The Sheikh's Hidden Heir. Оливия Гейтс

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      Somewhat shaken and stunned, she stood quietly as he introduced her to his staff: a woman called Bedra and her husband, Aarif. They seemed delighted by their arrival, and guided them further into the bowels of the tent, where a lavish feast awaited them.

      They were seated on cushions, apart and opposite each other, and a heavy purple runner was laid between them as Bedra served food and drinks on a low tray.

      Felicity was poured some tea, and Karim instructed her to drink the syrupy brew that tasted of mint and sugar. Each mouthful, Karim explained to her, was part of a necessary ritual.

      The food was endless, all eaten with the hands: Bedouin bread with olives and camels’ milk cheese, pitta wrapped around richly spiced lamb. It was delicious, but she was too nervous to eat. Still she tried, because Karim was eating, and she was sure it would be rude to refuse. Yet the more she tried to eat the more Bedra served and the more Karim ate—until she was sure it would never end.

      ‘Karim.’ She gave a nervous swallow, not wanting to offend. ‘All of this is delicious, but…’ She couldn’t speak of the baby in front of Bedra, but she truly couldn’t eat another thing or she might offend him in a way that was unthinkable.

      Karim, the haughty Prince who had rebutted her in the hospital, who had married her because he could, was now smiling. ‘You are full?’

      ‘Yes!’ she hissed in a loud whisper. ‘I can’t eat another thing. I don’t want to be rude…’ She shook her head as he pushed his plate away and summoned Bedra to clear the tray. ‘You carry on, though.’

      ‘I’m not hungry either. But you see…’ He was almost laughing, and that beautiful smile she had once been privy to dazzled her now again. ‘I must not rush you. Custom says I should eat till my bride or my guest is full. Only when you are finished…’

      She was almost smiling too—well, not almost, she did smile. ‘You could have told me that before the camel milk cheese!’

      And she glimpsed him again—glimpsed the Karim she had so quickly and heavily fallen in love with, the man who was the father of her child. And somehow, somewhere deep inside, Felicity knew this could work.

      As Bedra approached, she took Felicity’s reluctant hands. ‘She is going now to paint you,’ Karim explained. ‘Henna for beauty and luck and health.’

      Bedra painted Felicity’s hands, and her feet as well as an intricate coil of flowers that crept up her calves and forearms. Yet all she wanted was to be alone with Karim.

      ‘They are our witnesses,’ Karim explained. ‘Soon we will be alone.’ Karim took her hand, slid on her finger a silver knotted ring that was studded with turquoise and agate and decorated with symbols. Karim’s voice was serious. ‘This symbolises not just two lives, but two families that are now intertwined.’

      ‘Meaning?’ Felicity asked. Perhaps not the most romantic response, but she wanted to know—wanted to know about his ways so that she might understand him better.

      ‘It means that your celebrations I applaud and your problems I help with.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘Your family is mine. There is no burden that is not shared. This is what it means to be loved.’

      She must be drunk on mint tea, because calm invaded her. This was her love that greeted her. This was the father of her child. And, yes, he was different here, yes, tradition invaded, but as she was taken aside—as Bedra smeared her body in fragrant oils and slipped a flimsy white muslin gown over her head and then directed her to his sleeping chamber—she was barely nervous. Because finally they could be alone.

      He watched her walk over, her hennaed feet and hands stunning on her pale skin, her blue eyes dazzling, and the thin nightgown revealing her feminine shape.

      Every night she would be his.

      The rules had been waived now that she carried a child, and it meant that every night he could have her.

      He must be gentle, Karim reminded himself as she padded towards him. His needs did not matter when the kingdom was at stake. He must remember that she was with child.

      And then she was at his bedside. Shy and nervous, but decorated for him and forever his.

      He pulled her down beside him. As he kissed her he could smell the oil in her hair, could feel the body that had aroused him so, and for once duty was a pleasure.

      For Felicity, any nerves had vanished when he held her—just as they had the first time they’d made love. He slid off her nightgown and kissed each waiting breast in turn. His lips moved up to her neck and then on, deliciously, to her waiting mouth. And finally he was kissing her—heavy, deep kisses that urged instant response. Her body leapt at the memory of him. Here in bed they could communicate. Here they could discover each other again and work out their differences.

      As his fingers went to a place that was already moist, Felicity knew that this was the one thing they had in common. Her legs were parted by his knees and she let them relax. She was having his baby. He was her husband.

      His hand reached over her head, and at first Felicity didn’t know what he was doing. As he opened a small drawer in the heavy wooden bedhead and produced a sheath she was confused.

      ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ she pointed out breathlessly.

      ‘It is not just for—’ He didn’t get to finish. She slapped her hand hard across his cheek.

      ‘How dare you?’ She spat, then recoiled on the bed at his expression. Felicity wondered, in fact, how dared she. But she would not be so insulted.

      ‘How do I know?’ he demanded of her. ‘Have you any idea the number of women who try this? Two weeks!’ He shook his head at the improbability of it. ‘I was using protection.’

      ‘Then why marry me?’ Felicity demanded—but Karim couldn’t answer.

      She was covering herself with her nightgown, her face wounded and angry, tears in her eyes. He wanted to believe her, yet he could not allow himself—because if it was his child she carried then unbeknownst to her everything had already changed, would change again.

      He had to believe the baby was going to be Hassan’s. Had to detach from the baby she grew inside. Because one day so must she.

      He climbed out of bed, and when she saw he was holding a dagger, running his finger along the blade, there was a terror in her soul that she had never before experienced. Here in the desert, here amongst his people, who would respond to her scream? She watched. The blade was so sharp as he ran it along his finger that blood trickled, and then he looked over, saw her fear, and his face was as cold as granite as it registered.

      ‘You imagination runs too wild. You are not a prisoner. I would never force you,’ he sneered. And just as quickly as that he lay down the dagger, walked over to the bed and smeared the silk sheet with a trickle of his blood. ‘I cover for your lies.’

      ‘Why won’t you accept that this baby is yours?’

      ‘When I get the test results, then I will believe it.’

      ‘There will be no test.’

      ‘You do not argue with me.’

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