Читать книгу: «The Sheikh Doctor's Bride»

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Meredith Webber

About the Author

Dear Reader

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

FAREED IBN JADYM IBN MUSTAFFAH FARUKE eyed the green country through which he travelled with distaste. Not that he didn’t appreciate green. The shiny, almost luminous green of date-palm fronds around an oasis was always a welcome sight, and contrasted brilliantly with the red desert sand through which one had to travel to see them.

But green everywhere, everything green, apart from white paint splashed haphazardly on the fence posts lining the drive down which they now travelled.

Why, in the name of all that was holy, was his uncle coming to this run-down establishment, stuck out in a swathe of green, miles from the city in which they’d been staying?

So his uncle wanted to buy a horse—wanted him, Fareed, to see the horse before the purchase—but could not the horse have come to them? Ibrahim wasn’t one to go out of his way for anything or anyone, however much he loved his horses.

But Fareed’s apprehension about what was going on with his uncle went beyond this trip to a horse stud. Something was brewing in his uncle’s devious mind, and Fareed had a disturbing suspicion that the ‘something’ was to do with him.

Why else would his uncle insist he take leave from the hospital to accompany him on this trip to Australia?

To buy a horse!

And why had Thalia, an old crone who lived somewhere in the palace compound and was said to read the future from marks in the sand, or oil poured on a cup of water, been spending so much time with his uncle prior to this trip? Thalia claimed she was a kahin, from a line of female fortune-tellers that went back into ancient times.

Surely his uncle, English educated, graduate of Oxford and with a further business degree from Harvard, didn’t still believe in the words of a soothsayer?

Fareed shook his head, sorry he was in the lead of the four cars and couldn’t ask his uncle these questions. Then something flashed past the window and soothsayers and his uncle’s devious plans were forgotten.

The horse was a dark caramel in colour, its mane nearly white. It was pounding up the slight slope of a track on the other side of the fence, and on its back, her face alight with the joy of speed, sat a slim woman, taller than most jockeys but riding with her legs tucked up, her body bent along the horse’s neck, flame-coloured hair flying out behind her—a woman at one with the animal.

A painting of the image might be called Freedom, and though Fareed yearned for freedom, duty was a stronger master. Oh, for a while he was okay, working in the hospital, doing what he enjoyed, feeling needed and appreciated, and although, when he did succeed his uncle to the Sultanate, he hoped to continue his medical career at least part-time, he knew his duty was to his people, and to helping them come to terms with the changing world in which they now lived.

But the beauty of the horse and its rider had eased some of Fareed’s apprehension about this trip. Perhaps he should, as Ibrahim kept insisting, simply relax and enjoy the last few days of this break away from work. And, really, was green all that bad a colour?

The man Kate’s mother was hoping would save the family’s stables arrived in a fleet of long black limousines—if four exceedingly large vehicles could be called a fleet.

According to her mum, he was some kind of Eastern potentate—she read a lot, her mum!

The arrival of the sleek vehicles suggested he might be a very wealthy potentate, though no doubt a con man would have made an equally impressive arrival, Kate told herself.

Cynical?

Kate?

No more so than any other thirty-two-year-old woman who’d grown up with a dearly loved father who had always had a fortune waiting for him just around the next corner; no more so than any other woman who had recently been dumped by a long-term lover who couldn’t believe she would go home to be with her mother after said father’s death, instead of staying with him on the other side of the world.

She turned Marac and headed back to the stables. Mum would offer the potentate some tea so she, Kate, would have time to give the horse a good rub-down and settle him in his stall before the inspection party arrived.

Cantering back down the hill, watching the cars wending their way down the drive, she wondered about the future. If the potentate saved the stables, would she go back to the US, to Mark? Could she go back to a man with so little empathy?

She’d been home two months now, time enough to see the man she’d thought she loved through clearer eyes. No, going back to Mark was not an option.

But, then, if this potentate didn’t buy Tippy, she wouldn’t have to think about options.

Kate tried to see her home through the visitors’ eyes: the lush paddocks shaded by wide spreading gum trees and filled with spectacular horses; the green fields; the placid stream running through the valley; the old stone and bleached-wood stables; and, by the stream, the house, built from stones hauled from the creek over a hundred years ago …

Her mother’s—no, in fact, it was Billy’s heritage …

CHAPTER ONE

THE IMAGE OF the girl on the horse was still vivid in Fareed’s mind as the vehicles rolled to a stop in a big paved area outside the stone-built house. A middle-aged woman had been waiting at the gate and she stepped forward as the entourage began to emerge from the vehicles.

