The Innocent Carrying His Legacy Read online

  ‘I should thank you,’ Ivy began coolly. ‘For your—’

  ‘Your name and purpose,’ the man cut across her in that rough, rumbling voice, his tone making it clear that this was not a request in any way.

  Okay, so if he was indeed Sheikh Nazir Al Rasul, the infamous warlord—and she had a sneaking suspicion he might be—then she would have to tread delicately here.

  But she also wouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated. Back in England, she managed an entire children’s home full of foster kids, some of them with quite severe behavioural and mental-health issues, and she had no difficulty keeping them in order.

  One man, no matter how tall and terrifying, was not going to get the better of her.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘My name is Ivy Dean. I’ve registered my whereabouts with the British Consulate in Mahassa and they know exactly where I am.’ She forced herself to meet the man’s terrifyingly cold eyes. ‘And if I don’t return within a few days, they’ll also know exactly why.’

  He said nothing, continuing to pin her where she sat on the edge of the camp bed with that icy stare, his face betraying no expression whatsoever.

  Fine.

  ‘I’m here because I need to speak with Sheikh Nazir Al Rasul,’ she continued, determinedly holding his gaze. ‘It concerns a private matter.’

  The man stood so still he might have been carved from desert rock. ‘What private matter?’

  ‘That’s between me and Mr Al Rasul.’

  ‘Tell me.’ There was no discernible change in tone from anything else he’d said, but if his other statements had been orders, this was a command. One that he clearly expected her to obey without question.

  She should have been cowed. Any other woman in her right mind would be, especially after standing for hours in the hot sun outside the gates of a desert fortress, waiting to speak with one of the most terrifying men she’d ever heard about.

  But Ivy hadn’t spent more than two weeks in Mahassa trying to find a guide who would take her into the desert in search of the mysterious warlord for nothing. She’d spent all her meagre savings trying to find this man and she wasn’t going to give up now, especially when she was so close to her goal.

  In fact, if her suspicions were correct, then her goal was standing right in front of her.

  Except, she needed to know he was indeed the man she’d been searching for. Because if he wasn’t, this could end up going very badly, not only for her but also for the baby she was currently carrying.

  Ivy folded her hands calmly in her lap, pulling on the same practical, steely mask that she used with the most recalcitrant boys in the home. ‘I’ll speak with Mr Al Rasul,’ she said firmly. ‘As I said, it’s a private matter.’

  Again, there was no discernible change of expression in his icy gaze and he didn’t move. Yet it felt as if the atmosphere in the guardhouse abruptly chilled. The two guards standing at attention became very still, their agitation apparent.

  Apparently it was not done to disobey this man.

  A tremor of fear moved through Ivy at the same time as she felt something else, something unfamiliar, flicker in her bloodstream. A small thrill. Which didn’t make any sense. She was a woman alone in a fortress full of men who could kill her easily. And no matter how confidently she’d talked about the British Consulate, they couldn’t exactly help her right now if things went south.

  Which they might, if the rumours about the man in front of her were true.

  So there was no reason at all for her to feel the smallest twinge of excitement, of...anticipation? The thrill of matching wits with someone as strong-willed and determined as she. Maybe even stronger.

  Perhaps it was the pregnancy doing strange things to her. Why, she’d just been talking to Connie the other day about—

  Connie.

  An echo of grief pulsed through her, but she forced it away. No, now was not the time. Connie’s last wish had been to find Mr Al Rasul, and so that was what she was going to do. Then she could grieve her friend properly, once this was all over.

  ‘Perhaps you did not understand,’ the man said with icy precision. ‘You’ll tell me. Now.’

  Ivy refused to be cowed. ‘This is for Mr Al Rasul’s ears alone.’

  Something dangerous glinted in his eyes. ‘I am Mr Al Rasul.’

  Of course he was. Somehow she’d known that the second he’d spotted her faking a faint.

  Still, one couldn’t be sure. And she had to be very, very certain about this.

  ‘Prove it,’ Ivy said.

  The atmosphere, already chilly, plunged a few thousand degrees and the two guards’ stares abruptly became very fixed. They were statue still, like rabbits being eyed by a hawk.

  The icy kernel in Ivy’s gut got larger, sending out cold tendrils of fear to weave through her veins.

  Why are you challenging him like this? Are you insane?

  That could very well be. Perhaps she had sunstroke or was on the verge of extreme dehydration. Perhaps the last few days in Mahassa, spent following up leads only to end up in frustrating dead ends and brick walls, had got to her. Perhaps she was now hallucinating.

  Still, she couldn’t back down. Not when the child inside her depended on her. And if she could stare down a bunch of sullen teenage boys who’d been caught shoplifting, then she could certainly hold out against one infamous desert warlord.

  Sullen teenage boys aren’t likely to kill you.

  That was very true. Though it was too late now.

  The man’s cold, flat stare didn’t shift from her, not once. And he didn’t blink. She couldn’t read him at all.

  Then he inclined his head minutely and the guard on his left abruptly rattled off in heavily accented English. ‘You are speaking with the Commander, Sheikh Nazir Al Rasul.’

