The Sheikh's Heir by Sharon Kendrick

Author:Sharon Kendrick
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Mills & Boon
Published: 2011-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

HASSAN had dealt with sickness before. He’d seen men spill their guts up after battle and afterwards lie grey-faced and sweating. But he’d never witnessed it in a beautiful young woman in her prime and he thought how tiny and frail she suddenly looked. Overwhelmed with remorse at the harshness of his words, he carried her to the tiny bathroom and then held back her hair from her face as she retched. Eventually, she stopped and slumped against his chest, exhausted, her eyes closed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually.

Stricken with remorse, he shook his head. ‘It is not you who should be sorry, it is me,’ he grated. ‘I am responsible for your sickness. I should not have said those things to you.’

At this, her eyelashes fluttered open to reveal ice-blue eyes which were slightly bloodshot, and to his astonishment, a faint smile was lifting the corners of her lips.

‘Your words were rather wounding,’ she conceded. ‘But not quite powerful enough to induce nausea, Hassan. That’s something which happens to lots of pregnant women, no matter what their circumstances.’

‘You have been sick before this?’ he demanded.

Ella swallowed, feeling much too weak to be able to maintain a stoic attitude. ‘Most days.’

‘Most days? But this is not good! This is why you are looking so thin and so pale.’

‘The doctor says the baby will be fine.’

There was a pause. ‘You have seen a doctor?’

Ella knew that she ought to move. That it was bizarre, ridiculous and inappropriate to be lying slumped against the man who had said such cruel things to her. But the stupid thing was that she didn’t want to go anywhere. He felt warm and he felt strong. Most important of all, he felt safe. ‘Seeing a doctor is what normally happens when a woman gets pregnant, Hassan.’

‘And who is this doctor?’

‘He’s my GP from the local health centre and he’s very good.’

Hassan tensed, his apprehension eclipsing the sudden realisation that her back was pressing against his groin.

‘A local GP cannot be charged with caring for the progeny of the sheikh,’ he said, and then saw her eyelids flutter to a close again. ‘But this is not the time to talk about it. For now, you need to rest.’

Her protest died on her lips as once again he picked her up and carried her through to her bedroom, though she couldn’t miss his faint double take when he saw a series of charcoal drawings she’d done of Izzy lining the walls. They were entitled ‘Izzy Dressing’ and they showed her sister pulling on various items of clothing. They were less shocking than most things you’d see in a municipal art gallery, but that didn’t stop Hassan’s mouth from flattening critically.

He put her down on the bed, banking the pillows up behind her, his black eyes raking over her.

‘What can I do for you?’ he demanded. ‘What can I get you to make you feel better?’

Stupidly, she felt like asking him to hold her again. To cradle her in his arms where, for just a brief while, she had felt safe and cosseted.

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