And Fareed wondered again about his uncle’s insistence on travelling everywhere with this entourage. Surely Ibrahim and the stud manager, with Fareed tagging along, could manage to buy a horse. But, no, a fleet of vehicles seemed to accompany them everywhere, with dour-faced palace guards, who probably hated green as much as he did, hovering protectively around his uncle at all times.

Preventing an attack from a rabid kangaroo?

The driver was already opening the door for Ibrahim, while the men in their unaccustomed garb of dark suits alighted from the other cars and stood erect, in a kind of deferential arc around where Ibrahim would appear.

Did he do it to impress people?

Fareed doubted that, for Ibrahim was the most modest of men, and rarely made a show of his position. No, there was definitely some hidden agenda in this trip to Australia, and he, Fareed, was completely in the dark about it. He stood beside his uncle as the woman approached, wishing he could read what was going on behind the bland but still charming smile.

‘I’m Sally Walker. Welcome to Dancing Waters Stud. The river runs over rounded granite stones on the bend below the house and the waters seem to dance, which is where it got its name.’

She sounded nervous and her arm shook slightly as she offered her hand to Ibrahim. To Fareed’s surprise, his uncle not only took it but raised it to his lips for a swift courtly kiss.

Sally Walker blushed a fiery red and Fareed felt a momentary pang of pity for her.

‘Sultan Ibrahim ibn—’ His uncle broke off the recitation of his name and smiled at her. ‘You do not need to know the rest. We call ourselves son of our father—that is the “ibn”—then “ibn” again because he was the son of his father, and I could go on until next week just saying my name. You must call me Ibrahim.’

Hmm! Ibrahim at his most charming!

Fareed’s suspicions grew.

‘You would like tea or coffee, or a cool drink?’ their hostess offered.

‘Perhaps later, my dear,’ Ibrahim said. ‘But first the horses.’

The woman led the way to the stables, explaining as she went.

‘The property was developed by my great-grandparents, and while their main interest was in breeding, my grandfather decided to try his hand at training and did very well. Not many horses, because the breeding side of the business was still important, but he found a special thrill in training his own horses, and that must have passed down in the blood to my father and myself.’

They reached the door of the long, low building, redolent of horse and hay and tack and polish. Some trick of the sun’s position sent a beam of light into the dark shadows at the end, catching a slim, lithe woman bending and straightening as she brushed down the palomino Fareed had seen earlier. Caught in the ray of light, the pair took on a shining luminosity—something from a painting by an old master, Titian perhaps, given the colour of her hair coming alive in the light.

Fareed paused, riveted by the sight, while beside him Ibrahim seemed to suck in his breath. The girl straightened up and Fareed noticed Ibrahim nod to himself, as if satisfied about something—very satisfied …

The mystery of this trip to Australia deepened.

Damn, they were here before she’d finished. Never mind, she’d give Marac another rub this afternoon.

Kate straightened up, aware she’d have wisps of straw in her hair and smudges on her face and would smell of horse, but knowing she needed to be by her mother’s side through this fraught process.

She led Marac into a stall, checked he had food and water, half shut his door, then rubbed her handkerchief over her face and hands and went to meet the visitors.

There was a phalanx of dark, swarthy men around a slightly shorter man. All wore immaculately tailored suits and stern expressions. Except for one, taller than the others—tall, dark and handsome personified, in fact—whose expression was more one of disdain. And his suit was better cut, though he didn’t owe those broad shoulders to his tailor. She checked his face again and saw a classic profile—long, straight nose, broad forehead and a firm chin.

You missed the lips, a voice inside her head whispered, but she hadn’t missed the lips, not in any way. In fact, it had been the lips that had drawn her attention …

He was still looking disdainful, she reminded herself.

Perhaps he felt visiting a small horse breeder’s property was beneath him?

‘This is my daughter, Kate,’ Sally said. ‘Kate, this is Sultan Ibrahim and a lot of other names he says we needn’t bother with.’

Kate approached the group and held out her hand to the sultan—didn’t sultans wear golden turbans?—then remembered where she’d been and withdrew her hand.

‘Sorry, I smell of horse. I really thought I’d be done earlier and cleaned up before you came, but Marac needed the extra run and it was such a beautiful morning, I couldn’t resist.’

She smiled hopefully at the sultan, who not only returned her smile but didn’t back away from her eau de horse.

‘Well, don’t let me keep you from your tour of inspection. I’ll tag along behind in case Mum needs anything.’