  ‘That’s your proof?’ Ivy couldn’t help saying. ‘One of your guards who is clearly terrified of you?’

  ‘That is all the proof you will be getting,’ Al Rasul said. ‘I am not accustomed to repeating myself, but in this case you’re obviously having difficulty understanding me.’ His gaze became sharper, more intensely focused, and Ivy’s breath froze as the expressionless mask dropped and she caught a glimpse of what it had been hiding.

  Death. Chaos. Violence. Danger.

  This man was a killer.

  ‘You will tell me your purpose here,’ he went on expressionlessly. ‘Or I’ll have you thrown out before the gates and you can find your own way back to the city.’

  It was a death sentence and they both knew it.

  This time it was harder to force down her fear and when she reflexively smoothed her robe over her stomach, her hands shook. ‘Very well,’ she said with as much calm as she could muster. ‘But as I said, it’s a private matter.’

  ‘You need not concern yourself with my guards.’

  Good. She needed to get this over with and the sooner the better.

  Ivy took a breath, steeled herself, then met his ferocious gaze. ‘I’m pregnant. And I’m here to inform you that the child is yours.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  AN ICY BOLT of shock flickered through Nazir. Then his logic took over.

  She was lying, for what reason he couldn’t possibly imagine, but she was. When he indulged himself with a woman, he was always scrupulous with protection. Children would never be in his future. He didn’t want them. He’d been brought up to be a soldier and that was his life, and the domesticity of a wife and children had no place in that life.

  Apart from anything else, he remembered every woman he slept with and he definitely had not slept with the one sitting on the camp bed in front of him, with her hands in her lap and absolutely no fear at all in her clear, copper-coloured eyes.

  He would have laughed if he remembered how.

  ‘Leave us,’ he ordered calmly to the two guards, virtually
quivering in their eagerness to be out of the guardhouse. There was no need for them to waste precious time listening to this woman’s nonsense.

  They exited the building like racehorses leaping out of the starting gate.

  The woman—Ivy Dean—didn’t move a muscle and she didn’t look away.

  No, she wasn’t someone he’d ever take to bed. She was small, with a delicacy to her that would make the rough sex he particularly enjoyed unworkable. He preferred warrior women. Women he didn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting, who could hold their own in bed and out of it.

  Yet, he couldn’t deny that there had been something almost...intriguing about her refusal to obey him. Or the way that little pointed chin of hers had lifted in stubborn protest at his orders.

  Sadly, though, no matter how stubborn she was, he was in command here and even though she wasn’t a physical threat to him, she might be a threat in other ways. He had many enemies—including whole countries—and someone might be using her to get to him. It was a novel approach, but nothing could be dismissed and this—she—was deeply suspicious.

  Which meant he had to find out the real reason she was here come hell or high water.

  ‘You’re lying,’ he said expressionlessly.

  ‘I’m not,’ she shot back.

  ‘Prove it.’ He didn’t consciously imitate her; he didn’t need to.

  Her pretty mouth pursed in displeasure at having that thrown back at her. Then she sniffed. ‘Very well.’

  She slipped off the camp bed and stood up, only to sway a little, suddenly unsteady on her feet. It seemed that regardless of whether she’d been faking that faint or not, the wait outside in the hot sun hadn’t been kind to her.

  The boy he’d once been would have been concerned about that, but the man had no room in his heart for concern. So it came as somewhat of a surprise to him that he found himself reaching forward to take her elbow to steady her.

  She gave a soft little intake of breath and froze like a gazelle under the paw of a lion. The sound of her gasp echoed in the small room and he felt it echo inside him, too. She felt very warm and, despite the sharp angles of her face, very soft.

  It’s been years since you’ve had soft... A lifetime...

  Disturbed by his reaction, Nazir let her go. Strange to find himself...affected in such a way. He had perfect control over himself and his impulses and he wasn’t accustomed to having a physical reaction he wasn’t in complete command over.

  Perhaps it was simply weariness. He really did need some sleep.

  Ivy moved away from him very quickly, as if she couldn’t wait to put some distance between them, heading for the battered leather bag that sat against the desk in the corner. She must have been carrying it with her when they’d brought her in.

  She moved over to it, the dirty white robe pooling around her as she bent to pick it up, rummaging around for something inside it. A moment later, she pulled out a sheaf of papers that she turned and brandished at him.

  ‘Here,’ she said, her voice light and sweet with a distinct undercurrent of iron. ‘Your proof.’

  Nazir took the papers and glanced down at them.

  On the top was a printout from a fertility clinic in England and on it, in very clear black and white, were his physical and personal details, including his name. There was also a set of paternity test results, and what looked to be a personal note in shaky handwriting.

  Ice gripped him.

  It had been a long time ago, when he’d had those three years at Cambridge University. Away from his father’s iron grip, away from the palace and its rules and strictures. He hadn’t wanted to go initially, because he’d known he was being given a punishment, not freedom, yet his father had been insistent. He’d had no choice but to go. So he had, deciding that if it was a punishment, then it was a punishment he’d enjoy the hell out of. He’d been eighteen and full of passion, determined to take life by the throat and experience everything he could, and that was exactly what he’d done.

