Page 14 of The Innocent Carrying His Legacy

You? A mother? Are you kidding?

The thought wrapped around her, cold and sharp. It was true that she knew nothing about motherhood or even about being in a family, since she’d had none of her own. The child of a single mother, she’d gone into the foster system at three after her mother had died and had, effectively, never come out of it.

She’d grown up in the children’s home she now managed, the only kid who’d never been adopted. That had been tough, but it had worked out well in the end since the home manager had valued her organisational skills and had eventually employed her.

But organisational skills on their own didn’t make a good parent. You had to have love for that to happen and her experience of love was non-existent. The children’s home had been fine and she’d been well cared for. But she hadn’t had anyone careabouther. She hadn’t had anyone love her. So how could she give a child what she herself had never had? She could try, it was true, but what if she got it wrong? What kind of legacy would that be for Connie?

A sharp rap on the door came, then it opened, admitting a woman dressed in a plain black uniform and carrying several trays. The woman nodded to Ivy, carried the trays to one of the desks, deposited them there and then left without a word.

Ivy stared at what the woman had delivered in amazement.

She’d told the Sheikh that she only required a sandwich and more of that lemonade, but she hadn’t expected...this.

There were sandwiches, yes, but not the kind of sandwich she would have expected a soldier to make, or even ones she’d make herself. They were club sandwiches, all of them with different fillings, cut with care and exquisitely arranged on a silver tray, along with a few other delicious-looking savouries. On another tray were arranged some delicate cupcakes, each one a different flavour and all beautifully frosted. A pitcher of lemonade stood next to the cupcakes along with another glass full of ice and a sprig of fresh mint.

Ivy approached the desk where the food sat and frowned suspiciously at it. It looked like something that should be served at a five-star hotel’s high tea, not a meal prepared in the desert fortress of a notorious warlord.

Had the Sheikh ordered it? And if he had, who had made it? Because this was clearly the work of a chef who knew what they were doing, not some cook providing basic food for an army, surely?

Ivy wanted to find fault with it so she didn’t have to eat it, but she knew that was only because the Sheikh unsettled her and she found his autocratic manner overbearing. Which wasn’t a good reason not to drink or to eat, especially when she needed it. And if not for herself then at least for the baby.

So she swallowed her irritation and her pride, reaching out to pick up one of the sandwiches and sniffing experimentally, since there were a number of things she couldn’t eat while pregnant. This particular sandwich, though, was cucumber, the fresh scent making her stomach rumble and her mouth water unreasonably, and she’d taken a bite out of it before she was even conscious of doing so. It was delicious and, rather to her own surprise, five minutes later she found she’d eaten not only all the cucumber sandwiches but all the other sandwiches left on the tray as well, not to mention a couple of the cupcakes, which turned out to be light and airy and as utterly delicious as the sandwiches.

She helped herself to the lemonade too, more than a little irritated to find the Sheikh’s deep voice running through her head, cautioning her to take small sips. It made her want to down the lot in one go, which of course would be a mistake. Giving in to her temper was always a mistake.

Ignoring it, she made herself sip at the lemonade as she wandered over to the bookshelves, looking at the titles. Most weren’t in English and the ones that were were old classics that looked as if they hadn’t been read in years. It really was a most unimpressive library.

Finding nothing else of interest, Ivy paced around distractedly. She didn’t like to sit still at the best of times, preferring to occupy herself with necessary tasks rather than lounging around, but there wasn’t anything to do.

She should probably sit down since she was feeling tired, but, with nothing to do but sit in silence, she didn’t like the thought of that. Her phone was in her bag, but since there was no Internet access out here there seemed little point in checking emails or texts.

Moving over to the door, she pulled it open, a part of her mildly surprised to find that she wasn’t locked in. The hallway stretched out on either side, long and narrow and dark. Dimly she could hear the sounds of footsteps and voices and the low hum of machinery. The Sheikh had told her to stay put, but how could he expect her to do that when there was nothing to do? Perhaps she could go and find someone and ask them how long the Sheikh was going to be. That wouldn’t constitute ‘wandering around the fortress like a tourist’. That was going somewhere with purpose. And besides, how could she ‘rest’ when there wasn’t anywhere to rest except for the hard wooden chair?

It’s not the chair that’s the issue.

Ivy ignored the thought. She didn’t want to think about the apprehension that sat inside her, an apprehension that wasn’t really about the chair. Or about being on her own in a fortress full of men. Or even about their forbidding, aggravatingly autocratic Commander.

It had far more to do with a presence smaller than any of those and yet far more powerfully affecting. A presence she’d been trying very hard to resist as it wove small tendrils around her heart. She might tell herself all she liked that this was Connie’s child and nothing to do with her, but Connie was gone and now this baby had no one but her to look after it. And shewasafraid. Afraid she would let it down somehow. Afraid that she wouldn’t be the kind of mother the child deserved. Not that she wanted to be its mother. Connie should have been its mother.

Connie is dead. There is only you.

Ivy took a breath, her hand creeping unconsciously down over her stomach. This wasn’t about being contrary, no matter what the Sheikh had said. This was for Connie and for the baby. She had to find out what was happening and she wasn’t going to be able to sit down and rest until she did.

Stepping out into the narrow, dark corridor, Ivy paused to listen a moment. Then she set off down it in the direction of the voices, her heartbeat thudding fast.

‘The library is not in that direction, Miss Dean,’ someone said from behind her.

Ivy froze, her breath catching as the sound of the Sheikh’s deep, harsh voice tumbled over her like an avalanche of rock.

Oh, Lord, where had he come from? She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard him. He’d crept up on her like a ghost.

Ignoring how her heart seemed to thud even harder, Ivy turned to find the narrow hallway behind her almost completely blocked by the Sheikh’s large, powerful figure. He was still in that black robe belted loosely around his lean hips, the bronze expanse of his bare chest visible between the edges of the fabric, and apparently her response to it in the guardhouse hadn’t been an aberration because she felt the same flood of heat wash through her cheeks as she had back then.

How ridiculous. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d seen a few bare chests in her time, if not in real life then certainly on TV, and none of those had made her blush like this.

She drew herself up as tall as she could, which wasn’t very tall and especially not compared to him. The sheer height and breadth of him made the corridor seem even narrower and darker than it already was, and just as impenetrable.

An odd kind of claustrophobia gripped her, her breath stuttering in her throat. His eyes really were the most astonishing colour, caught on the cusp between blue and green, and framed by long, thick, silky-looking black lashes. They were so sharp and so cold, a searchlight sweeping the most private corners of her soul, exposing all her secrets...

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