She slid past the men, telling herself not to look at faces, but how could she not just sneak a peek now she was closer to Mr Handsome—fine-cut features, a long aquiline nose, cheekbones as sharp as razors, lips—best she didn’t check out the lips …

She couldn’t help glancing up as she passed him, drawn by something more than his expression. Drawn by something she didn’t really understand, though it felt vaguely like attraction. Think about the disdain, she told herself, although perhaps it was disgust, not disdain, probably because of the pervading odour of horse that hung around her?

Could she dash up to the house and shower? So she wouldn’t smell like horse if she was close to the man again? Was she mad? Attracted to a man like that? And, anyway, she couldn’t leave the party now.

Not really, not if Mum might need her.

Or Billy.

Where was Billy?

The ache that rarely went away, tucked into a corner of her heart—the ache that was Billy, gentle, sensitive, slow-to-develop Billy—reminded her of the problems that lay ahead.

Face troubles when they come, girl, she remembered her father telling her, and although he always took the words a little too literally, she felt somehow comforted.

Ibrahim had paused by a half-open door and was talking quietly to the inquisitive gelding who’d poked his head out of his stall. As far as Kate could tell, the visitor wasn’t speaking English but the horse seemed to understand him anyway and was nodding and holding his head sideways for a hard rub.

‘Shamus is Tippy’s—Dancing Tiptoes’s—older brother—full brother, doing well in local two-year-olds’ races.’

The young horse shifted his attention to Kate’s mother and nuzzled her neck as she explained.

‘You’ve tried him in the city?’ asked one of the entourage—the taller one who’d failed to hide his disdain.

Sally Andrews shook her head.

‘Since …’

She faltered and Kate, who knew exactly how huge a strain this meeting was on her mother, stepped in.

‘Since my father died two months ago, my mother hasn’t wanted to travel far,’ she said, speaking directly to the man who’d asked the question, meeting the challenge in his eyes that seemed to peer right into her soul. ‘And logistically it’s difficult. One of our stable hands was killed in the same accident, so we’re short-handed even with me here.’

The questioner’s eyes, dark as obsidian, studied her intently.

Suspiciously?

She shook off the tremor of unease his look had caused and concentrated on the main man—Ibrahim.

‘So, should I purchase Dancing Tiptoes and wish him to run in the best races, I will have to find another trainer?’ Ibrahim asked.

He was standing so close to Sally he must have seen her reaction, and noticed Kate reach out to steady her mother.

Obsidian Eyes certainly had; he missed nothing.

Which might explain, Kate decided, why he, of all the entourage, made her feel so uncomfortable.

‘Come and meet him,’ she said, determined to ignore the stranger. ‘There’s no point in discussing training arrangements if you don’t like the look of him.’

But who wouldn’t? she thought, and her gut clenched as the ramifications of losing Tippy spun in her head.

It was inevitable that Billy would be down in the paddock with Tippy, running alongside him as if they were a pair of the same species.

‘My son, Billy,’ Sally said, and Ibrahim nodded.

Kate, whose eyes had gone to Ibrahim’s face as soon as she saw Billy in the paddock, realised that the man had seen and understood a difference in Billy—seen, understood and accepted! An empathetic man!

Bother the man who was making her uncomfortable, Ibrahim was the boss. It was he who’d decide.

Sally’s whistle had brought Tippy to the fence, Billy following more slowly, his natural caution with strangers holding him back.

Or did he understand more about Tippy’s future than Kate and Sally realised?

Sally had thrust her hand into the capacious pockets of her trousers, but Ibrahim was faster, producing from the pocket in his immaculate pinstriped suit a small, rosy apple.

‘I may?’ he said to Sally, who nodded and tucked the sugar lumps back into her pocket.

Tippy studied the stranger almost as warily as Billy had, then threw his head back and snorted before lowering it to lip the apple delicately off the man’s hand.

‘He likes apples best of all.’ Billy had come gradually closer and now stood beside the horse, his too-thin face radiating the love he felt for the animal.

‘I do, too,’ Ibrahim said. ‘Where I live it is hard to grow apples, so when I come to your country I eat as many as possible.’

‘Where is it that you can’t grow apples?’

‘A place called Amberach, far across the sea. A very small place compared to Australia.’

‘Did you come here in a plane?’

Kate was aware of her mother’s tension returning. Once involved in a conversation, Billy could talk for hours. Should they cut him off?

She glanced at Ibrahim, who showed no sign of impatience—no sign of anything except, she rather thought, simple kindness.

‘Yes, I came on a plane.’

‘Next to horses I like planes best. Dad always said one day I could go on a plane with the horses, but Dad died, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know that,’ Ibrahim said gently, while Kate held her breath.

Please, don’t offer him a plane ride, especially if you don’t mean it.

But Ibrahim’s attention was back on the horse—or was he diverting Billy?

