. ‘I see.’

He raised one black brow, his gaze enigmatic. ‘The term harem refers only to the women’s quarters. It doesn’t mean a sex club.’

More heat rushed into her cheeks. ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply—’

‘You didn’t imply anything. I’m just clearing up misconceptions, should there be any.’ He reached for the pitcher of water and poured himself a glass. ‘Those rooms were the Sultana’s. Most recently, my mother’s.’

Ivy stared. ‘Your...mother?’

He shifted on the cushion, one leg bent, his elbow resting negligently on his knee. ‘Didn’t you know? I’m the previous Sultan’s bastard.’ His tone was casual and yet there was a sharp glint in his eyes that suggested otherwise.

‘Oh,’ she said, trying to sound neutral. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘My father was Commander of the Inarian army. The Sultan was a cruel and cold man, and my mother was lonely.’ Candlelight flickered off the glossy black of his hair and danced over the stark planes and angles of his face. ‘She would come out here to spend time away from the palace, and he would often go with her.’

An unwilling curiosity tugged inside her. ‘And so, you own the fortress now?’

‘The Sultan gave it to my father eventually.’ The Sheikh gave a faint smile that now held no amusement whatsoever. ‘Though it wasn’t a gift. It was a banishment.’

‘Why?’ Ivy couldn’t help asking. ‘What did he do?’

‘The affair with my mother was discovered.’ He still made no move to drink the water he’d poured for himself or to eat. ‘To say the Sultan was displeased would be an understatement.’

Ivy’s curiosity intensified. ‘So what happened—?’

‘However, we’re not discussing me or my parents,’ he interrupted mildly. ‘We’re discussing you and my child.’

She bit her lip in annoyance. She didn’t want to be curious about him in the first place, so why she should find his change of subject irritating, she had no clue. Briefly, she debated pushing him about it, then decided not to. Perhaps later she might ask him, or maybe she would have forgotten about it by then. Either way, it didn’t matter, since it wasn’t going to have any bearing on what was happening now.

‘Very well.’ She put down the food she’d been about to eat. ‘You can’t possibly want to go through with this marriage idea. It’s ridiculous.’

He glanced at the food she’d put back on her plate and frowned. ‘You need to eat. And while you’re eating, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen.’

‘What do you mean you’re going to tell me? Weren’t we supposed to “discuss” it?’

That hot, possessive glint was back in his gaze. ‘Semantics,’ he said dismissively. ‘The marriage will happen whether you want it to or not, as will you staying here in this fortress. Anything else is up for discussion.’

Ivy bristled, trying to ignore the small thread of panic that was unravelling inside her. ‘But I can’t stay here. I already told you that I have a job back in England that I—’

‘The children’s home you manage will be taken care of. I’ve already placed someone exceptionally qualified to take over and naturally all the funds necessary for the optimal running of the home will be made available.’

She stared at him, panic continuing to unspool inside her.

You’re replaced so easily...

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, you can’t do that.’

His gaze roved over her, but it wasn’t either icy or impersonal the way it had been out in the guardhouse earlier. It was territorial, as if he were an emperor surveying a new land he’d just conquered. ‘But I did, Miss Dean. And the person who has been looking after the home for you was very relieved to hear it.’

More emotion was welling up inside her, a thick, hot fury to cover the growing panic. That home had been her life. She’d grown up there, she’d worked there, she’d created as much of a family as she could there.

And you were rejected there over and over again. Why did you ever stay?

Ivy gripped her hands together hard in her lap, her knuckles white. She wanted to reach across the table and punch his arrogant face and then maybe scream at him a little—no, a lot—for interfering. But that wasn’t going to help. It would also give away far more than she wanted to reveal to him.

‘That home is my life,’ she said in a low, furious voice. ‘How dare you?’

He didn’t look away and she could see the force of his will burning in the depths of his gaze, iron hard, diamond bright. ‘Then you have had a very small life, Miss Dean. Perhaps it’s time to step outside the bounds of it.’

Fury welled up inside her. At him for how he’d taken charge, casually removing her from the only home she’d ever known. Negligently telling her she was going to have to marry him and then basically imprisoning her here in this godforsaken desert fortress. And all without discussion, as if her own wants and desires didn’t matter.

As if she didn’t matter.

But you don’t matter, do you? You never have.

‘Excuse me,’ Ivy managed to force out, suddenly desperate to be out of this room and away from him. Away from the temptation to punch his stupid face in. ‘I’ve lost my appetite.’

Then she surged to her feet and stormed out.