Beholden to the Throne. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
right. He had got up at night to them when they were born. They had pulled together. Although it had never been voiced, both had seemed to know that they were battling against time and had raced to give Hannah as many precious moments with her babies as they could squeeze in.
He looked to his desk, to the picture of his wife and their daughters. He seemed to be smiling in the photo but his eyes were not, for he had known just how sick his wife was. Had known the toll the twins’ pregnancy had taken on her heart. Six months into the pregnancy they had found out she had a weakness. Three months later she was dead.
And while Hannah was smiling in the photo also, there was a sadness in her eyes too. Had she known then that she was dying? Emir wondered. Had it been the knowledge that she would have but a few more days with her daughters that had brought dark clouds to her eyes? Or had it been the knowledge that the kingdom of Alzan needed a male heir if it was to continue? Without a son Alzan would return to Alzirz and be under Sheikh King Rakhal’s rule.
He hated the words Hannah had said on the birth of their gorgeous daughters—loathed the fact that she had apologised to him for delivering two beautiful girls. His heart thumped in his chest as if he were charging into battle as silently he stood, gave his mind rare permission to recall Hannah’s last words. The blood seared as it raced through his veins, and his eyes closed as her voice spoke again to him. ‘Promise you will do your best for our girls.’
How? Emir demanded to a soul that refused to rest.
Any day now Rakhal’s wife, Natasha, was due to give birth. The rules were different in Alzirz, for there a princess could become Queen and rule.
How Rakhal would gloat when his child was born—especially if it was a son.
Emir’s face darkened at the thought of his rival. He picked up the two stones that sat on his desk and held them. Though they should be cool to the touch the rare pink sapphires seemed to burn in his palm. Rakhal had been a prince when he had given him this gift to celebrate the arrival of the girls—a gift that had been delivered on the morning Hannah had died.
Hannah had thought them to be rubies—had really believed that the troubles between the two kingdoms might finally be fading.
Emir had let her hold that thought, had let her think the gift was a kind gesture from Rakhal, even while fully understanding the vile message behind it—sapphires were meant to be blue.
Without a male heir the kingdom of Alzan would end.
Emir hurled the precious stones across his office, heard the clatter as they hit the wall and wished they would shatter as his brain felt it might.
He hated Rakhal, but more than that Emir hated the decision that he was slowly coming to. For it was not only Hannah who had begged for reassurance on her deathbed—he had held his dying father out in the desert. He had not been able to see the King dying because blood had been pouring from a wound above Emir’s eye, but he had heard his father’s plea, had given his solemn word that he would do his best for his country.
Two promises he could not meet.
Emir knew he could keep but one.
His decision could not—must not—be based on emotion, so he picked up the photo and took one long, last look, tracing his finger over Hannah’s face and the image of his girls. And then he placed it face down in a drawer and closed it.
He could not look them.
Must not.
Somehow he had to cast emotion aside as he weighed the future—not just for his children, but for the country he led.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS too hot to sleep.
The fan above the bed barely moved the still night air, and the fact that Amy had been crying since she put the twins down for the night did not help. Her face was hot and red, so Amy climbed out of bed, opened the French windows and stepped out onto the balcony, wishing for cool night air to hit her cheeks. But in Alzan the nights were warm and, despite a soft breeze, there was no respite.
The desert was lit by a near full moon and Amy looked out across the pale sands in the direction of Alzirz—there, the nights were cold, she had been told. Amy wished that she were there now—not just for the cool of the night, but for other reasons too. In Alzirz a princess could rule.
There girls were not simply dismissed.
But even that didn’t ring true. In many ways Alzan was progressive too—there were universities for women, and on Queen Hannah’s death the King had ordered that a state-of-the-art maternity hospital be built in her name—not only with the cardiac ward he had mentioned but free obstetric care for all. Sheikh King Emir had pushed his people slowly forward, yet the royals themselves stayed grounded in the ways of old, bound by rules from the past.
The two lands had long ago been one, she had been told—Alzanirz—but they had been separated many generations ago and were now fierce rivals.
She had met King Rakhal and his wife, Natasha, on a few occasions. Natasha was always disarmingly nice and interested in the girls; Rakhal, on the other hand, despite his cool politeness, was guarded. Amy had felt the hatred simmering between the two men, had almost been able to taste the deep rivalry that existed whenever they were both in a room.
Still, it was not the rival King who troubled her tonight, nor was it the King who employed her.
It was her own soul.
She had to leave. She was too involved. Of course she was. Realising the toll her job was taking on her daughter, Amy’s mother was urging her to come home. But as Amy stared out to the sands she was conflicted—she simply could not imagine abandoning the twins.
Ummi.
It hurt to hear that word from Clemira and Nakia and to know she would never be one herself.
Amy gulped in air, determined not to start crying again, but though she was dealing with things better these days—though for the most part she had come to terms with her fate—on nights like tonight sometimes the pain surfaced. Sometimes all she could do was mourn a time when happiness had seemed more certain.
Or had it?
She closed her eyes and tried to remember, tried to peer into the dark black hole that was the months and weeks leading up to her accident. Slowly, painfully slowly, she was starting to remember things—choosing her wedding dress, the invitations—but all she could see were images. She simply couldn’t recall how she had felt.
Amy had always worked with children, and had been about to marry and start a family of her own when a riding accident had ruined everything. Her hopes and dreams, her relationship and even her fertility had all been taken in one cruel swoop.
Maybe it was for best, Amy pondered—perhaps it was kinder not to remember happier times.
It had been a relief to get away from London, to escape the sympathy and the attention. But Amy’s mother had warned her about taking this job—had said it was too much and too soon, that she was running away from her problems. She hadn’t been.
The thought of being involved with two babies from birth, of having a very real role in their lives, had been so tempting. Queen Hannah had been well aware of the challenges her daughters would face, and she had told Amy about the disappointment that would sweep the country if her pregnancy produced girls—especially if it proved too dangerous for Hannah to get pregnant again.
Hannah had wanted the girls to be educated in London, to live as ordinary girls there. The plan had been that for four years Amy would take care of the girls in Alzan, but that they would then be schooled in the UK. Amy was to be a huge part of their lives—not a mother, of course, but more than an aunt.
How could she leave now?
How could she walk away because she didn’t like the way they were being treated?
Yet how could she stay?
Amy