‘Would you run him again for me?’ Ibrahim asked, and Billy whistled to Tippy and the pair took off, Billy understanding what was needed and circling in the middle while Tippy raced around the paddock, his delight in movement lending wings to his feet.

‘A truly beautiful sight,’ Ibrahim murmured. He turned to one of his men—not the tall, disdainful one. ‘He is everything you said he was.’

The man nodded.

‘Would you like a cool drink or a cup of tea or coffee?’ Kate offered, trying to hide the excitement she was feeling, although she knew her mother would be more apprehensive than excited.

Selling Tippy was one thing—the money from the sale would save the stables—but keeping him to train—her mother’s long-held dream—was quite another.

‘First we might walk around a little, see the other horses, the training track and the hill run I’ve heard about. Dancing Tiptoes was bred here—the mare is here?’ Ibrahim replied.

‘In foal again, and with the other mares,’ Sally told him. ‘When they’re pregnant they seem to like the company. We’ll walk this way.’

She led the party, Ibrahim close behind her, Kate and the entourage bringing up the rear.

‘You’d already seen the horse?’ she said to the man beside her—the one to whom Ibrahim had turned earlier.

‘I was at your father’s funeral, then came back here with others,’ he said quietly. ‘I know it is late to be offering condolences but I am sorry for your loss.’

Kate thanked him and lagged behind, caught off guard by his sudden kindness. She remembered little of that terrible day beyond a blur of cars and people and a need to be strong for both her mother and Billy, yet being uselessly emotional all day.

In fact, it had been Billy who’d been strong for her, and for their mother.

Maybe he would understand more than they thought if Tippy was sold and moved to another trainer. Maybe he’d transfer his love to a new foal—

‘Ka-a-a-a-te!’

Her mother’s anguished cry brought her out of her reverie. Looking up, she realised the entourage was now some way ahead of her. But instinct had her running down towards the brood mares’ paddock, pushing through the phalanx of minders, seeing the taller man, eyes nearly swollen shut, red welts appearing on his face, pulling at his tie, his collar, trying to say something that sounded like ‘knife’.

‘He wants a knife,’ one of the men said, while Kate grabbed the man, trying to ease him to the ground, issuing orders as she did it.

‘Call an ambulance—emergency number is triple zero here—and you …’ she pointed to the closest ‘… run up to the stables and get the first-aid box. One of the stable hands will find it for you.’

The stricken man was still struggling to talk, pointing at his throat and making gargling noises.

‘What’s his name?’ she asked Ibrahim, who was looking so pale Kate feared she’d have two patients.

‘Fareed,’ Ibrahim whispered.

‘Don’t worry, he’ll be all right,’ Kate assured the older man, before turning back to her patient.

‘Okay, Fareed, I need you to relax. Lie right back, you’ll be all right.’

She’d fallen to her knees beside him as she spoke, straightening him out on the ground as best she could when he was still struggling, pushing at her and trying to talk.

‘Lie still, you big lunk,’ she yelled, and apparently shocked him into immobility. Seizing her chance, she tilted back his head in case CPR became necessary, automatically feeling for a pulse, counting his breaths, more gasps than breaths.

‘He was waving his hands then started gasping,’ Sally was explaining, but Kate had already found the tiny sting the bee had left behind, barely visible on the lobe of the man’s right ear.

‘It’s anaphylactic shock,’ she said as she pulled the sting out and felt in the man’s pockets for a pen. ‘Did any of you know he had allergies? That he was allergic to bee stings?’

The men looked blankly at her but there was no time to explain.

Tilting the patient’s head farther back, she leaned forward, refusing to even consider the lips she was about to touch as anything other than an anonymous patient’s. Although as she closed her mouth over his, breathing air into his lungs, trying to force it in through a passage she knew would be closing more and more, a shiver of something she couldn’t understand ran down her spine.

Between breaths she reassured her patient, who was nearly comatose but still struggling, though feebly, against her.

It was Billy who brought the first-aid kit, and Kate, knowing an ambulance would take at least another twenty minutes to reach the property, didn’t hesitate.

Opening the big case, she searched for the epinephrine injection she’d told her father to keep there. Either he hadn’t bothered or it had been used, emptied and not replaced. She found a scalpel, still in its sterile wrapping, and a small roll of plastic tubing—heaven only knew its real use. Using scissors, she cut a small piece then pulled on gloves.

The skin on the man’s neck was smooth and tanned, and her hand hesitated for a fraction of a second but she knew what had to be done.

She’d drawn the scalpel from its sheath and moved her hand towards that smooth, tanned skin, when one of the entourage stepped forward and, to her astonishment, pulled out a gun.

