The Sheikh Who Claimed Her. Barbara McMahon

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СКАЧАТЬ things could never be the same again between them; she knew that. And of course she accepted the fact that everything must change when they reached the mainland. But the cloud hanging over her refused to budge. It was as if the same fate that had engineered their meeting now decreed that she must suffer for it.

      She had been tested quite a few times on this trip and come through, she reasoned in an attempt to reassure herself.

       But who knew if she could do it again?

      Antonia looked at Saif, who obviously didn’t share her concern. If anything, he seemed to have gained new purpose. It was as if with every nautical mile they travelled he was slowly changing back into the man he must really be.

      They shared the rhythm of the sea beneath their feet and little else now, Antonia reflected. He didn’t need her help to sail the yacht, he’d told her, and so she was consigned to the role of passenger, a chance acquaintance who was being given a lift to port on a fabulous racing-yacht. ‘Is that Sinnebar?’ she said excitedly, catching sight of a coastline. She already knew it was. What she’d really wanted when she asked the question was for Saif to connect with her one last time.

      ‘Yes,’ he said briefly, but his focus was all on the coast.

      They had sailed past the lighthouse guarding the entrance to the harbour before Saif spoke to her again. ‘You’ll have to get changed,’ he said. ‘And clean yourself up.’

      In a phrase, Saif had turned her back into a much younger girl who needed his direction. ‘You can use the hose to get rid of the salt,’ he went on. ‘And you’ll find some robes under the bunk below. They’ll be too big for you,’ he added as he swung the wheel hard to line the giant yacht up with its berth, ‘But you can’t disembark in Sinnebar dressed like that.’

      Like what? In a few words he had made her feel ashamed. What did he mean about the way she was dressed? She was dressed like someone who had escaped a pirate attack—the same way she had been dressed all the time they had been together. Had Saif even looked at her? Had he even realised what he’d said? He made her feel like a piece of flotsam that had washed up on his deck and now had to be swept away. She had hosed herself down with the fresh water, and she had tied her hair back. She’d done everything possible to make herself look respectable.

      What Saif was actually saying, Antonia realised, was that she must never refer to what had happened on their desert island again. What they had shared had been great, but as far as Saif was concerned it was over now, and she was a potential embarrassment to him. ‘I’ll cover what I’m wearing with a blanket,’ she offered. ‘No one will expect me to be smartly dressed.’ She was willing to show her respect for tradition in Sinnebar, but had no intention of making a bigger fool of herself than necessary by stumbling over some over-large robe when she disembarked.

      Saif acknowledged this briefly. ‘An ambulance will be waiting at the dock to take you straight to the Al Maktabi clinic for a check up,’ he informed her, swooping by to complete some other task.

      ‘Thank you,’ she called to his disappearing back. ‘I appreciate your concern,’ she told the empty space.

      It was a marvel to discover she could hold in tears for so long. But who knew what she could do? Antonia mused as she leaned over the prow while the yacht came in to dock. She had a feeling she was going to have to dig a lot deeper yet.

      She was on her way down the companionway to get the blanket when Saif asked if she would do him a favour. ‘Anything,’ she called back, knowing this was no more than the truth.

      ‘Take this down with you when you go, will you?’ He’d lashed the wheel, and, peeling off his top, tossed it to her. She was determined to keep her gaze firmly averted from the body she loved—the body that had loved her so expertly.

      ‘You’ll find a cream robe hanging in what to you would be the front of the boat,’ he told her.

      ‘And you want me to bring it to you?’ she asked. She caught the still-warm top he tossed to her, resisting the impulse to bring it to her face and drag in his scent.

      ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’

      Then, like a spotlight on the star of a production, the sun caught him full on the chest and her mind went numb. She stared at Saif’s tattoo. It occurred to her then that she hadn’t seen him stripped to the waist in daylight—something that certainly put her moral code in question.

      But right now her moral code wasn’t uppermost in her mind. She had done her homework before setting out for Sinnebar, and knew what the tattoo over Saif’s heart represented. The snarling lion with the sapphire tightly grasped between its paws was the ruling sheikh’s insignia. Anyone could see the symbol online, where it was emblazoned on everything from the royal standard to the coin of His Imperial Majesty’s realm. It was said that Sheikh Ra’id al Maktabi of Sinnebar—acknowledged as the most powerful ruler in the Gulf—had chosen the lion as his personal symbol to reflect the power he wielded. It was also rumoured in the wider world that the clarity of the cold, blue sapphire reflected Ra’id al Maktabi’s calculating mind and his love-proof heart. So now it seemed that the man she had dreamed of falling in love with, the man she had had so brief an affair with, either had serious connections with or was closely related to a royal family reputed to have no finer feelings beyond the call of duty, which they took very seriously indeed.

      Or …

      Antonia didn’t even dare to contemplate this last possibility.

      ‘Are you feeling ill?’ Saif demanded when she groaned.

      She stared at him, wondering why she hadn’t seen it before—the regal poise, the air of command, the confidence of kings. ‘A little dizzy,’ she confessed, turning her back on him before she gave herself away. ‘Maybe I’m suffering from delayed sea-sickness.’ It was a lie, and a weak one at that, but it was all she had.

      ‘Well, take care as you go down the steps,’ Saif advised. ‘Sit down for a while. Put your head between your knees and take some deep breaths.’

      It would take more than a few deep breaths to blank out what she’d seen.

      But Saif couldn’t be the ruling sheikh, Antonia decided. Where were his bodyguards, his attendants, his warships off the coast? It was time to stop panicking and start thinking clearly. With that tattoo, he must have some connection with the court, so that was good news. She might have a chance to ask him about her mother before she disembarked.

      Nursing this little bud of hope, she went below. She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t excited by the chance to root around while Saif was busy up on deck. Who knew what she might find?

      She found the cashmere blanket and not much else of interest. Saif’s personal quarters were bare to the point of austerity. She found the robe exactly where he had said it would be, but, far from being some fabulous luxury garment that a ruling sheikh might wear, it was a simple cream linen dishdash of the type that could be purchased on any market stall.

      That imagination of hers would get her into trouble one day, Antonia warned herself, collecting up a pair of traditional thonged sandals. There wasn’t so much as a headdress, or a golden agal to hold that headdress in place, let alone a fancy robe. Saif was simply a patriot who chose to wear his leader’s insignia over his heart. The fearsome ruling sheikh of Sinnebar, known to the world as the Sword of Vengeance, he was most definitely not.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

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