The Sultan's Heir. ALEXANDRA SELLERS
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by a mixture of feelings she thought might drown her. “I don’t—you—why wasn’t I told of this five years ago?”
“We knew nothing of the will until ten days ago.”
“How could you possibly not know Jamshid had left a will for five years?”
She sat staring at him, her head forward, her eyes gone dark and fixed on him. He felt the pulse of his masculine ego and was suddenly, powerfully aware of the intensity of her femininity, and understood why Jamshid had married her in spite of everything, even knowing how ferociously their grandfather would object.
“He did not go to the family lawyer, doubtless because he had not yet found a way to tell our grandfather of your marriage,” Najib al Makhtoum explained. “He went to a lawyer with no connections to…our family. We have learned that the man was killed and his offices destroyed by a bomb, shortly after Jamshid’s own death.”
She had a sudden sharp memory of reading of the bombing raids. How she had wept for the destruction of his country.
She shook her head, fighting back the burning in her eyes.
“Jamshid had put a copy of the will and documents pertaining to your marriage in a safety deposit box we also knew nothing of. The bank sent a routine notice recently when the account that paid for the box went into arrears. Undoubtedly Jamshid had left a key with this same lawyer, expecting the box to be opened immediately in the event of his death.”
Rosie pressed her lips together and looked down, her thick beige hair falling forward to provide a partial curtain against his eyes. She sat in silence, absorbing it. A trembling, broken smile pulled at her mouth, and there was no trace now of the bitterness that showed as cynicism. She suddenly looked younger, innocent and trusting. He thought that he was now seeing the girl in the photograph. The girl Jamshid had fallen in love with.
“I see,” she whispered again. “That was…” She shook her head, raised her eyes and gazed at the ceiling. Swallowed. “I wish I’d known this five years ago.”
“It was not Jamshid’s fault that you did not. No one could have foreseen such a tragic coincidence.”
Rosalind was shaken to the soul. Five years of her life rewritten in a few minutes. Her eyes burned as the hurt she didn’t know she still carried flamed through her. So he had not abandoned her. His love had not been a lie.
Najib cleared his throat. “In the box also was a letter of explanation to my grandfather.”
“What did he say?” she asked hoarsely, her gaze on him again.
“I have it here. Would you like to read it?” He reached into his case again, drew out a letter and handed it to her. “I believe you read Parvani? He mentions the fact in the letter.”
Her hand shook as she accepted it. The writing swam behind her tears, and Rosalind blinked hard as she read the last words she would ever hear from Jamshid.
“Grandfather, I am ashamed not to have found a way to tell you and the family about my marriage, which took place in England….
“I know that it was your design that I should marry a woman of our own blood, but Rosalind will delight you when you meet her. She is a woman to rise to any demand that fate makes of her, and will be a fine mother to our child, which to my great joy she carries. We think it a son. If it should be God’s will that I do not return from this war alive, and that you learn of my marriage through this letter, I trust…”
Tears choked her. She could read no further. Rosalind dropped the letter and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, I wish I had known, I wish I had known!” she cried again. “I thought he betrayed me, I thought…”
She bit her lip and fought for calm.
“He loved me.” Her voice cracked. “He did love me.”
The stranger with Jamshid’s eyes moved and was sitting beside her. “Yes,” he murmured comfortingly. “Yes, he must have loved you very much.”
“Why didn’t he tell his grandfather about me?”
“My grandfather was a man who had suffered great reverses in his life, and for his favourite to have married an Englishwoman was—” He broke off. “For now, comfort yourself with the knowledge that your husband’s last thoughts, before going to war, were of you. You and the child.”
His deep, gentle voice tore away the last thread of her control. A cry ripped her throat, and when she felt his arms going around her it seemed natural and right. He was Jamshid’s cousin. Rosalind rested her head against the rough tweed of his jacket and wept as the mixture of grief and the deep hurt of betrayal shuddered through her and was at last released.
Najib stroked the long, smooth, honey-brown hair, and thought what a tragedy it was that she had been made to doubt his cousin’s love. But there was good reason why Jamshid had not told their grandfather of the marriage….
He remembered the terrible uproar that had ensued when Jamshid came home determined to go to war at the side of Prince Kavian. As one of the prince’s Cup Companions, as a man raised all his life in his mother’s country, Jamshid had insisted, he must do his duty to that country in its time of need. His grandfather had shouted, had threatened, had told him of his higher duty to his own family, to his father’s country and his fate….
The storm of the old man’s fury had raged over their heads for weeks, all through the buildup to the first, inevitable Kaljuk invasion, while the urgent diplomatic attempts, one after the other, fell on waste ground. Jamshid had stood resolute through it all, but it had certainly not been the moment to raise the matter of his marriage to an Englishwoman, which his grandfather would have opposed with the utmost bitterness. That might have killed the old man.
So Jamshid, his grandfather’s favourite and named heir, had gone off to battle with the old man’s curse ringing in his ears, and a few weeks later they had carried his lifeless body back across the threshold, broken, bruised and thin, in early promise of what horrors the war would bring to Parvan. His grandfather had been knocked to his knees by the blow. He never recovered. The change in him had shaken them all. That tower of strength reduced to rubble in an hour.
Rosalind’s letter and its revelations must have seemed the final horror to a mind finally driven beyond its limits. Perhaps, in the human way, the old man had turned on her as a way to ward off his own deep guilt. To curse a man going into battle was a terrible thing….
It was a tragedy that he had succumbed to such emotions at such a time. If Rosalind had been taken into the family then, she and Jamshid’s child would already be under their protection. But thank God fate had revealed her existence at a time when they could still take steps. Najib thought that it would be his job to protect her now, and his arm tightened around her, making him conscious of the train of his thoughts, so that he deliberately released her.
Rosalind wiped her eyes and cheeks with her fingers, snatched a tissue from the box on the table. She sat up, snuffling, blew her nose, wiped her tears.
“Thanks for the shoulder,” she muttered.
“I am sorry to have offered it five years late.”
Rosalind shook her head and pulled her still-trembling mouth into a half smile. “Well. What now?”
“I should tell you the contents of his will before anything else, I think.”
“All right.”
Najib al Makhtoum returned to his own seat, where he drew the will from his case, flipped over a few pages, and began softly, “Jamshid left you his flat in Paris and another in New York outright. In addition, there is a lifetime interest in the villa in East Barakat to be held by you until your death, in trust for the child. Another property, in trust until the child reaches twenty-one years of age. Certain valuables and some investments intended to provide an income for you.” He outlined them briefly, and then said, “The provisions are slightly altered in the case of a daughter, to protect her property on her marriage.”
He