  He’d always known he’d never be a father, that a family life wasn’t possible for him. As the bastard son of the Sultana—the secret bastard son—he couldn’t be allowed to further taint the royal line with offspring.

  That had burned, even back then, even when he’d been too young for a family. So one night, drunk with some of his friends and making stupid bets over poker, he’d lost a bet that had involved sperm donation. They’d only been boys, unthinking and stupid, but even then a part of him had felt a certain savage pleasure. That somewhere there’d be a child of his despite all the rules his father had set.

  Then he’d returned to Inaris and, in the aftermath of everything that had happened, he’d forgotten about it.

  Until now.

  There was no disputing the facts. The evidence was clear in the papers he held, and even if there had been a chance that they’d been forged, he knew they hadn’t been.

  He knew the truth.

  Carefully, Nazir folded up the papers and put them into the pocket of his combat trousers. The woman opened her mouth to protest, but then took one look at his face and shut it again.

  A wise decision.

  ‘Sit,’ he ordered tersely.

  She didn’t protest that either, moving to the chair at the watch station and sitting down.

  ‘Explain,’ Nazir commanded. ‘Leave out nothing.’

  She took a breath, her small pink tongue coming out and touching her lower lip briefly. He found himself watching it for no good reason.

  ‘I need some water first,’ she said, apparently not understanding that his tone meant he was to be obeyed and immediately.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  One straight brow arched. ‘Excuse me? I was forced to stand outside your gates in the desert heat, with no shade or water—’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘And I’m pregnant.’ She ignored the interruption. ‘With your child.’

  Nazir stared at her. She was challenging him, no doubt about it, matching his will with hers—or at least, attempting to. And part of him had to admit to a certain reluctant admiration at the sheer gall of her. No one challenged him, except for his enemies and those with a death wish. Which was she?

  She’s right, though. She is carrying your child.

  He glanced down at her stomach before he could stop himself, the slight curve veiled by the dusty white robes she wore. Something raw and hot and primitive stirred inside him in response.

  He ignored it.

  ‘Water,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, please.’ She clasped long, delicate fingers together in her lap. ‘A small glass would do.’

  Well, if it was water she wanted, then water she would receive.

  Nazir strode over to the door, pulled it open, and spoke briefly to the guards outside, then shut it again and turned back to where she sat, small and precise and utterly self-contained.

  She met his gaze squarely, though he thought he detected a slight hint of wariness. Which was good and proved she had some intelligence after all. Because she should be wary. It was clear she was used to having her own way, but she would not get it here.

  This was his fortress and he ruled it with an iron fist.

  He folded his arms and stood in front of her, holding her coppery gaze with his own.

  And waited.

  ‘I’ll need water first before any explanations,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Another moment or two passed.

  She shifted restively but didn’t look away. ‘If you’re trying to intimidate me, Mr Al Rasul, it won’t work.’

  ‘I’m not trying to intimidate you,’ he said. ‘I’m merely looking at you. You’ll know if I start trying to intimidate you.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Not at all. Did you take it as one?’

 
‘It was hardly meant as anything else.’

  ‘Good.’

  She opened her mouth and closed it again.

  He kept staring.

  She had the most beautiful skin, very fine-grained and soft-looking, though she’d definitely caught far too much sun. Her cheeks were quite rosy, as were her forehead and chin.

  You should have given her the umbrella. Especially considering she’s pregnant.

  The hot, primitive feeling inside him shifted again. Again, he ignored it.

  No, he’d been right not to acquiesce to her demands. He had to protect this fortress and his men, which meant he couldn’t afford to acknowledge random passers-by who sat outside his gates demanding water and sun umbrellas. His fortress wasn’t a tourist stop.

  Besides, it had been her choice to come out into the desert to find him. Clearly this was due to the pregnancy and the fact that he was the father, but there also had to be some explanation for why she’d felt the need to track him down. Whatever it was, again, that had been her decision and it had nothing to do with him.

  Her eyes were pretty. In this light, the light brown coppery colour had gone almost gold, and her dark lashes looked as if they’d been brushed with the same gold. Was her hair that colour too? Was it dark? Did it have those same streaks of gold? Or was it lighter? Amber, maybe, or deep honey...

  Why are you thinking about her hair?

  A strange jolt went through him as he realised what he was doing. Tired, that was what he was. Too tired. There was no other reason for him to be standing there contemplating the colour of a woman’s hair, especially a delicate little English rose such as this one.

  A knock came on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ Nazir growled.

  It opened and one of his kitchen staff came in carrying a tray. He went over to the watch station, deposited the tray on the desk, turned and then went out again.

  On the tray was a very tall, elegant crystal tumbler and an elegant matching pitcher. The glass was full of ice and a clear fizzing liquid with a delicate sprig of mint as a garnish. The pitcher was full of the same liquid and ice, condensation beading the sides.