A small gun, but no less deadly than a big one would be, of that she was sure.

He muttered something at her in his own language and Kate turned to Ibrahim.

‘His throat has swollen and he can’t breathe—I need to make a hole and breathe into it for him until he can manage on his own. I am a doctor, I can do this.’

Ibrahim nodded and apparently translated but the gun didn’t disappear back to wherever it had come from.

So if I do this wrong, he shoots me? Kate wondered in the distant part of her brain not focused on the job.

Feeling carefully, she found the space between his thyroid cartilage and the cricoid cartilage. The scalpel blade bit cleanly, a cut barely half an inch deep, and she slipped her finger into it to open it, before sliding the tube into place.

Ignoring the muttering going on around her and the distant yowling of an ambulance, she bent low and breathed into the tube. Two quick breaths, pause, another breath, pause …

The man’s chest was rising so she’d got the tube in successfully, but he needed treatment—epinephrine to combat the shock, hospitalisation for at least twenty-four hours, and minor surgery to repair the gash she’d made in his throat.

Somehow she didn’t think she’d have to worry about Billy missing Tippy. These people would want nothing more to do with the Andrews family.

The ambos, once they’d given the patient an epinephrine injection in his thigh, were audibly impressed by her efforts.

‘Learnt about it, of course,’ one said, ‘but never had to do it.’

‘I’m an ER doctor,’ Kate explained, as they expertly attached monitors to their patient, then lifted him onto the stretcher. ‘Though I’ve only had to do it once before so I was a bit shaky.’

‘ER doc?’ the second man said, when he’d strapped Fareed onto the stretcher. ‘Don’t suppose you’d come with us—sit with him just in case.’

‘I think that would be an excellent idea,’ Ibrahim said, and to emphasise the point he actually nodded towards the man who’d held the gun.

Or maybe that was her imagination running riot after the little bit of drama!

Whatever! Someone would have to sit with him to hold the plastic tube in place and it might as well be her. She climbed into the back of the ambulance beside Fareed, who was breathing, somewhat raspily, through the hole in his neck. His eyes opened, the drug taking almost immediate effect, and his hand lifted to feel his neck.

Kate caught the hand before he could dislodge the tube, and held it in hers so it could do no harm. It was a strong hand, with long, lean fingers that fought against her hold—a manly hand …

She put the distraction down to her own shock—and disappointment.

‘You’ve suffered anaphylactic shock. You’ve got a tube in your throat so you can breathe and you’ve had an injection of epinephrine, which will combat the shock. Now you know you’re allergic to bee stings, you should carry a pen with the drug in it wherever you go.’

The disdain she’d read in his eyes earlier returned, so blatant she wanted to turn away.

And let him get away with it?

‘Not that I expect gratitude or anything for saving your life, but a smile wouldn’t hurt! ’

Fortunately, before she could let off any more steam, which she knew was nothing more than a release of her own tension, they drew up at the hospital.

A woman was beside him—a woman in big glasses and flaming red hair she hid in a plait, but nice skin—creamy skin, skin you’d like to touch but preferably when she wasn’t going on and on at him. Fareed closed his eyes and tried to clear his head.

She was holding his hand.

He must know her.

She looked angry, but, then, he knew any number of angry women, though none he could remember with plaited hair. Her glasses magnified pale green eyes. Beautiful eyes, he rather thought—even angry, they were special. But the glasses were appalling, although the frames were the same colour as the little freckles sprinkled over her nose.

He was reasonably sure he didn’t know any woman with freckles on her nose—well, not freckles that she left on show for everyone to see.

Men’s voices and a door opening somewhere near his feet brought memory of what had happened rushing back. He tried again to feel his throat but the woman stopped him.

‘You’re at the hospital now. You’ll be okay, you’ll be fine. They’ll want to keep you overnight, to check you haven’t had a reaction to the drug, and they’ll stitch up the hole I made in your neck, and—’

He freed his hand and put it up to touch her lips, to quiet her, then he smiled to show her he’d understood.

She looked so surprised—by his smile?—his next smile became a genuine one.

After all, she had saved his life!

Kate alighted from the ambulance, shaken by what was nothing more than a stranger’s casual finger touching her lips. Before she could analyse the reaction, she realised that Ibrahim and his entourage were already there. The older man was watching anxiously as the ambulance men rolled the stretcher out, set it on its legs and began to wheel it away.

He walked beside it, talking to Fareed, obviously concerned about his health, asking questions of the nurse who appeared, giving orders to his men—a caring man.

A sultan?

The word was redolent of fairy stories from Kate’s youth—men with golden turbans and casks of glowing jewellery. Did the world still have sultans?