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“I must talk to you. May I come in?”
“Not on your life,” she said, with slow, implacable emphasis. “Goodbye.”
His hand prevented the door’s closing. “You seem to regard your late husband’s family…”
“With deep and abiding revulsion,” she supplied. “Take your hand away, please.”
“Miss Lewis,” he said urgently, his accent reminding her with wrenching sharpness of Jamshid. “Please let me speak to you. It is very important.”
His eyes were the colour of melted bittersweet chocolate. The full mouth showed signs that the crazily passionate nature was the same, but was tempered with self-control. If Jamshid had lived, probably his mouth would have taken on the same learned discipline by this age, but the memory of the young passionate mouth was all she would ever have.
“What’s your name?”
“I am Najib al Makhtoum,” he said, with a kind of condescending air, as if he was not used to having to introduce himself.
“And who did you say sent you?”
“I have urgent family business to discuss with you.”
“What business?”
“I represent Jamshid’s estate. I am one of his executors.”
She gazed at him, recognizing a man who would get what he wanted.
“I assure you it is to your advantage,” he pressed, frowning as if her reticence made him suspicious.
“Uh-huh.” The look she gave him left him in no doubt of what she thought of her chances of hearing something to her advantage from him. “Half an hour,” Rosalind capitulated flatly, falling back. She pushed aside a child’s bright green wheeled dinosaur with her foot and held the door open.
“Half an hour to the representative of your dead husband’s family,” he remarked without expression, stepping inside.
“Which is exactly thirty minutes more than they ever gave me.”
He took that with a frowning look. “You made an attempt at contact, then?”
She looked at him, not answering. The skin on her back shivered, and she had a sudden understanding of how animals felt when confronting danger. If she were a cat, probably she would look twice her normal size now, her fur standing out in all directions.
But she didn’t suppose that that would scare him off. He looked like a man who thrived on challenge.
“Over there,” she said, closing the door and lifting a hand to direct him. She watched as he moved ahead of her into the sitting room and towards the sofas at the far end of the long, elegant room. Jamshid had been shorter, a little slimmer. His cousin’s frame was powerful, his shoulders broad, strong bones under a firm musculature.
In the bright sitting room Najib glanced around at the resolutely European decor. A beautiful sheaf of white flowers graced the centre of a square black coffee table, with half a dozen little onyx and crystal ornaments. Around it were sofas and chairs, with decorative touches that combined to give the room a soft, expensive sophistication.
Only a couple of pieces gave evidence that she had ever been married to a Parvani—an extremely beautiful silk Bagestani prayer rug in front of a cabinet and an antique miniature of the Parvan royal palace in Shahr-i Bozorg, painted on a narrow strip of ivory in a delicate inlaid frame, hanging on one wall in elegant isolation.
“Sit down, Mr. al Makhtoum,” she invited, without pretending to any social warmth. She crossed to a corner of the sofa kitty-corner to the chair she indicated to him. It was only when he set it on the black table that she noticed he was carrying a briefcase.
Rosie was barefoot, wearing soft blue cotton leggings and a long blue shirt. The briefcase suddenly made her feel vulnerable. Unconsciously she drew one bent leg under her, lightly clasped her bare ankle, her gold bracelet watch tumbling down over her wrist, and sat sideways on the sofa, facing him. Her other arm rested on the sofa back and supported her cheek as she gazed at him.
“What can your family possibly want with me after all this time?” Rosalind demanded, curious if not really caring, but a little nervous, too, as he snapped the case open.
“First,” Najib al Makhtoum began, “may I confirm a few facts? You are Rosalind Olivia Lewis, and five years ago you married Jamshid Bahrami, a citizen of Parvan who was at that time a postgraduate student at the School of Eastern and Asian Studies here in London?”
“We’ve been over that,” she said. “What else?”
“You subsequently gave birth to his child?”
She went very still, watching him.
“I am sorry to say we learned only recently about your marriage and that you were pregnant when my cousin died,” he said helpfully.
“Did you?” Rosalind said, with cool, unconcerned disbelief.
