The Sultan's Heir

“Did Jamshid really own all that?”

He looked at her, wondering if her astonishment was genuine. If he really had told her nothing, Jamshid must have been crazy, Najib reflected. But looking at Rosalind, he could see plenty of reason for madness.

“His father died when he was an infant. He came into his personal inheritance at the age of twenty-one. I have taken the liberty of bringing you one of the jewels that forms a part of your inheritance.”

He reached into the case, and brought out a small wine-coloured velvet bag. Rosalind watched in silent stupefaction as Najib al Makhtoum expertly pulled open the drawstring and shook out onto his palm a ring. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger, glanced at it, and held it out to her.

It was a diamond as big as all outdoors, in an old-fashioned setting between two pyramided clusters of rubies. It took Rosalind’s breath away. It glowed with a rich inner fire, as if it had been worn by a deeply feminine woman and her aura still surrounded it.

“It belonged to our great-grandmother,” Najib explained. “She was famed for her beauty, and was a woman of great charm.” He looked at Rosalind and thought that he had never met a woman with such feminine impact. Family legend said Mawiyah had been such a woman.

Rosalind stared at the ring. “I don’t—are you sure?” she asked stupidly, and, with something like impatience, for she was now a wealthy woman and this ring was no more than a token, he took the ring from her again and picked up her hand.

“Put it on,” he said, slipping it onto her ring finger and down over the knuckle, and for a moment reality seemed to flicker, and they realized that it was her left hand. They both blinked and then ignored the fact that unconsciously he had performed the age-old ritual that bound men and women together for life.

They spoke simultaneously, in cool voices. “It’s very lovely,” Rosalind said, and Najib said, “It’s only one of several very fine pieces that are now yours.”

She shook her head dumbly. “He never said a word about this. Not a word.”

But then, Jamshid had always been reticent about his background. They had dated for months before she even learned that he held the rank of Cup Companion to Prince Kavian.

In ancient times, the cup had meant the winecup. The companions were the men with whom the Prince caroused and forgot world affairs. But in modern times the position was much more than an honourary one. The Companions now were like a government cabinet.

It was a very prestigious appointment, but Rosalind had somehow not been all that surprised to learn of Jamshid’s position. Maybe it was Jamshid’s own bearing, or maybe it was that Prince Kavian had always treated his “bodyguards” with the respect of an equal.

Cup Companions to the Crown Prince normally came from the nobility. But Rosalind had certainly assumed, if she thought of it at all, that, like so many other Parvanis, the family’s wealth had all gone towards defending the little kingdom from the Kaljuk invaders during the destructive three-year war.

“But wasn’t everything lost in the war?” she murmured stupidly.

“The family holdings in Parvan were turned over to the royal house for the war effort,” he informed her. “Much was destroyed. Jamshid had the foresight not to leave you any of the Parvan property, however, and I assure you that your inheritance, and your son’s, is virtually intact.”

And your son’s. “Oh.”

“Except for one thing. We thought that perhaps, on discovering your pregnancy, he might have entrusted it to you. Did Jamshid ever give you a jewel, Rosalind?”

“What, you mean a ring? He gave me a gold wedding band. We were in such a hurry before he went home…”

“Not a gold band. A very large diamond ring—or perhaps, the key to a safety deposit box?”

She shook her head, mystified. Again, he could not be sure of her. “A very large diamond? Larger than this?”

“It is a family heirloom that belonged to Jamshid but was not among his effects when he died. He would have wanted his son to have it.”

“His son,” she murmured.

“The family is naturally very eager to meet you and the boy. We would like to ask you, Rosalind, to visit—”

Rosalind looked down at her hands in her lap, watching the ring with deep sadness, and thought how different her life might have been.

“I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting him with quiet firmness. “Jamshid had no son. The day after I got that—that letter from your grandfather, I had a miscarriage. I lost Jamshid’s baby.”

Three

There was a startled silence. “A miscarriage?” he repeated softly. He did not look towards the entrance, where the plastic dinosaur was just visible.

She remembered the terrible, stabbing pain as she read the letter, as if the old man had taken a knife to her womb. As if her child had responded to such viciousness by refusing to be born into the world.

“It was the letter,” she murmured. “I knew it was the letter. It’s why I’ve hated you all so much.”

He sat in silence, staring at her with a mixture of doubt and sadness. But there was nothing more to say. Rosalind shook her head, made a slight shrugging movement, then got up. She went to the bathroom, rinsed her face in cold water, stared at the ring, gazed at her reflection for a minute in blank disbelief, and came back.

He was sitting where she had left him, holding one of the glass ornaments from the table, absently watching the snow settle around a perfect red rose. He looked up as she crossed the room and stopped in front of him.

“I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?”

“Thank you.”

Moving around the kitchen, getting down the cafetière, filling the kettle, laying the tray, she could see him through the doorway. He sat on the sofa in the kind of coiled relaxation that could leap into action very quickly. He absently shook the ornament again, and a cloud of snow bubbled up and hid the rose.

“How did you meet Jamshid? Were you a student, too?”

She shook her head. “Not at the same time he was. I’d already done an undergrad degree in Parvani, and was working at the Embassy of Parvan as a junior translator. I was mostly doing stuff for tourist publications. Prince Kavian and Arash and Jamshid came and were living upstairs at the embassy,” she explained.

“I was studying in Paris for much of that time. But my sister was a student at the university here at the same time as Jamshid,” he remarked. She was measuring the coffee, and looked up as he spoke. “Do you remember a girl named Lamis al Azzam?”

The little scoop caught the edge of the glass cafetière and leapt from her grasp, the fine-ground coffee spraying all over the counter. Rosalind muttered and reached for a sponge.

Next thing she knew, he was in the doorway, still holding the rose ornament. With forced calm, Rosalind wiped up the spilled grounds, dusted the residue from her pale blue shirt, rinsed her hands and the sponge under the tap.

As she carefully measured another scoop of coffee into the cafetière, she said, “I knew Lamis, yes.” How much would Lamis have told him? “She’s your sister?” she repeated, carefully wiping all expression from her voice.

He nodded. Rosalind swallowed. This was a complication she didn’t need. She would have to be careful. She lifted the kettle and poured boiling water over the grounds. The scent of coffee rose strong in the air.

“Why don’t you have the same name?”

He waved his hand as if the answer would entail some obscure cultural explanation that wasn’t worth the trouble.

“You must be from Barakat, then? Jamshid told me once that other branches of the family were in Bagestan and the Barakat Emirates.”

He hesitated. “Yes. We are in Barakat. My mother was half sister to Jamshid’s father. But the family is Bagestani originally.”

She wondered if he had mentioned Lamis as a way of gaining her trust. If so, it was having the opposite effect. She would have to be on her guard with him.

She lifted the tray, and he backed out of the doorway to let her pass. She carried it into the sitting room and set it on the low black table as they sat again.

“Jamshid was from Bagestan originally? He never told me that.” She poured coffee into the delicate cream-coloured porcelain cup, set a spoon in the saucer and passed it to him.

“He was born there,” Najib said briefly. He noted the hesitation that had crept into her manner. So she did know something. The mention of Bagestan had made her wary. He stirred sugar into his cup, laid the little spoon on his saucer, accepted a sweet biscuit from the plate she offered.