The Sheikh's Guarded Heart. Liz Fielding
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be fine.’ Then, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘I don’t want to put you to any more trouble,’ she said. ‘If I could just get dressed, impose on you to call me a taxi.’
‘A taxi?’ He frowned. ‘Why would you need a taxi?’
‘To take me to the airport.’
‘I really would not advise it. You should take a day or two to recover—’
‘I can’t stay here.’
‘—and it will undoubtedly take that long to replace your passport, your ticket. I’m sorry to have to tell you that everything that you were carrying with you was destroyed in the crash.’
‘Destroyed?’ Without warning she caught a whiff of petrol amongst the mingled scents of sweat, dust, disinfectant that clung to her. ‘They were burned?’ And she shivered despite her best effort not to think about how close she had come to being part of the conflagration. ‘I need to see someone about that,’ she said, sitting up too quickly and nearly passing out as everything spun around her.
‘Please, leave it to my aide. He will handle everything,’ he assured her. ‘They will be ready, insha’Allah, by the time you’re fit to travel.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you being so kind to me?’
He seemed surprised. ‘You are a stranger. You need help. I was chosen.’
Chosen?
She put the oddity of the expression down to the difference in cultures and let it go, contenting herself with, ‘You pulled me out from the car wreck. For most people that would have been enough.’ Then, realising how ungrateful that must have sounded, ‘I know that I owe you my life.’
That provoked another bow. ‘Mash’Allah. It is in safe hands.’
For heaven’s sake! Enough with the bowing…
‘I’m in no one’s hands but my own,’ she snapped back.
She might owe him her life, but she’d learned the hard way not to rely on anyone. Not even those she’d had a right to be able to trust. As for the rest…
‘We are all in God’s hands,’ he replied, without taking offence, no doubt making allowances for her injuries, shock, the fact that sedatives tended to remove the inhibitions. Her grandmother hadn’t held back when she’d finally surrendered to the need for pain relief. A lifetime of resentment and anger had found voice in those last weeks…
‘I’m sorry,’ she said carefully. ‘You’re being extremely kind. I must seem less than grateful.’
‘No one is at their best when they’ve been through the kind of experience you’ve endured,’ he said gravely.
This masterly, if unintentional, understatement earned him a wry smile. At least it was a smile on the inside; how it came out through the swellings and bruises was anyone’s guess.
‘You need to eat, build up your strength.’
She began to shake her head and he moved swiftly to stop her. ‘It would be better if you did not do that,’ he cautioned, his hand resting lightly against her cheek. ‘At least for a day or two.’
She jumped at his unexpected touch and he immediately removed his hand.
‘What can I offer you?’
What she wanted most of all was more water, but not if it meant spilling half of it down herself like a drooling idiot.
Maybe she’d said her thoughts out loud, or maybe he’d seen the need in her eyes as she’d looked at the glass, because he picked it up, then sat on the edge of the bed, offering his arm as a prop, but not actually touching her. Leaving the decision to her.
‘I can manage,’ she assured him, using her elbows to try and push herself up. One of them buckled beneath her and all over her body a shocking kaleidoscope of pain jangled her nerves. Before she fell back he had his shoulder, his chest, behind her, his arm about her in support, taking all her weight so that her aching muscles didn’t have to work to keep her upright.
‘Take your time,’ he said, holding the glass to her lips. Raising her hand to steady it, she concentrated on the glass, avoiding eye contact, unused to such closeness, such intimacy. He did not rush her, but showed infinite patience as, taking careful sips this time, she slaked what seemed to be an insatiable thirst. ‘Enough?’ he asked when she finally pulled back.
She nearly nodded but remembered in time and instead glanced up. For a moment their gazes connected, locked, and Lucy had the uncomfortable feeling that Hanif bin Jamal bin Khatib al-Khatib could see to the bottom of her soul.
Not a pretty sight.
Hanif held the glass to Lucy’s lips for a moment longer, then, easing her back on to the pillow, turned away, stood up. Her body had seemed feather-light, as insubstantial as gossamer, yet the weight of it had jarred loose memories that he’d buried deep. Memories of holding another woman in just that way.
Memories of her dark eyes begging him to let her go.
From the moment he’d cut Lucy Forrester free of the wreck she’d been attacking his senses, ripping away the layers of scar tissue he’d built up as a wall between himself and memory.
She smelt of dust, the hospital, but beneath it all her body had a soft, warm female scent of its own. He’d blocked it out while he’d held her safe on his horse, cradled her as she’d whimpered with pain, drifting in and out of consciousness in the helicopter, other, more urgent concerns taking precedent. But now, emergency over, he could no longer ignore the way it filled his head. Familiar, yet different.
He could not tell if it was the familiar or the different that bothered him more. It did not matter, but he clung to the glass as if it was the only thing anchoring him to earth as he took a deep steadying breath.
He was no stranger to the sick room, but this was more difficult than he’d imagined. Dredging up the poignant, painful memories he’d worked so hard to obliterate from his mind.
She is different.
And it was true. Noor had been dark-eyed, golden-skinned, sweet as honey. The unsuspected, unbreakable core of steel that had taken her from him had lain well hidden within that tender wrapping.
Lucy Forrester was nothing like her.
The difference in their colouring was the least of it. His wife had been strong, steady, a rock in a disintegrating world, but this woman was edgy, defensive, troubled, and he sensed that she needed him in a way that Noor never had.
The glass rattled on the table as he turned back to her. ‘I’m sure you would enjoy some tea,’ he said. ‘Something light to eat?’
‘Actually, right now, all I want is the bathroom. A shower. To wash my hair.’
Lucy Forrester shuffled herself slowly up against the pillows, obviously finding it painful to put weight on her bruised elbows, but determined to have her way.
He knew how she felt. He’d taken hard falls back in the youthful, carefree days when he’d thought himself indestructible. Had chafed impatiently through weeks laid up with a broken leg.
‘That’s a little ambitious for your first outing,’ he suggested. ‘Maybe if I brought a bowl of water, you could—’
‘I’m not an invalid. I’ve just got a few bumps and bruises,’ she said, then let out an involuntary cry as she jerked her shoulder.
‘That hurt?’ he enquired, with an edge to his voice he barely recognised, annoyed with her for being so obstinate.
‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I always whimper when I move.’ Then, ‘Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but if you’ll point me in the direction of the bathroom I can manage. Or did you want to come along and finish what you started in the hospital?’