He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Was there any reason, Miss Lewis, why you did not let the family know of the marriage and your pregnancy after Jamshid’s death?”
She lowered her head and looked at him under her brows. “I might as easily ask you why Jamshid apparently told no one about me before going off to war,” she returned bitterly. “He left here promising to get his grandfather’s approval, saying that his family would send for me if war was declared, that I would go to family in the Barakat Emirates and have the baby there…. Well, I guess he never did it. If it wasn’t significant to him, why should it have been to me?”
“There is no doubt that he should—”
“In fact, though, as I am sure you know,” she went on over him, “I did write a letter to Jamshid’s grandfather, shortly after hearing that my husband had been killed.”
She was surprised by the wary look that entered his eyes, but couldn’t guess what it meant. “My grandfather died within a year after—” he began, and she interrupted,
“I’m sorry to hear it. I always imagined that one day I would tell him to his face what I thought of him.”
“Are you sure my grandfather received this letter?”
She dropped her chin, staring down at the peach-coloured fabric that covered the sofa under her thigh, and felt the old anguish stab her, heart and womb.
“Oh, yes,” she said, lifting her head again. “Oh, yes, Mr. al Makhtoum, your grandfather received it, as I think you know. I think you know that he wrote back a charming little note telling me that I was not married to Jamshid, that I was no more than an opportunistic foreign gold digger who could have no way of knowing which of my many lovers was the father of her child, that I should reflect that to receive money for sex would make me a prostitute, and that I would rot for what I was trying to put over on the grieving family of a war hero.
“It was pretty comprehensive,” she said, opening her eyes at him. “So what has Jamshid’s family now got to add to that?”
Two
It stopped him cold. Najib al Makhtoum looked away, heaved a long, slow breath, shook his head, met her eyes again.
“No,” he assured her. His voice was quiet, masking his deep exasperation. Why on earth had the old man—? But it was no use asking that question now. “No, I knew of no such letter. No one did, save my grandfather. Is that indeed what was said to you?”
“Well, it may not be word for word,” Rosalind allowed. “You would hardly expect it after five years, though at the time I felt the message had been gouged into me permanently with a dull knife. I suppose Jamshid was lying to me from beginning to end, I suppose to him a Western marriage wasn’t worth a thought, but I believed him. I loved him and I believed he loved me and I was pregnant with his child, and to learn so brutally that he hadn’t even bothered to mention me to his grandfather was—”
She broke off and told herself to calm down. Railing at Jamshid’s cousin would do nothing. And she still didn’t know why he was here.
“I am very sorry,” al Makhtoum murmured at last. “I apologize on behalf of my grandfather—of all Jamshid’s family. The rest of us knew nothing. As I said, we learned of your existence only recently. My grandfather most unfortunately kept your letter secret. It can have been known to none but himself.”
She didn’t know whether to believe him, but what did it matter? It only underlined the fact that Jamshid had been faithless.
“Well, now perhaps you understand why I am not interested in anything your family might have to say to me. In fact, I’d rather not have you sitting on my sofa. So—”
He lifted a hand. “Miss Lewis, I understand your anger. But please let me—”
She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand, because you don’t know anything about me or my life, or what effect that letter had. No explanation is necessary, Mr. al Makhtoum. Nothing you could say now would change history. What was it Jamshid used to say? Makhtoub. It’s written. It’s over.”
“It is not over,” said Najib al Makhtoum softly, but with such complete conviction that Rosalind’s heart kicked.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
He coughed. “As you know, Jamshid died in the early days of the Kaljuk War. We believed that he died intestate, but his will has recently come to light. He left most of his substantial personal property to you and the child.”
Rosalind’s mouth opened in silent astonishment. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again.
“What?” she whispered.
“I have a copy of his will, if you would like to read it.”
“Jamshid named me in his will?”
“You are the major beneficiary.”
She was swamped 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 rested the document on his knees. “Fortunately, none of the real estate or property has been sold in the intervening years. A lump sum payment of the accumulated income is, naturally, due to you immediately.”
Rosalind stared at him, her astonishment increasing with every word of this recital. He passed her a list of figures, and she looked at the total he indicated with sheer disbelief.
